by A. J. Ponder
Jonathan paced the room. “We don’t have time for this.”
“We have to have time.” Sylvalla shook her head as though there was a bee in it. “Just wait—I’ve forgotten something.”
“You’ve—” Tishke interjected.
A small boy ran in. Dirk was walking sedately behind, shaking his head.
“What’s all this about?” Sylvalla asked, recognising the small boy as one of the twin Tomas substitutes. “Why’s he here?”
Dirk shrugged and turned to the boy. “Why don’t you tell Queen Sylvalla what you told me?”
“Sister, sister,” he said and smiled up at her with a big soppy grin. “The girl in the dungeon—”
“The princess!” a voice corrected from out in the corridor.
“The girl who said she was a princess said you’ve forgotten about her.”
“What girl? We don’t have anyone in any dungeons. They’ve all been closed off since I told Grehaum he could build a courthouse.”
“Well, she’s not really in the dungeon,” the boy said, nervously twisting his tunic in his hands. “The wicked queen locked her in a room and the princess says if you don’t hurry up and rescue her, she’ll escape anyway, but she’ll be really cross, and…do you think she’s really a princess?”
He glanced at the fuming Queen Tishke, and jumped. His face scarlet, he stuttered, “I…I didn’t mean nothing. I…”
“Tomas…” Sylvalla almost said go away, but Dirk had been right to bring the boys. With both Torri and Amarinda missing, they needed to be sure this wasn’t some childish flight of fancy. “Where is this lady? Lead on and I shall rescue her if she is good of heart. But if she’s a demon, I’ll let her chew on your bones for supper.”
The boy squeaked, but the grin barely left his face. Incorrigible.
The other twin stepped out from behind the doors, “No. I won’t let none of you hurt him. He’s my brother.”
“Brave fellows, and fine warriors,” Dirk said. “Lead on.”
And the two did. Proud as punch, they linked arms and strode down the corridor, only faltering at intersections, to peer around warily, as if an army of nannies might enter this quiet wing of the castle and sweep them off to the nursery at any moment. Jonathan, Dirk and Sylvalla followed them, exchanging glances, until, finally, the boys stopped outside a door. They glanced back.
The brave Tomas knocked three times on the door.
“Shhh, go away. I’m working,” a voice called. The voice was familiar—but it definitely wasn’t Amarinda.
“Torri?” Sylvalla asked.
“See?” the brave Tomas said turning the handle. “It’s locked!”
“The princess said the evil witch queen locked her inside,” the serious twin informed them, nodding earnestly.
Sylvalla gently pushed the brave Tomas aside, so she could peer through the keyhole.
It was Torri, dresses spread over the room, a piece of charcoal in her hand. “Really?” Sylvalla said. “You called my mother an evil witch queen?”
Torri shrugged. “I might have let their imaginations run a little wild—your mother did lock me in a tower—but I didn’t say witch. I promise. They must’ve heard that elsewhere.”
Jonathan reached over to the lock. “Ah, let me take a look at that.” The lock clicked and they all trooped in.
“Careful!” Torri waved her arm around at the dresses she was using as notepaper.
“You lied to us,” brave Tomas yelled, ignoring her warning and trampling on a dress. “You’re not a princess. Princesses wear swords. Everyone knows that.”
Sylvalla grinned.
Torri gasped. “That is not true. And I did not lie. I said I was locked in this room by the queen.”
“I’m sure it was a misunderstanding,” Jonathan said, coming to the rescue.
Sylvalla ignored the cheerful banter between Jonathan and the two boys, and took a moment to survey Torri’s handiwork. “Well, since my mother has seen fit to give you this room, perhaps you should keep it. Although, you might want some paper—I believe it is easier to write on than…silk.”
Torri raised an eyebrow and a half. “I was rather planning to stay,” she said. “Well, apart from getting my belongings back and going out and doing some testing. The biggest problem is the hexplosives. The ones I tried to make weren’t reliable.” She glanced meaningfully at Jonathan.
Sylvalla grinned and clapped Jonathan on the back. There was no point in being subtle. “Jonathan, here, is a wizard. He can help.”
