Book 1, Chapter 3                                                                                                                           

            The family sat around the fireplace. Flames leapt tossing sparks onto the hearth. The fire lit the faces a dark red. Alaysa’s shaking legs threatened to collapse as she walked into the main rooms so she placed a hand on the wall to hold herself upright. The roaring flames made her forehead break out in a sweat. Mam sat in a chair staring at the fire, Issie stood behind pulling at a stray thread peaking from the top. Sir Jackson sat on a bench beside her father. Jake and Len leaned against the mantle, both trying not to look at her. Andrew joined him. He glanced at her, then toward the kitchen table. She followed his gaze.

            Several glass balls sat glittering in a row on the table reflecting in the firelight. Soothing colours danced in front of her eyes. Her legs stopped shaking. She raised both hands wanting to touch, to hold the delicate orbs. She took a step toward the table but stopped, looking up at Dardon, afraid she had broken some Darsinnian rule of etiquette. Dardon stood at the opposite end of the table. His lips curled up at the edges ever so slightly and he waved his hand, motioning her to come close.

            “I’ve never seen anything like these,” she whispered, leaning forward, the need to touch them growing stronger.

            Eleven balls sat in a row. Each a different colour: red, blue, green, yellow, orange, purple, black, gold, silver, white and clear. All appeared to be the same, except for the clear ball. It seemed so delicate yet so much more solid than the other balls. Dardon spoke but she couldn’t hear his words. Her hand shot out. Something cold and hard filled it and when she turned her hand over and opened her palm, the clear ball winked back at her. She held it up to the firelight and felt it grow warm in her hand. The warmth spread down her arm and throughout her body.

            Alaysa could see the pink of her flesh through the ball. A small pinkish cloud formed inside the ball. It grew larger, then smaller, larger, smaller, almost as if matching her beating heart. Mesmerized, she felt a weariness settle over her mind. Her eyelids drooped. She rested her free hand on the top of the table to keep from collapsing. As she did, she turned the ball ever so slightly, so the other balls reflected in its surface. Their colours leapt toward her ball, surrounding it, stunning her fingers, freezing her hand.

            A burning sensation raced down her arm and up her neck. Fire burst in her head. Flecks of colour whirled in front of her eyes. She tried to call for help but she couldn’t draw a breath. Dardon reached out and covered the ball, his fingers intertwining with hers. She wished he would take it out of her hand. Instead, she heard him speak in a language she didn’t understand.

            The room began to spin. Lamplight and firelight swirled as flecks that blended into a silver haze. She felt dizzy. Falling. The haze darkened. Cold air shocked her body. She stopped abruptly. The darkness lightened and formed into a rock floor. Razor sharp pain shot through her knees and palms. She found herself kneeling face down on cold stone. Child-sized arms and legs began to shiver. She rolled over and pulled up her skirt. Blood from her skinned knees seeped through holes in her pants. My father will be so upset.

            Her father’s eyes lit up whenever he saw her in this dress. She liked to see her father smile. She liked it even more when he laughed. His whole body rocked. She had to cover her ears with her hands because he laughed so loud. Then he would pick her up and hold her so tight to his chest that his beard would tickle and she could feel his heart beating and her mother would tell him to put his daughter down, that she would never grow up to be a proper princess if he kept spoiling her and her father would say there would be time enough to teach her to be a queen and her mother would say-

            “Run!”

            She heard the panicked voice and scrambled to her feet. She gasped as the cuts on her knees burned as they reopened. She looked around. The room looked like any one of the tunnels beneath the castle. They led everywhere. To the cellar with the many dusty bottles of wine. To Cook’s pantry with the sweet smelling jars of herbs and spices. To the cold storage with its piles of cheese. She didn’t like that room. It smelled musty. Cook would always say that smell meant the cheese was getting better tasting. Sometimes mould is good. She would giggle out loud and Cook would sit her on a stool by the dusty baking table, give her a bit of pastry to knead and say-

            “Run, Princess, run now!”

            Cook’s voice had become a familiar, raspy voice. The sound came from a dark shape on the floor. A glow from a silver cloud in the wall made his face look so white. She knew him. He was a close friend of her parents. His robe had a large dark stain on the front. The liquid had leaked onto the rock floor. She turned to run but stopped. Her father wouldn’t leave a wounded man so she shouldn’t either. Besides, she couldn’t see anyone else in the tunnel. Why should she run?  She stepped close to him and her feet squished in the puddle.

            He had prayed with her parents and lived in a tower at the castle. She saw him every week. He and her mother spoke for long hours. They spoke often. She thought he was maybe a cousin or someone close. She couldn’t remember. She reached out to his face and he grabbed her wrist. His hand was ice cold.

            “You must leave this place, Princess,” he whispered. His eyes drifted to the front of her dress. “Are you hurt?”

            She looked down.  The dark liquid had stained the front of her dress, too. The fabric clung to her skin. She tried to pull the fabric away. A sharp pain made her gasp. She felt her torn skin give way. A rush of warmth soaked the top of her dress. The walls began to tilt.

            The priest yanked her arm. How dare he touch her so? Her head cleared with her sudden anger. He was reaching toward her shoulder, but the silver light began to fade. His eyes wandered as if he couldn’t find her. Fear and pity replaced her anger. He was hurt and she should be helping him. Her father would want that.

