by Nina Clare
“You always were a fool—only you could have a faery under your nose and never notice!”
Uncle seemed to wither under his father’s words—he threw one arm across his head as though fending off an attack.
He staggered away, then pulled himself back up to his full height. “You haven’t done so well either!” he shouted back. “Couldn’t dispose of twelve fops—had to keep them in some fantasyland—I wouldn’t have needed magic to get rid of them!”
“You fool!” roared back his father. “You have no idea what I was doing! In time, such power would have allowed us to rule over kingdoms!”
With these words, the Dark Prince roared in fury and raised his staff above his head. The black stone in his staff glowed green—a strange, unearthly green mist curled around his head, then drifted down in fingers so his mane also glowed. It was the green of mould, the green of suffocating pondweed. Without warning, a flash like lightning shot out from the stone, arced across the hall, and struck Beryl. She staggered back, letting go of my hand and crying out in pain.
“No!” I screamed. The soldier caught her as she fell to the floor. The Dark Prince lifted up his staff again, but before another flash could be released from it there came such a deafening sound that everyone cried out and covered their ears.
The crack in the floor swiftly ripped through the centre of the hall, like ice breaking on a lake. It quickly fanned out in side veins to the great archways and the pillars. The cracks spread like fast-growing ivy up the stone plinths.
The ground beneath us shook so hard we staggered and fell to our hands and knees.
A great roar as of a wild beast deafened us—and then, suddenly, it ceased.
All I could hear was the sound of someone sobbing. The soldier still held Beryl. He knelt with her head cradled on his lap. Her eyes were closed and she was deathly pale.
“Beryl!” I cried, crawling over to her and grasping both her hands. “Oh, Beryl! Please be well!”
The soldier laid her down and rolled up his cloak for a pillow. My sisters gathered round and I rubbed her hands as my tears dropped onto her. She looked so aged, as though all life had been struck out of her.
“Oh, Beryl, please! Please be well!”
A small miracle—I saw her eyelids flutter.
“She is alive!” Celestine cried.
Beryl’s eyelids trembled like a little bird’s before they opened and her green eyes looked back at me.
“I am well,” she said in a faraway voice.
The chancellor now appeared, making strange squeaks in his distress. The soldier got to his feet and went to the centre of the hall, which was shrouded in a haze of the green mist. The chancellor scurried close behind him.
The carpet that had run the length of the hall to the throne was gone. In its place was now a gaping rift in the ground. The soldier went to the edge of the crevice and peered in.
Sticking out of the crack, like a dead tree, was the Dark Prince’s staff. The chancellor reached out a hand as if to take hold of it, but the soldier held back his arm.
“It may not be safe,” he said.
A wisp of green light curled from the stone in the staff, and the chancellor pulled back his hand.
“Can you see them?” asked the chancellor. They peered into the chasm, the chancellor holding his spectacles to keep them from slipping from his nose and into the yawning crevice.
“No,” said the soldier, stretching forward as far as he dared.
Another rumble rolled up from the ground, and they hurried back from the edge.
We watched in wonder as the great crack in the floor moved again, as though it were alive. It shifted and groaned and then, slowly, it closed back up. The floor was restored to wholeness; the edges fitted back together like the seam of a gown stitched up after a rent. Only a fracture line in the tiles showed where the great gap had been, though the carpet was still gone.
And so was Uncle.
And so was his father.
Both been swallowed up.
But the Dark Prince’s staff had been spat out, and now lay on the floor.
And then I saw him.
The slight figure of a young boy standing where the staff had been. It was Jem. He had the sorcerer’s staff in his hand. It was taller than he was. Its black stone still flickered with an eerie green light. The look on Jem’s face was as hard and dark as the staff he was gripping.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Jem!” I called out.
He looked over to me, but it was a cold look.
“Put it down—it is dangerous!”
He gave a sneer. He turned and left the hall, still holding the staff.
Beryl was sitting up now. Her hands were pressed to the wound on her head. She held them there for some time, as though administering healing to herself.
“Help me up, dear,” she said weakly when she had finished. “We have a dozen princes to find.”
“Oh, Beryl, where are they?” pleaded Diamond. “Are they trapped underground?”
Beryl nodded. “They will not know the way out. We shall have to use the door they were sent through—we cannot wait till moonrise, there will be nothing left by then.”
My sisters looked distressed.
“Where is the door they were sent through?” asked Amethyst.
“Follow me,” said Beryl, smoothing out her gown, which was rumpled from her fall. “Chancellor,” she said, turning to him, “you must see to the people while we are gone.”
The chancellor nodded and blinked, then turned to face the servants and guards who were emerging out of chambers and all corners of the palace with fear and curiosity upon their faces. They were drifting towards the hall to marvel and gape at the great seam in the floor where the ground had opened its stony jaws and closed over Uncle and the Dark Prince. Their wondering and questioning voices began to form a loud hum.
We left the hall, following after Beryl. She led us through the formal palace chambers and through the central courtyards until we finally reached the royal family wings. We followed her up the staircase, taking the branch to Uncle’s wing.
