The Fiery Arrow

by Bo Burnette

  They slammed her back into the boat, the beam seat cracking painfully into her rear. Her last sight before they covered her eyes again was of a blindfolded Philip, his mysteriously colored eyes hidden. Yet she could see his mouth.

  He was smiling.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: CAPTIVES

  Arliss slumped as the boat cast off into the river. Where were Erik and Ilayda? Were they even alive? The coughing man had sent a warrior to finish them off, she knew that much. Had the assassin returned to the company while she was marching blindfolded? She didn’t know. Erik had a longbow, she tried to assure herself. And Ilayda had…well, Ilayda was Ilayda. She would think of something clever.

  She herself stood in the more dire situation at the moment: captured, blindfolded, soaking wet, in a strange boat with strange men whose intentions were far less than amiable. At least she had Philip, though he was also captured, blindfolded, soaking wet, and in rather the same situation. She hoped the rain hadn’t soaked all the way to the book in the torn pocket of her underdress.

  ’Tis all your fault, Erik said inside her head.

  No, she snapped back. It’s these evil warriors. The quest was working just fine until they barged into everything.

  Silly princess, came Ilayda’s voice.

  I will follow you as long as it is right to do so, Erik insisted quietly.

  You do not understand. You cannot even comprehend your own quest! Philip upset her fragmented thoughts.

  She struggled to fit the pieces of the past three days together: her birthday, the ball, dancing…the conversation between Lord Adam and Lord Brédan, the dance with Brallaghan, the angry talk with her father…Philip. The book. The swordfight. Ilayda not wanting to wake up, Erik not wanting to believe her, Philip telling her she didn’t understand. The river. The snakes. Lasairbláth. And then…the shack, the body, the warriors, and Áedán dead.

  What good was there in any of that? How had any of it been a quest, much less a quest that was working?

  What had she done wrong to deserve any of this? To save her people from their own prejudices, and to lay bare her father’s bigotry: those were her only goals. Those, and to obtain a brother. Despite all her best efforts, she had failed miserably. Her spirit sank lower than the dense, wet air. Now everyone in the village, her father not least among them, would look upon her as a failure and a child. And as for Philip, she did not see how he could want anything more to do with her after this.

  If an “after this” even existed. Perhaps they would not even escape this captivity alive.

  Someone suddenly clasped her hand—a strong hand, but not that of a berserking warrior. This hand had gripped swords and hacked logs, engraved pommels and carved bedposts.

  She released her breath. Philip must have been moved to be sitting beside her. She stretched her bound hands and intertwined her fingers with his.

  All at once, the forest sounds became thick and echoey. A heavy darkness encroached overhead. Less and less light penetrated the thin blindfold. Arliss knew the boats were passing under something thicker and denser than the canopy of trees which had crowded above them thus far.

  The strange, warm feeling of an empty belly saturated Ilayda’s body—no longer a dull ache, but a sharp pain. Her stomach felt like it was being gnawed and pulled downwards by some wide-mouthed beast.

  She halted, grabbing Erik’s arm ahead of her. “Stop. We need to eat.” Without waiting for a response, she crumpled into a sitting position. “And what about that snakebite from yesterday? It needs to be cleaned.”

  He offered his hand. “I’m fine. For now, I am going to be in charge. We have to keep moving. Arliss and Philip would do the same if they were in our place.”

  She groaned, but only from hunger and worry. She accepted his hand and allowed him to jerk her onto her feet.

  “Besides,” he said, “We’re almost back to the Lasairbláth. We can rest there while we gather more flowers.”

  “And then?”

  “We light torches and scare a path through the snakes.”

  “And then?”

  “We cross the river, swimming if we must.”

  “And then?”

  Erik curved an eyebrow at her. “Ilayda, you’re the one who invented this plan, are you not?”

  A throbbing ache burned in her lower back. She swiveled to stretch. “I am. But I have neither ideas nor abilities to rescue my best friend.” Her hands trembled as she gripped her murrey-colored dress and took a step forward. “We need the queen.”

  Even with a blindfold on, Arliss could tell the fortress (or was it a cave?) stretched across a wide opening of space as they were herded through it. Noises clamored all around in the near distance: voices, boots clamping, the sound of a blacksmith’s hammer banging hot iron.

  Her captor jerked her to a halt.

  A new voice spoke—probably another of these warriors. “Excellent prizes you have found.”

  “Shall I bring them before the Master?” the coughing man rasped.

  “No.” the other replied. He had a strange accent, just like all these grim warriors. “The Master is troubled, Damian. There was a great disturbance among the creatures, no thanks to these two.” He kicked their shins viciously, and Arliss winced. “He will want them in the morning.”

  “I shall put them in a cell straightaway, then.”

  “What of the other two?”

  “I sent Connal after them.”

  “He has not returned.”

  “You shall not worry about them,” Damian rasped. “Now excuse me.”

  Damian jostled her along into some sort of dark corridor. A lock grated; metal scraped along stone. One of the warriors jabbed her ankle with his foot.

