The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

  But Mr Goodfellow Senior spoke first, “Foolish boy, what were you thinking? The ways of magic are too strong for someone who knows so little. You were there to observe. To say the benediction. Nothing more.”

  Jonathan almost cried in reply. He had an Answer. It was on the tip of his tongue–but he couldn’t quite say it. He had forgotten. Forgotten everything but the staggering importance of it all. Instead, all he said was, “Capro, I am no longer a boy. I can do a little more than Granny’s Cure All now. I’d have thought that would make you happy. I’d have thought you’d let me tell you about the girl.”

  “Girl?” Mr Goodfellow Senior enquired.

  Eyes shut closed against the world, Jonathan said, “The girl was really important.”

  “Which girl?” Capro asked, roughly shaking Jonathan by the shoulders. “Which girl? Damn that Prophetess for getting under your skin. Did you mean Maretta? Or was it Sylvalla? Which girl?!”

  Jonathan frowned. Forcing himself up from the pillows. “Girl?” he said. “Was I talking about a girl?”

  Trouble: Part 1

  Arg, but Chaos is a Mighty Enemy

  It Delights in Bad News

  On the Wings of Butterflies.

  NAME:Sylvalla.

  CLASS:Ruling.

  FAMILIAR:With horse and sword.

  SPECIALTY:Escapism.

  RÉSUMÉ:Princess Sylvalla’s unseemly behaviour is the talk of the kingdom.

  The tales of Sylvalla’s wild adventures, wandering the countryside with ruffians and wizards are no doubt, exaggerated. As is the outlandish nonsense about her killing monsters and even dragons.

  Still, all this might have been hushed up, except for the demands from the neighbouring kingdom of Scotch Mist that she be brought to justice. The crimes she stands accused of are as follows: threatening a King; attempted Regicide; threatening an innkeeper; inciting riot; thievery; murder; mass murder by way of ordering the death of twenty-five fully-armed and armoured peasants; and improperly controlling her liege-man, Dirk, who stands similarly accused.

  Sylvalla’s parents still hope the King of Scotch Mist will forgive her once she has thrown her childish fantasies of adventuring aside and settled down to the pastimes that befit a young princess. To this end, they have betrothed the young lady to the handsome Francis, long lost and very-recently-discovered Prince of Havendale, whose worthiness was proved by pulling a sword from a stone.

  Sylvalla’s parents have also employed, at great expense, Mahrawyn, an exemplary young lady in waiting, in the hope that her guidance will make a positive impression.

  PASSED: KILLING, SWORD FIGHTING, HAND TO HAND COMBAT & ARCHERY. Under protest she also scraped through: DIPLOMACY, DEPORTMENT, READING, WRITING & ARITHMATIC. (Arithmatic being a fancy word for a subject that is little more than addition, subtraction and multiplication and so shouldn’t be confused with arithmetic and the more advanced concepts of mathematics.)

  FAILED: TAPESTRY, ETIQUETTE, TAPESTRY, ETIQUETTE, SEWING, ETIQUETTE, ETIQUETTE, ETIQUETTE.

  §

  Sylvalla stood on the battlements of Avondale, digging her fingers into the rough stone of the crenulations. Her gown, and her golden hair—held by a few delicate golden pins—catching the wind. She’d stood at this spot all morning, waiting for the hunting party to leave. She twisted her matching golden handkerchief around and around her fingers, determined not to wave them goodbye—not even to commit the smallest gesture that could be misinterpreted as such. For it was not love that kept her here, the very picture of a princess newly-betrothed. No last lingering glance at her beloved that kept her rooted to the spot so long after her mother had slipped back into the castle to enjoy the unaccustomed peace and quiet.

  “Fools,” Sylvalla said to nobody as the dim winter sun, its light stabbing through grey clouds, finally reached its zenith. “The slack-jawed, know-nothing idiots didn’t take me. Wouldn’t take me.”

  Sylvalla cursed some more as the horses wheeled and the men set off. Biding her time was such a good idea—Francis had said so. Dirk as well—only they didn’t have to wait about in a draughty old castle with nothing to do.

  Sylvalla gripped the unforgiving stone until her fingers ached. It was such a horrid thing to call a person a girl and take away the rights afforded to the other half of the world.

