I can’t do it alone, she realized with a skip of her heart. As Dembroch needed defenders and Jenn had needed Meg in the catacombs and Page Trey had needed Meg to find Ryderwyle, Meg needed Jenn and Clay and Page Trey and her stepbrother to help her. Friends had been the source of her contentedness in her youth. They could help her find it again.
Somehow, deep down, though she knew this was the first step in a long walk fraught with obstacles and personal peril, she was at peace with it. With her friends and with Dembroch, she would one day feel peace and patience again.
There was a loud blast of gurgling water and steam. Meg’s nose was assaulted by a fresh wave of sulphur.
Her eyes snapped open. She was bathed in color. All around her, the hot springs were spraying steam into the air. Invisible doors became visible. But, as Page Trey had suspected, the destinations beyond were hazy and unclear. Without the kingdom’s magic, the geysers weren’t illuminating the gates’ terminuses, only their presence.
Meg marveled at the many doors. They were everywhere, numbering at least a couple hundred—and that was just the immediate area around her. No two were alike. Some were tall, others short and squat. Some remained still, others moved lazily in grand, circular orbits around the area, disappearing from view once beyond the colored geyser mist.
But the gates weren’t the only thing to gawk at. She saw a flicker of orange. Page Trey let out a shout.
Protruding from the sandstone a few feet in front of Meg was a black, pyramidal rock. A flame sputtered on the top. Sparks shot out and then hung in the air, some disappearing into gates. Carved into the foot of the plinth was a single word: pax.
“Peace,” Page Trey translated, squeezing her shoulder. “You have returned magic to the Gate Grounds.”
Meg gawked at it, not believing her eyes.
“But,” she stammered. “I’m not at peace. I just decided that.”
“Exactly,” Page Trey said with a wink. “By admitting such a bold confession to yourself, you are at peace with such a conclusion. And there is no greater piece of peace than a mind and heart knowing its current place and where is must go in due time.”
Meg squinted, absorbing the page’s words.
She gestured at the flame.
“Now what?”
Page Trey held out one of his walking sticks to Meg. She took it and dipped its tip into the flame. It flared, instantly lighting the torch. When she held it up, the tongues of flame burnt wildly around the walking stick’s tip, not truly burning the wood, but dancing around it. Sparks spat out of it like the tail of a firework.
Enthralled, Meg swung the torch through the air. The flame weaved, but did not waver. It burnt strong, even when she plunged it into the hot spring. The fire, it seemed, was magical in every way, and could not be extinguished by natural means.
She approached one of the illuminated doors, holding the torch near it. The world beyond became startlingly clear, though tinged in a rainbow of colors. She saw a canyon filled with shallow pools—it was the gate to Coral Canyon.
Meg beamed. She’d never felt so giddy in her life, or at least not since she’d been Meghan. She had started a flame and now, with the geysers and springs erupting and a magic-spewing torch in her hand, she could help Page Trey find the door to Ryderwyle.
“What does Ryderwyle look like?” Meg asked.
“Steep cliffs,” Page Trey replied. “Frozen waterfalls. Tall, thin trees covered in snow. Anything that looks like a blizzard.”
Holding the torch before her, giving the gates plenty of berth, Meg led their search. When gates neared the aura of Meg’s magical flame, they peered through to dozens of destinations. Meg saw thick woods, sandy shores of Whittlesea, deep blue ocean, a sprawling hillside leading to Cliffside Tower. For a second, in this last gate, Meg thought she saw Clay and the Watchmaker admiring a sword, but she hurried on. She had to find Ryderwyle.
They kept looking. The steam became lighter as the geysers and springs began to dwindle in strength. Meg pressed on, desperate to find the door before it was too late.
Not desperate, she reminded herself. Peaceful. Patient. We’ll find it.
And just then, she saw it. She pointed. Page Trey let out a shout of joy.
Spinning in a lazy loop around the Gate Grounds was the door to Ryderwyle. It slid past the plinth where the flame burnt strong. So close to the magic, the door was illuminated—there was a steep cliffside covered in snow, a frozen waterfall, a tangle of thin, snow-wreathed trees.
