* * *
Cyril stood by Ty, holding his reins in one hand and stroking the horse’s neck with the other. Horses are so easy to understand. Cyril had known in an instant, when she had laughed, whom Catherine resembled. Stephen, king of Crystallia. One moment she had been Kenneth of Gant, valiant and impertinent stable boy in the service of the princess, and the next she had been the most intriguing woman he had ever seen. It had stunned him.
Once he realized the truth, he chastised himself for not seeing it sooner.
He had thought young Kenneth a bit girlish. Cyril smiled in the darkness, picturing her face, the fire in her eyes, the long eyelashes, the high cheekbones. She had her father’s profile, elegant and strong in the nose and jaw. I should have guessed when I saw her uncallused hands.
Now he knew who had really shouted at him in defiance that night near Courtney Creek. Cyril smiled and shook his head. Now he knew, with a great deal of satisfaction, that Princess Catherine had truly admired the horse he had chosen for her. Now he knew that he must not let her slip through his hands again, especially into an unknown land that could be full of peril. She’s only sixteen. A surge of emotion swept through him, one he could not name.
Menard was approaching. Cyril noticed that the moon had shifted lower in the pale dawn sky. They had already put their torches out.
“Sire, Seth has signaled. The cat and the girl are almost here,” whispered Menard. “We’ve only a few minutes at the most.”
“Move into place,” commanded Cyril softly, jumping on Ty and riding to a spot in front of the towering stone arch. He spun his horse around and faced the trail. Menard, Conrad, William, and Sebastian joined him at the gate, as did Bessie, looking pale and drawn. Her dark hair hung limply over her shoulders. They had needed to restrain the poor girl when Cyril had told her she couldn’t come with them. Bessie had pleaded with him. Finally Cyril agreed. Putting her through that wretched dance at the feast had been enough, even though it served to prove what he already knew—she was not Catherine. The girl’s hair had merely confirmed it.
I will make Catherine listen to reason. This quest of hers can certainly wait until her father has a chance to talk to her. If King Stephen indeed had more details of the prophecy, as Bessie thought, then it would be wise for Catherine to hear them before passing through Cinna Gate with the fairrier cat. Once through the Gate, no one will be able to help her. No one has strength enough to endure crossing under the Gate without the protection of the Ancient Onyxes. At least that was what Bessie had told him.
Cyril remembered his father warning him of the ancient arch. It sapped strength and left only a shell of a man, if you were unlucky enough to live. There was absolutely nothing at all alluring about the narrow trail on the other side of Cinna Gate, except that it was forbidden ground, provided only for those who were invited to pass safely under the enchanted arch.
Cinna Gate itself looked as if it had weathered thousands of years. Worn-away markings covered the arch, but they had long since lost their meaning. The stone was dark and gray, just like the rock walls of the mountainside. To touch the Gate was not strange in the least, but to pass one’s hand into the space under it gave the trespasser a small taste of annihilation. The hand would become painfully paralyzed for days, then, gradually, it would return to normal.
Only the sounds that occasionally echoed down through the high walls of rock on either side of the trail hinted of the mysteries waiting to be revealed. Menard and Cedric, Cyril’s own father, had heard them more than once. Haunting cries of great longing. Sorrowful yowls sung to a vast emptiness. It changed a man to hear them.
Ty whinnied. Suddenly they saw Spelopokos and Catherine coming around the curve in the trail. Cyril clenched Ty’s reins in surprise. The fairrier cat was running like the wind. His large white head seemed to soar above the trail as he lunged forward with long, powerful strides. Catherine was barely visible as she clung to his back. The cat was not slowing down.
Surely he must see us. Ty whinnied nervously and danced in place as Cyril fought to control him.
“Easy, Ty.”
Still Spelopokos did not slow down.
“Stop, Spelopokos!” he commanded. Why won’t the cat listen? Cyril thought of the crossbow slung across his back. He refused to pull it forward, even though he knew that he was quick enough to hit the cat. “I order you to STOP!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.
