The Lost Realm (35 page)

The players stood in silence, their heads hanging. Only Pip looked at the oncoming king.

Brutan's hand shot out and grabbed Noddy around the throat. Noddy's shriek was cut off as fingers of bone dug into his flesh.

“You know something,” growled Brutan, his burning eyes turned toward Pip. “Tell me what it is, or this one joins my army.”

“Let him go!” cried Pip.

“I think not. What do you know?”

“Nothing!”

Noddy beat his fists weakly against Brutan's slime-covered arms.

“Pity,” Brutan remarked. “This one is nearly done. Never mind, there are plenty more.”

“All right!” Pip screamed. “I'll do it! Just let him go!”

Sobbing uncontrollably, she ran toward the doorway where Gulph was hiding. When she reached him, he opened his arms to catch her.

“Pip! What did he ask you to do? Why did he . . . ?”

To his surprise, Pip evaded his arms and seized him by the wrist. Kalia's crystal sword flew from his hand and hit the floor with a musical chime.

“I'm sorry,” she wept.

Gulph was too shocked to protest. Strong despite her small size, Pip hauled him to the center of the throne room. One by one, the faces of the Tangletree Players turned toward him.

Slowly, Brutan released his grip on Noddy's throat. The fire in his eyes burned brighter.

Pip brought Gulph to a halt before what had once been his father. At the same time, the shadows behind the throne shifted, coalescing into the shapes of a dozen undead legionnaires. Rotten flesh hung beneath their bronze armor; in the narrow beams of sunlight, their bare skulls grinned.

“I'm sorry,” Pip repeated. She began to cry. “King Brutan, please, don't kill them. Just let them live.”

“Is this him?” grunted Brutan, cocking his grotesque head to one side. “Is this really him?”

Pip's hand left Gulph's wrist. Gulph reached for her, confused, wanting to comfort her, wanting to run. . . .

“Pip,” he said. Pain pounded through his head. The whole throne room seemed to be spinning. “What's going on?”

She shook him off. She took a step toward Brutan.

“We made a deal!” she sobbed. “I've done what you asked. Now let the rest of them go!”

“What, Pip?” said Gulph. “What have you done?”

Pip gave him a final look, her face twisted with sorrow. Then she turned to Brutan.

“Here he is,” she said. “I've found him, and I've brought him to you. Here he is, Brutan. Here is your son.”

CT THREE

E
lodie sat on the bench by her bedroom window. Outside, fog lingered over the castle, as if it had sunk to the bottom of a deep and featureless lake. Elodie guessed that noon was approaching, but she couldn't be sure; the sun was nowhere to be seen.

In her hands was the garrote.

Elodie turned it over, revolted by the slickness of the leather, fascinated by its intricate weave. She'd spotted it lying in the courtyard when they'd cantered back from Hamblebury, still believing they could save Lady Vicerin, and something had compelled her to pick it up. Now she couldn't put it down.

This thing nearly killed me.

Except that wasn't quite right.

That man nearly killed me.

The Galadronian assassin had been executed, yet still the thought of him filled her with dread. She ran her trembling fingers over the garrote, half expecting the evil thing to leap from her hands and wrap itself around her throat. To complete the task for which it had been made.

She started. Something had changed.

The leather had felt smooth at first; now it was coarse and gritty. The bench was changing too, its wooden surface shifting beneath her like a slowly rising wave, growing suddenly hot. Something like the sun baked the back of her neck, but when she turned to the window, she saw only the flat gray face of the fog.

A pale man-shape flitted across her vision. A soft thud made the air shake, although she would have sworn she'd heard nothing. A sigh followed, low and sad.

There was someone else in the bedroom.

The pace of Elodie's heartbeat doubled. She stood, fingers clenched on the garrote. She wasn't afraid, just . . .

On the edge. I'm on the edge of something. But I don't know what it is.

“Who's there?” she whispered, not wanting the guards she knew were outside the door to hear.

Nothing. No reply.

“Show yourself, ghost.”

Still no response. The air was dry and hot. Her eyes stung, as if they were full of sand. Her mouth felt full of sand too.

Why would there be sand in my bedroom?

The man-shape reared up before her, suddenly
there
. She recognized him at once: it was the assassin who'd tried to kill her.

Whose hanged body had only just been taken down from the gallows.

Her hands flew up to stifle the scream. Her fingers opened and flung the garrote away. Instantly the ghostly figure vanished. A cold gust drove away the warmth she'd felt, and Elodie was once more alone.

She rubbed her eyes. They were clear.

With shaking fingers, she reached for where the garrote had landed on the bed.

If I touch it, will he appear again?

She drew back her hand.

What had just happened? Could she do more than just see ghosts? Could she make them appear before her? She felt as if her whole body was fizzing, her head throbbing as she tried to make sense of it all.

