Legends of Gravenstone: The Secret Voyage

by Alex Aguilar

  Hudson rose to his feet as gently as he could. “Make no sudden movements,” he said, stepping forward with a hand held out behind him, as if shielding his companions. The pixies appeared to be communicating with each other, hissing and whispering among themselves, far too softly for the human ear to pick up.

  Syrena finished dressing herself, slightly panicking.

  The pixies began floating down from branch to branch, creeping in on them. John couldn’t help but step closer to his companions. For creatures so small, the farmer was surprised to find how startling they could be. Some even flew around them, so as to keep them enclosed, like a horde of wasps gathering around a rosebush.

  “I thought you said pixies were docile…” John mumbled gently between his teeth.

  “They are… For the most part,” Hudson replied just as softly. “You ever hear of the Tale of Wingless Ehryn?”

  “No… But I’ve heard the tune…”

  “Then you know how it ends, right?”

  There was a sudden sharp hiss, like that of a scream only higher-pitched and slightly muffled. The pixies began scattering like flies, as a handful of them appeared to be caught in a struggle while hovering in the air.

  “What are they doing?!” Syrena whispered as she finished lacing her boots and stumbled to her feet. She moved closer to Hudson, her hands held out and prepared to attack.

  The majority of the tiny creatures were staring down at the three of them as if keeping watch. But the struggling handful flew lower and lower, until Syrena was able to see what the commotion was all about. Five pixies had their claws dug deeply into the wings of one particular pixie, one with fiery red hair and strikingly blue eyes.

  Syrena’s mouth dropped. “Sivvy…?”

  The way the pixies were behaving was almost humanlike, if humans were silent and six inches tall. They dragged Sivvy down to the lowest branch and pinned her down violently by the arms and wings. The poor redheaded pixie was squirming, trying desperately to break loose. Though pixies were physically unable to cry, she looked as if she was on the verge of tears, shrieking angrily as the rest of them dug their claws even further so as to keep her restrained.

  “Sh-Shouldn’t we do something?” John asked, but the three of them were far too shocked to make any sudden movements.

  Suddenly a rather large pixie, one with wild blue hair, green eyes, and skin just as blue, flew into the scene; she was glaring down at the three misfits in a most unpleasant way. Her neck bent and her nose twitched as if she was trying to catch a sniff of them. She was the queen of the horde, that much was clear, not only because she was twice as large as any other pixie, but also because the rest would back away in fear when she flew near them. She glanced at Sivvy and then flew towards her with a glare so sharp it was haunting.

  The queen hissed, sounding almost like a snake, and then the whispering around her died down to nothing. The knot in John’s throat was quite real; he placed a hand on the bone hilt of his blade as if somehow he could do something.

  “Sivvyyyy,” the queen pixie spoke for the first time. Her voice was much harsher than Sivvy’s, and much deeper. She then glanced down at the three human invaders, glaring at them unwelcomingly.

  Sivvy looked petrified. It soon became clear what was happening. Sivvy had done something wretched, something forbidden. She had brought humans to their nest. And pixies were known for many things but, little to human knowledge, mercy was not one of them.

  The pixies holding Sivvy down stared attentively at their queen as if awaiting orders. The queen, in return, darted closer until she was just a palm’s length away from Sivvy’s face, glaring heatedly into her eyes. Then, amidst the silence, the queen spoke only one word. And though a pixie’s voice was soft and mumbled, there was the slight hint of an echo when she spoke.

  “Cortahr!” she said, and then she flew away to the top of the tree to be alone.

  Sivvy began fidgeting, hissing and shrieking desperately like a wounded animal, and the other pixies closed in on her in a swarm and began to yank violently at her fragile wings.

  “Well, shit,” Hudson said, hardly believing his eyes.

  “What are they doing?!” John yelped.

  Sivvy shrieked again, her left wing ripping along the upper edge. Syrena felt an instant rage at the sight of it all. Sivvy’s deed had been a selfless one; she had saved three lives, and she was to pay an unfair price for it.

  Do something, the witch told herself. Anything!

  Without a violent twitch in her left eye, Syrena let go of Hudson’s embrace and stepped valiantly forward. “STOP!” she shouted.

