The Key & the Flame

by Claire M. Caterer

  “What happened? Is the door open?”

  “I don’t think so. The wand got too hot for me to hold.”

  Ben bent down and picked it up before Everett could stop him. “Feels like it’s been in the freezer to me.” He aimed it at the keyhole.

  “Ben, don’t!”

  But Ben shrugged. “It’s not doing anything. It’s just a stick.”

  Everett grabbed the wand back. It did feel cold. But it knew him, somehow. As he held it in his palm, the warmth spread through it. He pointed it at the keyhole again.

  “So you’re allowed to do it,” said Ben.

  The wand thrummed in Everett’s grasp. This time he wrapped the sleeve of his jacket around the wood. But even through the denim he could feel the heat rising, faster than before, until a flame exploded from the wand’s tip. Everett struggled to control the wand, but it wrenched itself from his hand. The flame grew into a lick of fire the size of Ben’s torso, and like a giant Catherine wheel, it whipped in a circle, scorching the tower walls. It struck Dart’s lantern and exploded it, throwing shards of glass everywhere. Everett grabbed Ben and crouched on the floor, watching as the ring of fire ascended. It paused like a bird at the window, then flew into the night with a muffled roar.

  The room was dark and still. Slowly, Everett disentangled himself from Ben. “Whoa, that was—”

  A boom erupted from the opposite side of the room as the door flew open. A knight strode into the tower, holding a lantern of his own. He was dark and thickset, with a long scar down one cheek. In his other hand he held a sword. “What devilry be this?” he thundered. “Have ye been lighting fires? Do you mean to burn down the castle?”

  “It was an accident,” Ben said in a small voice.

  The knight turned his blade with a flick of his wrist and rested it against Ben’s neck. “You shall address me as Sir Grandor or my lord, or not again, I’ll warrant.”

  Everett still had an arm around Ben’s shoulders and could feel him trembling. “Sorry. My lord.”

  Grandor shined his lantern around the small room, taking in the broken glass and the boys’ singed clothes. “I saw fire,” he whispered. “It came through the keyhole. This lantern—how came ye by it?” He directed the sword to Everett.

  “It was left here. My lord.”

  “By whom?”

  Everett hesitated. He knew Dart would get in trouble. “One of the pages. I don’t know who.”

  “ ’Tis but a candle,” murmured Grandor.

  “It fell and broke, my lord,” Everett went on. “We didn’t mean to start any fire.”

  “But what be this?” Grandor cleared some of the glass away with the tip of his sword and held his own lantern above it. The wand glittered in the refuse. The knight fell silent, so entranced that if Everett had thought of it, he and Ben might have bolted through the open door behind him. But as soon as the idea occurred to him, the tip of the sword rose swiftly to his face. “You are an Adept as well,” whispered the knight.

  “I . . . No, we just found it.”

  Grandor turned and pushed the heavy door shut. He whirled round, pointing his sword at Everett. “Go on then, Adept. Wield your wand.”

  Everett released Ben, who grabbed at his sleeve. “Don’t, Everett. He’ll kill you.”

  Grandor held his gaze. His chain mail glittered in the lantern light and the sword showed a near perfect reflection of the moon through the window. “Take up your wand.”

  “You can have it,” Everett said. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

  But the knight began to circle him now. “A cursed race, the Adepts,” he said softly. “Traitors to the king and to all who serve him.”

  “But I promise, I’m not one. I’m just a stranger.”

  “A stranger indeed. From the Realm of the Wee Folk, perhaps? Traitors all. Placing themselves above the king’s rule. He has decreed it. Decreed that you be hunted, like the fox and the hare.”

  Grandor’s boots crunched the broken glass as he sidestepped around them, his dark eyes fixed on Everett’s.

  Next to him, close enough that he could feel every move, Ben stirred. His hand was creeping forward, inching toward the wand.

  “Once the king hears that I have dispatched an Adept, I shall be lauded,” Grandor went on. “His Highness is partial to the drama of daybreak. But I prefer the cover of night.”

  Ben’s fingers stretched over the broken glass.

