The Lost Realm

by J. D. Rinehart

  I was using my sword to hack down undead warriors, if it’s any business of yours. And I am not your daughter!

  Elodie made herself nibble at another cake. “Yes. I was there.”

  “The knowledge makes my heart weep. Now, Trident attacked even though the bridge was broken in the middle. How did they plan to cross it? Do they have siege engines?”

  “What’s a siege engine?”

  Lord Vicerin patted her hand. “Never mind. The attack was repelled, we know that. Trident’s numbers must have been greatly reduced as a result.”

  “A lot of people died.”

  “Did Fessan plan to recruit new soldiers in Isur?”

  “We passed through some villages. Most of the people threw rotten fruit.”

  At first Elodie had to work hard to keep her answers vague. But as the interrogation went on, she relaxed into the part she was playing.

  It’s only what you expect of me, isn’t it? You think I’m a silly little girl who only understands dresses and pretty jewels. Maybe I used to be. But not anymore.

  “You are a very brave girl,” Lord Vicerin said, leaning back extravagantly in his chair. His tone—that of a parent speaking to a small child—reassured Elodie that she’d succeeded in her attempts to fool him. “Won’t you take some more refreshment?”

  He spooned pieces of fruit from a tortoiseshell bowl onto her plate. Each was carved into the shape of a rose.

  “Oh, I nearly forgot.” Lord Vicerin smiled expansively. “There is just one more question. Are those wretched Trident ruffians still spreading rumors that you are one of three? A prophecy triplet? And that your siblings are alive?”

  His tone was light and breezy. Yet his eyes were as cold as steel.

  “Yes,” she said. She didn’t like this turn of the conversation, and judged that any further lies would have to be dressed in the truth. “They all believe it.”

  Here it comes.

  “And what about you, my dear? What do you believe?”

  She chewed and swallowed a petal carved from a pear.

  “I believe I am one of three,” she said.

  Lord Vicerin’s eyes widened, then grew narrow.

  “What do you mean, child?”

  “I mean that I have a brother, and I have a sister: Cedric and Sylva Vicerin. They are my siblings. The only ones I know, or care about. I know I’m adopted, but that doesn’t mean you’re not my family, because you are. Castle Vicerin is my home. This is where I belong. With you.” Onto her face she pasted the widest, most sincere smile she could muster. “I love you.”

  Vicerin beamed. “I am very pleased to hear those words, my dear. In fact”—he slipped his hand inside his velvet jacket—“let me show you how pleased I am.”

  When Lord Vicerin withdrew his hand, he was holding a knife. Its gold-plated hilt flashed in the candlelight. Elodie clapped her hand over her mouth. Her heart was thundering.

  He’s seen through me! He’s going to kill me right here in the council chamber!

  But instead of plunging the dagger into her breast, Lord Vicerin handed it to her, hilt first. It was then she saw that the weapon was still in its sheath. Its dazzling, jewel-encrusted sheath.

  “It is startling in its beauty.” Lord Vicerin gave her a sickly smile. “That is why you deserve it, Elodie.”

  Trembling, she took the ornate knife. “Thank you, Father. But . . . ?”

  “But why? Simply this, my dear: if Trident attempts to snatch you again, I want you to be able to defend yourself.”

  Still shaking, Elodie tucked the dagger under the wide belt of her new satin dress. Warm relief flowed through her entire body. If this doesn’t prove he trusts me, what will?

  Behind her a servant coughed gently. Lord Vicerin dabbed his lips again.

  “And now, my dear, I fear there are council matters I must attend to. You are excused.”

  As soon as Elodie had risen from her chair, another servant glided in and skillfully ushered her toward the door. She was glad their business was concluded. Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to be out of this hateful room.

  On her way out she nearly bumped into a pair of castle guards flanking a middle-aged woman dressed in shining armor. The woman’s brow was creased with worry lines. Following behind the woman came a line of men and women, all wearing formal yellow robes.

  “Excuse me, Your Highness,” said the first guard, giving Elodie a perfunctory bow. “Lord Vicerin doesn’t want to be kept waiting.”

