Tildy woke to the sounds of shutters being thrown wide and balcony doors unlatching. The last darkness of the night’s dreams disappeared before the glory of the dawn. She sat up to see the witch and Ramora opening any and all portals to the world outside. Her sleep left her refreshed, but the bed’s warm comfort was difficult to abandon when rivaled by the cool mountain air. She pulled the blanket up to her nose.

“M’lady bids you good morning,” the maid called over her shoulder. “Breakfast is nearly ready, by the cook’s word, and I daresay you’ll want to start the day right, miss. Isn’t that true?” she asked the witch.

“Quite. The Lady Amaranth promised to give us a brief tour of the castle this morning,” she added with a smile. Tildy recalled her adoptive mother’s interest in the Last Shard and its lore. She found herself equally intrigued.

Ensuring Mum hid beneath her nightdress, she slid from the bed to a floormat that did little to insulate her feet from the cold stone beneath it. Ramora handed her a lush robe before attacking the bed linens as though they had done her a grave insult. Tildy joined the witch on the north balcony. “Is there no end to these mountains?” she asked, contemplating the jagged shadows that stretched interminably to the eastern and western horizons.

“End?” the witch replied. “You have not even reached their beginning yet.”

Tildy gaped at white peaks that suddenly gleamed as the sun revealed their full majesty. The Hearkenfell Mountains seemed too immense to be real, and even standing before them she struggled to comprehend their size, having seen nothing larger than hills. “Not from the descriptions within a hundred books, nor even in my dreams, could I have imagined anything so wondrous or vast.”

“There is an old tale about an Elf, a Dwarf, and a Human standing at the foot of a mountain,” the witch said. “The Elf finds gratitude in being humbled by her own insignificance. The Dwarf laments not being able to ever know all the secrets of the stone. The Human, however, is angered because the mountain reminds him that he is not master of the world. The mountain, for its part, looks down upon all three and does not care.”

“I’m not sure why you’ve told me this.”

The witch turned to her and said, “The mountain is what the mountain is, regardless of what any person thinks of it.” She nodded her head as though she’d imparted some great wisdom and left her adopted daughter to dress for the day. Tildy watched her go, but then turned back to the spectacular mountainscape. She knew she’d never be able to study every detail, not if she lived to be a thousand.

Sounds from the courtyard wafted up to her, and she leaned over the railing to watch people bustling about their morning business. She saw some disappearing into the wall’s entrance tunnel. She spotted another balcony below her and the ledges of various windows. Above, she assumed she saw the underside of the Thirsellion’s balcony. When her rumbling stomach interrupted this fascinating examination of the Shard’s exterior, she returned inside. A few minutes later, scrubbed about the face and wearing a simple dress laid out by Ramora, she made her way down the long staircase to the second floor.

* * * * *

Upon entering the dining hall, she looked around for breakfast, her hungry eyes immediately noting the bare table. Marklin hailed her from a far corner, and she followed the sound of his voice to a small alcove she had not seen the night before. She arrived to find him filling his face with flipcakes, fried potatoes, tossed eggs, and a rainbow of fruit spiral-arrayed on a broad platter. Her mother sat opposite, fork paused as she watched his eating spectacle. Tildy sat on the bench beside her and rebuked him, “You eat like a chopper-snout.”

“Shanks!” he said brightly, lifting a spoon to his half-filled mouth while he stabbed a cake with his fork.

“Take some food before it is all gone,” the witch said with an uncertain smile.

“Where is Lady Amaranth?” Tildy asked, piling her plate high with food.

“She does not eat breakfast, apparently, and – well! It seems we have a pair of choppers here this morning,” she observed as Tildy wolfed down her own meal.

“Whab?” Tildy asked, cramming a saucer-sized cake into her mouth without cutting it. “I’b hungry.”

“I no longer am,” said the witch, standing up. “I shall see you in the grand hall in a few minutes.”