“That’s it!” Page Trey shouted.
The two raced toward the gate to Ryderwyle. The door swung in a wide arc, headed toward a large hot spring.
“They’re fading!” the page declared.
He was right. The geysers were settling. The colored vapor was becoming white and dwindling. Doors were disappearing. Meg’s torch illuminated doors a few feet away. The path ahead became infinitely more treacherous. Meg tried to memorize the layout, picturing where the various doors were, but the moving ones were hard to track. All she knew was the gate to Ryderwyle was sliding right over the hot spring and would disappear in a few seconds.
They made it to the edge of the hot spring. Meg and Page Trey leapt—
It happened in an instant.
Meg’s torch illuminated another moving door, this one moving fast, sliding diagonally at them. Page Trey was tugged into the door to Ryderwyle, but Meg was pulled hard and fast toward the new door. Their hands were torn apart. The act jarred Meg. She dropped her torch and it clattered to the ground. A second later, Meg and Page Trey flew through separate doors to their own destinations.
Back on the Gate Grounds, the walking stick torch clattered to the sandstone. The geysers and hot springs fell still. The invisible doors roamed silently. In the middle of it all, the new magical flame of peace flickered.
CHAPTER 26:
Wandering the Woods
Across the island, Jenn was lost. She’d been shuffling around the woods for hours on end, trying to find her way to the seer’s cottage. Like her husband, directions were not her strong suit.
In her hand, she held the seer’s Sight. The two mirrored talismans were comparable to steel marbles. Shallow grooves were carved intricately into the reflective surfaces, all encircling an iris and pupil. The more Jenn looked at these stones, the more she felt the engraved pupils were looking right back at her.
Just get to the seer’s cottage, Jenn kept telling herself.
But such an easy task that would have only taken an hour or two in the daylight was taking Jenn all night. She was lost in an unfamiliar, dark forest. The thick canopy of dead tree limbs made for difficult navigating. There was no telling what other terrors lay ahead or if she was even headed in the right direction.
She pressed on. Eventually, she figured, she would stumble upon a shore or landmark to indicate which way she should go. Nonetheless, she had to have hope. It was something she’d long forgotten and only recently rediscovered, but she held onto it like a toddler fighting for a blanket by holding onto the tattered strings on the end.
Suddenly, there was a snap of twigs, then the sound of something large moving toward her. Too late, she heard the ticks of hundreds of clocks. She saw eyes, giant orange orbs with black slits for pupils.
Before Jenn could scream or fight, the Dreadnaught’s jaws were around her, digging into the earth. They snapped shut. A crooked tooth sliced through her calf, drawing a river of blood. Up she went, dead grass and dry soil smothering her, teeth crunching, cutting into her skin, then a thick, slimy tongue pushed her into its throat. Her scream was cut out as the hideous beast swallowed her whole and scuttled off into the woods.
CHAPTER 27:
Crossed and Cursed Paths
“What was that?” I said.
Queen Coralee and I scanned the surrounding forest, but all was calm and unmoving. The scream had come from far away.
“It would be best to keep moving until we find shelter,” Queen Coralee offered.
&
nbsp; We continued on, walking blindly through the dark. I held my dislocated arm, the joint burning with every step.
“So,” I said, trying to distract myself from the pain, “your sister seems…nice.”
Queen Coralee chuffed. “All this time Sorgana…Edith…has been in my kingdom, taunting me that she knows me, and I never once realized it was her. My own sister…”
“She looks like she’s aged quite a bit,” I offered.
“Which is impossible,” the queen said. “It has been thousands of years since we parted ways. Any person would have passed millennia ago. I never thought she could be alive, let alone be here. Or be so…”
“Mean?”
“Different,” the queen corrected. “That was not the sister I knew.”
“She wasn’t always bent on killing you and your kingdom?”
The queen shook her head.