  When the men were gone—and the last mote of dust had settled—Sylvalla unwound her golden handkerchief.

  “Sylvalla!” Mahrawyn’s voice cut through her reverie.

  Sylvalla let the handkerchief fall free. It fluttered over the battlements catching a ray of light, before being snatched up by the wind and carried away.

  “Sylvalla, there you are. It’s time for your lessons.”

  §

  Sylvalla clutched the quill, scraping it across the parchment in blotchy scratches. “I cannot be bothered with this nonsense,” she said, not entirely to Mahrawyn, who grimaced and concentrated harder, either on ignoring Sylvalla, or improving the already perfectly neat rows of figures beneath her pen.

  Sylvalla tried to take a calming breath and failed utterly. Which instrument of torture she should throw out the window—the pen, the parchment, or the ridiculous corseted dress?

  “Please, Sylvalla.” Mahrawyn grimaced momentarily before forcing a smile. “We’ll soon be done and then we’ll see your brother. He’s so cute, I think…”

  Sylvalla flinched. Her quill she was holding broke with an inaudible snap, spattering ink over the page. And the stupid dress. “Damn it all to Hades,” she cursed, not caring that this was the sort of curse favoured by loud brash males proving to the world how unshockable and daring they were, and not the curse of a princess about to marry her dashingly-handsome prince charming.

  “By all the Hounds of Hades!” Sylvalla continued, while her lady in waiting quailed and covered her ears. “I’ve travelled the realm and killed a dragon. This is not living! Say, instead of dallying with my spoilt little brat brother, why don’t I break the monotony and teach you a little hand-to-hand combat? One day you might need it.”

  “How can you say such terrible things?” Mahrawyn demanded. “It may be forgivable for a child, but now you’re about to be married it’s…it’s unseemly.”

  Sylvalla looked directly at her companion. Mahrawyn meant well, but could she really believe bad language would stain her reputation? Probably. She was a sweet person who believed in fairy tales, righteousness, and happily ever after.

  “Better had I been eaten by the dragon than sustain this bitter torment day after day with no remise.” Sylvalla sighed.

  “My Lady,” the dark-haired beauty murmured, head tilted to hide her smile. “I think you meant respite.” Mahrawyn hesitated, as if about to say something more–probably her theory that Sylvalla’s dragon-slaying was a result of the vapours.

  Sylvalla observed Mahrawyn’s hands. Moments ago, they’d aspired to protect her ears. Now they fluttered like nervous butterflies over her corset-elevated bosom. She managed to bite back the observation. After all, it wasn’t entirely Mahrawyn’s fault that she was an empty-headed nag, with nothing better to do than expose her attributes and then pretend to cover them, in an unseemly display that emphasised her abundant bosom would erupt if she were to move any faster than a snail.

  She had used those exact words to Francis yesterday. Francis had smiled. A tactical error on his part. Sylvalla frowned, remembering the conversation, trying to untangle her feelings. At the time she’d been quite angry, and even more so when he changed the subject to the hunting trip. A trip he was going on—without her—while taking Dirk, her liegeman and sole remaining friend.

  “Gods-dammmit-all.” Sylvalla muttered. It was enough to send Mahrawyn flouncing from the room. She’s probably looking for my blasted mother. I’d save us both, if only I had had the nerve to...

  Sylvalla’s thought stopped as Mahrawyn burst back inside.

  Why was she back so soon?

  Then her mother swept through the door, the picture of fury. T
he ink drying on Queen Tishke’s beautifully manicured fingers was their only similarity. The Queen’s eyes flashed, dark and bright as the black and white pearls that subdued her mousy hair. Her sharp jaw was accentuated by the mounds of frilly lace overwhelming her tiny frame.

  Tishke took one look at Sylvalla and threw her hands up in the air. “For goodness sake! Mahrawyn is your lady in waiting. If you must ruin the accounts and use gutter-language into the bargain, why don’t you go to the stables and talk to the boys there?”

  “Why, thank you mother for your perceptive advice. What a wonderful idea.” Sylvalla darted through the door, the eyes of her mother and her lady-in-waiting drilling into her back. Sylvalla could almost feel the quadruple set of holes they were making as she scurried away, her ears deaf to their countermands.

