by Jon Kiln
“Perhaps the door will react to the stones,” answered Myriam. Snapping her fingers decisively, she held out her other hand toward Hendon. “Let me borrow your knife. I think we’ll have to use them both.”
“Use them both?” Hendon sounded puzzled, but he handed over his dagger just the same. “For what?”
“For this,” said Myriam, taking the dagger and sliding its blade into one of the narrow grooves at the base of the door. At the same time, she inserted her own dagger into another slot. The princess released the hilts and sat back on her haunches, giving a small flourish of her hands.
Nothing happened. “Hmm.”
“Let me try again,” said Ganry, who felt rested enough to give the door another go.
Ignoring him, Myriam quickly withdrew the two knives from their slots and rammed them home into a different pair. The door remained stubbornly shut. Myriam sat back again and stared at the door, once more chewing on her lip in thought. Ganry cast his eyes up at the ceiling and crossed his arms, wondering how much longer they were going to stand around outside this doorway.
There had been no sign of any pursuit thus far, but that didn’t mean Duke Harald’s men had forgotten about them. Ganry didn’t know if the castle had fallen yet, but that it would was a foregone conclusion. If they hadn’t yet, the Palarans would soon storm the keep. When they did, they would discover the princess was not there. There would be a search. The common soldiers might not care one way or the other, but their officers wouldn’t dare return to Castle Villeroy empty-handed. This corridor would be found eventually.
The mercenary-turned-bodyguard looked back the way they had come, his unease growing. Realistically, it would be hours - if not days - before anyone investigated this subterranean bolthole. Knowing that didn’t make him feel any better. They had passed no other exits on their way to this immobile stone barrier. If they couldn’t get through this door, they would be trapped here in a dead end.
“We have to get this door open,” he said, making a decision. He took a step closer, gently pushing Linz aside. “Hendon, lend me your strength. We’ll do it together.”
“A moment, Ganry.” Hendon held up his hand to stay the bodyguard, never taking his eyes from Myriam’s progress. “I think she’s on to something.”
“We don’t have time for this,” Ganry insisted, starting to feel anxious.
Just then, Myriam slid the knives home in yet another pair of slots. There was a loud click. Ganry, already on edge, leaped back and reached for Windstorm’s hilt. He had slid the dark, Grimlock-forged blade halfway out of its scabbard when another sound reached his ears.
It was a loud, tortured grinding of stone against stone as the massive door ponderously opened. Jumping to her feet, Myriam laughed with giddy excitement and clapped her hands.
7
Zander heeled his horse, Samphire, to a halt on the ridge and looked back over his shoulder to the east. Smoke rose crookedly over the horizon, merging with the distant clouds overhead. Zander gritted his teeth angrily; his knuckles were white where they gripped the reins.
“What is it?” Reining in at Zander’s side, Artas cast his own gaze back the way they had come with undisguised anxiety. “Pursuit?”
“No,” said Zander sadly. “No one rides our trail, Artas of Palara. It is just…”
The other two had caught up by then, reining in their own steeds. Dristan and Ector looked to Zander and then shared a silent glance. Much like their leader, the two rangy young men had served the Duchess D’Anjue for nearly all their lives. They each looked back at the rising smoke once, and then refused to look again.
“We should press on,” said Zander after a long, quiet moment. Yet even then, his eyes remained on the distant plume marking the castle. At length, he tore his gaze away and spurred Samphire back to a trot. They rode in silence for a time after that. No one much felt like talking, least of all Artas.
It was not that he did not still have questions. Zander had yet to fill him in on just what exactly they were supposed to be doing. His curiosity would have to wait a while yet, however. The three men from Castle Locke rode now with downcast eyes and sorrow-burdened shoulders. The Palaran archer felt out of place in their company, the only member of the party for whom that plume of smoke did not represent gut-wrenching loss.
These men had lost their home and, very likely, the woman they served. Artas had lost nothing. At least, so he hoped. Zander swore to him the princess would be safe. Artas did not doubt the Duchess would have done everything in her power to protect Myriam, as would Ganry. Even so, he could not help but worry. It gnawed at him as he rode his borrowed horse in miserable silence.
