Starlighter (7 page)

“Ewww!” Natalla and Koren said at once. Petra grimaced.

A triumphant smile spread across Madam’s face. “You know it’s bad because of its smell and where it came from. The same is true for humans. To them, we smell like manure, and the very thought of eating one of us will cause their younglings to say, ‘Ewww!’”

Koren looked at Natalla again, this time waiting for her to notice. She still seemed skeptical, very skeptical.

“But why would I get a Promotion?” Natalla asked. “Wouldn’t the Separators choose someone smarter?”

Madam waved her hand. “Nonsense. They just think you’re hatched from the black egg.”

Koren let those words sink in. Someday, or so the prophecy said, the queen dragon would lay a black egg, and although the youngling would begin its life encumbered with physical disadvantages, it would grow into the greatest of dragons. And that legend gave birth to the idiom “Hatched from the black egg,” which even humans have used to encourage children of lesser intelligence or physical abilities.

“The king of the Northlands,” Madam continued, “wants pliable girls who won’t talk too much. That’s why Koren will never see that great king. She’s too smart and too valuable. Have you ever seen a redhead get a Promotion? I haven’t.”

Koren’s heart sank. Now that she thought about it, Madam was right. Only the dark-haired girls were ever chosen. Her “cap of fiery brilliance” would keep her in the hot regions forever.

Madam clapped her hands. “Time for sleep, girls. Tomorrow is another day of sweat and tears.”

As Koren laid her head down, Madam’s words echoed within. She had repeated that bedtime call every night for months, but this time it pierced Koren’s heart. She formed the words on her lips.
Sweat and tears.
It was true. Every day brought both the sweat of hard labor and tears of loneliness whenever she allowed thoughts of her parents to break through. Only fleeting images of her mother’s face whisked by, more like a phantom than a living person. Still, she remembered enough to know that Mother was kind. In Koren’s memories, her mother’s
lovely brow was always smooth, never wrinkled in a scowl or frown.

No matter how hard she tried, no image of Father ever appeared. Only his voice ever made its way into her sad memories, a bare few words that she sang to herself before going to sleep every night.

“I love you, little K.”

As Koren let the usual tears flow, Natalla slid a hand into hers and whispered, “I’m still going. I don’t think Madam knows what’s really true.”

For a long moment, Koren said nothing. Although the denial that they had come from another world was disappointing, it made a lot of sense. How could a dragon fly beyond the sky? And if the elders had documents that disproved the tale, that pretty much sealed its fate as a myth. Yet the explanations about the Promotions weren’t as convincing. She would have to help Natalla learn the truth.

Giving Natalla’s hand a gentle squeeze, Koren whispered, “My plans are the same. If I’m not back before Pariah sets, then you and Stephan should go ahead and try to escape.”

J
ason fastened the clasp on his new cloak and sat on the marble steps in front of Prescott’s castle. With darkness blanketing the hill, walking home would be a lonely journey, especially in the forest. He had lost his fear of the woods long ago, but after being humiliated by snide remarks from several of Prescott’s friends at the Counselor’s invocation, he felt small and weak.

Only an hour ago, the former Counselor, an elderly man who had reached mandatory retirement age, walked up to Prescott and said, “I see you have chosen another peasant for your bodyguard. I suppose if he dies defending you, it will be no loss. There are many more rats in the sewers who can handle a blade.”

Not only that, the new Counselor, Viktor Orion, still dressed in his ceremonial silk, stopped by and looked Jason over, a smirk on his face. “He is a handsome lad, to
be sure, Your Lordship. Perhaps he will help us find the Diviner. It is said that the sultry witches are always on the lookout for a callow catch.”

And Prescott just laughed at both comments, not offering a single word of defense. He should have known how stupid his silence was. A wise governor realizes that the warrior who watches his back is the warrior who keeps the daggers from flying there.

Jason pondered Counselor Orion’s odd words. They seemed practiced, as if scripted for that moment. Was he trying to communicate a message that he didn’t want Prescott to understand? If by “the Diviner” he meant Elyssa, why would he mention her unless he thought she was still alive?

None of that mattered now. While the speeches at the invocation droned on, the solution to the puzzle became clear in Jason’s mind. Prescott was the bear, and the key was on the ring that he kept in his tunic’s pocket, close to his heart. During the ceremony and afterward, he frequently reached into the vest pocket and fingered the keys, as if worried that they might have jumped out and run away.

As thunder rumbled in the distance, Jason rose. One way or another, this would be his last day as that fool’s bodyguard. He would either quit or be fired. Considering what he planned to do now, there weren’t any other options.

Jason marched back to the castle’s main entrance and approached Drexel, the door’s guard. “I forgot to give something to Governor Prescott,” Jason said. “It’s very important.”

Drexel, a tall, thin man with a black handlebar moustache, scowled. “What could a peasant have that
His Lordship would want at this time of night? Bodyguard or not, it had better be urgent.”

“Oh, it’s urgent.” Jason pulled his copy of the
Underground Gateway
newsletter from his pocket and smoothed out the wrinkles. “I took this from someone in his inner circle. It appears that one of those crazy conspiracy theorists is within his ranks. Of course, I couldn’t interrupt the ceremony, but I forgot to tell him afterwards.”

