Scarlet and the Keepers of Light

by Brandon Charles West

  The jailers reached his cell, and the older one guffawed.

  “Lookie there. He’s hiding in the corner.”

  The younger jailer didn’t share his senior’s sense of humor, but he faked a laugh anyway. He didn’t see Brennan as a cowering child. To him, Brennan looked more like a cornered wolf—dangerously so.

  “You gonna cry, slave,” the head jailer taunted in a high-pitched, scratchy voice. When Brennan remained silent, he scowled. “Open the door!” he yelled at his assistant.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” came a voice from behind the jailers. It was so unexpected, the younger jailer yelped.

  They turned to see a tall hooded figure standing calmly only a few feet away, almost hidden in shadow. The head jailer recovered from his initial shock first, and his face flushed with anger.

  “Who are you?” the jailer snapped. “Get outta my jail!”

  The figure emerged into the light, moving with a slow, easy confidence. He stopped inches from the head jailer and removed his hood, revealing himself as a man of astounding beauty, his long hair woven into golden braids, his skin porcelain smooth and radiant. If it wasn’t for the man’s shoulders and his size, he could easily have been mistaken for a woman.

  The sight of the man without his hood brought a sudden sense of dread upon the jailers. They backed against the bars of the cell and began to cower, averting their gaze from the man’s cold gray eyes.

  “I—I—I’m sorry,” the head jailer quivered. He looked as if he had seen death itself.

  The man stood motionless for a long moment, then said simply, “Open the door and leave.”

  The older jailer obeyed at once, fumbling with the keys and dropping them several times before finally finding the right one and turning the lock with a metallic click. Once the jailers had scurried off down the corridor, the mysterious stranger entered the doorway to Brennan’s cell.

  “I do apologize.” The man’s voice had an almost musical lilt. “But these heathens have not even bothered to discover your name.” He smiled. “I have no idea how I should address you.”

  For a long moment, Brennan simply stared at the man, unsure whether to speak to him or attack. Surely this was some sort of trap. But something about the exchange between the figure and the jailers, the fear the newcomer provoked in them, had piqued his curiosity. It wasn’t as if he had much of a choice, anyway.

  “I’m Brennan. Why would that matter to a jailer?” Brennan responded, watching the man closely.

  The stranger laughed in a warm and friendly manner. “I’m no jailer,” he said. “I am called—well, I guess, Chosen would be the best translation. Not exactly right, but it will do. May I?” he asked, gesturing to the inside of the cell, as if he were making a simple house call and the barren stone chamber were a cottage in the country.

  Brennan nodded, and Chosen strode gracefully to the center of the cell, effortlessly avoiding the puddles of blood on the floor. He stopped a few feet from Brennan and looked around in dismay.

  “There doesn’t appear to be anywhere adequate for two gentlemen to sit for a conversation. If you will permit me?” Chosen motioned through the cell door, and the jailers reemerged from the darkness of the hall, each carrying a wooden chair, their faces fixed in a look of fear, verging on horror.

  Brennan found that he was thoroughly enjoying the way the jailers, who just this morning had been acting so tough, cringed in abject terror. For the moment at least, he banished the idea of attacking Chosen from his mind.

  The jailers scuttled into the cell cautiously, eyes darting about. They placed the chairs facing each other, as close as they dared to Chosen, and scurried back out, nearly

  tripping over one another as they fought to get through the narrow door.

  “There, that’s better,” Chosen said, motioning to a chair. “Please.”

  Seeing no harm in sitting down, Brennan sat. Chosen sat shortly after, acting the role of a grand host so well that Brennan could almost imagine the dismal surroundings transformed into an elegant drawing room.

  “So, you are to be a slave,” Chosen said after a pause, crossing his legs and leaning back in his chair.

  “That’s what they tell me,” Brennan replied, a little curt; he didn’t appreciate hearing this fact spoken of in such a flippant tone.

  “That’s a shame. You are much too young to be looking at such a fate,” Chosen said, more gravely.

