Banished (29 page)

Having never done anything like this before, I lean further back against the tree and look up through the branches. I propel my magic outwards, up the trunk and into the branches. It moves
swiftly and I get the impression of curiosity from the tree, a sleepy acknowledgement. Once I’m in the branches I radiate my magic outwards and upwards. I concentrate on the hum and vibration
I felt when Thorn used his magic when we were together. I taste the acrid tang of Istvan’s magic shielding his tent and feed that into my own magic and tell it to look for the same thing.

I find it, eventually, the signature that the recent magic left behind and it’s near to the royal tent, a few rows over. I pull my magic back and start running, keeping the image of where
the tent is in my head.

I only take two wrong turnings but I eventually track it again. There’s nothing about this tent that’s odd or makes it stand out. The soldier standing guard beside it looks sleepy
when I run up to him, but seems to recognize me.

‘What is in this tent?’ I ask him. ‘It’s important. The king’s sent me.’ I drop the hood back and offer a smile. ‘I’m sorry, he was so driven by
his need to know that he scared me a bit. I didn’t have a chance to collect my escort.’

‘Mirrors, my lady.’ He looks a bit worried. ‘Is there some problem?’

‘What kind of mirrors?’ I ask him, forcing myself to slow down.

He looks at me in confusion. ‘The mirrors Lord Istvan had us bring from Alba.’

I nod slowly, trying not to show him how urgently I need to get in there.

‘Have you seen Lord Istvan and the prince go in there just now?’

‘We’ve just had a shift change,’ he answers me, still very patient, if perturbed by my questions. ‘I can call Willamar and ask him. He just left to go and get some
food.’

‘Would you?’ I ask him. ‘I’ll just wait here. My escort should be on their way too. If you see them, tell them I’m waiting for them.’

He huffs out a breath uncertainly. ‘I’m not supposed to leave my post,’ he says.

‘The king sent me,’ I tell him. ‘He’s with his generals now, so commanded me to bring Lord Istvan to him before he left for Alba again.’

The guard looks surprised. ‘You know about Lord Istvan using the tent to travel?’

It’s dark enough for him not to see the triumphant flush creep across my cheeks as I nod. ‘Like I said, the king sent me. You know he doesn’t like to be kept
waiting.’

‘Very well. I won’t be long.’

I watch him walk smartly along the wooden boards and wait for him to turn a corner before I walk backwards and duck into the tent.

Nine tall cheval mirrors stand in a semi-circle in the tent. Lit lanterns hang off the beams above our heads. There is no other furniture in the place, just the nine
mirrors.

How do they work? I remember Thorn singing to the broken mirror. I shut my eyes and try and remember how it went. With my eyes closed, the smell that’s been bothering me becomes more
pungent and my stomach heaves. I hold on to the delicate scrollwork of the nearest mirror to keep my balance as I dry-heave. I feel the scroll ripple beneath my hand and snatch it back.

An eye stares out at me from the centre of the mirror. It looks human.

‘Istvan,’ I gasp. ‘I need to follow Istvan.’

There’s a rustling throughout the tent, the sound of leathery wings, of dark musty places, and an eye opens on every mirror to stare at me. I bite down hard on my terror and my instinctive
need to run away from here.

‘Complete the spell, human child.’

‘I don’t know what it is!’ I grind out between my teeth. ‘Help me.’

‘We cannot.’

‘We cannot . . .’

The tent becomes an echo chamber as their voices fill the air. The air is hot and I struggle to catch my breath.

‘Stop messing around. Prince Thorn is in danger. I have to follow Istvan or all is lost.’

‘So dramatic.’

‘So anxious.’

‘So in love.’

‘Love?’

‘Love.’

‘I never knew love.’

‘I knew love once. He declared himself and never returned. I burned his lands.’

‘As was your right.’

What was this? Who were these things in the mirrors? I slap my hand against the surface of the nearest one.

‘Listen!’ I shout in annoyance. ‘I don’t have the time for this. Just tell me how to find Istvan. Please.’

‘She is so young.’

‘So determined.’

‘So earnest.’

‘So in love with the Dragon.’

‘Does she know?’

‘She can’t know.’

‘We should help her.’

