The Lost Realm (28 page)

“I'll give you gold if you'll take me, too,” called the Galadronian assassin from his cell.

“Shut up!” snapped Elodie, rubbing her bruised and painful neck.

One by one the children crept out of the cell and clustered around Captain Leom. They gazed up at him adoringly, and Elodie knew her instinct to bring him here had been right.

“Hurry,” she said. “Take them to safety, as you once took my brother.”

“I will, Princess Elodie.”

He began to make his way out of the dungeon, with the children in tow.

Elodie turned to Sylva and Cedric. “Go with him. The guard actually saluted Captain Leom when we came in, but I think he'll change his mind when he sees his prisoners on the loose.”

“And if we can't convince him?” said Sylva.

“I have my sword,” said Leom drily.

“What about you?” asked Sylva.

“I'm going to find Fessan.”

“We'll come back for you, Elodie,” said Cedric. “We won't leave you.”

“No! Wait for me by the door to the garden. Be ready. When we come, we'll be coming at a run.”

Without waiting for a reply, Elodie grabbed a fresh torch from a sconce on the wall, seized Samial's hand, and raced deeper into the dungeon.

The corridors gave way to rough tunnels. Elodie sensed they were descending deep underground, into the ancient catacombs over which Castle Vicerin had been built. Samial paused beside an open doorway.

“This is where they held him until today,” he said.

Elodie peered inside and saw a tiny chamber with a low ceiling. Fixed to one wall was a set of manacles. There was a large puddle in the middle of the floor, and a drainage grille in the far corner.

“The water cell,” Elodie breathed. She tried to imagine what it must have been like for Fessan, chained up to his neck in icy water. It was a torture so typically Vicerin in its brutality. “Where is he now?”

“Not far. This way.”

Hand in hand they ran farther through the maze of tunnels. At last Samial stopped. Before them was a low door made of hard, black wood. He took the keys from Elodie, sorted through them until he found the one he wanted, and plunged it into the lock.

Elodie held her breath as Samial opened the door, terrified of what she might see.

The cell was small and square, with solid earth walls and a muddy floor. It smelled like a sewer. There were no windows. When Elodie thrust the blazing torch inside, the man huddled in the corner cringed and threw his arm up over his face.

“Fessan!”

Handing the torch to Samial, she rushed into the cell. In the same instant, Fessan clambered to his feet and held up his fists. His knuckles were scabbed, and his hands shook. Elodie had never seen anyone less equipped to put up a fight.

“Fessan! It's me, Elodie!”

“I know who it is!” The words came out slurred. Fessan spat a gob of bloody saliva onto the damp floor. “Elodie the princess. Elodie the spoiled brat. Elodie the traitor!”

Elodie realized she was shaking all over. Tears spilled down her cheeks: tears of relief, that he was still alive; tears of shame, for the deceit she'd had no choice but to play on him; tears of pity, for the pain and anguish he'd suffered.

“I'm here,” she said. She reached out to him, but he drew sharply back.

“Here? Yes, you're here. Come to gloat, have you?”

“No.”

“How could you do it, Elodie? After all Trident did for you. After everything
I
did.”

“I didn't want to.” She forced her voice to remain steady. “It was the only way. The Vicerins would have wiped you out if I hadn't given them what they wanted. I thought they'd leave you behind with the others, but . . . If I'd known where you'd end up . . .”

“It's a nice story, Elodie.”

“It's not a story. It's the truth.”

“The truth? You wouldn't know the truth if it cut your throat.”

Elodie's hand went to her neck, touching first the wound left by the assassin, then the gold chain from which her jewel was hanging.

“Please believe me,” she implored. “I came to rescue you. You have to come with me. If we go now, I can save you.”

Fessan bunched his fists tighter, then his hands dropped, revealing his face fully. Elodie gasped. His eyes were red and swollen; his cheeks were purple with bruises. Both his lips were bleeding.

“Why should I believe anything you say?”

Elodie was starting to despair. She turned to Samial, who was standing in the doorway to the cell, holding the torch aloft.

“We are running out of time, Elodie,” he said anxiously.

I know!

Meanwhile, Fessan had spread his arms wide, exposing his thin chest. “Kill me,” he said. “That's what you've come for, isn't it? If you haven't come to gloat, you must be here to stick a knife in me. Well, go on—get on with it. At least it will put an end to the torture.”

Suddenly inspired, Elodie drew the dagger Vicerin had given her. Its jeweled hilt shone in the flickering torchlight. Then she turned it in her hand and presented it to Fessan, handle first.

“Elodie!” Samial shouted. “No!”

With trembling fingers, Fessan took it.

At once Elodie threw out her arms, mimicking his gesture.

“Put an end to it, then,” she said. “If you really believe I'm a traitor, put an end to it now!”

The muscles in Fessan's arm twitched. For a moment Elodie was convinced he was going to do it. He would thrust the knife between her ribs and into her heart, ending her part in the long and terrible history of the kingdom of Toronia.

So be it
, she thought.
I have done my best.

Shaking now from head to foot, Fessan tightened his fingers on the dagger's hilt. His eyes were filled with tears. A vein throbbed at his temple.