  “Why are you here speaking to me?”

  “Why indeed? When word reached me of the last of the Satorians, I had to—”

  “The what?” Brennan interrupted.

  Chosen chuckled. “I always find it a shame when history passes out of common knowledge, especially out of the knowledge of the people it directly involves. I suppose I could say Conquered, but that’s a name given by kidnappers and murderers. The real name of your people is Satorian, the first people of Satorium. It is an ancient language from another land, but it is yours.”

  “My mother never mentioned it, and she knew a lot about our history.” This was only partially a lie. His mother knew more than almost anyone about her people, even if in reality that was still very little. But then here was a stranger with effortless confidence giving his people a name that his mother had never used.

  “No one knows a lot of Satorian history, my friend. Still, it is as I say, and you are the last. It would in my opinion be a great shame to see you dead, here in this cell, or worked to death in a mine. I have always thought the mines were a poor use for people of such considerable gifts. Much like using an ax to peel a grape. But then again, nobody ever asked my opinion on the subject.”

  Brennan was taken aback by the manner in which the man spoke and carried himself. Brennan would have been apprehensive only visiting this dark place, but Chosen looked as comfortable as if he were lying in a meadow on a breezy summer’s day.

  Brennan did not have the benefit of age or experience; for one of a race that lived exceptionally long lives, his sixteen years were no more than a scratch on the surface of adolescence. But now he was being forced to face adulthood much sooner than was his mother’s plan. And though it had taken him a while to figure it out, he realized that this strange man might be his only way out of the cell—if he wanted to get out alive and unchained, at least.

  The only way forward was to push the issue, he decided. “What do you want?”

  “Straight to the point. I like that. I want to free you, and give your life some meaning.” Chosen reached into his cloak and removed a root that Brennan did not recognize. Biting off a small piece of the root, he began chewing on it methodically. Brennan was expecting a further explanation, but Chosen didn’t offer one.

  “What meaning? You’re going to free me to do what? What’s in it for you?” Brennan asked suspiciously.

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  “How could I possibly help you find anyone? I don’t know anybody or anything about the world out there.” Brennan’s frustration was mounting. “My mother is dead. She was the only other person I knew. Just tell me what you want!”

  “Not one of my stronger points, being direct.” Chosen leaned forward, his eyes locked on Brennan’s. “Perhaps the traits that I admire in others, I should make better use of myself. But then nobody’s perfect.”

  And now, in those eyes, Brennan saw what he had not before, what he imagined most, enchanted by the man’s beauty and lilting voice, did not see. Something about the man put Brennan at ease—until he met his eyes. A darkness lurked behind those clear gray irises. It consumed Brennan, bore down upon him like a great weight, heavy with sadness and despair. He felt himself sinking into that gloom, almost lost in it.

  With an effort he shook the feeling off, lifted his shoulders and rolled them backward, as if physically shedding the despair. Slowly he stood, looming over the man called Chosen.

 
“I’m not in the mood for games. I asked you a simple question, and I’d like it answered.” Brennan wasn’t sure he meant a word of what he had just said, but it sounded good to him. Firm, strong, threatening. Besides, he had to do or say something to stop Chosen’s gaze from pulling him under. He could still feel the draw of that darkness. “You keep jerking me around, and I don’t care if I never get free, I’ll knock you out,” he added, instantly regretting it. His voice had failed him at the last few words, and he felt his confidence falter.

  “Please, young Satorian. Don’t posture. I’ve offered you a chance at life, and I’m short on time. Not that I haven’t enjoyed our conversation.” Chosen stood, but still had to look up at Brennan. “Your choices are few and simple. Die with them, or live by leaving with me. My reasons, explanations, any further talk—none of it’s necessary. I want you to come with me, but I assure you, you are in no way indispensable. If I leave without you, I’ll have lost nothing. I’ll just have to change my plans, that’s all.”

