by Patty Jansen
This was where Johanna had stood looking out over the city, seeing the creatures made of fire. This was where panic had struck the attendants of the ball. This place was a tomb, a shrine to that terrible day.
“I don’t like this place,” one of the men said.
“Keep yer mouth shut and keep going,” someone else said.
But Johanna agreed with the first man. There was something about this place that gave her the shivers. She kept looking over her shoulders, expecting . . . she didn’t know what. Something magical. A bear, a fire demon, a ghost. So many people had died a violent death on the steps outside, in this room and the ballroom.
“This way.” She had to clamp her jaws to stop her teeth chattering.
Master Willems led the party into the corridor to the right that went to the king and queen’s private quarters. The storm light cast long shadows over the walls that moved and danced as they walked. This part of the palace was not as dusty and hadn’t been exposed to the weather. They passed a few doors. Some of the rooms had been emptied, but all the pretty furniture still stood in the hallway, now covered in dusty spider webs, waiting for the people who were going to take the loot, but who had never returned. Or who had, judging by a pair of shoes with cloth-covered bones attached, never left.
The air here was dry, but laced with the foulness of death. Things skittered in the dark beyond the reach of the lantern’s light.
Johanna stopped at the entrance to a larger room. “This is the room where I found them.”
Master Willems went to the door and held the light inside.
The room seemed untouched except for the fact that the bodies were gone. The couch still stood where it had before, as did the table, both covered in dust and spider webs. In her mind, Johanna could still see the crown where it had rolled under the table. And the staff that had been caught under the king’s body. She’d had to roll him on his back to retrieve it. She remembered the mess of the gaping wound in his stomach. The carpet was dusty and smudged. Were those dark stains dried blood?
She shivered.
“In here?” Master Willems asked.
“No. This is where they were killed. I hid the crown and staff a few doors down. There is a broom cupboard.” She spoke softly, but her voice sounded loud in her ears.
“Let’s go then. I really don’t like it here.”
A bit further down the hall, Johanna found the broom cupboard, untouched. She reached up the top shelf where she couldn’t see and under a pile of cleaning cloths, her hands found both crown and staff, where she had put them.
As she lifted the crown off the shelf, its weight heavy in her hands, the enormous sense of importance washed over her. It was only a piece of metal, but it symbolised the hope of all Saarlanders. The staff was a piece of wood with a gold tip in the shape of a lion’s head with jewels for eyes. It was beautifully made, but she knew for sure that the jewellery made by Lurezian master smiths these days was more intricate. Yet the wood showed her images of the great hall full of nobles in their finery, bowing as the king entered. She carried the pride of the Carmine House in her hands.
She turned to the others, holding out both precious items.
“Heaven be praised,” Master Willems said.
A breeze wafted through the corridor, making the flame in the lamp flap. Johanna’s skin pricked.
She peered into the darkness at the far end of the corridor. “Why is it so windy?”
“There are probably some doors open,” one of the men said. He sounded as uneasy as Johanna felt.
The night had been cloudless and still, not the type of weather for a breeze.
Johanna had an awful feeling that they were about to find out why Alexandre had not done anything with the palace and why he didn’t live here, why people had left a wheelbarrow and a shovel and had gotten no further than a cursory tidy-up of the hall and had never collected the precious furniture.
“Quick, let’s get out of here,” Master Willems said. He was looking over his shoulder, his eyes wide. What had he seen on that breeze?
One of the men took off his jacket and Johanna rolled the crown and staff inside. She pulled a folded cloth from the broom cupboard, which turned out to be an old sheet, tied it around the precious loot, and tied that around her waist.
They left quickly, the same way they had come. Through the corridor, the foyer, through the hall and into the ballroom. Master Willems walked at the front, but the flapping flame from the storm lamp barely produced enough light for Johanna to see. It was as if a darkness had descended on the air that took away any light and a cold had crept into the building that settled in her bones.
Master Willems stopped abruptly at the door into the garden room.
“Someone out there,” he whispered.
Johanna peered into the room, but saw nothing except broken vases and furniture covered in spider webs.
There was a small sound, a snort or grumble, made by a human or large animal.
Master Willems slid the covers over the light’s windows, plunging the room into total darkness.
Johanna stood still for a while, staring into the night, waiting for her eyes to see where a human couldn’t possibly see, listening, holding her breath and trying to hear over the thudding of her heart. The sound came again from somewhere in the darkness: the growl of some sort of animal, like a dog, or a bear.
“What’s that?” someone whispered.
“It may be a good idea to split up,” Master Willems said, not answering the question.
“What did you see in that breeze?” Johanna asked him.
“What do you mean?”
Johanna would have hit him if only she could see where he was. This ridiculous Church decree that there was no magic would have to change. It was stupid beyond belief.
He continued, “Look, why don’t you go straight for home with the young boys. They’ll help you over the wall and will take you to safety.”
“What about you?”
“We’ll go . . . the other way and keep them busy. Whatever ‘they’ are.”
“No. There is a magical thing in the palace somewhere. We need to stay together to have any hope of defeating it.”
“Go, Mistress Johanna. Please.”
“Do you know what it is?”
