The Sylvalla Chronicles

by A. J. Ponder

  “Kitchen staff. Don’t suppose I could get a change of scenery?”

  “Oh. We’ll fix that.” His breath on her ear, a soft but audible whisper, even as to a casual observer she was turning away.

  Heart in her throat, the first trace of a smile, Amarinda sauntered back to the kitchen, empty tray in hand.

  A frown from Evil Cook and she wiped the smile away faster than a waif caught eating a meat pie. “Get moving, lass. We don’t have all day to wait around for the likes of you.”

  Heralds blew trumpets. A guest was arriving.

  Amarinda risked Evil Cook’s fury to peek out the side door. Next to her, several of the serving wenches kneeled as the man passed by, dressed in king’s purple, a pack of soldiers surrounding him. A butterfly—no, a moth—fluttered on his shoulder. Arrant!

  By the Maiden, this is bad. He has a sword and he’s acting like a king. And wearing a jewel more expensive than a king’s ransom, like he doesn’t care about upstaging King Norvid. How can he be so brazen?

  More people spontaneously kneeled. Even Amarinda could feel the pull, her heart fluttering in her chest as his charm hit her like the warm glow from a cook-pit. Stepping back as surreptitiously as possible, she hurried through the kitchen, her mind reeling. I need to warn them, but how?

  They need to get out!

  They need their weapons!

  “You lazy slug.” Evil Cook threw a wooden spoon dripping with hot sugary sauce at Amarinda. “I told you to hurry.”

  “Ow!” The spoon scalded her hand as she fended it away.

  Grabbing a giant platter, Amarinda ran to the door.

  “Careful!” Evil Cook yelled before castigating another server. “The meat’s not going to grow legs and walk to table. What in all hells do you lot think you’re doing? Eating all the food yourself, most like. Well, never you mind, I’ll take it out of your hides later.”

  And the old cow probably will, too. Amarinda wanted to drop her platter and run, but with Evil Cook’s eyes on her back she didn’t dare.

  Rushing through the crowd, she pushed her way toward the Avondale table.

  Too late!

  Arrant had his sword pushed up against Francis’ throat.

  By the Seven! To Amarinda’s surprise, King Norvid didn’t ask him to leave, or even put away his sword. He just nodded along to Arrant’s outrageous farce.

  Francis’ party reached for their swords—which weren’t there.

  “I think there’s been a mistake,” Francis babbled. “I’m here as an ambassador for Avondale.”

  “You’re a filthy maggot, scion of Sylvalla the Witch Queen, and marauder of Northdale.” Arrant postured—with that moth on his shoulder, his glamour or charm or whatever it was, was almost blinding. Amarinda blinked away the haloed after-image. “You, Francis of the pigs, liar and cheat and pretend prince, you are here to steal and lie and plunder. Do not deny it.”

  Throat tight, Amarinda crept closer. Is there anything I can do?

  “King Norvid,” Arrant continued, even though he clearly wasn’t speaking to the king, who was drooling over his jewelled butterfly, but to the rest of the room. “These Avondale scum are raiders and brigands. They merely seek an opportunity to kill us in our cups. Take my advice and put them all in the dungeons.”

  “We’re here representing Queen Sylvalla,” Mac objected, nervously glancing over to Francis, who was alternating between puce and white, his fists clenching and unclenching.

  Amarinda hesitated, trying to sort through her options. Guards were everywhere, including Fergus who watched on, downing poppy seed cakes like this was a play put on just for him.

  “What is this outrage?” Francis said, his voice little more than a squeak. “You cannot bring weapons to a…parley.”

  “I tell you what’s unacceptable,” Arrant said, spitting out the words. “That Sylvalla, the Witch Queen of Avondale, usurper and destroyer of Scotch Mist, should send her lapdog to invade the quiet city of Northdale.” Arrant waved his arms in a way that was suspiciously similar to how Capro used to address the Avondale court when there was something he badly wanted. And Amarinda felt…something…a desire to obey. To believe. To follow. Fortunately, she wasn’t falling for that. She’d been trained against glamours, and that training was serving her well.

