The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

  “That’s because what you seek built these walls. It—they—long to return. But here is not where their real power lies.”

  “Then, find it. Send out scouts and have them search the countryside. The gods say I need you, or I would not forgive you your miserable failure. They say that together we will win this war. So keep this promise, and get me what is mine, my power by birth right. The power of the gods themselves. Do not take overlong. War is coming, and I intend to win.”

  “As do I,” Dothie said.

  The fool king just nodded and smiled.

  Small Problems

  Sylvalla shot a warning glance in the wizard’s direction as they ducked into smoke-filled war-room. Still, she wasn’t going to let them upset her. So far she’d done a good job of making empty promises—now all she had to do was get through this war council without upsetting anyone. Or firing them. But if she’d expected a quiet meeting with only her military staff and a few of her most hated advisors, she’d been sorely mistaken.

  Worse still, Tishke limped in behind them. “My prophecy. On Wings of Death! You must listen—” she said. She looked like she meant to say more—opening and shutting her mouth—only no sound emerged.

  That’s odd, Sylvalla thought. What are the wizards up to?

  “Ah, my dear lady. That’s not the prophecy that should worry you,” Capro said.

  Sylvalla turned and looked the old wizard squarely in the eye, uncomfortably aware of the military personnel puffing on their pipes and raising their eyebrows.

  “I have already said all I’m going to say to you. I have a kingdom to secure. Afterwards I can fulfil all the prophecies you like, but I’m past my eyeballs in trouble right now, and I’m not looking for any more. You could find someone else.”

  “There is no other.” Capro’s words were leaden, as if he suddenly felt his preposterous age. “Anyway, this time we will not leave. Time is running out. If you should need us, we’ll be here.”

  “Great. Thanks. That’s just what I need.” Magic might have been useful when Phetero was in the castle, or when Dothie turned me into a fly. But now?

  Capro stood. “We do not require your thanks, just your attention. Ahem.

  “When the only path is sorrow

  “And the thorns around you weep

  “Blood is all the victory

  “You shall ever keep.”

  Sylvalla threw down a document one of the crows had handed her. “And there you go again. Like that fool, Phetero. Did you know he once told me the dragon prophecy? He had no idea what it meant. He just thought he knew. “Prophecy! I spit on prophecy. I recommend it to...”

  “Ah, but Sylvalla,” Jonathan murmured. “It does not matter what you believe. Or what you want. Trouble comes. You can feel it in your bones. You can feel it in your heart. You are more powerful than you know. Be careful what you wish for.”

  “Dammit. You could have told me earlier.” Sylvalla shook her head. “At least you could have said it more clearly. It is too late now.”

  Capro looked at her. “What have you wished for?” His ancient whiskery face pressed close to hers, so those beady-eyed little crows couldn’t overhear.

  Dirk’s clutched his sword hilt.

  Sylvalla held up her hand, a clear signal for both Dirk and the nosy advisers to back off, and the tension eased. “To no longer be a princess. To not have to put up with the complications and irritations of court. You know about the hero bit,” she said, stalling.

  The Goodfellows said nothing, not moving so much as a muscle.

  “To not have a brother.” Sylvalla whispered. “Or rather, to not have to put up with him. I didn’t want anything to happen to him, really. I...” It sounded so lame now that he was gone.

  “Thank you, princess. Is there anything else we should know about?”

  “Yes,” Sylvalla answered loudly, and with all the dignity she could master, replied loud enough for all to hear, “you are powerful wizards, but I am not a princess, I am Queen of Avondale.” Queen to a country on the brink of disaster. Death was coming. Her mother was right about that at least—if she didn’t cement her rule now, the infighting could tear Avondale apart before Scotch Mist got the chance. “You cannot possibly think I can run off and fulfil prophecies. Instead, if you will not leave, I will have your vow.”

  “We are pledged to magic.” Capro said. “We are pledged to never aspire to any other position than that of wizard. These are the rules we live by. Truth, Faith, Peace. We have made our promises, and our paths have been laid before us. If you wish, we can lay our hearts before you, and promise to keep that faith, but that is all. Good day.”