“Ah,” Jonathan said. “Remember, Sylvalla. I—”
“Good. Fantastic. Thanks for offering, Jonathan. That must be why you’ve come back. To help me protect the good people of Avondale.”
“I came to help with the evacuation and caution you—” Jonathan started again, but before he could utter any more dire prophecies, Sylvalla swept off to the throne room. Organising the defence of her home city was nightmare enough without Jonathan’s pessimism infecting everyone. I’d put him in charge of an evacuation, just to keep him off my back, if I didn’t need him to help Torri.
“Dirk?”
But Dirk must have stepped out for a minute. He was in the corridor, slouching against the wall. “I don’t see why the wizard gets all the fun helping Torri create people traps.”
“You mean playing with explosives? Because he’s a wizard, and that’s what wizards do when they’re not being cryptic and annoying.” Sylvalla couldn’t understand why Dirk was being so sulky lately. Well, she could. He didn’t much enjoy palace life. Or Jonathan’s company. Strangely, the friendlier Jonathan was, the more Dirk seemed to dislike him.
“Dirk, do you think they’ll follow my lady mother if I send her to Scotch Mist? Maybe if they saw royalty moving, they’d take the threat seriously.”
“We can but try,” Dirk said with a grim smile.
“Yes. Indeed. If she wasn’t my mother, she’d be on trial for sedition. She locked up Avondale’s best chance of surviving an attack.”
“It’s a pity we don’t have old Grehaum,” Dirk said. “He’s a wily old commander. We should ask him to be ready to join us before we’re attacked.”
“Then who could we trust to protect Scotch Mist while he’s away?”
Dirk shrugged. “Not me.”
Torri came running out, Jonathan trailing sheepishly. “Are we really evacuating Avondale?” she demanded. “Won’t that be dangerous?”
“There’s no need to panic. We’re letting whoever wants to go, go to Scotch Mist for a while, so the rest of us can more easily defend the city.”
“That’s not what the wizard told me.”
Sylvalla glared at Jonathan. “Jonathan’s just a bit melodramatic.”
Jonathan glared back. “I’ve been anything but melodramatic. The dead will rise. Your Kingdom will fall. You need to get everyone out.”
Torri shook her head. “Wizards are so strange. You really think all the good citizens of Avondale will pack up their homes on your say so? On Sylvalla’s, even? We might as well kill them ourselves, because it will never happen.”
‘Then they will all die.”
“Not if we can keep an exit clear,” Torri said. “There’s an underground passage from the castle to the forest about an hour out of Avondale.”
“There’s a what?” Sylvalla said. “A tunnel in and out of Avondale castle? “Why hasn’t it been closed off?”
Torri shrugged. “Well, actually, it goes through the stables…but don’t worry. Even if the enemy did find the entrance and force their way in, they’d be in for several nasty surprises.” She turned a little red.
“Ah,” Jonathan said. “Your doing, presumably. So how are we supposed to get all those people out through this dangerous bolt hole in the middle of a battle?”
“It’ll be tricky,” Torri said. “But I think—”
“Good. I’ll leave it with you and Jonathan and whoever you can conscript. Tell me if there are any problems.”
Sylvalla t
urned back to Dirk. All work and no sword fighting was making her grumpy. “I’d kill for some sword practice.”
Dirk grinned. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Breathing is Important
Holding in the breath is dangerous,
but letting it out is asking for it to be stolen
Francis strode into the court with Mac and Grimmo on each side, and two grizzled soldiers behind them. Determined to play the part of a prince, he couldn’t help but be intimidated. King Norvid had the biggest standing army. With the other four other kingdoms under Arrant’s thrall, Avondale desperately needed his support. From all accounts King Norvid’s clever—is he clever enough to withstand Arrant’s bribes and flattery?
“Francis of Havondale, my lord,” a crier yelled.
“Greetings, King Norvid of Northdale,” Francis said, painting a smile on his face. Sweat dripped down his back. No pressure, but this was his last chance.
