Candlewax

by C. Bailey Sims

  “Bessie, we’ve got to find Cyril and Menard. Quick, hurry!”

  Outside in the cold Cinnan air Catherine listened. A breeze was softly rustling the top boughs of the tall pine trees. She felt nothing, heard nothing.

  Catherine pulled the dagger out of its knot. She closed her eyes and thought of Cyril and Menard. For a moment all she could see was the bright orange-red of the sunlight coming through her eyelids. She concentrated harder, picturing the two men, expectant. Slowly the colors changed. She was looking at the dark interior of the dining room. There was a door. It glowed bluish and swung open. There was a blinding white light and then the vision ceased.

  “We’re on the wrong side of the fortress!” Catherine bolted back through the cliff, Bessie right behind her. They ran down the hall and made their way into the dining room. There was the door. Why have I never seen it before? Has it always been there? With the dagger still in her hand, she pulled it open and ran into the cold, brilliant air.

  There in front of her was the entire population of Cinna Fortress. They were sitting on the curved rock benches of an amphitheater built into a side of the cliff. She and Bessie had just rushed onstage. In the center, three blackened stone pillars were surrounded by enough wood, sticks, and brush to start bonfires.

  Catherine gasped, a scream strangled in her throat. There were three people bound with ropes to the pillars. She couldn’t see their faces, but in her heart she knew. Cyril in the center. Menard on his right. She ran forward to see the face of the third figure. Quor. The Speaker stared ahead, resigned and brave.

  “RUN!” yelled Cyril when he saw Catherine. But her feet were rooted to the ground, her eyes locked with his.

  On the side of the stage, Cinnan guards stood over a terrified group of men and women whose wrists were tied behind their backs, seated on two rows of stone benches. The other Speakers, thought Catherine.

  Ensconced in carved granite thrones that towered above the stage were Magnus and Julia. There, in plain view around her pale neck, was the amulet. Sick with dread, Catherine’s eyes rose to Julia’s face; its cold beauty was twisted with triumph.

  “What are you doing?” screamed Catherine at Julia. She felt Bessie grab her arm. The children in the crowd cried and flinched at her words, their white faces sad and scared. Magnus rose slowly and stretched his hands out over the crowd. A hush fell.

  “How dare you do this to my friends!” Catherine shouted. Her voice rang out like a bell into the amphitheater. “I demand that you cut them loose at once. Where is Pokos?” Her dagger was still in hand.

  “Catherine, run while you still have a chance!” shouted Quor. “Find the Crossers and seek shelter! They...” A guard stepped forward and struck him across the face with a long staff.

  It was too late to run. Cinnans in priestly garb surrounded Catherine and Bessie. Menard’s eyes glowered and he wriggled and jolted against the ropes, spitting out curses.

  “Catherine, Magnus says... to tell you... that you are just in time to watch Julia... complete the sacrifice of Cyril, Menard, and me,” said Quor through heavy breaths.

  “Don’t!” pleaded Catherine, searching Magnus’s face for a trace of mercy. “You have the talisman now. Just let us go and we won’t bother you anymore. We have never done anything to you.”

  “Magnus says that your coming here at the time of sacrifice was meant to save Cinnan lives. Magnus says it is an... an honor,” wheezed Quor, the ropes cutting into his chest, “but it really serves”—he struggled to get the words out— “to keep him in power—Aaaah!” The priest standing next to Quor jabbed him in the gut with his wooden staff. Magnus grinned and his cruel eyes bore down on Quor.

  Julia rose to her feet, casting a smug look at Catherine. She lifted the pendant and held it in the same way Catherine had dozens of times, with her thumb placed in the indentation on the back. She seemed to float down the stone carved steps from her throne to the stage. For the first time Catherine noticed a stone brazier with waves of heat rippling the air above it. On the plinth next to it was an unlit torch. Julia picked it up, looked at Catherine, and set it alight. She glided toward Menard.

  Cyril screamed, “NO!” His eyes were wild with horror.

  “Don’t worry, Cyril. With all this wood it will be over in minutes. Be strong,” said Menard, his chin jutting out.