The great fairrier cat ran straight at him with unrelenting purpose. Ty reared up on his hind legs and lashed out with his hooves at the attacking cat. As if in a dream, Cyril watched as Spelopokos sprang off of his back paws and leaped high in the air above him, right through the Gate. Cyril caught a glimpse of surprise on Catherine’s face as she looked back at him. The great fairrier cat landed on his front and then his hind paws, continuing a pace before stopping and turning.
“Alas, Cyril, fate has a different course for Catherine.” Pokos’s breathless voice was full of purpose.
“No!” Cyril shouted. He quickly dismounted and stood at the Gate facing Spelopokos and Catherine.
“Perhaps, when our quest is complete, you may renew your courtship of Princess Catherine,” Spelopokos suggested.
“Bessie! You told him! You told Cyril!” cried Catherine with disbelief.
“Bessie was loyal to you, Catherine,” countered Menard. “The Candlewax king recognized the likeness you have to your father. He knew it at the feast and told me later. Bit of a surprise it was, I can tell you that! Under our noses the whole time!”
“I’m sorry, Catherine. There was nothing I could do to warn you!” pleaded Bessie.
Cyril looked at Catherine. She was strong and courageous and beautiful. What if I never see her again? She was regarding him now, a strange expression on her face. Is that regret in her eyes?
Cyril turned to Menard and handed him Ty’s reins. Menard looked down at him, aghast.
“Don’t, sire! Don’t even think about it,” Menard said in horror.
“I must go with her, Menard! You are in charge of the kingdom until I return. Swear the men to secrecy. I’ll not have Kallik’s spies knowing I’m gone.” Cyril’s voice was calm and firm. He took a water skin from off of Ty’s saddle and slung it over his shoulder.
“You’ll die, Cyril! No one has ever crossed without the talisman. Do not attempt it!” Spelopokos roared.
Cyril looked at Catherine, his eyes locked with hers. He saw the exhaustion in her face, the resolve in her demeanor. Allow me to share your burden, Catherine. “Throw me the talisman!” His voice boomed off of the rock cliffs on either side. There was a grave silence after his command.
Catherine’s voice shook as she struggled for control. “I don’t need your help, Cyril. It is my destiny, not yours. Go back to your horses and your burning trees and your castle. Spelopokos and I are just fine.”
“You are in my care, Catherine. It is my duty to protect you! I have an obligation to Crystallia. The honor of Candlewax is at stake!” The moment Cyril said those words he regretted them. Duty and honor be damned. Why is she so stubborn? Why did I say that? What is it that I feel, exactly?
“Duty and honor? Is your honor so fragile? Is my safety such an obligation?” Catherine’s hoarse questions cut him. I can’t lose you, Catherine, Cyril wanted to shout. I must tell her that I care for her, at least. I may never see her again. Catherine sat defiantly upon the great fairrier cat. Spelopokos began to turn away. In an instant they would be out of sight.
“I am coming through this Gate, with or without the pendant!” Cyril shouted, furious with himself and amazed that he meant what he said. Spelopokos turned back toward him, alarmed. Cyril’s men shouted their protests. Cyril braced himself to lunge through the Gate.
“Stop!” screamed Catherine, her face drained of color. Slowly she pulled the pendant off of her neck. “I won’t have your death upon my head.” She threw him the talisman. Cyril snatched it out of the air reflexively, looking at it in wonder. The silver chain of
the necklace was still warm. Catherine’s warmth.
“No! I’ll not let you do this, sire!” Menard had jumped off his horse and grabbed Cyril by the arm. “I promised your father that I would look after you! This is madness—you cannot go!” he shouted into Cyril’s face.
Cyril looked at his most faithful friend and mentor and smiled. “Never say ‘you can’t’ to a king, Menard,” he replied warmly. “But if you would feel better about it, then join us. William will take charge of the castle, won’t you, William?” Cyril looked at the large soldier still sitting on his horse, dumbfounded. William nodded his head in stalwart agreement.
“Give him our horses, Menard!”
Menard passed the reins of the horses to the speechless William.
“I must go, too! I’ll not be left behind,” yelled Bessie. She scrambled off her horse and fastened herself stubbornly to Cyril’s other arm. Cyril looked down at her and shrugged in acquiescence. The girl has come this far.
