The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

  Francis looked at the cushion. The general was right about one thing—he needed to get all the aristocrats out of here. He turned and strode toward the carriages blocking the crowded street and got the drivers working cooperatively.

  A disembodied calm settled over him as he rode home, the crushed flowers on the road an all too obvious metaphor.

  Before he could possibly be ready, the new wrought iron gates to Avondale castle loomed. Behind those gates the aristocracy had disgorged from their carriages and formed little knots of dissent on the grass. Trying to avoid them all, Francis hurried up the castle steps as fast as he dared with his precious bundle.

  Tishke spotted him. “There you are, you good for nothing sword-boy[67]. Where’s your friend, Dirk?”

  “Looking for Dothie. In the meantime, don’t you think it would be a good idea if I did something about this?” Francis nodded at the cushion.

  “Hmm,” Tishke’s eyes flashed as she took in the injured fly. “Are you saying the wild tales about that wizard and fruit flies are true?”

  Francis nodded.

  “And I thought she was a nuisance as a princess. Still, we’d better get her inside. We will assemble in the drawing room.” Gathering her lace, Tishke strode into the castle, muttering, “How in all hells is a fruit fly—On Wings of Death?”

  Francis breathed in deeply, nodding to the sentry, as he trailed the queen. This was going to be a very long day.

  A noise, a smell, or merely instinct, alerted Francis that someone was approaching fast.

  He turned sharply.

  It was only Dirk. “Got her safe?” he asked.

  Francis nodded. He didn’t want to think about the alternative. That the cushion in his hands didn’t hold Sylvalla at all, but some stray fly.

  “Good.” Dirk didn’t look happy. He looked like he wanted to smash something. Someone.

  “You lost Dothie?” Francis asked, immediately regretting the question. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m the one who’s sorry.” Dirk sighed. “So let me guess. Now is time for the three-ring circus?”

  “Oh, yes. Now is where we jump through hoops,” Francis said, aware he was looking around furtively. Fortunately, Tishke was already safely inside. “Apparently there’s going to be a gathering in the drawing room.”

  “Great. More spectacle.”

  Together they took a long-cut through the kitchens for a little sustenance. By the time they reached the drawing room, it was bustling with every advisor, attendant, gossip and flunky. Cleaving their way through the fractious crowd with the speed of oxen ploughing a field, Francis and Dirk made their way toward Tishke. She scowled and fidgeted in her chair. Pointedly ignoring Dirk, she said, “Ah, sword-boy, you took your time.”

  Francis bowed.

  “My lady,” Dirk said. “This is ridiculous, there’s no need of...” he waved his hand at the accumulated gathering, “...all this. It's just a storm in a tea-cup.”

  “How little you know, Dirk,” Tishke said. “This is a storm that will rock the world as we know it.” Her skinny finger jabbed the air. “And Dirk! How dare you speak to me like that? I spoke words of prophecy.”

  “Prophecy! I’ve heard enough prophecy,” Dirk snapped back. “So take your finger away, before I cut it off.”

  “Perhaps you should stay your tongue, before my soldiers cut that out,” Tishke said in a fury—although she was not so far gone as to leave her finger where it was. “I suggest you leave. Now!”

  The men in Tishke’s honour guard cast nervous glances toward the door.

  “Dirk.” Francis nudged his friend. “Sylvalla hardly needs to lose two parents in a fortnight.”

  “Fine,” Dirk snapped. He didn’t go far. In an uneasy compromise, he skulked by the door.

  The court physician almost bowled Dirk over as he stumbled through the door, waving a bottle. “Stand ashide. I am the physhishan!” he called.

  He raised the bottle in the air and barrelled through the growing crowd toward Tishke’s ornate chair. “At your shervish, my lady.” Then, as if remembering some foreign custom, he bowed, arms flailing. Righting himself unsteadily, he looked around.

  “Where’sh the prinshesh—I mean, Her Royal Highnesh?” He staggered into a heavy-set man wearing an embroidered waistcoat.

  “Over there,” the man pointed at Francis with one hand, while angrily brushing drops of alcohol from his embroidery with the other.