“Welcome, welcome,” King Norvid said, his eyes vacant until he turned to show off his treasure. “You have seen my latest acquisition. It is exquisite, is it not?”
“I guess—it is,” Francis said, his sword’s familiar warning searing into his hand. Grimmo and Mac stared at the floor, both all-too aware of the dangers of looking too closely at one of the jewelled butterflies after Lars’ disappearance.
“So. Enough chit-chat. What brings you here?” King Norvid demanded.
“My lord, I represent Avondale—”
King Norvid cocked his head to the side. “You know what they call you? Francis the Pretender.”
Francis opened his mouth to protest.
“Never mind.” The king waved Francis to silence. “There’s someone here you’ll wish to see. I’ll set up the meeting, and then, Francis of Havondale, we’ll see what you are made of.”
“Um, that’s kind of you.” Francis’ eyes widened. “When can we make the appropriate arrangements?”
“Soon, very soon. Tonight, we shall have a feast. You and three of your men would be most welcome to attend.”
“Your offer is most gracious,” Francis murmured. This is the first real opportunity we’ve had—maybe our luck is turning.
On the other hand, the butterfly does not bode well. Francis’ stomach churned as hope and fear fought an epic battle. Hope won. After all, it was hope that had brought him here. He nodded. “My men and I will be delighted to attend.”
“Good. Good,” King Norvid said. “It will be but the first step.”
A first step to where? Francis thought, but he nodded and smiled, offering the bland niceties Sylvalla’s advisors had scripted, before excusing himself, and bowing his way out.
At least, this was a court he hadn’t had to run from. Francis suppressed a shiver. So why do I feel like King Norvid has a target on my back?
“Well, that was better than usual,” Mac whispered as they stepped outside. “We have a chance.”
Francis swallowed. “This is Avondale’s last chance, so we have to try, but I have a bad feeling. When we get back to the encampment, we should have a quiet word to the soldiers.”
Mac’s habitual grin disappeared. “There going to be trouble, boss?”
Grimmo shook his head. “The problem with you two is you’re too nice—what you’re doing is volunteering to walk into the lion’s den with only three men. Ah—” He blushed. “Um. Pardon me, sir. It’s just, sometimes I forget…”
That I’m a posh person? Francis thought. Why should that make such a difference? And yet it did. The power dynamic changed everything—and mostly for the worse, as nobody dared to tell you when you were being a fool. “Spit it out,” Francis prompted. “I’m not the type to prefer death, so talk some sense. And get used to it.”
“Sir, I don’t trust that king. Or his invitation. If you’d let me talk to the men? I’d feel happier if they were prepared for the worst.”
Francis nodded. Better Grimmo than me, he thought as they approached the Avondale encampment.
Grimmo got straight to the point, scowling through fierce eyebrows. “Men, Prince Francis has been invited to feast at the palace tonight. It is a most noble offer, but this is no party. We still don’t know these people’s intentions. But we’re not the only ones going to be in danger. Be ready to break camp and run—leave the tents up, so it’s not too obvious. If we lose a bit of canvas, so be it. You’re all worth more than tents.”
Francis nodded stiffly.
“How about a double ration while we’re waiting?” a soldier asked, “Since you’ll be having all the fun.”
“Fun?” Francis said. “I’d rather be out here. Those of us going in will be walking into the lion’s mouth. If we make it out of here alive, I’ll make it up to you all. I promise.” He surveyed the men. “And don’t think because you’re not coming to the court that you can relax. Keep your eyes peeled. If we come out running, we might not have time to wait for you.”
“What if they come for us?” a wag asked Grimmo. “Do we run?”
“Yes,” Grimmo said, looking them all in the eyes. “If an army comes out of that gates—don’t wait, don’t try to save us, just run.”
Grimmo’s soldiers lost their smiles. But only until a young man stepped forward. “You need any volunteers to help you eat the food?”
Then, they all stepped forward, each with a claim of how indispensable they were. Francis had to stifle a laugh at their fearlessness—not that he entirely blamed them—if he hadn’t seen King Norvid’s vacant stare he’d be looking forward to the feast, too.