  The place went silent again. The pixies all glanced at the witch in unison. They may have seemed beautiful before but at that moment they were utterly terrifying, like a horde of wasps with a conscience.

  “Darling,” Hudson gulped nervously. “What are you doing?”

  Syrena ignored him; the rage she felt was consuming her.

  “Let her go!” she shouted at them. “We’ll leave, okay? Just… Just don’t hurt her!”

  Another pixie, one that appeared to be male except slightly androgynous, flew in towards the witch and eyed her up and down in a most menacing way.

  “Cortahr,” he reiterated for his queen, like a faithful knave under a spell. And then the rest of the pixies whispered the word repeatedly as if echoing him.

  “Cortahr,” they hissed. “Cortahr! Cortahr!”

  Sivvy, looking down at Syrena with despair, released one last shriek of pain as the horde began tugging at her wings again. And that one shriek was all it took for Syrena’s rage to grow out of control.

  A roar of flames made the pixies scatter away, all except Sivvy, who stumbled down weakly to the nearest branch, her wings bent and wrinkled as if she’d been trampled over. Syrena stepped forward with her hands violently ablaze like a pair of torches, burning away part of the sleeves of her new blouse. Her orange eyes were bright embers brighter than the sun, and when she stepped towards Sivvy none of the pixies would dare get within five feet of them.

  “Stay back,” she warned them. The few rebellious ones that remained nearby were frightened off when Syrena taunted them with her flames, reminding them that she was in control. “Stay back, I will not say it again.” Sivvy was looking down at her with awe. It was evident that no human had defended her in such a way before. “Come,” said the witch, and Sivvy’s head tilted in that peculiar way again. “Come, Sivvy… We’re leaving…”

  The gentle pixie flapped her wings as best as she could, only her flight was far less gracious than it had been before. She landed weakly on Syrena’s shoulder, gazing admiringly into her eyes like a rescued child. Even the queen of the horde was staring down from above, too frightened to fly back down.

  Hudson looked at Syrena as if he was looking at a majestic lioness, but the concern in his eyes wasn’t the least bit subtle. “Darling…”

  “Let’s go,” said the witch.

  “Darling,” Hudson said insistently. “May I ask that you think this through for a moment?”

  Syrena gave him a glance; it was clear that her mind had been made up.

  “Let’s go,” she repeated. “Now.”

  Realizing that she wasn’t going to yield, Hudson and John gathered their belongings and backed away from the pixies’ nest, heading towards the nearest path they could find among the trees. Syrena walked backwards with her flaming hands held out in defense, and Sivvy was on her shoulder grasping onto her blouse for dear life. When they were a good distance away from the nest, Syrena let go of the rage and the flames on her hands died, leaving her hands unpleasantly hot, clouds of smoke streaming out from them. From a distance, the horde of pixies kept watch like a pack of wolves, and Sivvy was looking back at them with both sadness and anger in her childlike expression.

  “You’re going to be all right,” Syrena whispered into her tiny blue ears. “I’ll look after you. I promise.” And so the witch led the way, John and Hudson trailing behind her like
a pair of noble guardsmen.

  “Will she?” John asked worriedly.

  “Will she what?”

  “Be all right? In Halghard?”

  With an unconvincing sigh, Hudson replied, “I damn well hope so, mate.”

  * * *

  After nearly a decade of serving as handmaiden to Princess Magdalena, the young servant woman known as Brie had unintentionally walked towards the princess’s chambers one early morning, dazed and lost in thought. She was almost at the bedroom door when she realized it, and she felt a cold chill run up her spine. Once, the halls were loud and lively with servants scurrying down the corridors carrying trays of tea and breakfast for her majesty. Now the curtains had been shut and the halls were eerily empty, quiet, and slowly gathering dust.

  Brie made her way across the palace courtyard and headed towards the guard barracks. She had a bowl in her hands filled with warm water, stirred with mauve treacle and Halghardian velvet root. She nearly spilled it all when she stumbled across an unconscious figure sitting in the middle of the gardens. Nervously, she walked around him; Lord Regent Darryk Clark had never looked so sullen and miserable. On the table, there was an empty jar and a goblet that had been spilled, red wine dampening his black hair.