  “You shouldn’t point, it’sh rude,” the doctor said. He took a few hesitant steps toward Francis. “Where?”

  “Here,” Francis said, and deliberately didn’t add, hopefully. Trying to put as positive a spin on it he said, “The spell is supposed to wear off around midnight.”

  The physician whirled about, “What shpell? I hope thish ish not some joke.”

  “No. No.” Tishke assured him hurriedly. “We do need your services. It’s just that we cannot be sure...exactly when Sylvalla will be back with us. So if you would please be our guest until she...um...arrives.

  Smiling weakly, the physician bowed again. “At your shervish, Your Highnesh. My time ish not cheap.”

  Tishke nodded curtly and levered herself onto her feet, sucking in the pain of her gut wound. Then, with the no-nonsense voice of a governess sucking a lemon, she addressed the crowd. “I have an announcement to make. In the light of the prophecy...”

  At the word, prophecy, the crowd shuffled, their hands rushing to stifle their reactions. It didn’t much help, they still sounded like a roomful of cats with a bad furball problem.

  An advisor whispered in Tishke’s ear.

  “I will not keep silent.” Tishke’s shrill answer rose over his objections. “My words were a warning from the gods themselves. Unfortunately, the gods and their prophecies are not always easy to understand, so I go to them to seek answers. I suggest you all do the same.” Sniffing indignantly, she called her ladies in waiting to help her from the room.

  The crowd didn’t follow. They were abuzz with this new scandal. It was enough to make Francis want to run a hundred miles. No wonder Sylvalla was so fit.

  Unfortunately, right now, Francis didn’t dare.

  The doctor cornered him and pressed him into a conversation about raising his pay.

  An old shrew elbowed in, her diamond tiara perched like a sinking boat on waves of unruly hair. She put her finger over her lips, “Tishke, poor thing, has been worn away by pain and loss—her dignity is gone along with what is left of her reason. Whatever will we do?”

  “I’m sure she’ll feel better soon.” Francis edged away.

  A meaty hand plonked on his shoulder. “Ah Franshish.” The doctor addressed the empty space slightly to the left of Francis. “Young man. It’sh important. I’m important.” He blinked and refocused on his target.

  “I know,” Francis said. “I heard you before—your time is precious, and so long as you’re here, you’re being paid whether you’re working or not.”

  The doctor clapped Francis on the shoulder so hard the fruit fly wobbled. “Good lad.” He lurched sideways into someone who’d foolishly strayed too close. “I don’t shupposh I could have a cup of tea?” he said, and passed out, falling in a heap to the floor.

  “Not again.” A very proper voice said. “Rosie, tea. Stephan, prop him up would you? There’s a good lad.”

  Time passed.

  When he woke, the good doctor was duly plied with the requested tea. After that, people began drifting out the door. Francis wished more would follow as he watched the hands of the grandfather clock march inexorably toward midnight.

  §

  Back in Phetero’s extensive library, Dothie rubbed his hands together. All in all it hadn’t been a bad night’s work. Sylvalla might make it back alive, but if she wasn’t dead, the chances were she soon would be. Preferably something like the Green Death, where after stinking and rotting in terrible agony for a month or so, she’d succumb to an infection from the untreated arrow-wound. A suitably ghastly punish
ment for all the trouble she’d caused.

  Now, because of his success, Phetero had offered him the chance to study some very powerful texts. Texts that should bring him unlimited power.

  Suddenly, Toot’s claws sank into his shoulder, tongue flicking in and out as if tasting magic.

  Dothie’s skin prickled. He knew what this was. A magician was spying on him! “I can see you!”

  Just as quickly, the magician was gone.

  Who would dare do such a thing? The face had been familiar. And then he knew. “Sylvalla’s wizard!” he howled. “I know it’s you!” He looked back down at the books scattered across his desk. Many of them gifted or loaned from Phetero himself.

  How much had the other wizard seen?

  Dothie closed his eyes and opened a book. Randomly. It was always a good idea to keep in practise.