“You gonna eat that?” Marklin asked, eyeing her plate. He stabbed out his fork, and she deftly parried it with her own, sending his utensil spiraling to the floor. As he scrambled to retrieve it, she speared a cake from his plate and stuffed it into her mouth. He reappeared laughing but didn’t notice the theft. She giggled with him, seeing that his other hand had somehow snagged one of hers anyways.

Between – and during – mouthfuls, they chatted about their arrival at Southershard, the curious castellan, and Lady Amaranth. When an old scullery maid entered to investigate the source of the “livestock ruckus”, they decided they’d had enough breakfast. They left behind a depleted table that would have made the fattest chopper-snout proud. Following the stairs down to the grand hall, they found the witch examining a tapestry of dancing Fairies who entertained their queen. She turned at their approach, but before they could discover what was intriguing about the hanging, the baroness emerged from her sunroom and walked swiftly to them.

* * * * *

“Good morning to you,” the willowy woman said as she stopped. She wore a simple cream and green dress like a slender calla lily with cowl to match. “I trust you slept well?” Tildy and Marklin confirmed they had, but when the witch didn’t respond, Tildy wondered whether she had spent the night exploring the Thirsellion. She slept less than other people, and a mysterious room within a legendary castle was likely exciting enough to provide a series of sleepless nights and cloistered days.

The baroness indicated they should follow her toward a small display on a stone plinth. “Southershard is much like the other Shards, or so the lore tells us since they have long turned to dust. The one thing that sets us apart – aside from the fact we’re still standing – is the bell atop the tower. An ancient symbol of the extinguished line of House Caederen, it is named the Crown of Southershard, and we are fortunate to yet have it.” She gestured toward a replica hanging from a wooden scaffold on the plinth.

“Did someone try to steal it?” Marklin asked.

“Steal the Crown?” she asked, incredulous. She laughed and laughed. “My dear young man! At fifteen dragonweight, no one is certain how it was brought to the thirty-first floor.” She paused for dramatic effect, intently appraising the reactions of her audience. “Lore tells us that ninety-nine men stormed the castle five thousand years ago to sound it, believing a legend that claimed only the ringing bell could destroy this tower. We of Southershard are ever-grateful they failed, of course.”

Tildy’s imagination burned as she pictured the woman’s tale. She couldn’t wait to see the bell and said so.

“Alas!” the baroness said. “That is one of the few floors we cannot view. As no doubt you saw upon entering the valley, the top of Southershard stands in decay, obliterated in a firestorm that sent the two turrets to the valley floor. The bell chamber survived, but it is a delicate ruin. The room has been sealed since.”

“What could produce a storm like that?” Tildy asked, having never read of such a thing.

Lady Amaranth leaned close to her and said, “A red-scaled demon of the skies! A wicked Dragon of fire and spite settling an old score! He was beaten back by the Stonewards, though at heavy cost.”

This caught Marklin’s ear, and he suddenly looked more intrigued. “A Dragon? Oh, to have seen that battle!”

The baroness stared down at him with cool eyes. “I would not share your enthusiasm with the baron. Many of his ancient kin fell in that defense.” Marklin mumbled an apology, but the woman was done with him and turned away. “We will not visit all the other floors today, but I daresay this tour shall give you more than enough information to fill a book!” she said, truly enjoying herself. The thought delighted Tildy, and by the witch’s face, she was also interested in reading such a book.

They walked from display to display around the hall, Lady Amaranth describing gifts, treasures, and spoils of ancient wars. Tildy listened with one ear, but her eyes ever returned to the baroness herself. That familiar feeling kept nagging her. Finally, the woman caught her staring. “You have a question, Tildy.”

* * * * *

She blushed at being discovered, but before she could think, she blurted, “I feel like I’ve met you, but I’m sure that’s impossible.”

The woman studied her for a moment, and then smiled. “Most assuredly impossible. But that does not mean you are wrong. The Elves had a word for that, when we recognize a part of ourselves in the others. Sessellimin, I believe. When you have lived a few years longer, perhaps travelled a few more miles, you will likely see more of yourselves in others. And the opposite is true, of course.