“Go!”
At that moment a loud crack echoed through the room. The paving in the garden room split open and shafts of light blazed from under the ground. Tiles and bits of stone flew everywhere. One or two of the men used some words that they would normally never dream of using in front of a woman.
Master Willems screamed, “Go, go!”
Johanna got caught up between the men in their scramble to the wall of the room, ironically to the very place where Johanna had stood while the nobles in the ballroom were being slaughtered.
Only Master Willems remained in his position, now backlit by the eerie glow that spilled from the hole in the ground. “Go home, Mistress Johanna! Go home now!”
Standing there, in between the shivering men with chattering teeth and with her back pressed against the wall, Johanna realised several things. It was Celine’s grave that had burst open, and judging by his behaviour, Master Willems knew a lot more about magic and this phenomenon than he was prepared to talk about.
Something rose out of the hole in the ground: a human shape made of glowing mist.
“It’s the ghost!” a man’s voice squeaked behind her.
Master Willems stood with his arms spread, chanting in a booming voice. “Begone with you, spawn of the Lord of Fire. Begone, begone, return to the depths of evil. Let the Holy Spirit smite you.”
Pale and ethereal, the ghost radiated soft light. Her hair flowed over her shoulders like a waterfall. The ruffles on her dress oozed glowing mist. The pale skin on her arms glowed almost too brightly to look at. She turned her head so that Johanna could see her face.
“It’s Princess Celine,” a man gasped behind Johanna.
Indeed, the woman lo
oked like she had walked off the painting of the princess that used to hang in the church, complete with the yellow dress.
Master Willems continued chanting. “The holy Triune will banish you from all the known lands . . .”
One of the young men said, “They said she haunted the palace. Why didn’t I believe them?”
“Because we don’t believe in ghosts?” squeaked another.
“That looks pretty real to me.”
The ghosts Johanna had seen on her travels through the forest did not interact with living people. The merely repeated scenes from their lives like echoes of memories, and would never deviate from those actions. The only apparitions that interacted with the living were the partially-resurrected beings that were the result of Kylian’s botched attempts at necromancy.
Her suspicions had been right: King Nicholaos had paid Kylian to perform a necromancy on his daughter because he judged his son inadequate for the throne. Kylian, despite his boasting otherwise, could not perform a full necromancy and, having seen Kylian’s half-hearted results, the king might have demanded that money or favours paid for bringing Celine back to life be returned. So Kylian and his father had sent a magician to keep this annoying little king silent.
Master Willems had appeared to have temporarily run out of words. He stood, panting, facing the apparition.
“Master Willems, be careful. That’s no ordinary ghost.”
“Is there such thing as an ordinary ghost?” a frightened voice said behind her.
The apparition turned to Johanna.
She spoke in a voice colder than the night. “You are a usurper. You cannot leave this place with the objects that are the symbol of my father’s reign.”
Master Willems yelled, “Begone, spawn of evil! You are not our beloved princess. You have no right to speak to our lady Consort like this.”
The apparition took no notice of Master Willems’ chanting, but continued to look at Johanna. “You’re not fleeing, worm?”
“I’m not defeated that easily. The Carmine House will survive through King Roald and his heir.”
“You lie!” An icy wind whirled through the room, lifting up dust and blowing it into Johanna’s face.
“Begone—” Master Willems staggered back, yelling. “No, no, no!” He clamped both his hands over his face. The storm lamp crashed on the floor. Precious oil ran out of the reservoir.
“No, no, no, no!”
The cold breeze whirled up dust around him, tormenting him with images. The ghost spun threads around him, encasing him in a glowing cocoon. She was going to draw him into the grave.
Johanna groped along the ground at her feet and the wall at her back for something to use as a weapon. She found nothing except shards of pottery.
Wait—the King’s staff. She dug in the sheet that she had knotted around her waist. The handle of the staff was made of wood. She pulled it out of the folds of fabric and held it before her. The wooden handle showed Johanna images of the great hall full of people cheering for the king. People who supported the royal family, nobles and commoners alike. People who were the hope of the kingdom.
She sprang forward, brandishing the staff. “Leave him alone. He’s done nothing to hurt you.”
The apparition let out a low hiss. “He’s but a gibbering priest, denying his gifts.”
“He’s a good man and he’s got nothing to do with this fight.”
The ghost laughed, a horrible, wheezy sound that made Johanna’s hair stand on end.
“He’s got everything to do with the fight. It’s his stupid church that my father ruined himself for that is the very cause of this fight.”
Did the apparition fear the wood? Johanna took a step closer to the grave, holding out the staff’s glittering gold tip.
The apparition gave another hiss, but didn’t come closer.
She reached Master Willems who sat crouched on the ground, surrounded by the ghostly glow. The cocoon shook with his shivering. Johanna poked the glowing substance with the golden end of the staff. A spark zapped across the room. Then she remembered how Loesie had made a similar apparition disappear with nothing more than a willow sapling. She turned the staff around and poked the material with the wood. The cocoon parted briefly but closed back up.
The ghostly Celine reached out gnarled hands to the staff. “Give that. It’s mine. It’s mine.”