  When Brie realized he was breathing, she relaxed and went about her business.

  It was peculiar, she realized, the way she’d been a servant her whole life and never once felt the need to drown her sorrows in wine, and in the last few days of serving Lady Brunylda Clark as a bookkeeper she’d felt the tension in her neck rise. It was both a blessing and a burden, she realized, to have any form of power.

  She made her way to the guard barracks, to the room in which Adelina Huxley and her family were being lodged. When she opened the door, young Margot Huxley jumped to her feet, startled and flustered. She had been sitting on the wooden chair next to a bed where there lied the unconscious blacksmith Evellyn Amberhill.

  “I didn’t touch it, I swear!” said the girl.

  “I believe you,” Brie replied with a chuckle. “Has she come to her senses at all?”

  “No. She just keeps mumbling.”

  “Mumbling what?” Brie asked, more to amuse the girl than out of actual concern. She placed the bowl on the rickety bedside table and dipped in a freshly cleaned white cloth.

  “Nonsense, mostly,” Margot replied. “Though she did call for Alycia twice.”

  “Who?”

  “Her sister…”

  At this, Brie paused for a moment, holding the cloth in her hands half-wringed as warm water dripped out of it. “Sister?” she asked. “Is anyone caring for this sister?”

  Young Margot hesitated. For a girl so young, it hadn’t crossed her mind that Alycia, who was roughly the same age as her, had been left alone in the care of old Willem Amberhill, who had been bed-ridden and ill for several weeks now.

  “Well,” Brie came back to her senses. “No need to worry, I’m sure she’s fine. I’ll speak with the Lord Regent about it when he, uh… when he wakes.”

  Margot smiled at her. She had been sitting by Evellyn’s side for hours, staring pryingly at the blood-soaked bandages, trying to catch a glimpse of what was underneath. And when Brie began removing the bandages gently, Margot’s eyes grew wide with anticipation.

  Evellyn’s face was terribly scarred. It began with a minor scab on the lower lip, the blood on it now blackened and dry. Her upper lip, on the other hand, had been cut open severely, and though Mister Beckwit had tried to save what was left of the lip, the scar left an arch that was just high enough to expose three of her upper teeth, two of them chipped at the end. The wound split in two just underneath her cheek bone due to the barbs on Okvar’s axe; the smaller cut ran inward horizontally, ending just a half-inch from her nose, while the longer cut ran all the way up above her brow. Okvar had missed her eye by just a hair, but the blade slid far enough to mark her forehead as well.

  “By the gods,” Margot whispered, placing a hand over her mouth, her eyes beginning to swell. She’d known Evellyn since she was a babe, and she always thought her to be among the most beautiful women she’d ever seen. This woman that lay in front of her now was unfamiliar to her eyes. From up close, she looked like Evellyn; she was dressed like her, she smelled like her, had red hair like her, but if Margot had seen her in a crowd she would not have recognized her, and it filled the girl with an overwhelming guilt all of a sudden. Evellyn stood her ground and faced an orc simply so that the Huxleys could get away. And that scar on the blacksmith’s face would forever remind them of that.

  Brie began to clean the scabs gently with the wet cloth. The mauve treacle did nothing for the pain, only prevented infection, and the wound was so deep that the handmaiden-turned-bookkeeper was glad Evellyn was unconscious for the cleaning.

  “Will it ever heal properly?” Margot asked.

  Brie turned and gave her a warm smile, but it was one that also conveyed a hint of sorrow.

  “I’m afraid not,” she said. “But she’ll live… In the end, that’s what truly matters.”

  The grief in Margot’s face was clear. Even for a girl her age she was rather intelligent, and she understood much more than adults gave her credit for.

  “Did you know her well?” Brie asked.

  Margot nodded. “She’s my brother John’s best friend. She’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. Always has been.”

  Brie smiled as she dampened the cloth in the bucket some more. “Where’s your mother?”

  “She and Melvyn took River out for some fresh air by the creek. Melvyn wanted some berries and mum wanted ginger herbs for some tea.”

  Brie lowered a brow. “Did she not like the tea from this morning?”

