Ice turns liquid and then solid again as I enter the dreamspace. Images flash across my vision, blurring crimson and metal, a guard’s laughter and menace. The dream blurs as I see unfamiliar images and names. I plunge and rise up and slam down again before I see myself standing in front of Fjallhold. A long, black-clad figure wearing a silver crown calls to me, “I know why you’re here. Come to me. Come to me now.” My legs don’t move as a massive golden raven flies overhead before disappearing into the black of night. The man, who’s sure to be the silver king, calls to me again, like the sound of an ill wind slicing over water.
My eyes flash open.
Soren breathes softly on the floor beside me. Even in sleep, his features are tight as if he can’t avoid seeing the difficulties of his waking life. Dusty light creeps through the thin slats of the modest house, cutting lines across his arms and legs. The embers in the fire suggest he woke up in the night to add logs to keep out the drafts and demons.
I pull on my boots and my coat, slipping out the door as silent as snow, but not before whispering, “Thank you.”
Clouds stack the sunless sky. In the distance, the ocean goes on forever. As the landscape takes shape, I understand that Raven’s Landing sits precariously at the tip of a peninsula backed by hills and mountains sloping toward the north.
I don’t care if King Leith is harsh and unfair, I must seek him. My mother said so. I can warn him about the Shadow Army or, if he’s behind it like Soren suggested, somehow stop him. I have one remaining Talisman. I can’t remain idle when I know there is danger. A demon might deceive me, but my mother wouldn’t. Whatever she said was the truth and I must pursue it.
Without the warmth of the sun, the mud from yesterday remains solid on the rutted roads as I leave the gate of the still-sleeping Roost.
By the time I reach the Flats, the Distijllery belches bitter smoke. Pockmarked and reedy laborers enter and exit, their eyes bleary and their gait crooked, even the ones starting for the day.
The king must see how the people struggle. I refuse to believe he wants everyone starving, and dirty, scared and suffering. The people here are treated little better than the demons back home.
My path becomes uncertain and the streets narrow as I try to find the one that leads to the castle. I know, I know. Don’t go in the basement. Avoid the creepy house. Don’t go see the creepy king. But my mother said to seek the silver king and stop the Shadow Army.
I reach the commons in front of the castle. Then I make a wide arc around the ashpit, forcing myself not to think about the contents and the misery of Fjallhold.
I stand at the gates, sealed shut with iron bars. Below, the inky water in the moat surrounding the castle slaps the stonewalls. Several guards approach dressed in dark red and polished black boots. They flank a bald woman, the top of her head shining. Her long red robe, the same color of my karate belt, whips her ankles. She must be Glandias, the mage.
The guards grip their blades, their eyes gray and vacant.
“We’ve been expecting you,” Glandias calls in an oily voice.
“I’m here to see King Leith,” I declare across the castle gate.
Her thin lips pucker into what on anyone else might resemble a smile of confirmation.
From within the stonewall, a chain clanks and releases. The gate slowly opens to the sounds of men grunting. The bald woman studies me carefully. Her skin is almost the color of milk, and I turn away, searching the sky for the sun.
“You come from afar?” she asks after metal slams into metal and the guards begin to lower a wide bridge to permit my crossing the moat.
I’m about to answer when a figure streaks past, lifting me off my feet.
Chapter 9
Soren
I’m practically flying and I don’t stop when the guards demand we surrender, their heavy boots pounding along the cobblestones behind us.
I don’t stop even when I have to push through the morning crowds going to the market, to slog away at the Distijllery, and podgers eager to cheat.
I don’t stop when the tower bells toll, indicating daybreak.
I don’t stop when my breath thunders in my chest.
I don’t stop when Kiki insists I put her down.
I don’t stop until I reach the shoreline where I finally release her to the black sand.
“What was that?” she demands. Her face is pink and her eyes ice-cold as she adjusts her clothing and smooths her hair, rather affronted.
“That was a daring rescue,” I say, jaw clenched.
“I have to see King—”
I lunge at her, to silence her, secure her from doing something foolish, but she’s too quick, a fleeting vision of beauty, a squall of indignation. She disappears back into the morning fray. I follow as the blotch of the sun appears, casting hopeful light on the dingy, the drunk, and the lost. Carts catch in the rutted roads as the mud thaws, children race underfoot, and mullockers, trying to earn a dishonest living, call out, “Get your spices, trade your cloth, get your brown bread ingredients, only the purest here, you can’t go wrong.” It’s just ash, dust, and lies.
“You can’t go there,” I call after her.
“I can and I will,”
