“Yes,” said Julia with a noncommittal smile. She was trying desperately to sound like an emissary—trying to sound like someone who was too important to execute—but she was out of ideas. She glanced at Peter, trying to privately indicate desperation.
“Like this, my lord,” said Peter, reaching into his breast pocket. “See here a small example of our skills!”
Julia couldn’t quite make out what it was that Peter had in his hand. He crossed the hall to an enormous candelabra and held whatever it was to the flame, then threw it down in the lords’ direction.
The room exploded, the detonation reverberating throughout the enclosed space. Acrid smoke filled the room, and as it cleared Julia could see the three lords cowering before their thrones in positions of abject terror. The Leopard was coughing violently, trying to waft away the choking fumes, and the Jackal had his hands clasped firmly on his ears. The Wolf rose first, and pointed a shaking finger at Peter.
“What was that devil in your hand?” he hissed.
Guards were now pouring into the hall, swords drawn against the unknown enemy. The Wolf waved them away with a few quick words, never taking his eyes from Peter. There was a long silence.
“What have you to say for yourself, boy?” he spluttered. “What black magic is that in your fingertips?”
Julia noted at this point that Peter was looking rather smug. She disliked this intensely, and wished she could have a moment to consult with Peter before he said something really stupid. But Peter was looking directly at the hideous mask which hid the face of the Wolf, and spoke slowly and with authority.
“My lord, that is a very small example of our power. This room and this castle would be destroyed, along with everyone inside them, were I to demonstrate the true power that Albion commands. It is called gunpowder.”
There was not a great deal to say after that. The emissaries had shown their superior hand, the lords were quaking in their boots, and Julia was feeling more than a little apprehensive. She made a great show of bows and smiles and good wishes and fairly dragged Peter out of the hall.
“That went well, I thought!” he said when they’d returned to their chambers.
“Well! Gunpowder! Weapons beyond their comprehension! Oh, marvelous, marvelous indeed!” Julia paced the room.
“You said the object was to overthrow them.”
“I don’t know what we’re supposed to do, but it certainly didn’t involve an explosion in the Great Hall!”
Julia was very close to tears, and it may have turned into a nasty fight indeed had Julia not at that moment realized that she’d left her cloak in the Great Hall. It had lain loosely about her shoulders and, when she had flung herself to the side during the explosion, it had fallen off. She hated to leave it down there where it might be trampled on and she wanted an excuse to get Peter out of her sight, so she announced shortly that she would return soon and fled the chamber.
She stalked moodily down the corridors and down the massive flights of stairs, wishing a little desperately that she had never seen a silver glow in the garden. She didn’t know what to do or how to rescue any slaves—and, at the moment, didn’t see any reason why she ought to bother. And Peter, throwing around tough words and explosions when he didn’t understand what was going on…Peter was just impossible.
It was in such a mood that she once again reached the Great Hall.
Something stopped her from entering—even from knocking. There were voices within. She pressed her ear to the door and listened intently, struggling to hear what they were saying. One voice was dominant—a menacing hiss that she immediately recognized as the Wolf.
“But there is still the risk of revolt from the slaves to deal with,” he was saying. “The scouts are still hearing rumors of runaway slaves in the great forest of the west. You will recall that the detachment of guards we sent to find them two months ago never came back, and I fear…” There was a long pause. “I fear those slaves in the forest could be the nucleus of a revolt.”
Another, more rasping, voice took over the conversation. The Jackal.
“But with this new weapon we can destroy those slaves in the forest. It will be the end of any revolt!”
“The slaves are not stupid,” agreed a third voice. “They’ll fall into line as soon as we show our strength. We’re safe.”
Julia could hear the unmistakable sound of wine being poured from a bottle into glasses, followed by sounds of clinking and coarse laughter. She had heard enough. She melted back into the shadows and retraced her steps to the bedchamber.
CHAPTER
8
Peter watched Julia go with a sense of relief. There had been nothing at all wrong with showing off the gunpowder—nothing wrong with demonstrating that he was a force to be reckoned with.
He stalked brusquely out of the room and stomped down the corridors. Girls! What use were they—so emotional, so unscientific! He would show her! He would figure out the riddle of this place!
He stopped a robed figure in the halls and asked the way to the library. He was pointed silently towards the north tower of the castle, and, after a few minutes of searching through dark and dusty corridors, he happened upon it.
The library he found could have graced an English country house, but it was far grander and more magnificent. Books were stacked as far up as the eye could see, shelves upon shelves of them—books on every topic imaginable. Peter looked up and up and up, breathing in the leather-bound scent of it all.
There was a short “ahem!” and a clearing of the throat somewhere to his right, and Peter glanced around. Seated at an enormous oak desk was a thin, bespectacled man who could only be the librarian.
Peter approached him slowly, trying to size him up. He noted his ink-stained fingers, the pencil behind his right ear, and a large leather book full of annotations on his desk. The man looked irritated at the intrusion. It seemed, Peter thought to himself, that the library did not have a great many users.
“Well? What do you want? I’m very busy at the moment, so make it quick.”