  Capro and Jonathan bowed out of the small room in a hasty retreat. At least they had the good sense to glare nicely at the crows. Gods, they’d been plotting in her throne room! How long before those greedy men reached out their hands to take Avondale?

  It was a huge problem, with only one answer. Marry Francis.

  §

  After a solemn hike back to their guest chambers. Jonathan asked, “Have you heard the rumour?”

  “Fruit fly?” Capro said, and nodded, as if to himself. “It is no rumour; the magic has left a stamp on her. If we were here earlier we might have caught him.”

  “If we caught him, what could we do?” How strong is he?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know.” Capro shook his head and settled into an armchair. “What I do know is, trouble is coming, and Sylvalla is tied up in it, all the way up to her royal crown.”

  The cruel eyes of the wizard, Dothie, flashed into Jonathan’s memory. The wizard that had snatched his old life away from him.

  Maybe that was why they were here, to help Sylvalla destroy him. But why? And why, of all the things she might use to stop Dothie, did she reach for the most frightening, bloody, and wasteful tool in her possession: her army?

  Because Phetero attacked Avondale.

  There was a knock at the door. Whoever it was smelt of mothballs and lye.

  Before they could answer, Tishke burst through their door. “I will not have you two wizards destroying my Kingdom.”

  Jonathan stood with his mouth hanging open, but his father had not been caught quite so completely by surprise.

  “Our only plan is to keep Sylvalla alive long enough to fulfil her destiny,” Capro said. “We believe—”

  “Just don’t meddle in my wedding plans. Do you understand me?” Or any of my other plans.

  Capro looked Tishke up and down. “My lady, you forget yourself. I believe I was the one who—”

  “And now what are you going to do? Run off home again, then come racing back in the nick of, oh yes, too late to do anything about it?”

  “Actually.” Jonathan stood up to his full height—at least a foot taller than Tishke. “We must stay. The world is—”

  Mr Goodfellow Senior nudged Jonathan. “Yes, of course, Queen Tishke. We will do what is necessary to make this wedding happen. Is there anything else you need?”

  Tishke glared at them. “Just keep your noses out of trouble.” The faint hint of mothballs faded as she limped out, muttering, “Things to do, so many things to do,” under her breath.

  §

  Francis hurried back, happy the Amarinda incident had been smoothed over. The bullying should end now that Sylvalla had offered her the position of lady in waiting—but there was still the problem with Emma, (or Esma, or whoever she was) and the princes. When he reached the war room he hesitated.

  Sylvalla’s voice pierced the solid wood door. “I do not want to hear your excuses. Now is the best time. Yes, it’s early spring, but we do not want to be caught in a winter campaign.”

  “You’re right,” a smarmy voice replied. One of the Chancellors? “We cannot wage a winter war in that ungodly place. But we need time. Another year and we will have more warriors and more resources at our disposal.”

  “And so will they, Grand Vizier,” Sylvalla snapped. “Now, Commander Grehaum…”

  �
�Hmph. Grehaum,” the Grand Vizier snapped. “I believe I have the power here.”

  “Actually, you have no power, ex Vizier. You are hereby stripped of your responsibilities. I will not see you in my castle again.”

  “But, Queen Sylvalla,” ex Grand Vizier’s voice was even smarmier.

  “Ugh. Go away,” Sylvalla said.

  Francis winced. Was she really firing him like this? That wasn’t the plan.

  The advisor stormed out, pushing past Francis and slamming the door behind him.

  It wasn’t much of an invitation. Francis decided to wait outside a little longer. He made himself comfortable.

  The moment he was settled, Sylvalla stormed out, Dirk at her side.

  Her face as hard as rock, Sylvalla turned back to face Commander Grehaum. “That’s right, my plan involves an awful lot of digging. If you don’t like it, you have twenty-four hours to come up with something better—or you can resign.”

  Francis levered himself to his feet. “Er, just asking about the...”

  Sylvalla glowered at him.

  “I really do need to ask you about the princes,” he said.

