“This isn’t the same as yesterday at all. Wait, I can’t move!” Hector exclaimed, struggling, though nothing seemed to restrain him.
“I don’t understand! What’s happening?” Angst looked around at his friends, who fought against their invisible shackles. He was the only one who could still move. “Aerella?” He looked at the young woman, but she turned her back on Angst, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Anderfeld, what’s going on?”
Anderfeld looked upset as he pulled his great sword from his back and swung at Angst. Instinctively, Angst ducked and drew Chryslaenor. “I’m sorry I broke your dome, but is this really necessary?”
Anderfeld instantly became a blur of movement, and their swords met with a crash, showering those nearby in blue and green sparks. Anderfeld hammered away at Angst, and it took every bit of Angst’s concentration to defend each blow. When he swung back, Angst felt like he was beating a steel wall with a hammer, and it hurt to the bone.
Angst lunged at Anderfeld’s midsection and was easily parried. Anderfeld was a master with the sword, an Al’eyrn with years of experience. Every one of Angst’s attacks were readily met or blocked.
After several minutes, Angst tired. The fight drained him, and wracked his body with exhaustion. His sword reached through his arm, singing to his mind, begging to help. It was foreign, and intrusive, making the battle within as challenging as the battle with Anderfeld.
Anderfeld still looked upset, and attacked with a ferocity Angst had never experienced. Angst’s arms were quickly losing their strength, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before Anderfeld overtook him. At the point when all seemed lost, his eyes met Anderfeld’s, and he saw sadness. Anderfeld blurred past Angst and buried his sword deep in Rose’s chest. The look of shock on her face was soon replaced by the distant stare of death.
“No,” he said in a very quiet voice. His body began to shake.
Anderfeld slowly pulled the sword out. It was covered in her blood, and her lifeless body fell helplessly to the ground. He raised Dulgirgraut over Dallow’s head, ready to strike.
“No!” Angst yelled in fury. Chryslaenor’s song burst into his brain, filling his body with so much energy it burned. In the time it took Angst to blink, he found Chryslaenor buried to the hilt in Anderfeld’s back.
Anderfeld exhaled one last time. “I’m sorry, Angst. Thank you.”
Anderfeld fell to the ground, and Gressmore Towers was gone.
34
Victoria paced the length of her room, complaining loudly about her mother’s recent nonsensical decisions. The princess flung her thin, pale arms about with stiff, angry gestures, pausing occasionally to pull up the sleeves of her dark green silk dress. Her room was painted in warm ivory and gentle pink, pretty and understated. The path Victoria walked was a clearing between small piles of scattered clothes from that morning’s attempt to find the right thing to wear.
Heather sat on the edge of Victoria’s bed, listening patiently. These “conversations” had become a daily ritual since Heather came to live at the castle. The princess would invite her into her room several times a day, and proceed to stomp about in frustration. It was everything Angst had told her, and any small concern Heather had hidden about the relationship between Victoria and Angst was now completely and utterly quashed.
Victoria stopped to face Heather, pausing briefly to catch her breath. “Now he won’t even let me in his room!”
“It sounds to me like Tyrell is very ill—” Heather began patiently, collecting loose strands of curly brown hair then clasping it all together into something more manageable.
Victoria quickly cut her off. “He’s not that ill. Tyrell’s locked himself up for the last week because he’s upset and thinks Aereon’s replaced him.”
“Has Aereon replaced him?” Heather asked, raising an eyebrow.
“No. Well, maybe for a moment, but not really. He can’t.” Victoria placed a hand on one hip and gestured with her free hand. “This is hard to explain because it isn’t common knowledge. There’s an accord, of sorts, between Tyrell and my mother. He’s more than just Captain Guard.”
“You mean...they... Are you trying to say they’re romantically involved?” Heather asked as diplomatically as she could.
“Oh! No. Well, I don’t think so.” Victoria pondered this for a moment before continuing. “Tyrell is the queen’s champion. He’s made the oath to protect her till death. It’s a tradition for the queen and king to choose champions.”
