by Lori Devoti
The room was silent—no sizzle, no zap. And the box was still sitting on its table, the lid closed.
His gaze focused and his stride determined, he walked forward. Again nothing.
It was all so simple…so easy. Too easy. Raf paused with his hands over the box. If the stone killed him, he’d be of no use to Marina, but without it, he would fail her.
He grabbed the box. It was smooth and cold, like what it was, a wooden box that had been sitting in a chilly, damp tower for centuries. There was no shock, no slice of pain, no ground opening him and swallowing him whole.
Again, too simple.
There had to be more. Raf knew it, but he tucked the box under his arm and strode to the door. Once through, he shimmered to the bottom of the stairs and paused by the wall where Marina had disappeared. There was still no sign of her.
He hesitated. He didn’t want to leave. Questions began to build in his head…Where had she gone? Would she come back?
At first the questions seemed normal, made sense, but as he stood there they grew, became strange…questions he knew weren’t from his brain. How do you kill a draugr? Would Lord Alfred’s wife cheat on him? Names, places, things Raf had never heard of—but suddenly needed more information on, had questions on…. Questions that burned inside his brain.
He pressed the heel of his hand to his head and tried to stop the pounding.
More questions, just as intense, just as nonsensical. He glanced at the box….
With a curse, he placed it on the floor and stepped back.
The latest stream of insanity broke off midthought.
The stone. It was doing something to him—even holding it through the box. The questions, were they ones asked of it through the years, or ones that had gone unanswered?
More questions. He shook his head, afraid for a moment the stone was still tinkering with his brain—but no, these ideas were his own.
Outside there was a crash and a new puff of black smoke. The ground shook. Raf pressed his hand against the wall to keep from falling.
The drawbridge was down.
With one last glance at the door that was no more, he picked up the box, dashed into the bailey and shimmered back to Geir’s ballroom.
The royal was about to find out how determined a hellhound could be.
“Princess?” The guard took a step forward, his face eager and concerned at the same time.
Marina glanced around the all white room one last time, looking for an exit she had missed, before answering. “Who are you working with? Elf lords, royals, subversives?” She’d lost track of who wanted her for what, who might think her sitting on the throne would be in their best interest.
Surprise creased his face. “The throne, I’m working for the throne and for Alfheim. I’m the Paladin. The elf lords refused to let the throne do its job—to choose Alfheim’s leader. Then when it wouldn’t recognize them, they tried to destroy it. But as long as Alfheim exists, the throne exists. There is no magic, technology or combination of the two that can undo it. It is Alfheim.”
Marina stared at the guard, unsure if he believed what he said. She’d never heard such tales or of the position of Paladin. Although she realized now the elf was familiar, was someone she’d seen in her childhood, she couldn’t believe him. The throne was tradition in Alfheim, a strong tradition with the citizens, but as far as she knew that was all.
“The throne knows what is best for Alfheim, and the elf lords weren’t.” The guard…Paladin…scowled. “They thought they could take the seat, but no one sits on the throne without its approval. When the throne refused each and every one of them, and they were unable to destroy it, I hid it away, and they pretended possession of it was enough. But owning the throne doesn’t give you its power. Alfheim knew, and unrest grew.”
He raised his hand; an image appeared on the wall behind him. It showed the bailey overrun by elves. Elf lords dressed in their austere gray jogged for buildings as common workers spilled across the drawbridge, turned over picnic tables and knocked down statues.
“See the cost? Their actions, their refusal to let the throne choose led to this.” He tilted his head to the side, studied her. “So, now you know why the elf lords courted you. You were their only hope. The stone had already said the throne would accept you. At first that was reason to keep you and your family away from it, but once you acted as if you would work with them—become one of them—they saw a new option. You would sit on the throne, appeasing it, and they would continue ruling as they saw fit.”
Marina wandered to the left, away from him, surveying the room, trying to figure out where she was and if there was any escape. “And would that have worked? Could the throne be duped like that?”
He frowned. “The throne can’t see the future. It chooses based on what is in the best interest of Alfheim at the time.”
She raised a brow. “So, it wouldn’t have worked?”
He shook his head, seemed annoyed by her questions. “If the throne had chosen you it would have been what was best for Alfheim, and the stone foresaw you on the throne.”
She slid her eyes to the side. “Me?” Another believer in the legend.
He huffed. “The stone showed you on the throne. I was there. I saw it.”
This stopped her. “The seer stone?” The stone Raf needed… “You saw it? What did you see? Were you alone?”
He let out a breath, spoke with obviously planned patience. “Your mother was there.”
She blinked. She’d brushed the legend of her destiny aside for so long, but now…she was beginning to believe the strange elf.
“The stone is never wrong.” He paused, glanced at the wall they’d entered through—where she’d last seen Raf. “There was more…”
Marina hesitated. What else he saw didn’t matter, because she wasn’t staying in Alfheim, she was leaving with Raf.
Without any encouragement, he kept talking. “The hellhound, he was there. He betrays you—tries to kill you.”
“Raf?” She didn’t believe him.
