The Twin Princes Page 3

  ‘And look what it has done to our people! The result of isolationism was a bloody civil war that nearly destroyed us all,’ said Advocate Estmund, holding his hands above his head. ‘Less than twenty years ago, brother killed brother in the streets as if we were little better than dogs to be slain. The only way to truly prosper is to expand our reach. Let us ascend to our true homeland. For Blood and Branch!’

  ‘What about the humans? Do you think they will simply give us the land they occupy?’ asked another primarch from beneath his mask.

  Advocates and primarchs began speaking out of turn.

  ‘There has to be a reason they are all flocking to Muldvale Pass,’ said one.

  ‘Gods know they don’t need reasons. They are mindless brutes!’ said another.

  ‘On one hand, they are a rather interesting race to study and observe,’ said yet another.

  Morrenwylf sat down in his chair and began rubbing his chin. The chapel lord stood up and called the council to order once more. Finally, when all the voices had been silenced, Advocate Estmund resumed his speech.

  ‘It is no coincidence that they are at our gates, clawing their way through. Of that I am sure. Something drove them here. My informants have gone silent, and I’ve had no word of their actions, but rest assured, something has happened in Eldervale. We need to know what.’

  ‘They are a curse,’ said a primarch sporting a mask of a green fox.

  ‘Some say they lay with exiles of our kin, bearing horrid abominations half-human and half-elfen. There is no forgiveness for abhorrent creatures spawned from lust,’ said an advocate.

  Morrenwylf stood up. ‘So they are doubly cursed. We should expend effort in keeping humankind out of the pass and maintain our sovereignty.’

  Some of the primarchs clapped and nodded at Morrenwylf’s words.

  But Advocate Estmund was not finished. ‘It is time, my brothers and sisters. Prince Rickert and Princess Rhiannon have returned to the fold as many of us have wished them to for years. There is nothing left for us in the Cairn. We have overstayed our welcome. We shall begin with the Eldervale. Eldervale belongs to us, the people of Elfenland! For the people of Felheim! Hail the Elfen, the Eldervale is ours! Hail the Elfen, the Eldervale is ours!’ Advocate Estmund began to chant over and over again. At first, only advocates started chanting with him, but then a few primarchs did as well. Morrenwylf sat down in his chair, rubbing his chin once more.

  Rickert studied Advocate Estmund. He was rather ugly, but he was honest about his thoughts. Noreadryyn stepped behind Rickert and whispered into his ear.

  ‘A wise king will have advisors speak wisdom and give honest counsel. A wise king would choose brave men to surround him. Brave men, like Advocate Estmund.’

  Rickert didn’t say a word. Advocate Estmund turned to Rickert and Rhiannon and smiled with a bow. More primarchs and advocates began chanting in unison.

  ‘Hail the Elfen, the Eldervale is ours!’ they said over and over again. Then the realisation came to Rickert. This moment was everything. The opportunity to rid himself and Rhiannon of Morrenwylf. The answer did lie in the south. The little prince smiled and stared at the scowling face of High Primarch Morrenwylf. Then he nodded, stood up, and shouted as hard as he could, chanting with the rest.

  ‘Hail the Elfen, the Eldervale is ours!’

  ‘Hail the Elfen, the Eldervale is ours!’

  ‘Hail the Elfen, the Eldervale is ours!’

  Problème d'émotion

  THE SPLINTERED WOODEN lady on the bow of the Painted Basilisk cleaved through sputtering dark waters. Countless voyages through the salty seas blurred the once clear artisan strokes that had been carved into her. Now, all that was left was a smoothed-out nose and two broken arms pointing toward the horizon, to guide the ship through the LaFoyelle Sea. Elymiah sat in a wooden chair on the deck and watched the figure stand before the sea vessel like a tortured creature longing for an end to her voyage. At that moment, she decided the broken lady gave her some small comfort. Elymiah closed her eyes as a spray of salt water landed on her face. She wiped the moisture and clutched a thin blanket to her chest. It was a rough-spun blanket, and mostly soaked through, yet Elymiah still held it to her body as if it could give her any more warmth. Perhaps it was something to cling to that gave her a small measure of comfort. The wind that was filling the sails of the small barge also blew into her ear. She shivered and blew out a breath of air.

  Was it all for nothing?

