The Keeper's Flame (A Pandoran Novel, #2) (22 page)

Thad tilted his head. “Hear what?”

“That…screaming.”

Thad arched a brow and studied the torches mistrustfully. “No, and I’m not about to wait around for it.”

We all but ran up the staircase and didn’t stop running through the halls—ignoring annoyed stares—until we felt we were safely out of reach. We passed the corridor that led to the assembly hall when Thad grabbed my arm and jerked me back against the wall.

A group of guards walked past, faces heavy and distressed, and they were carrying something between them.

Bodies.

There were two, lying on a stretcher with a blanket draped over them. An ashen hand slipped from beneath one, hanging lifeless from the stretcher. The hand was wrinkled like a raisin, as if everything inside had been sucked out. Like the guard I’d seen lying dead on the floor.

One of the guards hurried to conceal the hand, and my stomach turned.

The people in the hall moved to the side as they walked, whispering to each other, afraid.

“Get back!” yelled one of the guards, shooing them off.

“What happened?” A woman’s voice trembled.

The guards didn’t answer her.

“Prince Stefan.” It was Sir Armand. “I was just on my way to your father.”

He stopped before me. The lines in his face were deep, especially around his sunken eyes. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in weeks.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

He glanced after the group, jaw clenched. “Two of the scouts I sent to the East Ridge after the dark rider.”

“The dark rider, he…” I nodded towards the group.

Sir Armand removed his hat and wiped his hair from his forehead. “He’s here. I don’t know where”—he glanced at the walls as though the dark rider were hiding inside of them—“but best pray we find him soon. We can’t keep this from the people much longer.”

“Where are you taking them?” I glanced after the guards.

“The headmaster. I hope he has answers because I’ve never seen anything like this, and until we know how he’s doing it, I’m afraid it won’t be the last.”

****

I reached the hallway to my room and stopped.

There were no guards. Cicero and Sonya were discussing something outside of my room, and they were extremely worried.

Sonya glanced up and noticed me; Cicero caught sight of me right after.

“Stefan,” Sonya said, motioning for me to hurry toward them.

Slowly, I walked forward. “What’s going on?”

“Your sister…she won’t wake.” Sonya’s warm eyes watched the door.

“Where’s—”

“He’s in there with her and he’s brought Gaius.”

Gaius? I wanted to ask her who this Gaius was, but she’d said it like I should already know, so instead I nodded. “Can I go in?”

“Of course,” she said.

I walked to my door and hesitated; I didn’t hear any voices on the other side. With a deep breath, I pushed the door in, stepped inside and closed it behind me.

Stefan was fast asleep on my bed and snoring loudly. An older gentleman huddled over him, feeling around on Stefan’s forehead as my dad paced the floor behind them. He glanced up when we entered.

“She won’t wake up,” he said.

Good, at least the medic hadn’t discovered anything.

Yet.

I walked to Stefan, who was clutching my pillow and mumbling something about wanting pink flowers in his room, and then he went back to snoring.

The older gentleman’s back was to me while he fumbled through a rather large cloth bag. He muttered something to himself, scratched his short white hair, and then glanced back at me.

My breath caught.

Tran.

I wouldn’t have recognized him if it wasn’t for the blue eyes. His beard was gone and his white mustache was neat and groomed, and his usual long and thick white hair had been reduced to the sides of his head, leaving a large patch of splotchy skin on top. A small pair of bifocals rested on the end of his nose and they moved when he smiled.

“Prince Stefan.” Even his voice sounded different. Weaker and more frail. He glanced back at my dad. “Seems our dear Sleeping Beauty is under a spell, also known as a strong analgesic mixed with faerie wine. You don’t know who, perhaps, gave this to her?”

I walked toward them, past my mirror, and froze. It was my reflection—my true reflection—staring back. I caught Tran’s warning gaze and quickly stepped aside.

Dad didn’t notice.

“When will it wear off?” My dad stopped pacing and turned his red face towards Tran.

Tran went back to rummaging through his bag. “Hard to say, exactly.” He pulled out a pink flower and stuck it behind Stefan’s ear. “Perhaps tomorrow morning; perhaps six months.”