Cyril put the chain over his head and looked at Menard, then Bessie.
Menard muttered under his breath, “This had better work, sire.” He turned and said to no one in particular, “Tell Tilda that I’m sorry, and that, you know... that I care for her.”
“Ready?” Cyril asked. They gripped his arms tightly. “Now!” He strode under the stone arch. His skin prickled and felt cold, but he kept walking, Menard and Bessie fastened to him on either side, all of them holding their breath. Once through the Gate they exhaled mightily with relief. The king’s men cheered.
Catherine jumped off of Spelopokos and held her hand out for the pendant. Cyril fought the urge to embrace her. Instead he lifted the talisman off with a defiant grin and put it in her hand. His eyes searched her face. He caught a glimmer of relief there and nearly laughed at her annoyance. She’s glad I’m alive, in spite of herself.
“Just don’t expect me to obey your commands,” she muttered.
“We will be lucky to get out of Cinna alive,” grumbled Spelopokos with resignation. “You walk,” he growled to Catherine as she made to climb upon his back.
“But—”
“We’re certainly a merry band now, aren’t we?” Spelopokos’s tone was wry, but his eyes shone green as he surveyed their faces. He swished his tail dramatically and headed up the trail, the others following behind.
Seth, who had finally caught up with the others from his position down the trail, appeared especially forlorn and confused, looking to the older soldiers for some sign that they could stop the king and somehow bring him back to Candlewax—to change what he saw happening before him.
William was silent, his eyes grim and jaw set—his massive arms and anvil hands straining to keep control of Ty—his thoughts already weighted with the responsibility of Candlewax. Even Conrad, always ready with a quick joke, for once had nothing to say. Ty neighed loudly, sending an echo through the rock chasm.
Only the fourth man of Candlewax looked on dispassionately, fingering the loose crystal in his pocket. His calculating expression was hidden from the others behind curtains of wavy black hair. He wondered what it might be like to have two crystals in his pocket. Maybe even three. What will it be worth, knowing about this foolish mission of Cyril’s?
The boy is obviously in love. No one in his right mind would have crossed through Cinna Gate for that wench. She certainly didn’t behave like any princess he had ever met; not that he had met many princesses—just Cyril’s mother, Elizabeth, before she had married Cedric. She had been an annoying woman, always sticking her nose where it didn’t belong.
He resisted the temptation to spit. Menard never should have made William captain of the King’s Guard. That honor should have gone to me. Now both of them will suffer. For that satisfaction Sebastian would have been willing to forgo the crystal payments. Still, he would feign reluctance, even anguished loyalty. Kallik didn’t have to know what a pleasure this was going to be.
Sharp winds sped over the desert, picking up clouds of biting dirt and sand and whipping them into suffocating storms. No one cared. Not a plant grew. Not a snake slithered. No roots bound the soil to the desert floor. Whole hills of dirt and sand could shift overnight and no one would notice.
Occasionally enough sand moved to expose the only living things that remained in Devona, creatures that loathed to be exposed. Even in their dormant state the trodliks moved fourteen legs and front claws in a mechanical digging motion until they were once again hidden from the world above.
But this night was different, for Lackanay had no fairrier cat to protect it. As the cold wind obscured the full moon with billows of sand, the trodliks began to stir. First the front legs and short pinching claws twitched, then they uncurled their white armored bodies and began to excavate themselves. Like a great magnet, an opportunity was pulling them closer to the surface.
Mechanically, methodically, with no thought whatsoever, the trodliks dug their way to the surface. Millions of them rose from deep within the sand in an unholy mass of legs, claws, mouths, and pointed backsides. If anyone had been watching as dawn approached, they would have seen the sand on the desert floor of Devona twitching and jiggling with the gyrations of the hungry trodliks.
By sunrise, the seething white mass was a foot deep, each fingerlength creature propelling itself the best it could over the backs of the others. Even with the encumbrance of their numbers, the trodliks would be capable of covering several miles a day in their relentless trek toward Lackanay.
