Approximately 16-minute read time.

32

The old dream in the tower nursery was different this time. Sunlight streamed across the western balcony, illuminating many things Tildy hadn’t been able to see in the darkness of her previous visits. Tapestries of frolicking animals hung between the balcony doors that looked south, west, north, and east. Around the room stood furniture of luxurious design: two disheveled cribs, various stuffed chairs, and brass candelabras. Deep gashes of unknown origin crisscrossed the walls.

As she looked around, chairs broke or were thrown aside. The candle stands were knocked over. A crib railing disintegrated into splinters. Fighting Humans materialized, defending themselves against creatures that Tildy wouldn’t have recognized before this adventure: Slither-withers. And these weren’t all. Other creatures fought in the melee, though a shadow ever rested upon them, and strange fluid movements made their forms difficult to discern. She watched as one stretched and flowed after its Human foe, a shape as nebulous as black smoke on the wind yet most assuredly as solid as the opponent it cut down. It occurred to her that all was silent, a heavy breath withheld, as though in expectation of some greater event.

The fiercest fighting centered around a tall man brandishing a notched battle axe. His beard was peppered with white flakes and his dark hair clung with sweat and blood upon a dark, careworn face. Even so, Tildy knew him. King Therald Straverian.

Around the room, figures and details faded and reformed, as though this were a waning memory. Broken furniture and dead bodies littered the floor. The Humans were overmatched, and all was about to fall to ruin.

A dull rumble grew into the tumult of battle as sound returned to the world. Metal upon metal. Shouts and hisses and groans. The living. The dying. A crying child.

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Tildy’s eyes were drawn to a huge man separated from his Human compatriots, dressed in elaborate armor and holding a long blade. Three Slithers attacked him, but his parries were clumsy as he protected a bundle in his other arm. Frightened eyes glanced down at the swaddled child as a tiny arm reached out. His handsome face showed that he knew what would happen if he fell.

A shout from across the room drew his attention and Tildy’s. The king. “Take Amethestraand go!” he roared.

The man reluctantly shook his head, as though torn between the fight and the flight. He ducked one blade and blocked another, making no attempt to flee. Like a punch to the gut, Tildy realized she might be witnessing the demise of the king and his daughter.

 “Blast you, Greyson! You are beholden to her, not to me!” Therald shouted as he parried two Slither blades with an upward stroke of his axe. Emerald eyes shone brightly from within dark circles conjured by utter weariness. He looked years older than his portrait, though by the princess’s age, Tildy knew little time had passed between the commission and this vision. “Save my daughter! Please!” In that last word, the man poured all of a father’s love and desperation into a plea that stabbed her heart. She turned to the man and saw the same misery reflected there. Despair hardened into determination. His sword a swirling tempest, he began to brawl his way toward the exit. A small voice in Tildy’s head wondered what it was like to have people fight for her like that.

The king turned to his adversaries and cried, “All evil falls before the Suzerain Axe! Come if you dare, demons!” As she turned back and looked into his familiar green eyes, she saw sadness and resolve. She understood what he had done. The challenge brought more attackers to him, distracting them away from his daughter’s bodyguard. He had paid for his daughter’s life with his own, and by his grim smile, she knew he was at peace with his sacrifice.

Another shadow-shape streaked toward the king as four Slithers rushed forward, the mass of bodies stumbling onto a balcony. Time slowed as Therald grappled with his attackers, and they all toppled over the railing.

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Horrified, Tildy tried to drag her eyes away, finally doing so when Greyson screamed and all sound faded from the world again. Recognizing his only chance, the man navigated a storm of swords and dashed past a dancing wolf tapestry before disappearing down the stairway.

An unexpected motion drew Tildy’s attention back toward the balcony, and to her horror, the shadow-shape floated up to the balustrade, perching there like a hungry killcat in search of prey.

Terrified, she fled to the stairs, passing the purple-eyed wolf. She spied Greyson briefly before the man rounded a corner. She followed, the steps never-ending in their circling descent. Still they ran on, down and down, and finally out through the ruins of a sturdy door. The man disappeared into a night heavy with snow. She saw he’d lost his sword. Everything swirled, went white.

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Tildy woke. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she felt the kiss of a cool breeze. She’d left the balcony doors open last night. As she approached the doorway that faced the Hearkenfell mountains to the north, she saw shimmering particles floating upon a sunbeam. Snow? Curious, she stepped onto the terrace. The morning air invigorated her, though it wasn’t as icy as she’d expected. All around, great flakes filled the world, and she marveled at her first mountain snowfall. She hadn’t seen so much of anything in her life, not even when the lestrimith trees released their deluge of cottony seeds in spring. She looked over the balcony, and in her mind’s eye saw the king falling, falling, falling amidst the snows. He landed upon a white canvas and became again the man in the portrait.

Starting, she looked up to see skies blue as a summer’s day. She stretched forth a hand, feeling flecks as insubstantial as cobwebs upon her skin. They weren’t cold and didn’t melt as expected. They turned to dust. She realized this wasn’t snow – it was ash, perhaps from some great courtyard bonfire that provided warmth for those beginning their morning chores. Her door burst open behind her, and various servants came and went, delivering hot water, towels, and warm clothes. Not giving the ash a second thought, she went to the tub to chase away the morning chill.