Dad and I both gasped and said, “Six
months
?” in unison.

Tran patted Dad’s shoulder. “It will be fine, my prince, but I must be off. I’ll return this evening to check her progress.”

“Is there nothing you can do to wake her?” Dad asked.

Tran scratched his short mustache. “I’m afraid not. Faerie wine is quite sticky and coats the stomach like tar, and that drug is mixed with it. Be thankful it isn’t worse.”

Dad studied Stefan while I worked hard on keeping a straight face.

“If the king finds out she can’t attend the ceremony tonight…” Dad started.

“The king doesn’t have a choice in the matter. If it helps, I’ll stay with her during the ceremony. While her absence must be excused, I’m afraid neither of yours will be.” Tran’s disappointed gaze fixed on me, and I suddenly felt guilty.

He’d known exactly what I’d planned.

“Would you?” Dad asked. “I can’t leave her alone like this.”

Tran nodded once. “Then consider it done. I’ll return before the ceremony and make sure no one disturbs her while you’re gone.”

Dad sighed. “Thank you, Gaius.”

I was beginning to wonder if there was a hat Tran didn’t wear.

“It is my pleasure.” Tran bowed his head.

Dad glanced up at me. “Will you stay with your sister until I get you for the ceremony?”

Stefan choked on a snore, and I couldn’t help but think his snoring alone should’ve given me away. No woman in the world could snore like that.

“Sure,” I said.

Dad brushed the hair back from Stefan’s forehead, kissed it gently, and paused at the door. “I’ll be back in a few hours. I need to warn the king.” He hesitated, took one last glance at Stefan, and then left.

Tran stared at me through his small, round bifocals.

“When did you find out?” I asked, embarrassed.

He arched a bushy white brow. “The moment you left with Thaddeus.”

“But how?“

“Child,” Tran sighed, “Grool would notice a speck of dust out of place on that bookshelf.” He regarded me a moment, then turned back to his bag.

“You’re angry,” I said.

He paused, his back to me. “No, I’m not angry. I’m a little annoyed because Grool has turned my entire living room into a laboratory, bound and determined to replenish what was stolen, which has resulted in an inconvenient number of fires and explosions. But more than that, I’m worried. What you’re doing”—he looked over his shoulder at me—“it’s too dangerous. You will die, child.”

He was quiet while the weight of his words sunk in.

Die?

He hadn’t said “might” or “could” or “you’re an idiot.” No, he’d said
will
, as in the result was final.

I swallowed and looked away. “I have to try. I can’t let them hurt Fleck anymore.”

Tran studied me a long, silent moment. “I understand,” he said at last. “I’ll return this evening to stay with your brother. Someone needs to be here to explain to him why everyone thinks he’s you.”

I paused. “So you think he’s going to wake this evening?”

Tran tilted his head, studying Stefan. “I’ll give him something to wake him up, but I can’t have anyone around when he does. It’d be too confusing—for everyone, especially him.”

“Thank you, Tran,” I said.

“Don’t thank me, child. Just stay alive.”

With that, he vanished.

****

The ceremonial hall was perfectly round, made of glossy black tiles. The walls rose tall, curving into a grand dome overhead, and even though they were all black, even though there were no torches in the room, there was an ethereal white glow reflecting from every surface and every tile. The glow came from a small object hovering above an ornate iron pedestal that stood in the center of the room. It was a stone no larger than my hand, but it wasn’t the stone that was glowing. It was what was inside: a fine white mist, swirling and pulsing within compact walls of glass. It illuminated brighter with each pulse, radiating with power, beautiful and captivating.

Behind it hovered a gleaming golden shield. The shield wasn’t together, though; it was suspended into seven separate pieces, just like Cicero had told me months ago. Each piece hovered mere inches from the ones beside it, like puzzle pieces laid in respective places, waiting to be pushed together. And, just like a puzzle, on the surface of each piece were engravings.

Each scene was broken, but the intended picture was easy to make out: one quadrant of swirling clouds, one of towering mountains, one of blazing flames, one of rushing water.

The elementals.