  Trouble: Part 2

  NAME:King Phetero

  CLASS:Ruling

  FAMILIAR:With several ladies

  SPECIALTY:Familiarity

  RÉSUMÉ:King Phetero has ruled Scotch Mist for twenty years. Until recently, he was considered a strong and able ruler. At least, strong and able enough to defend the city where the famous Siegian Decist met his downfall.

  The history books say Decist was about to take the city, when one of its infamous scotch mists sprang up. The locals used the obscuring mist to creep into Decist’s encampment, sabotage his siege equipment and steal his army’s supplies.

  Its wall, its mists, and its reputation protected Scotch Mist until 13/3/305, when King Phetero encountered princess Sylvalla. Since then, there has been increasing disquiet in his court.

  There are whispers King Phetero has been seen wandering the castle, blood dripping from his hands. That his loyal noblemen and women discreetly ward off evil with the Eye of Protection when he walks by. And, in his new drive for power, day by day, his army grows stronger.

  PASSED: READING, WRITING, ARITHMETIC, DIPLOMACY, and KILLING.

  §

  Exquisitely expensive, Phetero’s bedroom outdid itself. The floor was carpeted with luxurious gold and purple rugs. Diamond chandeliers dripped from the ceiling, and even the insect-nets shimmered with gold thread. It was a world away from that tawdry inn where he’d met the much-cursed Sylvalla.

  So why could he hear her mocking laughter?

  She’d not laughed, not truly. And yet, like bagpipes, the sound followed him wherever he went. Was he not a king? A man who could have whatever he wanted?

  Why should revenge on this one small slip of a girl be so difficult?

  Covering his ears, Phetero left the room via a not-so-secret door in his wardrobe, wondering briefly if the castle Avondale boasted similar secret passages. If so, he would use them to his advantage. His new allies should make them easy to find.

  He would invade her home, and see how much she liked it.

  Hands clenched around a smoky torch, he tramped the short way down the dark and dusty corridor to an even more secret safe-room. Men had died to keep its secret. A wasted precaution. It had been discovered by the palace children long ago—its wall-sconce triggered entrance as unimaginative as the many other not-so secret corridors scattered throughout the castle. (Phetero never heard the soft padding of the children’s feet, only the thud and shuffle of his own heavy boots on cold stone.)

  The heavy door swung open to a once comfortably-sized bolthole, made claustrophobic by the addition of bookshelves. The smoky torchlight seemed so right for what he was about to do that he laughed. A mistake. The noise was oily, thicker and heavier than the smoke that blurred his vision. It echoed around the small passage, a parody of itself, a parody of hollow laughter. The mocking laughter of a chit of a girl.

  Never again. Phetero focussed on the shadows dancing among the musty tomes of long-forgotten gods. Gods that had lain un-worshipped for so long, gods with powers as yet untapped. He wanted to use those powers—whatever the cost. He had the money. He had willing subjects—and unwilling ones as well. None of them could say no, not if they wished their heads to keep company with their shoulders. He would prove he was strong and put an end to the whispers behind his back.

  But the books were so dull. So full of archaic language and pompous narration. He soon pulled out his silver, butterfly embellished ceremonial knife and placed it on the silk-covered altar. Desperately wanting to please his new gods, he wondered if he should use the diagrams from Hazard’s Omnicon, or Potter’s Grimoire? He settled on placing the purple candles in a simple triangle of grave-dirt and lit them, muttering prayers from both books before pricking his finger carefully with his ceremonial knife.

  His blood hissed and sizzled onto the wax.

  A shadow rose from the table, writhing to reveal a vision—a stag pulled down before its time.

  Surely, it could only mean one thing? Rufus dead.

  A good sign. With Rufus gone, Sylvalla would be at his mercy.

  Phetero’s eyes gleamed in triumph—reflecting candlelight and malice. His chubby fingers curled into grasping fists. “The time is nigh. I will be triumphant. Soon, she will be in my clutches—and I will break her, sending her into the abys of eternal torment.”

  He laughed.

  The echo returned, distorted and yet horribly familiar.

  No matter, he thought, punching his hands against the stone wall until his knuckles bled. Soon, her laughter will turn to screams.

  Trouble: Part 3

  NAME:Dirk.

  CLASS:Fighter.

  SPECIALTY:Fighting.

