by Ann Hunter
“Well?” Balthazaar’s voice was like distant thunder.
Colin pitched forth against the desk. “Where is Glory? Where have they taken her?”
Balthazaar stroked his beard. “Is that what this is about?”
“Please, Your Grace, please tell me where she’s gone.” Tears burned the corners of Colin’s eyes. “I beg of you. I don’t know what I would do without her.”
“You must figure that out now, Colin, Son of Craig. For Glory is now bethrothed to one of her own station. I urge you to forsake this folly and do the same. Find a girl who will love you.”
Colin sprang to his feet. “Glory loves me!”
Balthazaar looked up at him placidly. “She thinks she does.”
Colin ran his hands through his hair. “I know it. I will find her with or without your help.”
Balthazaar smiled slowly. “You may try.”
Colin folded his arms and wondered if that was the king’s blessing or a challenge.
Balthazaar leaned forward. “You will fail.”
Colin’s expression darkened.
Balthazaar rose slowly and with some effort. “You can search all of the Twelve Kingdoms for her, but should you pursue her, you may not return.”
“Who will hunt your meat for you? If I have no home or well being, you will go hungry.”
Balthazaar’s gaze sent a shiver down Colin’s spine. It was the first time he realized he was replaceable in his own world.
Balthazaar picked up the candle holder and crossed to the door of his quarters. He paused in the doorway and looked over his shoulder. “I have no doubt you are clever enough to find her, but when you do, it will be too late.”
The door shut behind the king.
“Too late for what?” Colin choked. “Too late for what?”
***
Glory snapped awake, sitting straight up. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the morning light. She caught her breath. Last night was no dream. She was a prisoner at Blackthorn Keep. Glory buried her face in her hands. This is a nightmare! That wasn’t the worst part, however. The worst part was that there would be no waking up from it. This was her reality now, and it couldn’t be worse. Glory peered through her fingers across the room and out the window. She could sit here all day and mope, or she could try and figure out where this place was. I don’t think things can get any worse, so perhaps I can improve them.
A good look around the castle and countryside from the towers, and she may be able to secret away a letter of rescue. Glory pulled some suitable clothes from the wardrobe and dressed. There was no time to waste. The sooner she got a good idea of her surroundings, the sooner she could get away from this place. She opened the door of her room and started down the hall.
The keep was decorated handsomely. There were none of the frilly mirrors, furniture, or flowers of Winterholme, but Glory did appreciate the portraits that hung carefully, no doubt completed by master artisans long ago. Full knight armor guarded the halls, polished high and as gleaming as any mirror. Claymores hung from the walls. Glory disliked any heads or antlers of animals hanging about. If she was certain of anything, it was that men ruled this keep. The last time it had seen a feminine touch had been a very long time ago.
Glory came to a spiraling staircase and wondered where it went. She lifted up her skirt a little and started her ascent. She looked out a dusty window on her way up, but couldn’t get a decent view. The stairs continued onward and upward until she came to a landing and a door. She tried to open it, but it was stuck. She frowned, then tried to budge it with a few solid pushes of her gossamer shoulder. It gave way, opening on to a wall walk that led to another bastion.
The sun shone on miles of rolling, generous hills, tall with wispy new spring grass, still wet from last night’s storm. Patches of purple wildflowers dotted the land. To her distant right was the sea, crashing against sweeping cliffs. Not far from the keep was a forest, still bony and bare from winter’s cruel toll, even though spring was present. The keep was built from exotic black ashlar. She smiled with relief when she saw a garden below. Maybe waiting for a rescue wouldn’t be so intolerable with a garden to pass the time in. She surveyed the land one last time, memorizing the way it rolled and swayed, then hurried down to the gardens.
The onyx roses of Blackthorn Keep were a sight to behold. They grew wild and free, untouched by a gardener except to weed. It was a savage, beautiful look that struck a chord in Glory. She had never seen anything like it; black flowers crawling up green ivy on black walls. By contrast, the gardens of Winterholme were impeccably kept. Every bud, leaf, and branch was carefully trimmed and told where to grow and exactly how to exist. But here, the flora seemed to grow strong and make its own way in the world.