Frida knows magic
, she thought.
Maybe she can help.

Elodie wrapped her hand in a handkerchief and gingerly picked up the garrote. To her relief, touching it through the silk didn't summon the assassin's ghost again. She folded the handkerchief around the horrible thing and hid it in the pocket of her dress.

She went to the door. Pressing her ear to the wood, she listened to the murmured conversation of the two guards outside. The door itself was locked—she knew that without trying the handle.

“For your protection, my dear,” Lord Vicerin had explained.

To keep me prisoner, you mean
, was the thought she'd hidden behind her grateful smile.

She dropped to her knees and peeped through the keyhole. As she'd suspected, Samial was right there, perched at the top of the stairs. The guards, of course, had no idea they were in the company of a ghost.

Still thinking about Frida, Elodie rummaged in a drawer until she found the bottle of potion the witch had given her.

This came too late to help Lady Vicerin. Perhaps it can help me instead.

On a nearby table was a tray of small cakes that had been sent up to her after breakfast. Their gaudy colors looked ridiculous to her, so it was with satisfaction that she unstoppered Frida's potion bottle. She sniffed its contents: no smell. That was good.

She sprinkled a few drops of the potion over the cakes, hid the bottle once more, picked up the tray, and rapped her knuckles on the door. A key rattled in the lock and the door swung open.

“I have no appetite today,” Elodie said, adopting the familiar role of the spoiled princess. “Send these back, or eat them yourselves—I don't care.”

She was pleased to see the guard's eyes light up as he took the tray. The door closed, the key turned, and Elodie waited.

A few moments passed, then the door opened once more, this time revealing Samial's smiling face. He brandished the key triumphantly. Behind him the two guards lay snoring on the floor, surrounded by cake crumbs.

“Where's Frida?” said Elodie.

Samial led her through the castle's least-used corridors to Sylva's private chambers. There they found Frida holding Sylva's hand and talking quietly to her, while the witch's young son played with a set of wooden bricks in a corner of the room.

As soon as she saw Sylva's tearstained face, Elodie went to hug her.

“I keep telling myself it's a bad dream,” Sylva sobbed. “But it isn't, is it?”

“Oh, Sylva.”

“I hate my father for what he's done. And I hate hating him!”

“It's all right,” Elodie soothed her. “You don't have to hate anyone.” But the truth was that she couldn't imagine
not
hating Lord Vicerin.

“But how could he do it? She's dead, Elodie! My mother is dead—and he killed her!”

“We'll avenge her,” Elodie said fiercely. “I promise.”

Sniffling, Sylva pulled away and took Elodie's hands. “You shouldn't have come here. It's too dangerous now.”

“We were careful not to be seen.”

“ ‘We'?” Sylva's red-rimmed eyes flicked around the room. “He's here, your . . . friend?”

“Yes. That's why I'm here—sort of. There's something . . . Sylva, I have to talk about . . . Oh, I don't know where to start.”

Frida stepped forward.

“The beginning will do well, my child,” said the witch.

They sat at the table in the corner of the room and Elodie related her strange experience with the garrote, which she placed on the table as grisly evidence.

Her words came out falteringly at first, but the more she spoke the easier it became. Soon everything was pouring out. Putting Samial's arrowhead beside the garrote, she told Sylva and Frida about how she'd met Samial in the Weeping Woods, on the fateful day when she'd first learned that she could see and hear ghosts. She talked about the ghost army: how they'd fought and how, after the Battle of the Bridge, she'd finally laid their spirits to rest.

“Keeping the arrowhead let me keep Samial,” she explained, touching her fingers to the little metal triangle. Then she nudged the handkerchief in which she'd wrapped the garrote. “If I keep this, will the ghost of that awful assassin start following me around? If that's true, I want to be rid of it right now! There's . . . oh, there's just so much I don't understand.”

“You have more choice than you realize,” said Frida. “The ghosts do not command you, Elodie. You command the ghosts.”

The witch's words sent a thrill down Elodie's spine. Yet still she felt daunted by everything that lay before her. “I just wish I knew which way to turn.”

“You are one of three,” said Frida, as if that explained everything. “There are no maps for your journey.”

Elodie sighed. “That's the trouble. I feel as if . . . I know where I have to go, but I can't see how to get there. Too many obstacles are standing in my way.”

“Then you have to go around them,” said Sylva.

“Or knock them aside,” added Samial.

“Knock them aside,” Elodie echoed, for the benefit of the others in the room. She glanced at Sylva. “Lord Vicerin is one of those obstacles.”

Sylva said nothing.

“It would take an army to knock
him
aside,” Elodie mused.

She crossed to the window. Until now, her thoughts had been as foggy as the weather outside. But now something cut through them like a beam of light to reveal something solid: a plan. At last she knew what she must do.