4
Escape of a Princess

Orlac glimpsed his first view of the Ciprean capital. In spite of the late hour, it remained a beautiful sight with its houses softly glowing in the light of oil lamps whilst blazing torches splendidly lit the breathtaking palace on the cliff.

However, his pleasure was soon interrupted by Dorgryl. Time for us to claim a throne.

How do you propose we take over an entire realm?

Ah, that’s the messy bit, Dorgryl said. By force. A few will die—certainly enough for the Cipreans to realise there is absolutely no point in opposing us.

Messy?

Yes. I shall unleash your powers, boy.

Orlac seethed privately but bit back on his temper. Surely you mean I shall unleash my powers, Dorgryl?

Of course. That’s what I meant, his uncle replied smoothly. Come. Let’s not dawdle…now the fun begins.

Hela had made careful preparations. Now she had to convince the uncrowned new Queen to listen to this mad tale of hers and agree to flee the city. With Sarel still uncommunicative as she mourned the loss of her mother, all other palace staff left the child entirely in her care. Hela seemed to be the only person Sarel could tolerate. Anyone else interrupting her grief would be met by either fury or cold silence. She had been seen by barely more than three of the palace staff since her mother’s death. All her former carers had been left behind at Neame. In fact, she was virtually a stranger to the palace staff who had met her only on rare occasions since her birth, so strong was her mother’s desire to protect her.

Sylven had been cremated in the Ciprean fashion. Her ugly death had left her once handsome face scarred with purplish welts, her lips erupted with sores. It had been decided to burn the Queen immediately, and the ceremony was pulled together hastily and performed on the Mound where all previous queens had risen from death to afterlife amongst the swirling smoke of their burning pyres.

Several thousand loyal subjects had gathered to witness the event, all still stunned by the premature death of their Sovereign. Talk had spread that she had been murdered; already whisperings had begun that the deed was connected to the stranger she had publicly humiliated on the last outing of the Silver Maiden. His name was Torkyn Gynt. The grief-stricken had comforted themselves with the thought that at least the succession was safe. A new Queen would be crowned after a suitable period of mourning. Sarel was young but on the few occasions that the Ciprean people had been permitted to share her, they had found her engaging and as seemingly devoted to them as her mother and grandmother before her. The child would be a beauty it was said and the people respected their Queen’s wish for her daughter to enjoy childhood—her time would come soon enough to accept the responsibility of ruling a realm. If only they had known then what would unfold over these next few days, the city fathers would have crowned Sarel on the very day of her mother’s burning.

But now Sarel was trying to control the alarm which her mother’s closest servant was forcing on her. They were in Sylven’s chambers, standing on the same balcony where Torkyn Gynt had once seduced and ultimately won the heart of a Queen.

‘Sarel, have you any reason not to trust me?’ Hela looked at the girl earnestly.

The new Queen did not return the eye contact; she continued to look out over the city. ‘I do not.’

‘Then you must heed my warnings. I have never had such a dream before, child. It was as though this woman was real like you and me. She has visited me each night to repeat the same warning that great harm will come to you if we do not flee.’

‘I don’t understand, Hela. These people loved my mother…surely they will love me too.’

‘They do. But this Dreamspeaker, Lys, talks of people from foreign lands…bad people who wish us ill.’

Now Sarel dragged her stare away from the beautiful cityscape in front of her and rounded on her friend. ‘How cowardly, then, of me to flee when Cipres most needs her Queen.’

At this Hela could not help but smile. ‘Brave, Sarel. Well said. Your mother would be proud of you. But she would not wish you to throw your life away. She would uphold me in this. Let me get you to safety whilst I still can. Don’t you see, you are more of a threat alive. If nothing occurs in Cipres which is untoward, we shall return and you shall be crowned.’

