“Guards!” one of them shouted, and three more guards ran out of the gates with spears at the ready. The horses shuffled and snorted, uneasy by the commotion. Gwen couldn’t blame them. Why were they being received like this? Didn’t the king want his son back?
“He’s very ill,” she said, speaking loudly and calmly. “We need to take him to his father.”
One of the guards, an older Breenan with a close-cropped graying beard, leveled his spear at her face. Aidan made a motion to pull Gwen out of danger and two more spears swung close enough to graze his clothes. Aidan froze.
“Move along,” the older guard said in clipped tones. “The king will want to deal with the kidnappers himself.”
Chapter 9
Gwen’s stomach dropped. Kidnappers?
“No, you don’t understand…” she blurted out.
“Quiet,” the older guard said. “And start walking.”
Guards seized the reins from Gwen and waved her forward. Aidan gulped beside her. Even Rhiannon’s normally calm face was marred by a slight frown. Tristan appeared relaxed, but his shoulders were tense.
“Don’t worry, Gwen,” he said lightly. “We’ll sort it all out at the castle. The king knows us. These guards,” he let the word shimmer with the faintest hint of contempt. “They’re only following orders.”
Gwen nodded tightly but said nothing further. The spears looked wickedly sharp and the points were dipped in a dark liquid. Was it poison?
The guards did not speak, but marched them along at a hurried pace. Even through her growing fog of fear—would the king believe Tristan that they had nothing to do with Bran’s condition?—Gwen’s surroundings grabbed her attention. Here was a small city, reminiscent of a medieval village but with drastic differences. Plants and gardens grew in abundance in front of every building, and vines climbed their way over every windowsill. The one or two storey buildings themselves were constructed entirely of unpainted wood, which Gwen could hardly see behind the foliage. A profusion of vibrant flowers, orange and purple and bright crimson, flourished in the late summer warmth and carpeted the houses with color. The road remained hard-packed dirt, refusing to make their boots dusty despite the dryness. Gwen wondered if it had a spell on it.
The people they passed looked more affluent than those in the villages, with clothes of leather and fur taking precedence. Many of the men and women they passed had brilliant fall foliage tucked in their hair. Leaves fluttered in the breeze, past onlookers who stared at Gwen and the others in open curiosity. The guards did not pause, but hustled them forward at an ever-quickening pace before too many passersby could gawk.
Despite the number of houses surrounding them, the road was wide and led in a winding fashion to the castle, which towered above the wooden shakes of the roofs encircling it. Gwen was surprised at its construction—she had expected a stone castle similar to Isolde’s, with crenelated towers and flying pennants. Instead, a five-storey wooden mansion greeted her eyes. Oiled panels gleamed and large airy windows glinted in the sunlight. It had an understated appearance, but was so much larger than the houses in the surrounding town that there was no question of its status.
The road ended at a massive doorway. Heavy wooden doors studded with metal rivets were propped open invitingly, although sentries on either side discouraged casual entry. The relaxed sentries snapped to attention when they spotted Gwen and the others escorted by their fellow guards. The older guard halted at the doorway.
“Prisoners to see the king. We have Prince Bran in our custody.”
Their guards lifted Bran’s platform off of Tristan’s horse. The sentries at the doorway took their horses and fell back to let them pass, one shouting ahead for more guards to accompany their group. Gwen was sweating now, and she sought out Aidan’s hand for comfort. The guard behind her swatted at her groping hand.
“Do not interact. You will not escape.”
Gwen glanced at Aidan, whose face was white over a tight jaw. He grimaced at her but didn’t speak.
The guards swept them through a wide corridor, two-storey ceilings oppressive with dark wooden paneling. Both walls were liberally covered with mounted animal heads of all descriptions. Some were antlered deer, some the massive rack of moose, some a type of enormous ox. Gwen remembered Bran’s interest in hunting, and then the tapestry in Isolde’s castle of a human hunt. She kept her eyes down from then on, in case there was a human head mounted among the glassy-eyed animals.
The corridor ended with another open door. Light streaming from the room beyond hardly penetrated the dark corridor. A babble of raised voices floated on motes of dust in the air and grew louder as they approached.
