by Kai Kazi
“Where did they go?” He said gruffly,
“I led her to the escape tunnel,” he said weakly, “but they were there already.” Jon nodded and sighed,
“You did well to try, boy,” he said, suddenly the teacher once more, “don’t blame yourself.” Aiden nodded. Aiden’s voice was an exhausted rasp.
“We have learned that the Vlad is being aided by a witch of some sort. We are not sure what she has intended, but it has become fairly clear that dominance over the whole of Europia is the first place she is intending to start.”
“I heard that she killed one thousand children to prove her love to a dark prince,” one prince who had a history of working with Greendale reported.
Another said, “She killed her parents when she was but a tot.”
“Enough.” Jon snapped, “You know better than to engage in such speculation.”
“We know he has control of a dragon.” Aiden said, “Magic must have aided this.”
The knights had fallen silent.
“Sire, there is a witch not far from here from whom we might be able to secure some information. I believe that she would be our logical first step in finding Avondale and putting an end to this disaster.” Jon said eventually,
Aiden nodded, swaying slightly on his feet. “Agreed.” His gaze appeared to swim with tears. “I should have saved her,” he mumbled disconsolately. “I should – ”
“You did what you could, Aiden.” Jon said, though the words had a bitterness to them that he fought to keep at bay, “Avondale is stronger than we may yet know.”
“I pray that is true.” Aiden said, “I’ll never forgive myself if something happens to her.”
***
Avondale shivered, gathering the tatters of her dress; he was still here. Rubbing her back as if nothing untoward had occurred. She stared at the roaring fire from her position on the floor. How many times had she begged? How many times? How many times before she stopped appealing to the kindness she now knew had been a facade. She could push her hands in there, into that fire, and feel the burn as her flesh melted from her bones, and still she would feel the fabric of his shirt, The wet heat of his skin as she tried and failed to push him away. She could cleanse her body in the inferno of hell and still feel the filth he had left to run down her thigh, and the burden of her own naivety.
“You never wanted my help.” She said, “You planned this.”
He didn’t answer,
“You deserve more than what he offers, Avondale.” Drakho said and rubbed her side. She shuddered.
“I deserve more than this.” She said suddenly, a wave of rage pushing her beyond what she had thought she was capable of. She pushed away from him, legs, arms, and groin aching as she did so. He look at her with a queer smile,
“I’ll give you everything you deserve once the witch has delivered what she promised.” He said it so calmly that her heart seemed to stop. “And you’ll see that it was right, in the end. So will your people when I come to marry the poor widowed princess they thought they had lost.”
“No.” She croaked,
“Our children will be heirs to the greatest empire in the world,” he said, “and you will lead at my side.”
“No.” She shook her head and let the tears fall.
He was stretched out there, like some great bear, smug and sure that she would do as told. Lying through his teeth even as the wound she had gifted him dripped from his shoulder. He stood, naked as the day he was born, and lifted a familiar box from the mantle. The necklace. Avondale stood, shaking,
“You should stay prone.” He said, standing nonchalantly, pulling up his breeches. “The child will stick if you so.” That, somehow, was the last straw. Avondale gripped the fine knife in her bruised hand once more, staring at the broken nails as he drew closer. “We wouldn’t want-” She spun and thrust the knife toward his face, gasping when he pushed her hand away, sending the blade up his arm and under his pit. She tried to draw it back for another thrust, but spun when the back of his broad hand hit her jaw firmly. Drakho crouched over her,
“It will be so, Avondale,” he said, voice shaking, “and you will thank me one day.” He gripped her chin and dragged her ankles upwards. “Stay like this unless you wish me to fill you again.” He growled, eyes suddenly flashing, “If that is what you wish…”
“No.” She yelped, “I’ll stay… I promise…” He pouted and fastened the necklace around her neck,
“It suits you well.” He said. “Until the day you realize the gift I am giving you, you will wait with the others.” Avondale shivered, glaring at him, “When you tire of being cold and hungry… or if you wish some company,” he smiled, “tell the guards. They will bring you to me.”
“Had your fun, my love?” The pale woman was back, her black eyes flashing with something akin to possessive jealousy,
“Yes.” He said, “But I’m not done with her. Put her with the others, and called the Changed together.”
CHAPTER XVII
The ride across the Archibald border was rough, and the weather was miserable; the wind howled, lashing rain into Jon’s face, making the horses whinny and baulk at every crack of lightning, their ears pushed back as they were urged on.
“It must have been demons,” one Royal Guard shouted, “even the weather is against us.”
“Demons don’t take interest in the weather, boy,” Jon shouted, “I’m afraid this is just poor weather.” They forced the horses into the clammy confines of the forest. The noise intensified as the trees seemed to plat a rhythm of their own with the aid of the raindrops. But there was some protection, here, from the lashing rain and abrasive winds.
“The witch lives here?” Bran said with doubt in his voice, “I’ve never seen signs of dwellings.”
“She likes to be left alone.” Jon said, wiping water from his brow as they pushed into the ever thickening foliage.
