by J M Sanford
“Did the builders of the Flying Cities never think to put in guard rails?” asked Amelia crossly. Her lovely tower at home had rails and guards in all the necessary places: the stairs, the roof garden, the landing stage, so that she'd played safely as a child and never had to worry what might happen if she missed her footing.
“We're deeper here than I ever went in Iletia,” said Bessie, and Amelia guessed that this must be what Meg had meant when she talked about the machinery that held the Flying Cities upright. “Nobody would come down these tunnels unless they needed to fix something. Our dad would've given us such a beating if he'd caught any of us on these levels…” The girl shrugged off her strange bout of nostalgia, and peered over the edge of the rectangular pit, where a frayed rope ladder led down the sheer stone wall. “All right, turn around,” she said, “we need to be aiming higher if we're to find a way out.”
They journeyed onward, from time to time hearing the grinding and clanking of the arcane clockwork that ran the Flying City. Bessie always steered them carefully around it, while Amelia’s lock-charming spell proved its usefulness time and time again. The oil in their lantern had burned out, so that they were relying on light spells, taking turns to summon little white lights like tiny full moons that bobbed along above them. They climbed higher whenever they chanced upon any staircase, until at last they came to a storeroom half-filled with merchants' crates, like the cellar beneath the shop where Amelia had hidden from Bessie not so long ago. Amelia tried to read the words stencilled on the crates, but they were faded almost to nothing and in no language she'd ever seen. Most had been broken open, their contents long since stolen.
Bessie was busy seeking stairs to a door or trapdoor that might lead them into the shop above, and then out into the open streets. “I was afraid of that,” she muttered. She turned to Amelia, pointing out the tumble of broken bricks and stones that blocked the stairway in the corner of the storeroom. “When you got us out of that cell so quickly, I knew it couldn’t be that simple. I don’t suppose you know a spell that might help here?”
Cobwebs and dirt covered the crude blockage. It wasn’t the first stairway or arch they’d discovered blocked off in such a way, and Amelia guessed that if the cursed prince had ordered Ilgrevnia's basements to be converted into one enormous dungeon, he'd done so long ago. “If only Meg were here…” Meg would have shifted the tons of rubble in no time at all, the same as she'd shifted all that earth to bury the giant snail and keep it safe; the same as she'd summoned miles and miles of fog to hide their skyship from the Black Queen's sight. Amelia didn't dare even try, for fear that she'd exhaust herself halfway through the heavy task.
And again, Bessie said wearily “All right then, turn around. We'll find another way.”
Amelia's feet were sore, her stomach growling, and she was beginning to wish she'd never bothered to escape the cell. If Archalthus appeared right in front of her, she thought she’d hand over the crown at once and beg to be his Queen… “Will you tell me more about the City you come from?” she asked Bessie, hoping to take her mind off her feet, her stomach and her nerves.
“What's to tell?” Bessie muttered, frowning. “You've been to Flying Cities before, haven't you? They're all very much alike, as far as I know.”
“Do you have fairy tales in the Flying Cities?” Amelia thought perhaps there might be enough magic in day-to-day life above the clouds that the Citizens had no need of fairy tales.
“Of course we have fairy tales. I'm a little old for such things, though.”
“No, no! Stories are good for journeying – they pass the time. Please tell me one.”
Bessie sighed. “All right then.” And reluctantly she began. “Once upon a time, two kingdoms were at war: a nation of men pitted against one of trolls. I expect you've heard this one before.”
“Not at all! Please, go on.”
Trolls are huge and fearsome beasts, but men are quicker and more numerous, and most mages refused to take a side. All this made for a drudgerous war that went on for years, with little chance for glory on either side.
Two soldiers, Padrig and Paol, wandered lost in a strange land. For days they saw no one – man nor beast – until they began to fear the war was lost and all were dead. As they trudged through the mire of troll swamps, they sang songs of their homeland to keep their spirits up, but they despaired of ever seeing the land they loved again. Their homesickness grew until they began to lose all fear of death at the hands of the enemy. Every morning and every night, Padrig whistled the national anthem, clear and piercing, unafraid of being discovered.
One morning, Padrig and Paol woke to find a terrible fog had descended upon the land. Padrig – who had been the bolder of the two friends ever since they'd been little boys, thought they should continue their journey, while Paol thought they should wait. What difference would a day make, when they were so far from home? The two friends argued, and Padrig began to whistle the national anthem as he did every morning just as they set off. At the first verse, he stood and shouldered his pack. At the second, he consulted his compass and turned to the north, striking off and fully expecting his friend to follow, willingly or not. At the third verse, his whistling faded to nothing. By the time Paol had got up and run after where Padrig had disappeared into the fog, they'd become separated, unable even to see their own hands in front of their faces. They shouted to each other in the unearthly thick fog, but at each shout, their voices seemed to grow more distant. Soon, the two friends had lost each other. Paol ventured on through the fog, hoping at each step to stumble against his old friend's heels, but he was alone, stumbling only against leafless black trees.
Bessie, despite her initial reticence, began to warm to the telling of a tale that was clearly familiar to her. At first she’d kept her voice quiet for the sake of stealth, but as she progressed, her whispered words began to take on the character of a tale told in the dead of a winter’s night beside a guttering fire.