“You forgot? What kind of bodyguard are you?”

“A new one,” Jason said, bowing. “I beg your indulgence.”

Drexel reached for the page, but Jason pulled it back. “I must speak to him privately. It is up to His Lordship to decide what to do with this information. It would be a shame if I had to tell him tomorrow who prevented my access to him tonight.”

“For a new bodyguard, you are a quick student of political maneuvering.” Drexel pushed a key into a hefty iron lock and released the door’s bolt. “Take care that you don’t maneuver yourself into a dangerous corner. There are people in the governor’s employ who are far craftier than you realize.”

Jason brushed off Drexel’s condescending tone and gave him a friendly nod. “I will leave through the rear door. It’s closer to my path home.”

“Very well.” Drexel almost smiled. “You will find a lantern in the vestibule.”

Jason hurried in, picked up the lantern, which was already trimmed and lit, and marched across the vast lobby. Since he had visited Prescott’s bedroom earlier, finding it again would be no problem.

After passing through the narrow corridor and entering the massive living room, he turned down the lantern as far as he could without extinguishing the flame. The bedroom lay only a few steps ahead. From here, a closed door was visible, but no guard. Would someone be stationed inside? If so, wouldn’t Drexel have mentioned it? With armed guards at every exterior door, maybe Prescott wasn’t paranoid enough to create a gauntlet of soldiers within the castle.

When he reached the bedroom, he set the lantern on the floor and lifted the latch. A quiet click sounded, not enough to wake any but the lightest of sleepers. Pushing the door open a crack, he peered into the dim room. The energy channels in the walls had been turned down to their nighttime setting, just enough light to keep someone on a washroom journey from bumping into anything.

Prescott slept on the huge bed with his wife, Lady Moulraine, who was snoring loudly at his side. That helped. Obviously Prescott had grown accustomed to sleeping next to a human sawmill.

As Jason pushed the door open the rest of the way, the hinges squeaked, but not loudly enough to overcome the snores. After easing the door back in place without allowing it to latch, he walked on the balls of his feet until he stood at the bedside. Prescott clutched his key ring against his silk nightshirt, open in front and exposing a hairless chest that rose and fell with his steady breathing.

Jason wrinkled his nose. Prescott’s breath reeked of garlic, but it wasn’t as bad as usual. Extending his hand slowly, he reached for the ring. This would take the skill of a thief, and he hadn’t stolen anything since the time he snatched a cookie from his mother’s baking sheet when he was eight years old.

He curled a finger around the ring and began to pull ever so slowly. It moved a fraction of an inch. Prescott’s grip relaxed, but his meaty hand still weighed down the keys.

As Jason pulled again, the ring slid a bit more, uncovering a raised patch of skin on Prescott’s chest. Jason stared at it. The size and shape of a finger, the patch throbbed with yellow light, its luminance pulsing between dim and bright.

The bedroom door’s hinges squeaked, pulling Jason’s attention away. A lantern pushed through the gap, and a man’s head appeared.

Leaving the key ring on Prescott’s chest, Jason ducked and slid under the bed. The guard, probably a lone sentry who made regular rounds through the castle, walked in. Extending his lantern, he moved it slowly from left to right, sweeping its glow across the bedroom.

Peeking out from behind a dust ruffle, Jason studied the guard’s unfamiliar face. He didn’t seem worried. If this check was part of his normal rounds, he would probably leave soon. Then again, if finding the door unlatched raised a question in his mind, he might conduct a more thorough search.

As the light drew nearer, Jason slid farther under the bed and held his breath. The guard’s boots came into view, the toes pointing directly at Jason. With Lady Moulraine’s noisy buzz still drowning out all sound, it was impossible to tell what was going on. A few seconds later, the guard walked away. The lantern’s light faded and disappeared.

Jason slid back out and rose to his feet. The door was closed; no sign of the guard. Now he had better hurry
and grab the keys. Who could tell when the next bedroom check might be?

As his eyes adjusted again to the darkness, he turned toward Prescott and reached for the key ring, but his fingers struck something else, something long and thin. He squinted. Soon the object took shape: a long dagger protruding from Prescott’s chest. Blood covered his night clothes and dripped to the sheets.

Jason gasped. He staggered backwards, barely catching himself before he fell. While Lady Moulraine snored on, he grasped the hilt of his sword.
A murderer was in the castle!

Drawing his blade, Jason rushed to the door and jerked it open. A man stood there, blocking his way. Lifting a lantern, the man cast a light across his face.

Jason gulped.
Drexel!

Drexel’s cool voice rose and fell in a mocking sort of way. “Have you finished delivering your message to the governor?”

Showing his sword, Jason hissed, “I have to catch a murderer! Someone has killed the governor!”

His face stoic, Drexel let out a sarcastic moan. “Oh, dear! The governor has fallen! And it seems that the only person who entered his bedroom was a certain peasant boy who spoke petulantly to the palace’s sentry. He must be an Underground Gateway conspirator who sought revenge on the great governor who forbade his nefarious practices.”

