The Realms Beyond

by Bo Burnette

  A piercing pain shot up her right leg. She dropped one of the knives. It plunged into the ground as she fell to her knees, her hands digging through wet grass and dirt. She tried to restrain the scream that burned in her chest.

  She managed to reach over and shove Merna off into the ground. She slashed at Merna with the other knife.

  Merna staggered onto her back, withdrawing the curved knife from Arliss’s calf.

  The next few moments blurred. Arliss tried to straighten her leg, tried not to scream, tried not to blub. Philip was kneeling beside her. Erik was fishing in her jerkin for Lasairbláth. Eamon’s brow was bunched up with worry.

  Somewhere in the distance, Thane and Merna fled back into the castle, taking with them their evils, their plots, and their secrets.

  Chapter Twenty-eight: Spies

  WHEN ARLISS OPENED HER EYES, SHE KNEW SHE must have drifted into unconsciousness for a moment. Philip was carrying her as easily as if she weighed no more than a child. He couldn’t have been toting her long, though, since they were still in the garden. She couldn’t even remember blacking out.

  Several paces ahead of them, Eamon stood at the edge of the river and waved for a boatman.

  Arliss tilted her head to look at Philip’s face. “How long have I been out of it?”

  Philip started. “I didn’t know you were out of it at all. I just thought you were resting.”

  “Why is it you’re always the one who has to hold me when I’m hurt?”

  “Why is it you’re always getting hurt when I’m around?”

  “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I shall try to stop.”

  He adjusted his arms around her, shifting to get a more secure hold. “No, don’t stop. I don’t mind holding you. Get hurt as often as you like—just not badly, please.”

  She leaned her head against his shoulder. “You’re still angry at me.”

  “Yes.”

  “For trusting Orlando.”

  “Yes.”

  “For running off with him on the isle.”

  “Yes.”

  “For going to the isle in the first place.”

  “Yes, again.”

  “How can you want to hold someone you’re so angry with?”

  Philip exhaled through his mouth, and it turned to mist in the chilled air. “Because maybe you don’t want to be angry at them. Or perhaps you do, but you know you shouldn’t.”

  She searched her mind for a response but could not find one.

  Eamon turned and motioned to them. “Come on, you two. We’ve got to get out of here before Merna and Thane return with a horde of guards at their backs.”

  Arliss folded her hands as Philip carried her carefully down the incline towards the boat. Erik, already inside, reached out to help Philip set Arliss on one of the benches.

  She winced as the pressure spiked up through her leg.

  Eamon climbed into the boat, nodding to the waterman. “My gratitude for helping us this late, Machar. I will appreciate it as long as I live, which should be at least a little longer, since you picked us up.”

  Machar grinned, shoving his poled oar into the water. “Not a problem, Captain Eamon. It’s m’pleasure.”

  Seating himself across from Arliss, Eamon reached for her injured leg. She bit down on her lip to stifle a cry as he placed her leg straight out on the bench across from her. The slight pressure of the wood made her leg feel like it was made of glass shards.

  He pursed his lips. “You must keep it straight, and not put any pressure on it until we can give it proper medicine.”

  She nodded, closing her eyes. “Back on the ship?”

  “We can’t go back to the ship. It pains me not to, since my sons are there. They will be expecting me within a day, at least. But we cannot go back.”

  “Why?” Erik demanded. “Are you betraying us again?”

  “I didn’t betray you in the first place,” Eamon growled. “And I have a blasted good reason not to return to the ship. Guards always patrol the harbor, especially at night. What with this evening’s events, the entirety of the wharf will be crawling with Merna’s spies.”

  Arliss bit down the numbing pain in her leg. Orlando hadn’t been with Merna in the garden, which meant he was up to something. But what—and where? Ilayda and Brallaghan had disappeared, too, without a message or even a clue.

  Erik hooked his bow over his knee. “Where are we going, then?”

  Eamon turned and addressed Machar. “To the train station at the edge of town. We will ride the train from there to Glasberry.”