  For days, a thick soup of grey fog had covered the blackened waters of the LaFoyelle Sea as far as Elymiah could see. The deck hands went about their business, ignoring her presence. Even Artus seemed to be keeping to Captain Ornelis’s side as of late. It wasn’t for nothing, however, Elymiah knew. The Isles of Brume were particularly troublesome and dangerous to reach. The fog covering the string of islands had earned it that name. Sea vessels that lost their course had a tendency to smash onto unseen rocks or lose the sea’s breath of wind and succumb to a slow and painful death from the intense heat over the waters. Those who made it through were quickly boarded and beheaded by violent barbarians in armour made of boulders and thick, hardened steel. That was the story some of the sailors told each other, least-aways. Elymiah hugged her chest and shuddered.

  Could I be so easily forgotten?

  Renegade thoughts ran through her mind without purpose or reason. Whispers nipped at her ears, and she could see daemons, invisible to the eye but not to the soul. They would fluctuate and come and go as they pleased, terrorizing her, and she was powerless to control them. Elymiah glanced at Artus. He was wearing dark-green stained leather armour with three black wolves stitched into the sturdy fabric. Ripples of wind blew against his brown shirt. Artus, his eyes stern and hardened, stared into the cold fog, a small compass in his hand. His wide-brimmed black hat trembled in the wake of a strong gust of wind. What was odd was a bright green hue that emanated from the compass. With Artus on board, the Painted Basilisk would navigate through the straits and doldrums without difficulty. Artus caught Elymiah’s gaze and stared for a moment. He chewed at his white moustache and closed the compass. Elymiah held his gaze for a moment and then looked back into the fog. The brand on her neck felt hot, as if the flaming irons were now pressed against her flesh. She touched the brand and closed her eyes. Another spray of seawater splashed on her face as the Painted Basilisk rose and fell.

  Robyn’s suicide replayed over and over in her mind, his black cloak billowing behind him as he stepped off the edge of the ship. Elymiah’s heart jumped again as if she were witnessing the event once more. She put her hands to her mouth and let out a sob. Water ran down her cheeks, and she was unsure if it was the sea or her tears. Nearly two weeks had passed, but Elymiah revived the memory every waking moment.

  ‘Robyn said something before he fell…’ she whispered to herself. ‘What did he say?’

  A rogue clump of hair fell over her cheek. She had cut her hair so that it would fill in more evenly, but it had been difficult to do through the tears clouding her vision. The hair on her head was beginning to fill out, but there were still some unevenly shaved clumps from her torture at the Kingsoul River. She realised she probably looked ridiculous to the sailors, but she didn’t care. Elymiah closed her eyes and heard Artus walk up beside her. He smelt raw, but then she was pretty sure she reeked as well. The Painted Basilisk rose and fell in the wake of the strong tides of the sea. Elymiah opened her eyes finally.

  ‘There is a kraken that resides in these waters. It’s been spotted twice circling the ship. Best hope it accepts our appeasement and lets us through unharmed,’ said Artus as he turned his back to the deckhands who were tossing two barrels of raw meat over the edge. Elymiah supposed it belonged to a lamb or goat. Its blood began to spread and stand out crimson over the grey water.

  ‘I need to go back,’ she whispered. ‘I need to talk to the Ashen Knight. Maybe Robyn can be brought back—’

  ‘Elymiah.’

  ‘Please. I can
’t…I can’t do this without him. The Ashen Knight will help, I know it. We need to go back.’ She looked up at Artus, trying to stop the tears falling from her eyes, but she couldn’t help them. Artus bowed his head, stared at the wooden floor, and cleared his throat. He thumbed the hilt of his sword. ‘This sword is the key, and it takes time to renew the energy to lift the storms from the Vale,’ said Artus.

  Elymiah stiffened her upper lip.

  Artus sighed. ‘You are torturing yourself, my daughter.’ He placed his hands on her shoulders and rubbed them. Elymiah put her cheek on his hand.

  ‘He’s not dead. I know it,’ she said. ‘I can’t do this alone. I need him.’

  ‘You’re not alone, Elymiah. You’re alive; that has to count for something.’

  ‘I’d rather be…’ But she didn't dare finish her sentence. She pursed her lips and put her blanket to her mouth. She didn’t want to sob any more in front of Artus.