  Elodie stepped aside. As the parade of dignitaries swept past, the woman in the armor paused.

  “You must be Princess Elodie,” she said. She looked as if she hadn’t slept for a week.

  “Please,” said the guard. “Lady Darrand, come this way.”

  Elodie said nothing. She had the peculiar feeling the woman was looking right through her. Then the moment passed.

  “I hope we may meet again,” said Lady Darrand, and with that she was gone, stepping wearily into the council chamber with her finely dressed entourage. The doors slammed shut, and the guards took up station outside with their hands resting lightly on the hilts of their sheathed swords.

  “Best you run along, my lady,” said one of them, an older man with gray hair and a kind face. “Your father will be in there for the rest of the day.”

  “Who’s Lady Darrand?”

  “A neighbor. And an enemy. It’s a delegation. Lady Darrand wants to put an end to the war in Ritherlee.”

  Elodie nodded. “Will there be peace, do you think?”

  The second guard, a younger man, nudged the first.

  “Like I said, it’s best you run along.”

  Elodie obeyed. But her curiosity had been aroused. How wonderful would it be to return to Trident with useful information about Lord Vicerin’s military operations?

  I’ll be Trident’s spy, right at the heart of the castle.

  Another guard was waiting at the end of the corridor. He was dressed in the crisp black livery of a footman, but Elodie knew he was a soldier from the straightness of his back and the bulge of weapons beneath his tunic. Wherever she went in the castle, one of these guards in disguise went with her.

  “Your father wants you protected,” the men would answer when she asked why they were following her.

  Lord Vicerin’s gift of the knife made her believe that might be true. But she also believed something else.

  He doesn’t want me to escape.

  “I’m going to take a moment before returning to my room,” she called to the guard. “Don’t worry. I’ll be perfectly safe.”

  Before he could reply, she made a sharp right turn into a narrow, oak-paneled passage. Immediately the guard followed.

  “Your father prefers you to stay in the open.”

  “This won’t take long.”

  Dozens of paintings hung on the walls of the passage. Elodie kept count of the pictures as she walked past. When she reached the thirteenth, she stopped.

  I think this is the right spot.

  The painting was wide and showed a battle scene in which blue-clad soldiers swarmed through the shattered wall of a burning wooden fort. Instead of swords they carried crude clubs. The fort was an early incarnation of Castle Vicerin, she realized—a primitive wooden structure that once stood where now towered this mighty bastion of stone.

  “Do you have any paper?”

  “Beg pardon, my lady?”

  “Paper. And a quill. I wish to take notes. You know how much I enjoy my painting classes.”

  “I, er, it’s a long way to the schoolroom, my lady.”

  “You don’t need to go to the schoolroom. They keep writing supplies in the store beside the council room door. How else do you think they keep records?”

  “I, er . . .”

  “Go and get me some.”

  “I’m not supposed to leave you alone, Your Highness.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake. You know as well as I do this passage is a dead end.”

  “Yes,
but . . .”

  “But nothing! Nothing can come at me from that direction, and you’ll be able to see the entrance from the main corridor. I’m really quite safe.”

  “I know, Your Highness, but . . .”

  “Just go!”

  The guard hurried away. Elodie allowed herself a smile. Playing the spoiled brat was even more fun than playing the spy.

  As soon as he was out of sight, she pressed her ear to the wood-paneled wall the painting hung from. The first voice she heard was a woman’s, raised in anger.

  “. . . you call yourself civilized when you steal from us?”

  “Do you presume to call me a thief, Lady Darrand?” Lord Vicerin’s purring voice was unmistakable.

  “I do not call you a thief! I call you what you are! You are a child abductor, Lord Vicerin!”

  Elodie pressed her lips together. Tarlan had told her how he’d rescued a group of children from the Vicerin dungeons. Had more been taken since then? She imagined Lord Vicerin striding up and down between the cells, his handkerchief pressed to his long nose, his powdered face wrinkled into a sneer. The thought made her feel sick.

  “Can we not keep this meeting on a cordial footing, Lady Darrand?” said Lord Vicerin. “Can we not be at peace? If you will only sign this treaty, then we can do away with the throne altogether and rule Toronia as a council of nobles.”

