by Bryan Davis
“Is called a witch or a sorcerer. I know that much.” Marcelle shifted to the front of the chair again. “So if you oppose him and aren’t able to resist his power, you die at his hand. And if you oppose him and are able to resist, you burn at the stake.”
Dunwoody pointed his spectacles at her. “That pretty much sums it up.”
“Then if he’s so power hungry, why isn’t he king already? Why has he been transferred here?”
“The king himself is able to resist his power, but Leo has not yet dared accuse him. The king’s guards are many and loyal. Instead, he plays the humble servant who wishes to rid the land of witchcraft. Orion, in his perplexing plan to hunt for witches in a new way, was foolish enough to call Leo here, or perhaps Leo requested the transfer. I am not privy to the deals made in secret places where scribes are not present to record the contractual protections and promises.”
“You mean threats and lies.”
“You are quite savvy for your age.” He set his spectacles on his lap and folded his hands over them as he gazed at her with a serious aspect. “As I was saying, when Leo assumes the governorship, he will have the means to use our own soldiers to enforce a charge of sorcery against the king.”
Marcelle nodded. “No wonder they’ve been bolstering the cavalry. Leo is getting ready.”
“I expect to see conscription next. Many young men will be forced into military service, and older men will be called out of retirement. All of this will be done with another pretext, though I don’t know what that might be.”
“I know of a pretext. Maybe I can work this out for my cause.”
Dunwoody’s eyebrows lifted. “Do you need to raise an army?”
“A big one, and I need to do it quickly.”
“May I ask the purpose?”
“Let’s just say that it involves a certain gateway.”
“The Underground Gateway?” Dunwoody put his glasses back on and stared at Marcelle. “By all means, tell me.”
Marcelle rubbed her arms. The icy chills had subsided recently, but they seemed to be returning. “How much do you know about the Underground Gateway?”
“My dear girl, I have been the head of research for the organization for ten years.”
She pointed at him. “You’re the editor of the newsletter?”
“One and the same.”
“Then you believe in the dragon planet.”
“I don’t merely believe. I know it exists.” He slid his spectacles down near the tip of his nose. “Do you believe?”
Marcelle studied his sincere, probing eyes. Spilling all she knew would be easy but potentially dangerous. “First tell me how you know.”
“Research.” He tapped the first page of the book. “I said the writer of this part of the journal was handicapped, but that was a bit misleading. His only handicap was that he was a dragon who had no opposable thumb, making the handling of one of our pens quite difficult.”
Marcelle stared at the book. “So do you think this journal came from Dracon?”
“Not at all. I think the dragon wrote it here.” Dunwoody touched the arm of his chair. “Of course I don’t mean in this spot. A dragon couldn’t squeeze down that stairwell, much less sit in this chair.”
“I knew what you meant.” Marcelle closed the book and touched the cover. Scratches marred the leather at every edge. “If this was a gift from Lady Moulraine, that means Prescott probably knew about the dragon planet all along.”
“No need to state the obvious. His persecution of those who believed in Dracon was enough to convince me that he knew. Those who attack the adherents of a harmless story are the best witnesses for the story’s veracity. My question is why would he hide the truth? What benefit did he gain?”
“Gas trading,” Marcelle said.
“Extane?”
“Right, but it would take too long to explain, and I’m not sure of the details.” She kept a finger on one of the cover’s deeper scratches. “Why would dragons have been here five hundred years ago? And where did they come from? Where are they now?”
“As I mentioned earlier, I have theories, along with some enigmatic evidence. I never included them in the newsletter, however, for various reasons, including a lack of context that explains what I have found.” He rose, leaving the book on the seat, and moved the lantern from the arm to the floor. Then, setting his hands on the back of the chair, he lifted his brow. “If you’ll help me with this, I will show you a hidden—”
The doorknob rattled. Spinning, Marcelle whipped out her sword.