Gwen blinked when they stepped through the doorway. The room they entered was bright from a plethora of floor-to-ceiling windows, which minimized the wood paneling of the walls. The windows were translucent to prevent visibility from the outside, but did nothing to reduce the brilliant sunlight refracting through bubbles in the glass.
The cavernous room was sparsely furnished with a few ornate chairs at the end and a long table along the side. Seven men clustered around the table. Some shouted and gesticulated wildly, while others hunched over maps.
At the entry of Gwen and the others, the eldest man turned to examine the arrivals. He was dressed similarly to the others, in slim trousers and shirt with a leather vest. His vest, however, was trimmed with a narrow strip of white fur around the neckline, and the buttons were of soft gold. More than this, Gwen could see he was important by his bearing, upright and casually confident, and his expression, firm and uncompromising. This must be King Faolan, ruler of the Wintertree realm—and Bran’s father.
“My lord uncle,” Tristan said, sweeping low in a deep bow.
“Ah, Tristan,” Faolan said. “Well met. And, remind me again of your name, girl.”
“Rhiannon.” Rhiannon looked resigned.
“Yes. Rhiannon. You will forgive me—there are so many of you, it is difficult to remember.” Faolan’s eyes glanced at Gwen and Aidan, then came to rest on the curled form of his son. After a frozen moment, Faolan threw off all dignity and ran to his son’s side. “Bran! Bran!” He turned to Tristan, his impassive expression vanished in the panic of an anxious parent. “What happened?”
Before Tristan could formulate an answer, Faolan’s eyes swept their little group. He took in the guards with spears that pointed toward Gwen and Aidan, and his face hardened.
“You’ve captured the degenerates who took my son,” he spat out, his tone brooking no argument. He pointed at Gwen and Aidan. “Those two, take them to a holding cell. Get them out of my sight!”
Guards grabbed Gwen’s forearms roughly and dragged her backward. She stared at Faolan, his face twisted with rage while he watched them get dragged away. Aidan’s shouts and Tristan and Rhiannon’s attempts at explanation faded as a thick buzzing filled her ears. How could this be happening? They had traveled so far and risked so much—why couldn’t Faolan see that?
Too quickly, they were pulled out of the lit chamber and back along the dark corridor with only the eyes of mournful dead animals to follow their progress. Another passageway, this one even darker and only large enough for three abreast, led along a winding path to a wide room with a ceiling so low that Aidan had to duck. Numerous round trapdoors dotted the floor in a pattern of grim polka-dots. A guard yanked up the furthest on the left to reveal a dark opening.
“In you go.” She jerked her head toward the hole. “You can stay there until the king decides what to do with you.”
Gwen looked at Aidan, panicked. Things were moving far too swiftly. Was there any way they could escape? Aidan was shoved to the hole and spears leveled at his face. He backed away slowly until his heels met the edge of the hole. He knelt down and felt with his feet. There must have been a ladder, because he descended with only one more anguished glance at Gwen.
A guard shoved Gwen and she stumbled toward the hole.
“Off you go, down the hatch. No
complaints, and no tricks.”
When Gwen looked down, the faint glint of Aidan’s fiery hair lent her a tiny measure of relief. She sat at the edge of the hole and dangled her legs until she felt the rungs of a rope ladder. When she put her weight on the topmost rung, the ladder swung alarmingly. Hands reached up to steady the ladder and arms brushed her calves reassuringly.
“Come on, we don’t have all day. Down you go.” The guard pounded his spear butt against the floor impatiently. Gwen felt for the next rung and stepped down into the hole, her hands sweaty on the wooden floor. The darkness smelled dank and musty, as if they were underground.
Once her head sunk below the level of the floor, one of the guards slammed the trapdoor shut with a thud. The noise was muffled, with an earthy finality as if they were buried alive. The surprise of the trapdoor closing startled Gwen and she lost her footing on the ladder. She screamed, and fell backward into Aidan’s arms. He held her close and she wriggled around to clutch him. Her terrified gasps filled the airless cell.