  Catherine saw a movement in the first row of Cinnans. Mekrita! They must have brought her straight here. She was still wearing the same robe she had had on at the spring and her hair was stringy and damp. A red blanket was draped over her shoulders. Her eyes met Catherine’s with urgent determination. She was mouthing something. What is she trying to say?

  Julia had started a low humming, and she looked upon Menard with a triumphant, closed-lipped smile. She held the torch high and made circles in the air with the flame, bringing it closer and closer to the pyre that surrounded Menard’s pillar.

  Mekrita suddenly stood up and continued to mouth words to Catherine. In a flash Catherine understood.

  “DURAY PRINCIPAS!” Catherine yelled at Julia. Julia stopped humming, her eyes wide with surprise. The torch was just inches away. A spark shot off the flame and landed in the brush. Julia dropped the pendant and stared at the tiny wisp of smoke, her lips parted in anticipation.

  “DURAY PRINCIPAS!” Catherine shouted again at the top of her lungs. The words echoed off the surrounding rock cliffs.

  Julia looked at her father, perplexed. He raised his hand at her and scowled. She shrugged, walked back to the brazier, and let the torch fall inside, her movements languid with contempt. Glaring at Catherine, Julia stood at the feet of her father, her hand once again on the amulet. Mekrita beamed and nodded. Quor appeared amazed at the turn of events.

  As she felt the priests release their grip, Catherine dashed to Menard. She scrambled over the wood and sliced through his bonds with her dagger while Bessie stomped on the smoldering brush. The old counselor stumbled off the pyre, rubbing his wrists and ribcage. Catherine ran to Cyril next, the Cinnan guards making no move to stop her.

  “We have some time now, Cyril,” Catherine whispered to him, as she pried the dagger under the rope.

  His eyes glowed. “You are full of surprises, Catherine,” he whispered back. Once free, he leapt off the pyre and reached back for her hand. She took it and leapt lightly to the ground.

  Better free Quor before they change their minds. In a minute Quor, too, stood with them on the stage.

  “Release the other Speakers!” Catherine shouted.

  “The right of Duray Principas does not permit you to command here, Catherine,” said Quor. “Unfortunately,” he added glumly. “Magnus wishes that you state your request of Duray Principas. Be careful how you phrase it, Catherine. Don’t leave anything, or anyone, out.”

  Catherine looked at the large, expectant crowd and gulped. Julia had taken her throne once more. Catherine’s hands were shaking. She closed her eyes, took a breath, and felt a calm resolve take hold. Opening her eyes, she gazed at her silent, staring audience.

  “I, Princess Catherine of Crystallia, demand to have what is rightfully mine—the Ancient Onyxes. I demand my safe release and that of my friends—Menard, Cyril, Bessie, and Spelopokos—and... the safety of the Speakers, including Mekrita, as well as the promise that the people of Cinna will do nothing to hinder or stop us in fulfilling the prophecy.”

  “Well said, Catherine!” cried Quor, who fell silent so he could proclaim Catherine’s intent to the crowd. Magnus clenched his fists. Slowly the people began to stand, starting with Mekrita in the front row. Only Julia, Magnus, and the priests remained seated. Either these priests don’t take sides, or they are on the side of Magnus and Julia, thought Catherine.

  Menard smiled at Catherine. “Nice speech, missy,” he whispered.

  “What will be your contest, Catherine?” asked Quor.

  “What are the choices?” she replied.

  “You must decide. It is the way of Duray Principas. If Julia and M
agnus agree to the terms of the contest—and they must agree or you will have to choose something else—then there is the question of proxies. You will also have first choice of who will be your contestant if you do not wish to complete the task or battle yourself.”

  “Can I think about it? How long do I have?” Once more, Catherine was gripped with uncertainty. What contest should I choose?

  Menard poked her with his elbow and nodded his head in Cyril’s direction. “Longbow,” he muttered. He kept his eyes downcast and his hands clasped nonchalantly behind his back. Catherine looked quickly at Cyril. He nodded firmly in agreement. Menard had begun to whistle softly and rock back and forth on his heels.

  “Longbow,” cried Catherine to the crowd. “I choose a contest of longbow. The best archer with the most accurate shots at a distance of...” She paused and glanced sideways at Menard.

