by Wendy Wang
They sat cross-legged, staring into the flames.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “For bringing me here.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” Peter reached for his bag, pulling out several containers filled with food. Her stomach gurgled as she took off the glass tops and smelled the heavenly roasted chicken pieces. Another container held an asparagus salad and there was cheese and bread and a flask of wine along with two small glasses.
“A feast.” She popped an asparagus tip into her mouth. The bite of vinegar and herbs paired perfectly with the sweet nuttiness of the vegetable.
Peter handed her a plate and some silverware, along with a square of white linen. He served them each a piece of chicken, some asparagus and few slices of cheese. She broke the baguette into pieces and placed them on the plates. She dug into a chicken thigh, letting the delicious, cold meat grease her chin. It had been hours since she’d eaten and neither of them spoke as they cleaned their plates.
Peter poured a glass of wine and handed it to her. “It’s a special blend. I mixed it up just for this occasion.”
“Oh, really? You have a winery that I don’t know about?” she teased, bringing the glass to her nose.
“Very funny,” he said not looking very amused. “I happen to think most wine is too dry. I mixed this to be sweet. That’s all.”
“You’ve been drinking the wrong wine. My mother has an excellent collection of wines from Iberebeth.” She swirled the red liquid around her glass and took a sip. The sickly sweetness made her tongue curl and she almost spit it out, but she could see him watching her face, as if he was looking for her approval. She swallowed it and took another sip.
“Well?” he said.
“It’s sweet, all right.” She grinned at him. Once she had the first few sips down, the sweetness seemed to dull, making it easier to drink. Her shoulders relaxed, and the edges of her vision blurred and darkened. Shaking her head, her ears began to ring. “Peter, something’s wrong.”
Her eyelids closed and it took great effort to open them again. Leaning her head against his shoulder, her arms and legs felt as if they were filled with wet sand. “I feel so strange. What’s happening?”
“I know,” he said quietly as he took her glass from her hand and laid her down on the sand. She shivered, and as her eyes closed for good, she thought she heard him say, “Sorry about this, Princess.”
Seven
Burning, stabbing, freezing, aching—all of these agonies drifted through her dreams. Screams filled her ears, distant. She couldn’t figure out who they belonged to and she prayed they would stop, so she could rest.
Dark shapes stood over her, blurry and ominous. Sometimes there were voices. Deep, male, speaking to each other as if she weren’t in the room, referring to subject number one. She tried to make out their words, but they were nothing more than long, drawn-out sounds that made no sense.
Once, light flooded her vision, so bright and hot she winced away from it but something held her head in place and all she could do was wait for it to end.
Finally, after a while, darkness and stillness. The pain subsided and she prayed she could stay here forever.
******
Peck. Peck. Peck. Something jabbed at her fingertips. Squeak. Peck. Peck. Peck.
Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth and ringing filled her ears. She forced herself to swallow, but there was not enough saliva in her mouth to stave off the burning thirst in her throat. Pulling her head from her outstretched arm, she opened her eyes and blinked away the hazy film clouding her vision. She laid stretched out, face down. Curling her fingers, they wrapped around the hilt of her dagger. When had she taken out her dagger? The last time she remembered handling it was when she took it off and put it inside her boots on the beach. A little gray titmouse hopped on the tip of her blade and stared at her with its unblinking black eyes. It tilted its head one way, then the other.
“Hello,” she said to it, surprised at the roughness of her voice. As the ringing in her ears subsided, muddled images filled her head. Peter. The smell of sulfur and metal burning her nostrils, shadows and shapes she didn’t recognize. Pain. Nightmares. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, pushing the memories away from her so she could think. When she opened them again, all she could smell was damp, rotten leaves and the sharp scent of cold air.
Her eyes scanned the room and felt the breeze coming from the painting that moved. The gallery of frescoes. How did she get here? Her stomach clenched and she bolted upright. The bird squeaked and flapped away. The ringing returned in full force, followed by a wave of nausea. She turned her head just in time to vomit on the floor.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and listened to the sounds of the ruined castle.