“I’m Peter,” he said simply. “From…from Albion.” He caught himself stumbling and tried to sound a great deal grander. “I was wondering if I might look around for just a bit.”
The librarian peered over his spectacles at him, his alert eyes evaluating him. “You are most welcome,” he said carefully. “Can I—ahem! Can I be of help to you in any way?”
“Well, I had hoped to learn something of the history of this island. It might help me understand it better.” Peter squared his shoulders and tried to look taller. “For diplomatic purposes, of course.”
“Of course.” The librarian stood—he really wasn’t much taller standing than sitting—and moved out from behind the desk. “There is a reading desk over here with a wonderful view over the island. Nobody will bother you there. Would you like me to bring you any books? Or would you prefer to look for some yourself?”
“Oh, I’d be delighted if you brought me anything that might be helpful.” Peter folded his hands behind his back and tried to look important as he waited. After a moment the librarian reappeared, a worn leather tome in his hand. He handed it to Peter with a smile that he couldn’t quite interpret and returned to his annotating.
Peter went to a desk and settled in to read.
The book told a simple story. Aedyn had originally been a wild, untamed island, ruled by a backward and oppressive king. And then came the revolution.
It was called the Illumination. The island had been taken over by a small but determined group of people—determined and highly intelligent. Their rebellion against the feudalism and backward ways of previous generations was led by three lords—the Jackal, the Leopard, and the Wolf—who had established themselves as the enlightened rulers of the island. The old king had been deposed, and later died in exile. Some of the population remained loyal to the old ways and were allowed to remain on the island only on condition of serving the new rulers. But the island, ruled by the same gre
at lords for five hundred years—five hundred years! Was that possible?—had overcome its barbaric beginnings and was now prosperous and forward-looking.
Peter smiled to himself as he read, not hearing the footsteps as they approached—not sensing anyone beside him until a cold hand came down and gripped his shoulder.
“Some light reading, I see!” said a voice. Peter whipped around to see Anaximader right standing behind him.
“Oh—yes,” said Peter. “Just some—yes, I was wondering about Aedyn, and…” he suddenly remembered that he was supposed to sound important. “And its history, culture, chief exports and trade—you know the sort of thing.”
“A good choice,” replied Anaximander, taking the book from Peter and turning it over in his hands. He flipped through a few of the yellowed pages, looking contemplative. “An important book—an important history for the citizens of Aedyn to keep always in their minds.” He trailed off, then looked back up at Peter. “That’s what education is about, after all! Protecting ourselves from delusions, preventing innocent minds from becoming corrupted.”
“I was reading about the Illumination,” said Peter. “Don’t—I mean, do the people still have these delusions in Aedyn?”
“I regret that they do,” said Anaximander slowly. “The slaves—you’ve seen them—are very backward. They believe in all sorts of superstitious nonsense.”
“Such as?”
“Magic,” Anaximander said. “Divine magic. And old, old stories—just fairy tales, really. Stories to explain things they couldn’t understand.”
This all made a great deal of sense to Peter. It was like Julia, telling herself stories and turning to her books whenever she was confused or upset. He nodded. “You’re a people of science,” he said. Anaximander granted him a smile.
“We are. And it is for that reason that I come to you.” Anaximander pulled over a chair and sat to face Peter. “The lords were most impressed by the invention that you showed them yesterday. The lords said you had a devil in your hand—something you called gunpowder. Did you make it yourself?” His eyes were inquisitive.
“I did.” Peter got a look on his face that he intended to be appropriately humble, but which Julia would have recognized as smug. “Of course, the precise formula is a secret known only to me—and the other great minds of Albion, of course.”
Anaximander smiled. “Of course, Lord Peter. The Jackal, the Leopard, and the Wolf are most favorably impressed by your abilities. Not only are you a man of great intelligence, but you have shown great wisdom and distinction.” He dipped his head in a brief bow.
“You flatter me, sir,” said Peter, who really was quite flattered. Anaximander smiled again.
“I do not seek to flatter you, Lord Peter. I only tell you what I observe and what I myself have been told. The Lady Julia spoke of sharing knowledge, and I confess that our great lords are most eager to learn more of your secrets.”
“The secrets are not mine to give,” started Peter, but Anaximander leaned in closer and breathed softly in his ear.
“The lords would make you a prince of this land.” He drew out the word “prince,” letting it roll, sparkling, over his tongue. The sound of it filled Peter with glittering images—images foreign to the lonely life of a schoolboy he’d left behind in England. Images of glory, of riches, of dominion over everyone who had teased and brutalized him at school. His eyes were wide and his gaze was far away. Anaximander brought him back to the moment by repeating the word.
“A prince, Peter.”
Peter’s eyes snapped back to the red-robed figure before him. “Gunpowder is simple, really,” he said, and, grasping a quill laid out on the table, sketched a brief formula on a sheet of paper. He passed it to Anaximander, who smiled as he took it in his hand.
“Aedyn is fortunate indeed to have such a wise leader to guide it into the future!” He rose and bowed low, then turned on his heel and left the library.
Peter returned to his own apartment in high spirits. He was walking on air, delighted at being part of such a wise and advanced civilization. A prince of this civilization!