  “Glasberry? Where’s that?” Arliss leaned onto her hands.

  “A place where we can find refuge and healing for you, my lady.” Eamon nodded towards her, but she could sense a harshness in his tone—as if he blamed her for what had just happened.

  He shifted his gaze, but she kept staring at his eyes. What secrets was he holding back?

  Ilayda craned her neck to look at the towering buildings which shot up on either side. Brallaghan edged on through the shadows ahead of her, moving quickly towards the city lights. Those lights had slowly begun to flicker out as all the guests returned from the party, and now the river and its stores were half-cloaked in grayness. They hoped—or at least, Brallaghan hoped—to find someone awake enough to tell them where the trains were. Unless, of course, they found sign of Lord Brédan before that.

  They were behind the line of storefronts which overlooked the river. The first of many city blocks stretched back from the river and far behind, where it turned into an alleyway and then another block and another alleyway—and so on for at least five blocks of buildings.

  Without a word, Brallaghan ducked inside one of the dark alleys. It was nothing more than a crevice between the two clusters of buildings.

  Ilayda followed, gingerly stepping over a clod of what looked like mud. Darkness permeated the alley. She could barely see Brallaghan ahead of her. She shifted along and prayed nothing would burst from the darkness and attack them.

  Surely Arliss would have come back to their chamber by now. She would see that they were gone, and she would wonder where they were. She might even come looking for them.

  Brallaghan pulled to a halt at the end of the alley, his head twisting back and forth as he searched the wider street outside. He waved at her. “Come on.”

  Then his eyes widened. “Stop—shh!”

  He swung backwards, pressing both of them against the left-hand wall. Brick scraped against Ilayda’s back, and a chill crept down her already-cold spine. “What is it?”

  “There’s someone in the street.”

  “Don’t we want to find someone?”

  “First we have to know if they are a foe or not.”

  “This place is creepy, so I wouldn’t be surprised,” she whispered.

  He nodded. “I doubt there are any friendly individuals in this city.”

  She tilted her head. The city was creepy, to be sure. But it wasn’t hell itself. “You can find friends in any realm. You just have to do a little looking.”

  Brallaghan’s eyebrows curved dubiously. “Don’t be too sure.”

  “I am sure.” Ilayda wasn’t talking in whispers now, and she knew it. “Let me show you.” She stepped away from him and out into the lighter—but still dim—street.

  Doors painted bright colors and windows paned with wood covers bracketed the shops and houses which fought for space along the thoroughfare. To the right, the river glinted distantly in the moonlight. To the left, the street disappeared into the night.

  Directly across from their alleyway, stone steps led up into a giant hall with a clock face at its pinnacle. Ilayda had never seen a clock that large. She’d never really seen a clock at all, except for an old one King Kenton owned. He had never been able to work it. In Reinhold, sundials and estimation told time as well as anything else.

  Brallaghan hissed from the alley behind her. “Are you stupid?”

  She cast him a prim smile. “Yes.” She turned to look
at the figure descending the steps of the clock hall.

  A purple cloak fluttered to a halt as the individual grabbed at one of the side railings. A hood hid the person’s face, but a swath of chestnut hair slipped over each shoulder. A sack was slung over her back and dragged nearly to the ground.

  Ilayda crossed the street. The purple individual backed up one step, nearly tripping on the landing behind herself.

  “Please,” she offered. “I need directions.”

  “Who are you? Where’ve you come from?” The woman sounded young. She couldn’t have been much older than Ilayda.

  “We were just at the palace.”

  A dagger whizzed and scintillated in the vague light, its tip pointed straight at Ilayda.

  “Palace spies! I have nothing you want.”

  “Spies? It’s just me, and I am not a spy.”

  “I can see your friend in the alley. He’s not very good at hiding.”

  Brallaghan bounded across the street and up the stairs. “Perhaps because I’m not trying to hide. We are not palace spies. We aren’t even from Anmór.”

