Prophecy (The Sylvalla Chronicles Book 2) Page 2

  “By all the Hounds of Hades!” Sylvalla continued, while her lady in waiting quailed and covered her ears. “I’ve travelled the realm and killed a dragon. This is not living! Say, instead of dallying with my spoilt little brat brother, why don’t I break the monotony and teach you a little hand-to-hand combat? One day you might need it.”

  “How can you say such terrible things?” Mahrawyn demanded. “It may be forgivable for a child, but now you’re about to be married it’s…it’s unseemly.”

  Sylvalla looked directly at her companion. Mahrawyn meant well, but could she really believe bad language would stain her reputation? Probably. She was a sweet person who believed in fairy tales, righteousness, and happily ever after.

  “Better had I been eaten by the dragon than sustain this bitter torment day after day with no remise.” Sylvalla sighed.

  “My Lady,” the dark-haired beauty murmured, head tilted to hide her smile. “I think you meant respite.” Mahrawyn hesitated, as if about to say something more–probably her theory that Sylvalla’s dragon-slaying was a result of the vapours.

  Sylvalla observed Mahrawyn’s hands. Moments ago, they’d aspired to protect her ears. Now they fluttered like nervous butterflies over her corset-elevated bosom. She managed to bite back the observation. After all, it wasn’t entirely Mahrawyn’s fault that she was an empty-headed nag, with nothing better to do than expose her attributes and then pretend to cover them, in an unseemly display that emphasised her abundant bosom would erupt if she were to move any faster than a snail.

  She had used those exact words to Francis yesterday. Francis had smiled. A tactical error on his part. Sylvalla frowned, remembering the conversation, trying to untangle her feelings. At the time she’d been quite angry, and even more so when he changed the subject to the hunting trip. A trip he was going on—without her—while taking Dirk, her liegeman and sole remaining friend.

  “Gods-dammmit-all.” Sylvalla muttered. It was enough to send Mahrawyn flouncing from the room. She’s probably looking for my blasted mother. I’d save us both, if only I had had the nerve to...

  Sylvalla’s thought stopped as Mahrawyn burst back inside.

  Why was she back so soon?

  Then her mother swept through the door, the picture of fury. The ink drying on Queen Tishke’s beautifully manicured fingers was their only similarity. The Queen’s eyes flashed, dark and bright as the black and white pearls that subdued her mousy hair. Her sharp jaw was accentuated by the mounds of frilly lace overwhelming her tiny frame.

  Tishke took one look at Sylvalla and threw her hands up in the air. “For goodness sake! Mahrawyn is your lady in waiting. If you must ruin the accounts and use gutter-language into the bargain, why don’t you go to the stables and talk to the boys there?”

  “Why, thank you mother for your perceptive advice. What a wonderful idea.” Sylvalla darted through the door, the eyes of her mother and her lady-in-waiting drilling into her back. Sylvalla could almost feel the quadruple set of holes they were making as she scurried away, her ears deaf to their countermands.

  Trouble: Part 2

  NAME:King Phetero

  CLASS:Ruling

  FAMILIAR:With several ladies

  SPECIALTY:Familiarity

  RÉSUMÉ:King Phetero has ruled Scotch Mist for twenty years. Until recently, he was considered a strong and able ruler. At least, strong and able enough to defend the city where the famous Siegian Decist met his downfall.

  The history books say Decist was about to take the city, when one of its infamous scotch mists sprang up. The locals used the obscuring mist to creep into Decist’s encampment, sabotage his siege equipment and steal his army’s supplies.

  Its wall, its mists, and its reputation protected Scotch Mist until 13/3/305, when King Phetero encountered princess Sylvalla. Since then, there has been increasing disquiet in his court.

  There are whispers King Phetero has been seen wandering the castle, blood dripping from his hands. That his loyal noblemen and women discreetly ward off evil with the Eye of Protection when he walks by. And, in his new drive for power, day by day, his army grows stronger.

  PASSED: READING, WRITING, ARITHMETIC, DIPLOMACY, and KILLING.