Sarel, though young by Tallinese standards, was verging on what the Cipreans considered womanhood. She turned back to gaze out at the city she loved fiercely. This was her birthright. She understood that her mother had diligently protected her from royal duties and yet she had secretly craved them. She indulged her mother’s whim to keep her as innocent as possible but her mother had had little knowledge that she had been studying Ciprean history, laws, affairs of State ferociously. She had even engaged her own pair of advisers, based in Neame but with eyes and ears working for them throughout Cipres, who kept her fully briefed on events, political or otherwise. Sarel had known of Locklyn Gylbyt’s call for the Silver Maiden almost as quickly as the rest of the cityfolk had learned it. In fact she had become somewhat infatuated with the notion of the pirate’s son for a short while, dwelling on his bravery and wishing she could ask her mother if she could attend the Kiss. But Sarel had known it was pointless to even ask such a thing. She had been in Neame anyway; closeted safely from the public eye; expected to play with dolls and puppies. Her mother had adored her—she knew this—but her mother had read her incorrectly for most of the past few years.

Sarel wanted to reign; had an urgent need to learn and absorb all State matters. She deeply wished she could have lived and worked alongside her mother, as Sylven had her mother. But now her mother was gone, murdered; there would be no opportunity to learn anything from the best teacher of all.

Hela echoed her thoughts. ‘Your mother’s death is our most urgent warning, Sarel. There is treachery afoot and your safety is paramount now. We have no time to lose. We must leave the palace.’

‘This Torkyn Gynt. You trust him?’

‘I do…yes.’

‘I believe I do too,’ she said, bringing great relief to Hela. ‘I met him at Neame, spent some time in his company. Whilst I believe my mother fell in love with his handsome looks and charm, I too was captivated, but by his intelligence. Those eyes are penetrating, aren’t they? Seem to speak volumes whilst guarding so many secrets.’

Hela was taken aback. Sarel, at thirteen summers, had clearly been hiding the adult she had become. The child was speaking like a grown woman. Had she been fooling them all, especially Sylven, all these years? Pretending to be the innocent youngster who enjoyed nothing more than sugared desserts and a game of throw-ball? Hela looked at the young Queen with a new respect.

Sarel grinned. ‘I’m not enchanted by him, Hela. He’s much too old for me although he is certainly a beautiful man. But I would trust him.’

Hela shook her head slighty, unbalanced by the newly revealed maturity of Sarel. ‘Your mother was in love with him, Sarel. She told me this in plain words… was even flirting with how she could change Ciprean law to permit her taking a husband.’

At this Sarel’s eyes did widen. ‘Truly?’

Hela nodded. ‘I could hardly believe it either when she told me. Sylven was always able to control her emotions and in all the time I served her, never once did she fall prey to a man’s affections, honeyed words, physique. No, no one until Torkyn Gynt had ever roused her passions like this. I do believe she meant to make him Royal Consort.’

‘And is this possible?’

‘Ancient laws would need to be overturned. I’m no scholar, Sarel. I would not know what such a mighty change in Ciprean philosophy and culture might entail.’

Sarel nodded sadly. ‘She should not have died the way she did. I will see to it—if it takes all of my life—that the perpetrator is punished.’

‘Then you must protect your life to achieve this. Will you come with me?’

‘Give me this night to consider, Hela. I promise to deliver you my decision on the morrow.’ She suddenly looked regal. Gone were the childish attire and ribbons she had obviously worn to please her mother. Sarel stood before her, slim and clearly going to be as tall as Sylven one day, and perhaps even more beautiful. In her simple soft blue gown, slim fitting, curving over her high breasts, she looked anything but a child.

Hela nodded, knowing she must find the patience to wait out another night, and bowed to her Queen. ‘I shall leave you then, your majesty, to consider.’

As she departed the chambers she almost bumped into a familiar figure; one she detested. Her frustration found a target. ‘What are you doing here? No one is permitted in this tower without my permission.’

‘The guards gave me access. I would offer my condolences to the Princess,’ replied the oily voice.

Its high pitch, effeminate in the way it caressed her ears, had disgusted Hela from the very first time she had heard it. She looked into the cold, almost black eyes, small and ever wary. ‘She is no longer a Princess, Goth. She is a Queen now and the Queen insists on privacy to grieve. She has given instructions that only I will attend her for the time being. You will leave and not return until summoned.’

