Praise for
Fortress of Mist
“Sigmund Brouwer’s masterful storytelling and eye for detail turn Fortress of Mist into a grand—and harrowing—adventure for every reader. You’ll feel the grime of castle dungeons, the sting of sword blades, and the elation of victory. It’s a story full of surprising twists, shocking betrayals, and baffling mysteries. But at its heart, this book is about courage, wisdom, and hope—and losing yourself in a fabulous story well told.”
—ROBERT LIPARULO, author of The 13th Tribe, The Judgment Stone, and the Dreamhouse Kings series
“Sigmund Brouwer spins an exciting story with Fortress of Mist, full of classic elements and clever twists. His style is reminiscent of the wonderful Lloyd Alexander, and I felt both comfortably familiar with the unfolding story and pleasantly surprised by new plot developments. As the young orphan hero struggling to establish himself as ruler in a world of courtly intrigues and dangerous Druids, Thomas will appeal to boys and girls, young and old. Brouwer keeps us guessing, and I was particularly interested by his use of scientific “magic.” An engaging read that will leave readers eager to pick up the next volume.”
—ANNE ELISABETH STENGL, author of the award-winning Tales of Goldstone Wood series
“From the first line, readers will be hooked into this page-turning adventure. An engaging and compelling read.”
—DEBBIE VIGUIÉ, author of Kiss of Death
OTHER NOVELS BY SIGMUND BROUWER
Merlin’s Immortals Series: The Orphan King
The Canary List
Flight of Shadows
Broken Angel
Fuse of Armageddon
The Last Sacrifice
The Last Disciple
The Weeping Chamber
Out of the Shadows
Crown of Thorns
The Lies of Saints
The Leper
Blood Ties
Double Helix
Evening Star
Silver Moon
Sun Dance
Thunder Voice
Degrees of Guilt
FORTRESS OF MIST
PUBLISHED BY WATERBROOK PRESS
12265 Oracle Boulevard, Suite 200
Colorado Springs, Colorado 80921
The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Sigmund Brouwer
Cover design by Mark Ford
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published in the United States by WaterBrook Multnomah, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House Inc., New York.
WATERBROOK and its deer colophon are registered trademarks of Random House Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Brouwer, Sigmund, 1959–
Fortress of mist : a novel / Sigmund Brouwer.—First edition.
pages cm.—(Merlin’s immortals; book 2)
Merlin’s immortals is a revised and expanded version of The winds of light series.
eISBN: 978-0-307-73122-7
[1. Druids and druidism—Fiction. 2. Knights and knighthood—Fiction. 3.
Civilization, Medieval—Fiction. 4. Christian life—Fiction. 5. Great Britain—
History—Medieval period, 1066-1485—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.B79984Fp 2013
[Fic]—dc23
2012039449
v3.1_r1
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Midsummer, Northern England—AD 1312
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
MIDSUMMER, NORTHERN ENGLAND—AD 1312
Thomas woke to a kiss on the forehead from a woman he once believed he had loved, a woman who had betrayed and spied upon him, a woman he had watched die.
But now, in the light of the single candle she held, she looked down upon him and smiled.
Isabelle.
“Thomas,” she whispered. “Thomas, I have returned.”
He tried to rub his face, but it felt as though his arms were pressed against his side. And because movement seemed nearly impossible, he told himself that he was still in the dream he’d been having before she kissed him.
In the dream, he’d been standing upon the same crest where he had seen the kingdom of Magnus for the first time.
At that initial sighting, the island in the center of the lake that protected Magnus had been placid, reflecting the sheep- and cattle-dotted hills that surrounded it. Then, the high stone walls that ringed the island and protected those inside had cast shadow onto the narrow drawbridge that made a full attack impossible.
In his dream, this was not how Magnus had appeared. In his dream, it had looked as it did on some of the mornings when Thomas would climb to a high point and wait for the sun to break over the opposite side of the valley, watching shrouds of gray swirl upward from the water to hide the walls, so that the castle appeared to be a fortress of mist.
In his dream, he felt the same undefinable loneliness of yearning that drove him to sit in solitude and wait for the sun to burn away the mist and reveal the unmistakable reality of stone and iron that Thomas had conquered. In his dream, he still knew the truth: Sarah, his mother and the one who taught him of his destiny, had died. William, the knight who’d become a friend and mentor, was gone. Katherine, the first person in Magnus he could trust, had disappeared. In his dream, he felt as he did in waking—that the victorious joy he felt as the rightful heir of his reclaimed kingdom had dissolved into the burdens of duty, no differently than the mists evaporated in sunlight.