  Menard coughed and sputtered out, “One hundred and twenty yards.” Had she heard right? One hundred and twenty yards? Isn’t that too far? Menard coughed out the number again.

  “...One hundred and twenty yards wins the contest,” Catherine shouted to the crowd.

  Julia and Magnus were staring at each other in conference. Finally Quor spoke. “Magnus and Julia accept the contest of longbow. The bows will have to be crafted, as Cinnans have no use for this weapon.” Menard grinned at the answer but Quor looked circumspect.

  “Will you have a proxy, Catherine?” asked Quor.

  “Yes. Cyril, king of Candlewax!”

  Cyril looked resolute. A bit of a smile played at his lips until his eyes met the gazes of Julia and Magnus and suddenly clouded with fury.

  Menard clapped Cyril on the back, grinning. He turned to Catherine and murmured, “Princess, it takes a true leader to discern good counsel. You did well. Only fools seeks to do everything themselves, unable to delegate.”

  “Julia has chosen Pulquin,” said Quor. A slight man in his mid-twenties in the front row stood up and raised his hand. “As soon as the bows and arrows are ready, the contest will take place. Until then, your safety is guaranteed and you are free to craft your bow with whatever materials and tools we have to offer. Magnus grants that I assist you.” Quor bowed courteously to Catherine and Cyril.

  “That Pulquin fellow probably never shot a bow in his life,” said Menard gleefully.

  “True, Menard, but this may not be as easy as you think,” said Quor. “Magnus and Julia would not have accepted if they didn’t think they could win. That is what worries me. It won’t be just Pulquin we’ll be facing.” Catherine followed Quor’s gaze to where Julia and Magnus sat, still staring at them. Julia’s hand was toying with the pendant. The smirk had returned to her face.

  Outside the Overlook Room, huge, dripping icicles hung in front of the windows, the sky was pale blue, and the morning star still shone. Cyril watched Spelopokos pace, his tail swishing in irritation, and smiled. Ever since the cat had found out that Julia had drawn him closer with the amulet, Pokos had refused to let the Cinnan priestess approach him.

  “Now, about the bow—” said Menard, his bushy gray eyebrows knit together in thought.

  “Yew wood is best, of course,” interrupted Cyril. “Elm or oak would do, but yew is finer. And we’ll need pine for the arrow shafts, horn for the nocks, feathers, flax string for the bow. Bronze arrowheads would be good.”

  Quor frowned. “Yew. That’s a difficult wood to obtain. I remember a grove in All Souls Ravine, but we could run into Crossers—or worse, fairrier cats.”

  “I can deal with the fairrier cats,” growled Pokos.

  “Very well,” said Quor. “We must return before darkness. The cats hunt mostly after sunset. As for the Crossers, we will just have to take our chances.”

  They met outside the fortress, all of them dressed in the white garb of the Cinnans, each with Pokos’s fur in their boots. Quor had filled Catherine’s pack with ropes, pulleys, a saw, and a hatchet. Cyril marveled at her spirit. Not a word of complaint!

  Quor himself bore a huge sack over his shoulder and Cyril wondered if it contained more equipment. The Speaker’s face was lined with worry. This man has put his life on the line for us, he thought. With his crossbow and bolts slung across his back, and his sword belted on his waist, Cyril jogged after Spelopokos, their protector, and Quor, their guide. I hope I never have to kill another fairrier cat, he thought.

  They splashed through the melting slush at a punishing pace and Cyril was grateful for the waxed Cinnan pants that kept them dry. The sun climbed in the morning sky until Cyril was sweating under its heat. They only stopped every few miles to drink from the water skins that Bessie carried.

  At last, they reached the brink of the great chasm. Cyril’s eyes widened in shock at the huge expanse of it. By the trees of Candlewax, this is big!

  “All Souls Ravine forms natural barrier between the mountains of the Cinnan Range and those of Tabrek,” explained Quor, panting despite the fairrier cat fur. “It was named for all the lost and foolhardy souls who have tried to cross from Lackanay into Cinna. Not even Cinnans have made the full descent to the bottom, though we sometimes climb down part way to gather rare plants.”

  Across the gulf, the snow-covered peaks of Tabrek shimmered like white beacons. Pokos sniffed the wind, his eyes a bright green. Somewhere on the other side was the cave where he had been born.