That night, they made camp in a small glen with a narrow stream burbling through it. They had made a dozen leagues today, and the horses were weary. Artas joined the others in brushing down the mounts and seeing them fed. After the horses were cared for, Ector built a small fire. Though pursuit was unlikely, the man was careful to bank the fire and block its glimmer from the east.
Artas had put his bow to good use on the day’s long ride. Soon after camp was made, the men dined on roast partridge and quail. Dristan complimented Artas on his archery skill. After the meal, Ector banked the fire even closer and then both he and Dristan bedded down for the night. Artas remained seated upright, his back against a log and his eyes locked on Zander over the guttering flame.
“It’s time you told me where we’re headed,” he said.
Zander stared back across the fire and did not answer right away. At length, he brushed back a lock of jet-black hair from his brow and nodded. “Marawi,” he said. “We make for Marawi.”
“Marawi?” Artas blinked in surprise. Of course he knew of Marawi, secluded in the western wastes. The settlement was said to have built at the exact center of the world. The Marawine Druids, who had spread out eastward into the lands of Palara and Mirnee and north into Vandemland, claimed the place was sacred and had once been home to the dragons who ruled the world in the dawn age. Artas did not believe that, but he could not say what the real Marawi was like. No one but the Druids ever went there.
“Why are we going to Marawi?”
“There are several reasons.” Zander picked up a pebble from the ground and turned it over and over in his hand as he explained. “First, you should know that the Duchess received word from Palara three days ago. She learned that Duke Harald ordered his men to storm the druidic castle on the edge of the Cefinon Forest.”
“Storm the…” Artas shook his head. “Why should Duke Harald want to antagonize the druids?”
“To gain their fire-powders,” said Zander. “The fire-powder, you may not know, is said to be made of ground dragonbone. The druids use it for their ceremonies, but Harald had another use in mind. It was the only way his men could bring down the inner wall of Castle Locke. Against any mortal weapon, that wall is impregnable.”
“So when the druids refused to help…”
“You misunderstand,” interrupted Zander. “Harald never asked. He simply ordered his men to raze the castle, slay the druids, and take the fire-powders.”
Artas blinked in surprise. “But that… that’s insane.”
“Your Duke Harald is a most impetuous man. It is unwise to draw the ire of the Marawine Druids. For centuries, ever since the time of Terrick, they have contented themselves to observe and advise the rulers of this world. Many forget that these druids believe they serve a higher power than any mortal nation, a power which once ruled all of creation.”
“The dragons.” Artas cast his eyes heavenward.
“Just so.” Zander tossed aside the pebble he had been toying with. “There is another interesting fact, often misremembered in these times. Duke Harald most certainly forgot.”
“What is that?” asked Artas, leaning forward in curiosity.
“Long before the time of Terrick, when the tribes of Palara were no more civilized than the hill-men of Ashfield, the House of D’Anjou arose in Berghen Valley and led the
holy war against the dragons. That is why there was never a druid at Castle Locke, you see, though they infest every other castle and palace in the realm. The ancient enmity is strong and bitter, Artas of Palara.”
Artas was startled. He had never heard any stories about a war against the dragons. He knew that the House of D’Anjou was older than the Kingdom of Palara, but he had never suspected Queen Alissia’s family traced its lineage all the way back to the dawn ages. But…
“Why would they ever help us, then?” Artas sat back in sudden despair.
“The druids have a long memory, it is true,” admitted Zander with a shrug. Then he grinned, white teeth flashing in the firelight. “But that does not mean they ignore the present, or the recent past. Duke Harald destroyed one of their temples and put several dozen druids to the sword. They will be eager to see him punished.”