“I do, Master Greendale, and so that is far enough.” The voice was hoarse, rough, and as old as time. It felt like dry parchment running across the skin. The Royal Guard nudged their horses forward, “I said, that is far enough.” The voice came from everywhere, and nowhere all at once. An old woman hobbled from the shadows, and Jon frowned,
“Eramys?” He breathed questioningly, his gaze stunned. The last time he had seen the witch was only a few short years ago, and she was a stunningly beautiful maiden.
The crone laughed. “It is I, Greendale.” She said, “What brings you to my home after such a long time?”
“How…how come you have aged so significantly?” He asked, despite his better judgement,
She smiled. “How do you know that this is not my true appearance?” She replied, and Jon smiled back; the witch hunters of Europia often complained of their quarries ability to change form and appearance.
“I am certain you have heard about the kingdoms in Europia being burned to ash,” he said, turning to the real business of his visit.
“Aye, I have.” She motioned to Jon and Aiden to follow, “the rest of you may wait in the barn.”
“What barn… oh.” Brans voice trailed off as Eramys led them into a grove in which stood three dilapidated buildings. She pointed to one, the barn, and led Jon to her home with Aiden in tow.
“You know about the witch that helps the Vlad,” Aiden said almost as soon as they had stepped in to her home. Eramys frowned,
“Know about her? Yes, know her? No.” She said, “She is not from these parts, I asked the others and they know little of her. Only that she is no witch.” She sat in a large, comfortable chair and stretched out her legs. In the corner a Goshawk ruffled its feathers. “Some say she is from the Norther Wastelands, one of the people who brave its peaks. Others that she is from the southern lands where the sun never sets. In truth it may be that she is both.” Eramys said, “From what little I know it seems her magic is bartered, not natural.”
“Meaning what?” Jon said,
“She bought it from some other power,” E
ramys said, “with a promise or commodity. Her service, her soul, her body. It would depend,” she sighed, “upon the source.”
“This is good, then?” Aiden said, “If the magic is not hers then it can be taken?”
“Only by the source.” Eramys said, “Or by a vessel of exceptional strength, and there is not the time for the second. She must be killed.”
“Will that rid us of the dragon?” Jon frowned,
“Perhaps.” She said, “But you must get the Vlad from her, either way. He is a vessel, I fear, for something terrible. Or the means by which she can gain one.”
“So this quest of his? The regicide, the kidnapping of the princesses?” Aiden asked, and Jon snapped his head to stare at the side of his head,
“Others have been taken?” He asked, but no one answered.
“It could be a way to keep him busy and distracted while she maneuvers him.” Eramys nodded,
“What must we do, Eramys?” Jon said eventually.
The crone stood swiftly, and moved with great agility around the room, gathering various liquids, glasses and even herbs from almost every vial. Glasses glinted with different colored liquids from virtually every corner, and while there seemed to be some statuary that looked otherworldly, it was truly a homely, inviting room. Aiden leaned towards Jon.
“This room would put some of my finest alchemists to shame.” He said. They watched as she lit a flame and placed a large marble bowl over top of it. Almost humming to herself, she breathed what had to have been an incantation in a language that neither recognized. When she opened her eyes, she seemed to be smiling at them. Gesturing, she indicated that each of them should dip their swords into the pot. Aiden hesitated.
“She will do us no harm,” Jon told the young prince gently, and Aiden nodded, though his eyes were still guarded.
The two men gingerly dipped their swords into the bowl, feeling warm as Eramys continued to speak in the strange language. It was clear that she meant them no harm; Jon recognized the warmth as the security he used to feel as a boy when his mother would tell him he was truly safe. Her hands were warm on their wrists, and when the two removed their swords from the bowl, Jon was stunned to see that the blade was dry. He glanced up, not surprised when he saw an amused smile playing at Eramys’ lips.
“It is the nature of the blessing,” she said, humor bubbling under the words. “I have blessed you with a force that the forces of evil can neither understand nor destroy. This will empower, but it cannot ensure your victory. This is all I can offer you.”
“It is more than I could have hoped for, old friend.” Jon said and bowed to her. When he looked up they were outside with the men, and the rain was pouring on them.
“She’s gone?” Bran asked, and Jon nodded,
“She has her reasons.” He replied, and turned to the Guards, “Time to go men, we have all we’re going to get.”
***
Avondale curled into a ball when they threw her into a dark, cold room, gasping at the pain it sent coursing through her battered body.
“Bastards!” A voice came from behind her, and the guards rushed to lock the door. A tall, red-haired woman slammed her feet against the bars,
“Crazy bitch,” one of them shouted through the bars,
“Aye, fuck you and your mother.” She screamed, and Avondale winced; who was she? She crouched by her and gathered Avondale to her, “You alright girl?” She whispered, rubbing her shoulders,
“Yes.” Avondale said, “I… I will be.”
“Good on you, come on, get up.” The woman said and lifted her to her feet,
“Princess Sonja?” Avondale gasped when she looked her in the face; the eldest princess of Aledale was a lion, sure enough, but she had always been the picture of decorum and grace. Avondale had never believed the rumors that she was wild, and yet here they were.