            The priest’s arm dropped to his side. He looked at the silver fog with regret. She heard him mutter, “Too late-”

            They had stepped through that fog. He had carried her, but someone had pushed him at the last moment so they both had fallen. She had only skinned her knees but he had hurt his chest. Badly. She could tell by the way his face had gone so pale. She had seen this before.

            Her father had come back from a battle once, his arm hanging at an angle, blood all over his clothes and face. The red of the blood made his white face look so pale. She had been afraid to touch him and the priests had rushed him into a room and closed the door and told her she couldn’t come in. She had stayed outside the door because no one ever told her where she could and couldn’t go and besides her father was in there and she had to take care of him. She had heard a snap and her father’s cry. She had burst into the room and run up to her father, wrapping her arms around his legs. She had kicked the closest priest in the shin, saying that if anyone else hurt her father she would kick them, too. Her father had placed a hand on her head and chuckled. She looked up at him, confused. “Sometimes a person has to feel pain in order to get better.”

            She blinked away tears. She only wanted to take care of him, to take away his hurt. She marveled at her father’s courage and hoped she would be that brave one day. The silver fog began to swirl faster, growing larger as it spread out across the rock wall. She didn’t feel brave at all right now. She wanted to run away.

            The priest struggled to rise but fell back with a groan. His lower body didn’t seem to want to move. She crouched down beside him. She couldn’t leave him alone. He struggled to breathe and a dark liquid trickled out of the corner of his mouth. She wiped it with her sleeve. He opened his eyes and turned his head to look at her.

            “Princess,” he whispered. She leaned close. “I am so sorry. I cannot come with you. You must be very brave and do as I say.”

            She nodded her head. Brave. Just like her father.

            “You have to leave this cave.”

            She glanced down the tunnel to where it curved and she couldn’t see any further. “No, I-”

            “Yes. Outside a man is waiting for you but you have to run down the mountain to meet him. It will seem you are running for a long time and you may grow very tired but you have to keep going.”

            A musty smell filled the air. She put her sleeve up to cover her mouth and nose. Her stomach rolled. She thought she might be sick. Shuffling footsteps came from the other side of the glowing fog.

            “Go, Princess,” the priest said. He glanced at the fog.

            She looked, too. Then she wanted to run very fast but she couldn’t make her feet move.

            A soldier stood in front of the fog. His uniform hung in tatters. She thought she saw a bone through one of his pant legs. She looked up to his face quickly, not wanting to know for sure. The soldier swiveled his head, his nose high like a dog sniffing the air for a scent. She recognized him. Her breath caught in her throat. He had been the one who had pushed them through the silver fog. But he hadn’t pushed them with his hands. She remembered. He had pushed with his sword. She could feel the tip of the cold steel in her skin as it slid in and then out.

            He stared in their direction through empty eye sockets. A flap of black flesh hung from his face and neck. His jawbone flashed white whenever he moved his head and the skin flapped open. Every time he moved the musty smell wafted over them. She had never been around dead people. But how could he be moving?  He raised his arm and lifted the sword. In the silver light, she could see its red stain.

            Her mother’s blood had been red, too. Only a few moments ago in the sanctuary, held in the priest’s arms, she could see her mother standing on the other side of the altar. Five other women stood just behind her, having already seen their children off.  She smiled reassuringly at her daughter. They had already said their good-byes. Her mother, so pretty in her black dress, her long, black hair glistening in the torch light, flashes of red sparkling. She hoped she would have hair as pretty when she grew up. Then her feet jumped on the floor as it shook.

            Small swirls of fog formed on the rock walls, floor and ceiling. Soldiers poured out of the fog. Her mother drew her sword as the soldiers spread out in the room. Her father’s soldiers fought the dead soldiers. She lost sight of her mother as the priest turned to look around. She kicked and screamed, making him turn around again, just as a dead soldier advanced on her mother.

            Her mother raised her sword. The soldier stepped right up and pushed his body onto her sword. He kept walking. He didn’t stop until he fell against her mother. She struggled to shove him off. One of the other women grabbed his shoulder and together they pushed him away. He fell at their feet, unmoving. More soldiers lunged at the group. She saw some of the women fall, swords sticking out of their bodies.

            Her mother glanced toward her and yelled something at the priest. She raised her sword ready to stick it in the next soldier. The priest looked confused and took a step toward her mother. She turned sideways and yelled at him. Her mother didn’t see the next soldier.

            “Mama!” she yelled and pointed.

            Her mother turned but too late. The soldier thrust his sword into her stomach. Her body stiffened. The sword cut through the back of her mother’s dress. He pulled his sword back and her mother fell to her knees her hand against her stomach. She turned her head, sadness in her eyes.

            “Mama.”  She struggled to get down from the priest’s arms. She had to get to her mother. She had to protect her. The priest’s grip on her waist was too tight. He wouldn’t let her climb down. She tried climbing over his shoulder. That’s when she saw him.

            He stood behind the priest, his sword pointed at the priest’s back. He thrust it forward. She saw it slide into the priest’s robe. He stiffened and she felt a pain in her shoulder. Then she was falling backwards. The priest’s arms loosened and she fell away from him, twisting in the silver light. The rock floor came up hard beneath her knees. Her hands and head hit a second later, and she blacked out.

            “Run, Princess!” the priest’s voice cut through her reverie, bringing her back to the cave. She took a step backward. The soldier turned his head. He reached out with his free hand.

That's all for now.