Julia was still shaking as she returned to the bedchamber. As she walked she mulled over the conversation she had just overheard—a rebellious band of slaves, a new weapon to defeat them…and then there were the two Chosen Ones, called from another world. This was all becoming exceptionally difficult.
She flopped onto the bed, wondering if a good cry might help and determining that tears were probably beneath an emissary of Albion. Oh, it was all wrong, she’d messed it all up! She never should have pretended, never should have come here in the first place, never should have paid attention to that wretched monk in the garden!
And then, in spite of all her determination, the tears came after all. She heaved great, noisy sobs into the pillows, gasping as hot tears poured out of her eyes. And it was at this moment that the slaves came in to lay out the afternoon meal.
Some people have been given the great gift of looking pretty when they cry. They become all the more lovely as delicate tears stream gently down their cheeks. Julia was not one of these fortunate few. Her blonde hair was plastered messily to one side of her face and the other lined with the folds of the blankets. Her cheeks were a bright, splotchy pink and her eyes a deeply unfortunate red.
The slaves of the castle had been absolutely forbidden, on pain of death, to speak with the fair strangers. But when confronted with such an unfortunate sight—with a young woman who has suddenly been transformed into a very young, very unhappy girl, their orders ceased to mean a thing. They both started forward, the taller of the two grasping Julia into a hard embrace.
The slave, a woman, smelled of the same fruit Julia had encountered in the meadow beyond the mountain pass, and she was unaccountably reminded of her mother. She buried her face into the slave’s shoulder and gave a few shuddery breaths as she tried to stop crying and look presentable.
“I’m…I’m so sorry,” she started, and then she looked up. The slave who was holding her had let her hood fall back, and her face could be plainly seen. It was deeply lined and her dark hair was streaked with gray, but she was not, Julia thought, an old woman. Her eyes were deep-set but clear, and there was a hint of youth left in them.
The woman smiled, and Julia noted that at least a few of the lines in her face came not from the rigors of hard work but from laughter. “I’m Helen,” she said simply. “Now, why don’t you tell us what’s troubling you?”
There was a sharp intake of breath from the other slave, and a look between the two of them that Julia barely registered. The second slave let her breath out in a hiss and nodded almost imperceptibly. “I don’t know what to do,” Julia said, wiping her face and nose on her sleeve. “The monk said there was a prophecy—said I—we—were the Chosen Ones and I ought to free you, but I don’t even know where to begin!”
Another look between the slaves—this one longer and more pronounced. Helen finally broke the silence.
“A monk told you about a prophecy?” she asked slowly. Julia nodded.
“And I’m not to tell Peter, but I think he’s already ruined everything with his silly gunpowder and I don’t know how to overthrow the lords and I’m out of ideas!”
The second slave removed her hood and stepped forward. She was quite a young woman—not much older than Julia herself, though with a hard look in her eye that could only have come from years of hard work and pain. “If you are the one who was promised us,” she said, “you will not have to overthrow them alone.” She paused, and then broke into a smile. “I’m Alyce,” she said. “Our people have been waiting for you a long, long time, my lady.”
It was her smile that finally brought Julia out of her tears and into the moment. Whether or not she was really the Chosen One, she was the only one here. And she had to do something.
“Would you…” she paused, uncertain exactly how to phrase her question. “Would you tell me your stories? Tell me your history. Tell me of Marcus and
all the others.”
Helen nodded. “Of course, my lady, but now is not the time. I will arrange for you to meet with my brother, and he will tell the tale true. But first, I feel you must know what you risk.” She stopped and glanced at Alyce, who nodded, urging her to continue. “You must understand that by siding with us your life is forfeit. The lords…” Again she hesitated. “The Wolf is not known for his mercy.”
Julia nodded, not precisely sure how to respond. And then Alyce smiled again. She came to Julia’s side and held her face, still red and wet from the tears, between her hands. “Welcome, Julia,” she said softly. “Welcome to Aedyn.”
CHAPTER
9
That afternoon, Julia slipped out of her chambers and made her way down the stairs and through the dark corridors to the slaves’ meeting place, following Helen’s directions. The tapestries hanging on the walls became more and more dusty and threadbare as she went, and there was a dank, musty smell in the air as she descended into the bowels of the castle. But she held her head high, stepping briskly and with confidence, trying to look as if she had every right in the world to be there.
She need not have worried. Nobody noticed or challenged her. Julia found the door that Alyce had described and opened it, trying not to let it creak. She shivered—the air had a wet chill here, and there was a steady drip from somewhere to the left. She minced her
way down a spiral stone staircase into what was clearly the basement of the castle. The fragrance of a cooking stew wafted through the dark stone cellars, mingling with the less pleasant smells of stagnant water and rotting food. She could see only by the flickering light of the torches burning at intervals, and she guided herself by running her fingers along the wall, shuddering as she felt the muck and slime beneath them. At last she found herself in what looked like an old wine cellar, with wooden benches arranged against its walls. And on the benches sat a small group of hooded figures, huddling together for warmth in the cold, dank air. They stood as she entered the room.
The Aedyn Chronicles Page 5