Paol thought he must give up all hope of ever finding his friend again, even when a cold thin rain began to fall and the fog began to clear. Then, as the sky darkened, he swore he heard the sound of Padrig whistling the national anthem. Though the sweet notes were distant at first and ghostly in the fading mist, Paol thought the sound grew louder as he hurried through the bare trees and the bracken. At the first verse, he stopped and stood breathless, straining to hear where the music came from. At the second verse he headed into the woods, reciting the words in his head. At the third verse he hurried faster, knowing time was short… and there the anthem concluded, and the whistling stopped, with Padrig still nowhere to be seen. Paol, marching on in the direction of the last note lingering amongst the raindrops, soon tripped over what turned out to be his friend's shield. Before him, shadowy and huge in the grey haze, stood a terrible figure, horned and shaggy, with blazing eyes and breath that streamed from its wide nostrils like steam from a kettle. Paol recognised it at once for a trollbeast, one of the mounts of the troll soldiers, one that crushed infantrymen beneath its enormous feet, and gored them with its dreadful horns. And round about the terrible figure of the trollbeast lay the contents of Padrig's pack, the shreds of his uniform.
Not thinking for a moment of his own safety, Paol drew his sword, intent to strike dead the monster that had devoured his friend, or else die in the attempt. He lunged at the trollbeast, which roared like a lion and swatted him aside as easily as a cat swatting at a mouse. Paol picked himself up and tried again, but again the trollbeast threw him aside. Eventually, breathless and defeated, Paol stood back, his sword still held at the ready although he trembled with exhaustion. The trollbeast watched him, yet it did not charge. It could have – no, should have killed him easily, and put an end to his misery.
“What trickery is this?” shouted Paol: at the trollbeast, at the forest, at the whole world. The trollbeast flinched, and just for an instant Paol thought his adversary must be just as sick of the war as he was. But the trollbeast's mouth was meant for
tearing flesh from the bone, not for speaking words, so it said nothing, only staring at Paol, its eyes burning like two coals in a fire. Paol turned away, tired of the fight, tired of the war, tired of this desolate land far from his home and all he loved. Should it turn out that the creature had been toying with him only to pounce and strike him dead as he walked away, Paol no longer cared. He threw down his sword in the dead leaves, sat down with his back to a tree trunk, and there he slept.
At dawn, the sweet tune of the national anthem woke him, and for a moment Paol's heart was bright and free, before he remembered the strange protracted battle of the night before. At the first verse, he got to his feet, seeking the source of the music. At the second verse, he followed the sound to the clearing where Padrig's belongings lay scattered. At the third verse, Paol saw the trollbeast, whistling as the tears rolled down its hideous face, and he recognised at last his friend – transformed by some evil spell into a servant of the enemy.
“Are all trollbeasts our own brothers, turned against us by evil magic?” Paol asked, although Padrig could neither know nor answer. “Come now,” said Paol. “Let us carry on homeward.”
And so the two companions continued on their journey, supporting and encouraging one another just as they had before, until it was as if no evil magic had ever befallen Padrig, for his mind was still Padrig's mind, stubborn as a mule, and his heart was still Padrig's heart, full of affection for his friend who he loved as a brother. And when he whistled the national anthem at dawn and at dusk, his voice was Padrig's voice, if only for three verses at a time. Along the way, the two companions saw the bodies and the bones of slain trolls; saw the villages of men rebuilding and recovering themselves from the horrors of war. Though it gave Paol strength to see men at work in fields and forges, and know in his heart that the war was won, he kept Padrig out of sight of strangers, after once a gang of farmhands chased them with pitchforks. Of course, Padrig feared that the people of their own home village would react in the same way, but Paol reassured him that they must recognise their son, their brother, their workmate, no matter how the war had changed him. They were two weary heroes returning home, and they would be greeted with the warm and gentle welcome they must surely deserve.
How wrong Paol was. On their return, Padrig's erstwhile friends and family cried out in horror to see the trollbeast. They slung rocks and rubbish at the son who they'd sent away to war with tears and kisses. They took up their pitchforks, their scythes and hammers, advancing as a mass that they might vanquish the massive trollbeast through their united numbers. But Paol stood between the mob and his brother in arms, drew his sword against his own people, and refused to be moved. “Run then, brother,” he said to Padrig. But Padrig would not run; would not leave the village of his birth in such shame. He would rather face death. And with this in mind, he began to whistle the national anthem.
At first, the villagers were horrified. What a disgusting trick! What a cruel prank! For shame, to teach the holy anthem of their beloved country to this disgusting trollbeast! And still Paol stood with his sword in his hand, insisting over and over that this beast was their dear friend Padrig. Until, at last, Padrig's father agreed that nobody – least of all a trollbeast! – could whistle quite as tunefully as Padrig could, and one by one the villagers could do nothing but accept the truth of Paol's story. Even changed by the enemy spell, he was still Padrig, and what could they do but take him back into their lives and their hearts?