  The girl pulled back her hood and laughed. “Oh, I could tell that easily. Your accents—or lack thereof—give you away.”

  “Can you help us find the trains?” Brallaghan asked.

  The girl lowered her chin, her eyes scrutinizing Ilayda and Brallaghan. A subtle accent, muted but sharp, interweaved her words. “I think I can trust ya. My grandfather always says you can only really trust those who are willing to trust you. D’you two trust me?”

  Ilayda nodded for both of them.

  “Very good. Follow me—the trains lie at the far end of this street.”

  They walked for some time before speaking. The farther back in the city they ventured, the more unpleasant Ilayda felt. She caught the damp, festering smell of communal human waste down one especially dim alley. But even the passages that didn’t smell unpleasant looked unpleasant. Every street looked like it had secrets down it, secrets she didn’t want to know.

  Finally their guide turned to Ilayda. “My name is Clare. What’s yours?”

  “Clare—what a curious name,” Ilayda remarked. “And beautiful, of course. My name is Ilayda.”

  Clare half-smiled. “Now that is a curious name. Where’s it from?”

  Ilayda caught Brallaghan’s warning glance just in time. “It’s actually an unusual name because it isn’t traditional in any of the clans. Rumor says the name was carried with us from some exotic country across the sea.”

  “Fascinating.” Clare’s eyes flickered, as if she knew Ilayda was holding something back. “My name is horribly traditional, but I still love it. Simple, clear—that’s what it means, you know. ‘Clear.’ It’s becoming harder and harder to be a clear sort of person these days.” Her chin fell as her eyes searched the ground below her.

  “Why is that?”

  Clare shook her head. “Too many reasons to count. You really are foreigners here, aren’t you?”

  Brallaghan nodded. “Yes. But trust us that we must keep our identities secret.”

  “I understand. I must often do the same thing, or the guards would imprison me—if not for my own identity, then for some of my family’s.”

  “Imprisoned?” Brallaghan’s voice tensed. “Where?”

  Clare exhaled deeply. “There’re many prisons in this country, especially in the city. If not in the city, they would cart me out on the train, until the forking of the tracks. Then we would take the train into the west, around lakes and through mountains. We would go to cities on the other side of Anmór—cities I have never seen. And I would never see home again.”

  “I hope that doesn’t happen to you.” Ilayda placed a hand gently on Clare’s shoulder.

  “So do I,” Clare said. “But the crown does not care for the plain folk like myself. This port capital cares only about royalty and parties and trading. Of course, it’s mutual. They don’t care for us, so we don’t care for them.”

  Brallaghan diverted the conversation. “If we were going to search for a missing person, which way would we go on the trains?”

  Clare thought a moment as she lowered her chin to her chest. “It’s a massive country. This train station—we’re almost to it, can’t you see the lights?—it has many tracks. You could go north and switch tracks at the Ikarran border. Ikarra has their own rail system. Or, you could go west, first to Lochair, then to those faraway cities I spoke of.” She bit her lip. “But if you are true friends and true people, I advise you take the train south. You will either find what you seek, or at least good counsel.”

  Ilayda watched as the wide, covered train station suddenly spread out before them. Midnight darkened the entire city, but the station was hung everywhere with lanterns and all sorts of lights. Then a chugging, hissing noise scraped towards the station.

  Ilayda craned her neck to see. What could possibly deserve such a massive station? And what, for that matter, could transport them across the lands of Anmór as rapidly as Clare had indicated?

  The train screeched to a halt, its wheels grating against iron rails. It was crafted chiefly of wood, but some silver and bronze. The overall shape of the five or so train cars was oval, thus giving the impression of several skinny eggs sewn together in a line. Steam poured from a little chimney, but slowly trickled away as the train finally slid to a halt and disappeared within the station.

  Ilayda could only gape. Horses were one thing. Huge foreign ships were another thing. Even an entire new country—she could at least make sense of it. But these trains? She almost couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

  She pulled out her little notebook. She wrote a simple message on a page, which she tore out. She stuffed the book back in the pocket of her cloak.

