Illera's Darkliete: A Coming of Age Fantasy

by Gail Gernat

  Illera could see the hard set of Lark’s and Raven’s mouths and felt their disappointment running through her like blood. She was about to ask another question when a door slammed open. She turned. This had to be Torul. He was a carbon copy of his father with the exception of orange-red hair on his head and face. She could see the spoiled child in his face, one of angry self-absorption; all its lines spelled cruelty. She backed a step away from him. Korul rose and gestured him forward.

  The King spoke formally, “Son, may I present to you, Illera, Princess, and daughter of King Ian of Madean, your betrothed. And Princess, I present my son, Torul, Prince and future King of Frain.”

  Illera curtsied as Torul moved towards her and grasped her hand. His was soft, cold and damp.

  “My Lord Torul,” she murmured.

  His small colorless eyes roved up and down her body. One hand reached out, grabbed a breast, and squeezed. Illera pulled away, backing into Lark.

  “Well, it seems I am the winner in this game of crowns. I was prepared for a hag of a wife, but you; yes, you are quite presentable. Come at once to my chambers so we may become better acquainted.”

  Illera’s voice was frosty. “My Lord, you presume too much. I shall not go with you to your chambers until the vows have been said and recorded. And, my maid and bodyguard are missing. I cannot proceed with our wedding until Ashera has been found and restored to me.”

  Torul laughed, and it was an ugly sound. “You will do what you are told. I do not know what sort of freedoms your father gave, but here my word, and my father’s is law. You will obey.”

  Her heart was thumping like a wild thing struggling to be free, and fear had turned her blood to ice water.

  “I’m sorry my Lord, but your father just gave me a precious lesson on getting what I need first before I give what you want.”

  Korul and the men surrounding them chuckled. Torul’s face flushed even redder and he lunged, seizing Illera by one wrist.

  “Insolent wench, if you wanted your way it should have been before you arrived here.”

  Illera screamed, pulling backward with all her force, but she had no strength against the brute power of the Prince. Suddenly a sword whipped between them, pointing directly at Torul’s throat. The Prince blanched releasing Illera’s arm.

  “We did not escort the Princess here to have her dishonored in front of her own people and ours,” Raven snarled, his face a mask of hatred.

  Lark had his sword out, protecting his brother’s back. Korul was standing, icy rage in his eyes.

  “Bring her in,” the King bellowed.

  Two of the men left at a run. Illera could hear her heart beating in the silence, as the room stood poised, waiting. Thud, thud, thud, breath was hard to draw in, as if even the air was reluctant to move in this frozen room. The sounds of feet and dragging vibrated on the flagstones. The two men returned, a limp figure slumped between them. They threw her at Illera’s feet. A woman, face battered to anonymity, long pale hair streaming down her back, but clumps on the scalp bloody where handfuls had been ripped away. She was clad only in a thin shift of translucent material, blood visible in dried streaks down her legs and backside. Bruises on her hard flat breasts stood out in vivid detail through the cloth. Illera recoiled from this stranger. The woman moved, a faint croak issuing from her mangled throat and cracked teeth. Illera could not understand and bent closer to hear. Recognition and horror flooded through her, and she jumped back.

  “Ashera?” She spun to face the King. “How could you do this to my servant?”

  The King smirked at her. “When you ran away, I gave her to Torul in your place. After all, I promised him, and if you don’t obey him that is what will happen to you too, so I advise you, DON’T PISS MY SON OFF.”

  Illera bent again to Ashera, willing healing into her broken body, giving her own strength.

  Bending close, she whispered in one ravaged, bitten ear, “Ashera, if you love life come with me, follow me.”

  Illera rose, helping Ashera to her feet. “I want to go to my rooms now!” She used her most imperious voice.

  Korul laughed. “Ask Torul where your rooms are,”

  “Lark, Raven, get me out of here.” Illera appealed to her last resource.

  “If you make one move to help this bitch I will have you both killed and thrown to the dire wolves as bait. Your mother will join you in your fate.”