“So one day you’ll also choose a champion?” Heather asked, secretly concerned that Victoria may have already made the choice.
Victoria’s dark thin brows furrowed in thought. “I hadn’t really thought of that. I guess I will.”
Heather wanted to change the subject. “Tyrell’s always seemed to be a man who lives by the book. I think honor actually flows through his veins. If he felt your mother was in danger, he would do something.”
“That’s the very reason he won’t rise against her, she doesn’t appear to be in any danger. Still, I need him to see what’s going on, to see how much Mother has changed.” She sighed and plopped onto the bed next to Heather. “How do I make him see?”
“Victoria, you are the royal princess, are you not?” Heather prodded as though this should be enough.
“For all the good it does me.” Victoria pouted, pulling at a loose string on her dress.
Heather had learned quickly that reasoning with Victoria when she was in a snit did not work. She also found that the princess was easily offended, forcing Heather to choose her words carefully. She took a deep breath of bravery before stating in a voice devoid of emotion, “Fetch me some water.”
Victoria whipped her head around to stare at Heather in disbelief. “What did you say?”
“You heard me. Fetch me some water.” Heather looked at the princess coolly.
“No,” her voice incensed and eyebrows raised.
“Why not?”
“Not only was your manner rude,” she said, without hiding her indignation, “but that’s not my job. I don’t ‘fetch.’”
“Then what is your job, Victoria?” Heather asked, hoping the point would be understood quickly before there was room for misunderstanding.
“I’m the royal princess, heir of Unsel. My job is to learn how to rule so I may one day become queen,” the princess stated, arching her back automatically.
Heather smiled as friendly a smile as she could, hoping to relax the tension. “Then what would the queen do?”
“She would order the guards away and command Tyrell to...” Victoria’s shoulders dropped as the obvious pervaded her thoughts, and she smiled sheepishly at Heather. “I swear, I’m usually much smarter than this.”
“Of course, dear, you’ve just never been put in this position before,” Heather said with relief. “Now go kick Tyrell out of bed and command him to make things right.”
Victoria nodded as she stood. “Thank you,” she whispered, giving Heather a quick hug. “Would you mind staying to help me change?” Without waiting for an answer, she walked to her large closet to choose appropriate attire for yelling at Tyrell.
“It’s time for Angst to come home and have his job back,” Heather muttered under her breath.
Unwelcomed sunlight poured through the windows to slap Tyrell awake. He groaned loudly and looked over to see Victoria sitting in his favorite reading chair. She was resting in the high-backed seat with her elbows on the worn armrests and her fingers pressed together against her chin.
“Victoria. What are you doing in here?” Tyrell demanded weakly as he attempted to block the light.
“Get up,” Victoria commanded.
“I told the guards not to let anyone in,” Tyrell mumbled, trying to ignore her.
“I dismissed your guards, now get up!” This time she was much louder and sat straight in the chair.
Tyrell winced and wiped several beads of sweat from his long face. He’d never felt so sick, and couldn’t seem to
catch his breath. But ever so slowly, Tyrell sat up in bed. Covers fell from his shoulders, revealing several old scars slashed deep across his muscular chest. He turned to set his feet on the floor, and remembered he was in undergarments. She blushed furiously but continued to glare at him.
“It isn’t appropriate for you to be in here, Victoria. I’m going to see you to the door so I can get some rest.” Tyrell rested on his knees to hold himself up.
“You may address me as Your Majesty. Get dressed.”
Tyrell leaned his head to one side until there was a noisy pop, then rubbed his neck. In spite of the sweat and fever, he was mostly certain this was real and not a hallucination. His eyes were more or less focused, so he looked at the young woman. She was in formal attire, wearing a full-length burgundy brocade dress. The outfit had enough embellishments that he wondered if Victoria hadn’t raided her mother’s closet when choosing her outfit. She was even wearing her tiara.
“Listen to me, young lady—” Tyrell began with a bit more energy.
She immediately cut him off. “You are failing my mother.”