***
“Clear the table,” Faolan ordered. Three of his sons scrambled to sweep away maps and cups. The guards lifted Bran to the table and gently laid his platform down on its surface. Faolan bent over his son and examined him, touching his forehead, feeling his pulse, laying a hand on his chest and closing his own eyes to sense Bran’s core.
Tristan started to speak, but Rhiannon put a hand on his forearm.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “We’ll sort it out in a minute. Let the king calm down first.”
Faolan continued to study Bran. To Rhiannon’s right, two young men talked quietly.
“You know it’ll be your fault, Crevan,” a man with a blond ponytail said conversationally. “It always is.”
“Shut up, Owen. Don’t give Father any ideas.” Crevan shook his head, somehow expressing both sadness and exasperation in the motion. “Of course Bran would get himself into trouble like this.”
Faolan must have heard this last pronouncement, because his eyes flicked open. He turned his head sharply to look at his eldest son.
“Do not blame Bran for this tragedy. Why, it was only in the spring that you let him wander loose in the Velvet Woods. Or have you forgotten?”
“Of course not, father,” Crevan muttered. “But you must admit, it is very like Bran to get into mischief. It’s his nature.”
Faolan’s eyes softened, and he looked past Crevan with unseeing eyes.
“Your mother was just the same. He reminds me so much of her.” He snapped back to attention and glared at his sons. “Unlike the rest of you. Come, examine him while I speak to your cousins.” He walked toward Tristan and Rhiannon as the rest clustered around the unconscious Bran. “Thank you for bringing Bran to me, and escorting the criminals to my door. Tell me, what happened? I must know everything, so I can know how best to treat him.”
Tristan glanced at his sister before he answered.
“From what we can gather, he exerted himself too far magically.”
Faolan’s face grew still. A few of his sons behind him drew in their breath, but otherwise the hall was silent.
“How could this happen? Bran knows his limits as well as anyone. He should never have extended himself beyond his capabilities.”
“This is Bran we’re talking about,” Owen said from the table.
“Silence,” Faolan said sharply without turning to his son. To Tristan he said, “There is more. Tell me.” His voice was firm and commanding, a voice that was used to being obeyed. Tristan bowed his head.
“Bran was in the human world when he overexerted himself.”
The hall erupted in exclamations and gasps. Faolan remained still, although his face grew stony.
“Tell me how my son entered that world. Did the prisoners take him there?”
Tristan shook his head vehemently.
“No. No, Bran became friends with them in the spring, when they traveled here from the human world by accident and joined the Wintertree marking ceremony.” Crevan closed his eyes as if the news pained him. Faolan slowly turned his gaze to his eldest son, and then back to Tristan without a word. Tristan continued. “A few days ago, Bran followed them into the human world without their knowledge. He attempted a translocation spell. That’s when he fell ill.” Tristan looked at Rhiannon helplessly. “That’s all we know.”
“And who are these two prisoners? If they are human, how is it they can travel to our world? If they are Breenan, what are they doing in the human world?” Faolan looked skeptical. “There must be more.”
“Aidan and Gwendolyn are both half-human, half-Breenan,” Tristan said finally after a glance at his sister, who nodded briefly. “Aidan is our father’s son by a human woman. Gwen is of the Velvet Woods. Queen Isolde’s daughter.”
At this Faolan’s icy demeanor dissolved. His breathing grew heavy and his eyes flashed with anger.
“So. Isolde is not content to merely ravage the countryside and foist her people upon our unsuspecting villages. Now she harms my son? She is playing a very dangerous game, one she will not win. I promise her plot will not succeed. The Velvet Woods will cease to exist by the time I am finished with it.” By the end of this speech, Faolan was almost shouting. His voice rang clearly through the hall. Tristan’s mouth gaped and Rhiannon grew pale.
“No, sire, you don’t understand,” Tristan cut in when Faolan took a breath. Faolan turned his furious gaze upon him. Tristan quailed, but said, “Gwen is Isolde’s unacknowledged daughter. There is no plot—Gwen is simply friends with Bran. That’s all.”