Amelia applauded lightly, the noise nevertheless echoing through the stone corridors. “Thank you! I didn't know that one.” She hoped she could remember enough to add it to her own repertoire.
“You're welcome,” said Bessie, with a shy smile at the enthusiastic reception of her tale. “Look, wishes aside, if you knew the prince was a dragon, why did you come here? I don't mean to be rude, but you're not the bravest of women, and even once you had the crown, well… I wouldn't have blamed you if you'd run and hidden again.”
Amelia shook her head. “I can't do that forever, can I? What if I have daughters of my own some day?” She hoped she would one day have children of her own, and of course, if she took Prince Archalthus up on his offer, her children would be princes and princesses, their lives free from worry and want. But then again, if she married Archalthus, her children might also be little dragons. Meg had told her she didn't have to marry the White King; had spoken as if there must be some alternative, but she'd never hinted as to exactly what that alternative might be. And, if Prince Archalthus was her White King, the man she was destined to marry, then at least he was very handsome, and well-mannered, and a real live prince… It was everything she'd ever dreamed of from the earliest storybooks she'd read, way back in Springhaven. Perhaps the matter of him being a dragon could still be solved somehow. But Amelia knew she couldn't afford to let on to Bessie that she was considering the match, not even for a moment.
“You know, I've read the rulebook,” said Bessie, slyly. “And there are no specific rules against killing the King. I mean, maybe they thought it was too obvious to mention, but it's not outright forbidden.”
Amelia was speechless for a moment. “But that's awful! How could you think of such a thing?”
“You stabbed him with a spear!”
Amelia scowled: would no one allow her to forget that incident? “That was different.” She'd only acted out of sheer terror that the dragon would eat her, and if she'd known he was a prince then surely she wouldn't have acted so rashly. “Even if we did want to do that, how would we manage it?”
“Well, I'm training to be an assassin,” said Bessie.
“How horrid!”
“It's not horrid. Some of the most sophisticated ladies you'll ever meet have had the training for it. And I'll only assassinate people who deserve it – I'm an Antwin girl, not a mercenary. I think I ought to marry the prince, and then kill him once I'm crowned. He certainly deserves it.”
Amelia fell silent, thinking Bessie rather naïve if she intended to only assassinate those targets who 'deserved it', whatever she thought that meant. But Amelia didn't know what an Antwin girl was, and didn't care to find out.
She'd fought the dragon in self-defence once before, and she might have to do it again yet. Meg had warned her not to use magic against dragons, who were creatures of magic, bound by a different set of rules than natural beings. When wild magic clashed with witchery, who knew what might happen. Amelia had been lucky the amaranthine cage hadn't done anything odd to Stupid, although… how would she know if it had?
As they tramped onward through the tunnels, Bessie sighed in exasperation. “Oh, this is hopeless; it must be sunrise by now.”
“How can you tell?”
Bessie held up a long brown feather that had come loose from her wings. “My spell's wearing off.” As if on cue, several more feathers fell at her feet. “Master Greyfell – I mean my Paladin – made me promise to be back at least an hour before first light.” Not wanting to leave a trail, Amelia helped Bessie pick up the feathers, but they soon fizzled and dissolved away into nothing.
Amelia didn't know how many hours they'd been walking their feet half-bloody, but she'd realised some time ago that she hadn't been so clever in escaping their cell as she'd originally thought. Nor had their jailer been so careless in placing them in a cell with such a poor lock. Each time Bessie's step had buoyed up with confidence and she'd gone striding off down a corridor that should, perhaps, have led to a way out, they'd only found bricked up archways. Unless either one of them could think of some spell that would convince solid rock to open up, they had nowhere to go. Then Bessie's roamings, which Amelia had long ago ceased to believe had any logic to them, led them to a metal hatch in the wall, written all around with large glowing runes and sigils.
“Here,” said Bessie. “This is the only option left. The Keystone shaft should lead all the way to the surface.”
Amelia baulked at the idea of passing through that hatch. 'DANGER OF WILD MAGIC BEYOND THIS LINE', read
one of the less arcane warnings. And so many other warnings besides, so much like the ones she'd ignored on the door of the Storm Chaser's soulchamber. Amelia had failed to pay proper attention to the warnings then, and the memory of how her well-intentioned meddling with the skyship's soul had almost plunged them all into the ocean was vivid and humiliating. She had to get back to Meg and tell her all she'd learned about Prince Archalthus and the girl he allegedly held prisoner with the intention of marrying her, but surely it wasn't worth such a risk. Amelia had the crown still, and while she had that, she could surely take a little more time to get safely back to her companions.
Meanwhile, Bessie was obviously off on her own deranged quest to slay the dragon, and had wrenched open the heavy metal hatch, peering into the pitch darkness of a tunnel not even big enough to stand up in.
“I don't think we should go in there,” said Amelia. There must be some other way out of the labyrinth. Under one of the shops and houses of Ilgrevnia, surely some cellar must still have a door or hatch through which they could escape.
Bessie ignored her. She stood frozen stiff. “Did you hear that?” she hissed. Over the drip of dank water and the distant rhythmic grumble and thud of enormous machinery, the familiar heartbeat of the Flying City, they heard the clicking of large claws on stone.