by Susan Faw
The only inhabitants of the castle were an ancient order of women, who had resided at the castle longer than anyone knew, despite the extensive records preserved in the libraries at their feet. Reclusive of habit, one rarely saw the women for they did not mingle with those who came to the schools housed within the castle grounds or to the ancient library to study.
L’Ordre du Coeur Sacré or The Order of the Sacred Heart traced its roots back to the earliest days of humanity when magic reigned supreme and the feudal systems ensured a healthy respect for the supernatural elements surrounding all living things. The women of L’Ordre were the mayors and chiefs and priestesses of their people, respected elders and healers, or wisdoms as they were called, traditionally.
With the rise of the central Citadel and their policies renouncing magic, a brutal hunt had ensued. Riders were sent out into every province, and one town crier was bold enough to post a notice in the village of Ionia itself. The scroll readily available for viewing to this day, it was pinned under glass on the wall of the barbican.
Hear ye, hear ye. From this time forth, the ugly practice of magic is banned. It is a black plague afflicting our lands. The penalty for all found guilty of this evil is to be hung by one’s own entrails until dead and the body burned on a pyre of salted cow’s dung. So it is decreed; so it shall be done. Signed, this day and by my hand, Pious Patak, Governor of the Citadel.
In time, the Citadel sent out a force of men who crept into the undefended lands, hunting down the witches and slaying any they deemed to be practicing the craft. Most were “discovered” when local citizens were threatened with torture, names of friends and neighbours escaping their lips to avoid being put to the question. While most lands were not in favour of the Citadel’s stance, they did not have the ability to resist or the manpower to counter the unsolicited inquisition.
The coven of women was persecuted and driven into hiding. Once, the women who practiced Coeur Sacré could be found everywhere, but now they practiced in secret. The only suspected location was in their ancestral home and stronghold, Castle Ionia. Yet no one ever saw them. Some believed they no longer existed, driven into extinction, and the lore was part of what drew people from every land. Annual pilgrimages to the castle swelled in number during the spring solstice, and every spring flowers were set afloat on the castle moat, each with a candle burning in remembrance of those who had lost their lives during the purges.
As a result of this, Tyr was both loved and hated by the other provinces. It was also a unique province with lands that encompassed a little of all the others in physical makeup and types of people who constantly passed through, some deciding to stay after making the pilgrimage. Tyr blended the world into a microcosm of the neighbouring provinces.
But the Ionians did not mix with the immigrants. Anyone born to the true blood of Ionia was instantly identified and isolated. At the age of seven, they were brought to the castle to be housed and educated before taking their place in Ionian culture, as the rulers of Tyr.
***
Elissa picked at her plate of mushy peas, and bacon, mounding the stiffening potatoes decorating one third of the plate into a ziggurat of cooling mash. She flattened ledges at equalized levels, rotating her plate to study the symmetry, and then squashed some green onto the walkways. The bacon became runes, and the crowning touch was a tiny flag of Tyr that she pushed into the summit. With a grin, she pushed her plate away, drained the last of her milk and stood up. Before she could take a step, she ran straight into her teacher. Madame Zen frowned down at her from a cloud of greying hair, drawn back into braided coil on the back of her neck. Curly grey wisps framed her face and half-moon glasses hung from a chain around her neck.
“I am glad to see that my history lesson did not go to waste. That is an admirable rendition of the low country temple. But I believe the exercise at hand was to eat your dinner. For that, I must give you an F.”
Elissa blushed and scrubbed a toe across the wooden floor board of the dining hall. “I wasn’t hungry.”
“Hmm. Then perhaps you should come with me.” Without waiting to see if she followed, Madame Zen strode away from the table where Elissa had been eating alone. Elissa took a quick glance around the hall then followed the professor, swinging her school bag onto her shoulder as she left, the eyes of the dining hall following her.
She had to hurry to catch up for the professor took long steps and had spent her life walking the corridors of the castle. She knew of even more passageways than Elissa, which was saying something, for Elissa spent nearly every waking hour exploring the castle. She loved the old drafty place.
Elissa had been brought to the castle by her mother when she was six years old, much too early for entry to school. She and her twin brother had been packed onto the back of a horse, and her mother had walked from the coast to the castle in the mountains, leading the horse. The journey of two weeks had weakened her greatly. Their mother had not told them at the time, but she was dying. With no family to support them, she was determined to see them to the one place she believed she could find care and sanctuary for her children. The castle of Ionia.
They had arrived in the middle of the night, been deposited on the doorstep of the castle, and were given sanctuary for the evening. Their mother had died the next morning, leaving Elissa and her brother with nothing to remember her by but a pair of matching crystal heart necklaces that they never ever took off. Their mother had been insistent about this, promising that she had imbued the necklaces with powerful protection, and they must promise to wear them always.
Elissa’s brother, Ellas, had been taken in by the castle, but she had not seen him after the first year. They were both placed in the orphanage. In time, they were brought into the school to be educated, but as the children’s schools were separated, Ellas was moved to the boy’s wing and Elissa to the girl’s tower.
