by A. J. Ponder
Slowly, the strange butterfly lost its attraction.
“No, my Lord, I do not offer trinkets. What I offer is far more valuable: an alliance.”
King Reginald glared. “You can take your threats, your false promises, and even your life, and walk out that door—but only if you kneel and proclaim me as the true king of all the Seven Kingdoms.”
King Reginald’s soldier’s kneeled, and yelled “The One True King” and rose up again as one.
What is wrong with them? “Who has promised you this? Arrant? Don’t you think he might have promised the Seven Kingdoms to every king he has visited?”
“Ha. What do you know of West Mist’s ascendance? You come as a king, or a prince”—the king shot him a sharp glance—“or simply a stable boy with delusions of grandeur. But the truth is you are nothing but the lapdog of the Witch Queen Sylvalla. Hear me now, I will not listen to your lies.”
“I have nothing but respect for West Mist,” Francis said. “I am here on a mission of peace, to ensure prosperity.”
King Reginald leaned forward until he was close enough for Francis to see cracks in the makeup designed to hide the man’s pallid complexion. “Fool. I do not tolerate spies, however sweet their words. You may tell your Witch Queen this: West Mist and its allies are not weak. We will raise a thousand warriors for every hand raised against us, every affront to the kingdom of West Mist, and every fool she sends to waste my time—”
“Uh…” Francis began to interrupt, but he really couldn’t afford to kneel to this madman. Best let the mad king ramble on.
“The Witch Queen’s men will fall like wheat on the battlefield. They will die unremarked, and while the good citizens of Avondale will weep for a time, after Avondale is freed, they will join us in cursing her name forever. Now, go! You have an hour to get out of my kingdom before you are hung for a spy. And less than a minute to get from my chambers. I am sick of the sight of you.”
Francis fixed a smile on his face, bowed respectfully, and turned to leave. Grimmo and Ricky were already moving, but Lars remained kneeling, staring at the jewel.
“Lars!” Francis said.
No response.
Francis grabbed Lars’ hand. Grimmo took the other and together they carried the soldier out, his eyes fixed on the jewel. Any hope Francis had that he might make a difference, that careful arguing and persuasive reason might change the king’s mind, was gone.
Jonathan’s right. Avondale’s in more danger than anyone thought. The only question is—can I get to the other kingdoms before Arrant and his butterflies? Or am I too late?
Bad News, Good news
Sylvalla entered the crowded throne room and realised that her choice of trousers, a waistcoat, and one of her father’s blue and gold cloaks was not giving quite the impression she’d hoped. Mahrawyn or Amarinda would have had a better idea.
But Mahrawyn’s dead and Amarinda’s disappeared, and if I have to listen to that damned dressmaker and her girls one more time, I’m likely to gut them.
Dirk glowered, but he’d said his piece already. Only his oath was holding him here. But hold him it did, even when he was itching for the kind of freedom castles didn’t provide.
A tired and dirty messenger bowed his way in. Was there finally news of Francis? Had he managed to convince a kingdom to stand with Avondale? Riverdale? West Mist was small, but even that would make a difference.
“The jewelled butterflies are dangerous,” the messenger babbled. “I, I learnt to look away, but Stann—a good man, Stann—leastways, he was. He kept on saying how beautiful they were, and not long after that, he took off and…and we never saw him again. Same as Lars, did you hear? He…he just ran off, too. We think they’ve both gone to work for Arrant.”
“Lars?” Sylvalla wondered aloud. “Grimmo’s and Ricky’s friend?”
The messenger nodded, his eyes failing to meet hers.
More bad news. “Did you see Francis? Is he all right?”
“Yes, my queen. Francis said the situation with the other kings is worse than expected. He goes further north, to see if things are better there.”
“Does he need anything? Men or supplies?”
The messenger shook his head.
“Is there something else you can tell me?” Sylvalla asked.
“No.” The messenger paused. “No. Only that the kingdoms are in chaos. They’re being raided and the raids are blamed on you.”
Sylvalla raised an eyebrow. At least, she hoped so, she’d been practising—apparently it was a skill queens were supposed to have.