The voice rasped and hissed, even less human than before.
Johanna plunged the handle of staff into the glowing cocoon. Glowing mist leaked from the ghost and wrapped around her hands. It was cold as the coldest of winter frost. It bit into her hands and made them numb. She yanked the staff free, shattering the cocoon into little pieces.
The ghost reached out. “Give it, give it. It’s mine.”
“Come and get it.” She pushed Master Willems with her foot, whispering, “Come on, get up.”
If only she could the apparition to touch the staff.
Master Willems groaned.
“Get up, quickly.” If her previous experience was anything to go by, the apparition would change into a giant spider very soon. That also explained the abundance of spider webs in this room.
“You’ll regret taunting me.” Already, her voice grew raspier.
“We’ll see. Come and get it.”
“What are you doing?” One of the men squealed. “It will come for us now.”
Johanna walked backwards, carefully so as not to trip over debris on the floor.
The ghost floated out of the grave, ignoring Master Willems who still sat on his knees, whimpering, past the shards of one of the Queen’s large vases.
Behind her, the men scrambled out of the door and ran into the ballroom.
But then a different, harsh male voice echoed through that room. It sounded like Alexandre’s guards had come in. There were sounds of a scuffle behind her and then a man said something in a foreign language. Burovian, Johanna thought.
The ghost hissed. It spewed a glowing thread of silk across the room.
The man yelled. Johanna couldn’t see if he had been hit.
More people ran in. There was yelling and shouting. The ghost produced a sibilant hiss that made the hair on Johanna’s neck stand up. The shape of Celine disintegrated into strands of mist that glowed and separated and re-formed. They grew into long limbs with long bristles. The arms and legs melted into a round body. The spider spewed glowing silk at the men like a fisherman casts a net.
Johanna lifted the staff holding it by the golden head, and waved it through the room. Threads of silk collected on the wood. They melted into dripping strands of light.
A couple of men had been caught in the strands and lay caught in cocoons on the ground. Johanna had no idea if these men were hers or Alexandre’s. She waved the staff in great arcs. Magic light flew in globs around the room. It leaked down her hands and the front of her dress.
More men came into the room, and the spider was so occupied with these new people that Johanna got close. She lifted the staff and drove the wooden handle through the spider’s head. It met little resistance, but the glowing mist attached to the wood. For a moment, the spider froze. Then she yanked the staff free.
The spider shattered into hundreds of little glowing pieces. They flew through the air and bounced off the ceiling and tumbled on the ground, where they slowly dimmed.
The room returned to darkness. Johanna stood there still holding the staff, panting.
Then there came the sound of footsteps of hard boots on the stone floor. A small flame appeared in the shape of a fish with a long flowing tail and delicate scales, swimming in the air. Johanna knew only one person who could do this.
Alexandre.
He had seen all the magic that she had just performed.
Chapter 17
* * *
JOHANNA STUMBLED away from the grave and pressed herself against the wall. It was so dark in the room that she could only see that little fish made of flames that gambolled through the air. It was a
thing of mesmerising beauty, if dangerous.
She became aware of a glow of light from below: the front of her dress glowed with magic. She drew her cape over the spot to conceal it, but there were glowing spots on her hands, too, and goodness knew where else.
She had no idea where the others were. Some men had escaped into the ballroom, she hoped. Master Willems might have been smart enough to crawl to the side of the room. She clutched the wooden handle of the king’s staff, doing her best to keep her breathing as quiet as possible.
The sound of footsteps from Alexandre’s high-heeled boots echoed in the empty room. Johanna couldn’t see him, but she felt his presence like a burning beacon. Why had the baroness ever said that Alexandre was a weak magician? Why had she ever thought that she could defeat him with a band of followers whose only weapons were their prayer books? Why did no magician want to help her? Master Willems, Loesie, Magda, all of them had refused.
She waited.
The little fire fish frolicked through the air, lighting up different parts of the room. The orange glow lit the rubble-strewn ground, where dust and broken glass revealed no signs of magic. Then it came to the middle of the room where the slab of stone that covered Celine’s grave had split open. Jagged shards of stone pointed up at the ceiling. Sprays of dry earth had been cast over the floor. The grave itself was a jagged hole.
Alexandre stopped at the edge of the grave. The little fish-light frolicked around him. He wore well-polished high-heeled boots with shiny buckles, velvet trousers and a knee-length coat. A sand-coloured ponytail hung over his back.
“Hmmm,” he said, and then he said something in a foreign language. His voice was cultured and sounded sharp and arrogant.
A gruff voice responded at the door to the ballroom.
Johanna looked for ways to escape. She had to get out of here before they discovered her. She was probably leaking magic and no matter how well she hid, they would discover her before they discovered the others.
But getting out required first getting past the grave. The room was narrow, with glass doors all along the left-hand side. Johanna stood against the right-hand wall, which had doors into the ballroom. She could try to sneak along the wall to the very end, where the short wall of the room consisted of glass doors. Or she could try to sneak back through the ballroom, but she had no light and, short of the palace foyer—where the doors were locked—and the forecourt—where the gates were locked as well—she knew no way of getting out of the palace.