“Peter?”
A flutter of wings, and a squeak answered her. Pushing herself onto all fours she shivered and looked around for her cloak but could not find it.
“Peter?”
Maybe he would bring her a breakfast of wild berries and tease her for not being able to hold her wine. Maybe he would come back and tell her how she’d gotten from there to here.
“Peter?”
Legs shaking, she got herself to her feet. Dizziness hit her, threatening to pull her down again, and she bent over, hands on knees as she waited for the unsteadiness to pass. Slowly, she rose to standing. Wind gusted through the long tunnel of a room from the shattered windows. Her blouse whipped around her and she wished for her cloak, wondering what had happened to it. Even late May mornings could be cold in the mountains.
In the distance, she heard Peter’s voice and she made her way towards it, ready to scold him for leaving her. As she rounded the corner leading to the balcony that overlooked the grand hall, she saw him and she felt her smile grow wide as she drew closer.
Her heart leapt into her throat as another man stepped up behind Peter. Peter turned and the man saluted him. Her mind reeled as she tried to make sense of what she was seeing. Her hand drifted to her throat and the smile died on her lips. The man wore sandy-colored pants, a black shirt and a tan hat with a brim, so she could not see his face. From his belt hung a warden’s baton - but his uniform was not a warden’s.
“She can’t have gotten far,” Peter said. “Not in the shape she’s in. You take a team and go north. There’s a waterfall that she used to take me to. Check there.”
“Yes, Commander,” the man said.
“I’ll keep a couple of men here to search the ruins,” Peter said. The man nodded and saluted again before turning and disappearing from out of her line of sight.
Her ears started to ring again as she ducked back into the shadows. Why did that man call Peter Commander? She felt like she might be sick again, only this time she wasn’t sure if it was from the wine or from what she’d just witnessed. Numbness filled her body like an icy mist and her teeth chattered. Since when did Peter have men reporting to him?
A little voice inside her head whispered—Run, Neala. Hide. The sound of boots echoed across the grand hallway and she stumbled a little as she turned back towards the gallery of frescoes.
“Jin, you and Mabry search every room downstairs.” Peter’s voice reverberated through the hallways. “Magnus, you’re with me.”
She ducked inside the first room she found. Ivy covered the walls, digging its tiny tendrils into the crumbling stone. A tall, narrow window filtered in a pale gray light. She crossed to the window to get an idea of where she was.
“Neala?” Peter called. “Honey, are you here?”
The sound of blood rushing in her ears almost deafened her as her heart pounded against her ribs. He was close now. She scanned the floor, wishing for a stone - something to strike her blade against—something that would allow her to send a message to the chief. Something that would allow her to escape.
At the window, she peered out to the ground below and vertigo made the trees spin. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to stop herself from vomiting again. A piece of stone
broke loose from the windowsill as she grabbed it to steady herself. It fit nicely in her palm and she wrapped her hand around it, letting its sharp edges dig into her skin.
Keep moving, she told herself, putting the stone in her pocket. She glanced around the room—the thick ivy giving her an idea. Her affinities for earth were not her strongest, but she had to try. Brushing her fingertips above the ivy, it trembled. She set her intention, visualizing what she wanted and the ivy began to grow. Its vines snaked across the floor, braiding together as they pushed their way out the window.
“Please don’t let me fall,” she said aloud to no one in particular as she slung one leg over the edge of the windowsill and hooked her foot in the vine. It grew at an accelerated rate and she grabbed onto it with both hands, letting it whisk her outside of the castle window just as Peter entered the room.