Goth kept his face impassive and nodded once but in truth wished he could wrap his pudgy fingers around the woman’s neck and throttle this upstart maid. How dare she address him with such discourtesy. He was, after all, a former adviser to Sylven. The fact that he had murdered her was unfortunate, of course, for now he would need to ingratiate himself with the child. Until recently he had not been aware there was a daughter and had berated himself for not knowing such an important detail, but Queen Sylven had obviously kept the daughter well protected. It was a rare mistake—he would need to be more careful in future. He turned away from the maid, took his leave and was aware that she watched him until he had disappeared from the corridor down the stairs from the private tower.

Goth continued to surprise himself at cheating death. Surely he was running out of lives? He had survived the fall over the crashing water’s edge and managed to keep himself beneath the rushing river’s surface just long enough to be dragged swiftly out of the keen eyesight of his pursuers. He had hurt himself though, and if not for the few remaining drops of clear arraq in the vial secreted in his clothes, he might not have survived so well. The drug had rejuvenated him and once at full strength he had made his way carefully back to Cipres.

After establishing that Gynt was no longer in the palace, he had simply resumed his former chambers, feigning shock and horror at the news of Sylven’s death. No one had seen him leave the city; no one had seen him at Neame. He presumed Gynt and the Kloek had already sailed for Tallinor which meant for the time being he was safe. He had spent the next few days promoting the rumour that Torkyn Gynt was the man responsible for Sylven’s murder and, that achieved, he prepared to meet with Sarel and find out more about this new Queen of Cipres. Goth had counted on her refusing all visitors, hence his attempt to take her by surprise. But this toad of a maid was lurking. He hated her; she had not trusted him since he first came to the notice of Sylven and clearly distrusted him now. Well, perhaps she might need to join her former employer, wherever she was now. He would not let a mere servant get in the way of his plans. Goth decided as he left the Queen’s tower that if Hela locked horns with him again, she would die.

Orlac entered the royal square of Cipres, attracted by the sounds of many voices raised in agreement with a single speaker. He paid no attention to what the man was saying. It mattered not in the light of what would happen in the next few minutes. It was darkening into evening and the huge square was elegantly lit by torches. Shops as well as eating and drinking houses lined the square, all beautifully presenting their wares. There was no doubt the Cipreans were far from poor. This square alone, with its smooth, graceful architecture made entirely of white polished stone, literally glittered with the wealth of its people. He looked up towards the palace, towering above on a cliff ledge; its pale minarets shot with gold sparkled like jewels against the inky sky.

We should make our presence felt here, Dorgryl suggested.

Orlac agreed with the suggestion. He skirted the edge of the crowd and then began to push through it. His tall, imposing stature helped to part the shoulders of the gathered until he found himself climbing the stairs of the recently erected podium. The speaker turned, slightly confounded by the interruption and nodded to one of the guards nearby to deal with the nuisance.

A burly man broke away from the guards and approached Orlac.

He was polite. ‘I shall have to ask you to step down please.’

Kill him, Dorgryl ordered.

Orlac felt the god flare inside him. He hated the sensation of Dorgryl’s presence but he knew he must bide his time. For now, they were both on the same side, following the same path. He opened himself to his powers, felt the Colours infuse him and he cast out a trickle. The guard had put a hand up to prevent Orlac proceeding any further and he suddenly burst into flame, a look of shocked surprise crossing his face as he witnessed his own incineration before he collapsed, writhing and burning.

The speaker yelled, the crowd roared its own surprise which instantly turned to terror. How could this happen?

Dorgryl commanded again. Deal with the speaker.

Orlac obeyed. The man who had once held the rapt attention of the gathered before this interruption, now won it again, but for a different reason this time. He began to tremble; his body convulsing as a puppet might, when its strings are jerked by the puppeteer. He began to thrash around the podium, screaming in agony.

Orlac did not want to be told what to do next. This was his show, not Dorgryl’s and he would take charge. Turning casually towards the stunned audience, with one man dead but still smoking and another flailed to his death, he loosed his Colours—again it was but an arrogant trickle of his power.

People began to scream as blood ran freely from their noses, eyes and ears. Chaos broke out amongst the crowd and bloodied, mostly blinded bodies began to run in all directions. Orlac turned his calm attention towards one end of the square. It seemed a pity to ruin this dignified architecture, but he pushed again with his Colours and at this bidding the area of buildings began to cave in, collapsing swiftly under their own sudden shift in weight. The grinding and groaning of stone, as it bent to Orlac’s will, sounded even worse than the shrieking, panicking people it threatened, and it brought back all his memories of when he had begun the destruction of Caremboche all those centuries previous.