Basking in the basin, her thoughts floated away like so much vapor: memories of stone and flowers, ancient books, and a window illuminated green. Unimportant, they would soon be forgotten. Not for the first time in the last month, she wondered when the witch and Marklin were leaving.

Servants continued entering: some brought more hot water; others managed the linens. Ramora was not among them. She nearly blocked out their voices, but Gadrella’s excited gossip proved difficult to ignore. “Didja see them dragging off the Captain of the Guard this morning, Sartha?”

“Aye,” the woman replied. “All bloodied and senseless.”

“What for?” asked a third woman behind Tildy. “Shirkin’ duty?”

“Nay, nay,” Gadrella said. “That might do it, Hwen, but they say he set that whole room aflame.”

“It’s Day of Fires, though, iddinit?”

“You say the daftest things. The last autumn moon’s a reminder to gather firewood, not do arson.”

“In any case, that don’t sound like ’im at all,” said Sartha. The others voiced their agreements, though none knew him but by reputation.

“They say her ladyship was enraged. Went after ’im with a cudgel.”

“Nah,” said the well-informed Gadrella, “Don’t believe such twattle about her for a moment. She’s got a temper, to be sure, but she’s not one for staining ‘nails,” she said, using a common phrase for manual labor. “It’s more like to be t’other guards, angered by the betrayal of their lord. The baron loved that place.”

“Don’t surprise me none,” said Hwen. “The room, I mean, not the captain. It’s a drat tinderbox, it is. Burned more an’ once before, or so the old tales tell.”

Tildy sat upright, thinking of the witch in the Thirsellion, a room with a history of catching fire. She made to stand, but Gadrella’s firm hand pushed her back down. “Nay, don’t trouble yerself, miss. It’s snuffed. All them dry pages, though, burned so hot that water did no good in dousing it.”

“WHAT?” Tildy cried out.

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With a spray of water that drenched Gadrella, Tildy leapt from the bathtub and knocked over the protective screen, modesty briefly forgotten. Grabbing a robe, she ran from the room amidst curses from the other attendants. She took the stairs two, three, four at time, occasionally slipping on wet feet. She nearly knocked a portrait from the wall below the tenth floor.

She smelled the smoke before she saw it. At the eighth floor, she saw tendrils of the fume being drawn out the spell-glass window. “No,” she whispered, the best her constricted throat would allow. She passed the stone hare upon a pedestal on the seventh-floor landing, seeing little else until she arrived on the fifth floor. The window on the landing had been broken to let out the heaviest smoke.

The witch stood by the library door, apparently waiting for her. “A true shame,” she said, shaking her head. “Still, dangerous knowledge lurked here, too. Better to take your learning from a single caring person like Lady Amaranth than to accidentally read the wrong book.”

Tildy didn’t hear her. She just stared, nostrils tingling against the reek. Her eyes went from smoldering bookcase to blackened shelf to ruined table, finding nothing but piled ash and char. The tall window, once a masterpiece of stained glass, had been reduced to a naked portal of scorched wood. Tiny breezes swirled through the opening, creating grey dervishes that danced with delight and mocked her sorrow. All those scrolls and rolls. The books and tomes. Maps and manuscripts. An incalculable loss to the world! “They’re all gone?” she moaned.

“To a one. Fortunately, the stone wall between here and the garden kept the fire at bay, but only just. Whatever fire that Captain of the Guard used, it melted the stone near to Dragonfire.”

“But why?” Tildy asked with no shortage of incredulity. It sounded so unlikely. Too out of character. Yes, she’d only met the man once, but hadn’t the witch seen him since they arrived at Southershard? Certainly, she would have noticed if the man was dangerous.

“Our Lady Amaranth thinks his mind is addled. Too many wars, too long from his home, wherever it may lie. Sad, to be sure, but no real surprise, if you’ve spoken to the man.” The witch shook her head. “He shall be tended to, though there’s little hope for broken people.”

To Tildy’s distracted mind came another realization. “I’d left The Sentinels Grand here yesterday.” Of all the treasures lost, this was the most valuable to her. She’d grown up with that book. It was practically family.

“Ah well, a heartbreak to be sure. I’ll procure another at the market, Tildy.”

She gaped at the witch, but no words came out. It was the first book she’d ever bought Tildy. How could she forget?

They turned at Marklin’s footsteps. “I followed the smoke. Wouldja look at that!” he said as he looked over their heads, his words failing to express the tragedy of the scene. “What happened?”

“A fire,” replied the witch.

A speechless Tildy stared from one to the other. How could she be the only one bothered by this?

“Don’t forget about breakfast, dears,” the witch said, patting their shoulders as she left.

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Marklin’s eyes eagerly followed her as he said to Tildy, “I was coming t’see if you wanted to eat.” When she didn’t respond, he turned back, his eyes finally noticing her attire. “Hey, you’re in a robe?”