The messenger continued to babble, “My Queen, I’m so sorry. They’re blaming the raids on the Witch Queen—”
The audience gasped.
“But…but…I wasn’t saying as you’re a witch. I was just—”
“Of course not.” Sylvalla fumbled in her jacket pocket for a coin and pressed it into his hand. “And I do appreciate honest messengers. Tell my dear friend, Cook, to feed you well.”
“Well, that was all bad news,” Dirk said from behind the throne.
“Not quite,” Sylvalla replied. “One of our messengers has returned. It’s a start.”
Vision
Close your eyes
And
Dare to dream
Dalberth was woken from sleep by a loud knock on the door.
I’ve just got back home. It better not be those blasted wizards again.
“I’m coming,” Dalberth yelled. He opened the door to find one of his new security guards doubled over, puffing. “Sorry, sir. Thieves have broken into the warehouse. We need to go.”
Dalberth’s scribe, hurriedly pulling a tunic over his head, joined him in the corridor. Maey also appeared already dressed for the day, which left Dalberth feeling like a tit in a nightshirt and cap.
“Just a moment.” Dalberth pulled on a jacket and a cloak and tossed the nightcap inside before Maey closed the door behind them. He was getting used to his extra shadow. She was quiet—a good kid. Far better behaved than his children, who always wanted to yell and shout and roughhouse. She strode alongside him, determinedly matching her pace to his limp. “Where are we going?”
“Aren’t you a prophet?” the scribe asked.
“Not funny.” Maey pouted. “I see the dead rising, not what I’m going to have for lunch.”
It was bad enough they’d passed half a dozen other prophets, and wretches claiming to be prophets, lining the street. Foul-smelling and covered in grime, most were yelling about how Sylvalla was going to destroy everything from Scotch Mist to magic itself.
“The dead will rise. Beware the Witch Queen. She can see your soul and snatch it away as if it were lunch. Beware the end of magic and the end of days!”
That was the problem with being a prophet: the visions you saw were about as pleasant as being eviscerated. But Dalberth had decided to ignore those horrors a long time ago. It was the only way to stay sane. Besides, he had money, guards, and a bolt-hole. This whole operation of Jonathan’s was going swimmingly. The wizard certainly had an eye for business and an ear for trouble. Not that he’d been around much lately, not since they’d escaped Bairnsley.
Dalberth grinned at Maey and the scribe. “Come on, it’s not that bad. It’s not the end of days yet. Just a little break-in.”
“The thieves’ guild,” Maey whispered.
“They’ve been quiet of late,” the scribe said. “Haven’t heard of a single attack for a while now, not even in the hills. Maybe Sylvalla’s raid did some good, after all.”
Maey and Dalberth exchanged looks. Unless helping Arrant take over the whole of the Seven Kingdoms was being quiet, the thieves’ guild were being anything but quiet.
As Dalberth reached to push open the broken door, Maey whispered, “There’s someone still inside.”
“Probably my men.” Dalberth peeked inside his and Jonathan’s warehouse, frightened of what he might find.
The guards he’d hired were bailed into a corner by a grey-bear
ded man. A box of Maey’s protective charms were scattered over the floor—many of them broken as if they’d been stamped into the ground.
“What am I paying you for?” Dalberth demanded—and stopped when he recognised the grey bearded man as Commander Grehaum. Dalberth bowed. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“As I was saying,” Grehaum said. “I’m not having this crime wave in my city. Bad enough, people panicking about a two-headed chicken yesterday, and goodness knows what other rubbish, but it shouldn’t stop you from doing your jobs.” He walked down the line, glaring at every single one of them, including the soldiers. “If I catch any more of you taking bribes, you’ll not just cool your feet in the prison, I’ll have you hanging from the gibbet for sedition. Understand?”
“Sir, yes sir.”
“Pick up your act.”
Commander Grehaum turned to stare at Dalberth. “Ah, you’ll be the owner. Good to meet you. Now, it seems we have a problem.”
“We?” Dalberth gulped. It was never a good idea to be on the wrong side of the people in charge.