“For instance: I understand you have a love of books, whereas I have found little time for them. Nevertheless, it is my great pleasure to inform you that we have the most wonderful library here in Southershard. Our ‘written treasure’, the baron calls it and not without cause. Perhaps the most valuable and expansive this side of Evereign. Before its fall, of course.”

Tildy’s heart skipped a beat. “Will I,” she hesitated, hoping the baroness would grant access, “will I be able to visit it?”

“It is not for one such as I to deny a voracious wolfreader of books,” the woman said with a broader smile. “You are most certainly welcome at any time, although I rarely visit. For my part, I could teach you much about castle life and herblore that you would not find between the covers of any book.”

* * * * *

Lady Amaranth led them toward the tall alcove with the two sets of translucent black curtains. “The Lost Monarchs of Empyrelia.” The thin cloth fluttered as the group walked up, and Tildy could see a painting behind it. When she looked closer, she could discern the outline of a person through the funerary cloth.

Continuing, the baroness said, “These paintings were gifts from the King himself to the baron’s father. How they survived the long trek from Evereign fortress, I cannot guess,” she mused. “My husband is surely grateful they did, for oft do I find him here, staring at their covered countenances.

 “Alas, for King Therald! A mighty man who bore justice in one hand, and kindheartedness in the other. Wisdom adorned his brow and strength flowed from his heart. He preferred the shield to the sword, always keeping his blade sheathed except in dire need. And against a dire foe indeed did he raise it, if only for the last time.

“And alas for Queen Themesteria!” she said, gesturing to the painting on the right. “Such beauty, and one of gentle heart and perfect grace. Even as a girl, these words described her, or so the tales tell. It was long-rumored – perhaps by her family themselves – that they carried Elf blood in their veins, though proofs were not provided. Regardless, there was an Elvish quality about her that none could dispute. Indeed, many minstrels smashed their instruments and stilled their tongues, such was the failure of their words to capture her loveliness. I heard tell that the King considered outlawing their attempts, less Empyrelia be bereft of singers, but the Queen in her modesty forbade it. Ah, could any of us live to be loved so?” She sighed.

 “Here she holds their offspring, whom most peoples never met. I forget what they were called, for they lived hardly long enough to belong to such names. They often were known as the Autumn Children. To be sure, they were a curiosity: a dual birth, yet as unalike as night and day. Their loss was perhaps a greater tragedy to the realm than their parents. They represented the future, two strong rulers in mind and lineage. Might we have entered a golden age; I can only hope to think.”

“Except for blood sword of Kher Gargan,” Tildy said, recalling some story she’d once read.

“Ah, you have learned your histories,” said Lady Amaranth.

* * * * *

“Only a little,” Tildy replied, thinking back to minstrel songs she’d enjoyed in Wayfahren. “Kher Gargan and his army of men and monsters came out of the West, crossing the Treacherant Sea to land on the Shores of Sorrow, as they became later named. The invaders were unstoppable, thanks to the power of his sword and its insatiable hunger. The war lasted more than a year, and with the death of the monarchs, victory seemed assured. No one can say what stopped them, just that the Kher fled back across the sea, succeeding only in ending the Straverian bloodline.” Tildy paused, surprised by how much she remembered.

“And end it most certainly did,” said the baroness. “Rumor told of secret passages from the castle, and the royal twins were to be sent in different directions to ensure the preservation of the bloodline. But as we all know, neither north nor south did the children come. Nor east nor west. They died in Evereign with their parents, and the line of Straverian failed at last.”

“Who could kill children?” asked Marklin.

“Those who sought to prevent any future claim against a stolen crown,” said Lady Amaranth, shaking her head. “A dirty business. Not the work of true knights or nobles, yet the lore of Empyrelia is filled with tales of such slaughter and betrayal. Even so, Kher Gargan’s plan ultimately failed. He did not steal the crown and the Empyrelia survived – wrecked and ruined though it may be – and he and his monstrous armies were driven back over the Western Sea, licking wounds and writing songs of lamentation.”