Glory’s fingers grazed the satiny obsidian petals as she walked along, unafraid of any thorns that might decide to prey upon her. She felt a need to be braver here in this wild place, a desire to stand a little firmer on her own little two feet.
Gradually, she became aware of the feeling that she was not only being watched, but followed. She was sure of it when she heard a dry twig snap and leaves crackle.
“I know you are there, Gryphon,” she called.
She could hear a soft puffing through the bushes. Glory peeked through the leaves to see amber eyes staring back at her. She smirked. “Could not keep your eyes from me, Gryphon?”
His beak clacked in the empty air. “I am sorry I called you ugly, Princess. His Highness shall note that you are not so bad in the daylight.”
Glory’s hands went to the hollow of her waist. “That doesn’t seem like much of an apology.” She walked along, listening to the gryphon pad beside her from the other side of the bushes.
“Forgive me,” said the gryphon, “it is not often I speak with females. My manners are rusty.”
“Not good enough, Gryphon. Even an idiot should know how to treat royalty.”
“Labhair ar do shon féin7,” muttered the gryphon.
“What was that?”
“I have apologized, Princess. Will you not have it?”
Glory crossed her arms. “I will not.”
The gryphon hissed and clacked his beak. Glory simpered. She could picture his feathers ruffling. The floral scent in the air barely masked the gryphon’s earthy smell of lion musk and a recent kill. They continued walking along.
“Tell me, Gryphon, of this wild place I am captive to. Tell me of the arch I passed last night and the black coral below. What are these places?”
“The landmarks you speak of are Sigil’s Gate and Seahorse Reed. Why do you ask?”
“Tonight I will send a letter to my Colin, telling him where I am. He will find me and take me away from this miserable place.”
The gryphon stopped. “Colin? I was not informed of a Colin. Who is this whelp you are so sure will come for you?”
“He is Father’s royal falconer.”
The gryphon ground his beak. He sounded bemused. “You are very stupid.”
“What!”
“You have told me, the guardian of this keep, that you are trying to escape and how you plan to do so. You are very stupid, Dúr8. I suppose someone below your station, and equally stupid to dare coming here, would deserve you.”
“Colin does deserve me, you monster,” Glory shot back.
“Tell me about this Colin fellow, then.”
“He is kinder than you.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. He is gentle and noble. He says my eyes are like agates.”
“Like rocks?” The gryphon pushed his head through the bush, his large fox-like ears close to his head. Glory glared him in the eye. She was put off by his stench, but utterly unafraid. “Ah, yes.” The gryphon seemed to smile. “I see.”
“He says my voice is like the skylark’s song.”
“Skylarks is it?” The gryphon’s ears perked. “I do like skylarks… they are delicious!”
Glory clenched her fists; heat rose to her face. “M
y hair is like the golden fleece captured by Jason from Colchis.”
“So he says your hair is like the dead hide of a castrated sheep. How quaint.”
Glory bit her lip and stomped her feet. “Even the Sun God worships me!”
The gryphon’s eyes flashed. His head cocked to the side, his mouth gaping a little. Glory could see his tongue rise and fall with his breath. For a moment she thought she had won.
“Forgive me, Princess, but I wish to retract the apology.”
Glory blinked.
“You are still ugly.”
“I am not ugly!” Glory screamed.
“Your vanity is unbecoming,” the gryphon stated calmly. “You are too vain for Eoghan.” He disappeared through the bushes. “Send your letter. Let this Colin come, though I do not understand why he ever would want to be burdened with the likes of you.”
“I am not vain, beast.”
“What makes you so very sure, Princess?”
“Eoghan must be mad, as well as deformed, to hold such an opinion. To say that the most beautiful princess in all of the kingdoms is not good enough for some psychopathic, deformed recluse is the epitome of vanity.”
The gryphon was quiet for a long time. “Do not confuse vanity with standards.”