  Time is a river incomprehensible, and known only to itself. Scrying ignores its battered path to show what could have occurred; last week, last year, tomorrow, and even what might be. Within its turbulent waters the pitifully short moments of our lives are all the same.

  Perhaps then, luck was with him. Anyway it was foolish to worry about a shrivelled-up old magician. He had other concerns...

  Suddenly, he knew he’d been missing something.

  Dothie’s fingers reached out, his nails snagging a piece of parchment, drawing it closer like an unwilling victim. The paper read:

  There will be a battle

  While the world sleeps

  Feather-deep in dreams...

  Something in these words rang true. He wanted to pin down the parchment and pry out its secrets forcibly. If a piece of paper could hate, this one surely did. It cringed. Even the ink seemed to blur.

  If only he could grasp the meaning, but the words had a life of their own, and right now, they did not wish to be seen.

  Open to the void. Open to the chasm.

  The chasm? That could be a place...

  The paper blackened. It was not his imagination. It was smoking and shrivelling before his eyes. But not before Dothie figured the prophecy was indeed talking about a place of power. A place where he could seek Phetero’s unnamed gods, The Nameless One and He Who Should Never Be Named, and use their power to accomplish his own desires.

  And if it was a place, then he needed to find it.

  Absolute Proof

  Belief is dangerous

  So is the truth

  Tishke stared at the mosaics of the seven gods above the royal altar.

  The gods looked back at her, their once vivid colours dulled by layers of carbon and grease.

  Maybe coming to the castle temple had been a bad idea. The candles she’d lit sputtered as if they too were accusing her of neglect, of having other people perform devotions on her behalf.

  Why have I come?

  Because prayer, however fake, was the best way to expunge mistakes. And Tishke had made too many today. Not that she’d ever admit it.

  She also needed a quiet place to think.

  Top of the list had to be ensuring Sylvalla was married before she set out to war.

  And if Sylvalla was dead?

  There would still be war. Avondale would have to attack Scotch Mist to prove its new ruler was not a weakling to be pushed about. For a moment, she considered usurping the throne for herself, but that would be foolish, the masses wanted a man of age—not a boy barely out of diapers, or his guardian. If Sylvalla was gone, Francis was the only candidate.

  Gods, but people are foolish.

  If they were willing enough to believe pulling a sword out of a stone was a suitable test for royal blood, it wouldn’t take much tweaking to make them see the prince as a king.

  Proof of a secret marriage, they will like that.

  There is always the need of a strong force behind the throne. Unfortunately, Sylvalla was no puppet—she would always snarl up the strings of power, but Tishke had high hopes for Francis.

  Things to do, things to do.

  For once, the thought didn’t make her happy.

  Since the death of her husband, Tishke was lost. He’d been her lodestone. Whichever way he went, she knew to move in the other direction. He’d also been her safety. With a king, nobody thought to invade. A woman on the throne, and she’d have to prove herself over and over again.

  Pens, paper, missives, rumours and spies: It was time to get busy—figure out what had to be done. She tugged at the miles of lace that shrouded her fragility. Her wound ached as though the sword itself stabbed her with every passing minute, but, right now, her conscience was the greater burden.

  §

  Francis watched the grandfather clock, hope and fear entwined.

  The fruit fly on the cushion fluttered its good wing less and less.

  Then it happened, the first strike of midnight.

  Nothing. His heart trembled.

  Bong, bong, bong…twelve times.

  Still nothing.

  Minutes passed.

  Stupid, Francis thought, I’ve been standing all this time holding a fly, and Sylvalla is out there, somewhere—alone or dead.

  Courtiers’ titters echoed around the room.

  There was nowhere to hide. Francis flushed bright red. He went to put the cushion down to signal his defeat.

  A sudden explosion of limbs caught him unaware.

  Sylvalla’s fist thumped into his eye.

  The cushion flew into a shocked lady, her pearls cascading to the floor.

  Hands and feet scrabbling, Sylvalla hit the ground with an almighty thud.

  Courtiers scattered like frightened mice.