The Banquet
A taste for rich food and poor company
Exhausted from hours of food preparation and scrubbing pots, Amarinda backhanded a trickle of sweat. She hoped beyond hope that the rumours were true. Well, not all of them. Hopefully, Sylvalla wasn’t a witch queen and Francis wasn’t her puppet. But the news was that Francis was here, and that he was coming to the banquet tonight was the most exciting thing she’d heard for a long time.
Even better, Evil Cook had discovered she was shorthanded on servers. Amarinda tried to hide her grin. She’d actually get an opportunity to see Francis, and maybe talk to his assistants—so long as nobody dropped pudding down her front.
There was no mistaking the excitement in the court when Francis arrived. All anyone who came to the kitchens could talk about was the way Francis had casually refused to let a guard take his sword, and instead plunged it into a flagstone in the middle of the foyer.
“It sank through the stone like butter.”
“Half the castle has tried, but nobody can get it out.”
“It won’t budge an inch. He must be very strong for a fake prince. Quite good looking, too. For a moment there…” The young man fanned his face in a fake swoon.
Amarinda knew how he felt; the young prince Francis was charming.
The kitchen was buzzing with activity—hot as hell itself and filled with busy chatter and the clatter of dishes as platters were arranged to Evil Cook’s liking.
Fergus slouched in.
“Get him out before he breaks something!” Cook yelled at Amarinda and she retreated to the blasting heat of the kitchen oven.
“Don’t worry, Fergus.” Amarinda smiled and handed him a batch of poppy seed cakes. “We’re just busy today.”
Fergus grinned and left.
The rest of the kitchen heaved a collective sigh of relief. “You’re a wonder,” one of the older staff said when Evil Cook wasn’t looking. “He used to make so much trouble.”
It was a shame Evil Cook didn’t feel the same way. She scowled at his back, then turned her scowl on Amarinda. “Oh, and don’t think you can get any uppity ideas because you’re serving tonight. Evening shift dishes are on you.”
Again. Ever since Amarinda had struck up the strange relationship with the thurgle, Evil Cook had given her the worst jobs. Not that it mattered, she wasn’t planning on sticking around.
She kept her chaffed hands well away from her spotless new unif
orm and superstitiously crossed her fingers. If I keep my eyes and ears open, I’ll be able to talk to the Avondale entourage. They might even take me with them.
Trying to keep out of Evil Cook’s way, Amarinda busied herself with the apple tarts and tried to ignore the swirling rumours. Francis was no murderer. These people would soon realise that, wouldn’t they? It worried her how everyone here hated Avondale and wanted to think the worst of everyone who came from there. What if things went badly? A hundred terrible scenarios flew around her brain. Francis being attacked. Francis or one of his companions taking umbrage at a slight.
“Pay attention, lass. Get on with serving, half the plates are out already.”
Amarinda blinked.
“Take those, you lazy slug.” Evil Cook pointed to trays of earthenware goblets filled with mead. “And come back, quick sharp.”
Amarinda took the tray and slipped through the crowd, disappointed as her drinks disappeared well before she made it to the visitors’ table. She had to go back to the kitchen without even a glimpse of Francis. Hurrying back with another tray, she made her way past tables straining under the treats they’d slaved over: blackbird’s tongue jelly; pickled frogs’ legs; a swan with all its feathers; butter in the shape of a marauding dragon. There was so much food, and more coming. They’d likely all be sick by the end of it. Even the greedy hounds lounging beneath the tables were taking their time gnawing on the bones.
Finally, Amarinda made it to the Avondale party, seated at the tables furthest from the kitchen. And Mac was with them. A good man, Mac. Cook, Avondale’s Cook, always spoke highly of him—except when he joined the army and she told him exactly what she thought of such stupidity. Even so, it was Mac. Would he recognise her?
“A drink, my Lord,” she said, knowing Mac was no lord.
“Am—er.”
“Amda,” Amarinda supplied, trying to keep her face neutral and tamp down a giddy surge of hope. “We don’t much like foreigners around here,” she said, knowing he’d take it for a warning.
“Am…da, what are you doing here?”
