Bound by Roses (The Bound Series Book 1)

by Jonathan Lazar

  Marguerite breathed deep into her lungs the cedar wood and sage. Her heart raced terribly. She did not want to continue. Marguerite held her the cedar wood and sage in her lungs until they burned. She exhaled the words, “The House of Red has fallen.”

  The words hung heavily upon her ears. Her own voice echoed harshly the reality in the dimly lit room. Her heart broke upon hearing the words that she was forced to say. A tear fell and ran down her reddened face. It was ice against her flushed cheeks. She fell silent. Even her breaths were silent. Though the beating of her heart pounded loudly in her ears.

  The pool churned about constantly. Though the pools innate aqua coloration did not change, nor did the bubbles it create disturb it. The churning were drums against her throbbing, red-hot ears. Her breaths were equally as heavy.

  “You have come seeking the cause?” The Seven opposite her spoke once more, his voice the deepest out of all the Seven. She did not respond, but merely slipped off her shoes.

  “Or is it a deeper query you are after?”

  “You know the cause, do you not, Marguerite?” The Seven standing opposite spoke again. The questions came one after another, as they always did. Marguerite knew this is how the Seven operated. Question after question to lead to at least one answer, or many.

  Bare foot touched the waters lip. The pool was cold, just as it always was. A shiver ran through her body. She closed her eyes, inhaled deep before opening them.

  “I know that Wolves have attacked the city,” removing her foot, Marguerite slipped the straps off her shoulders. She knew the price for their knowledge. To acquire true knowledge, such mortal garments must not weigh one down. Her bronze dress slithered to the floor. She was naked before the Seven. In the light of the pool, the heap of dress shimmered brilliantly. Marguerite tried to think of what the sparkling dress reminded her of, but she could not. Her mind cared not for imagery, only answers to questions. An involuntary chill ran through her spine as she imagined putting herself into the water fully.

  “Then you wish to know the identity of who leads them?” Another of the Seven, one that had yet to speak, asked, breaking Marguerite of her wandering mind.

  She wasted no time stepping and dunking both ankles into the near ice-cold water. Her body shivered violently. She instinctively wrapped her arms around her chest for any amount of warmth. She always wondered how the pool stayed so cold. Marguerite assumed a magic that was behind her comprehension. Another chill ran through her.

  The Seven, she could tell stared at her, as they always did when she had to acquire their knowledge. Yet, with their heads covered, she could never truly know.

  “I have learned that those that attacked Zhan’ding were under the orders of a proclaimed Wolf Queen,” Marguerite said, cold water waist high. She unwrapped her arms from around her chest, “though I do not know if this is a self-proclaimed title.”

  The Seven talked all at once. Their voices sang and resounded throughout the stone, and water, “Then you have come seeking information of that which we know not?”

  “Must we go through this every time I need information that eludes even you?” Marguerite questioned. She shivered in the water, but did not wrap her arms to get warm. It would have been useless. For the water would be warm soon enough. Once the formalities were ended. Ancient rituals, and laws that Marguerite knew very little about bound the Seven.

  The Seven next to her spoke individually, “Your mother shattered the Talking Mirror for what it knew, Marguerite. We have kept the pieces hidden and safe. The magic it releases is powerful and must only be used under the most dire of circumstances for fear—”

  “For fear that the ancient creature is forever irreparably damaged!”

  Marguerite’s voice cut off the one speaking,

  “A Wolf Queen has arisen, and killed Saledii Red. The House of Red’s bloodline is broken,” Marguerite continued towards the center of the pool. The water grew deep with each step, “The fate of the realm rests with what he can tell. Now allow me to speak to him!”

  A moment of silence, and contemplation amongst them, and a moment more of Marguerite’s teeth chattered slightly before the Seven acted in unison. They bowed their heads and raised their arms into the air. Their voices hung upon the smoke that swirled like mist, “as you wish, Lady White.”

  The pool of water only reached just below Marguerite’s breasts. Ebony hair was almost silver in thepool’s aqua light. Her teeth chattered, but stopped when the water’s temperature changed from cold to warm. One last shiver ran through her body. She breathed a sigh of relief.