  About twenty feet away at the edge of the precipice, stood a huge gnarled tree, its trunk as big as a small house. Festive green needles clung to the windswept branches. “Why, that’s a yew right there,” said Menard. “It looks as ancient as Cinna Gate,” he observed admiringly. “How many winters has it passed? A thousand? More?”

  “Too old and crooked for a good bow stave, though,” said Cyril. “Even the branches are twisted by the wind.”

  Menard put a bit of melting slush in his mouth and chewed it. “I have made enough bows in my life to know what a good bow stave is,” he announced with his mouth full. “You’re forgetting who helped you make your first bow, your highness.”

  “I was eight years old, and I have not forgotten, wise counselor.” Cyril bumped him hard with his shoulder, grinning. Menard swooped down, scooped up a handful of slush, and plastered it neatly on Cyril’s head. Catherine and Bessie caught their breath. Noting the girls’ expressions, Cyril looked very stern, then with a laugh, shoved slush down Menard’s back. Menard twisted away from Cyril, lost his balance, and fell backward on his butt.

  “Enough! Enough!” scolded Quor, shocked. “Your lives and mine are at stake. Aren’t you concerned?”

  Of course we’re concerned. That’s why we need a bit of levity, thought Cyril.

  Menard hooted with laughter. Bessie and Catherine laughed against their wills. Cyril offered his hand to Menard. “It seems you have slipped somehow, O Wise One.”

  Menard slapped it away good-naturedly and rose, brushing the slush off his backside. “Quor, believe you me. No one can beat Cyril at longbow. He practices most every day, ‘cept lately ‘o course. Gotta be better than that Pulquin fellow.”

  “I certainly hope so,” said Quor indignantly. He marched off to the yew. Bessie and Catherine coughed and followed obediently, casting warning glances back at Cyril and Menard.

  As he approached the lip of the canyon Cyril felt as if an invisible force were pulling him from his navel straight down into the abyss. Dizzy, he drew back. A very narrow goat trail crossed back and forth down the rock face of the ravine in multiple switchbacks. Cyril gulped. It can’t be more than eight inches wide! There was no way to see straight down to the bottom from where they were, because the rock face curved inward as it descended.

  Cyril watched as Catherine removed her pack. She and Bessie peered over the edge. I can do this. He swallowed. “Where are the trees?” he asked.

  “Just beyond the overhang,” replied Quor. “You and I will tie on here. Leave your weapons”—Cyril gulped again but kept his face calm—“Pokos, Menard, and the girls can pull the tree up once we cut th
e one you want.”

  “I am not a beast of burden,” said Pokos, offended. “I eat beasts of burden.”

  “But we will need your strength to bring the tree up to the top of the ravine,” protested Quor. Pokos shut his eyes and shook his head.

  “Please, Pokos,” Catherine said. “It’s not like you’ll be carrying crops to market, or pulling a plough. You will be securing the wood needed to make the bow that will win the Duray Principas and get the amulet back. It will be the stuff of legends.”

  Pokos opened his eyes. Catherine was relieved to see that they were green. “I suppose that I could do it for Lackanay,” he said with a sigh.

  Quor rigged a pulley system using a branch of the old yew tree. Then he fastened two ropes around a large boulder about ten feet away from the edge, tying knots with practiced ease. “Keep your feet braced against the cliff. Don’t look down—just keep looking at the rock in front of you. You’ll be fine.”

  “How will we get back up?” asked Cyril nonchalantly.

  “We’ll climb. You shouldn’t have any problem,” said Quor. He tied the saw and the hatchet to his belt over his left hip.

  “The rope looks stout, sire. No weak spots,” said Menard.

  Cyril spat over the edge and watched until it disappeared. “That’s a comfort, Menard. It truly is.”

  Quor straddled the rope while facing the boulder, pulling the coil around behind his right hip, then up around the front of his torso and over his left shoulder, letting it unwind itself over the edge of the cliff. Then he grabbed the dangling rope with his right hand while gripping the section in front of him, passing it through his legs with his left hand. It was frightfully complicated. Cyril removed his crossbow and sword belt and copied him, trying hard to look like he knew what he was doing.