  With you as its head, I suppose? Just you try to take the crown from me and my brothers!

  Footsteps echoed down the passage. Elodie muttered a curse.

  Back so soon? I’ve barely had time to hear anything. . . .

  She pulled herself hurriedly away from the wall. When the guard rounded the corner, she was peering at the painting closely.

  He held out the paper and quill. Elodie snatched them and scribbled enough notes to make her pretense at study convincing. There was nothing more she could do with the guard hovering beside her, so she marched back to the main corridor. The guard stumbled along in her wake.

  “Begging your pardon, my lady, but what was it you learned from the painting?” Elodie adopted her most withering tone. “Vicerin history, of course. The most worthy subject of them all, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Er, yes, my lady.”

  They threaded their way back through the labyrinthine castle corridors and a wide hall lined with suits of armor. When they reached her bedchamber in the tower, Elodie closed the door behind her, leaving the guard outside. Samial was waiting on the far side of the room.

  “We’ve got a lot to talk about,” she whispered.

  “Yes.” Samial didn’t need to speak quietly, since Elodie was the only person who could hear him; nonetheless, he sounded agitated.

  “What is it?” Elodie asked.

  “I have found Fessan.”

  Elodie sat down heavily on the bed. She had to know more, yet dreaded to hear it.

  “Where is he?” she hissed. “How is he?”

  “He is in one of the deep dungeons. They call it the water cell.”

  “The water cell? What’s that?”

  “It is very small. They keep it flooded, almost to the ceiling. Fessan is chained to the wall. If he stands, he can just keep his chin above the water. The water is very cold.”

  Elodie felt as if she’d been punched. She tried to imagine it. She couldn’t. “It’s torture,” she whispered.

  “Every day they drain the water so he can eat. They check his wounds, but they do not treat them. The wounds are going bad, I think.”

  “Oh, poor Fessan. Poor, poor Fessan.”

  “Shall I let him out?”

  Elodie stared at Samial agape. Invisible to ordinary eyes, like all ghosts Samial had a presence in the physical world. It had never occurred to her that her friend could simply set Fessan free. Yes, Samial could go back to the water cell, steal a key, and open the door. Fessan would run, and then . . .

  Then they’d catch him.

  She got up and walked unsteadily to the window. Down in the courtyard, a regiment of Vicerin soldiers stood in line. Captain Gandrell was pacing up and down before them, barking out orders.

  If he’s in as bad a way as Samial says, he won’t get five paces before they catch him and lock him up again. If he can even walk at all.

  “No.” It was such a small word. Yet it broke Elodie’s heart to say it. “We need a proper plan.”

  “Do you mean a battle plan?” There was a gleam in Samial’s ghostly eyes.

  “I suppose I do. But first we need information. Lord Vicerin is holding meetings with the other Ritherlee families. He’s with Lady Darrand right now. I tried to eavesdrop on what they were saying, but they keep such a close eye on everything I do.”

  “There are no eyes on me, Elodie. Shall I listen for you?”

  Despite everything, Elodie grinned. There was a way to gather intelligence after all.

  “Yes, Samial. You can be my eyes. And my ears. What better spy than a ghost!”

  CHAPTER 13

  The sun was setting behind the castle’s red towers. Elodie tagged along behind Lord and Lady Vicerin and Sylva as they strolled through one of the wide walled gardens near the south dining hall. The air was still and warm, and filled with the aroma of flowers. Beneath a tree filled with pink blossoms, a peacock fanned its glorious feathers and strutted around its mate. The hen pecked at the grass, apparently unimpressed.

  “Tonight there will be stuffed trout and quail egg tarts,” Lady Vicerin told her, smoothing the satin of her long, flowing dress. “You will enjoy it, I think.”

  Knowing how Fessan suffered in the dungeons below, Elodie doubted she’d enjoy one morsel.

  Just as they left the garden to cross the outer courtyard, the castle gates swung open. A horn blasted and four horsemen galloped in. As they rode straight up to them, Sylva and Lady Vicerin gasped and stepped back.