She stood before Prince Zircon’s portrait and pressed on his painted tunic. The door swung open silently.
The torchlights held by the golden hands were now flickering wildly, as though struggling to stay alight. I glanced behind me—the soldier was still with us.
The portrait of the Dark Prince sneered as we passed, but he could do us no harm now. Beryl opened the door to Uncle’s study—and someone whirled round with a cry of fear as we entered—it was Rose.
“I saw Jem come in here!” she cried, her face showing some relief at seeing first Beryl and then myself. “I saw what happened to the king—and I saw Jem take that black stick—and I followed him here, but now I don’t know where he went!”
Beryl put a hand on her trembling shoulder. I noted that she did not offer any reassuring words like, “Do not worry, dear,” or, “Jem will be well, dear.” She simply said, “I know where he is, Rose.”
She moved to the dark staircase, hidden in the corner of the room. Before she stepped onto the first tread, though, she paused and turned to us. “I should go alone,” she said.
There was an outcry of protest from all. “We are not going to let you go alone!”
“Very well,” Beryl said reluctantly. “But if young Jem is up there, you must stay out of reach of the sorcerer’s staff.”
We all agreed, and one by one we trooped up the narrow stairs, our skirts rustling as they brushed against the balustrades. The soldier followed behind. We passed through the hidden door in the bookcase, and moved down the dark, bare-boarded hall to the door where I had once listened in on Jem and the Dark Prince.
The door was open. We covered our mouths and noses with hands and handkerchiefs, for as we neared we could smell something acrid and rotten. Inside the chamber, thin wreaths of yellow and green haze lingered in the air; I could see their forms out of the corner of my eye, like ghosts lurkin
g in corners, that disappeared as soon as you looked at them.
It was a large chamber—very large—and it stretched away into darkness under shadowy eaves and into obscure corners. The ceiling was high, and it reached up to form a pointed turret. Books and scrolls and manuscripts were piled up in dusty heaps. Tables held clusters of bottles and strange-shaped vessels. Unfamiliar instruments and glass orbs filled the spaces we could see. Vials of fluids and jars of powders cluttered cobwebbed shelves. A neglected fire burned low in a blackened fireplace. I shuddered as my inquisitive eyes rested on a large cabinet bearing what looked like skeletons and other grisly and unknown objects.
Something moved in the shadows beyond the firelight—then it came towards us.
It was Jem.
He was still holding the black staff. The stone still glowed green and yellow, though not as brightly as it had in the hand of the Dark Prince.
“It is time to put all things right,” said Beryl as she moved towards Jem.
He lifted up the staff, warning her to stay back.
“It is all over now, Jem,” said Beryl. “You do not have to work for him ever again. You can be with Rose, and someday soon all will be well again for you both.”
Rose pushed her way to the front of the throng we had formed so Jem could see her. His eyes softened at the sight of her. He dropped his head. But then it suddenly snapped up again, and his eyes were stony.
“It will be well—because I will make it well. No one will ever tell us what to do again. Just because we’re poor and alone, they think they can treat us how they like. Well, they’ll know not to meddle with us again!”
He lifted up the staff.
“This is where he got his power from. And now I’ve got it—I’ve got his power!”
“Jem, you don’t understand such power,” said Beryl. “If you handle it amiss, it will destroy you—it is not your servant. It will rule you more cruelly than the king and his father ever did.”
Jem made a horrible face. I shivered to see it. With his dark hair and his lip curled back, he looked like a boy version of Uncle and his father.
“You would say that,” he said. “You just want the power for yourself. You’re one of them. You’re like the old sorcerer—you’re no better than him.”
“Jem, I tell you the truth,” said Beryl. “You must give me the staff. It will hold you in its power until you let go.”
“Never!” said Jem, lifting it up.
I thought back to how Beryl had cried out in such terrible pain when the Dark Prince had used the staff against her—I was so fearful she would be struck again.
“Jem, please!” cried Rose.
“Give it to her, Jem!” I called out, pushing past my sisters to stand beside Beryl.
Jem glared at me and pointed the staff in my direction. Someone stepped in front of me as if to shield me—it was the soldier.
“Leave us,” said Beryl, turning to us. “No one must get hurt.”
“I am not leaving you,” I said. I tried to sidestep the soldier, who was blocking my way, but he would not let me.
“Get out of my chamber!” shouted Jem. “Get out!” He thrust the raised staff in our direction. I could just see over the soldier’s shoulder that the green light was gathering together in the black stone. There was a momentary pause that seemed like an age before the green light darted out towards us like a forked tongue. I was transfixed as I watched its path through the air. I could not move. The soldier had pulled something from his belt—lifted something up. The flicker of green struck whatever it was. I could tell only that it was something shiny, something golden. It caught the green power and rebounded it back across the chamber, back through the foul-smelling atmosphere of green and yellow spectres. And then Jem gave a horrible cry as a fractured spark of the green flash glanced a blow upon his cheek.