That startled him from his stupor. “Wh-what?” He gaped at her.
“You failed her weeks ago when she was attacked, and you’re failing her now,” Victoria snapped.
“You don’t understand,” he pleaded.
“No, you don’t understand, but you will. Either you get up, get dressed, and meet me in the hall in five minutes or you will be relieved of your commission as Queen’s Champion and dismissed from the castle.” The princess stood and glared at him once more before calmly walking out of the room.
Four minutes later, a furious Captain Guard stepped through the doors of his room. He straightened his dark navy tunic and swiped at the sweat dripping from his light brown bangs. He looked awful, and inwardly, Victoria dreaded doing this to him.
“Where to, Your Majesty?” he asked curtly.
Victoria fought to keep the sympathy out of her eyes. She now had a sense of the true burden her mother bore as queen. “Follow me,” she commanded and led Tyrell down the hall.
They made their way through the castle halls without a word. Victoria could feel Tyrell glaring daggers at the back of her head. The Captain Guard was angry and ill, his breathing strained with every step. She could only hope his anger would fuel the strength he needed to face what was coming.
They stopped at the hallway that led to the dungeon entrance, and found a long line of bedraggled people waiting to enter. Most guards reluctantly urged the prisoners along, but several appeared happy and taunted their captives.
Tyrell stepped in front of the princess and walked to a guard. “What’s going on?”
“Sir?” the puffy-faced guard asked in a flat tone, his confusion indicating that Tyrell should know the answer already.
Graloon stopped before Tyrell and the guard. His hands were shackled and a trickle of blood from an ugly cut on his large bald forehead was drying on his cheek. He spat on the floor in front of Tyrell. “You really think this is going to protect the queen, locking all of us up? We aren’t the ones who attacked her!”
The guard jabbed Graloon in the stomach with the bottom of his halberd, making the man grunt loudly and bend over in pain. Several of the prisoners’ hands glowed ominously. Graloon raised his hand and shouted, “No, not like this.”
Tyrell grabbed the guard’s arm before the man could strike Graloon again. “Stop. That isn’t necessary. Who ordered this?”
“Aereon presented us the queen’s order several days ago. This is the last of the magic wielders.” The guard did not strike Graloon again, but didn’t lower his weapon either.
“Where would I find Mr. Aereon?” Tyrell asked curtly.
“He’s usually with the queen, in the throne room. Sir.”
“I’m going to say this once,” Tyrell yelled to everyone present. “If a single guard harms one of these prisoners in any way, every guard in that man’s regimen will be shackled and thrown in the dungeons.” He glared at the guard in front of him. “Do I make myself clear?”
The guard remained quiet but lowered his weapon. Tyrell faced Victoria, still angry but not at her. “I’ll apologize later, Your Majesty, when I can do so properly. Thank you. Now, I would recommend you stay in your quarters until I’ve seen this through.”
35
Angst woke shaking. The ground beneath him was terribly cold, but that wasn’t the only thing making him tremble. He felt feverish, and his head throbbed as though he were sick. He pushed himself to his hands and knees and looked around. Angst was still at Gressmore Ruins, the ancient remains of a city that had long ago passed into history. He began to sigh with relief until he realized something was wrong. Where was Gressmore Towers? Flashbacks of his recent visit to Gressmore flooded his thoughts.
Conflicting images and memories assaulted his mind. Memories of a long journey to Gressmore Ruins seemed to occupy the same space in his thoughts as a journey to Gressmore Towers. The pounding in his head became excruciating as more conflicting images filled his thoughts. He sought help from his foci, desperate to break free from this war in his mind. Several feet away, a glowing Chryslaenor stuck out of the ground. He crawled to the beacon and used it to pull himself up. Angst stood and yanked his sword from the mud.
He ignored the ruins and attempted to concentrate on blurred memories of Gressmore Towers. The steady throbbing in his head coalesced into a single, sharp point of pain. When he tried to sort through memories from both journeys, the one that happened and the one that didn’t, the pain became intense. Something warm and wet trickled down his cheeks and pooled over his lip. When he reached up to brush it away, he found blood dripping from his ears and nose. Angst shivered uncontrollably before doubling over to empty the contents of his stomach, and then collapsed.