  Brennan allowed himself a moment to look into Chosen’s eyes. If it hadn’t been for the evil he saw there, this would have been such an easy decision. After all, this man was giving him a chance at life. Whatever kind of life that might be, at least it would be considerably longer than it had been only minutes ago. For all his sixteen years, his mother had sheltered him and hid him from the outside world, sacrificing her own way of life to give him a chance. A chance to survive. She had paid with her life, and mingled with the rage and sadness was a heavy guilt that joined to crush Brennan—guilt over not having been there at the crucial moment to save her. Guilt over the life she had been forced to live for his sake. And guilt that he had allowed himself to be taken prisoner, her efforts and sacrifice all in vain.

  He tried to think what she might have wanted for him in this moment. What choice would have made her proud? How would he best respect her beliefs and her hopes for his future? This Chosen was not what he seemed on the surface, and even that surface was confusing and difficult to read. The eyes are where men hold their deepest desires and true motives, his mother had always warned him. A man can learn to lie with words, and even hide his intentions with veils of cunning, but if you look hard enough, the eyes will always reveal the truth. The truth was that Chosen was a dark and mysterious man at best. He was not to be trusted. But Brennan couldn’t overlook his current circumstances. If he didn’t at least pretend to go along with whatever plan Chosen had for him, he would die.

  “I’ll go with you,” he said finally.

  “Fantastic,” Chosen responded, gleefully moving his chair aside. “I take it you’ll be packing light.” Gesturing to Brennan, the man strode out of the cell.

  7

  The Prophecy

  Scarlet woke in a room at the top of one of the rear spires, the view from her window partially obscured by one of the giant roots. The bed she found herself in was beyond comfortable, the mattress filled, like the couches they’d sat on earlier with dandelion fluff. She imagined it in a sunny field, white and wispy, ready for a wish or a breeze to carry it away.

  The room was beautiful. The walls were inlaid with living branches from which sprouted bright green leaves of exotic shapes and flowers with large maroon petals that reminded Scarlet of dark poinsettias. In fact, the whole room had a festive look that made her think of Christmas. The furniture even looked frosted and snowy, and ornate carved crystals hung from the ceiling, sending the morning light dancing across the ceiling as if through a prism.

  She stretched and reluctantly got out of bed. Her legs were a little sore from running the day before, but all in all, she felt delightful. Ever since she’d arrived in the Tounder village, a warmth and comfort had enveloped her, never leaving her, regardless of what troubling thoughts crossed her mind. Her dreams in the land of the Tounder, ironically, had been of home.

  The Tounder ladies who had helped Scarlet and Melody to their rooms had given them soft nightgowns to wear. Looking down at her plain white gown, she realized that she had nothing to change into. The Tounder had taken away her old clothes, to be washed, she assumed.

  But before she could worry about that, she caught sight of a beautiful dress in the corner of the room, hanging from a stand shaped remarkably like herself. As she walked toward it, light shimmered across the strange fabric, causing it to shift from deep forest green to light seafoam and back again. She ran the fabric through her fingers. It was incredibly light, soft, and expertly sewn. Actually, Scarlet wasn’t sure it had actually been sewn at all. She couldn’t find a single stitch anywhere.

  There was a knock at the door. Still transfixed with the dress, Scarlet mouthed, “Come in.”

  A pretty young Tounder with long golden hair and a tiny button nose came into the room. She smiled at Scarlet.

  “I’m quite sure it will fit you,” the Tounder said. “Xavier asked the best dressmakers in the village to work all night on them for you, your mother, and your sister.”

  “It’s very beautiful,” Scarlet said.

  “Well, they are the best,” the Tounder responded, just a little too sweetly. “I’m Lindi. I was sent to collect you and bring you downstairs.”

  Scarlet crossed the room and extended her hand. Lindi just stared, making Scarlet feel awkward and silly. She dropped her hand back down to her side, not sure what to say or do next.

  “Maybe you should go ahead and get dressed,” Lindi said. “I’ll be just outside.”