“Yes.” Grehaum nodded. “I have a lot of people who have had…experiences, and they’re filling up the…place. Also, some of them are…um…”
Maey nodded. “I think this is my job,” she said solemnly. “We need more protection charms, and a help group for recovering prophets.”
“But—” Dalberth objected, before deciding that being on the right side of Grehaum was worth the loss of time and resources.
“Good. That’s sorted,” Grehaum said, tugging his beard. “I’ll send them here. Oh, and by the way, I’m taxing businesses for the increased security. We need more soldiers on guard duty.”
“But—”
“Help the young lady, and I’ll let the collectors know you’re on half rates. It’s a generous offer. Oh, and I think I’m going to take a few more of these.” He picked up a dozen of the protective charms scattered over the floor. From frogs to birds to trees. The Avondale tree symbol was particularly popular, with the Scotch Mist Eagle perched in its branches.
Dalberth nodded glumly.
His business—Jonathan’s business—might well falter with the new tax. He’d expanded aggressively, and with the cost of the burglary… Still, he politely bid Grehaum goodbye before starting a stocktake to figure out what had been stolen. When it came to numbers, the scribe really proved his worth. Maey, on the other hand, was awfully clingy. She kept on pointing to the shelving on the far side of the warehouse.
Is there something moving?
“So you’ve seen me.” A pale man emerged from the shadows accompanied by two swordsmen wearing a motley collection of Avondale and Scotch Mist uniforms.
Dalberth’s heart thundered as he pushed Maey behind him.
A jewelled butterfly, like the ones in his nightmares, fluttered on the pale man’s shoulder like some kind of pet. “Well, well, well. I heard you’ve been making a lot of money,” the intruder said. “This is our territory. So if you want to keep us friendly, like, you must pay the tithe.”
“We’re only small…” Dalberth blinked, his heart hammering in fear.
Maey retreated, distracting the scribe by holding his hand. She must see the jewel for what it was, too—an empty promise of soul-sucking proportions. No wonder the guards had been useless. No wonder Grehaum had wanted those charms. If I survive this little encounter, we’ll make Maey’s charms front and centre of this business.
“This building is mine,” the pale man said. “You must leave now, or the thieves’ guild will ruin you.”
“You’re playing games,” Dalberth said. “Get out! I have guards and wizards who can throw balls. I can defend this place.”
“I think they’re called fireballs,” Maey whispered.
“Are they?” the pale man said.
Dalberth nodded. “And Grehaum himself asked us to use this space. So even if you did manage to take it, how will you fare when he realises what’s happened?”
“You’re a fool,” the pale man said. “And you’ll regret your decision when I run the city.”
Dalberth swallowed. His legs buckled beneath him. An attack? No, a vision. He fell.
Butterflies flew over armies of headless soldiers led by two shambling wizard corpses. A dragon swooped low, not like any other dragon Dalberth had heard about, but brilliant and glittering like the butterflies it scattered to the wind. It approached, talons extended—clutching a jewel flashing so brightly that Dalberth was blinded.
A shadowy Maey tugged his hand.
“I’m all right,” Dalberth said, shaking Maey off. He didn’t want to appear weak with this dangerous villain threatening him, so he smiled, looked into the pale man’s pale blue eyes and said the first thing that came to his head. “Take this building from me now, and the butterflies will burn away your brain. Mark my words, for I have seen it.”
§
Francis sighed.
Another kingdom—Riverdale. Another king.
Some of the courts were teeming with people, and others nearly empty, but all the kings had the same scowl, and the same fascination with Arrant’s blasted butterflies. He hadn’t seen a jewelled butterfly in this king’s hands. That was a start, wasn’t it? And with bright throw pillows and carved wood everywhere, the Riverdale court was more pleasant than stone-cold West Mist.
Stomach churning, Francis bowed and smiled, as did Mac and Grimmo standing beside him.
The king scowled more fiercely. Being a diplomat was worse than trying to ingratiate oneself in a kitchen. Everyone thought you were there to steal food and make trouble.