  She tripped and staggered onto the stony floor as someone tore the blindfold from her face. She landed on her side, palms slapping against cold stone as she darted a glance up to the open doorway.

  Damian shoved Philip into the room, and he stumbled to the floor beside her. With a final glare, Damian slammed the heavy door into the frame. Keys jingled as the lock clattered and finally clicked.

  Then, silence—deep, terrible silence, the sort of quiet that only comes from a place which ought to be filled with noise. The noises she’d heard earlier now died away into the distance. And now she sat in a dungeon in her own realm—where in the land, she had no idea.

  Behind her, Philip paced the cell. It was half the size of her bedroom at home, and neither blanket nor pillow nor any piece of furniture graced the bare stone floor. The rocky walls stood devoid of any window. The cell’s lone light flickered from a small candle in the far corner.

  Arliss hugged her knees to her chest, staring into the stone. How had it come to this? She’d wanted adventure, to discover what lay at the heart of the land. And now this—whatever it was—turned out to be her only reward. Philip was probably angry at her, and he had every right to be. After this, he’d never trust her again.

  From somewhere deep within her chest, a sob formed and stuttered out. She restrained the second cry, but could do nothing to hide the streams of tears on her cheeks.

  She covered her face with her right hand to hide the tears. She couldn’t weep like this—not in front of Philip. But what did she have to hide? Especially now, what could she withhold from him?

  He knelt beside her. He must have read her thoughts. They’d only known each other for these few days, yet already he read her mind better than even she could.

  He brushed aside the hair that had slipped onto her cheek and gently peeled her hand away from her face.

  She blinked through the tears and straight into the eyes that had haunted her from the moment she first looked into them. Now, in this dungeon, they were her only comfort.

  “Well, Arliss, we’re in quite a strait.” He attempted a smile. “We’ve been across a river and through a forest infested with snakes. Maybe you have a good idea for getting out of this one?”

  “No.” She sniffed and dried her cheeks on her sleeve. “No
, I can’t get us out of this one.”

  He released her hand and shifted to the side. “I am sorry that I can’t get us out either.”

  “It certainly isn’t your fault, none of it.” Her face grew hot. “The blame is mine. Everything that has happened to us is all my bloody fault.”

  “You aren’t exactly wrong about that,” he said. “Why, though, Arliss? You wanted to change our people. You wanted to change the way they looked at you and at me and at each other. Then you wanted to change your father’s mind, and make him see things the way you saw them. But then you wanted something more: to explore the heart of Reinhold and find the places the legends speak of.”

  “And I have done none of those things.”

  “But why? Why drag me into all those goals?”

  She turned to him, fresh tears watering her eyes. “Because they were never what I really wanted. What I wanted was…” She held back another gasping sob.

  “Me?” His stared at the stone floor.

  “I wanted a brother. Always, I’ve wanted a brother, and when you stepped across my path—in the fields, in the Bronze Lion, at the ball—I thought perhaps you could be that brother.”

  “I suppose I wasn’t quite what you expected from the quiet carpenter’s apprentice.”

  “Not at all.” She almost smiled.

  “Everyone is deeper than you realize, Arliss. Everyone has hurts. Everyone has stories. I not least of anyone.” He looked at her again. “You pay a price for friendship, because you get more than a person. You get their hurts and their histories, too. A brother is no different.”

  “You don’t understand,” she said. “I realize that more than you know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have hurts, too. You may think I want a brother because I never had one, but that’s not exactly why. I did have a brother.” Trying to tell Philip the thing she had never told anyone else proved harder than she’d expected. She forced down the pain that burned her chest. “My mother gave birth to a son when I was eight years old. She almost died in childbirth. We buried my brother the next day.”

  Philip sucked in air, but he said nothing.

  She closed her eyes to shut out the world, the pain. “His name was John Joseph.”

  Philip stood. “So this is why we’re imprisoned—because you wanted a brother, and decided I was the one.”

  “I’m sorry. Deeply.” She stared at the floor.

  “In all those eight years, you’ve never once found someone to call your brother?”

  “Never.”

  “But what about Lord Brédan’s son—Brallaghan? I’ve seen you with him many times.”

  She lifted her gaze from the stone and faced him. “You’ve noticed me?”

  “Of course. You’re the princess. How could I not notice? I’ve watched you for a long time.”

  All this time, she had scorned the barriers of her city, not realizing that she herself was entrapped by them. He’d been watching her for years. For her part, she hadn’t even known he existed.

  “We’ve all been so blind,” she finally exhaled. “Except for you.”

  “I’ve been blind, too. Until a few days ago, I never even tried to approach you.” He placed his hands on his hips and lowered his eyebrows, but she thought she detected a flicker of a smile on his lips. “Maybe I’d have been better off if I hadn’t.”

  “I know you want to tell me that I should have never left the village and disobeyed my father’s orders. And I suppose you’re right. But for now, this is our fate. Whatever happens here, I cannot let the darkness and snakes continue to brood.”

  “You think it’s our fate?” he asked. “I think it’s destiny.”