Good…good, my boy. Are you enjoying yourself? Dorgryl asked, impressed.

He was, and Dorgryl was disappointed when his nephew pulled back the Colours, allowing them to soften to a glow within whilst he surveyed the damage. Dorgryl so badly wanted to touch that well of power, but this was not the time to reveal himself. He relished the day such power would be his. For now, though, he must be the ‘guest’ and learn more about his host.

The people who had been hurt were lying on the polished stone, crying and begging for help as their blood ran freely. Some had been crushed under the toppling stone of the buildings. Others, not many, had escaped the touch of his Colours but they were in shock, walking from person to person, trying to find their own and seeking help. Why was this happening? What could cause such a thing? they wondered. Orlac noticed a woman fleeing the square; her shapely ankles above jewelled sandals caught his eye. Obviously one he had spared, he thought carelessly, and felt smug that she had escaped his attentions. Perhaps she was pretty? She would certainly help spread the word.

Hela had picked up her long skirts, revealing her jewelled sandals and, not caring that her veils were askew, ran for her life. This was it. This is what Lys had warned her about. There was magic afoot in Cipres and it came accompanied by death. She had not missed the unaccountably tall, impressively handsome young man who had taken the stage and looked calmly around whilst two men died behind him for absolutely no reason. He had reminded her of someone, but that thought had gone the instant everyone about her had begun to bleed.

They must forgo the night’s grace she had promised Sarel. She must get the Queen away from Cipres now.

Hela’s voice was urgent; her terror causing her to forget whom she addressed. ‘Sarel!’ She shook the sleeping Queen. ‘Sarel! Wake up!’

The young woman opened her eyes, suddenly in shock, her body tensing. ‘What’s happened?’

‘No time. Get up. Move!’ commanded her maid and friend. ‘It’s begun. There is killing in the square. We must flee.’

Hela pulled the dazed woman from her bed, ripping off her nightgown not caring for the chill it caused to the pale, perfect skin. ‘Climb into these. Waste no time, Sarel. We leave immediately.’

‘Who is it?’

‘I don’t know—a golden man—but there are people dead in the square for no reason. I saw them with my own eyes, bleeding from their noses, bursting into flame…buildings which have stood for centuries, collapsing as one, killing all in their path.’

Hela had not realised she was weeping as she spoke. Now Sarel’s eyes were filled with tears and confusion as she tried to make sense of the babble.

‘I don’t understand,’ said the young Queen.

‘Neither do I,’ Hela admitted, her nervousness betraying her. ‘It is magic…beyond my comprehension, but you can be sure that the man who wields it is headed here. Now quickly! Put this veil on and we leave.’

Sarel made to open her jewel box by the bed.

‘Leave it! I have all we need. Come.’ She led the girl through two doors in her mother’s chamber to a short landing leading towards the stairs used by the servants. Hela opened one of the many storage cupboards on the landing used to replenish stocks of Sylven’s favourite perfume, soaps, bath oils and linens, which Hela alone held the key to. From inside she pulled two dull brown cloth bags.

‘This is all we take,’ she said. ‘Here, Sarel, carry one.’

She ignored the question which she could see coming to the Queen’s lips and turned her back on her, taking her hand. Hela left no room for discussion or, indeed, argument. They moved swiftly—just short of running —down the stairs until they had reached the groundfloor, which led into a private courtyard.

‘Hela, the yard and the walls around it are guarded,’ Sarel voiced her thoughts aloud. But of course Hela would already know this.

‘I have taken care of it,’ Hela whispered. ‘The man on duty tonight is a friend. He is sweet on me, you could say,’ she added conspiratorially. ‘Mind me, Sarel. Say nothing, no matter what I say or you hear. Do you understand?’ It was said firmly, as mother to child. She was satisfied to see the young Queen nod behind her veils. ‘Come.’

True enough, as they stepped outside, a guard immediately confronted them and then relaxed when he heard Hela’s voice.