Terror clutches at my heart as nine figures wreathed in smoke step from the mirrors. Taller than any human or Fae I’ve ever seen, their aspect is horrific. Contorted death masks made from
finely worked gold cover their faces, but it’s the peculiar stop-start of their movement towards me that freaks me out. I skitter backwards, to the tent flap, but they surround me now. The
air in the tent has gone ice cold, so cold that my breath plumes in front of me and when I try to move it feels as if I’m trying to run through knee-high mud.

‘You have asked.’ A heavy hand lands on my shoulder, wrenching me backwards so I land hard on my back. ‘Now your wish is being granted.’

I’m hauled upright and no matter how much I struggle, the nine pairs of burning cold hands steady me to stand in the middle of the tent, in the circle of the mirrors.

Electric-blue light arcs from the surface of each mirror, through each of them, and hits me squarely in the chest. I throw my head back and scream, but there is no sound. I’m aware of the
fact that I’ve been lifted off my feet and that I’m several feet up in the air, near the roof of the tent.

Me dangling between heaven and earth doesn’t last long, no more than five or maybe six seconds before I’m dropped to the ground and I sprawl there, inelegant and senseless for a few
moments.

I sit up in surprise, noticing that the floor beneath my hands and knees is no longer muddy grass. It’s finely inlaid marble and warm to my touch. I heave myself upright, taking in my
surroundings.

I’m in a large round chamber made from stone. The ceiling is high and vaulted and I get the impression that I’m in a tower. Probably top floor (of course). The room itself is
unremarkable: a circular chamber with tall narrow windows all around. I can’t see any doors and it’s worrying me. I walk over to a large wall hanging of a hawk attacking a wolf and lift
it. It’s heavy and I strain to peer behind it. Nothing. No door. I walk over to the windows and look out.

Unlike Marc, I don’t have a problem with heights but the view from the top of the tower is dizzying. I grip the window frame and lean out as far as I can to get a clear view of where I am.
What I see doesn’t really make me feel any better. The tower is set on a sheer cliff surrounded by forest. There is green as far as the eye can see, and far in the distance maybe
there’s the blue of the sea.

I’ve never seen forest like this. The trees look gnarled and ancient. A faery tale forest, I realize with unease. I’m smack bang in the middle of Alba’s Dark Forest, the place
where monsters live.

Sword, knife, iron baton. At least I’m armed, I decide. I can probably take most things that come my way, as long as they come in single file. I groan and spin around, staring up at the
vaulted ceiling. How am I meant to get down? I pull at my hair in annoyance, wondering if there was ever any merit in the story of Rapunzel growing her hair long.

I start a thorough search of the chamber, pressing and knocking against the walls, stamping my feet to make sure I haven’t missed a trapdoor. I circle the chamber three times, and stop
short when I notice a tiny silver bell on the windowsill. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t there before.

It’s a small thing, no bigger than the top joint of my little finger, and intricately carved. I peer at it, not touching it. I wonder about ringing it. Would it bring help or something
else?

I agonize for a few seconds only. I draw my sword, pick up the tiny bell and ring it. The sound is surprisingly robust and sweet. It echoes around the room, making me smile. I turn in a circle,
listening to it reverberate around me. It seems to build and build and then there’s an unexpected knock on the door I managed to not see during my time in the tower.

I open it only slightly and peer out. There is no one there, just a long, very long circular set of stairs going down. Every few paces there’s a lit torch. And it is quiet, like the
grave.

Before I freak myself out completely, I slip through the door and it locks behind me with a quiet
snick
, smoothing back into the rock and disappearing altogether. I grab one of the lit
torches and start my descent.

The stairs curve with the tower and it plays with my depth perception as I look down the side to see how far they actually go. My leg muscles start complaining ten minutes into the descent and I
slow down quite a bit. I hold on to my torch with my left hand and use my right hand to steady myself against the wall.