  Raven and Lark looked at each other. They nodded. Illera moved towards the door, the squires guarding her back, Ashera a dead weight on her shoulders. The soldiers scrambled for weapons and advanced towards them. A group of seven lunged between Illera and the brothers, driving her inward. The brothers fought their way to the doors and turned, noticing Illera’s separation from them. Raven sprang forward; Illera sent him a message the way she did to animals, escape and be waiting to help. Throwing all her force behind Ashera, Illera ran for the stairs, bounding up them, pulling Ashera who spent her last energy to follow her mistress. Thighs burning and knees cramping they climbed, ignoring the corridors leading off from the landings. The stairs ended, and they raced down narrow corridors, their feet thudding on the rough wooden planks. The men were advancing slowly behind them; confident they could not escape. Illera and Ashera dashed into the room at the end of the hall, slamming and barring the door. Ashera collapsed in a heap on the floor, panting and heaving with a disturbing wheeze in her lungs.

  The room was small and barren. A heap of dirty linens in one corner was the room's only furnishing. Illera went quickly to the window and threw open the shutters. Her heart sank at the sight of heavy metal bars blocking the way out. She turned as a heavy pounding on the door shook the little room.

  “Open this up right now, and we can settle things properly,” demanded the voice of Torul.

  Illera waited silent and frozen by the window, exhaustion making her muscles shake.

  “Fine, stay there until you starve. I’ll give you one week to think about things, and then I'll break the door down, and the day I do that I’ll be sending troops to Madean to conquer it. So think about it. You have one week to come out and accept your fate, or your country will be destroyed.”

  Sick at heart, Illera slumped to the floor, crying out for her mother, begging for help to resolve this horrible situation. Tears came then, burning from her eyes until they made a pool on the floor. Illera stared at the reflection, wondering how she could fix this. Like a cool caress in her mind blew the answer, repair what you can, one step at a time.

  Taking a deep breath, she moved to Ashera. Opening the bag at her belt, she set out to heal the woman she had left behind.

  Chapter 7

  Ashera curled into a corner, covered with the filthy rags. Unable to settle down, Illera paced the small space; four steps across, then eight steps from window to door and repeat. In the last two days she had brought about a physical healing of the giantess, but her broken mind was beyond Illera’s skills. She worked herself to the edges of exhaustion and still, Ashera gazed vacantly at the walls. She would respond to direct commands, but initiated nothing on her own, nor responded to queries. Illera longed for the tools to reach her, make her bold and arrogant again.

  The soft scratching vibrated through the door again. Several times during their incarceration they heard the same sound. This time, Illera lay on her belly and peered through the wide crack underneath the thick, rough planking. A pair of small feet wearing poorly tanned leather moccasins shuffled beyond. Bony ankles protruded, rising to a ragged fringe of tattered brown material. Illera scrambled to her feet and cautiously opened the door a crack, ready to slam and bolt it should a man appear.

  The old lady scratched again on the door’s splintery surface. She had tangled red and gray hair in a mat about her face. Her head lolled to one side, and one shoulder was markedly higher than the other. Her brown dress was ripped, soiled and very frayed. A dirty gray shawl draped around her shoulders and was clutched to her scrawny bosom with one skeletal hand. Illera opened the
door and the woman hobbled in. She closed and bolted it again.

  “Hello,” she told the strange old lady.

  The crone breathed, “Ha a aa.”

  She tottered to Ashera and crouched down beside her. The bony fingers brushed the tangled locks from the younger woman’s face.

  “Paaaa a baaabeee.” She looked at Illera.

  “Yes, mother, Ashera has been badly treated. Can you help her?”

  The old woman shook her head violently back and forth alarming Illera who wondered if the frail neck could support such vehemence.

  Pointing to herself she said, “Daaaalllllaaaaa, maaaaa Torul.”

  Puzzled Illera frowned. “Do you mean you are Torul’s mother?”

  The old woman nodded and began to cry, great sobs shaking her narrow shoulders. Illera sat down beside her and put her arms around the old lady, who turned her head and sobbed on Illera’s breast, wetting the fabric of her blouse. The storm of weeping passed, and she became a dead weight in the younger woman’s arms. Illera lay her on the floor beside Ashera and covered her with her own leather cloak. Rising she went to look out the window for the thousandth time.