“But if the royal family was destroyed,” Tildy began, looking at the queen and picturing the children, “how can you say the Empyrelia survived?”

“The chamberlain escaped, defended by the King’s Guard and brought north to rule as Steward in the monarchs’ stead. With him came his lady wife and young son. I think he’s about your age, Tildy. And someday, he will rule as his father does today. What he inherits will be far less realm than his sire drew forth from the ashes, as noble lady and lord splinter away from the ancient realm to create their own sovereignties.”

 “Is there no one to claim the throne?”                                                 

 “None, lest it be some long-lost cousin or relative of forgotten lineage. Such an heir would be immediately suspect – and made target – by forces both within and without. I expect there are few who would suffer a questionable claim to the throne. The man would need to be the very likeness of Therald and speak with his voice.”

“What made the Kher cross the Western Sea?” Marklin wondered. “It couldn’t’ve been easy to bring an army so large.”

The witch finally spoke. “It was said the Kher had taken up a holy quest for the Abyssal god Delosh, though most dismissed this as fearmongering,” she suggested. “Ever is discord and deception the vanguard of invasion.”

A sharp intake of breath drew everyone’s eyes to the baroness. Beyond her, the sunlight failed in the windows, though Tildy was certain that clouds had caused it. Her face pale, Lady Amaranth spoke with crazed eyes. “Do not talk so casually about,” she lowered her voice to a whisper and her body shrank with it: “the Evershadow! It is a bad omen, and you will bring these walls down just assuredly as ringing the bell!” Her chest heaved as she removed a small cutch from a hidden pocket in her dress. From within she produced a small flower and inhaled its fragrance. Without looking at them, she stowed these items and composed herself.

* * * * *

“Now,” she continued as though nothing had happened. Tildy and Marklin exchanged an incredulous look. “The Southershard’s extensive and proud history can be read upon the walls and within its rooms. As we ascend, floor by floor, I shall recount as much as I know, though there is far more than even I have learned in my two short years here.”

Tildy turned eagerly to Marklin but saw him stifling a yawn. Here was one who didn’t appreciate history, she thought. She heard the soft patter of feet before the others did. Turning, she saw the castellan approaching. He coughed softly to attract his mistress’s attention. “Apologies for an untimely interruption, m’lady. The emissary from the Shimmer Pale demands an audience.” Lady Amaranth’s eyes narrowed, and Fillofillo recoiled. He added, “They say they have information specific to the Rock—”

She cut him off as she stormed past him. “He is in the poison garden?”

“Of course, baroness,” he called after her. He shook his head. Tildy watched him settle himself, after which he addressed them. “My mistress begs your apologies for a most sudden departure, unaler-unaler” the Obsequiant said before scurrying after her.

“Phew,” Marklin said. “I thought she’d go on for ages.” The witch glared at him and Tildy backhanded his shoulder. He winced. “What?”

“That is curious,” said the witch, taking a step toward the stairway where the baroness had disappeared.

“We’re not the only guests,” Tildy said, guessing her mind.

“Aye, and not the furthest traveled, either. Their journey was neither easy nor short, though I suppose a welcome change for desert dwellers.”

“What sort of people live in the Shimmer Pale?” Marklin asked.

“Mostly nomads. Traders. Scorpions and snakes. None of whom are to be trifled with, nor the kind to send an emissary. Perhaps I shall talk with them to learn news of themselves and the wider world.” She left without another word.

* * * * *

“Do you really think they have a poison garden here?” Marklin asked when they were alone.

Tildy was about to say she most certainly hoped they did but paused. She’d had enough experiences in Dappledown – the drendelvane still gave her chills – to enter any garden unawares.

“What do you think one is?”

She wasn’t sure, but she liked feeling smarter than him, especially when it came to growables. “I expect it’s very much like it sounds.”