Elodie closed her eyes.

She heard the blade clatter to the floor.

“You came,” he sobbed. “Elodie . . . you came for me.”

His arms closed around Elodie and drew her into a rough hug.

“I'm sorry,” she sobbed. “I'm so sorry for everything. Can you forgive me?”

“Elodie, there is nothing to forgive.”

They retraced their steps through the catacombs, Elodie doing her best to support Fessan while Samial led the way with the torch.

“Either the torch is enchanted,” Fessan observed, “or we are in the company of one of your phantom friends.”

They reached the guardroom. The guard lay sprawled on the floor beside his chair. Blood leaked from a puncture wound in his side.

As instructed, Sylva and Cedric were waiting at the garden doorway. When they saw Fessan's appearance, their faces dropped.

“You poor man,” said Sylva.

“Did Captain Leom get away?” Elodie asked.

Cedric nodded, then ushered them all under the cover of a nearby gazebo. On the far side of the smoke-filled garden, a small group of servants was busy trying to put out a blazing outbuilding.

“There's a side gate,” Cedric said. “Do you see it?”

He pointed through the smoke toward one of the sally ports set in the castle's thick outer wall. As children they'd used it in their games of hide-and-chase.

But this is no game.

“Can you make it that far?” Elodie asked Fessan.

“That far, and farther,” Fessan replied.

“We told Captain Leom to wait outside as long as possible,” said Sylva. “He will help you.”

“What about you, Elodie?” said Fessan. “Will you not come?”

She closed her eyes.
I wish I could. But I can't, not yet.

“No,” she said sadly. “I have work to do here first.”

“Then let me stay. Let me help.”

“No. If you stay, they'll kill you.”

She gave his hand a brief squeeze.

“Go now, Fessan. Go quickly, before one of us changes our mind. And . . . be safe.”

“Is this really your wish, Princess Elodie?”

“Captain Fessan—it is my command.”

“Then it is my duty to obey.”

He nodded briskly, then slipped away, hugging the wall. When he reached the sally port, he glanced briefly back in her direction. Then he was gone.

“I've learned a lot today,” said Sylva.

“What about?” Elodie's attention was still fixed on the darkness into which Fessan had vanished.

“My father.” Sylva broke into racking sobs. Cedric wrapped his one good arm around her. Elodie joined the embrace, her heart going out to them both. The truth was hard.

They huddled together, while in the background the fires continued to burn. Elodie let the moment envelop her, and wished it would never stop. Then, reluctantly, she stepped away.

“Time to go,” she said.

“We have to bring him down, don't we?” said Cedric. “Our father. That's why you stayed, isn't it, Elodie?”

“Yes,” Elodie replied.
Oh, I'm glad you're here. Both of you.
“Sylva—do you want to do this? Can you?”

Sylva wiped her eyes.

“Just tell me what you want us to do, Elodie.”

T
heeta reached the Isle of Stars well ahead of the two Galadronian ships. But she was tiring, and the ascent to the volcano's summit took longer than Tarlan had hoped. By the time the thorrod reached the lip of the crater, the first ship had already landed on the island's eastern shore.

“Wings burn,” Theeta cawed.

“Keep going,” said Tarlan. “We've got to get Melchior out!”

And we've got to do it before those Galadronians catch up with us.

Theeta descended swiftly to the silver lake inside the volcano. Even before she'd touched down, Tarlan was leaping from her back. He hit the stone platform hard, rolled, sprang to his feet, and ran to the water's edge. There was the wizard, lying just below the water's surface, with his limbs thrown out wide.

If ever we needed your magic, Melchior, it's now!

He was about to reach for him when a familiar voice sounded in his head.

Until all the constellations are lit, until all the numbers are counted, nothing must disturb me, or all is lost.

Tarlan couldn't tell if Melchior was somehow speaking to him, or if he was simply remembering the wizard's words.

He let out a growl of frustration. “I need him now,” he muttered. “Those villagers need him now. But what if I wake him too soon?”

Torn, he went to retrieve Greythorn from where he lay on Theeta's back. He could help the wolf while he decided what to do.

Then he saw that the crater had changed.

The stars!

He turned in a circle, his eyes wide, the blood racing through his veins. When he'd left the crater, dozens of the white stones had still not been illuminated. Now not a single one remained unlit. They
blazed
, an impossibly complex network of light. It was as if the night sky had been carried down here.

So many!

His eyes flicked from one stone to the next, trying to follow the patterns they made. There was order here, a kind of language he could almost read. Understanding danced, tantalizingly close but always just out of reach. The more he looked, the more stones there were. If he carried on looking, their number would only increase, until the black rock of the crater wall was consumed and only the light remained. He began walking toward the edge of the platform, his arms outstretched, his feet marching of their own accord, his whole body driven by some greater power. . . .

“Tarlan, stop!”

Theeta's harsh voice broke the spell. Tarlan shook his head, found himself teetering on the edge of the platform, on the verge of falling into the water. He took a hasty step back. Something was thudding nearby. It was his heart, trying to climb its way out of his chest.

Greythorn!

Returning to where Theeta was waiting, Tarlan was alarmed to find the wolf unconscious.