‘Are we safe?’ she asked.

‘There’s some trouble in the square, or so I hear. I know nothing more but if you follow the old road, it should be clear,’ he said, grinning wolfishly at the veiled face of Hela. ‘Who knocked her up, then?’ he added, turning to Sarel.

His blood would have frozen in his veins if he could have seen the chilled expression his new Queen wore beneath her veils. Sarel felt Hela’s hand tighten on her arm with reassurance as the maid answered him, a casual tone to her voice belying the tension she surely felt.

‘Stupid girl! She’s three months gone and showing—no idea who the father is. I fear she is simple in her head and so lies with anyone,’ she answered, playfully knocking Sarel’s shoulder with her own. ‘But her mother is a good friend of my mother’s and I feel obliged to do the right thing and get her home before anyone of rank finds out. You know how they are?’ Hela winked at him which he caught even behind those dark veils of hers.

He turned again to Sarel. ‘You wouldn’t give me a quick one, would you?’ he asked, tugging at his breeches, ‘…as it doesn’t seem to matter much to you.’

This time, it was Hela’s turn to freeze. If only he knew to whom he spoke.

‘Garth—leave it will you,’ she said, forcing her voice to remain light and playful. ‘I need to get going with her before it goes completely black out there.’

‘You owe me one, Hela. You can pay me in kind on your return.’

‘I’ll happily pay, Garth. I’ve always enjoyed you.’

She kissed him lightly on the cheek; a promise of real payment yet to come. Then she grabbed Sarel’s arm and pulled her to follow. Sarel was seething.

‘Garth, is it? I’ll have him hung when this is over!’ she hissed.

‘Ssh!’ Hela cautioned. ‘It’s because of him we’re safe. He changed three guards over so he could be the one on watch at this gate today. He has no rank, no money, so won their places by fighting them. He knows no fear— he’s too young. All that matters to him is the feel of a woman’s body against his own.’

Sarel did not respond. She felt a bit foolish for reacting so pompously as she realised just what sort of chance Hela was taking: bribing guards with her body, smuggling her Queen from the palace and no doubt prepared to lay down her own life to protect Sarel’s. She remained silent. Once they had left the palace behind, walking briskly, Hela stopped and looked around. She made a soft hooting sound, like an owl, with cupped hands. A similar sound answered back and a few moments later a dark shadow emerged. Another man.

‘We must follow him, Sarel. You must trust me now and do exactly as I say.’

They approached the man.

‘Who is he?’ Sarel whispered.

‘No friend, that’s for sure, but he can be trusted so long as I still owe him a purse.’

‘Are we safe?’

‘As we can be, hush now,’ Hela cautioned. They arrived before him.

‘I am Hela,’ she said.

He did not so much as flinch. ‘The money?’ His voice was gravelly. Sarel could read no expression on his face.

‘Half now, as agreed,’ Hela said firmly, digging into her pocket and producing a purse which she held out. The man took it.

‘Follow,’ he said, and led them down the side of a hill, not caring if they stumbled. He knew the terrain well and strode ahead, the women trailing at a tentative pace.

‘It would be easier without the veils,’ Sarel said, hating to state the obvious.

‘Until I feel it’s safe, I can’t reveal you.’ She was surprised to hear Sarel laugh.

‘Hela. The Cipreans hardly know who I am anyway. My last trip to the capital was two years ago when I was a child, and you saw to it that no one witnessed my arrival this time.’

‘All true. But I am taking precautions,’ Hela said in a tone which forbade further discussion.

The man of no name or conversation led them to a horse and cart and with no further ceremony, not even a helping hand to climb aboard, he wordlessly took the Queen of Cipres and her brave maidservant to the docks, carefully avoiding the city’s centre. If he knew of the wild scenes unfolding therein, he did not share his knowledge. Hela was just glad to know the palace was far enough away that their most dangerous moments had passed. Now it was simply a matter of putting as much distance between Cipres and themselves as possible. She hoped Sarel had a strong constitution—a voyage during this season was destined to be rough.

‘Wait,’ the man said, leaving them standing on a deserted wharf. Nearby a small galleon creaked as it rocked gently at its moorings. They could see the ship’s name, The Raven, painted in gold on her side.