“But why would you have such a thing?”

“I think that is a more interesting question.”

At that point, the castellan reappeared, an ingratiating smile upon his mousy face. “M’lady, or should I say,” he paused, looking toward the ceiling, “both ladies think it is too fine a day for you to explore more inside, unamur-unamur,” he said with a gesture. “You are to be escorted to the outside and encouraged to find no trouble.” He nodded twice, and Tildy and Marklin looked at each other and shrugged. They followed the Obsequiant through the ravenswood doors and into the bailey.

* * * * *

Marklin gasped and immediately leapt from the stairs to run across the courtyard. Tildy made to follow until she saw that he headed toward a blacksmith. Disinterested, she shrugged again and meandered a different direction in search of something more exciting than swords and fire. She soon realized that this idea eliminated much of the activity around her, unless she wanted to learn about livestock.

She discovered a smooth section of wall where the rock appeared melted. She ran her hand across it, imagining the Dragonfire that burned hotter than any flame. Near that, several thick vines of silver ivy climbed the tower. And further on, an old leafless grey tree that sheltered two weathered gravestones. She visited several flower beds within the bailey and found herself surprised that none of them had nagweed, though she wasn’t sure why she had expected to see it. Bored of exploration and tired of the courtyard cacophony, she made her way back to the entrance.

She paused to check on Marklin, who listened raptly to the smith. “Anything with a tapered edge and enough force can be a weapon,” the man said, holding up a buckler shield. “Remember that, lad, for such knowledge has saved many a warrior in the field.” Not for the first time, she noted how casually people described the brutality of battle. It made her shudder.

Tildy pushed one of the ravenswood doors and entered cautiously, unwilling to be shooed back outside once again. Quieter than a chipmouse in a den of longcats, she ascended the main stairs to the right. She passed the second-floor dining hall and its bustling servants. She saw the empty barracks of the third floor and continued past the fourth. On the fifth floor she caught the familiar scent she’d been seeking.

Two doors greeted her as she paused on the landing. She assumed the poison garden waited behind the lacquered door because it bore a carved relief of an anguished skull adorned with flowers. Fascinating though that may be, her greater desire lay behind the other door. From the dark grain of the wood, emerged a detailed relief of an owl with spread wings. Its beak held a flowing scroll that bore an archaic word she knew well: Lexandran.

Library.

* * * * *

Her breath held and pulse rising, Tildy turned the latch and entered the room, gasping in astonishment. The smell of ancient paper filled her nostrils, and she inhaled deeply as she turned to take in the splendid sight. From floor to distant ceiling, shelves filled the room. Some along walls, some free-standing. Across the chamber a tall stained-glass window bisected the room, offering a northwards view of the Hearkenfell Mountains, dust motes floating in the sunlight. Otherwise, every other inch of space contained books. Her mother had a small library in the cottage, and to be sure it was packed to bursting, but it was nothing – nothing! – like this.

There were old leather-bounds, some with thin wooden covers, scrolls and folios, small ones, large ones, thin and thick. Fanning books that traded a traditional binding for a riveted corner. Brass-clasped cascadants, which were made from a single piece of yards-long paper, folded over and back upon itself, creating a kind of springing manuscript. Spookbooks and shadowscrolls, ghostly texts impossible for the living to read. Unfolding books for children than could be as long as a table when completely opened, their stories fully revealed. Truly, this library contained more than a person could read in a dozen lifetimes! She saw maps, too: framed, rolled, or stacked in untidy piles.

Three straight-backed chairs sat upon a faded ornate rug. Two spindly tables stood nearby. A lectern waited in a corner, bearing the weight of a very large book split open upon a broken spine. As she continued to stand in the doorway, Tildy realized she had no idea where to start. And she smiled.

Tildy’s found the best place in the Valley of Southershard for herself. Someone will probably have to drag her out. Click for Chapter 22 – The Bonds of Trust

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