  “What bloody princes?” Sylvalla snapped back. “Isn’t it enough that you’re around? When that brother of mine returns there will be princes in abundance. Do not trouble yourself to get any more.”

  “The trouble is we don’t seem to be able to get rid of them. Her Royal Highness, Tishke,” Francis said, as if Sylvalla might have forgotten who her own mother was—or as if all the titles might make his next piece of information seem not quite so disrespectful, “is, well, you know how she is.”

  “And?”

  “And well, there are only so many places to put them. Poor Emma is at her wit’s end.”

  Sylvalla gave him a blank stare.

  “I think he means Estha, my lady,” Dirk interjected.

  “Oh well,” Sylvalla sighed heavily. “We’ll just have to hire more nursery staff, at least until my mother is able to sort things out.”

  Francis sighed. “I guess that’s my job, then.”

  “Hmmm,” Sylvalla appeared to agree. “We have to have an heir. One way or another, my brother will return.” Her implication was clear.

  Francis tried not to be shocked. In this castle, what was one more fake prince? He turned to go.

  “Wait a minute. I’ll come with you.” Sylvalla smiled. “We can leave Dirk to his own devices for a while.”

  Dirk frowned, caught between possibilities.

  Sylvalla waved him away. “Don’t worry, if an assassin gets me now, I’m really not much in the way of hero material now am I?” Under her breath she added. “Also, if I’m dead there’s a good chance that I won’t have to go through with this gods forsaken wedding.”

  People Traps

  Dirk wandered around the castle trying to think. He needed a plan. Avondale would need a small miracle to win this war. Sylvalla’s idea of trenches was all well and good, but Phetero had been recruiting and training his troops for months. And Grehaum could enlist as many new bodies as he liked, but untrained, they’d be scarcely better than straw hitting-posts. And as for the generals, Cook could organise a battle better—and even she wasn’t a patch on that girl Torri with her ideas for people traps…

  Which gave Dirk an idea. He strode into the kitchen. Torri was picking up a pot brimming with chopped onions, tears streaming down her face.

  “Morning, Torri,” Dirk said. I expect you’ve heard about the war.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Blinking rapidly, Torri managed an awkward curtsy. “My Da’s goin’ ter fight.”

  Even through her onion-induced tears, Dirk thought he noticed a hint of pride. Stupidity.

  Cook stomped over.

  Dirk did his best to pretend he hadn’t noticed. “And Cook said you did a most ingenious job with your, er, people traps.”

  Cook’s glare said it all—Get out of my kitchen and stop bothering my staff.

  Thankfully, someone behind her dropped a pot. She spun around to yell at the offender.

  “Well?” Dirk asked Torri.

  “Well sir, I did my duty, is all.” Torri found a handkerchief, and blew into it.

  “Good,” Dirk said. “My duty is to protect Avondale and the princess. To do that I need to know all about your people traps.”

  “I really don’t want to make things that kill people.”

  “In war, people die. The only question is, will it be hard-working Avondale folk like your dad or...”

  “I’ve been thinking ’bout such things since the attack, an’ I do have some ideas.”

  “Good. You’re now in the army. Come on, let’s go.”

  Torri started heaping onion peel into a bowl. “It’s just I’m busy right now. After the wedding Cook will be able to spare me.”

  “I’m talking about war, and you’re worried Cook will be grumpy?”

  “She’s always grumpy. And bossy.” Torri smiled up at Dirk. “It’s not so bad.”

  As if to prove Torri wrong, Cook was loudly threatening one of her staff with disembowelment.

  Dirk was impressed—she’d have made a great officer.

  Leaving her victim in a gooey pile of tears, she closed in.

  “Sorry,” Dirk said. “I’m afraid your little hunter, er, gatherer here is exactly what Avondale needs.”

  “Can’t Avondale wait? It’s bad enough I ’ave to put up with those damned wizards coming in here and turning everythin’ topsy turvy for Angelica and Purslane and sending my suppliers out looking for goodness knows what ’erbs. And I’ve ’ad to cater fer a funeral, a coronation and this gods’ blighted off-and-on again wedding. An’ all at short notice—and now you’re absconding with the help. By the Seven, I’ll have at you—sword, or no sword.” Cook’s face deepened from its usual cherry-red to scarlet. She hoisted her wooden spoon threateningly, heedless of the gravy dripping onto the floor.