  “Would you really kill us?” Everett asked. “Defenseless prisoners?”

  “Do you dare say the word coward, young master?”

  “No, no—it’s just that, well, fair fight and all—”

  “Tell me.” Grandor slowed in his circling, but he didn’t stop. Beside him, Ben stretched, his muscles trembling. “Tell me how you conjured the fire. Tell me, and you might yet live to see the dawn.”

  “It was the lantern. You must have seen it flare through the keyhole. That’s all I can think of.”

  “And yet my notion is different.” Grandor circled to face Everett, his back to Ben, who took the chance to make a mighty grab for the wand and point it at the knight.

  “L-leave us alone, you,” Ben said unsteadily, sitting up. A thin line of blood trickled down his wrist; he must have snatched up a shard of glass as well. “Or I’ll blast you in the name of—of—Planeterra Five!”

  “You have not the authority of that weapon, lad,” whispered Grandor, though he backed away a little. “ ’Tis best not to meddle with magic beyond your ken.”

  Everett could feel the wand’s vibration through Ben’s arm, still touching his own. “Ben, be careful.”

  Then two things happened nearly at once. Grandor charged forward, brandishing the sword, and Ben made a wide sweep with the wand, as if shooting a machine gun. A thin flame shot from the wand’s tip, illuminating the tower but inflicting no damage; it struck the sword, glancing off, and Grandor dropped it in surprise. Then, recovering himself, the knight snatched up his weapon and sidestepped the range of the wand, whose flame was feeble and blue now. Then, suddenly, Grandor leaped behind Ben, seized him around his neck, and forced the wand from his grip. It clattered to the stone floor. He grabbed a handful of Ben’s hair and pulled his head back, bringing the sword to Ben’s throat. The blade shone white in the moonlight against Ben’s bare skin. The knight grinned at Everett.

  “There be honor in fair judgment and a hearing before the throne,” he whispered. “But when a knight is attacked, the only fair judgment is death. You have chosen poorly, lad.”

  Chapter 22

  * * *

  The Queen

  Holly was just like anyone else: Any complaints her body might have had earlier that evening had been drowned out by the excitement of an attempted rescue of captives by leogryff under cover of night. But now that she was alone in her captivity, her adrenaline spent, Holly’s body could at last be heard, and it told her several things. One was that she was very tired; another was that she was very hungry; and the last was that her right arm throbbed constantly.

  But even these thoughts were fleeting, for the western chamber was nothing like she’d expected.

  It was hardly a cell. By the lantern Loverian had lit Holly could see that the walls were lined with gold tapestries and shelves of books. A canopied bed sat at the far end. A green woven rug covered most of the stone floor.

  Holly wandered to a writing table crowded with quills and inkpots. Tiny carvings covered its curved legs. She knelt to get a better look at them. Winged humans, gryphons, and centaurs with longbows scampered down the length of the table legs. It was a strange design indeed to find in the castle of a king who despised magic. Holly touched one of the centaurs with a fingertip and it vanished. She blinked in the lantern light. The table leg was smooth and plain now.

  “Rise, Adept,” said a voice behind her.

  Holly turned around, nearly knocking over the lantern. Standing before her was a lady who could be none other than the queen.

  She was taller
than Loverian, Holly guessed, and slender, with very pale skin. Her auburn hair was gathered in an elaborate arrangement of knots and curls, atop which sat a thin gold circlet. Ranulf had said the prince was thirteen, yet his mother looked hardly ten years older.

  Holly scrambled to her feet.

  The woman’s deep green eyes gazed into Holly’s with something like sadness, but her face was set in its high cheekbones like a carved statue. “Thou hast come far, my lady,” she said in a cold voice.

  “Yes, Your . . . Highness,” said Holly.

  “Your Majesty,” said the queen.

  “Oh . . . I’m sorry.” Holly made a clumsy attempt at a curtsy.

  The queen pulled a high-backed chair from behind the writing table and sat down. “I am Elianne, Queen of Anglielle. Thou hast met His Highness, the prince Avery?”

  “Yes.”

  The queen raised her eyebrows.