  §

  Exquisitely expensive, Phetero’s bedroom outdid itself. The floor was carpeted with luxurious gold and purple rugs. Diamond chandeliers dripped from the ceiling, and even the insect-nets shimmered with gold thread. It was a world away from that tawdry inn where he’d met the much-cursed Sylvalla.

  So why could he hear her mocking laughter?

  She’d not laughed, not truly. And yet, like bagpipes, the sound followed him wherever he went. Was he not a king? A man who could have whatever he wanted?

  Why should revenge on this one small slip of a girl be so difficult?

  Covering his ears, Phetero left the room via a not-so-secret door in his wardrobe, wondering briefly if the castle Avondale boasted similar secret passages. If so, he would use them to his advantage. His new allies should make them easy to find.

  He would invade her home, and see how much she liked it.

  Hands clenched around a smoky torch, he tramped the short way down the dark and dusty corridor to an even more secret safe-room. Men had died to keep its secret. A wasted precaution. It had been discovered by the palace children long ago—its wall-sconce triggered entrance as unimaginative as the many other not-so secret corridors scattered throughout the castle. (Phetero never heard the soft padding of the children’s feet, only the thud and shuffle of his own heavy boots on cold stone.)

  The heavy door swung open to a once comfortably-sized bolthole, made claustrophobic by the addition of bookshelves. The smoky torchlight seemed so right for what he was about to do that he laughed. A mistake. The noise was oily, thicker and heavier than the smoke that blurred his vision. It echoed around the small passage, a parody of itself, a parody of hollow laughter. The mocking laughter of a chit of a girl.

  Never again. Phetero focussed on the shadows dancing among the musty tomes of long-forgotten gods. Gods that had lain un-worshipped for so long, gods with powers as yet untapped. He wanted to use those powers—whatever the cost. He had the money. He had willing subjects—and unwilling ones as well. None of them could say no, not if they wished their heads to keep company with their shoulders. He would prove he was strong and put an end to the whispers behind his back.

  But the books were so dull. So full of archaic language and pompous narration. He soon pulled out his silver, butterfly embellished ceremonial knife and placed it on the silk-covered altar. Desperately wanting to please his new gods, he wondered if he should use the diagrams from Hazard’s Omnicon, or Potter’s Grimoire? He settled on placing the purple candles in a simple triangle of grave-dirt and lit them, muttering prayers from both books before pricking his finger carefully with his ceremonial knife.

  His blood hissed and sizzled onto the wax.

  A shadow rose from the table, writhing to reveal a vision—a stag pulled down before its time.

  Surely, it could only mean one thing? Rufus dead.

  A good sign. With Rufus gone, Sylvalla would be at his mercy.

  Phetero’s eyes gleamed in triumph—reflecting candlelight and malice. His chubby fingers curled into grasping fists. “The time is nigh. I will be triumphant. Soon, she will be in my clutches—and I will break her, sending her into the abys of eternal torment.”

  He laughed.

  The echo returned, distorted and yet horribly familiar.

  No matter, he thought, punching his hands against the stone wall until his knuckles bled. Soon, her laughter will turn to screams.

  Trouble: Part 3

  NAME:Dirk.

  CLASS:Fighter.

  SPECIALTY:Fighting.

  RÉSUMÉ:Doer of Greate ande Noble Deedes. In other words, Dirk has killed an AWFUL LOT OF PEOPLE—and a baby Morpholag (dragon). He is currently employed by the renowned Princess Sylvalla—whose fame is only surpassed by her infamy.

  Di
rk invites ridicule by scorning his livery at every opportunity and displaying his egg-shaped muscles—sharply defined fat-free zones that fail to give him the gravitas of a traditional fighter. With touchy pride and a ready sword, nobody dares laugh in Dirk’s vicinity. A safe mile or two behind his back, courtiers have been known to flaunt superior smiles and muffled laughter. But, even at such a distance it is muffled. Just in case.

  PASSED:FIGHTING.

  §

  It’s a crazy world, Dirk thought, when I can’t leave Sylvalla for a day or two without the nagging feeling that I should be by her side.

  It was foolish. She was feisty enough, strong enough, and clever enough to look after herself. Moreover, she had the sword Mr Goodfellow Senior had crafted her, hidden upon her person. And she could use it.