  “Oh wise King Norvid,” Arrant said, still playing to his audience. “The Witch Queen’s minions eat your food and drink your wine while their soldiers are out in the countryside threatening your good people. Destroying crops and villages of the good citizens of Northdale.”

  There was a collective gasp, but Arrant wasn’t finished yet. “These men are destroyers of peace, murderers of babes! Rapists and plunderers. But it stops here.” He signalled to King Norvid, who held his jewelled butterfly aloft so that it fluttered and sparkled red, and even though she looked away swiftly, the bright afterimages slid around in Amarinda’s mind’s eye like precious jewels in a tumbler.

  “Can I fight them?” Fergus asked, eagerly putting a hand to his sword. “Arrant, you say they are evil. I want to fight them for you.” Nobody noticed. At least nobody apart from Amarinda, Francis and his men. They were the only people in the entire room turned away from the glittering butterfly. The only people who were not cheering Arrant with unnatural fervour.

  Amarinda ducked her head as Arrant turned his attention on the crowd. “What shall we do with them?”

  The crowd booed like theatregoers harassing a villain.

  “We are—” Francis flinched, Arrant’s sword pricking his neck hard enough to draw blood.

  Prat. But surely he won’t dare kill Francis, Prince of Havondale, in the middle of a banquet? Not that a bloodbath at a banquet hadn’t been done before. Amarinda knew her history. But history also dictated that such actions invariably ended as badly for the perpetrators as the victims.

  “What should we do with murderers and thieves?” Arrant said, clearly enjoying the drama.

  “We hang them,” the guests and staff roared.

  Amarinda dropped her platter and fled back to the kitchen. I can’t let them die. Not Francis, not Mac, not Grimmo, and not the other two brave soldiers who came with them. I have to save them, somehow. If only I was Torri, I’d know what to do.

  She nearly ran into Evil Cook.

  Amarinda bit down a scream, but all Evil Cook did was shove a huge platter into her hands and send Amarinda back out again—just in time for the young spy to watch in the doorway as the Avondale men were herded off at sword-point to the dungeons.

  Before they’d even left the room, two bards stood up and began singing about the wickedness of Francis and the Witch Queen Sylvalla, and how the brave Northdale people had stopped them from pillaging the countryside.

  Arrant turning up was no accident. Dread sank into Amarinda’s bones. It was planned. If only I’d told Mac to escape while he had the chance.

  Communications

  Sylvalla welcomed the knock on the door. The loud pontifications between her advisors and the wizards were giving her a headache. If only they’d stop pontificating and make a decision.

  A messenger entered waving a crumpled bit of parchment at Sylvalla and silencing the headache-inducing wizards.

  Dirk stepped forward protectively. He wasn’t the sort to think messengers weren’t dangerous just because they were women.

  “A letter from Prince Francis of Havondale, Queen Sylvalla,” the messenger said, glancing sideways at Dirk.

  “Is he all right?” Sylvalla asked, trying and failing to contain her hope. “What does it say?” Maybe things are improving. Maybe he’s found Amarinda.

  “It’s grim. Prince Francis has written to ask for more men.”

  “Good. He can have them.”

  “Er. I don’t think so,” Dirk said.

  “Why not?” Sylvalla asked.

  “Francis can’t write.”

  “Oh,” Sylvalla said dully. Of course Francis couldn’t write. Like most of the population, he signed his name with
an X. After Mr Goodfellow had transformed him into a prince, and he’d been forced to sign things, he’d managed to break several quills—and he still hadn’t quite got the hang of it. “Could Francis have used a scribe?” she asked. And shook her head to answer her own question. Francis didn’t trust paper. He always used a messenger and asked them to deliver the message personally.

  “Who gave you this?” Dirk demanded, jumping to the chase. Could this be a Northdale agent?

  “The usual messenger,” she mumbled, so quietly Sylvalla wasn’t sure anyone else had heard. “Looked a bit tired, but…”

  “My lady, we must prepare for the worst,” Capro Goodfellow said. “I’m happy to go and check on Francis and his company. I’ll follow their trail and make sure there are no nasty surprises.”