Before Glory could form a retort, the gryphon took to the skies. He flew straight into the sun where Glory could see him no more. She drilled her fists at the heavens and kicked the dirt, hollering at the top of her lungs. She had half a mind to find this recluse Prince and set the record straight.
Glory was on a mission to find Prince Eoghan. None of the servants would tell her where he was, or what his room even looked like. She trudged through every corridor, stuck her head through every door, seeking out the prince. The longer it took, the angrier she became. She clenched her fists and ground her teeth. How dare her beauty be questioned! How dare this prince allow his… dog to insult her. Glory wound her way deeper into the castle, down a darkened staircase, until the place was strong with the smell of dampness. She shivered and paused. Memories of a similar place and a wild donestre replayed themselves. She took a deep breath and pressed on. A drip, drip, drip echoed in the distance. I am not afraid, Glory assured herself. I am not afraid.
At the end of the hall was a very heavy wooden door. A slot had been carved low into it, as if for food. Glory retrieved a torch and placed it into a sconce close to the door so she could see better. She knelt down and peered through the opening. “I am Princess Glory. I seek Eoghan, prince of this keep.”
In the corner of the room was a hay pile and a bucket. Something scurried through the shadows. “Hello?” Glory whispered, “Is anyone in there?” She felt a rhythmic rush of air beating against her shoulder. An angry growl rumbled the walls. Glory swallowed and slowly turned her head. The gryphon stood over her.
“What are you doing here?”
“I wish to see the prince.”
The gryphon placed his claw on her shoulder and pushed her down. “You shouldn’t have come.”
Glory’s heartbeat burst into a sprint. “I’m sorry,” she whimpered.
The gryphon lowered his beak to her neck, crouching over her. “Get out.”
He lifted his claw, and Glory scuttled from under him as fast as she could, backing away on her hands and heels like a crab. The gryphon turned, holding his head high and panting. “Do not ever return to this door.”
Glory spun onto her feet and bolted to her room.
Dear Colin, I’ve been kidnapped.
Glory ground the black words into the soft parchment, nearly tearing it.
I am being held against my will in a black castle near Seahorse Reed, by a vicious monster. Blackthorn Keep sits high on the moors of the East, near Sigil’s Gate. Come at once, or I will be utterly destroyed by the beast.
--Glory
Glory rolled the note and bound it with a string she had found. Now came the trick of sending it out. Who would take care of it without allowing it to be intercepted?
A knock fell on the door. Glory traipsed over and opened it.
“Dinner is served, Your Grace,” said a servant, “will you come?”
Glory did not want to endure the sight of the gryphon again today, if such an animal was allowed at the dinner table, and declined. “I am not hungry.” It was a lie.
“I will send your apologies.”
“That will not be necessary.” Glory had no regrets to send. Instead, she placed the letter to Colin in the servant’s hands. “Could you see to it that this letter discreetly finds its way to the page-boy?”
The servant accepted with a bow. “I will handle the matter with the utmost of care, My Lady.”
After her nightly ritual, Glory slipped into bed. Outside, she heard the same tune as the evening before. Her chest tightened with yearning again, but she stifled it all with a growl and pulled her pillow over her head. She no longer heard the song, but the steady drumming of her heart to the beat she would not answer. Eventually her eyes grew heavy and sleep found her.
Houses burned, children cried for their mothers, bodies piled in the street. A man in a black cloak threw a torch into a church and swung his bloody sword at innocent souls. The orange, smoky haze turned black, billowing into the air, taking the shape of an ominous black castle. A woman inside screamed in agony, gripping her wide belly.
“A curse on this house, Aowyn, and all you bear in it,” said a voice.
“No!” pled the woman, “Spare my child. Take me instead.”
“A cursed life will he lead, Aowyn, until the day he dies, but we will take you for the sins of his father.”
Glory bolted upright, gripping her stomach. It growled loudly. Blast! She cursed. And what an awful dream. She tried to settle back into bed, assuring herself it was only a dream. She tossed restlessly. Why on Earth would she dream something like that?