  With their hands in the air, each of the Seven began to hum. One after another each hum slightly higher or lower than the previous. Side to side they swayed. Hands never touched. Repelled by magic. The hums grew louder. Hums came from not only their mouths but also the very stone, grass, and moss they stood upon. The mist that hung upon the air became electric. It tingled the back of Marguerite’s neck. Under the hum, for the first time, Marguerite thought she could hear a whispered chorus of voices. It vanished as she concentrated on it. The hums returned, louder than before. None of the Seven took a breath or stopped. The water churned ferociously. Marguerite stopped just short of the middle. The tiny bubbles ceased their formation. The multicolored mist disappeared, absorbed by the grass, and moss. The electricity of the air vanished.

  Seven milky bubbles rose up from the depths before Marguerite. Within each of the bubble’s centers floated a transparent glass shard. The grey bubbles they were encased in evaporated away. The thick white mist clouded the air, but quickly dissipated. Absorbed by the stones, water, and moss. The shards spun around in the air before they formed a broken oval inches above the water, a bastardized Mirror. Each piece floated in minute circles, but never came into contact with the one another. Dull purple sparks repelled them should they float too close together.

  Marguerite could barely make out her reflection. It was ghostly and foreboding, hair silver, and skin whiter. She thought of herself pulled from time, locked in a prison, with only the Mirror for company. She could also see the Seven that stood directly before her, and behind the broken Mirror. The Seven that stood behind her were ghosts, nothing more to the present. They were even fainter than she. They looked of statues, living creatures frozen in stone.

  The Mirror’s frame a forgotten memory. Marguerite could almost remember the frame she saw so many years ago, through the ghosts of her past, but the images faded. For memories of her mother, never returned wonderful thoughts.

  The humming produced by the Seven ceased.

  The pool ceased churning and producing any bubbles.

  The aqua light dulled.

  “He is ready,” the Seven lowered their arms down and crossed them before broad chests.

  Marguerite cleared her throat, and coughed as she always seem to do, “Mirror, Mirror, on the wall.”

  Her words rang out. Sweetly echoed around. The water danced in time to her voice. A low rumble shook the pool. The Mirror’s shards flashed and sparked violently. They pulled close, but repelled at the same time. The individual shards of glass were each filled with a wispy white fire, which ascended the shards, and disappeared at the top of the oval. The fire acted as if it the Mirror itself had never been shattered. Marguerite took a step back, in fear of the ghostly fire before her.

  “Ah. My dear Lady Marguerite White,” a thin and pale white mask appeared. Nose long and pointed, plush bright unearthly green lips and gaze-less eyes, empty and as black as raven’s feathers. Forehead curved low, and almost invisible thin silver eyebrows. The voice that spoke was high and effeminate, “I feel that it has been far too long, since the last time you have required my sight. How may I serve you?”

  The Mirror’s face was fractured like the shards. Bits showed in different shards. Marguerite waded forward. She stared at the glowing shards. A cold heat emanated from the space in-between them. Though the wispy fire that burned behind the face gave no heat. Marguerite could not help but f
eel it.

  “And remember, as is the Law, placed down by my creators, the Brother’s Grimm. The Rule of Three binds me. Three questions, three answers,” Marguerite rolled her eyes, having heard the speech many times come from the Mirror.

  “A dying Wolf in Zhan’ding spoke of a Wolf Queen. Is it the Queen, Lord Red and my father imprisoned?” Marguerite wasted no time.

  “She is not,” the Mirror spoke.

  “Where is the imprisoned beast?” Marguerite demanded.

  The Mirror looked out past Marguerite, past the Seven, the stone of the tower, and even past Ashok Orai with a gaze of eternity. The Mirror was silent for several moments before he responded,

  “I see her locked in darkness unending. Bound by chains of silver, and ancient magic that pierce her flesh. She licks wounds, and contemplates freedom. Though none will come, unless the tales are unbound.”

  Marguerite sighed deeply at the news.

  “Who is the new Wolf Queen?” Marguerite looked at a large gaze-less eye in one of the shards.