  Dirk resisted his impulse to break her arm, and dropped his voice to a barely audible whisper. “Avondale’s army is as green as mouldy bread, and half as dangerous. Should we go up to the Scotch Mist walls bare-fisted and ask for an apology?”

  Cook sighed worse than the amateur theatre company on a midsummer’s night murder-mystery. “Go. Just go. What do I care?” Oily gravy arced from her spoon as she waved it. “My job is only to prepare food for a thousand people. Never mind me.”

  Dirk didn’t argue. He just shrugged and called for Torri to keep up.

  As they strode down the corridor, a smile split Dirk’s face. Despite the fact that they were probably all going to die, he was looking forward to this. It was a long time since he’d learnt something new—and something so potentially useful.

  Plans

  King Phetero nodded to the crier.

  “All honour to the King, all glory to his name, bless his wisdom on this day and CLEAR THE COURT.” The last three words were spoken at a bellow, Phetero’s impatient hand urging him to get on with it.

  When everyone except the king’s personal guards had left, Dothie slunk in, Toots hooked firmly onto his shoulder. “My King,” he said, performing a sketchy bow. It was pitiful, but the look of pain momentarily flashing across the wizard’s face, as his familiar’s claws dug in, was more than satisfactory.

  “How goes your, um, research?” Phetero enquired. It was best to be coy in so open a forum. “It seems I have very little time left for your mucking around. When this girl comes, I don’t want to just beat her with my army, I want to crush her and all her Avondale scum into the earth.

  “The gods are skittish, my lord, but my studies have pointed me toward ancient prophecy and a gateway of unimaginable power.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I fear I do not—”

  “Do not be an old woman. Fear is a worm that eats at the old and the feeble.”

  “Of course, my lord. It is ... more a suspicion. The girl’s warmongering may well inconvenience us. She is—important in some way. And we are, as yet, far from rea
dy. I know not whether to seek the portal out in the countryside, or even the wilds, or the bones of the mountains themselves. I fear...

  “Pish. Again I say do not use that word, it is for dark nights and idle chatter. Tell me about this gateway.”

  Dothie tilted his head, in a way that should have been respectful, and yet wasn’t. “The scouts found promising rumours about a cave northward. It is too early to know yet.”

  “Pah, the power is here, in the castle itself. It may even be in a book. For a wizard, you think too literally.”

  Dothie shook his head.

  “Go on, that is all.” Phetero waved Dothie away as if he was no more than a scullery maid. “You may go. But in the meantime, I shall be doing some research of my own.”

  Dothie bowed and turned on his heel. Respectfully, his caution clamoured as he walked out the door. The problem was he found it hard to think of Phetero as something other than a very noisy fly. The image was so powerful, he almost expected to turn around and see a fly on the throne.

  Just like Sylvalla.

  It would be so easy… But, somehow, he managed to stay his hand.

  State Affairs

  The next three days, Sylvalla spent her time climbing in and out of her window, but she didn’t get far. Avondale needed her. And the war preparations continued. Dirk spent a lot of time with Torri and as they worked on machines they called Chunkers, and everyone complained about the smells and strange noises coming from the wizards’ quarters. If only she hadn’t been turned into a fruit fly, she’d already be married—and without all this extra fuss.

  On the day of the wedding, Dirk stood an uneasy vigil outside the door. Dressed in formal uniform, there was anger in every move he made. People flinched, and hurried past him even faster than usual.

  The maids chattered away. “The young Lord Grimsway will be there,” one of the girls giggled and held her hand to her head in a fake swoon. “He looks so fine.” There were more giggles.

  Sylvalla cringed.

  “Aren’t you excited, my lady?” Amarinda asked, brown eyes almost solicitous. She’d somewhat forgiven Sylvalla after her promotion to Queen’s Lady in Waiting. “Francis is so noble. Isn’t he just irresistible?”