  She scrunched her brow together. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that we are here for a reason. You are meant for something important, Arliss. Something only you can fulfill.”

  Tilting her head, she looked at him. The tears had stopped for good. “You’re right. We must find the Master these warriors answer to, and stop him from poisoning Reinhold.”

  With a harsh scrape, the wooden door slid open, scratching its way along stone and releasing dim light into the room. Damian stood on the threshold, and as he stepped into the room, the younger warrior Cahal limped in beside him. A bloody bandage wrapped Cahal’s right forearm, and his face was dashed with cuts and bruises. Glaring at Philip, he followed his superior into the cell.

  “I am sorry to intrude upon your lovely conversation,” Damian said, “but I have need of the young swordsman here. He has a different cell waiting upon him, yes.”

  They moved to yank Philip to his feet.

  Arliss leapt up. “No, don’t take him—please!”

  “It is the Master’s orders.” Cahal sneered and shoved her away.

  She sent a swift kick into his injured leg. He stifled a yelp and skipped onward.

  Even as they dragged him out of the room, Philip said, “It’s going to be fine.” His grim eyes pierced hers as the guards hauled him from the cell.

  The door crashed into its stony frame. The draft flicked out the candle’s light. Arliss shuddered in the darkness.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: A FORTRESS OF STONE

  A trickle of morning light oozed beneath the door—just enough for Arliss to squint at the book in her lap. She ran her hands across the words of the story she’d read so many times before.

  While the attacks of the Great Terror that rose up out of the East grew ever stronger, the resistance to them became ever emboldened. The enemy’s fury was a wildfire; their will was as a hurricane. As the armies assaulted and even occupied the lands around Eire, the stoutest of hearts trembled at the power of the Great Terror of the East.

  Hope was not all lost. Although the times were dark, some stood against the tyrannical assaults.

  In one great castle, nestled in the highlands that overlooked a vast field of corn which the king harvested for food and profit, the king heard tidings of the wave of wild enemies which was taking the island by force. This forewarning gave him fear, for his defenses were few, and he held a premonition that his people would fall. Still he rallied his troops.

  The enemy army came sooner than expected, and the king’s army was not yet prepared. But the queen began to make a plan of her own. Even as the enemy was a few miles off, preparing to march across the king’s cornfields, she sent out her bravest spies. Carrying heavy buckets of oil which threatened to yank their arms to the earth, the spies flew across the fields, hiding behind the tall plants. Everywhere they spilled trails of oil.

  The enemy army began to march across the fields, trampling the corn. Seeing one of the spies, they shot him through the heart and prepared for an all-out ambush. But none came.

  The queen stood in the tallest tower, her bow in hand. In the courtyard below, the royal army was tense, straining for the moment when they would flood through the castle gates and begin their hopeless attack on the enemy. The enemy soldiers were already halfway through the cornfields when they began firing their war machines—catapults and ballistae—at the castle. Still they were out of bowshot, so the army still had time to prepare without worrying about a volley of arrows. None could shoot accurately, if at all, from that distance.

  None, that is, in either of the two armies. But the queen, an innately skilled archer, could make the shot. There, poised on top of the tower, she readied her arrow. The arrow for this shot was no ordinary arrow.

  It was a fiery arrow.

  The queen had dipped it in flame from the tower’s torch, and it now blazed bright as she knocked it in the string and aimed. With the dancing flames reflecting in her eyes, she drew back the string. She released the arrow.

  Heavy footsteps smacked the stone floor in the hall.

  Arliss slammed the book shut and stuffed it back into the tattered pocket of her underdress. She barely had time to right the slit skirt of the blue woolen dress before the door creaked open. Damian stood in the doorway sneering at her, a squashed fragmen
t of bread in his hand.

  “Here, have breakfast.” He threw the deformed piece of loaf at her.

  She wolfed it down and instantly wished there was more. She’d eaten nothing since the morning before, and her stomach was complaining riotously.

  “It is time.” His accented voice was sharp and rounded in the way he pronounced vowels. “You shall come to the Master. He demands to see you, now, yes?”

  “What if I don’t want to see him?

  He drew a long, ugly dagger. “Then you shall not see your companion again, either.”

  Her heart beginning to beat its drum, she rose and followed him out into the hallway. Who was this Master? Why did they not address him by name?

  Áedán’s final words burned in her memory: “Thane! Thane has come!”

  Thane. The name stirred something deep within her memory, something which had long been forgotten and unused by her mind. Damian grabbed her arms and pushed her along as images flashed and flickered in her head before fading into darkness: the Isle of Light, the volcano erupting, her father leading, fighting…

  Fighting a man with a bloody gash on his jaw and a treasure chest beneath his arm.

  Somehow, this memory had remained neglected—no one had spoken of this moment in all her life. It seemed like a dream which was real and vivid in sleep, yet faded away the moment she wakened.

  The dark hallway spilled out into a huge clearing—an open cavern of stone. It was like being inside a hollow mountain with the peak cut off. Walls of stone, ground of hard dirt dotted with boulders. And all around there were soldiers and guards, clomping about in silence.