She lay on her side, facing the mirror. She closed her eyes and invited sleep to return, but it would not come willingly. A soft light filtered through her eyelids. She opened her eyes. At first she thought the moonlight reflected off of the mirror, but when she squinted at it she saw something else. She looked over her shoulder. A translucent figure hovered near the door. Glory’s breath caught. A woman with wavy hair and serene features smiled at her. She wore a flowing gown in Glory’s favorite shade of blue. The light around the woman was bright white at the center and forest green at the edges. Glory pushed back the covers.
“Who are you?”
The woman only continued smiling. Her nose wrinkled. Glory saw faint freckles across the bridge of the woman’s nose.
“What do you want?” Glory’s voice trembled.
The woman turned toward the closed bedroom door and passed ethereally through the heavy wood.
Glory stepped on to the cold floor. She winced, but padded on, quietly opening her bedroom door. Torchlight swayed against the darkened hall. She caught a glimpse of the specter turning a corner further down the hall. Glory padded after her.
“Where are you going?” Glory hissed.
Just when Glory thought she might catch up to the ghost, it passed through a wall. A nearby door was cracked open. Glory peeked through.
“She is beautiful, Xander, but for every inch beautiful, she is three times as vain.”
“Show patience. She has only been here a night.”
The gryphon was pacing, his tail switching back and forth.
“Are you sure Eoghan could not have another, more humble bride?”
Xander sighed. “He that dares not grasp the thorns should never crave the rose.”
The gryphon hissed. Obviously he did not like that answer very much.
“We can not lose her, my pet. She is too valuable to our kingdom.”
“What good will she do us? She is a lot of trouble to me.”
“If we have her, our kingdom will be whole. The people will have no choice but to unite under our reign. No one will argue my right to the throne with a gryphon by my side,” Xand
er explained.
“What if that is not what I want?”
Glory covered her mouth to prevent her gasp from escaping. She backed away slowly, hoping Xander and the gryphon had not seen her. Xander as High King? It was unfathomable! Glory bit her knuckles. Did Prince Eoghan know of this plot? She dashed back to her room, shut the door, and braced herself against it. Am I only a pawn in a game? Surely once her father found out that he had been tricked, he would send an entire army to aid Colin in the rescue.
She pictured Colin marching at the head of the force, bearing King Balthazaar’s coat of arms. He would battle the gryphon, slay Xander, and rescue her. The princess looked out her window to the countryside below. She imagined how it would all play out. Colin, shining in knight’s full armor, would place her in the saddle before him and ride home a hero. Balthazaar would be so elated to have Glory back that he would forget the silly betrothal he had made to Eoghan, and he himself would ordain the marriage of Colin and Glory. With Colin the victor, nothing would stand in the way of their union. Balthazaar would deign entire kingdoms to Colin and knight him for his heroics.
Glory shivered. That dirty, old gryphon didn’t stand a chance. He would be slain, and Blackthorn Keep would be overtaken.
Glory closed the curtains and went back to bed. She dreamed of Colin, her knight in shining armor. He would come. She would be free. They would ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after.
Glory closed her eyes and pulled the blankets over her shoulders.
Oh, Colin, hurry!
She didn’t think he could ever come swiftly enough.
CHAPTER FIVE
Too Late for Curses
Glory made a point of visiting the gardens each morning before the sunlight reached the center. She welcomed its familiar warmth, but gradually started missing this morning ritual. One day she overslept, another week she felt unwell, and soon the ritual seemed unimportant. The idea that the sun worshipped her was ridiculous. Glory even laughed a little. Once she stopped this silly routine, she couldn’t help but feel punished because dead things started showing up on her windowsill. The first few mornings that she neglected her routine, it was a mouse, then a sparrow. Glory was disgusted and disturbed. The dead creatures were getting progressively bigger with each day she missed. Finally she had had enough. She threw open the window, effectively shoving off that morning’s dead March hare, and screamed.