Chapter 21
The Black Phantom
SETTING HER HANDHELD LOOM ON her lap, Valoretta studied her nurse carefully. “Sara, I know you don’t want to hear it, but where’s Arnacin? I haven’t fou—” Catching herself before she admitted that she was seeking the islander, the princess amended, “—seen him anywhere.”
Simply lifting her eyes without moving her head, which gave her a very sharp appearance, her nurse stated, “I would suggest, My Lady, that you forget all your time wasted in that person’s presence.”
“Sara!” the princess exclaimed. “Just answer my question and forget how much you dislike him.”
“He has left for good, chi…” Sara faltered, stumbling on the beginnings of a few more words before giving up.
“His ship is still sitting in the harbor,” Valoretta stated firmly. She received no reply and in frustration she shot to her feet. “Sara, you have never lied to me. Answer me at once. Do you know where Arnacin is?”
“My Lady,” her nurse whispered, her voice trembling uncharacteristically. “It will be better if you don’t ask.”
Feeling her heart rate increase, the princess dropped to her knees before her nurse. “Sara, please…”
Not meeting her gaze, Sara answered, “The rumor spreading about the castle is that he was killed.”
“What?” Valoretta heard her own voice sound as no more than a puff of air. “Who attacked him?”
“I don’t know the details, dear one,” Sara moaned, her own voice tortured. Her hands trembled on her embroidery hoop. “I heard the king ordered him sealed within the keep’s northeast hearth room, to suffocate or die of thirst there. I swear, I know no more.” It was as though someone else’s legs trembled and failed as Valoretta thumped onto her bottom. Her mind would not function, and no sound would escape her throat. The king had ordered Arnacin’s death? It was impossible.
“No!” she finally screeched, shooting to her feet and racing to the door. She did not hear Sara’s call, did not notice the saddened stares she received as she flew to the indicated tower, her skirts pulled high to allow her flight. She would not, could not, believe it unless she saw for herself.
She arrived to see the tower door standing not as it normally did, but spackled over with a thick clay, its handle laying on the floor by the toe of a suit of armor, and the handle’s hole filled in with more mortar.
Movement beside her caused her to jump. Their mason—whom she had seen several times bent over drawings with her islander—stood there brokenly studying his clayed fingers.
“How could you?” she screamed, barely restraining herself from launching at his throat.
“Our king gave orders, My Lady,” he choked. “I’m only a servant…”
His voice trailed feebly off, and the princess shrieked, “The King’s orders! Were I queen, I’d see you hanged for base treachery!”
Sadly, the mason replied, “Were you queen, My Lady, this would not likely have happened.” So saying, he stumped away, his shoulders even more stooped than normal.
Valoretta flung herself against the new wall. It did not budge. As a sharp pain lanced through her shoulder, she slid down into a ball on the floor, trembling from tears for the first time in her life—angry, betrayed and lost. It was not until gentle hands wrapped themselves about her shoulders that she allowed herself to be led away, barely hearing Sara’s uncharacteristically soft reassurances.
Valoretta did not sleep that night. Even the cool, strong wind blowing through her window was unable to soothe her. Her eyes and nose burned, still damp and uncommonly swollen.
Finally running her hand down her cheeks, she slid out of bed, pulling her dark robe over her undergarments. Without even intending to, she slipped through the quiet castle, straight to the sealed hearth room. Outside light flickered across her path although the moon had left for the night, and she watched its window patterns play over the corridors’ floors and walls without interest.
As she came to the door, she felt her tears renew. In a flash of temper, she ripped the spearhead from the suit of armor standing nearby and attacked the clay, determined only to exact her vengeance on it. That she proceeded to do until, losing that first wave of strength and energy, she dropped to the floor in broken weariness.