He fell to the floor, and the staff fell down hard, striking the fender of the fireplace. The wooden staff clattered to the floor, but the stone in the claw had shattered into pieces. Green and black sparks flew out of the shards, and some of them shot into the fire. A fierce green blaze flamed out of the grate and up the chimney. The smell was unbearable, and we all began to cough and choke.
The soldier had dropped the golden item with a cry of pain; he clutched at his hand. I could see he had dropped the enchanted goblet he had taken from Emerald the previous night. It lay on the floor, glowing green and turning from gold to dull grey as the green light flickered over its surface and then evaporated.
Rose rushed to Jem. He lay groaning, and looked quite white except for a green-tinged wound on the side of his face. Rose held his head and called his name.
Beryl was on her knees, picking up the fragments of the shattered stone. I hurried to help her.
“Are they dangerous?” I asked before touching one.
“Not anymore. But they must be gathered up.”
The stones were changing colour. The black was seeping out of them like steam rising from the compost heaps in summer. It rose up and curled away, and the stones became clear and glassy. Beryl carefully put each piece we gathered into her apron pocket. Then she turned her attention back to Jem.
Diamond and Almandine were beside Rose, trying to revive him. Beryl put her hands on his face where the flash had struck him. I watched as the light changed around the wound. The sulphureous green slowly faded, and a little colour returned to Jem’s pale face. He opened his eyes. I could have shouted for joy when I saw they were again the colour of lavender grey.
“What happened?” he said, looking confused but also like the real Jem returned to us. Rose flung her arms round him, sobbing with relief.
“Rose,” said Beryl, “do you think you can help your brother to my chamber to rest?”
Rose nodded and sniffed through her tears. When Jem could be helped to his feet, she led him away by the hand. He followed meekly, as though in a daze.
Beryl did not look well. She had sat down upon a wooden chest looking drained of strength. We had to find the princes quickly. It was urgent that we break the enchantment completely, for only then would Beryl have a chance to recover.
“How do we find the door?” I heard Chalcedony ask.
Beryl lifted her head slowly, as though it were almost too heavy for her shoulders to bear.
“Yes,” she said, almost in a whisper. “Time is running out. We must find the door.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
“The door is up high,” said Beryl, looking at the lofty, wood-beamed ceiling draped with curtains of cobwebs. “In the ancient castle, the door was in a turret. We must climb as high as we can.”
We were all craning our necks and peering into the conical shape of the inwardly sloping roof. The centre of it spiraled away into darkness. How could there be a door up there? And how would we reach it?
“There must be steps somewhere,” said Beryl.
The soldier began searching round the cavernous chamber, casting aside all manner of strange and macabre objects my sisters and I would have recoiled from touching. He moved the heavy wooden furniture, exposing every dark corner. As he did, shadowy things scurried and scuttled. He disappeared into the gloomy recesses for what seemed an age, but then out of the darkness came a triumphant shout.
“Stairs!”
We followed his voice—he had already begun climbing. The stairs were narrow, made of worn stone, and they grew more constricted as they wound upwards into the dark, cold walls of the turret.
“I wish we had brought a light,” said Sapphire, who was close behind me.
The darkness deepened the higher we climbed; I could barely make out the figure of Beryl before me though I was only inches from her. We climbed higher and higher, the walls becoming narrower and the air becoming colder. I wondered how much longer the dark climb could last when I heard a grating and a creaking like the magnified sound of old bones in old joints. A light shone down—daylight! Such welcome light, though I had to close my eyes against its blinding effect aft
er such darkness.
A sudden rush of cool air flooded over us—fresh, May-time air. Sunlight washed over us, cleansing away the gloom and the dust and the foul sulphur of the Dark Prince’s chamber. I could hear my sisters taking deep breaths, almost gasps, as we filled our choked lungs.
The light came from an ironbound door. It led into a turret courtyard, round and very small, not big enough for more than a half dozen people to stand in. There was nothing else to be seen save a silver weathervane in the form of a fantailed dove. It pointed due west.
The view was both dizzying and beautiful—I could see for miles and miles—woodland and fields stretched away, and the River Luna wended like a blue-grey ribbon down towards the coast.
The city buildings below looked like little boxes. The fields and meadows were chequered patches of green, brown, and yellow. The wind was strong and cold at such a height, and I wrapped my arms around myself and shivered. Strands of my hair were tugged loose from my braid and whipped about my face.
“Where is the door?” called Diamond above the wind.
Beryl was walking dangerously close to the edge of the stone courtyard. A very low wall ran around the circular area, and I feared one strong gust of wind could blow her over. But she had a familiar look upon her face—her puzzling-out face. I resisted the urge to tug her back to the safety of the door.
She began speaking something aloud—it sounded like a chant, or a song:
“By moon we descend
By sun we see,
By western wind we fly.”
She repeated it again.
“I have remembered!” she called to us. “I remember the song of the doors—up here, the key is the western wind.”
We waited, expecting an explanation from her, but she said nothing more. She moved to the edge of the turret. And then she stepped onto the low wall.
And then she plunged into the air and was gone.
I cried out—and I heard the others cry out behind me.
The soldier rushed to the wall and looked over. “She has gone!” he shouted. “She has vanished—she did not fall!”