‘Time to dispense with the veils now, Sarel. Soon we must become women of Tallinor.’ She watched the Queen dutifully obey as she did the same, then bundled up the black veils and pushed them behind some crates.

‘There now,’ she said, brightly, wondering yet again where and towards what she was taking this precious young woman.

The man had returned. ‘Follow.’

They stepped cautiously behind him up the steep gangplank, trying to steady one another. A few men stared at them as they arrived and Hela was pleased to see Sarel hold her head high, her expression blank. Her haughtiness was gone; a Queen fleeing her own city had nothing to be arrogant about. They needed these men to help them now and attitude was all important. Hela chanced a brief smile towards one of them but he looked away immediately. Pirates…they knew how to keep secrets, not make relationships with anyone unnecessary to their needs. Good, this suited the pair. They would travel in the obscurity she desired.

The man knocked on a door, opened it and gestured for them to go in. He did not join them. Hela nodded at Sarel and they stepped inside. What they saw surprised them. Whatever both had anticipated for a pirate captain’s chambers, this was not it. A man stepped out from behind a satin screen, water dripping from his beard. Sarel recoiled slightly at the sight of his destroyed eye.

‘Ah, do forgive me ladies.’ He pulled a patch down over the offending wound but stepped no closer. ‘I was just neatening myself for your arrival.’ He smiled and warmth immediately flooded a battle-scarred face.

Now he did take a few steps towards them. ‘Allow me to welcome you aboard The Raven. I am her captain and your host, Janus Quist.’ He bowed carefully.

‘You are too kind, Captain Quist,’ Hela replied on their behalf, relief coursing through her.

Quist turned to Sarel. ‘Your highness,’ he said, this time with genuine awe. He bowed once again, deeply.

It was a shocked Hela who responded. ‘But…how could you know?’

The captain tried to conceal his amusement but it was clearly there on his wind-burnt face. ‘Madam, it is my business to know who comes aboard my ship.’

‘But I have shielded all knowledge of our identities from everyone. Even the guard back at the palace did not know about her,’ she said, looking quickly at her Queen.

‘No, but then I have eyes and ears throughout Cipres, through the palace in fact,’ he said, without guile. ‘Please, sit with me, let us speak over a glass of Neame’s finest.’

Hela felt rattled but the pirate was behaving in a most gracious manner towards them. Sarel sat first and then nodded. Suddenly there was a Queen in this chamber.

The captain bowed again. ‘We are honoured to help, your majesty. Your mother, Queen Sylven—may the gods guide her to the Light— was a great sovereign and once did me a rare kindness. In helping you, highness, I perhaps can return that gesture.’

‘Thank you,’ Sarel said. ‘Please sit.’

Hela and Quist finally joined her. There was a knock at the door and a willowy young man stepped in with a tray. Quist nodded.

‘May I offer you wine, your highness?’

Hela was about to answer out of habit but felt her mouth close at the look from Sarel. The child had grown up. Here now sat a Queen.

‘I would be delighted to share a cup with you, Captain Quist,’ she said, her tone measured, her words well chosen.

The server stepped forward. Quist gestured for Sarel to take a cup. ‘Your majesty, may I introduce my brother-by-marriage, Locklyn…Locky. He will be ensuring your safety and comfort aboard The Raven for our voyage.’

Sarel’s eyes immediately flicked to the dark pair staring down at her. She felt her breath catch but quickly composed herself. ‘Are you the same Locklyn who risked the Kiss of the Silver Maiden?’

He blushed. ‘I am, your highness.’

‘You are brave indeed. I wished very much to have been there to share in your courage,’ she said demurely.

Hela was surprised that Sarel even knew of this event.

Quist cleared his throat. ‘Locky was fortunate, your highness, to escape with his life.’

‘My grievance was validated,’ Locky added softly, stepping quickly to offer Hela a cup of the wine.

Sarel’s gaze followed him and none of it was lost on the sharp eyes of Hela.

‘To close escapes, then,’ Quist said raising his cup, humour playing around his far from handsome mouth.

‘To close escapes,’ they replied, and Sarel smiled over her wine at Locky.