  “She never tasted it. The servant dropped it all. Took one look at Aeva and screamed. Woke us all up, she did.”

  “Aeva…?”

  “Aevastra,” Margot glanced over at the orcess, who was resting on the bed across from them, unconscious as she had been for the last 10 hours due to the toll the poison was taking on her body. Brie nodded and brought the cloth back up to Evellyn’s face, though her mind was now elsewhere.

  “Sounds unsettling,” she said. “Some people just scare easy, I suppose.”

  “What’s unsettling?” Margot asked.

  “Troubling,” Brie clarified, to which Margot replied with a smirk of curiosity.

  Then something rather unexpected happened. The second the wet cloth touched the stitches on Evellyn’s face again, the blacksmith gasped fiercely for air and woke up suddenly in a shock.

  Brie screamed. A loud piercing scream, it was. So loud that Lord Regent Darryk Clark woke up in the palace courtyard, confused and exhausted, his head throbbing with pain.

  Brie backed away from the bed, allowing the blacksmith a good amount of space.

  Evellyn Amberhill sat up, her chest throbbing, her eyes swollen with tears as she glanced all around in a fit of distress. She was dazed and in a shock, and the more her lips and jaw shivered the more she felt the sharp sting of the stitches. Within seconds her face was red and sweaty, and her entire body was trembling.

  “Evellyn! By the gods,” Margot said, half-stunned and half-joyful to see her awake.

  “I-It’s okay!” Brie said, hoping to help the woman settle down. “You’re safe… You’re in Val Havyn’s royal palace…”

  Evellyn’s confused gaze seemed unwilling to settle on any particular thing. She appeared lost and slightly out of touch with reality, her mind trying to come to terms with what had happened.

  “Well… Part of the royal palace,” Brie clarified. “You’re in the guard barracks.”

  Evellyn tried to force herself back to her senses. To Margot, the blacksmith appeared so unlike herself, so dazed and primitive, Brie even wondered if she’d fallen and injured her head when it all happened; there was certainly no wound on her scalp, none that the bookkeeper had noticed. Evellyn sunk into a frenzy, groaning and pressing a trembling hand against her aching
tender face.

  “Don’t touch it!” Brie warned her, so loudly and abruptly that Evellyn yelped and shriveled into a corner. “I-It’s okay! I’m only here to help y-”

  The blacksmith leapt suddenly off the bed and, in a panic, headed towards the door, holding onto the brick walls to keep herself balanced.

  “Wait!” Brie shouted. “Stop! You shouldn’t be moving!”

  “S-Stay away!” Evellyn finally spoke, her eyes wide with terror.

  “Evellyn,” Margot cried. “Calm yourself… You’re safe…”

  It must have been the shock of it all, but Evellyn hadn’t noticed the Huxley girl was there until that moment. When she looked down at her, she felt a sudden ease fill her body. “M-Margot…?”

  “Yes,” the girl stepped closer. “Yes, it’s me. You’re okay, Evellyn…”

  There was a brief moment in which the blacksmith appeared relieved. Margot’s familiar face eased her agitation a bit, at the very least she knew somebody in the room. Then, however, the pain returned to her face and it reminded her of what had happened.

  She glanced everywhere again, her entire body twitching and shaking. “I want to see,” she mumbled, and both Brie and Margot turned to one another, unsure of what to do or say. The scar marked only the left side of Evellyn’s face but it was quite deep and disturbing all the same. Brie had intentionally gotten rid of any mirrors, for she knew that such a wound would only shock the woman further. And Brie had seen a fair number of wounds in her life; enough wounds, at least, to know that Evellyn’s face was fated to never look the same again.

  “You should go and get your mother,” Brie mumbled at Margot.

  “I want to see!” Evellyn said again, her voice much louder this time.

  “Y-Yes, just hang on for a moment,” Brie held her hands nervously out in front. “Evellyn… That is your name, yes? Evellyn?”

  The blacksmith simply stared back, absent-mindedly and distrustful.

  “I’m Brie. And I’m a friend,” said the bookkeeper. “You’ve been hurt very badly…”

  Evellyn’s breathing had slowed, but her mind was set only on one thing: the pain.