  The rain still pounded down, never stopping. Illera thought it must be extremely depressing to live where it rained so hard for days on end. Far below, the inner bailey was covered with a sheet of water, making a gray, rain pitted lake around the keep. She wished it would wash the castle away and free her from this dilemma.

  With a shriek, the old woman bolted upright. Ashera started at the noise.

  “It’s alright, Ashera, this is Torul’s mother.” Illera placed an arm around her shoulders.

  Ashera pulled away from her as though she were a poisonous snake, huddling as deep as she could get into the corner and making whimpering noises in the back of her throat. The old woman looked at her, then lurched to her feet. Her mouth pulled back in a grimace, exposing missing teeth. Hands outstretched she hobbled towards the door, pulling the bolt and leaving the door open as she staggered into the corridor. Illera dashed across the room and slammed the door, bolting it shut behind the retreating figure.

  “It’s okay now Ashera, she’s gone,” Illera told her gently, moving back to the writhing figure.

  Ashera buried her face in the corner and would not look at her. Moving back to the window, she struck the sill with her fist, but it brought no relief, and neither did shaking the bars with all her strength. They were as solid as the door barring Torul from reaching them. Illera curled into the corner opposite Ashera and tried to sleep, but the cold and damp seeped into her bones, and she was unable to drift off. The walls and floor stole away body heat faster than it could be generated, so all she could do was shiver. Rising, she paced the floor again, a trapped animal in a cage.

  The scratching was back at the door. Sighing, Illera looked underneath again. She saw nothing but the old woman’s feet. At least it was a diversion from the thoughts and accusations marching through her brain. Cautiously, she opened the door. The lady straightened her crooked spine as much as she was able, thrusting a parcel wrapped in thick white linen into Illera’s hands. Turning, she shuffled off down the corridor. Illera closed and bolted the door.

  The package was warm and fragrant. Illera unwrapped it. A dozen bread rolls oozing butter nearly dropped to the floor. Hastily Illera set them down. Beneath the bread, there was a layer of beef, warm and succulent. Illera’s mouth watered. Wrapped separately she found a dozen large red apples smelling of sunshine and happiness.

  “Ashera, come, let’s eat,” She bit into a roll, and the butter dribbled down her chin.

  Ashera huddled in her corner. Illera divided the food and took a generous portion to the other woman. When it was placed in her hands, she began to eat, tearing into the bread and meat like an eagle on a carcass. Illera had all she could do not to bolt her own. She placed ten of the apples in her herb bag and reattached it to her belt. The room felt warmer after the food, but still, the rain pelted the castle, swaddling it in thick bands of gloom.

  Pacing back to the window Illera watched a spot of darkness sailing towards her. The shape resolved into a bird, a black and white familiar form. With bated breath, Illera saw the soaking avian blown backward in the strong winds. It struggled mightily, then the wind dropped it, and it fell from sight below the window.

  Placing her face as close as she could get, Illera still could not see the little form. It popped up, landing on the sill and startling Illera, so she stepped back, tripped over Ashera’s outstretched legs and tumbled to the floor.

  “Maggie, am I glad to see you. Gods know what you can do about this horrible situation, but I’m glad you are here. I thought something awful must have happened to you after that fight with the dragon.”

  The little bird cocked her head to one side and scolded Illera. Illera laughed. Shaking the water droplets from her feathers, she began to preen and scold as if Illera were at fault for the rain. Illera watched her with pleasure, happy to have one friend to share this imprisonment. Now her life-long friend was here, Illera knew she had to make an effort to escape.

  The darkness increased, creeping from the corners to the middle of the room, blanketing everything with the same stygian cover. Maggie squawked and hopped to the door. Taking a deep breath and hoping, Illera sent a call to Lark and Raven: ‘We’re coming, get ready.’

  She woke Ashera by shaking her shoulder. “We have to go now. You must stay right with me. Don’t go away. Do exactly what I do or tell you to do. Do you understand?”