Hours later Angst woke with a cool hand on his forehead and a mass of warm fur breathing slowly at his side. His right arm was numb where Chryslaenor rested on it, and Scar was curled up against him. Angst tried, desperately, not to dwell on the fact that he now had two distinct memories fighting to occupy the same time in his mind. Even thinking about it made his vision blur, his stomach roil with nausea, and the throbbing in his head intensify. Focusing on one journey, the trip to Gressmore Towers, helped calm the storm of memories, and his stomach, but it was a struggle.
“I tried to push it off your arm, but it wouldn’t budge,” a pretty young woman said, appearing worried. “It was glowing for a while, but stopped when your ears and nose stopped bleeding.”
Angst sat up at the behest of the woman tending him. He lifted Chryslaenor from his arm as he stood. Scar’s tail wagged sleepily as the pup also woke from his nap. The painful battle of memories dispersed as he held the blade aloft. He remembered the towering obsidian pillars. He remembered holding this woman’s hand. He remembered fighting. There was another sword like his. Panic set in, and he looked about the ruins frantically.
“Rose!” he yelled. He stumbled forward, hoping to find his friends, hoping to find Rose. It took all his concentration to focus, but he remembered that other giant sword had been shoved into her chest. He remembered her blood. Was it possible for her to heal from that? Panic clutched his throat at the thought of her death. In his distraction Angst tripped over Tarness’s leg and barely caught himself. He placed Chryslaenor on his back and knelt by his large friend. Tarness was breathing, but didn’t wake when Angst rolled him over to his back.
“Tarness, are you all right?” Angst asked quietly as he gently patted his friend’s face.
Tarness muttered something that sounded like “Maarja” then rolled to one side and curled into a ball. Several drops of blood fell from his nose onto the grass.
“Leave him be, Angst,” the woman advised as she approached him.
Looking at the attractive young woman hurt, as though she didn’t belong here. She offered Angst her hand, which he took out of habit. “Aerella?”
She smiled weakly, looking almost as lost as A
ngst. “I’m glad to see you’re all right.”
“I’m not all right. Nothing is all right,” Angst barked, looking down at Tarness. “Is it?”
“Tarness will be okay. He just needs to rest.”
Angst nodded and looked about, collecting his thoughts. It was midday. A cold mist had settled about them and the dark clouds overhead looked on the verge of cutting loose. He needed to gather his friends and make camp before sunset. Angst stomped away and began searching frantically through the ruins. It was a mess of giant, weatherworn black stone, broken pottery, and pieces of statues half-buried in the tundra. Scar ran ahead, sniffing at the ground, and Angst instinctively followed the lab pup.
“What are you doing?” Aerella asked, trailing close behind.
“I’m looking for my friends,” Angst said loudly as Scar led him around a corner to find Dallow. The dog wagged his tail with pride, and Angst rewarded him with a pat on the head. Dallow was balled up on his side, shivering from the cold or possibly struggling with the same conflicting memories of their last few days. Angst knelt beside his friend and lifted him with a grunt.
“What’s going on? What happened to us?” Angst asked Aerella as he stumbled forward with Dallow in his arms.
“I don’t know how much you remember, so this will be hard to explain,” she began. “After the memndus fell, you and your friends left Gressmore Towers. My father willed Dulgirgraut to keep us both awake through the night so we would remember your visit. It took all his strength.”
“Your father,” Angst fought to sift through his warring thoughts to find a name, “is Anderfeld?” Angst winced with the effort as he laid Dallow near Tarness.
“Yes,” she replied with a catch in her voice. “He told everyone at Gressmore that you and your friends were enemies. When you arrived, the guards had been ordered to detain your friends and wait while he dealt with you.”
Angst shook his head in confusion. “That makes no sense. Why would I be an enemy? I remember admiring Anderfeld...I think.”
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