8
Duke Harald, Regent of the Kingdom of Palara, sat upon the eagle-backed throne that had been his brother’s before him. It was not yet his - technically. So long as his niece remained alive, Harald could not truly become King. He had done what he could about that. Judge Strogen’s head still decorated a spike over the gates of Castle Villeroy. Harald had taken his brother’s crown and named himself king. His ascension had been proclaimed throughout the land.
But in his heart, Harald knew that was not enough.
You will die alone, and your dreams will crumble to dust…
Harald ground his teeth. His hands tightened slowly into fists, and he forced them to relax. A moment later, his fingers clenched again. He could not forget the words, spoken so long ago in a dim room pungent with smoke. Nor could he forget the more recent prophecies of that old charlatan druid in his now-shattered castle.
The stones are drawing together…
What did it mean? There was no power in rocks, of course. Any fool could tell you that. Harald knew that true power was in steel and iron. Swords and pikes and the arms to wield them. Well, he had the steel and the flesh. He controlled the largest army in the world. No rocks would keep him from his destiny.
So why couldn’t his men bring him Myriam, preferably as a corpse? Such a simple task, and yet their failures continued to mount. Castle Locke had fallen. The greatest fortress in the world, its famously impregnable walls had not withstood his assault. But so what? The princess had somehow contrived to escape.
Harald’s lips curled into a poisonous sneer as he glared down from the throne at his captive. The Duchess D’Anjou, taken alive and brought back to Castle Villeroy in shackles and chains. She should have been a broken old woman, slumped in defeat with the hollow eyes of hopelessness. Instead, she gazed back at him with damnable calm, back straight and shoulders proud.
“Where,” said Harald, biting the words off carefully lest he lose his temper before the court, “is my niece?”
“An excellent question.” The Duchess ran her eyes coolly around the throne room, taking in the assembled Palaran nobles, one after another. When her gaze returned to Harald, one delicate eyebrow arched, she smiled. It was a faint thing, barely a tug at the corners of her mouth, but it infuriated the Duke. She smiled at him. How dare she smile, when she stood in fetters? What did this wretched woman have to smile over?
“What do you mean?” he demanded.
“I mean, my lord duke,” said the Duchess, emphasizing his title. “Well… wherever is the rightful Queen of Palara? Shouldn’t you be trying to find her, so that she can take her place on that… forgive me… that frightfully ugly chair you’ve been keeping warm for her?”
“You expect me to believe Princess Myriam was not in your charge?” Harald shifted his weight on the throne and waved one hand airily. He used the gesture to cover a furtive glance round at the nobles of his court. This would be so much easier if he could simply have them all executed. In time, he promised himself. For now, if the nobles united against him all would be lost. This must be played carefully.
The Duchess smiled as if she were quite aware of Harald’s predicament. It galled the Regent to think that she probably was. With an effort, he unclenched his fists and did his best to match her smile.
“Your men dragged me from my ancestral keep.” The Duchess raised her arms and gave a little shake, causing the chains to rattle. A murmur ran through the noble assemblage. “Last I saw of Castle Locke, they were quite thoroughly ransacking it. I should think that if Queen Myriam were there to be found, they’d have done so.”
“Enough!”
Harald rapped his knuckles against the throne’s armrest. It stung, but he hardly noticed. His rage was like a fever. He felt hot, and he barely kept from trembling. The murmur that had swept round the chamber became a rumble. This interview was turning around on Harald in a way he could not allow. And the Duchess just stood there, gazing at him and waiting. Damn her. Damn her!
“You are obstructing this kingdom’s lawful search for its true ruler,” Harald intoned, rising from the throne. It took every ounce of self-control, but he managed to keep his voice even and calm. “We know the Princess Myriam was brought to Castle Locke by a band of… unsavory men. We know you took them into your fortress, Duchess.”
She shrugged.
“You may think you’re above the laws of this kingdom.” Harald leveled a finger at the old woman. His voice sank to a low, threatening growl. “But I say you are not. I say you have kidnapped the rightful ruler of Palara. And I say you will die for it. Guards, take her away!”