She lay there curled into a ball, trembling with quiet sobs until the distant realization hit her that her knee was pressing against some kind of hole beneath the door. Gasping, she shoved her fingers into it, feeling empty space behind. It was highly unlikely that the mason had overlooked it, which could only mean…
“Arnacin,” she croaked softly, but no response came. Biting her lip in frustration, she ordered, “Arnacin, keep digging. The more you help me, the faster you can escape.” Her reward was the sound of soft scraping from the other side and, smiling in pure relief, she set to work on her side in earnest.
Only the early morning glow of sunrise coming through the window halted the princess’ feverish work and, as it turned the clay red in front of her nose, she looked up with a start. “Arnacin,” she breathed, “I’ll be back tonight.” Pulling herself to her feet, she hastily replaced the rather dull spearhead, dusted her skirt, pushed all the powdered clay under the door, and dashed back to her room, ignoring her throbbing shoulders.
Throughout that day, the princess strove hard to hide her burning muscles and weariness. Yet, with vengeful satisfaction, she noticed at times, looking out her window as she embroidered, her father pacing the terrace, his shoulders uncharacteristically stooped.
To her delight, the king appeared entirely beaten. She highly doubted it was the state of the war that had cast him into such weakness. In justification of her spite, she told herself he had betrayed them all—yet, to her shame, Arnacin’s quips about royalty’s incapacity to love haunted her.
By night, as soon as she knew the keep was still, she trod again the path to the sealed tower, finding a fresh spearhead and returning to work on the edges of the door, despite her crying shoulders. The only sound she made was the soft reassurance as she set to work, “It’s me. Continue.”
In the occasional silences as she briefly rested her arms, she heard a soft scraping noise of metal on stone, and over it Arnacin’s rasp of hoarse panting—a dry, choking sound. In desperation, she increased the strength of her struggle against their common enemies—the door and time.
Again, she halted only when the sun’s rays illuminated the door, forcing her to stop. Worrying more than the day before, she forced herself to leave, hearing as she did his weak coughs in a vain attempt to clear his throat.
Those coughs haunted her day. Restless, she paced the corridors, subconsciously biting her fingers. Without any water at all, Arnacin would likely die before he could escape, yet she knew a cup or waterskin would never fit beneath the door.
Sara passed her at one point, but with a sorrowful nod she left Valoretta to pace. Watching her nurse’s disappearing back, the princess wondered if the basin of water could be filled early if she asked. But what excuse could she create to have the basin immediately refreshed after cleaning her feet, hands and neck before slipping into bed. Sara only ever refilled it for the next evening, and emptied it instantly after use.
“There is not one man I would deem capable of such a mission.” The voice caused Valoretta to stop. A corridor branched off to her left and down it walked the king with one of his generals beside him. It was the general who was speaking in concern and defeat. “Those I would think able, I wouldn’t trust not to sell us out.”
“Who are those?” Miro asked. Neither one had noticed the princess standing there as of yet, and she listened intently.
“There are our adopted natives. Although they do not know all the secrets of their people, their hunting skills are amazing. Even if they were spotted, they are natives after all. However…”
He dropped off and the king finished, “They are natives after all, and such a mission might remind them of their blood.”
“My thoughts e
xactly. Once they were alerted to our plan, we couldn’t try again. To be honest, Your Majesty, there was only one man I would think capable of such a task whom Mira could have trusted…”
“Then we shall simply need to think of another way,” Miro said, looking away and noticing his daughter for the first time. With a nod, they passed and Valoretta felt her breath leave in a pained sigh.
Once again, she waited until the castle slept before slinking out of her room. As she shut her door behind her, she felt something warm and soft brush her leg. Her breath stilled. One of Rosa’s lap dogs was there, but by night, they were usually all nestled into the queen’s bed beside their mistress.
She did not bend to touch it, but a soft rustle approaching told her why the dog was about that night. The queen was out herself.
Turning to Rosa, Valoretta wished she had grabbed a shawl before leaving her room. Without one, she thought it obvious that she was in a hurry to leave.
Carrying a candle, Rosa smiled softly at the princess. Instead of asking questions, however, she pulled a kerchief out from her Vemose robe and held it out. “For true love,” she whispered, as Valoretta cautiously accepted it.