  Lord Vicerin stood his ground, his face pinched with annoyance. “What is the meaning of this?”

  The front rider was carrying a passenger: a hooded figure seated awkwardly on the saddle in front of him, its head lolling.

  The rider said nothing, merely drew back the hood.

  Now it was Elodie’s turn to gasp. The face that was revealed belonged to a young man, just a few years older than her. His face was gray except for two hectic spots of red on his cheeks. He was achingly familiar.

  “Cedric!” she cried.

  By now the other riders had dismounted. Taking great care, they lifted Cedric down from the saddle. Though the boy’s eyes were open, he seemed unaware of what was happening to him.

  They brought Cedric’s feet to the ground. As they held him upright, Cedric’s cloak fell open, revealing his right arm. It was bandaged at the elbow.

  Below the bandage there was nothing.

  Elodie froze, unable to believe what she was seeing. This can’t be happening. It just can’t!

  Cedric’s forearm had been severed.

  Lady Vicerin shrieked and fell to the ground in a dead faint.

  “Fetch a healer!” snapped Sylva, stepping over her mother’s prone body and placing her arm gently around her brother’s shoulders. “It’s all right, Cedric. You’re going to be all right.”

  Elodie wanted to join Sylva, but her feet felt as if they’d taken root. All she could do was stand and watch as Cedric was borne away.

  Oh, Cedric. I’m so sorry.

  Throughout it all Lord Vicerin stood in silence. When she glanced at him, Elodie saw that his quizzical look had been replaced by something else. It took her a moment to identify the expression. Then, at last, she had it.

  Lord Vicerin looked disgusted.

  The Room of Healing was situated at the top of a squat tower. The room was round, and although it had no windows, light flooded down from dozens of narrow apertures in the roof. It was quiet here, a place of sanctuary, a place of peace.

  Elodie’s mind was anything but peaceful. Seated with Lady Vicerin and Sylva beside Cedric’s bed, she felt sick. Sick to see Cedric so
horribly wounded, and sick that Lord Vicerin had not seen fit to visit, even when the healer had pronounced him close to death.

  “I can’t believe Father isn’t here,” Sylva whispered in Elodie’s ear. Elodie jumped, startled to hear her own thoughts spoken aloud. “Cedric nearly died fighting in his forsaken war.”

  “Please, there is no need to whisper,” said Lady Vicerin, regarding them both through tearstained eyes. “Oh, my boy. My poor, poor boy.” She tightened her grip on Cedric’s left hand.

  His only hand, thought Elodie with a shudder.

  “But why isn’t he here?” said Sylva. Was that a note of defiance in her voice? Or just raw emotion?

  “Your father is a busy man,” said Lady Vicerin defensively. “He will come.”

  Elodie thought that unlikely. From the look on Sylva’s face, it was clear she shared her doubts.

  “How is he?” Elodie asked the healer, who had just finished adjusting the fresh bandage she’d wrapped around the stump of Cedric’s arm.

  “He will sleep,” the woman replied gently. She was round and placid; her white apron was immaculate. “I have given him a sleeping draft. Given time, he will recover.”

  Bowing low, she left the room.

  “It breaks my heart that my boy can no longer carry his sword,” said Lady Vicerin. “All he ever wanted to do was to honor his father.”

  Who can’t stand to look at him now.

  With a flurry of petticoats Lady Vicerin rose to her feet. She bent and kissed Cedric’s forehead. “Sleep well, my boy. Heal fast.”

  As Sylva and Elodie followed her into the corridor, a pair of guards fell into step behind them. Sylva waved them away.

  “I will walk with my sister alone,” she said.

  “But we have orders . . .” the first guard began.

  To Elodie’s surprise, Lady Vicerin turned on him, her red-rimmed eyes flashing. “Do you refuse my daughter’s request?” she snapped. “My son lies broken in that room and you will not let the girls grieve in peace? Get you gone!”

  “Of course, my lady,” said the second guard hurriedly. With some relief, Elodie watched him hustle his companion away.

  Sylva kissed Lady Vicerin’s cheek. “Thank you, Mother.”