Elissa touched the necklace under her school robes as she trotted to catch up with the professor, who was winding up a staircase in the farthest tower.
Where is she going in such a hurry? And why this tower?
As if hearing her thoughts, Madame Zen said, “Hurry up, child. We haven’t got all day!”
Elissa broke into a run. Catching up to the long-legged matron was proving to be a challenge. “Where are we going, professor?”
“It is time to take your education to the next level. You will see. Keep up!”
Puzzled, Elissa trotted alongside her as they curved their way up a staircase, out onto a landing overlooking the hall below then into another staircase that climbed for a considerable distance before emptying out onto a short hallway ending in a pair of heavy wooden doors. The professor marched over to the doors, knocked once, then pushed the door open and stood aside, gesturing for Elissa to cross the threshold. Curious, she stepped inside the cavernous room. The doors swung closed behind her with the soft snick of a lock triggered.
The ceilings of the rough stone room were curved. They soared high up into the distance, the winged buttresses disappearing into the shadows that clung to the upper surfaces. Littered across the floor were guano and small bones of animals, scraps of fur and an occasional unshelled nut. The round room was filled with windows of every shape and size, some large, some small and outside each window was a ledge, like a perch for a birdcage. Leaded glass filled each window, the panes of which were hinged to open wide, free of any middle post or obstruction.
All were currently closed except for one, and this one was large enough to ride a horse and rider through it, if a horse and rider could fly.
“What is this place, professor?” Elissa asked, awed at the immensity of her surroundings. She watched an owl soar across the ceiling to a carved niche where it disappeared inside. “It looks like a giant hatchery or a rookery.”
Madame Zen smiled down at her. “Very good! I have never seen birds this large, though.” She waved her hand at the open window.
“Me, neither.” Elissa wandered over to the yawning space, whi
ch was as high off the ground as she was tall, craning her neck to examine the window. Up close, she could see that the window sill was made of a solid tree trunk with the bark still intact. The wood was scarred with deep scratches as though large claws had gripped the sill repeatedly. “That is one big bird, though. Look at the marks from its claws. Unless,” she said, beginning to feel nervous, “these are the marks of a demon?” She breathed the word, the hair rising on the back of her neck at the thought.
“A demon?” the professor scoffed. “My, you do have imagination, don’t you, girl? No, I am afraid it is not demons, but the source is magical…very magical.” Madame Zen lifted her fingers to her lips and produced a shrill whistle which rose in pitch until it was utterly silent, yet she continued to blow.
Suddenly, the window darkened and a pair of claws settled onto the perch. A creature such as Elissa had never seen stuck its head in the window. A wedge-shaped head the colour of fresh snow was followed by scaled legs that sparkled in the late day sun. Four of them in fact! Wings of ebony were folded back onto its back. As it hopped down onto the floor in front of Elissa, she saw a rider seated in a saddle strapped to the back of the beast. The creature began to croon, the sound as soft as a purr.
“A dragon!” she breathed, her mouth hanging open in surprise.
Madame Zen chuckled. “Yes, a dragon.”
The dragon snuffled around the floor and mouthed some leftover bones. With a loud crunch that echoed around the chamber, the dragon ate the bones and feathers, cleaning up the detritus as it made quick work of the discard of the owls’ last meals.
Madame Zen knelt down in front of Elissa. “They have come for you, Elissa.”
Her eyes met Madame Zen’s. “For me?” Elissa squeaked.
“Yes, for you. Are you willing to go? It is perfectly safe. This day was ordained from the beginning.”
Elissa’s eyes left Madame Zen’s and traveled over the dragon to the boy.
“It’s true,” the lad said. “We have come for you.” He leaned over and offered his hand.
She stared at him, and the heart under her school robes warmed in response. She felt at peace.
“Yes, I will go.”
She hugged Madame Zen briefly, then placed her hand in the boy’s. He pulled her up behind him and then urged the dragon away from the bones. Turning toward the open window, they climbed up onto the perch and launched into the air.
“Go with our blessing, daughter of Sacré Coeur,” murmured Madame Zen.
Far below, in the castle grounds, a boy paused, eyes cast skyward toward a black shadow in the sky. His crystal heart burned against his chest.
Chapter 8
The Twelfth Day: Citadel
MADRID WAS ONCE AGAIN SEATED on his throne, overseeing the squabbling representatives. Every possible councillor from every land was arrayed around the circular table, the backs of their chairs the termination points for their slices of land, focusing on the Citadel like spokes of a wagon wheel. Technically, every chair was still situated within their homelands, as by law each province owned a slice of the Citadel, a pie-shaped wedge that centered on the council chambers with the emperor’s chair at its heart.
Only at the Citadel was it possible to move from one province to another, which meant that the Citadel was the center of all trade between the unhappy neighbours. The magical barrier between the provinces made it impossible to cross directly into another province’s territory, a relic of the wars that created the need for a central Citadel. The Citadel was the great equalizer. No one had status within the Citadel. No province was higher in stature or more influential than another. The Citadel was the place where disputes were heard, the issues weighed, and judgment passed.