In his dream, he’d heard a voice from the mist calling his name, until the softness of lips against his forehead had pulled him from the mists and brought him the realization that it was Isabelle.
“Thomas,” she whispered. “Thomas, I have returned.”
More awake now, Thomas told himself to reach under his pillow for the dagger he kept there as protection. While soldiers guarded the only door into his bedchamber, high up in the castle, Magnus still contained too much mystery. Trust, he had early decided, was a dangerous luxury, and he always slept with a weapon nearby.
With great effort, he pulled
his arms away from his body, yet it felt as if his hands were moving through warm tar. He let out a deep breath and tried to sit, but could move no further. His silk sleeping gown rustled softly as he tried to move, but it felt like a giant hand held him in place, squeezing him at the waist. What was happening to him? Could it be that he still dreamed, but dreamed that he was awake?
“Thomas,” Isabelle said, her voice too clear, too urgent, to be the work of his sleeping mind. “I offer no harm. We must speak.”
Shadows of the candle flickered across her face.
Impossible. He had seen the blow that had crushed her skull.
Her death had occurred shortly after Thomas had brought Isabelle for an audience, to interrogate her for her actions in the days just before and just after he had won the kingdom. He had been leaning forward to absorb the words he would never forget.
“Thomas, there is a great circle of conspiracy. Much larger than you and I … and there is much at stake.… Haven’t you wondered why this castle is set so securely, so far away from the outer world? Why would anyone bother attacking a village here? Yet an impenetrable castle was founded. And by no less a wizard than Merlin.”
That’s when the door had exploded open. A man, rushing toward them with a short club extended, the guards on his heels. The man swinging the club before Thomas could dive forward. Isabelle, motionless with blood matting her hair. Her attacker had worn the peculiar cross symbol on his ring that matched the medallion hanging on a chain around Isabelle’s neck.
Hours later, her head bandaged but still unconscious, Isabelle’s ragged breathing had slowed, then stopped, and she had died in his arms while the doctor looked on, shaking his head grimly, his fingers still stained with her blood.
“Thomas, there is a great circle of conspiracy … much at stake.”
The woman who had blurted those words before dying now stood before him, holding a candle, speaking his name.
Impossible.
His tongue felt fat and sandy in his mouth. “Who are you?”
“You know.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“You know who I am. I am your Isabelle.”
His head was clearing, and as it did, an idea came. He had known very little about the young woman who had beguiled him on the journey to conquering Magnus. While it didn’t explain how the woman in front of him had made it past the soldiers outside his bedchamber, perhaps there was an explanation for why it appeared Isabelle was now alive.
“Tell me too,” Thomas said, “about the time I fell into a stream and you helped me out of the water. How did I thank you for it?”
“On our journey to Magnus from the gallows?”
Thomas nodded and tried to lean forward. She was about to fail his test. He was certain. There could be no explanation other than she was a fraud. Surely this was Isabelle’s secret twin sister, trying to deceive him.
She smiled. “Your memory fails you,” she said. “It was not you, but I who fell into the stream.”
No, his memory had not failed him. He could still picture her clearly, how she looked after he had pulled her from the water, how their eyes had met with much unspoken between them.
“So you did not thank me,” she said, her voice hypnotic and low. “I thanked you. I kissed the tips of my fingers, like this.” She lifted her hand to her mouth. “And then I touched them to your mouth, like this.” She softly brushed her fingers across his lips, sending a jolt of warmth and awareness through the foggy weight that held him. “I remember clearly, because it was the first time I realized that I could pledge my heart to you.”
Only Isabelle could have known about that quiet moment at the stream, and it was beyond likelihood that she would have reason to share it, even with her twin.
Which meant there was no twin.
Which meant the woman in front of him truly must be Isabelle.
You are dead,” Thomas told the woman with the candle.
He felt the first shiver of fear. This seemed too real to be a dream, yet he hardly dared trust his senses.
Only an apparition could have entered this heavily guarded room with its solid stone walls in the upper reaches of the castle. Only an apparition could explain that which he saw in front of him.
But could a ghost hold a solid object like a candle? Or could the candle, too, be part of the figment?
“Come closer,” Thomas said. “Let me hold your hand.”
If this specter meant him harm, it would have done so while he slept. If she was of flesh and bone, he would learn the truth as soon as he could grab hold. Then he would call for his soldiers.
“I will keep my distance,” Isabelle said. “My heart is yours, but trust for you is another matter. I believe you were about to have me arrested when I made my confession to you. Before …”
“Before what?”