He nodded. “He’s working for the elf lords, and has been all along. At first they wanted you to occupy the throne for them, but now they want you dead. The hellhound is supposed to get you out of Alfheim, kill you somewhere else—where no one here will know of it.”
Marina shook her head. “How could the stone have known all that so long ago?”
The Paladin hesitated. “The stone saw a hellhound betraying you, the rest I learned from working here, spying.”
Marina pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose. Raf had betrayed her before, but he wouldn’t again, not now. She wouldn’t believe it.
“There was more, the stone said you would bring about a great change, be the most important ruler in Alfheim history.”
“Pretty vague,” Marina said.
He tilted his head in consideration. “Maybe, but the answer seems obvious now. You are to save Alfheim from this.” He pointed back to the scene playing on the wall behind him.
Marina looked; she didn’t want to show interest, but couldn’t stop herself. “Who are they?”
“They call themselves subversives, but they are just a symptom of the throne being denied. As is this…” He waved his hand again and the scene changed, this time to the street outside the castle. Royals, dozens of them. All dressed in brightly colored silk and carrying some weapon. At their lead, sitting in the back of their uncle’s convertible, was Ky. She murmured to Tahl who sat beside her. He stood and yelled something. The scene panned to a catapult. Balls of flame shot from it and flew toward the castle.
Marina pulled in a breath. “What is she doing?”
“Burning the drawbridge. Once it is charred through, they’ll throw hooks and make their way across the ropes.”
“For what?” Marina turned and stared at the boxed throne. “This?”
The Paladin’s shoulders pulled back. “Yes, this. What could be more important than this?”
Freedom, love? Marina shook
her head. “I’m not interested.”
The elf turned red. “Not interested? You have to be interested. If you don’t take the throne—you leave Alfheim to this.” The scene behind him flashed from one ugly scene to another: fire, fights and destruction. It appeared every being in Alfheim was engaged in some kind of battle.
Marina swallowed. “None of that has anything to do with me. None of that was by my choice.”
He stepped forward. “It wasn’t. But it is now. You can stop it. You can take the throne and everything will settle down. Alfheim will return to what it was.” He touched the box with two fingers; the sides fell away—collapsed just like the box that held the cobra, and to Marina, what sat inside was just as scary and dangerous.
The throne—a simple seat of silver, no cushion, no jewels, just metal and magic.
“It only seats one,” Marina said.
“You are only one.” The Paladin clasped his hands together, watched her as if she might spring one way or another.
“When my parents sat on it, it was big enough for both of them.”
He beamed as if she’d just solved a puzzle and he was ready to award her a gold star. “The throne recognized both of them.” He turned to stare at the silver seat. “But you are alone. I told you the hellhound tries to betray you. If you don’t believe me, ask the stone. You are destined for the throne. It will work for you.”
Alone. Marina didn’t want to be alone. She wanted to be with Raf. “Raf wouldn’t betray me,” she stated. “Not again. If the stone said he will, it’s wrong.”
The wall behind her creaked; the floor shook.
The Paladin’s face paled and he threw himself toward the throne.
As he scrambled on the floor, tried to reconstruct the box that had protected the throne, Marina threw out her hands and tried to find her balance. The floor beneath her feet moved…slid as if being pushed. She fell onto her knees.
The Paladin, his face panicked, reached out to her, grabbed for her hand—to pull her toward the throne, Marina realized. She reached for him, too, unsure what else to do. What good would picking freedom be if she were dead? But Raf…if she let the Paladin drag her to that throne, what would happen to him…them? He hated Alfheim. He would never stay here, and Alfheim would never accept him.
She jerked her hand to her chest and rolled onto her back.
There was a rumble…of stone against stone. The white ceiling started to fade…to change. Speckles of brown shone through…wood beams. The floor vibrated; her head hit the ground. The ceiling changed again, seemed to be…falling.
Then nothing…darkness.
Raf materialized next to the curtain. He found the switch and flipped it. The box’s questions were pounding through his head—so many, so important—he staggered under the weight of them.
Behind him the chandelier groaned as it moved. He turned to watch it approach. It seemed to inch forward. As it clicked to a stop, he set the box down next to his foot.
His gaze on the box, he flung his arm to the side. His fingers looped through the net’s open weave. He glanced at it then, planning to warn Geir before freeing him, but the net was empty.
Raf shoved his hand up into his hair. He glanced at the box. Without Geir, he couldn’t open it, couldn’t discover how to get Marina out from behind the disappearing door.
He jerked the net off the chandelier. A segment of it had been cleanly sliced through. Damn the elf. He’d hidden a blade somehow—and not any blade. Only magic cut magic.
Raf tossed the net to the ground. No benefit in berating himself. Now he had to choose whether to track the royal or return to the castle.
An explosion sounded from outside; plaster fell from the ceiling, landed in a gigantic crash onto the ballroom floor below.
Raf picked up the box.
If Geir was here, he wouldn’t be long.
This part of the mansion was about to fall.