PART II
LAND OF THE ANCIENTS
Warren limped toward the center hall of Krenaka Fortress, where Kallik awaited him. He was wearing a green tunic with long sleeves that hid the bandage over his wound. They had told him he was lucky to still have his arm. Lucky. Warren ground his very large teeth together and walked a bit faster. What I would like to do to that fairrier cat if it ever crosses my path again. His left side still tingled and he was hard of hearing in his left ear.
He paused outside the hall, wondering again why Kallik had summoned him. This would only be the third time that Warren had been in the ruler’s presence, yet he did not remember being this nervous before. One of the guards at the doorway motioned for him to enter. He cleared his throat and walked into the room, trying hard not to breathe too deeply. The smell was even worse than he remembered. The smell of power, he reminded himself. He wondered if he would ever become immune to the stench. Rumor had it that Kallik bathed only once or twice a year because he hated to be without his fairrier cat robe.
“Hail, Kallik. I arrive at your bidding.” Warren bowed as low as his weakened torso permitted. There was a hooded stranger in the room standing next to Kallik. Perhaps he is the cause of the summons, thought Warren with alarm. He cast a furtive glance at the man. His face was well back in the shadows of the hood.
“Approach, Warren,” growled Kallik in a low voice. Warren had been afraid he would say that. He went closer. Kallik sat on an old, intricately carved Tabrekian throne. His hands, if you could call them that, tapped restlessly on the armrests. Warren tried not to stare at the long yellow claws growing out of Kallik’s shortened fingers. He forced his eyes back to Kallik’s face. It seemed as if he were looking at two faces: the floppy, lifeless head of the dead fairrier cat that had been set like a gigantic gruesome jewel in a crown of gold, and the wrinkled, leathery face of Kallik himself. Sure enough, Warren noted the fairrier cat robe tied around Kallik’s shoulders. He was sitting on it. Without wanting to, Warren locked eyes with Kallik. His mouth grew dry. Those eyes.
Stories said that Kallik’s eyes had once been blue. That had been a long time ago. Now they were yellow. The last time Warren had seen eyes like Kallik’s he had nearly died.
“Kneel,” ordered Kallik. Warren knelt.
“Prostrate yourself.” Kallik smiled gently, baring his teeth. Like his eyes, Kallik’s teeth had slowly changed over the decades. Now he preferred to eat only meat, his teeth well suited for ripping and shredding. Warren painfully spread himself face
down on the stone floor. His arm was throbbing at the same fast tempo as his heart. Am I to be punished? Does Kallik think it was my fault the girl escaped? He knew Jessup had told Kallik everything. Everyone in the fortress had heard Jessup’s screams during Kallik’s questioning and word had spread from there.
What had enraged Kallik more than losing the girl, more than two dead men, more than his soldiers drinking against his orders, even more than that stripling of a Candlewax king, was discovering that Spelopokos was back. Jessup had paid dearly for telling him that—his back would be forever scarred with claw marks. Warren thought of his own back and clenched his eyes shut. He waited for the first blow. He could hear Kallik’s claws tapping on the armrests. Silence. He held his breath.
“You may rise, Warren.”
Warren sighed in relief and pushed himself up off the cold stone floor. He felt dizzy and weak.
“You have been loyal to me. Our informant wished to see your face. When the time comes he will reveal himself to you. Until then, we will speak of him only as the magnificent traitor. Why, he reminds me of me.” Kallik’s cold laugh echoed in the Great Hall. Warren joined in. So he was to play a part in some sort of treachery. Things are looking up. Jessup was still recovering, and he, Warren, was getting an important assignment straight from Kallik himself.
Warren stole a glimpse of the hooded man at Kallik’s side. His face was still obscured by the shadows. Kallik nodded to the figure and raised his hand toward a small leather pouch on the table next to his throne.
“A bargain has been struck. Take this half of your treasure now and make sure that all is in readiness for me. Your wealth will soon be the envy of others. We will await your report.” Kallik’s eyes gleamed with a sinister light.
The hooded figure inclined his head, but said nothing. With one large, hairy hand he grasped the pouch and with the other he pulled the hood closed over his face. The cloak swirled around him as he strode out of the room, leaving behind a clean, aromatic scent that Warren couldn’t place.
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