Chapter 4

© Copyright 2005 by Elizabeth Delayne



Rain pelted down through the trees, a symphony of raindrops on leaves. Dressed in his armor, Justen blinked against the moisture that stunk his eyes and swung, arm and sword. Luther darted back. His sword hit a tree, bark splintered off. His wrist ached.

Deep in the dark of the Forest of Dreams, they fought, man to man, sword to sword, soaked from heat and rain.

Luther mocked the prince. “You think you can best me, young prince?”

“We were friends once.”

“We are comrades—but you are a prince. I have to watch out for your behind. ”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Can you?”

Luther swung back, clashed with Justen’s sword. The sound, metal to metal, rang out through the forest, once, twice then a third. The fight continued. They dodged trees, lashed out against each other, slipping and sliding on the wet ground. Two—once so inseparable, friends who laughed.

Now who fought bitterly.

Justen stumbled back, held out his sword. His breath was ragged.

“Luther.”

The name rasped out.

Luther sighed and stepped back. Justen slowly lowered himself to one knee. He felt old, out of his realm. He had not thought ... had not been prepared.

Had no one been honest with him? Had his training, his duty, only been a hoax? His skill was naught. He’d thought himself comparable to the greatest knights of the kingdom.

And even Luther lost to others.

No wonder Luther despised him, despised what must have been unwarranted boastfulness. No wonder Albert, his father ... no wonder they doubted him.

He looked up, stared at Luther who stood wth his sword still drawn. He was winded, but not weary. He was not angry, but ... watchful. He’d known what a challenge Justen would--or wouldn't--be.

“You win.”

“Tis not enough that I win in play,” Luther reached a hand down and grasped Justen’s arm, drawing him to his feet. “When we fight in battle, we fight side by side. We fight to defend the other. To go in together we must both win.”

Justen didn’t know what to say. He just turned, studied the dark walk of the forest through the patches of light that fell from the openings in the trees overhead. It was beautiful and lonesome—the animals he’d come to see, believed he’d see, were missing. It was empty of life, of hope.

How he missed his home ... his mother.

He could close his eyes and see her face. She’d been worried.

He turned, lifted his sword. He would not fail her. Not in this.

Justen held up his sword.

“Again.”

Luther smiled then, tapped his sword to Justen’s in a playful gesture. “Your effort is valiant, young prince. We need to get out of this armor and get it dried. There will be time for training when we both have rested.”



Mary stood over the princess and watched the fever consume her. It ate into her skin so that she quaked. She cried out, again, for her mother.

And her mother had been dead since she was a babe.

The King had not come to see his daughter. There had been some kind of altercation at the sup a few nights before. The sisters had accused Stephanie ... and among the staff, Stephanie was favored. She visited the people in the stables and treated them with devotion. She loved, smiled ... gave so easily. She’d taken so to that child in the kitchen like a mother to young.

Of course, that child had fallen ill, too, and was standing at death’s door.

Since that evening the royal family had eaten in separate quarters. Stephanie fell ill soon thereafter. She’d been so quiet, so isolated and withdrawn, it was hard to tell when exactly the sickness had come.

Mary thought of the babe Stephanie had held in the kitchen. The villagers had ways of healing ... healers. And Father Lewis. He might be able to come to her aid.

Mary ran a hand over her lady’s forehead and felt the heat. She used a damp cloth to mop at the sweat, then sat with her until she quieted. Then she gathered her meager supply of healing aids and slipped out, just as silent.

Down in the kitchen, she found her aunt, who was working on the evening meal. Mary set the bowl and cloth down outside the door to be washed, and returned inside.

“How is the princess?”

“So very ill. No one visits her.”

“Lady Dennison has made her father aware,” said another.

“But you were telling me how close the youngest was to her father.”

“Aye ... we did. And they were, for so long. Like two lost souls who had found each other.”

“Then...”

“Things have changed, and not just within the castle. Death warrants from the mountains. We’ve had no visitors in months besides the heathen from Gouten. They were the enemy. Has that been forgiven and forgotten?”

“Are we under attack?”

“From the inside it seems.”

Her aunt looked up toward the ceiling, whether in prayer or thinking of the other man who resided upstairs—the king—who held their fate in the palms of his hands.



Their training had resumed. This time in the heat of the day, with the smoldering remains of the rain rising around them.

The path was an uphill struggle as they reached the first mountain. They were coming to the edges of the forest now. The sun broke through what had been so dark.

Luther swung, smiled inside his helmet as his attack was matched—a clash of swords, of skill, of inner turmoil.

Justen had improved. His training had taken a serious tone. He’d stood up to the challenge.

They clashed like warriors, the sounds of battle ringing through the trees. The ground was still slippery, soaked through by the recent rains. There were still few animals—an occasional rabbit and forest fox, but none of the big, bold, beautiful creatures that had once inhabited the forest.

During their nights, Luther had told Justen the stories of the forest as he had seen it. The young prince, so long ago his friend, had sat, enraptured. He had never been sent t the forest to hunt, as his brother had. He had never known the beauty, that for now, was a mystery.