  When the door closed, Scarlet went back over to the dress, took it down, and slipped it on. Lindi was right. The dress could not possibly have fit any better. Scarlet had never had anything tailor-made for her, but she imagined that this must be what it was like, even though she doubted that any normal tailor could have made something so perfect.

  Once dressed, she went to the door to ask Lindi where Melody and her parents were. She had so many questions. What were those horrible things that had come after them? Why had they wanted to take “the girl”? Which one of them did they want, Scarlet or her sister? How could Cricket and Dakota talk? How did Dakota seem to know so much? How had they gotten here?

  She opened the door and found Lindi standing impatiently; obviously she felt that Scarlet had taken longer than was necessary to get dressed. “Ready then, are we?” she snipped.

  Scarlet had thought she was imagining the Tounder girl’s standoffishness—perhaps the custom of shaking hands wasn’t known to the Tounder—but now she was sure the girl was being deliberately rude. For some reason the young Tounder did not like her. It was all over her pretty face and the sneer of her forced smile. Scarlet couldn’t imagine what she could have done to upset the girl. She’d only been here for a night, and she hadn’t met anyone but Xavier.

  “Can you take me to my parents?” she asked timidly.

  Lindi shook her head and rolled her eyes, but waved at Scarlet to follow her and began moving down the spiral stairs that led to the main section of the castle. Scarlet had to hurry to keep up; Lindi chose to float down many of the steps, which proved to be much faster than walking.

  Her awkward feeling vanished when she got to the bottom of the steps and saw her parents. Rushing past Lindi, she jumped into her father’s arms.

  “Daddy!” she squealed, more delighted to see him than she had ever remembered.

  Her dad lifted her off the ground, holding her for a long moment. Finally he set her down and turned his attention back to the efficient-looking Tounder he had been speaking with.

  “I understand your concerns, Mr. Hopewell, but Xavier was called away to tend to, ah, Dakota, and the Stidolph—the, um, wolves. Some of their injuries were—well, they required special care.” The Tounder looked frustrated, as if this was information he had just recently been given.

  “I understand that Xavier was called away. I wouldn’t want to interrupt him if he’s helping Dakota or the wolves—they saved my family’s life.” Scarlet�
��s father looked as exasperated as the Tounder. “What I don’t understand is why you can’t answer my questions. You obviously know a lot more than we do, seeing as we don’t know anything.”

  “Mr. Hopewell, please—”

  “That’s okay, Raden,” interrupted Xavier, who’d somehow appeared without anyone having noticed him. “I’m here now, and I’ll be happy to answer any questions the family may have.”

  “Xavier, sir, I wasn’t sure what I should say, so I—well—”

  “It’s quite all right, Raden. Go and attend to the rest of the castle. I’m pretty sure I saw two young ones sneaking into the old armory. The one hiding behind a tapestry as I passed was Delfi.” Xavier said this last as if it was a rich source of amusement; the Tounder called Raden flew off at once, obviously not sharing Xavier’s sense of humor.

  Xavier began walking back into the sitting room they’d been in the night before, burbling away as he did so, his merriment infectious.

  “Young Tounder are always trying to sneak into the old armory. They tell wonderful stories about what’s inside, and get themselves so worked up that eventually curiosity gets the best of them. What’s really funny is that the last young Tounder to actually make it into the armory itself was Raden.”

  He sank down into the large cushioned chair, gesturing for the rest to join him. The four Hopewells fit easily on the couch across from Xavier. They all leaned forward with identical looks of feverish anticipation.

  “Questions, questions,” Xavier said cheerfully. “You must have so many.”

  Several Tounder brought in trays with a teapot, cups, and an assortment of what looked like pastries. Xavier genteelly began to pour the tea into cups and handed them around. Scarlet took a sip just to be polite, but found that she rather liked it. Melody seemed to agree, and soon they were both munching on pastries as if aware for the first time how hungry they were. Even their father took a moment to eat, though he was obviously dying to get to the questions.

  “Now, that’s better. A bit of something in the stomach does wonders for the brain. Who’s to be first, then?” Xavier looked expectantly at the family.