“I don’t believe that for a moment. Humans are a weak and contemptuous people. Isolde must be behind this.”
“It’s not their fault. Bran followed them into their world. And besides, I sincerely doubt they could have overpowered Bran in any way. Their magic is present but pitifully undeveloped. They have no skills in fighting and can barely ride a horse. They risked their lives to bring Bran here, without any protection or conveyance from Isolde. They are no threat, I assure you.”
Faolan breathed heavily as he stared at Tristan, whose face showed nothing but earnestness. Faolan turned back to Bran, who lay motionless on the cleared table. A few moments passed, during which no one dared to speak.
“The human world is fundamentally different from ours in a number of ways,” Faolan said finally. “Bran would not have known his limits there. It would have been a simple matter of using magic at the edge of his ability, but with a new, unexpected boundary in place.” He paced slowly to Bran and stroked the hair from his forehead. “There is so little I can do. I am still not convinced that Isolde had nothing to do with luring Bran into the human world.”
“Gwen’s intentions are pure,” Tristan said, a pleading tone in his voice. He paused for a moment, as if unsure what to say. “She is on a quest, after bringing Bran to you, to save her mother’s realm. She has some plan to find the ultimate cure on Isle Caengal. If she can, then the Velvet Woods will cease to be a problem on our borders. Gwen is trying to help, in whatever way she can.” Rhiannon nodded in agreement at her brother’s words.
Faolan stared at Tristan for a long minute. Tristan held his gaze. Eventually, Faolan spoke to the guards at the door.
“Bring me the prisoners.”
***
While Gwen caught her breath, Aidan conjured a blue flame in his hand to drive away the darkness and rolled it onto the dirt floor. The cell looked as unwelcoming as it smelled, moist and earthy, dank and tiny. Aidan shouted up at the impassive trapdoor.
“Come back! There’s been a mistake! Let us out!” He climbed up and pounded on the trapdoor, but the solid wooden slab did not shift.
Gwen slid down against the wall until she sat on the earthen floor, and hugged her knees tightly to her chest. She felt sick—her heart beat too fast and her stomach roiled. She and Aidan had tried to do the right thing—why were they being punished? Why was Faolan deaf to reason? Why hadn’t Bran warned them that his father might react this
way?
Aidan paused his shouting and leaned his head against the wall, panting. The silence was absolute, and his forceful breaths the only break in the stillness. Gwen didn’t say anything. What was there to say?
“Wait,” Aidan said, his voice excited. Gwen wondered tiredly what he could possibly be excited about. “Gwen—make a portal!”
Gwen gazed at Aidan in the flickering light of Aidan’s blue fire. Confusion gradually gave way to understanding. She leaped up.
“Yes, of course.” A smile of triumph crept over her face, mirroring Aidan’s own grin. “Why didn’t I think of that before? We can escape easily.”
“Give it a go,” Aidan said with determination.
“I can’t, remember? Rhiannon said not to use magic today. I don’t want to end up like Bran.”
“Right. I suppose I can try, now that we’re in the Otherworld. My mum is my anchor from this side.”
“Give it a try. We have nothing to lose.”
Aidan nodded and raised his arm. A flash of worry crossed his face, replaced by concentration. With a soft ripping noise, a rent in the fabric of the world emerged. Gwen smiled, then frowned as she processed what she saw.
“What is that?” Aidan examined the portal more closely. “Did I do it wrong?”
Gwen joined him at the fluttering portal. She reached forward tentatively to brush the human world. Instead of an open space leading to a forest, a room, a road, or anything else recognizable, solid rock met her questing fingers. Gwen racked her brain, trying to understand what they looked at. The truth slowly dawned on her.
“We’re in a mountain,” she said quietly. The portal mended itself with a swish. Aidan frowned and held out his arm in the opposite direction. The resulting portal opened to a similar view, but this time a vein of sparkling white crystals ran from the top to the bottom of the sheer rock wall. Gwen waited until the portal mended before she turned to Aidan’s crestfallen face. “We can’t escape.” The full weight of her own words hit her and she sank back to the floor under their burden.
Breenan Series Box Set Page 35