Chapter Two
News for the Lion Prince
Melina stared at the dirty floor with hatred, as if it could inflict those feelings on its owner when he walked over it. The Lion Prince sat eating in the corner, her brother standing next to him with a tray of delicacies. They had the same brown hair and fair skin. She dunked the sponge again into the soapy water, and kept scrubbing, though her hands were sore and raw. Asher walked in. She hated him almost as much as the Prince, as he liked to be called, though no real royal blood ran through his veins. He ruled through fear, only through fear.
“My Prince,” he said.
The Lion Prince glanced up and beckoned him closer. He threw down the meat that could have fed all of the poor towns around his fortress, and waved Moreno away like a fly.
“Calleo was seen riding in this morning. Our spies have said he was going to the closest southern village to take his bride away with him.”
“Yes. I heard he has been visiting her for quite some time now. Seems our noble counterpart thinks he is invincible. Let him go. I’ll get my revenge soon enough.”
Asher nodded and turned to leave when the Lion Prince called him back.
“Asher. You’ve always hated Rojo. Wouldn’t want him to wind up with more authority around here than you, would you? Being bossed around by the same man who once followed you around like a puppy.”
And with that he summoned Moreno back to his side to resume stuffing himself. Asher walked out hurriedly with his head lowered, and it was all Melina could do not to make him slip on a few suds as he marched past.
Asher looked up with malice in his eyes. Rojo. Curse him. He slunk up behind him, unsuspected in the dark, and put a knife to his throat.
“Don’t get any foolish ideas in your head, you hear me?” he whispered menacingly into Rojo’s ear. “Or I might have some ideas of my own.”
He roughly pulled his knife back and shoved him out of his way.
~
Castor walked over to Mabel, Fablen, and Firethorn. Firethorn laughed at the expression on Castor’s face.
“You don’t get tired of beating him, do you?” he asked, cuffing him on the shoulder. “You may come off slightly grumpy, but you like it.”
“That’s enough outta you,” he said to Firethorn, and shook his head. I just don’t understand. Why is he always knocking at my door so much?”
“He just wants to make a name for himself, they all do,” Mabel said. “Beating you is the best way to do it.”
They were silenced by hoof beats thundering through the air. The clanging of swords met their ears, and tremors of fear went through their hearts as they realized who was riding into their square.
Asher, the Lion Prince’s right hand man, was looking down at them from his majestic horse.
What a shame that something so beautiful had to be a ride for someone so horrible, Fablen thought.
Asher was flanked by Rojo, the best knife thrower in the Lion Prince’s service, and Aria, who was the most handy with a sword. Rojo unrolled a scroll, and it was apparent from Asher’s face he did not like that he wasn’t the one to deliver their master’s important message.
“This is the Lion Prince’s request. A duel with the quarter master of Modet, the best that Boreal has to offer.”
He looked pleased with the reaction, though Rojo always seemed smug.
A hush had fallen over the crowd that had been laughing excitedly just a minute ago as they watched just that, a duel. Only that duel had been for fun, just between friends.
“He will be waiting at dawn, in three days, on the bridge leading to Olvia. Castor is to come alone, no human being may accompany him, with any one weapon of his choice. Come, or never see your prince again.”
With one last look around, the men-at-arms turned and rode back towards where they had come. Fablen turned to Castor before realizing he wasn’t there. Slipping away like the wind was something else Castor was good at, though he never did it in a time of danger. Castor was the opposite if a coward, not one to run away from a fight.
Fairies fluttered along the edge of the wood, turning the lime green leaves into a rainbow. Fairies were fascinating between the way they could remember a name or face for years, and were among the smartest of all, though some thought them to be quite vain. They lived near the pools and Wishing Wells in the Wishful Wood. They could spend as long staring at their reflections as they could remember a person’s features.
The pools they would sit by looked as if you could jump through them into another world. The tall grasses seemed to whisper to you, lure you in towards the rocks piled on the sides that were rich shades of red.