I climb down the stairs for what seems like an eternity. I take breathers and after the first few times refuse to look either up or down. I find myself making better progress this way and, just
as I think I am going to collapse in a bundle of quivering legs and spinning head, I get to the bottom of the tower. A massive door bars my exit and I examine it closely. It’s at least eight
feet high by five feet wide. It’s made from dark wood and banded with strips of iron. I can’t see a key or a keyhole and am about to burst into tears when I remember walking around the
upstairs chamber three times. So I do that again, only there is no chamber to walk around in. Instead I turn three times and on my third and final turn find a keyhole and key waiting for me in the
door. I place my lit torch in an empty sconce and turn to the heavy door.

It swings open, letting in a blast of fresh autumn air. I lean forward and take in great big gulps of air. There’s a small clearing around the tower, as well as a small picnic table and a
well. I crank the wheel and a bucket comes up, filled to the brim with some of the most amazing sweet-smelling water. I take big mouthfuls and drink until I can’t take another swallow.

The biggest thing about survival in a forest, Jamie’s voice in my head reminds me, is water and shelter. Drink as much as you can when you can and immediately make shelter. Once those two
things are seen to, you can worry about food.

I nod, thanking Jamie’s voice, and ignore the bit about shelter and food. I have to find Thorn. I walk around the clearing and find the place where Istvan and Thorn entered the forest. I
set off in the same direction, grateful to the tracking lessons that Jamie forced on us.

But then, Istvan and Thorn weren’t exactly hiding, either. They strode at an energetic pace. Or rather, Istvan did. Thorn’s prints look slower, as if he’s dragging his feet,
and I find blood on a few plants near the start of the trail.

I step carefully, keeping my wits about me. The forest is dense and the trees tower high above me, letting in very little light from above. When I left the camp it was night, here it’s
day, early morning. But I have no way of telling if it’s today or tomorrow or even yesterday. I hate how screwed-up time is between the Frontier and the Otherwhere.

I rub my face, square my shoulders and with utmost care follow the route Istvan’s bashed through the undergrowth.

I walk for about an hour and have become used to the greenery around me when the smell of decomposition hits me full in the face. I reel back and press myself up against a tree. I hear voices
too, distantly, but I can’t make out what they’re saying.

I hunker down and creep forward for several metres. There is a group of the goblin chimera and they are talking to Istvan. They seem to defer to him, but only just. Two of them are standing
guard over Thorn, who is slumped on a tree stump. I move slightly to get a better view of him and bite my lip in anger when I see how badly he’s been beaten. Not only is his eyebrow cut,
he’s wearing a spectacular black eye and there’s a livid bruise visible around his neck.

Lake Baikal – The Frontier, Russia

A hesitant knock on the shield outside his tent tore Duke Eadric’s attention away from his most recent dispatches. A young squire, no older than twelve, slipped into the
tent looking as if he’d rather face an army of ogres than be in Eadric’s presence. The thought twisted the man’s thin lips into a wry smile and the boy paled. For a few seconds
they regarded one another in silence before Eadric sighed impatiently and gestured for the boy to come forward.

‘Sir, my lord? Lord Istvan has the prince.’ The boy swallowed against the dryness in his throat. ‘We just had word from our lookout.’

Eadric exclaimed, startling the boy. ‘Excellent news. When do we expect them?’

‘I don’t . . . My lord, he’s not coming to the camp. He’s taking the prince directly to the island.’

The boy held his breath as he told Eadric this, watching the duke through worried eyes. He slanted a look to his left, to the shadows, using his peripheral vision to make sure he had a clear
exit from the tent in case Eadric decided to throw something at him. It’d been known to happen.

Eadric stood up from the chair behind the desk and stretched. His shadow capered behind him on the canvas and for a moment it didn’t resemble the shape of a man at all. For the briefest of
seconds the shadow-play looked like a gargoyle, a craven hunched figure, spindly with a swollen belly. The boy stared in horror, blinking, and took an unthinking step back. Before he could turn and
run, his training took over and he squared his shoulders. None of this was about him, but it was about the honour of his family. He would stay and face whatever the outcome of the duke’s
anger and annoyance might be. He swallowed against the terror building in his chest and flicked his eyes towards the duke again.

The duke seemed unaware of the boy in the tent with him. His expression was one of deep thought and for a heartbeat the boy thought that he might return unscathed from carrying the message. The
boy shifted in his too-warm doublet but froze mid-movement when Eadric looked at him with hot hungry eyes.