Three firm knocks followed. “Dawson, are you in there?” The solid door muffled the masculine voice, but the tones and inflections were familiar all the same.
Marcelle glanced at Dunwoody, whispering, “That sounds like my father.”
“I believe you’re right.” Dunwoody cleared his throat and called across the room. “Yes, Issachar. What may I do for you?”
“The new Counselor is searching for my daughter, bearing an insane pretext that she is a sorceress of some kind. I was hoping you could shed some light on his past. He has already put a lot of pressure on me to reveal her whereabouts, though I have no idea where she is. She left on some fool mission to save Adrian Masters, and I haven’t heard from her since.”
“Interesting. What gives him the idea that you would know where she is?”
“He claims he saw a woman her age and size going into my room, and one other person said he thought he saw her in the residence area, but he wasn’t sure.” The knob rattled again. “Dawson, I am not accustomed to speaking to a door.”
“One moment, please. I have to move some things around.” Dunwoody leaned close to Marcelle and whispered. “For your father’s sake, it would be best that he not know where you are.”
“I agree.” She slid the sword back into its scabbard. “Is there a place to hide?”
“Where I was about to take you. It’s an escape tunnel.” He extended his hand. “But first, give me the key.”
She withdrew it from her pocket and laid it in his palm. “Now, if you would excuse the frailties of an old man, kindly pull the chair away from the wall. If it makes noise, all the better.”
As he held the lantern high, providing a yellowish halo, Marcelle shoved the chair, letting it scrape loudly across the floor. When she had created enough space between the chair and the wall, he scooped up the book, crouched in the gap, and set the lantern on the floor. “Come. Your father’s patience will likely wear thin.”
She lowered herself to her knees. The light shone on a design in the paneling, painted with vibrant colors. Starting at the floor and rising to about thigh level, it appeared to be a sun, though yellowish white, unlike Solaris’s more reddish hue. A red-haired girl stood at its center, her arms spread as if ready to make a sacred proclamation. Wearing a white dress and blue cloak, her green eyes stood out in sharp contrast to the surrounding colors.
Professor Dunwoody touched the girl’s mouth. A door popped open, its hinges hidden on the left. “Take the light with you, and feel free to explore. When your father leaves, come out, and I will explain.”
Leading with the lantern, she crawled into the low opening, the sword dragging at her side. As soon as her feet cleared the door, she pivoted on her knees and looked back.
Dunwoody pushed the book in with her. “If your father tarries here, at least you will have something to read.” After the panel closed, the sound of his hurrying feet filtered in. Seconds later, Father’s voice came through, agitated but controlled.
“I thought you would never open that door.”
“I apologize. Since I live here, I have to attend to personal matters from time to time.”
The door closed, and the click of the locking key followed.
“That’s all well and good, but I think the Counselor has someone following me, so standing out there was rather risky. I think I eluded him, but I cannot be sure.”
“Why does Leo think your daughter is involved with sorcer
y?”
“Some fool notion about the woman he saw. He said she was as pale as a corpse and was able to repel his spiritual probe, whatever that means.”
“Maelstrom is relentless,” Dunwoody said. “He will not soon turn from an obsession.”
“Maelstrom? During our meeting, a man called him that name and attacked him with a knife. Leo killed him without even touching him. It was an extraordinary display of power that seems to have everyone licking his boots.”
“Great power breeds fawning followers. It seems that only a few are wise enough to avoid the poison.”
“I just want to keep Marcelle safe. She’s my only child. Ever since her mother died, she’s been …”
A pause ensued, then Dunwoody’s voice returned. “Shall I fetch you a handkerchief?”
“No, no.” Father’s voice trembled. “Just give me a moment.”
“That’s fine. While you compose yourself, I will look for something that will provide more information about Maelstrom.”