  At the wide double doors of the station, Clare stopped them. “Here I must leave you. Take the train south. Go to Glasberry. Tell them I sent ya, and you’ll find a warm welcome.”

  “Thank you for helping us.” Ilayda wrung Clare’s hand. “I don’t know why you’ve been so kind to us.”

  “Because I serve One who has been kind beyond measure to me.” Clare smiled, also accepting Brallaghan’s handshake. “I can only do to others what I wish they would to for me in the same spot.”

  A shouting and whistling erupted from within the station.

  Clare’s eyes widened, and she drew her hood over her head. “Go now, quickly.”

  Brallaghan pulled Ilayda towards the doors. As they left, Ilayda let her message flutter to the ground outside the station.

  Chapter Twenty-nine: To Glasberry

  THE BLACK SKY WAS JUST BEGINNING TO LIGHTEN with the faintest tinge of gray as Eamon led them to the doors of the train station. Arliss yawned as Philip and Erik shifted her weight between them. She hadn’t slept even a bit during the journey downriver. Her eyes had been too busy scouring the banks for Thane, Merna, Orlando, Ilayda, or Brallaghan. She wouldn’t be surprised to have any of them show up at any moment.

  Eamon tugged at the double doors of the station, holding them open with upraised arms as the other three passed beneath him. “Come on, we’ve got to hurry. A few more hours and our presence will be a sight more suspicious.”

  Erik halted, and Arliss heard something crumple beneath his boots. He nodded to Philip, who hefted Arliss in his arms once again, then reached down and plucked the piece of paper off the dingy ground.

  Erik’s eyes narrowed as he read it. Arliss wished she could stand on her own two feet and look over his shoulder.

  “What is it?” she managed.

  “It’s a message from Ilayda.” Erik tensed.

  She held out her hand. “Show me.”

  He handed it to her, and she read the simple message written on it: “Silly princess.” Nothing else. No message, no directions. Only a single, teasing insult.

  “She didn’t want her identity or location to be discovered,” Arliss said, “so she wrote something only we would understand.”

  “They must have taken
the trains.” Philip ran a hand through his hair. “But who knows in which direction?”

  Eamon shoved them along into the station. “There’s no time for deliberation now. God help me, we won’t risk another run-in with Thane this night.”

  Arliss grunted as he jostled her leg. He glared at her as they all entered the long building. But why? What did he have to be so angry about?

  Thick blocks of stone formed walls, but the roof of the station was made of curved glass which had cracked in places. The ambitious arch of the glass ceiling showed the structure had been intended to be beautiful; however, it had been abandoned and never polished to perfection.

  Philip set Arliss down on a bench that overlooked the track. The track itself, wrought of thick iron, was a sight to look at. A year ago, horses and carriages—things that fairytales were made of—had emerged in Reinhold. Anmórians always were the advanced machinists in the old stories. But these trains were beyond the scope of the stories.

  Eamon passed a handful of coins to a frumpy-looking man at a wooden table, who handed him a scrap of paper with something scribbled on it.

  “Ye’ll take the next train, ’tis a’comin’ n’bout five ticks o’de clock.”

  “Thank you,” Eamon said, a look of pity coming into his eyes. He handed the man another coin. “Accept this as well, please. Do not count it among your wages—take it to your family.”

  The man’s eyes grew wide as stars. “Thank ye, good sir.”

  Eamon strode over to the bench. “It will be five minutes.”

  Arliss’s mouth hung open. “You have many secrets about you, Captain Eamon. You have more kindness than I realized.”

  “I’m just doing the right thing,” he muttered, perching himself on the edge of the bench. “The upper classes make things harder for everyone else. I simply do what I can to help a few.”

  “Thank you for helping us as well.” She accidentally pressed her right foot against the ground and winced.

  His jaw tightened. “I am almost of a mind to stop helping you. You’re ruining me forever, I do not doubt.”

  She again gaped. “What? What have I done?”