The fairies were not the only fascinating creatures in Boreal, however. There were brownies, trolls, giants, dwarves, philly phantoms, and more.
The brownies would sometimes live in the wild, but usually they lived in peoples houses, in old fairy nests, or crooks and crannies. They would stir ink and tend to the candles-lighting them, putting them out, trimming the wick.
Brownies were no larger then mice. They were about as tall as one of your fingers and could stand in the palm of your hands. They wore patchwork clothes, made out of whatever they found while they were working.
Scribes would usually own brownies. They would have them stir their ink, sharpen their quills.
They were known for their sarcastic attitudes, and they were always trying to get food out of their families- they loved what wasn’t good for them. Brownies were also talented spies, as they were barely noticeable, and could slip under doors and cracked windows unnotticed. They would also send messages, they just had to be careful because they were so tiny.
The dwarves lived up in Stonegate Mountain, where they could mine without being disturbed. They had abandoned their old caves long ago, when people began to inhabit Modet. Now they stayed far north of all the life; the only other creature they were close to was the elves. The elves lived in the valley below the mountain, and they were scarcely ever seen. You could only find their home if you knew where it was, it was not the kind of thing you just stumbled upon. They lived on the more welcoming side of the Wishful Wood, and this was where Castor was headed. He would need the dwarves help, along with the elves.
He reached the stone gate at the foot of the mountain. He knew from his years of training with the elves that this was just one of their camouflage tricks. They were very solitary creatures.
The gate appeared to be crumbling in some places, and vines and moss had began to take it over. Castor knew that if he murmured the right words, he would be able to pass through and see everything the way it really was. If he said the wrong thing, he would turn around wondering what he was doing there. A few whispered words and he was through, turning around to see a magnificently carved stone gate. It was adorned with stone flowers and fairies and the symbol of the dwarves on one side and the elves on another. To those who knew how to read it, this gate was a map of the world inside the mountain.
Where the dwarves’ symbol lay was the direction to the entrance of their caves, hidden almost as well as this map. The symbol next to theirs showed a pile of rocks with one disguised crevice that would lead you inside.
The other direction would take you to the elves. The symbol on their side showed an aging tree, which to the inexperienced eye would think matched all the others, but had an exaggerated knot that could reveal all to you if pressed the right way.
Even these were not given to the person who could pass through the gates. No, they were secretive, the elves especially. They were disguised with leaves and branches, carefully placed by the elves to look like decoration, hiding the intricate map that the dwarves had created in their mine. It was an effort of teamwork, but nothing could fool Castor, who had been there when it was built.
He had been a young boy when his parents died in the fire that burned down their silversmiths shop. He had run away from Modet, promising his younger siblings he would come back one day able to defend them from anything. He had had the instinct to find the dwarves, who taught them all they knew, and from there had gone to anyone who would teach him anything. Now he was the quarter master of Boreal, friend of Prince Castor, and respected by all who knew his name. So different from the day he had watched wide eyed as they had assembled this masterpiece.
He quickly turned left, towards the caves. After pushing his way inside, Castor navigated through the tunnels almost as well as the dwarves themselves.
“Ah. Castor. The great and revered quarter master of Boreal. Whose stone spear heads can survive anything.”
“Morin!” Castor wheeled around and his face broke into a relieved grin. He ran towards the dwarf who had been like a father to him after the accident.
“No, no. I haven’t changed. Keep your human hands to yourself, I won’t even shake it.”
Castor let his hand drop.
“So how have you been?” he asked, studying the stubby beard and friendly smile lines.
“Oh, fine. I’ve heard the Lion Prince has been getting more ambitious. A duel, with you? Hah, let him try,” was Morin’s contemptuous response. The Lion Prince was hated by all, far and wide.
“But that’s just the thing. If I beat him, it will only infuriate him more. He doesn’t like being humiliated.”
“I see, you’ve come for advice. Or help. Which is it?”
“Both. I have a plan that I think can work, but I need your help. And the elves.”
Morin sighed and turned to look Castor in the face.