Marcelle pulled in her bottom lip. Daddy was crying. If only she could burst out of this place and tell him she was all right! But that wouldn’t work. She wasn’t all right. Her ghostly appearance would raise a hundred questions she couldn’t answer. Just as Dunwoody said, it would be better to stay put and relieve her father’s fears when the crisis was over.
Turning with the lantern, she scanned the area. It looked like one of the dungeon tunnels, long and narrow with a ceiling high enough for her to stand up, yet no cell doors anywhere. About five paces away, a trunk sat near the wall to the right.
She rose and set the lantern on the floor next to the trunk, giving light to its surface, a combination of wood and metal with two leather belts wrapped over the top and under the bottom. She ran a finger along one of the belt buckles, a metallic clasp that appeared to have no means of release.
She pressed on the sides of the buckle and pulled. The clasp popped open, responding to the pressure. She did the same to the other buckle and slid the belts off the top. The lid opened easily, revealing four eggshell halves resting on a cushioned bottom, the remains of two eggs, each the size of a large melon if the sections were to be joined. The jagged edges gave evidence that something had broken free from within, maybe a large bird of some kind.
Flush against the trunk’s left inner wall, a keyhole was evident at the center just below a small knob. She pulled on the knob, bending a square door slightly, but it wouldn’t give way.
A framed plaque lay against the trunk’s back inner wall. She picked it up and read the message, written in gold ink by a careful hand.
The Abode of the Transported Humans
In the Year of Starlight - 2526
A Monument of Thankfulness
To Our Dragon Rescuers
Arxad and Magnar
Marcelle gasped. Arxad and Magnar! Dragon rescuers? What could this mean?
As she returned the plaque to its place, her knuckles bumped a small book that leaned against the right side of the trunk. She picked it up and let the ancient cover fall open over her palms. The first page read, “The Book of the Code—The Creator’s Love and Wisdom in Words.”
She closed the book and caressed its leather surface. Ever since Prescott banned the Code several years ago, only a few copies remained in the land. The Cathedral priest owned one, from which he preached his interpretations of its holy contents. Father said that the priest skipped the parts about freedom for the oppressed, that no man had the right to enslave another, and that those in authority were to be servants to those they watched over. The only other copy she knew about lay under glass at the palace museum, always turned to the page that commanded people to respect authority. A guard watched it day and night, lest anyone steal it and spread its supposedly dangerous contents.
Voices again emanated from the archives room. Marcelle returned the book to its place, closed the trunk, and stepped back to the access panel. Dunwoody’s voice came through, more muffled than ever.
“Here is a journal from a magistrate in Tarkton who retired here in Mesolantrum. When he died, it came into my possession. It will tell you much more about Maelstrom than I could recite from memory.”
“Thank you. I know this magistrate, a very levelheaded man. This should make for interesting reading.” A lock clicked again, and the door at the exit stairway squeaked. “If you see Marcelle, please warn her about Maelstrom, and tell her I am looking for her.”
“I will be sure to—”
A loud thud sounded, followed by the breaking of glass. “Take them both!” a man shouted. “The rest of you search this place. Turn it upside down if you have to. If Marcelle isn’t here, report to me at the high courtroom.”
As loud bumps and crashes pierced the wall, Marcelle slid out her sword. How many were out there? “The rest of you” likely meant at least three, and the ruckus sounded like a herd of cattle stampeding through the room. Could she battle past them and rescue her father? If she tried and lost, they would find the access panel, giving away the secrets that lay inside, including the book Lady Moulraine had sent. Even if she managed to escape, they would just chase her, leading to more trouble.
Her muscles tightening, she looked at the sword, eyeing her reflection in the blade. She really did look sick—an unearthed corpse who didn’t know she was dead. If only she could attack! Fighting had always been the quickest, easiest way to defeat the enemy. Brute force would rescue her father, wouldn’t it? Yet, Adrian would say to use brains, to employ stealth, to exercise patience, no matter how bad things looked.