  There are always assassins.

  There is always risk.

  Besides, what am I doing on this ridiculous hunting trip, anyway?

  To that last question, at least, there were solid answers, no matter how much he disliked them. Firstly, Sylvalla had ordered him to look after Francis. Secondly, logic dictated Francis was in more danger than Sylvalla. Thirdly, was the small matter of propriety. It was unseemly for him to rush back to Sylvalla. There were already too many rumours—and for no more reason than he almost never left her side.

  But his instincts, instincts that had never put him far away from adventure, were screaming, Go back to the castle!

  Except if he returned now, the whole court would think he was sneaking back to a lover.

  Sylvalla’s already tattered reputation would be dead, and so, most likely would her fiancé, Francis.

  Finally, the answer to his dilemma crept into his head.

  I must take Francis with me.

  §

  NAME:Mahrawyn

  CLASS:Upper

  FAMILIAR:With etiquette, silks, satins, laces and other expensive materials.

  SPECIALTY:Deportment.

  RÉSUMÉ:A young lady to a good family, even if they are country aristocracy, and thus not as upset as most of the Avondale nobility would be to allow their only daughter to wait upon the Sylvalla of such dubious fame.

  Truly gracious and well-rounded, this young lady is someone to whom the flower of Avondale’s womanhood can look for inspiration and encouragement.

  PASSED: READING, WRITING, DEPORTMENT, SEWING, ETIQUETTE, TAPESTRY & NEEDLEWORK.

  §

  Exhausted, Mahrawyn made her way back to her rooms after yet another tiring day chaperoning the princess. “Why is Sylvalla so dreadfully difficult?” she wondered, her deep brown eyes turned toward the heavens as if for divine insight.

  “The girl is Fey,” one of the guards had muttered, although surely he must have known she wasn’t asking him. “She was bad enough before, but when she called at the city gates covered from head to toe with dragon’s blood, the look in her eye was not human. She’s no princess, but a creature of the other-world.”

  His partner had nodded. “Ach, I heard the wench is cursed.”

  The first guard touched thumb and little finger together in an effort to thwart evil.[5] “So it be. An’ I pity the lad who’s to marry ’er, if the gods cannot save him from his fate.”

  But when Mahrawyn had mentioned the incident, Sylvalla had only laughed. “Let them,” she’d said, her eyes alight. “At least they’ll give me a wide berth. I only wish more would do so.”

  Mahrawyn continued on her way, remembering how excited she’d been when her parents had told her about her new job. “Chaperoning a princess is an honour. It will be just like having a younger sister of your very own.”

  Little sister indeed! Mahrawyn shuddered. No little sister of hers would ever behave in such an unladylike fashion. The switch was what any ordinary child would receive—but as Sylvalla was a princess, all anybody ever did was look heavenward for salvation.

  Mahrawyn was too upset to notice the muffled shrieks behind her…or the tread of footsteps echoing hers.

  That very evening at tapestry, Sylvalla had lain down her needle with a final ultimatum. “I do not sew.” Clutching her necklace with the miniature sword, she’d laughed. “My hands will only bleed for my Dragonslayer.”

  Mahrawyn had ignored the jibe, just as she’d ignored all the hurtful comments about the importance of learning hand to hand combat, and other inappropriate pastimes. What else could she and the other staff do?

  The pity of it was, that although the girl fell well below expectations for a princess, or indeed almost any girl, she didn’t seem to care.

  Maybe she relished her notoriety? Too often, the dress Sylvalla was expected to wear for an occasion would be found cut to ribbons. The princess would be standing over the tatters, grinning. “Oh dear, my hand must have slipped. I am so terribly clumsy.”

  A shout echoed down the hall, but Mahrawyn was remembering dinner, recalling how the princess’ knife had danced whenever the Queen’s eyes were diverted. And this very day she’d gone so far as to invite Mahrawyn to fight with a sword!

  It was not right. Sylvalla might be a princess, and Mahrawyn might be nothing more than a foreign dignitary, but this chance should have been looked into more thoroughly, before her parents allowed their daughter to be subjected to…to…such a frightening monster.