Cool dampness dropped over her palm and her gaze jerked back to the queen. Rosa only curtsied and turned away.
Even wonder could not keep Valoretta there a second longer, and she turned down the stairs to the only doors exiting the royal accommodations. As the guards merely opened the doors for her to pass, it occurred to her that perhaps Miro was one of the only ones in the castle who did not know about the islander’s attempt to escape or her role in helping him.
Once at her self-assigned post, she shoved the wet cloth beneath the door. With that, she set to work, now whimpering slightly herself due to her painful shoulders. Despite their constant, burning complaint, she did not halt except to replace her tools when one became too dull. She now stood atop a chair, working above the door, where her companion could not likely reach. As dawn again spread its light over her work surface, she whispered, “Keep working, Arnacin. There’s not much left. You’ll be out by noon at the latest.”
Clearing away evidence of her treachery, she added, “Come out by noon, Arnacin. Don’t die before you can.”
With one last look, she hastily departed, feeling weariness steal over her like incoming fog. She had not rested, except for the few times she had drifted off over her loom, for the past three days.
After all the time in his intended tomb, Arnacin’s vision had adjusted well to the pitch darkness. It was with relative ease, therefore, that he attacked the hinges, sawing them off through the wood with the Tarmlin blade, which no one bothered to take from him.
As the last hinge came undone, the door thudded to the ground before crashing inward. Sunlight streamed through the gaping hole, seeming to burst through the islander’s skull. In that moment of overwhelming agony, made worse by dehydration, he distantly felt fingers seize his arm.
“Here,” a man’s voice sighed, piercing Arnacin’s head with more pain. Something was pressed against his mouth, yet the wonderful feel of water pouring down his throat ended any impulse to struggle. In some remote corner of his mind, it occurred to him what might be in that water, but he did not care.
When the flask was withdrawn, he dared to try opening his eyes again, only to quickly close them after a single glance at the streaming glow.
“Come on. You’ll readjust to the light on the way,” the disembodied voice stated. As firm as the grip was that pulled him to his feet, twisting one arm behind him, it also had a certain gentleness about it and Arnacin did not possess the strength or desire to resist its guidance.
Beyond his pain, he felt the sea wind coming through the windows they passed, bringing the smell of saltwater, grass and flowers with it. That and the water slowly took their effect, starting to revive him as he was led along, half-limping in weakness. Before it could take complete effect, however, he was pushed forward, colliding with hard stone. Thankfully, it was now dimmer. Looking up, he first saw Miro seated on his throne, arms folded in an attempt at his false idea of strength. Even so, unreadable emotions flickered in those eyes, controlled far too quickly to be deciphered.
Arnacin almost did not care what those thoughts were. Feeling a deep fury well up, he pushed himself to his feet, meeting the king’s gaze with pure defiance, a dare for all to see.
Movement behind the throne caught the islander’s attention. Standing next to the queen, Princess Valoretta seemed on the verge of speech, dark rings under her eyes and her posture one of pained tightness. Meeting her gaze, Arnacin twitched his head in warning. In reply, she glanced down, eliminating all concern from her face as she did, simply appearing mildly interested in the proceedings.
Satisfied that she would not reveal her part in the escape, Arnacin turned his attention back to the king, who was simply staring at him in silence. As the islander’s baleful gaze again met the king’s, Miro exhaled.
“I will not ask how you managed to escape,” the king said. “I know that your continued breath is only through power a god alone could possess, as I have thought on other occasions. Therefore, Arnacin of Enchantress Island, I will tell you that only through love will I not strike you down now.”
Arnacin felt his head lift in scorn at such a phrase, yet Miro did not ask for his thoughts. “No other man has ever, or will ever, defy me as you have and live to speak of it. However, in consideration of your volunteered, ever-present—”
Once again, some other emotion flickered in his gaze, and choking off, he finished shakily, “Arnacin, Son of Bozzic of Enchantress Island, you are hereby banished from Mira. Should you ever again set foot or anchor upon it, it shall be on pain of death. Let everyone take note.”