Marcelle shivered hard. The frigid claws of cold had embraced her again, worse than ever. She looked over her shoulder at the dark passage. Professor Dunwoody had said this was an escape tunnel, so it had to lead to an exit somewhere. Maybe finding it was the best option. Getting to the courtroom by stealth would provide many advantages.
She sheathed her sword and picked up the book. “Okay, Adrian,” she whispered. “Let’s hope you’re right.”
With the lantern lighting her way, she strode into the tunnel, passing a barrel of water with a dipper attached to a long, thin chain. A basin with sponges, a scrub brush, and a bar of soap sat nearby along with five large footlockers marked “Rations.” A pile of woodchips overflowed from a smaller, unlabeled box. She picked up a chip and sniffed it. Manna bark.
After a dozen or so paces, the passage narrowed, and the ceiling lowered, forcing her to stoop. An acrid film formed on her tongue, a sure sign of extane gas. That meant the mining tunnels or a pipeline lay close.
The lantern’s wick sparked green and orange, another sign of extane. If the concentration increased, a flame could ignite an explosion. She set the lantern and the book on the floor and, after warming her hands near the flame, continued on. Maybe the glow would provide enough light, at least for a while.
After a few more steps, the tunnel ended at a pile of rocks, apparently the result of a collapse. Obviously no one had used this as an escape route for a long time.
She smacked her lips. The bitter film sharpened. If extane was able to pass through, this rubble couldn’t be too thick. She grabbed a head-sized stone at waist level and set it down on the floor. A hole the size of two fists appeared, and dank air breezed through. The lantern sparked wildly, but when the hole drew back the air, the flame settled.
Marcelle peeked through the hole. Since she blocked the lantern’s glow, darkness flooded her field of vision. The chamber on the other side seemed to breathe, sending air through the hole, then inhaling it again.
Sliding her arm into the opening, she stretched it through a narrow tunnel and felt for the end. Her fingers touched the lip of the hole into the other chamber. After withdrawing her arm, she pulled another stone away, widening the opening on her side. A large stone tumbled down from near the ceiling and struck her hand. The scrape raised a tiny cloud of dust that rose into a stream of air that flowed through the hole.
She squinted at the wound. No blood oozed from the slen
der cut, though particles of skin flaked away as dust. Smaller rocks cascaded down the side of the pile. The tunnel’s roof cracked, sending sand and pebbles drizzling to the floor. She glanced toward the archives room. Had the guards heard the noise? Maybe their own commotion kept them from hearing hers.
Backing away slowly and quietly, Marcelle studied the ceiling. Large cracks radiated from the collapse point. It wouldn’t take much to bring the whole thing down, and the noise would surely give her presence away.
She sat next to the lantern and book. Bumps and crashes still sounded from the archives chamber. Maybe waiting for them to go away was the only safe option.
She laid the book in her lap and opened it near the back where the handwriting was more legible. The careful strokes of a heavy pen told of living in a forest near a crystal spring, growing crops and cooking rabbits and fish over an open fire. A boy and girl, both seven years old, relied on their “big winged friend” who visited once in a while and provided supplies and instruction on survival. At times, they wrote as scribes, communicating their friend’s wisdom.
After several pages, the details of their lives became tedious. The sentences blurred, and the letters blended into indecipherable shapes, but when the word Starlighter appeared, Marcelle jerked the book closer to her eyes. Their friend told them to watch for signs of a Starlighter among their descendants—a child with red hair and green eyes. If such a child appeared, they were to send a message to him in the usual manner. Then, a full page described the powers of a Starlighter.
A female possesses the ability to absorb tales and tell them with great ease and liveliness, and the characters in the tales come to life in ghostly images. Because of her, tales of courage and sacrifice are reborn and strengthen those who hear. A male is able to absorb power and substance from another creature. Although he can do this while looking at his target and with only one victim at a time, this ability can make him a powerful warrior against evil as he uses his gift to destroy oppressors and rescue the innocent.