“Neala, stop!” Peter’s face hardened. Another one of Peter’s men stepped up behind him. He drew his baton and Peter hissed at him, motioning for him to step back. Her eyes met his for a split second before the vine lowered her down the side of the exterior wall. Peter stuck his head out the window and stared at her for a moment. He lifted the vine in his hand and pressed the tip of his baton to it. Her breath caught in her throat. Sweet goddess, was he going to cut her down? She still had another ten feet or so to go before she got to the ground. She willed the vine to grow faster and it obliged her. Peter scowled as she dropped the last few feet.
“She’s getting away,” Peter said.
She didn’t wait to see if they would follow. Despite the dizziness and nagging nausea, she willed her legs to run. Neala scrambled down the stone steps to the forest floor. She pumped her arms, propelling her forward as her feet barely touched the slick carpet of dead leaves.
Something hot whizzed past her head and exploded several feet in front of her. She skidded, losing her balance as the force of the blast hit her. Her feet went out from beneath her and she landed hard on her backside.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Neala,” Peter said as he approached her, baton drawn.
She scurried to her feet again, holding her dagger out. “Stop!” she yelled, trying to look everywhere at once. How many others were with him? Her hand trembled and dizziness waved through her again.
“It’s okay, Neala.” Peter halted and raised his hands. “I’m putting this away.” He showed her his baton. “So that we can talk.” Dropping the baton in its holster on his belt, he raised his hands again with his palms facing her. “See. Nobody wants to hurt you. Why don’t you put the blade down?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Panic tightened her chest, making it hard to breathe, and the ringing started in her ears again. “What did you do to me?”
“I didn’t do anything, honey. You’re sick, though.” He stepped closer. “Why don’t you come with me and let me take care of you.”
“If I’m sick, why not take me home so I can see a healer?” she said, trying to make sense of his words.
“I can’t do that. There are no healers in Tamarik that can help you but I know someone who can. A great healer.” Another step forward.
“Stop!” She reached in her pocket and pulled out the stone. “Don’t come any closer.” She struck the blade against the stone and it sparked. Flicking her wrist before the spark could fade to nothing, the dagger’s tip caught the momentary flash of fire and she bounced it up and down. There was so much she could do with a spark. With one shift in her intentions, the tiny glimmer grew into a fireball the size of an egg. It hovered, mid-air above her knife, waiting for her command.
“Neala, honey, I’m not gonna hurt you,” Peter said.
“What. Did. You. Do to me?” Anger flashed through her. If she could just hold onto it, maybe it would sustain her. Maybe it would keep her knees from giving out. No matter what, she could not go back with him. She swayed a little and a guttural cry erupted from her lips as her stomach wrenched.
“Stomach roiling? It’s only going to get worse unless you come with me.” He took another step forward.
“Stop moving!” She pointed the dagger at him. He ducked his head and froze in place. “Peter, what are you doing with these men?” Her lip quivered as her voice cracked, warning of the tears that would follow.
“I’m just taking control of my life, Princess.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means the realms are about to change forever and I have you to thank for that.”
“Me?”
“You and all your fantasies of escaping your horrible life.” His sarcasm cut through her, a chill skittered down her back. “Poor Princess Neala. Nobody even notices when she’s left the palace all by herself. All I did was pay you a little attention.”
“What are you saying?” Her heart twisted in her chest and she wanted to cry out again.
His face hardened and her answer was there in his dark blue eyes that had once made her feel like she was the center of his universe. He moved his hand to his waist, resting it on the hilt of his baton. “I’m saying you served a purpose, just like I did.”
“What are you talking about?” She felt a hot tear escape. She gritted her teeth, afraid to swipe at it, afraid to take her eyes off of him.
“It doesn’t matter. Now, I don’t want to take you by force, but I will. Put the blade down,” he said in a severe tone she’d never heard before. He pulled his baton from its holster and pointed it at her.
“Why are you doing this? Did the Nydians offer you something? Gold? Power? You told me you hated them.”
“I told you a lot of things. Doesn’t mean I meant any of them.” His words slapped her hard, as if he’d struck her with his hand, and she flinched. “Now put the dagger down and come here.”