My gaze lingered on the clouds shining beneath the light of the stone. Such smooth lines and so much power, never to be contained, not even by the shield that carried them. They held their own power, separate from the others. It was a power I could feel and taste. A power I could smell and, as I stood, hypnotized by them, I thought I saw the smooth lines swell and roll.

Like they were real.

Lined in front of it all were the iron bowls I’d seen at the dance. Only this time, I counted seven. Pendel was at the far end.

I followed Dad and Sir Armand de Basco farther into the room, threading our way through dense clusters of spectators, until we stepped into a section decorated in greens and blacks and silvers. An emerald green flag hung overhead with an emblem of a black dragonhead in the center: the symbol of Valdon; the symbol of power.

“There you are, Stefan.” The king appeared, sounding pleased, but his eyes communicated something different. They were colder than usual, despite the sweltering fire burning inside of him. He looked past me, past Dad, past Sir Armand, and his lips turned down. “She’s still not feeling well, I presume?”

Dad’s defenses peaked, but his face revealed nothing but perfect control. “No, Father, though I am hopeful—as is Gaius—that she’ll be present for the games.”

A shadow crossed the king’s face. “You’d best hope that she is.”

Dad held the king’s gaze a moment and said, “Yes, sire.”

“Good,” the king said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” The king stood at the foot of the room and the whispering died. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” the king’s voice bellowed. “I present to you the members of the guild.”

Doors opened on the opposite side of the round room. Standing in the doorway were two figures. Their frames were veiled beneath crimson robes that pooled on the shiny black floor, their faces hidden in the shadows of a bulbous hood, and the power emanating from them hit me like a bolt of lightening.

In pairs, they stepped into the room, smooth and steady as though they were floating, but once they reached the center of the room, the pairs split, each going in the opposite direction around the center display until they joined at the other side.

After a few moments, the center display was lined with a perfect circle of red-robed figures, the air thrumming with their conflated power. One of the figures moved forward to stand beside the king and lifted his hood. Headmaster Ambrose. His face looked deathly pale from the ethereal white-blue glow of the unity stone. His eyes were set back further in his head and the bones in his face were sharp, making him look skeletal. A skeleton dressed in blood.

The crowd waited in silence.

“People of Gaia.” The headmaster’s voice filled the chamber. “The significance of this night is perhaps the greatest Gaia has ever seen. The prophecies have spoken of a time when Galahad’s shield shall be reunited and a true heir may reclaim the throne.”

The headmaster turned from the crowd and approached the unity stone, pausing before it. He held out a pale, bony hand, letting it hover over the stone; the stone pulsed white.

“For centuries,” he continued, “the guild has protected the unity stone until the day a champion may come forth and unleash its power.” He turned to the crowd, his dark eyes narrowed. “Tonight we will bind each of your elected champions to the stone, but know this: The games are no simple matter. They have been designed to test your strength and ability, your character and integrity. The challenges you will face will be, perhaps, the greatest challenges you will ever face, and the most deadly. Some of you—” he paused “—may die.”

I swallowed, and the room was silent.

“Once bound to the stone,” he continued, “there is no turning back. If even one of you walks away there can be no victor. The power of Gaia will then fade into nothing, and this world will know nothing but darkness.”

He slowly walked to the iron bowl on the far left, the one with Orindor etched along the rim and blood-red gems like rubies gleaming from within.

What had I gotten myself in to?

Tests of strength and ability? Sure, I might be able to fight and use my daggers, but I certainly wasn’t strong, and my ability? I couldn’t do magic in a magical world. My chances were better sneaking Fleck out of here.

But if I didn’t have the strength to fight in the games, I certainly didn’t have the strength to protect him.

“Danton Pontefract of Orindor,” said the headmaster.

Danton emerged from the crowd. His blue eyes looked bluer from the eerie light of the stone as he walked forward with pride.  He stopped before the headmaster and extended his arm. Headmaster Ambrose slid a jeweled dagger from the folds of his cloak, and then he pushed Danton’s sleeve up to his elbow.

The headmaster traced the tip of the dagger along Danton’s forearm and pulled it back; the edge was coated in red.

Blood.