  From the way she caressed the wrong types of metal, to the careful way she watched everyone around her, Sylvalla was dangerous. A man could not be any more dangerous. Or crude of tongue. Well, maybe Dirk—the pair were like caged tigers. They would jump at the chance to bite the hands that fed them.

  Not for the first time Mahrawyn resolved—I must get out of here before my reputation is stained forever.

  Mahrawyn opened her door slowly, looking about to make certain the young princess wasn’t hiding somewhere. Too often Sylvalla would jump out, laugh at her stifled surprise, and ask if she was ready to defend herself.

  Satisfied there was no princess, Mahrawyn breathed deeply, straining her beribboned corset as she shut her door on her tiresome day. She wanted nothing more than to go home. Perhaps repeating the words of those guards would help convince her parents; although they’d be shocked Mahrawyn had consorted with such lowly types at all. Perhaps a more polite version might do the trick.

  Mahrawyn looked heavenward, ignoring the clank of metal and, thinking how noisy the castle was tonight, she worked hard to phrase the words just right—without all the profanity. Surely her parents would see reason? The girl had a nasty fate waiting for her—and woe betide the fool who stood in its path.

  The knock on her door was not entirely unexpected. There was a young man of a worthy family who seemed to have definite intentions, and who was comely enough. Mahrawyn was prepared to accept his tokens, if not his love. Not yet, at any rate. She was nothing, if not proper.

  “Mattiew,” her voice lilted. She managed a smile as the moon peeked through the glass, its nimbus silvery-soft and hazy as down. It was the same full moon to which her many admirers often compared her, quoting beloved favourites like: “Thou art more lovely than the day,” and “The moon in all her lustrous beauty could not shine so beguilingly as the smallest smile from you.” There was no doubt in Mahrawyn’s mind, Sylvalla was the day they were talking about, and no man wanted his woman so sharp…

  She opened the door...

  It was not Mattiew, but a knight in armour.

  Given Mahrawyn’s earlier thoughts, the attack should not have been so unexpected. But despite Sylvalla’s attempts to train her—and for all that she was compared to the night, Mahrawyn was no creature of stealth, or intrigue, or darkness.

  She stared, wide-eyed, as the blade slashed her throat. Overcome, not with remorse, but with the bitter understanding that she really had been standing in the path of Sylvalla’s fate.

  Mahrawyn’s eyes closed forever.

  But this night of death was not over. The deaths had barely begun. And although I mention them not, there were many other tragedies and murders, no less cruel and point
less than this one.

  Too Late

  Death has no remedy

  Sylvalla had gone to bed early, but could not sleep.

  When she’d been younger and she’d begged her father to go hunting, he’d informed her: “You’re not a man. You cannot do the things men do.” This time he’d snapped, “Men only—and that does not include you.”

  She dragged her sheet up to her chin and tried to forget the idiot who’d sniggered, or that the king had done nothing about it, except pretend he’d not noticed the insult.

  She thumped her pillow.

  Half the castle was out on this hunting trip designed to intimidate Francis, the stable boy who’d pulled a sword from a stone and been declared prince. And her husband-to-be. It was a farce.

  But whatever anyone thought of him, Francis could look after himself with that bow of his. And maybe even hold his own with that fancy sword Capro had made him. And if he couldn’t, Dirk could. There wasn’t a person in Avondale who could intimidate Dirk.

  Sylvalla tossed and turned, angry one moment, worried the next.

  Footsteps echoed down the corridor.

  It was too dark to be morning. The hall outside her room should have been empty.

  Sylvalla sat up, clutching her nightgown. Her breath caught. Her imagination had armoured men stalking the corridors with death in their wake.

  Perhaps paranoia is catching.

  Dirk had voiced worries about leaving her alone, recounting a multitude of murderous scenarios—in detail. He’d finally relented when she’d pointed out that if someone should bear Francis a grudge, there’d be swords and arrows on all sides–whereas in the castle she had strong walls, with eyes, arrows and murder holes protecting her.

  Now, she didn’t feel quite so safe.