  Sylvalla slammed her fist into the armrest. Francis has to be all right. He has to be…

  “Er.” Grehaum’s young lieutenant and replacement tried to hide his surprise with a salute. Close-cropped and heavily-muscled, he not only looked like a soldier, but he acted like one. “My queen, our scouts all show increased activity. There are…we…”

  “Yes. If they’ve taken Francis, they must be about to attack. We can’t wait until the enemy marches to our door, we need to move people to Scotch Mist before it is too late.”

  “The enemy? We don’t even know who the enemy are. Aside from Northdale, obviously.”

  “We should assume all five of the remaining Seven Kingdoms are hostile,” Dirk said.

  “You’ve always thought every kingdom is hostile,” Sylvalla retorted. “And you too, Jonathan. But that’s not helpful.” Even if I am panicking, I can’t show it. She exchanged glances with the pair.

  Dirk scowled back. “We have sent out both messengers and spies. Nobody returns.”

  “One messenger got through, not long after we sent Francis out. There’s still a chance—”

  The royal chancellor coughed. “My lady, we can’t be sure until their flags are waving beneath our walls. It will be too late then. I do not think—”

  “Good idea, I swear it’s more trouble than it’s worth.” Sylvalla turned to the messenger. “Have you had word? Have the artisans managed to strengthen Scotch Mist’s walls?”

  “No. Nothing. We’ve had no word from Scotch Mist for weeks.”

  “For the pity of the gods, it looks like Jonathan was right all along. We need Grehaum and half the Scotch Mist Army at the ready should either Scotch Mist or Avondale be attacked. I will not lose Avondale.”

  “Yes, my Queen.” The messenger ducked her head. ‘I will get your message to Grehaum.”

  “One more thing?”

  “What would that be?”

  “We need to rescue Francis and hopefully Amarinda, too—any ideas?”

  “I’m sorry, my Queen.” The messenger hurried from the room, her retreating footsteps the only sound in a room full of advisors who normally couldn’t stop talking.

  Death comes to us all

  The world turns

  Although we do not see it

  Burying horrors under the ever-closing doors of time

  Francis paced the miserable cell, shuffling back and forth past Mac and Grimmo. Even his stint in a cave was positively homely compared to the dripping ceiling, the decorative ironwork that only a madman could appreciate, and the garbage-ridden flagged dungeon floor splotched with slime. The stench of death and rot and fear also rated highly in frightening away all but the most intrepid tourists.

  The prison was so miserable, and their plight so hopeless, Francis struggled to think. Then he remembered something Dirk and the Goodfellows had told him—every dungeon is made with an escape hatch[99].

  Maybe there is hope. In a burst of energy, Francis pulled on flags, dug at mould, tugged at fixings, pressed cracks and dimples in the rock, and finally, banged his head on the wall. All to no avail.

  Mac coughed. And coughed again.

  That was a bad sign. Infection was a major cause of death in dungeons—it seemed unfair to give it a head-start.

  Grimmo looked up. “There have to be better ways to die.”

  Mac coughed again. “Francis, if you’re planning on escaping, I’d hurry,” he said laconically. “It looks like they’re raising gibbets with our names on them.”

  “I’m thinking about it,” Francis said, once again feeling the flagstones for any hidden inconsistencies. “Mr Goodfellow senior once said to me, there’s a time and place for everything—but death can come tomorrow—because tomorrow never comes.”

  “I didn’t realize the wizard was your friend.”

  Friend wasn’t entirely true, but Francis let it slide. “It’s a shame he’s not here. I don’t think any bars could hold him.”

  “He’s a fine man in a pinch,” Mac said. “But as he’s not here, what are we going to do?”

  “Pray Mr Goodfellow senior arrives in time,” Grimmo suggested.

  Mac’s laugh was like broken glass.

  “What makes you think he’ll rescue us?” Francis said, inspecting the metal bars again in the hope he’d missed something.

  “Isn’t that what wizards are supposed to do?” Grimmo said. “Turn up in the nick of time? With all those wizards back in Avondale, surely the plan was for some of them to watch our backs?”

  “I wouldn’t count on that,” Francis said, before remembering it was his job to keep up morale. “But don’t worry, we shouldn’t need a wizard. It’s said that every dungeon has an escape hatch, and if that fails, I’ve got a file in my pocket.”