  Artus stood stiff and put his hands behind him.

  ‘I am sorry, Elymiah. I’ve never been very good at this,’ he said with a frown. He bowed his head and chewed on his beard once more. Elymiah realised how silly she must sound, but she didn’t care. A shout drew her head up to the crow’s nest. A man was pointing into the fog.

  ‘Land ahoy!’ he shouted from far above.

  ‘Karagh Muín,’ Artus said with a sigh of relief. ‘Home at last.’

  Elymiah turned to where the crewman was pointing. Her breath was taken away from her as her eyes understood what lay before her. A curtain of grey drew back to reveal a dark rock poking through the fog, miles up into the skies. The peak was surrounded by other, taller mountains, and embedded into the black, jagged rock was a castle. The arrow loops in the four bastions on the face of the rugged mountain made the construct appear ghostly, like a jagged grey peak with dozens of eyes staring back at Elymiah.

  The ancient construct was built into the stone as if frozen in time. Dozens of human-made towers jutted up from the cliffs like a crown around the mountain. Lights from fires or lanterns came from holes in the towers, reflecting into the bay. From where Elymiah was sitting, the castle almost looked like a skull stuck in rock.

  The crew began preparations to harbour in Oarfish Bay. One of the biggest reasons the trip had taken longer than expected, other than the storm that had hit them on the Khahadran coast, was the fact that one could only enter Karagh Muín by ship. The land north of the keep was treacherous, full of sharp spear-like rocks pointing to the skies. To walk through that, one would have to be insane. The only way to reach Karagh Muín was to sail round Wohflen Cape and sail west into Oarfish Bay, but even then there were dangers lurking about. The gale was unpredictable, the reef was dangerous, and at any moment, a kraken might attack, which stood out as the uttermost fear in the minds of the sailors.

  Captain Ornelis shouted orders at his men, shaking them from their thoughts. Elymiah stood from her chair. Her back and leg muscles ached. She had sat in that chair at the front of the barge for Oredmere knew how long.

  ‘Oredmere,’ she whispered to herself, squeezing her arms. Now that she knew the truth of Oredmere, the false god she had been worshipping her entire life, she wasn’t sure she could still recite the prayers from ancient texts and take them seriously. What was she to do with her life now? What would anyone do in her shoes?

  She shook the melancholic thought from her head. Artus looked on after her, studying her intently.

  ‘I won’t forget. I cannot forget this,’ Elymiah said. She closed her eyes. If only she could have done things differently—perhaps choosing to not participate in the trials. She could have married Robyn, and they would have lived in the city of Aivaterra and been happy for the rest of their lives, growing old and snapping at each other, only to end the day with a soft kiss and warm embrace. Perhaps a child or two. If only he had stayed…

  Elymiah sniffed and stood up, eyeing the castle looming in the distance. She glared at the towers, almost as if she were angry they were there. Perhaps wandering throughout the fog-riddled seas forever was more appealing. To jump when no one, not even Artus, was looking. To join Robyn there, beneath the waves. She looked at Artus again. He held the compass in his hand and stared at it.

  It was some magical contraption. Whatever the Veledred indeed were, they utilised magic of sorts, it seemed to Elymiah. There was a particular mystery that these daemon hunters possessed. She had never heard of the Veledred before she had met Artus. Now she was at their dark castle in the Isles of Brume, but she felt the seas screaming her name as they had called Robyn’s only weeks ago.

  Captain Ornelis commanded his men to shove a thick iron anchor off the deck. The slab of iron splashed into the sea and sank to the bottom. Ornelis looked at Artus and nodded curtly. ‘The end of our voyage.’

  Artus put the compass into his pocket and ran his hand through his hair. ‘Let’s go,’ he said as he gently took Elymiah’s arm and brought her to the edge of the Basilisk. Elymiah and Artus climbed down a rope ladder to a small raft that was tied beside the ship. Artus grabbed the oars and shoved the raft away from the Basilisk.

  ‘They will stay in Saltkire Hold and then return north most likely,’ he said.

  ‘Saltkire Hold?’ asked Elymiah.

  ‘Ah, the village on the other side of the mountain. The Keeper of the Reef, Bearohd, rules the Isles of Brume. The Veledred have had a treaty with the Keeper of the Reef since time immemorial. Only, this lord isn’t like the lords before him. I’ll tell you more when we get settled in the mountain,’ Artus said, a bitter frown on his lips. Elymiah glanced at Karagh Muín. The castle seemed taller than the mountain it lay within as Artus rowed closer and closer.