With a cool, unconcerned nod, the islander turned toward the door. Yet a different tone than he usually heard in that voice halted him with a tortured whisper. “Arnacin, what made you flout all rules so freely?”
With pride he had only ever associated with his sister, dark and kingly, Arnacin turned back. “I had remained silent and patient long enough for you to wake up. Darkness consumes you and I’ll have no part of it.”
With that, he swept out, ignoring Miro’s darkening features. Once out of sight of the great hall, however, he fled all the way to his ship, never to be seen by most Mirans again.
As soon as Arnacin had departed from the great hall, Miro barked, “You are all dismissed!” Most of the men standing there instantly bowed out, but as Rosa placed her hand on the king’s shoulder, he snapped, “All of you!”
Valoretta did not need another word. Curtsying, she left and—hoping she would not be spotted—charged up to the terrace. Out in the harbor, a small ship had unfurled its sail and was turning toward the great open waters. A lump felt lodged in her throat while she pushed air slowly around it. Once again, in the space of three days, she could not think beyond the stark pain of horror, regret and loss.
“Farewell,” she choked out, watching that ship’s sail disappearing rapidly from sight. “You will never realize how I loved you, or how…” She angrily halted her words as sobs rose in her throat. Drawing on her long political training, she calmed herself, sighing, “It is probably better this way, but wherever you go, Arnacin of Enchantress Island, whatever you do, I wish… and… and pray that protection will follow you.”
Sadly, she ran her fingers along the balustrade as the small streak of white disappeared over the horizon. Feeling a twinge of bitterness, she stated, “I’m sure your family will be happy to see your unfettered return.”
Yes, Valoretta, princess of Mira, would never be part of such perfect love, and it filled her with unendurable sorrow.
THANK YOU FOR READING BOOK 1 of The Black Phantom Chronicles, The Savage War. If you enjoyed this book, please leave a review on Amazon, Goodreads or your favorite review site. It helps me reach more people so they too can follow Arnacin's journey.
Read on for a sneak peek at
Book 2 of The Bl
ack Phantom Chronicles,
The Eternal Struggle
due out in Spring 2020.
Chapter 1 of The Eternal Struggle
The Price of Leadership
SILENCE… THE SILENCE OF IMPENDING DEATH filled the air. No light broke the thick blackness. Not even a chisel of starlight on a moonless night seeped into his tiny, entombed—could it even be thought?—coffin. Air gradually exhausted itself in the abysmal space, and Arnacin’s uncontrolled shivering, his gasping breaths, the very heat of his body, betrayed him. He sat crumpled against what used to be the entrance, sealed shut out of spite. Already, as he forced sleep away, the pain of airlessness allowed no more movement than the last futile twitch of his fingers in the place a doorway had once existed.
Crack! A flash of light brought the cabin back. Something in the back of his mind told Arnacin the storm bashing against all four walls was reality. His trembling body, however, insisted that the sound was wishful thinking, a last hope granted before he died in darkness.
For hours on end, it was impossible to discern either tomb or storm as reality. Yet, as the world in which the cabin existed stopped rolling on storm waves, Arnacin bolted for the door and yanked it open. He ran until he stood on the far side at the dipping prow in the settling waves. There, as the vision of his tomb dissolved back into memory, Arnacin shivered for another reason—weak relief.
So his life had been since his exile from Mira. Yet, until the storm, he had dreamed of finally going home. At least he had been traveling in a homeward direction due to the navigations of his heart, not his head. Home was not in actual dreams, for he rarely slept anymore; even when complete exhaustion washed over his thin frame, he could only doze beneath the stars, where the cold only permitted fitful rest.
Now, in the renewed sun after the passing of the storm, Arnacin looked up at his sail—the sail that would remain limp since the storm stole its brace. Without the wind against the sail, his ship could only drift with the current, and neither food nor water would last that agonizingly slow voyage.
The Savage War Page 39