“We were sisters,” she revealed. “The best of friends. Until…”
“Until you left her?” I assumed.
“I didn’t leave her,” the queen said, eyes fiery. “I was taken.” She hung her head. “And lo and behold, she has found her way here to wreak havoc.”
“We’ll stop her,” I insisted.
“I fear this curse is too strong.”
“Your curse?” I asked, not sure what that meant.
The queen’s lips went thin.
“What do she mean ‘Dembroch is cursed because you are’?” I pressed.
After a long pause, the queen said, “There is much to explain, Sir Nicholas. Let us find shelter from the night and I shall tell you all you wish to hear.”
I wasn’t altogether satisfied with this answer, but figured it was good enough for now.
We pressed on through the darkness, coming to a patch of brambles. I pushed them aside and screeched to a halt. The black tip of a sword pointed right at my nose.
I held up my good arm to show surrender. My voice caught in my throat. How had the skeletons caught us?
Queen Coralee appeared beside me and froze too.
“My queen?” a voice called.
“Nick?” another said.
Past the point of the sword and across a narrow, dry creek bed was Clay and the Watchmaker, my friend bearing a broad axe, the latter holding the sword pointed at my nose.
The queen rushed to the Watchmaker with a shout of relief. I met Clay in the middle of the river, wincing when he gave me a hug.
“Nice axe,” I commented.
He shrugged, straining to lift it.
“What have you been doing?” I asked, looking over Clay. He had remnants of blood and slime on his clothes. His tie had been burnt to a stub.
Clay explained his harrowing journey into the Cliffside Tower, leaving out the bits where he had run in circles of terror and had been unable to lift the fortissium blade or defend himself. When he asked me about my day and my limp arm, I explained my misadventure in the castle with the queen, witch, and skeletons.
“No flames yet?” he asked.
“Only one,” I explained. “I have to go back for it. But my quest isn’t done yet. I think I have to light another one. You?”
Clay hung his head.
“It’s okay,” I insisted. “We still have till noon tomorrow?”
“About twelve hours then?” Clay said dejectedly.
“What do you have left to do?”
“The Dreadnaught,” Clay murmured.
“Perfect,” I said, remembering that Clay loved chasing down imaginary monsters in his youth.
But the Clay before me didn’t look too excited to face any beasts. His false bravado had melted away, exposing a raw nerve of fear.
“You can do this, Clay,” I promised him. “If I can jump off a castle wall for a queen, you can fight the Dreadnaught. It can’t be that horrible.”
Clay looked off into the distance. He murmured something about bravery amongst horror, then gave me a hug. I yelped in pain as he patted my dislocated shoulder.
“Hey,” he whispered in my ear, “what’s going on over there?”
I followed his gaze.
Queen Coralee and the Watchmaker stood close together, whispering conspiratorially. The Watchmaker handed her a pocket watch from his belt. When the queen opened it, she looked dismayed. After handing it back to him, she started kneading her hands again, rubbing the burn on her fingertips.
“What was that about?” I wondered, but we didn’t get the opportunity to theorize. The queen and Watchmaker joined us.
“The Watchmaker told me of your bravery, Sir Clayton,” the queen said. “I commend you. It seems you have truly taken my words to heart and are striving to better yourself as you save our kingdom. For that, I am eternally grateful. You now have the means and the heart to slay the Dreadnaught.”
As if in reply, there was a far-off shriek. It was otherworldly, guttural and powerful. For a second, I wondered if it was the Dreadnaught, but Clay answered my question.
“The dragons,” he whispered, eyes wide and scared.
“Oh, you’re favorite!” I shouted without thinking.
Clay shook his head slightly.
“You mustn’t stay with us, my queen,” the Watchmaker said. “The fortissium blade is the prize of the Horror Hollow. The dragons seek it for their own and will chase us through the night.”
“I will stay by your side,” the queen promised.
The Watchmaker shook his head, refusing.
“You have dangers and problems of your own to sort out, my queen,” he said, casting a wary eye at me. “Rest assured, we will find the Dreadnaught and recover the witch’s watch soon. But for now, for your safety, we must part.”