“Damn you, Peter.” She jutted her chin and gritted her teeth as she tapped the fireball up in the air. As it descended, the sharp tip of the blade pierced through it. A single thought went through her head. As if a hook latched onto her breastbone, she felt the familiar tug of transporting through fire.
Peter charged at her, red-faced. Terror ripped through her as he raised his baton and shot a stream of blue flame at her, but it passed through her as the fireball consumed her, porting her away to safety. As she disappeared, the last thing she heard was Peter cursing her name.
******
Neala landed hard on the port stone near the far corner of the wardens’ base. With no strength left, her knees buckled and she toppled to the ground, catching herself with one hand before her face met the carved granite pad. Breathing hurt, and she wasn’t sure if it was from feeling so ill or from the hole that Peter had just punched through her chest. Still gripping her dagger, she rolled onto her back, staring up at the cloudy, gray sky. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and she wondered if Peter had caused it.
“Halt!”
She couldn’t move as two wardens drew closer. With their batons drawn, they bent over her, pointing their weapons. She opened her fingers and let her dagger slip out of her hand. One of them kicked it and she heard it clatter away.
Nausea waved through her again and somehow she found the power to push herself onto her side just in time to vomit again.
“Great Jerugia,” she heard one of the wardens say as he knelt down next to her and touched her arm. “Go get the chief,” he barked at the other warden. “It’s all right, Highness. You’re safe now. Nobody’s here that can harm you.”
It’s too late for that, she thought. Harm was already done. She rolled onto her back again and wiped her mouth with the cuff of her sleeve. Sharp pain traveled up her forearm and she pulled her cuff back to find her wrist encircled with a raw, open wound. She pulled up the cuff to her other arm as panic squeezed her heart. The wounds matched. Tears leaked quietly down the sides of her face, pooling in her ears.
“Everybody’s been so worried about you,” the warden babbled. “From what I hear, the Queen’s been going out of her mind. She’ll be so happy to see you.”
“Can you help me?
”
A deep line formed between his thick, black brows. Blinking, he licked his lips and opened his mouth, then sighed as if he didn’t know what to say. When he heard footsteps approaching, his expression changed to relief and he gave her smile. “Looks like help is here.”
Neala looked past the warden’s shoulder to see Chief Commander Declan drawing near.
“Cai!” she called as she tried to push herself up onto one elbow. He knelt beside her, grabbed her arm and helped her sit up.
“Highness, your lips are practically blue.” He pulled his coat off and slung it around her shoulders. She pushed her arms inside the sleeves and wrapped it tightly around her, relishing the residual warmth. He looked her over. “Are you hurt?”
She opened her mouth to answer and her heart clenched. Hot tears erupted and her shoulders shook so hard it frightened her. “My heart.” She stammered, touching her fingers to her chest. “My heart hurts.” Cai wrapped his arm around her shoulder, pulling her against his chest.
“Shhh. It’s all right,” he whispered against her hair. “You’re all right.”
“Peter…Peter did this.” she said, burrowing her face against his neck. He stroked her hair, saying nothing more. She could feel him, though, using his abilities to comfort and soothe her without words. His fingertips brushed down the side of her arm, and as she clung to him, her shaking body became calm, as if he were brushing those feelings away from her. Taking deep breaths, she pulled back from him. “I’m okay.” she whispered. “I’m okay.” She swiped the dampness from her cheeks and glanced into Cai’s face. Concern etched deep lines into his forehead and the sides of his mouth. The tenderness in his blue-green eyes surprised her. “Cai, there’s something else. Peter’s in Tamarik with a group of men.”
His brows furrowed. “Where?”
“Near the old ruins.”
Cai’s eyes cut to one of the men nearby and he nodded. The warden and two others turned and disappeared into a flash of smoke. He turned his attention back to her, his eyes softening. “We need to get you to the infirmary. Can you stand?”