“Just Sonja, considering the circumstances, yes?” Sonja said, and Avondale nodded. They were all here, she realized as she looked around, the princess of Aledale, Sonja and her two sisters, Brookshire, Ellania and her sister Sera, and of course herself as well as five or six girls she had never met.
“Everglade, they’re from.” Sonja said. Clearly she was in charge here. Avondale nodded and slumped into the pile of hay they had made themselves. She crossed her legs and winced, Sonja looked at her,
“They touched you?” She asked quietly, and Avondale shook her head,
“Him. The Vlad.” She croaked, and Sonja nodded,
“There’s no shame in it.” She said, “We’ve all had it. The men got given free reign until they hurt Ciri.” She pointed to a very young girl, Avondale baulked. “We understand. It wasn’t your fault.”
“It was.” Avondale whimpered, “I believed him, he said he wanted my help… that it could all stop, and I believed him, and then…” she closed her eyes and remembered the shame and the agony. “He kept telling me I was beautiful, like I wasn’t screaming and crying. He just… like it was normal.” She looked at Sonja, “After, he was the same. I almost thought I had imagined it.”
Sonja wrapped a surprisingly muscled arm around her,
“It was not your fault.” She said, “It was his. He planned it. He did it. You had no say, and you fought well.” She lifted Avondale’s hand, looking at the bruised, bloodied skin on her fingers and knuckles, “There is honor in that.” She said, and Avondale’s tears came flooding forward. Sonja was not her mother, she knew, nor was she Fiona, but for a moment as she was buried in the soft expanse of her chest Sonja was the replacement she sorely needed.
The other girls huddled around her, gripping her hands, her shoulders, her knees, and with their kindness they started to wash away his taint. She awoke in the night, shivering, and tried to smile, but it felt hollow.
He hadn’t just been on her skin. He was inside, now, and Avondale shook with the fear that there was no person in the world who could wash that away.
CHAPTER XVIII
Under a crescent moon, the castle of Bledd stood as a lone, seemingly impervious, sentry to the mountainous kingdom that sprawled for miles in any direction. The castle itself stood in sweeping majesty on a crystalline cliff that loomed like an angry guard above the river mouth. The rippling outline of the castle seemed to fill the river’s glass surface and shimmer into the neighboring ocean, daring all who tried to even near the castle to test its might. But there were those who dared; the fleet bobbing on the waters attested to this fact.
On the largest warship of the flotilla of five making their way through the still water – the Gidown – a sixteen-year-old boy stood staring up at what was to be his mission and swallowed hard. His swords hung heavily on his back, within easy reach, but a terrible burden for one who’d never seen battle. Until last month he had enjoyed what was a fairly ordinary lifestyle on his parents’ farm, working from sunup til sundown, tending the land he loved more than his own life. He’d tried to keep his father’s dreams for him from intruding further into his life than they needed to be. His father, Sarar, had longed for Metan to join the military, as he did at the same age, and generations of men in his family had also done. Metan held no desires for battle; he dreamed of a simple life, one where he could find a woman, marry, and have generations of children to bear his name. He was repulsed by the thought of battle, yet it seemed as though he was instantly standing on the prow of the largest warship of his majesty’s fleet, the oaken boards creaking under his booted feet as they navigated the gently rocking waters, and waiting for the signal to attack the kingdom of Bledd
.
He was not even certain anymore why his people had been sworn enemies of Bledd for so long; indeed, he realized as he frowned, his father had regaled him with the stories of glorious battles but could never quite explain to him why the battles had even occurred. Yet, the battles would spark between his people and that of Vlad, and while the kingdom of Bledd was believed to be mighty and tyrannical, Metan wasn’t so sure. He found it funny that he also was uncertain w
hy he didn’t fully believe any of the stories that he’d grown up with. After all, he had never known anyone from this kingdom, and all he had been told were the tales from the men in his family, who relished re-enacting these time-worn stories.
Metan rubbed his still-smooth chin, wincing at how childlike his features seemed to him. He was the leanest of the family, and while his features were rapidly changing from boy to man, his body still had yet to produce the beards that men so prided themselves on. His dark hair tumbled over his shoulders, framing an angular face that seemed to belong more to the nomads than to his own people. Indeed, his own mother was a conquest from a native tribe who eventually came to love his father, though Metan often wondered why. His father seemed ashamed that this was how he and his mother came to be together, though they scarcely breathed a word of how their union came to be now. While Metan continued to wonder how he had come to be on board a battle ship, he stared over at the men who were leading the contingent to stop the Vlad. Prince Aiden and Master Greendale were standing near the prow of the ship, deep in discussion, and all Metan wanted to do was have some sort of reassurance that everything would be all right, that this war would finally end, and that they could all return home. He imagined that the two were in deep discussion about strategy and trying to determine the best potential way to beat back the powerful Vlad had become.
***
Aiden stared at his hands, framed as they were against the black waters that surrounded the boat. The gentle swaying was doing nothing to soothe his queasy anxiety, in fact it had made it worse for the entirety of the two day trip. Master Greendale approached him; the man had been characteristically reserved, but his eyes were ever shifting, and the bags under them were becoming more visible with every passing hour.