  “The nameless red Wolf that orchestrated the attack and killed, Saledii Pastalia Red, is not a stranger to her people. She is a creature that can readily and willingly takes Human form, without constraint of a full moon. The daughter of the one imprisoned and a powerful, ancient wizard, and like her mother, is being manipulated by a power,”

  The magic Mirror stopped talking for a moment, his endless gaze returned, before it released a slight chuckle and continued, “A power very similar to your mother’s, The Queen.”

  “My mother?” Marguerite inhaled sharply as the Mirror’s glow faded. The wispy fire receded back to the bottom. The shards became unbound from one another. The cold heat vanished.

  “What do you mean? Manipulated by a power similar to the Queen?” Marguerite called out, eyes wide, lost in confusion. She tried to rush forward but was stopped by the churning waters. The waves pushed her back like a gentle hand of a water spirit.

  The Mirror merely laughed, the creature’s high voice echoed through the waves,

  “I am bound by the Rule of Three, Lady White. As was laid down by my creators, the Brother’s Grimm. Three questions, three answers. Until I am needed again, I must rest.” The face disappeared. The glass shards sank beneath the water.

  Marguerite slammed her fists into the water in aggravation. Great pillars of water splashed about. The water began to cool rapidly as she slammed her fists, “Bring him back! Bring him back this instant!”

  “We cannot, Marguerite.” The Seven said in unison.

  “The magic of the fractured Mirror, to use it too frequently, would cause irreparable damage, to an already ancient and damaged artifact.” Another of the Seven spoke as Marguerite closed her eyes and breathed heavily through her nose. The scent of cedar wood and sage returned to them. She began to shiver.

  “It is in this Mirror’s nature, to leave one with more questions, than answers,” a third tried to help calm Marguerite’s racing mind.

  “For now take comfort in knowing, the Wolf Queen, is locked away. Chained in darkness,” a fourth Seven, to the right of Marguerite spoke.

  “While her daughter unrestrained by the moon, roams free? Being manipulated? What could that even mean, powers like the Queen?” Marguerite asked no one in particular, she merely talked to herself.

  The Seven looked upon one another through their hoods and remained silent for a moment before talking in unison, “Let us confer with one another, Marguerite.”

  “Very well. We will speak again when the services for the dead of Zhan’ding have concluded,” Marguerite sighed and ran a wet hand through already damp hair.

  The Seven began to speak with one another, in low, hushed voices. The language of knowledge as Marguerite called it many years ago. It was nearly identical to humming, but paced faster. Their hands were once again in the air. They did not sway, but stood still as stone statues. The water vibrated with their voices. The bubbles churned out faster, and faster. They popped before they reached the ceiling. Multicolored smoke filled the room. The smell intoxicating, but it soon grew so thick, it choked her and stung her eyes. The Seven seemed not to be bothered.

  Marguerite slipped her dress back on while the Seven hummed. She exited the tower. Body soaked. Damp bronze dress clung to her delicate frame. Water slid in rivers down her legs. Outside the tower, Kaniz met her. Upon her arm was draped a thick, blood red robe. Kaniz stepped forward with a smile.

  “Thank you,” Marguerite slipped into the robe and felt the warm and soft fur against her chilled skin. Marguerite carefully maneuvered within the robe and with grace and skill, removed the bronze dress.

  “My duties, Lady White,” Kaniz with damp dress over one arm, wrapped another around Marguerite and guided her away from the tower. “Did all go well?”

  “Yes, and no,” Marguerite fought a shiver from a breeze that blew near the courtyard door. She looked back one last time. The multicolored smoke billowed ferociously from the roofs holes where it blended in to the blue sky. She could smell the sweet smoke.

  She allowed Kaniz to guide her to her chambers. Her mind raced in circles that not even she could comprehend fully.

  There she immediately sat upon a large chair positioned near her tallest arched window. The light of the day beamed. It warmed wherever it touched. The velvet curtains held off to the sides by thick bronze robes.

  Marguerite dismissed Kaniz, “Return in several hours please.”