  Mac grinned. “Francis, how about I take a gander at some of these uneven stones over here and you go over to the window and make use of that file.”

  “No,” Francis said. “Not the window. The courtyard’s too obvious. Look at all those people flooding in—there’s no way we can break out without them seeing us. We’ll have to escape inside, through the castle.”

  “Are you crazy?” Mac sputtered.

  Francis shrugged away Mac and Grimmo’s incredulous stares. “Probably. I’ve had espionage lessons from Dirk.”

  §

  Arrant inspected the gibbet. He didn’t want this execution to go wrong. For a start, Emz’rial would be livid. “You sure your men know what they’re doing?” he demanded. You know how superstitious people are. If one of the rats escapes justice due to a frayed rope, someone might decide he’s innocent, or been spared by the gods. That would make me most upset.”

  King Norvid, turning the butterfly round and round in his hands, barely looked up. “The executioner knows how important this is. That’s why—ah, there they are, my subjects coming out for the show. It’s such a lovely morning for a hanging,” King Norvid said dreamily, too entranced to care. Which was the point, but sometimes it was most annoying.

  “Very nice,” Arrant said. “But these appear to be the wrong men on the ropes. Where’s Francis and the Avondale rabble?”

  “It’s a matter of spectacle. Always leave the best for last,” King Norvid replied. Below, someone started betting.

  That’s more like it.

  The trapdoors under the feet of the nobodies he’d condemned for not being enthusiastic enough flew open with a bang!

  Arrant looked on dispassionately until the bodies stopped jerking. “I don’t suppose we could stretch to add drawing and quartering for the Avondale devils. Hanging alone does seem too good for them.”

  “Yes, indeed,” the King said with a smile. “Good idea. The horses will be ready.” He clapped over his shoulder for attention, before mumbling a few words to an aide who hurried away.

  Arrant rubbed his hands together. With Francis hanged, drawn and quartered—and his head returned to Avondale on a plate, Sylvalla would be devastated. And he and the demon Emz’rial would both be happy—if only for a little while.

  §

  “I don’t know why we’re wasting time,” Dirk said. “We need to go in, get Francis, and give them something to think about.”

  Sylvalla’s mind
whirled. I don’t want to be here, either, trapped like a rat. “Dirk is right, we should go on the attack.”

  Grehaum’s lieutenant’s jaw dropped open, while most of the other wizards and advisors contained their disapproval to solemn headshaking.

  “I make the decisions,” Sylvalla said. “And I’m not in the mood for wasting time.”

  Robes rustled, feet shuffled. A walking stick thumped the map. One of the older wizards. “Do you go here?” Thump. “Or here?” Thump. “Or—”

  “That’s why you’re here,” Sylvalla blurted. “To make things like travel easier.”

  “It shouldn’t be too hard to follow Francis’ trail,” Jonathan said.

  “What are you talking about?” Capro sputtered.

  Jonathan shrugged and slunk back into the corner.

  The wizard with the walking stick glared at Jonathan before turning his attention to Sylvalla. “We’re certainly not able to magic Francis back, if that’s what you’re thinking. Magic has consequences.”

  “And limits,” one of them tutted.

  “That’s your choice,” Sylvalla said. “So long as we get our supplies of anti-magic powder, I won’t kick you out. But I think Dirk’s right. He and I should have a little look, see what’s coming. Maybe we can find Francis.”

  “No!” the wizards and advisors yelled.

  A grizzled knight blurted, “It would be suicid—”

  Torri burst into the war room, grinning. The smile dropped from her face. “More wizards and advisors? What are they all doing here?”

  “Torri. Thank goodness,” Sylvalla said, pointedly ignoring her outburst. “Of course you know the Avondale advisors, and these vulnerable—er venerable gentlemen are—um—acquaintances of Mr Goodfellow. They’re”—arguing—“helping with the rescue of Francis and the defence of Avondale.”

  “Oh, dear me, no,” the grizzled knight said. “I mean, Francis’ loss is a tragedy. I like the lad, but Avondale has seen enough war… We’re here to stop you undertaking a rescue attempt that will only provoke the other kingdoms.”

  “War is coming, whether we like it or not,” Mr Goodfellow senior interjected.