Jason set the sword’s point against Drexel’s chest. “You’re the murderer!”

“Oh, not I.” A smirk rising on his lips, he gestured with his head. Another guard appeared in the light, the keys in
one hand and a sword in the other. “I have already entered my suspicions in the official log,” Drexel continued, “so killing me would only double your crime. Perhaps you would like to reconsider your offensive posture and join us.”

“Join you?” Jason lowered his weapon. “What do you mean?”

Drexel turned to the other guard. “Bristol, show us what you retrieved from our dear governor.”

The other guard extended the key ring and a short, bent cylinder that pulsed with a bright yellow glow.

“Take them,” Drexel said, his voice calm and smooth. “You will find what you’re looking for in the lowest level of the dungeon, at cell number four.”

Jason opened his hand. Bristol laid the key ring and cylinder in his palm. The two bends in the cylinder made it look exactly like a finger. As it continued to pulse, Jason’s mind flashed back to Prescott’s chest. Bristol must have cut this out of the governor’s skin!

“Before today,” Drexel continued, “we dared not take this bold step, but now that you have come, we have the means to proceed. You see, when you leave, we will blame you for the murder, and you will be forced to carry out the mission. We have both a warrior and a scapegoat.”

Jason’s cheeks flamed. He was trapped. Maybe he could fight past both guards and run, but he would still be branded a murderer, and two “eyewitnesses” were ready to send him to the gallows.

“And your answer?” Drexel prompted.

Jason slid his sword back into its scabbard. “It seems I have no choice.”

“Ah! Very good! You
have
learned the art of political maneuvering.” Drexel pulled Jason into the hall and closed
the door. “You have two hours to flee before I alert the new Counselor of your deed. The dungeon guard is one of us, and he will allow you to enter. When you find her on the lower level, you will learn what you must do.”

“Her?”

Drexel pushed him down the hall. “Just go!”

Clutching the keys and the finger, Jason hustled toward the rear of the castle, slowing as he approached the door. He nodded at the sentry, glad the guards recognized his uniform and allowed him free range.

Ahead, the tall gallows post stood in the moonlight, casting a long shadow over an expanse of bare ground where onlookers gathered for hangings. As the rope swung in the breeze, the noose’s oval shadow swayed eerily.

Jason shivered. Never in a thousand years would he have expected to fear that sight. The noose was for murderers and thieves, not for a son of Edison Masters.

When he spotted the dungeon’s night guard standing next to the gate under the glow of a pole-mounted lantern, Jason waved to signal his approach. The guard unhooked the lantern and held it out.

“Jason Masters?” he whispered.

Jason’s heart began thumping again. He slid the glowing finger into his trousers pocket and held up the key ring. “I understand that you’re expecting me.”

“I am.” The guard pulled a key ring from his belt, produced a long brass key from the midst of several shorter keys, and turned a lock in the gate on the ground. Grabbing an iron bar, he swung the gate upward and nodded toward the descending stairwell underneath. “You will find a torch
and flint at the bottom. We have no energy channels down there. Stay on the center path.”

“Thank you.” Jason descended the steep, narrow stairs. As the moonlight faded, the steps darkened, forcing him to slow his pace. Above, the gate closed, and the lock clicked.

He looked up. The jailer wasn’t in sight. Realizing he’d just walked into the dungeon as an accused murderer, Jason stifled the urge to panic.
Locking the gate is just a precaution. He’s one of us. He’ll let me out when this part of the mission is complete.

Now in darkness, Jason ran his hand along the wall, searching for a torch mount. When his fingers touched metal, he ran them up the bracket and grasped the torch. If the jailer followed normal practices, the flint stones would be in a box on the floor immediately underneath.

After finding the stones, he lit the torch’s oily rags. As the orange tongues of fire crawled over the top, he dropped the flints into his pocket and guided the flame from left to right. He stood in an anteroom with stone-and-mortar walls and a wood-beam ceiling. Three corridors led into the darkness, one angling to the left, one straight ahead, and one angling to the right.

Again waving the torch, Jason marched down the center path. The air smelled of mildew and human waste, and the sound of dripping water echoed from somewhere in the distance. Heavy wooden doors lined the sides of the corridor, each one with a small, barred window at eye level and a thick crossbar wedge in iron brackets blocking escape.

Jason glanced briefly at a window, but the darkness inside made it impossible to see anything. At this time of night, any prisoners within would likely be asleep. Even if they noticed his passing, wouldn’t they think he was a guard making the rounds and not an accused murderer searching for someone to set free?

As soon as the thought entered his mind, a movement caught his eye. Three doors ahead on the left, probing fingers reached between the bars. Easing to the right to avoid them, Jason stopped and looked at the gray-bearded face pressing against the window’s grating. Long strands of greasy hair spilled down the sides of his head, and his smile revealed wide gaps between sparse teeth.

“You are finally here,” he said with a cackle. “I knew you would come! I knew it!”

Jason set the flame closer to the door and read the number on a metal plate just above the crossbar. Cell number twenty. “Who are you?”