  Elymiah noticed an alcove in the mountain that was just large enough for a small boat to enter. She realised there was no entrance or path to reach the castle other than through the cove. Artus rowed expertly through the tides. Elymiah clutched the wet blanket to her body again. The splashing of oars against the water made her want to close her eyes and fall asleep. How long had it been since she’d slept? She turned her eyes to her bare feet.

  If she slept, she would dream. Dreams of pain and pleasure, of darkness, and of the soft, warm touch of death. Elymiah turned one last time to look at the lady of the Painted Basilisk, forever doomed to guide the ship through dark waters with outstretched broken arms.

  As Artus rowed the small raft into the cove, Elymiah looked up to the ceiling to see it covered in bats. They squeaked and fluttered in the darkness of the cavern. A torch farther along the watery path came into view, lighting up the cove. Three figures stood in a line on a rickety wooden deck. Their green cloaks were similar to the one Artus was wearing, and their hoods were drawn over their heads. As the boat neared the wooden dock, they drew their swords in unison.

  ‘Hold your oars! Who goes there?’ a voice shot from the darkness—most likely from the man holding the flickering torch. Artus stood up.

  ‘Commandant Artus Llewelyn Farnesse. The flame that guides us all draws the darkness even closer.’

  The men instantly sheathed their swords at the password, and the one who held the torch gave a short bow.

  ‘Welcome home, Commandant,’ he said, handing the torch to the man beside him. Then he held out a hand to Artus. Artus grabbed the hand and stepped onto the wooden dock. The other men fastened the boat to the pier. The man who’d helped Artus from the dinghy took his hood off and eyed Elymiah curiously.

  ‘Can this be her?’

  Artus nodded and turned to Elymiah with a smile. The man held out his hand for her to take. ‘Ah, Miss Farnesse,’ he said stiffly. ‘You may call me Theodric. It is an honour to meet you.’

  Elymiah stared at his hand without moving. Theodric hesitated and glanced at Artus awkwardly.

  ‘She has been through a certain hell, Theodric. Not many know the horrors she has suffered. She needs healing and rest.’

  ‘I need…’ Elymiah turned to look at the entrance of the cave. ‘I need a drink.�
� The perfect cure for an ailing heart and aching skin. She lifted herself up from the boat and stood up next to Theodric. ‘You wouldn’t know where I could find some, would you?’

  ‘Alcohol is forbidden in the castle. My apologies,’ Theodric said. It was difficult to see his face with only the light from the torch.

  Elymiah shook her head. Artus stepped in front of her and held her shoulders.

  ‘Theodric will show you to your quarters,’ Artus said, holding her tight. ‘I have a matter to attend to.’ He nodded to Theodric.

  ‘Follow me,’ Theodric said, walking away from the dock. Elymiah kept pace behind him. They exited the cavernous entrance of the castle and entered into a long, tall torchlit hallway. Statues made of marble and stone stood vigil along the sides. Most of them had cracks of time etched into the stonework, and a few had entirely crumbled to the floor. Elymiah couldn’t recognise the faces, as time and erosion had snuffed them. She did realise that at one point they had been carrying stone swords before them, but more than that she could not tell.

  Theodric’s boots echoed through the spacious chamber, a stark contrast to the patter of Elymiah’s bare feet. Theodric turned his head slightly toward her and frowned. In the light, his features were more easily distinguishable. He had short blond hair and black sunken eyes. His mouth was excessively curved downward, and his nose was sharp and crooked as if it had been broken more than once. Elymiah studied his armour, which was mostly green-tinted leather with pieces of steel sewn onto the forearms, shoulders, thighs, and lower legs. Three black wolves seemed to run across his chest, a sigil of the Veledred of Karagh Muín.

  Elymiah snapped herself out of staring at him.

  ‘We have been waiting for you, Elymiah. A knight-captain from Aivaterra to come among the ranks of the Veledred? It’s not a story often told or heard. Who knows if it will be good or bad luck?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Theodric smiled a cruel smile. ‘I would like to explain, but it’s best that the castellan do that. He has a way with words, as you will soon find out.’