  Her handmaiden bowed low, “as you wish, Marguerite.”

  Marguerite sighed. She did not watch Kaniz leave. Her gaze was to the open blue sky. There she watched a crow fly off to the horizon. It seemed to almost disappear in a blink of an eye. Her eyes wandered away from the bright sky. Upon her windowsill, she believed she saw a snowflake fall, though it was too early for such things to appear.

  From the side of her chair, a needlework that was started years ago, by whom her father called, her mother’s handmaiden. Something she never questioned, as her own Kaniz had needlework she would work on when time allowed. This one lay unfinished. Marguerite, in her alone time and needing to just think, would pick it up and work. She hoped that one day she would be able to finish it. She knew that it would eventually be the sigil that was the House of White.

  She stared down at it. She wanted to work, but did not have the energy. Instead, Marguerite’s mind wandered to her mother, Lady Astra White, the Witch that would eventually become known as the Queen.

  Her thoughts did not linger there long, but soon wandered to her father, Lord White. Her thoughts moved to the advice he would bestow upon those that asked. Out of the window she stared. Her thoughts lingered to the darkness that was the catacombs. Marguerite let her thick red robe drop as she rose. She dressed quickly in a gown of violet, and she scuttled away to the catacombs to speak to her father.

  She slowly descended the damp stairs with white rose in hand. Free hand kept her gown from getting too dirty. Down past bronze wall plagues, marking individuals noteworthy enough to be buried in the Ashok Orai catacombs. It was not until the bottom of the stairs that three passages existed closed by a heavy metal grate. The bars of which were intricately formed, and shaped into roses, thorns, and vines. All three passages semi lit by torches that extended down into unending darkness.

  A single guard in his bright white armor stood watch over the three halls. Standing tall, sword was out and vertical upon his arm. Marguerite stopped before him, “You are dismissed. Please wait at the entrance until I am finished.”

  “Yes, Lady White,” his armored boots clicked together. He sheathed his sword, bowed, and made his exit upwards.

  Down the middle passage, Marguerite passed. The gate opened with a squeal that would have woken the dead. The ethereal scream sent chills through Marguerite. She stood still until the chills past.

  Through the torch lit darkness, Marguerite passed row after row of lifeless bronze statues each a depiction of her ancestors. Lords of Ashok Orai she passed were all dres
sed in armor of the Age with swords unsheathed. While the Ladies of the House were all in long flowing robes and gowns that melted into the floor. Their hands folded before them in prayers to the Gods. Each statue guarded a dark hollow in the damp rock and in that a marble tomb. Marguerite looked at each one, for she always knew this to be her ultimate fate in life. To be entombed under the city, in eternal darkness, with only a flame, and her own statue as company.

  It had been many seasons since she traveled this far below the city, as well as the first time since her father’s passing, nearly three years prior. So distraught was Marguerite, that she only attended half the ceremony. For to this day, none of the Court learned how her father came into contact with the poison that killed him so rapidly. Her heart beat quickly and loudly in her ears as she thought of it. Her breaths were heavy, and quivered. She wanted to turn back, but she knew she couldn’t. She needed to see her father’s tomb, for the first time.

  The tunnel for the Lords and Ladies of the White Rose continued almost without end, but Marguerite stopped at the final torch. She stared into the unending darkness. She knew that in times not yet passed, more torches would line the hall, as her own descendants would fill the hall. Staring into the darkness, she chuckled at the thought of now being responsible for carrying on the White bloodline. Marguerite tried to imagine what that could look like, but the darkness gave her no clues, only sadness of loneliness, and her eventual fate.

  Marguerite broke her gaze with the darkness. Through misty eyes, she stared at the strong-jawed statue of her father. His eyes as gaze less as the magic Mirror. Marguerite put the white rose upon the base. She shivered, but could not tell if it was from the dampness of the catacombs or her own sadness.

  “Father, please forgive me for not coming sooner to pay respects,” Marguerite stood tall, hands clasped before her stomach, “I have been occupied, attempting to fill the void left by your absence.”

  A breeze blew from the darkness. She thought it called her name. The torches flickered violently.