Though the queen argued, the Watchmaker remained adamant. In time, he and Clay bid us farewell. I wished Clay luck, and the two disappeared into the woods, leaving the queen and I to find our own shelter and answers.
CHAPTER 28:
Quite a Gruesome Spectacle
Horses whinnied nervously from the stables as Sorgana limped to the Bridgemaster’s home. She was a sight for sore eyes, bedraggled and weak, old and frail, a walking corpse.
She stopped at the water barrel and, stooping, plucked a baby turtle from within. Hardly relishing the taste, she bit the turtle’s head off and swallowed it whole. She toyed with the shell until she had all the meat. With each slurp, she grew younger. Her energy renewed.
Before long, she emptied the barrel, crushing the shells after she’d drained them. But now she was in a feeding frenzy. There wasn’t enough food—enough youth—to slake her appetite.
By the trees, the horses neighed nervously. Sorgana swept to their stables, ravenous. She struck one down, feeding on it, then another, and another. Their braes were the thing of nightmares.
When she’d eaten the last morsel of meat from the horses and absorbed the last bit of lifeforce available to her, the witch, plump and young and invigorated once more, ascended the porch steps of the Bridgemaster’s home. She flung the door open dramatically.
The Bridgemaster and Sir Liliford the ferryman were inside, armed with butcher knives. Both were free of the witch’s enchantments, their eyes restored to their natural colors once more.
“Stowing away for the night?” she simpered at the men. “Nursing your wounds until daybreak?”
The men exchanged glances that confirmed the witch’s suspicions.
“You would lower the bridge?” she glowered. “Flee to the ferry? Leave your kingdom and your queen? Such betrayal!”
“We’d never abandon our queen or our land,” the Bridgemaster declared boldly. “We’d only ever leave to call for reinforcements against the likes of you!”
Sir Liliford cast his eyes to the ground.
“Ah, that’s more like it,” the witch said. “Betrayal is too cowardly for you, Bridgemaster. And truly...neither of you shall see leave this kingdom or see the light of day again.”
She attacked like a snake, quick and cruel. Furniture was torn to pieces. Shattered turtle shells
flew into the house and rained down like razor blades. The men were knocked over and savagely beaten. Sir Liliford managed to get to his feet and made to pull the Bridgemaster out of danger, but the latter was too heavy.
“Take him back against walls of black,” the witch intoned.
The Bridgemaster lifted off the ground and smacked into the wall. He hung there, struggling against forces he could not fight.
Sir Liliford held up a kitchen knife at the witch.
“No need to fool me,” the witch said to the ferryman with a wicked smile. “I know you want to run. To flee. To never return. If you go fast enough, you might be able to get ahead of me.”
The ferryman trembled on the spot, eyes darting between the witch and his friend, then the door.
“No, no, no,” Sorgana sang. “You’re not leaving the island. Not now. But you still have a chance to run and hide. Think of it as a game. If you get far enough away or bury yourself deep enough, you may make good sport and I’ll kill you quickly.”
Sir Liliford shook on the spot.
“Don’t just stand there, run!” Sorgana cried.
He remained frozen in fear.
She lunged, striking the knife from his hand. Her broken nails cut into his wrist, marking him.
“Run!” the witch shrieked.
He finally did, sprinting off into the depths of the home. Intriguing choice, the witch noted. She wondered if he was truly running or seeking protection. Perhaps there was a secret exit within the house.
“Abandoned and alone,” the witch sneered, turning her attention back to the Bridgemaster pinned to the wall. “Left to suffer at the hands of your master these past days. You did me well, retrieving my food and allowing the defenders to pass, keeping the bridge guarded against any fools trying to flee. And how can I repay such loyalty?”
The Bridgemaster rasped weakly, begging for mercy. He was helpless, defenseless. Innocent of his crimes, yet due to be punished all the same. It was cruelty of the highest degree.
The Age of Knights & Dames Page 17