  “Your Majesty,” Holly added hastily. She felt her face go red. Her brain flipped through the catalog of rules her mother had tried to teach her—sit up straight, shake hands with adults, speak when spoken to, use the right fork.

  “Thy garb is strange,” said the queen. “What age art thou?”

  “Eleven. Your Majesty.”

  “And not yet betrothed?”

  “Hardly!” Holly blurted without thinking.

  “In Anglielle, thou mayest by this age have a husband.”

  Holly made a face, then caught herself. The queen gave a hint of a smile. “Some customs are strange even to the natives. Have things changed so much among the Adepts?”

  “Please, Your Majesty, I’m not an Adept.”

  “Only a lass who travels the skies as easily as the earth? Who commands the beasts? Who wields the wand?”

  “Yes, I did those things, but I’m not from here. I came from another world. That’s where I got the wand.”

  The queen’s voice fell to a hush. “Dost speak of the Realm of the Good Folk?”

  “I . . . I don’t think everyone’s good, exactly. But I didn’t mean to trespass on anyone’s land. My brother and Everett came with me.”

  “But they have no magic?”

  “No, Your Majesty. They just kind of . . . hitched a ride.”

  Queen Elianne leaned back in the chair, absently twirling an auburn curl around one finger. “Sit, Lady Adept. Tell me of the wand. What can it do?”

  Holly sank onto a cushion at the queen’s feet. “I’m not sure. It got me here, through the forest.”

  “And what hast thou learnt of our land?”

  Holly opened her mouth, then closed it again. It might not be a good idea to let on that she’d heard the king was a tyrant. “That . . . That things have been very peaceful here, since King Reynard has been ruling.”

  “And the Adepts have been exiled.”

  “Yes. I’ve heard that, too.”

  The queen reached behind the table and drew out a tray set with a silver teapot and several heart-shaped cakes. A warm, spicy scent filled the room. She poured Holly a cup of something frothy.

  “Eat,” said the queen, and there was no question of disobeying.

  The drink tasted of ginger and cinnamon. Holly took a bite of one of the cakes, only to have it dissolve in her mouth. It was like eating air, yet her stomach was full. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” she said at last, remembering her manners. So far, the queen was the only person in the castle who hadn’t mentioned execution, which Holly took to be a good sign. This might be her last chance to help Ben and Everett.

  Holly finished her drink. “Excuse me, Your Majesty? My brother . . . ”

  The queen turned her gaze from the fire. “Thou wouldst seek clemency for him? The prince does not change his orders on a whim.”

  “But maybe if you talked to him, he’d see he made a mistake—”

  “He is heir to the throne. A king cannot appear weak.”

  “But they’re innocent!”

  “That is regrettable.”

  “Regrettable?” Holly stood up, hardly noticing that the queen’s face had whitened. “You’re going to kill a ten-year-old who never hurt anybody, someone who’s never going to see his mother again! He’s miles from home and he’s scared! The only reason he came with me is because for once he wanted to be part of something, not just be some computer geek off by himself. He was counting on me to keep him safe, and now my dad has probably called the police and my mom thinks we’ve fallen down a well, and the prince took my wand and we’ve got no way back. And all you can do is call it regrettable? It’s murder, that’s what it is!”

  Holly ran out of words because her tears were finally overflowing. She wiped them away but more kept gathering.

  The queen held up a slender hand. “Peace, child. All may not yet be lost. Come.”

  Holly sniffled a bit, then followed Elianne to a set of tall mullioned windows at the other end of the room. Elianne turned a handle. They were doors, not windows.

  Holly ventured out onto a narrow balcony. The queen gestured at the stars. “Dost thou know these lights?”

  “They’re planets and suns,” Holly said. “And they make constellations, like pictures. I can always find the Big Dipper. It’s . . . ”

  She scanned the sky. She had never seen stars so bright, undimmed by city lights. But something else was different about them. “That . . . that looks like the Chained Princess. But she’s in the wrong place.” Hercules and the Swan were missing, along with a lot of the other constellations she had learned from her father.