  RÉSUMÉ:Doer of Greate ande Noble Deedes. In other words, Dirk has killed an AWFUL LOT OF PEOPLE—and a baby Morpholag (dragon). He is currently employed by the renowned Princess Sylvalla—whose fame is only surpassed by her infamy.

  Dirk invites ridicule by scorning his livery at every opportunity and displaying his egg-shaped muscles—sharply defined fat-free zones that fail to give him the gravitas of a traditional fighter. With touchy pride and a ready sword, nobody dares laugh in Dirk’s vicinity. A safe mile or two behind his back, courtiers have been known to flaunt superior smiles and muffled laughter. But, even at such a distance it is muffled. Just in case.

  PASSED:FIGHTING.

  §

  It’s a crazy world, Dirk thought, when I can’t leave Sylvalla for a day or two without the nagging feeling that I should be by her side.

  It was foolish. She was feisty enough, strong enough, and clever enough to look after herself. Moreover, she had the sword Mr Goodfellow Senior had crafted her, hidden upon her person. And she could use it.

  There are always assassins.

  There is always risk.

  Besides, what am I doing on this ridiculous hunting trip, anyway?

  To that last question, at least, there were solid answers, no matter how much he disliked them. Firstly, Sylvalla had ordered him to look after Francis. Secondly, logic dictated Francis was in more danger than Sylvalla. Thirdly, was the small matter of propriety. It was unseemly for him to rush back to Sylvalla. There were already too many rumours—and for no more reason than he almost never left her side.

  But his instincts, instincts that had never put him far away from adventure, were screaming, Go back to the castle!

  Except if he returned now, the whole court would think he was sneaking back to a lover.

  Sylvalla’s already tattered reputation would be dead, and so, most likely would her fiancé, Francis.

  Finally, the answer to his dilemma crept into his head.

  I must take Francis with me.

  §

  NAME:Mahrawyn

  CLASS:Upper

  FAMILIAR:With etiquette, silks, satins, laces and other expensive materials.

  SPECIALTY:Deportment.

  RÉSUMÉ:A young lady to a good family, even if they are country aristocracy, and thus not as upset as most of the Avondale nobility would be to allow their only daughter to wait upon the Sylvalla of such dubious fame.

  Truly gracious and well-rounded, this young lady is someone to whom the flower of Avondale’s womanhood
can look for inspiration and encouragement.

  PASSED: READING, WRITING, DEPORTMENT, SEWING, ETIQUETTE, TAPESTRY & NEEDLEWORK.

  §

  Exhausted, Mahrawyn made her way back to her rooms after yet another tiring day chaperoning the princess. “Why is Sylvalla so dreadfully difficult?” she wondered, her deep brown eyes turned toward the heavens as if for divine insight.

  “The girl is Fey,” one of the guards had muttered, although surely he must have known she wasn’t asking him. “She was bad enough before, but when she called at the city gates covered from head to toe with dragon’s blood, the look in her eye was not human. She’s no princess, but a creature of the other-world.”

  His partner had nodded. “Ach, I heard the wench is cursed.”

  The first guard touched thumb and little finger together in an effort to thwart evil.[46] “So it be. An’ I pity the lad who’s to marry ’er, if the gods cannot save him from his fate.”

  But when Mahrawyn had mentioned the incident, Sylvalla had only laughed. “Let them,” she’d said, her eyes alight. “At least they’ll give me a wide berth. I only wish more would do so.”

  Mahrawyn continued on her way, remembering how excited she’d been when her parents had told her about her new job. “Chaperoning a princess is an honour. It will be just like having a younger sister of your very own.”

  Little sister indeed! Mahrawyn shuddered. No little sister of hers would ever behave in such an unladylike fashion. The switch was what any ordinary child would receive—but as Sylvalla was a princess, all anybody ever did was look heavenward for salvation.

  Mahrawyn was too upset to notice the muffled shrieks behind her…or the tread of footsteps echoing hers.

  That very evening at tapestry, Sylvalla had lain down her needle with a final ultimatum. “I do not sew.” Clutching her necklace with the miniature sword, she’d laughed. “My hands will only bleed for my Dragonslayer.”

  Mahrawyn had ignored the jibe, just as she’d ignored all the hurtful comments about the importance of learning hand to hand combat, and other inappropriate pastimes. What else could she and the other staff do?