“Good King…”
“Wirum,” Mac whispered.
“Good King Wirum. I’m here to represent Queen Sylvalla of Avondale. To remind you of her commitment to the treaties between Avondale and Riverdale.” Francis looked at Mac, for no other reason but to see a friendly face.
“Stop right there. I do not have the patience for this,” the king snapped as they approached. Courtiers tittered.
“I come with—”
“I do not care. At first we turned down this King of the Mists, due to our long alliance with your country, but Avondale soldiers have attacked Riverdale farms, burned Riverdale houses, salted fields, and murdered men, women and children. And now you come begging! Like I would listen to thieves, cowards and murderers!”
“That’s not true,” Francis said, eliciting nothing but grumbling and dissent in the crowd. If only the raids weren’t all too real. Pity the kings did little but blame Sylvalla and drool over Arrant’s gifts. If only they’d listen when he explained. “None of it is true. Avondale wants peace. The people attacking your farms are Arrant’s. He’s pillaging the Seven Kingdoms—”
King Wirum raised an arm. “Either you are another vile, two-faced Avondale warmonger, or you are an ignorant fool and the dupe everyone says you are. But whether your words are ignorance or lies is of no matter to me. The evil Witch Queen you serve is my problem—the problem of all the Seven Kingdoms. Take my advice: run, and never come back; run so far you never see the Witch Queen again, let alone do her bidding.”
“Please listen—” Francis called, but, as he glimpsed the jewelled creature captured within the king’s black-gloved hands, his voice left him.
“I will count to ten. Men, are you ready?”
Steel rang out as it was freed, and the soldiers advanced.
“Sylvalla would never do such a thing,” Francis argued. Mac and Grimmo, hands on hilts, hurried him away.
They’d barely got out of the throne room when the king yelled, “Ten!”
“It’s no good.” Grimmo panted. “We just have to get to the next king before Arrant.”
“Can’t see that happening,” Mac replied, puffing hard. “But I guess we’ve got to try.”
An arrow whizzed past. They were not running fast enough.
The Prisoner
Hold onto your anger tightly enough, and it will be the only thing you ever have
Syl
valla pulled several books and scrolls of illustrated maps from the library shelves. Maybe a quiet talk with Jonathan and his father would be more productive than an official meeting. “Let’s see what we’ve got,” she said. “What do we know about Westmisery and Northdale?”
“What about the other kingdoms?” Jonathan asked.
Sylvalla put her chin in her hands. “What do you mean, what about the others? Is there a single kingdom still with us, or did you just send Francis out to be killed?”
“Firstly, I didn’t send Francis,” Jonathan said. “Secondly, I didn’t send Francis, and thirdly, it was a good idea, however ill-founded. It might even help.”
Tishke’s guard burst into the library, and with much fanfare, carried Tishke in on her litter. “What’s all this, Sylvalla? Warmongering again? Is my funeral so unimportant that you won’t discuss it with me?”
“Ah, there we are. Hello, Mother. No doubt you can help with this little conversation about how we can save the world. Also, we’re supposed to be mobilising for war, so by all the gods, I don’t suppose you could tell us where Torri is?”
“She can’t have gone far,” Tishke said.
“Good. Then Dirk will definitely find her, this time.”
“I am so near death—I see the cloud-horses when I close my eyes. My funeral is important, I need to tell you…this is my fault. You are my fault. I should have seen.”
“Mother, you’re not dying, not yet, and this war comes to all of us. Threatens everyone’s lives. I don’t know if I can stop it.”
“I—” Tishke choked, her eyes rolling back.
“No!” Sylvalla snapped. “This is not the time for prophecy.”
“Death clouds and soul takers. The gods save us and damn us all,” Tishke said in a voice reminiscent of rustling trees.
“Great.” Sylvalla sighed. “Not that it answers my question.”
“Listen, I should have told you,” Tishke continued. “But I forgot. I forgot everything except that you were not the boy I was promised. But I was wrong. You are the hero they always said you would be. Pity they didn’t mention how annoying heroes are. Pity we all assumed you’d be a boy. It was a shock, you know…”