  “The Chained Princess. Such tales are not my province,” said the queen softly. “But not every light in the sky is a star, Lady Holly.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “Some are thy guides and thy salvation. Mark me.” The queen’s deep green eyes looked directly into Holly’s. “They shall not lead thee astray. And mark thy bedchamber, for the coverlet is long, as the ground is to the sky.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you—”

  “I am able to do but one thing for thee,” said the queen loudly, turning back to the chamber. She guided Holly through the doors and closed them. “The events of this day have not yet been made known to His Majesty the king. He will not return for three days. It is in my power to stay thy kinsman’s execution until that time. This I have done.”

  “And Everett’s, too?” Holly asked quickly. She felt guilty that she hadn’t spoken up for him as well.

  “Three days. It is all I have to give.” The queen’s voice fell to a hush. “What may happen in that time, I know not. Take care. Be wise, with one ear to the ground and the other to the skies.”

  She glided to the door of the chamber. “We shall meet again, thou and I,” she said. “May Lunetia preserve thee.”

  The door opened at her touch, and the queen slipped through, closing it behind her.

  Holly stared after her, trying to make sense of the queen’s words. She had gained them all three days—that was something. The queen seemed to want to help her, but why? She hadn’t condemned the Adepts like the prince and the knights. Maybe she had some sympathy for Holly’s plight. But why bother showing her the balcony? Did she think Holly could fly off the tower?

  She walked back outside. The tower dropped several stories below, outside the castle’s curtain wall onto a tiny square of lawn. It was hardly more than a foothold. Below that, the chalky cliffs tumbled into the river that fed the moat. The balustrade was solid. She could certainly climb over it, but then—what? Drop to her death?

  Holly leaned against the stone tower. The queen wasn’t making the escape very easy. Maybe she thought Fleetwing would fly in and rescue Holly. She was supposed to be some kind of hero; wouldn’t he and the others try to free her?

  But no. The leogryff had to have been badly hurt, maybe killed. She had let them all down. She hadn’t defended Fleetwing, and some of the others were probably hurt too, all for nothing. Whatever respect they’d had for her had surely vanished. They must think she wasn’t worth saving.


  Holly wandered back inside and climbed onto the high bed. She sank into the deep, down-filled mattress and very nearly fell asleep. But her broken arm ached, and the room was chilly. She reached to pull the blankets closer, and Elianne’s words suddenly came back to her.

  Mark thy bedchamber, for the coverlet is long, as the ground is to the sky.

  The queen had said a few things like this—nonsense things that Holly didn’t understand. Something about the ground and her ears . . .

  The coverlet. That was the blanket, or maybe the sheets.

  Holly’s hand glided over the sheets. They were made of a thin, shimmery fabric. They could easily be . . .

  “Tied together,” Holly whispered aloud. The balcony!

  That’s what the queen was talking about. Maybe she’d been so mysterious because she feared being overheard. Holly jumped out of bed (and fell, forgetting how high up she was) and started pulling the sheets off the bed.

  Often, when a good idea comes, the brilliance of it so amazes you that you act very fast, before the thought fades and your brain returns to its usual state of torpor. But no matter how grand the plan, injury is not an asset. Holly became so frustrated tugging with her one good arm that she shook off the sling and tried to use the broken one. At once the pain shot up to her shoulder and she collapsed on the floor, biting her lip to keep from crying. Three full minutes passed before she could get up and try again.

  Pulling the sheets from the bed was the easiest part of her job. To make her rope longer, she had to rip the two sheets in half and knot the four pieces together. The ripping was hard enough—the fabric was very tough—but tying a knot with one hand was not her custom. And then she had to stop and think, because it would not do to tie a knot that would pull apart when she put her weight on it.

  She fetched more sheets from a wardrobe to lengthen her rope. She was so busy with this project, and so pleased at her own cleverness, that she was positive she would overcome any problems. She would climb down the makeshift rope with one hand—surely she could manage it, even through the pain—and sneak away from the castle. She’d find her friends somehow (they had certainly been planning to rescue her, she thought now), and come up with a way to free the boys. They had three days, didn’t they? And still the fatal flaw did not occur to her.