  Ignoring them, the physician strode forward to examine his patient. Chest puffed out, he boomed, “Make way, give the queen shome air. I’m the doctor. Er, the queen’s personal physishan, the most eminent physishan of this age.” Having ensured everybody there knew how important he was, the man prescribed half-a-dozen leeches and a series of prayers to all the gods. Matters firmly in hand, he whipped out a blood-encrusted knife.

  §

  One moment, Sylvalla was lying in agony on a velvet cushion with a broken wing. The next, she’d tumbled off the cushion, and a physician was standing over her with a bloodstained knife.

  “No!” she cried, and, despite the feeling that her body was composed of molten lead, she managed to push the doctor away. “Dirk!” she yelled. Pulling feebly at her tourniquet she continued to scream for Dirk, her wounded arm worryingly numb under her clumsy fingers.

  “Um,” Francis said. “This man is a doctor. I’m sure—”

  Dirk took this as a cue to burst out. “Put the bloody knife down, now!” he roared, sword waving.

  The physician tried to grab Sylvalla again. “Be brave, mish. Queen. Mish.”

  Dirk shouted slowly and clearly, “Put...the...bloody...knife...down. Now!”

  “I washn’t planning to kill her with it,” the physician muttered in the kind of voice influential people use on those they believe are blessed with limited mental faculties. Nevertheless, he put the knife down and backed away from the sword-wielding maniac.

  “Sylvalla, my lady, you made the right decision. That knife is filthy. It would have killed you as surely as an arrow to your heart, only slower,” Dirk spoke only nominally for Sylvalla’s benefit.

  “Oh,” the physician said, finally understanding the problem was a fear of infection. He showed Dirk a large bottle of colourless fluid and took a swig. Wiping his lips with evident satisfaction, he said. “Not with thish liberally applied.” The good doctor smiled. “Total alcohol, or ash the old recipe says, percent proof. You’ve gotta love it. Also good painkiller.”

  “What would you suggest?” Sylvalla asked Dirk.

  “Take it, but don’t drink too much.”

  Once she’d taken a swig of the vile stuff, Dirk stepped up to Sylvalla and, very gently, touched the stub of arrow coming out of her arm, searching to see exactly where and how it had penetrated the flesh.

  His grip shifted. Single h
anded, and as strong as a vice, he pushed the sharp point through her arm and out the other side before Sylvalla could flinch.

  Sylvalla screamed, even after the arrow was unceremoniously dropped on the floor.

  “Alcohol,” Dirk said, clinical as any doctor.

  The physician, visibly shaking with anger and several other unpleasant emotions, silently handed the bottle to Dirk.

  And still Sylvalla did not stop screaming. She reasoned thus—there is a time for all things under the sun, when they stopped torturing her, she would stop screaming. It was that simple.

  Dirk was not finished. “I’ll have that knife, doctor,” he said.

  Sylvalla flinched as the doctor passed it over.

  Blithely, Dirk took a firm grip of Sylvalla’s forearm—and sliced off her tourniquet.

  The wound bled horribly. Even more so as Dirk began massaging the blood past the indent where the tourniquet had been. It was agony. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? Or had she tied it too tightly? Would she lose her arm?

  “What do you think you’re doing?” the doctor huffed.

  “I’m sorry, Doctor, did you mention something about leeches? Definitely we’ll be needing those. And a bandage?”

  The good doctor obliged, grumbling under his breath as he pulled clean white cotton from his bag.

  Well, if you’ve got that under control, then?” Dirk stood back and let the doctor get on with his bandaging.

  Sometime, around about the third wind of bandage, Sylvalla began to compose herself. She swallowed down the part of her anger that was unreasoning, and asked Dirk, “What in all the realms of the dead did you think you were doing?”

  “I have a knack for these things,” Dirk replied.

  The physician continued binding her arm. Calmly, very calmly, he breathed in, and out.

  Sylvalla took her cue from him. Calmly, very calmly, she allowed him to finish his ministrations. It helped to think that somewhere, somehow, somebody would pay for today.

  Revelations

  Jonathan knocked on Mr Goodfellow Senior’s door, and barged inside carrying a crate of bottles. “You want any of the good stuff?” he asked. “It’s on special. Half price because you’re family.”