“You know as well as I do. Before Geoffrey rushed in and clubbed me.”
“I will say it then. You died in my arms.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Then you cannot be you.” The words sounded foolish in his own ears, yet what else could he say? The dead did not rise to live again.
“You see me standing in front of you and know who I am. Isabelle. Daughter of Lord Richard Mewburn, the lord of this castle until you conquered it.”
“Reclaimed it,” Thomas said. “He destroyed my family to take it from them and left me an orphan.”
“I cannot change the past. The future depends on the choices you will make as the new lord.”
Her earlier words echoed in his mind. “Haven’t you wondered why this castle is set so securely, so far away from the outer world? Why would anyone bother attacking a village here? Yet an impenetrable castle was founded. And by no less a wizard than Merlin.”
“You had been ready to tell me more of Magnus. How it was founded, why it is so secure and isolated, and why the king of England puts no direct authority upon it. You have these answers?”
“Yes,” she said. “But I will not give them to you. Not yet.”
He wanted to leap from his bed and hold her and shake the answers loose. But his body would not obey him. It felt as though he were bound by an invisible rope.
“Then when?” he asked.
“Soon, you will be given a chance to show allegiance to the symbol.”
“Symbol?”
“Don’t pretend ignorance, Thomas. It doesn’t suit you.” She reached inside her cloak and lifted the medallion with the peculiar cross. “You see that I am here. You must believe how much power we have. Join us.” She knelt beside his bed, her face close to his. “You and I. Together. We can have it all. We can be the next generation.”
Much of what Isabelle said reflected what his own mother had told him all through his childhood. Yet he quickly pushed the thought away. He would not accept that Isabelle and his mother were part of the same mysterious alliance.
“If you know the answers, begin there,” Thomas said. “Then I’ll decide.”
“I am here, in front of you, alive. Isn’t that enough? Doesn’t that show you the power we have?”
“How would I show allegiance? What will be asked of me?”
“You have something we want.”
“Tell me what it is you think I have,” he said.
“Don’t play childish games. Deliver it, and this kingdom will never be taken from you. Withhold it, and it shall surely be taken away.”
His secret library. Books of knowledge, unknown to most of the world. Used correctly, this knowledge was like wizardry. But how could she know that he possessed them?
She rose. “Join us. Join me.”
“Not without answers.”
“You cannot be given the answers until your allegiance is certain. It was no different for me. Once I showed my loyalty, I was given all.”
“Guards!” Thomas croaked. He found his voice and shouted louder. “Guards!”
Both heard the lifting of the outside latch of the door.
Isabel
le frowned, and Thomas could not tell if it conveyed anger or sadness. “You disappoint me.” Isabelle flung her arm, and the bedchamber seemed to explode into sunlight. He closed his eyes against the unexpected brightness. When he opened them again, it was dark.
The guards finally opened the door, carrying torches that again filled the bedchamber with light. Traces of smoke drifted through the air, but Isabelle was gone.
In one of the castle’s prison cells, far below Thomas’s bedchamber, Geoffrey, the village candle maker, gorged himself on cold chicken.
Isabelle had to suppress her urge to vomit. How could he eat in such a disgusting setting? But the small man had always been given to filth—in appearance and habit and thoughts. The squalor of life in the prison cell had only worsened his usual foulness to a point where she could barely breathe. He belched and reached for a goblet of mead to wash down the chicken, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“His answer?” he asked Isabelle. The flame of a small candle enclosed them in a globe of soft light, and she hated the intimacy here as much as she’d enjoyed it earlier with Thomas.
“He called for his guards.”
Geoffrey gave her a smug grin. “He refused you. Again. It must be humiliating to learn that your charms won’t turn every head.”
Isabelle wished—and not for the first time—that she had been the one to club Geoffrey across his bald head, instead of receiving the blow from him.
As much as it galled her, Geoffrey was a shrewd man and a discerning judge of human nature. He seemed to especially enjoy her humiliation. She had not expected to find herself yearning for Thomas, and it had taken her awhile to recognize the sensation of want. Nothing before had been withheld from her in her privileged life as daughter of the previous lord of Magnus.
Indeed, a half hour earlier, in the chamber near the top of the castle while she had been waiting for an answer from Thomas, she had found herself nearly trembling and giddy with anticipation. After a lifetime of being indulged in every whim, when she had wanted one thing more than anything else, it had been denied to her. She could appreciate the irony.
“Shall we simply arrange to have Thomas murdered?” Geoffrey asked. “Would that be a balm to your wounded pride?”
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