For this reason, it was common for Madrid to hear complaints and sit as judge and jury of the issues, for the Citadel was the final court, and the emperor was the final adjudicator.
Shouting and demanding to be heard, the councillors cast their voices into the din, convinced that their complaints were the most urgent, the most critical, or the most desperate.
Suspicion was rank in the air, each province suspecting their neighbour of committing the crime of kidnapping. Convinced that the lands adjacent to them were jealous of their individual wealth and resources, there was no doubt in their minds that the kidnapper’s demands would implicate their neighbour and the treachery of their closest trading partner would be revealed. In every case, the child snatched was related to the most influential families, the fiercest warriors, the most industrious, or the most intelligent of the province. The loss of these young women, some barely out of childhood, was the equivalent of the culling of the leadership of a future generation to the minds of the men and women crowding the table.
Outside the Citadel, the wailing of the families of the taken could be heard, echoing off the walls of the bailey and bouncing up to and through the windows of the council chamber. They’d pitched tents in precisely this location to be sure their protest would carry to the stoppered ears of the Citadel. They had brought their extended families and their servants, friends and neighbours, until the bailey was full to overflowing. The regular Citadel Guards were insufficient to quell the growing crowd and watched nervously as factions mingled in proximity to each other, their presence a powder keg of suspicion and anger, just waiting for the right spark to ignite.
The people conveniently forgot that each province had prided itself on its autonomy, desirous of maintaining an arms-length relationship with the Citadel. With only one point of entry, across the soaring bridges that linked each province to the Citadel, there was little chance of invasion by a neighbour. The magically enhanced borders prevented any movement laterally, a magic reinforced by the connection of the bridge. For longer than anyone could remember, the barriers had existed, creating a peace that was only possible by segregation.
Each bridge was made of a jewelled material native to the province it crossed over into and was connected to that land in the same way a lung is connected to a body. It could not survive without the connection, yet it breathed life into the province, a vital link to its survival.
Below the bridge a deep chasm ran. No one knew the depth of it, precisely. The sheer cliffs had no paths or footholds to traverse its face. It was thought that a river ran at its base, but if so, it flowed with the same poisonous sea water as surrounded the known world, full of multiple tentacled monsters that swallowed ships and ravenous amphibians that attacked any that dared to venture out onto or into the ocean. Until the bridges had been built, each nation had been isolated from the next. Natural barriers of mountains and deep rivers and wastelands of sand meant that rarely was one able to find a way around the barriers between the lands. Those that did spawned wars as the interlopers attempted to conquer land that was not theirs.
This strife was nullified by the wall. Erected during the great purge, the Citadel had put the barriers in place to trap the witches in their lands, so that they could not flee. Once in place, the provinces had adopted them as their own, a solid protection against their neighbours and over several generations, had forgotten that it had ever been any other way.
“Does anyone know how the protection of the barrier works?” The councillor from Shadra said to no one in particular. His eyes flicked around the table as his hand fidgeted with a gleaming silver hoop piercing his right ear.
“It is the magic of the witches, harnessed for the good of all. During the great purge, the power of the witches was harvested for the good of all…at least that is how it is taught in Tyr schools.”
“Yes, but what does that mean, exactly?” The Tunise councillor, a wide woman with shoulders to match, glared around the table. “We are all politicians here. I, for one, know waffling when I hear it. I say it’s a cover-up. Someone knows how the shield works, and I will go one step further. I say that the person who controls the power of the shield controls the provinces.” She stared at Madrid in challenge. Madrid smiled in return, remaining silent.
No one quite understood how the shield worked, but no one disputed its necessity. Safe behind walls fueled by magic, they had never questioned their right to the barrier. The walls served the interests of their individual provinces, providing a never-changing security and with it, peace. Until now...until someone had breached not just one, but all the provinces with an ease that was shocking.
“There is another explanation,” said the councillor from Bastion. “Someone has developed a new weapon and is bypassing the magical security to prove a point. Snatching the young women has nothing to do with them individually, but maybe this is an opening gambit in a soon-to-be realized war.” Angry shouts and voices muttered, “I object to this line of reasoning!” and “How dare you accuse us of…” drowned out the rest of his words. As tempers flared once again, Madrid stood. The action brought all attention to the emperor, who smirked at the dissenting councillors. Madrid lifted a hand, and the attendants around the room pulled all the windows closed in a series of clicks, shutting out the cries of the families below. Madrid lifted his other hand, and the chamber doors were pulled closed and sealed.
In the sudden silence, their voices sounded overly loud and one by one the councillors ceased yelling and took their seats.
When Madrid was sure that no one intended to interrupt his speech, he stood. “My friends. For the first time, we are gathered here with a unity of purpose.” The counselor from Hindra snorted. Madrid’s eyes pinned the councillor to his seat, his eyes narrowed to thin slits. “Yes, we are unified in purpose. All have suffered the disappearance of a beloved child, a daughter of the province who is a symbol of hope to your worlds. Each and every one of you feels the loss of that daughter keenly, as though she was your own flesh and blood.”