9
Myriam couldn’t sleep. It had been the same each of the three nights since they emerged from the subterranean chamber, miles from Castle Locke. When she did manage to drift off, her slumber was plagued by violent nightmares. When she was awake, her thoughts bounced from what they had learned in that chamber, to her grandmother, and then back again.
She knew the Duchess still lived.
Myriam could not say how she knew, only that she did. She had taken Hendon aside the day before, and he agreed. He, too, could not explain it. But they each accepted it. They had both known it when King Ludwig and Queen Alissia died. Myriam had felt her parents’ death, as surely as if she had seen it with her own eyes. She would know if anything happened to her grandmother.
That left the chamber.
The massive stone door had closed behind them as soon as Myriam withdrew the daggers she had used to open it. She handed Hendon’s knife over, and by the time she had sheathed her own Harkan, the portal was closed once more. Ganry had urged them to move on at once, but Myriam had hesitated.
“Even if my uncle’s men find the corridor,” she had reasoned, “there’s no way they can open this door.”
“I beg to differ, princess.” Ganry had put a hand on her shoulder. It was really most familiar. Myriam had been torn for a moment. On the one hand, his behavior toward her - princess of Castle Villeroy and only true heir to the throne of Palara - was unacceptable. But they had shared so much over the past months. Ganry was more than a bodyguard. In a way, Myriam had come to look at the middle-aged warrior as a kind of uncle. Nonetheless…
“They cannot open the door, no matter how many big men they throw at it,” she told Ganry. “We were only able to get through by using these daggers. You saw the D’Anjue crest on the doors. Look, it’s reproduced on this side as well. I think the only way through is by using the Stones of Berghein.”
“She’s right,” chimed in Hendon. “Ganry, look. We’ll be safe here for a while.”
Ganry scowled, but said nothing. Instead, he took the lantern from Linz and turned from the massive doors to explore the chamber they found themselves in. Hendon and Linz both glanced at Myriam, but she shook her head. They followed the warrior deeper into the cavernous chamber they had entered.
It was enormous. The single lantern they carried could scarcely illuminate the tiniest corner of the cave. And it was a cave. This was no room constructed of stone blocks. It had been excavated from the earth and bedrock, or else it was a naturally occurring cavern the ancient D�
�Anjues had built around. Not far from the entrance they found a supply of torches. The torches were dry, the oil or pitch that had once soaked the ends long since dried away to nothing.
Ganry considered a moment. “Everyone sit down and be still,” he commanded. They did as he asked, and the big man blew out the lantern. They could hear what he did next, though none could see. There was a gurgling of liquid as he poured some of the lantern’s oil onto one of the torches. Next came the clacking of Ganry’s flint and steel. Light blossomed once more in the midnight blackness of the cave. When the lantern was lit anew, Ganry kindled the torch with its flame.
“Wait here,” he said.
Taking the torch, Ganry headed deeper into the cavern. Myriam, Linz, and Hendon sat in a circle around the lantern looking at each other in silence.
Myriam looked to Hendon. He was her blood, related to her somehow. It was incredible, but there it was. This odd young man who talked to horses and lived his whole life in the forest had the blood of D’Anjue in his veins. She had talked to him quite a bit these past few days in the castle, and Hendon seemed to have never suspected it before. Incredible.
Next, she looked to Linz. He had shown up at Castle Locke a few days after they first arrived, escorted by the mysterious forest monk Ghaffar. Since then, she had seen little of him. She knew the Duchess had spent long hours talking with him, but she did not know why. Nor did she know why Ghaffar had brought him.
“Linz,” she said, figuring now was as good a time as any. “I’ve been wondering.”
The boy’s eyes widened just slightly as he met her gaze. It lasted only a moment before he looked away, casting shy eyes down at the ground. “What about?”
“Why did you come to Castle Locke?”
“My mother sent me.”
“Yes, but why?”
“She thought I could help.” Linz looked up then, meeting her eye and holding her gaze for the first time. There was something new in that look, some fleeting confidence Myriam had not seen from him before. It was brief, gone in a few seconds, but she knew she it had been there.