Chapter 19
M arina couldn’t breathe. She coughed. There was a weight on her chest. She lifted her arms, or tried to—they seemed to be pinned down. Panicked, she opened her eyes. Dirt and grit fell into them, causing tears to flow down her cheeks. She couldn’t reach to wipe either away. She just lay there, her eyes burning, her chest feeling tight and constricted.
“Did you find it?” A female voice—one she knew.
“We saw the Paladin leave. He wouldn’t leave it unguarded.” Another familiar voice, this one male.
Marina blinked. Struggled to put names to the voices, to remember where she was, what had happened. Logic said to call out and ask for aid, but instinct told her to hold her tongue.
“Where else could it be? He couldn’t carry it out in his pocket.” The female’s tone changed to a pout.
Ky. Her sister—looking for the throne.
“What about my sister? Geir said she and the hellhound were coming here. Any sign of her?”
“In this mess? She could be six inches away and we wouldn’t see her.”
“Look. If she is here we can’t just leave her lying under the rubble.”
Marina’s heart leapt. Ky had rethought her plan. Marina opened her mouth to call out.
“We will need her body or the citizens won’t accept me as princess—even if I do have the throne. Which I don’t.” Ky kicked something.
Marina’s jaws snapped closed. Something knocked against her side. The stones covering her shifted—still leaving her arms pinned, but she could breathe more easily. Then a face, the royal, Anton’s, appeared in her line of view. He pursed his lips.
“Ky, why don’t you wait outside? I’ll let you know if I find anything.”
Marina stiffened, wondered what the royal was plotting, but held her tongue. Her sister had made her plan very clear—and it wasn’t one Marina wished to further.
Her sister grumbled, but Marina could hear her trudging from the room. Finally, Anton bent down over Marina again.
“Not a good place to find yourself, is it?” he asked.
Marina stared back. What was there to say?
“What about your witchy powers? Are they of no use to you with your hands trapped at your sides?” He tilted his head back and forth as if assessing her. “Your sister wants you dead, you know.” He pulled a blade from his sleeve.
Marina pressed her lips together, let disdain pour from her eyes.
Anton laughed. “See, that is why your uncle insisted you sit on the throne. Your sister, lovely girl, though, she is, lacks a certain…spirit.” He flicked the blade toward Marina’s face, knocked a tiny piece of debris from her cheek. “Have you seen it, by the way? Shiny and silver? Holds the key to ruling Alfheim?”
She kept her mouth closed.
He laughed, then shook his head. “I really don’t know what to do. The stone saw you on the throne. Despite your sister’s cold hard belief that with you dead she will smoothly move into your position, I don’t believe the throne or the stone will be that easily confused.” He tapped the flat side of his blade against her cheek. “You could make things simple. Agree to take the throne and restore everything the elf lords stole from the royals. It really isn’t that much to ask. It was all ours before your parents died.” He rolled his eyes to the side, and sighed. “They really mucked up our lives.” He pulled his hand back. Indecision shone from his eyes. Marina could see him weighing his options—kill her and hope the throne accepted Ky or save her and hope he or the other royals could convince her to see things their way.
The old Marina would have told him what he wanted to hear—promised her loyalty, then turned the knife once she was on the throne…if she intended to take the throne, which she didn’t. But the new Marina? Somehow she couldn’t force herself to form the words, to even pretend she might sympathize with his self-centered cause.
From outside Ky screamed, “The hellhound! Don’t let him inside.”
Raf materialized in the bailey facing the castle’s entrance. The drawbridge was down and the grassy area was filled with royals. The
y had formed a circle in the center and were walking outward, their gazes downcast.
They were searching for something. Raf’s mind instantly went to the stone, which he had hidden before coming here. He didn’t know what would await him at the castle and he couldn’t be sidetracked by the stone’s constant pounding of questions.
After a quick assessment of the royals, he turned to enter the keep. What he saw stopped him cold. It had collapsed, or parts of it had.
He forgot the stone, the royals, everything except Marina and broke into a run. Halfway to the keep, he heard Ky scream.
He didn’t slow his pace, shifted as he ran, shimmering as he did so his clothes fell to the ground below him.
In dog form he moved faster, was stronger, and he was more intimidating to the elves, who had probably never seen a hellhound in his canine form. Five elves dropped from the keep’s roof. Swords in their hands, they blocked his entrance.
He cursed and kept moving, was determined to bowl them down, risk their swords. From the corner of his eye, he saw a flash—something flying toward him. He cut to the side, away from whatever had been launched his direction.
Air stirred his fur as the object fell to the ground, missing him by inches. He spun. A net, like the one he’d wrapped around Geir, glimmered from atop the grass. One hundred feet away a group of elves scurried around a portable trebuchet, loading another net into its basket.
He could easily get past the line of elves into the keep, but the fight would give other elves time to aim and shoot—to hit him with the net. Then he would be trapped, unable to help Marina.
He faced the elves and roared out his anger. A few paled and stepped back, but the ones near the keep held their position.
“Is my sister here, then?” Ky shoved her way past a crowd of guards. She glanced at the elves standing outside the keep. “Don’t let him in.” She motioned and Tahl appeared next to her. She whispered in his ear. The male nodded and ran toward one of the other buildings.