Oblivious, Tildy thought as she glared at him. Without a word, she stormed back down the hallway.

“I’ll see you there,” he called. “Might be no bacon left, ‘less they burnt it. No one likes the burned parts, right?”

Completely and utterly oblivious, Tildy fumed.

She returned to her room, finding a yellow dress laid out for her. After putting it on – and getting an earful from Gadrella about the mess of her interrupted bath – she regarded her image in the mirror. The style was simple, and it complemented her olive skin, though she looked like a droopy daffodil. It would do for breakfast. Yes, it was a good choice, she thought, coming to like it despite herself.

She joined Marklin downstairs. While quite hungry, the memory of the devastated library ruined her appetite. After a few minutes of pushing food around her plate, she said good-bye to Marklin, who waved a skewered sausage in response.

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She met Fillofillo on her way back upstairs. He always appeared when she wanted to discuss something, and she wondered if that were related to his ability. However, she couldn’t imagine what she might need.

 “Good day, bright-smile,” the Obsequiant said with a small bow. “Perhaps your need, but also perhaps mine.”

She shook her head. Uncanny.

“You have visited the window finally?”

Tildy nearly answered but paused. Had she? She thought maybe she had, or rather, she had tried. “Yes, but I didn’t get further than that. I was nearly caught.” She bit her lip and averted her eyes. That felt like a lie, but as far as she remembered it was the truth. It was so odd.

The Obsequiant studied her face, like he was judging the truthfulness of her response. “Yes,” he said slowly, before quickly adding, “ah yes, much is clear. Very much. It is good if you are safe, yes, for I would not want fair miss to be in danger.” He took her hand and patted it with his furry one. His face grew sad, but resolute. “However, I am afraid more peril is at hand if you do not understand what happens in the Southershard Well.”

“You,” she said as a realization hit her, “you urged me on. I heard your voice say, ‘go now’.”

The Obsequiant’s head bobbed. “Young slowcoach needed some urging, if you might forgive. Much like my most noble master,” he added with affection. “Desires to always help yet oft needs encouragement.”

“I had thought he was a cold, stern man,” Tildy said, confused.

“Oh no. Quite the opposite. Do not let the appellation ‘Rock of Southershard’ fool you. Is but a family title. A nickname.” He looked into her eyes and frowned. “Yes, those things and darker have been said by the commonfolk, though they speak very little of truth in their fears. When he heard their concerns, they thought him slow to react, and people spoke many angry words. In their cups or within the safety of hearthlight, they spread lies of a pact with the Evershadow, Delosh. As though the Dark God cared about the mortal lands of Malthreare, unalee-unalee,” he said quietly.

She noted that he didn’t have the same fearful reverence as his mistress, but she wanted to mention something more important. “We’re here because of those words,” she said, thinking about Fietha, the crofter Dess, and the other missing people between Dappledown and Southershard. “Were they all lies?”

“No, sweet one, no. Your friends were not the first to disappear, nor the last.” He lowered his voice. “Do not mistake: evil has returned to Empyrelia, and not only in the hearts of the Eslavanaash. It infects, like rot in the tree or black cankers within the flesh, and it spreads to every corner of the realm.”

“Do you think it reached the Captain of the Guard? I can’t believe he burned the library, sick in mind or no.”

“I will deny with my words, though I think your heart knows the truth, even if you have not yet considered it. I can speak no more of it, for your safety and mine.” He stared at the floor, as though seeing something below. “I shall find you again when I might talk.” He scurried past her and disappeared down the stairs.

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Thoughts and notions piled up in Tildy’s brain like an overstuffed closet, threatening to spill out if she didn’t remove something. She needed to talk to the witch: about the odd forgetfulness, about Fillofillo’s vague words, and about a general unease she felt most hours of the day in Southershard. As she climbed the stairs, she mulled over the captain’s actions, and how the Obsequiant discredited both the rumor and Tildy’s own ideas on the matter. Was he suggesting a third consideration?

It made her temples hurt, and as she rubbed them, she thought of her usual remedy: curling up with a good book under a warm blanket. She knew the Thirsellion had a library, and certainly, the alchemists of old had kept interesting private collections, right? Perhaps she could nick one out, if the witch wasn’t paying attention. This absurd thought made her snort: she would probably be watching Tildy for exactly that.

Upon reaching the thirteenth floor, however, she found herself denied on all accounts. The door was locked, and after one hundred and one insistent knocks, she decided the witch was not simply immersed in research. She was gone.

Even if she could pick the lock – another useful skill learned from Fietha – she feared the affect the room had on her. If it worried her mother, it worried Tildy. Dispirited, she sat on the stoop, her yellow dress splayed around her like flower petals. She should have been cheered by the bright color, but the fire weighed heavily upon her. Denied access to the books within the Thirsellion, and lamenting the loss of The Sentinels Grand, she decided she no longer wanted to read.

Things can’t possible get worse, right? Well, the next chapter title suggests otherwise. Click here to start Chapter 33: Dreadful Revelations!

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