  The blonde’s eyes focused momentarily on Illera’s. She nodded but then her eyes unfocused and wandered to the corners of the room. They approached the door together. Illera drew the bolt, praying for silence. It grated only slightly. She peeped out of the door. The corridor was deserted as far as she could tell with all the shadows. Torches were so widely spaced fifty men could hide in the intervals between the light. They tiptoed into the hallway. No movements were visible; no sounds audible, only their hushed breathing. Maggie poked her in the ear. With Ashera on her heels, they padded to the stairs. Runnels of water trickled down the corridor and puddles were revealed only by the drip, drip, drip from the leaky roof.

  Pausing, Illera strained her senses to detect the presence of people, but only the sounds of drumming rain, howling wind and the groan of stone rubbing stone broke the silence. Carefully they eased down the stairs. Many were slick with water and Illera had to watch her feet lest she step in a puddle and crash down the staircase.

  They were at the third landing, pausing before the descent to the next level. A rough hand snapped out of an inky pool nearly breaking Illera’s arm.

  “Now, now my little bride, just where would you be sneaking off to in the middle of the night? I can think of a cozy nest for the two of us,” Torul hissed in her ear.

  Ashera, catching sight of his face shrieked loud enough to wake the dead and bolted down the stairs at a dead run. Illera twisted in his grasp, bringing her knee up and into his private parts as hard as she could. As the air whooshed out of his lungs, Illera bolted after her maid, leaping down the stairs two at a time.

  “You won’t get away,” Torul screamed in a high voice.

  He hobbled after them, clasping the handrail with one hand and still half bent over. Illera flew down the stairs, her feet barely touching the stone and sliding through the puddles. Maggie launched from her shoulder and flew into Torul’s face beating her wings about him. He let go of the handrail to fend her away as his heel splashed into a puddle. His feet slipped out from under him, and he catapulted forward, hurtling past Illera and bowling Ashera down the last three steps. From her position above, Illera heard the crack as he landed.

  Rushing downward, she picked Ashera from the heap in the great hall. The light was already dimming in Torul’s colorless eyes as she checked him and she knew she could do nothing for him. Pulling the larger woman along by the hand, she raced for the door. Sounds of men stirring were coming from all around.

&nbs
p; They dashed through the door racing for the nearest pool of darkness between the torches. Illera halted abruptly, holding her breath as guards trotted by heading for the great room. As they passed the doorway, the women ran for the next shadow and the next until they had reached the outer doors of the keep. The commotion was rising behind them, so heedless of guards posted outside; Illera whipped open one leaf of the doors and hurried out, closing it securely behind them. The post was empty. Wind whipped the rain about in blinding sheets.

  Uncertain of her direction, Illera whispered to Maggie, “Stables.”

  The bird fluttered ahead, and Illera followed the patch of white on her back. As they descended the stairs, the water came up to meet them, swamping their boots and soaking their feet with icy draughts. Illera plunged on, towing Ashera behind her. She could see nothing but the small pale spot of Maggie straight ahead. Colliding with the stable door, she bruised one wrist. Fumbling along the wood, she located the string and pulled it to lift the inside bar. The door groaned open a couple of inches, and they slipped inside.

  It was a physical shock to be out of the storm, and Illera leaned against the door for long minutes trying to get her breath and orientation. Ashera shivered beside her and Maggie gurgled an incomprehensible message. The warm smell of horse and hay enfolded them.

  “My Lady, would you take Abbadon,” a voice in front of her requested.

  Illera jumped with a sharp intake of breath. A warm muzzle thrust into her hands and a washcloth of a tongue wiped the water from the front of her cloak. A rustling beside her made her turn.

  “I brought decent clothes and a cloak for Ashera,” the voice told her.

  “Lark?” Illera asked, uncertain in the impenetrable dark.

  She heard a low laugh. “Yes my Lady, who else but your humbled squire. I need you to bring Abbadon; he won’t let me near him.”

  She nodded, then chuckled for Lark could see no more than she could.