Still, by day—and sometimes by night—they trained. They trained hard and long.

And soon ... soon, it could be put to the test.

Depending on what they found in Fairingham.

Clash, retreat ... swing, back ... down.

His muscles ached.

Justen charged. His sword faltered.

Luther used his foot, shoved the prince back on his royal bottom.

And laughed as mud splattered all around.

Luther lifted his helmet. “The training is over. You certainly now look like a peasant.”

Justen struggled to stand in the globs of mud. When he slipped to his knee a third time, he looked up at Luther and lifted his helmet’s shield with a muddy hand.

For a moment, Luther froze. It was true he had been sent to train, but it was still the prince with whom he had been assigned to train.

And he had taken liberties with his delivery.

But Justen was not angry when his helmet was lifted. He held out his hand, and Luther helped him stand. He looked down at his clothes, now wet with mud.

“I guess I do,” he laughed—full and bright with the wonder of it all. “I wish mother could see me now.”



Father Lewis visited the princess, though he was turned away from the king’s door. He had been, for many years, a trusted advisor to the king. Now, he was treated as one of the servants, to be called upon at will. Even still, he seemed to move through the castle with freedom. No one questioned him, but no one called upon him.

Or so the servants had said.

Mary had called for him and he had come. He brought with him herbs and medicines from the mountains and the forest beyond. He cultivated them in a garden he kept by his church.

And under his treatment, the fever broke. The sickness poured itself from her soul in waves of sweat.

And when it was over, she was weak and drawn.

But alive.

She spoke naught, knowing none had been with her. She lay docile in the bed and stared out the window, a simpler one then the one in her room that was framed in the beautiful stained glass. The princess had been moved, in the deepest part of the night—a cure, for the curse in her system. Breathing would be easier for the princess in the South tower.

Or so twas Lady Dennison’s belief.

Mary watched Stephanie for a few moments, wishing that there was something she could say, something to draw the princess out.

But the princess remained quiet, spent from the illness.

Mary gathered the dress and the linens from the bed, still damp from the purging of the fever. Quietly, she left the room, and headed down and through the still unfamiliar corridors from the south tower. As she passed the grand hall, she met the king as he came out. She lowered her head and proceeded to pass, aware of the king, of his power, with every step she took.

“Girl,” he said, surprising her.

She stopped, raised her chin and looked back. For a moment he only seemed to study her, his eyes deeply troubled.

“Have you come from my daughter?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

“Is she well?”

“She is better. The fever has passed.”

The King only lifted his head. “Lady Dennison reported to me her ... the fever. You may tell my daughter that her tantrum has been discarded. That she will be expected to return to the table in her former spirit.”

“Tis no tantrum, sir,” The words came out harsh. Surprised, and understanding the consequences, Mary stepped back when she realized she had spoken out of turn.

“You spoke with heat, girl.

“Only the truth.”

The king stared at her, and Mary held the gaze. She would not be bullied. He seemed so ignorant of the things of his own castle.

Of the enemy, the thought, remembering her aunt’s words.

Finally, his gaze gentled, humbled somehow, and he lowered his chin. Mary breathed a sigh of relief. Had he not, it could have been her head on the block.

“I shall see my daughter. See for myself.”

“She is in the south tower.”

“Why not her rooms? Were they not enough for her?”

“My Lord, twas not her decision. Your Lady Dennison had her moved. She said the cooler air of the tower were chill the fever into submission.”

“Or send my daughter into death.” Fire lit his eyes. “Thank you, girl. Your name?”

“Mary. Lady-in-waiting to your princess.”



They stood at the edge of the Forest of dreams, and looked up at the towering summits beyond. Twas the mountains of Lore, tall, capped with snow, the passes winding and confusing. Only the most experienced of merchants new the way.

Or the guides that seemed to be birthed by the mountains themselves.

“Where is our guide?” Justen asked.

Luther stood still, his eyes studying the mountain pass—listening, to the sounds, to the changes. It was different hear—the air somehow fuller, not as clear. The wind came freely with deep blows.

“He shall come.”

“The sun is already passed into evening. It will be night soon.”

“The guides of Lore need not light.”

“I didn’t think you’ve been to Fairingham.”

Luther lifted a brow. “I haven’t.”

“Then how will we know he is a guide who will guide us and not turn on us—“

”We shall know.”

“But how?”

”Justen—“ Luther sighed, and looked at the prince. “We should be on our guard, listening for the coming of darkness. The forest was empty of life. Nothing will be what we expect.”

Justen rolled his eyes. “You talk in riddles.”

“The fact that we talk at all is perplexing enough. We should be silent. Prepared.”

Luther looked back at the mountains, up into the trees that lined the mountain pass.

And saw in the shadows, the bow drawn back.

He moved fast, his duty first to guard the prince, and shoved Justen out of the way even as the arrow sliced into his own arm.

“Hey!” Justen cried as they tumbled to the ground. His arm hit, the pain mad, Luther had nothing of which to brace himself.

And was unable to grasp his sword.


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