Sallax interjected, ‘Or they’re spies from Malakasia, here to gather information on the Resistance.’
‘Dressed like that?’ Brynne asked incredulously.
‘That was my point,’ Steven ventured. He had been working to loosen the leather thongs that held his wrists behind his back, but he didn’t think he was making much progress: the sting from the straps rubbing against his raw flesh burned more painfully with each attempt. Giving up for the moment, he looked through the hall and realised that the palace had at one point been the victim of an enormous fire. The smell of ancient creosote lingered in the air and he could feel the gritty texture of ashes beneath his boots.
He knew the longer he and Mark could keep their captors talking, the more information they would glean, and the greater their chances of escape would be, once they freed themselves – if they freed themselves.
Once again, Steven relaxed his mind and let the foreign words come. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked the girl.
‘I’m called Brynne Farro,’ she answered, rubbing a thin forearm across her sweat-streaked brow.
‘Brynne Farro,’ he asked, ‘would you have some water, or some food? It’s been a long day and we haven’t eaten since-’
‘You’ll eat when I tell you to eat,’ Sallax interrupted harshly. ‘Brynne, take them upstairs and lock them in one of the apartments on the third level.’
‘Why don’t you do it?’ she asked.
‘Because, my dear sister, I am going to take over your duties hauling boxes downstairs.’ Sallax handed her his hunting knife. ‘If they make any move to escape, cut their throats.’ To Mark and Steven he added, ‘I would advise you not to test her ability with that knife, my strangely outfitted friends. She is deftly skilled with any number of weapons.’
Garec gave Brynne some leather straps and she motioned her two captives towards the huge staircase at the far end of the hall. As they passed the stacks of wooden crates, Steven risked a glimpse into one that had not yet been nailed shut.
‘They’re weapons,’ he whispered in English. ‘That box must contain thousands of arrows, just like the ones Garec fired at us this morning.’
‘Well, they’re obviously mobilising for action against this Malathing character.’ Mark hesitated. Above them on the landing, Brynne watched as they carried on their conversation. She held a small torch to illuminate their way upstairs. Mark decided she was quite lovely. Her pale skin contrasted strikingly with her dark brown hair, and although slightly built, he could see that she was wiry and athletic. He imagined she had learned to hold her own in a fight, especially growing up with a brother like Sallax. The way she held his hunting knife, blade forward, ready to slash any would-be attacker, proved his suspicion. Yet she had the porcelain-smooth hands of a woman who, when time allowed, cared for her appearance. At that moment, Mark wanted to be free from his bonds for no other reason than to reach beyond the knife’s edge and touch those perfect hands.
Brynne looked at them curiously. ‘What is that language you speak?’
‘It’s the language we use in Colorado, and the region around our home,’ Steven answered in Ronan, the words coming more quickly now.
‘We’re not certain how we learned your language. It must have happened to us when we were brought here,’ Mark added. He changed the subject. ‘Can you tell us why you are hiding weapons under the floor of this old castle?’
Brynne squinted into the darkness towards her friends, then motioned for Steven and Mark to continue following her upstairs. ‘I will tell you as we go,’ she whispered. They reached the second floor and Steven could see what might have been a large audience chamber at the end of a short hallway leading from the landing. The remains of a throne stood atop a slightly elevated dais. Charred and blackened in the fire, the ruined chair seemed to be patiently waiting for the return of a flawed king. Steven’s view of the chamber faded to black as Brynne continued up the staircase and the light from the torch followed her away.
‘If you are spies, then you know why we hoard weapons. If you’re not spies- Well, I don’t know where you come from.’ They had reached the uppermost landing of the grand staircase and were high above the hall where they’d started their climb. She stopped and turned to face them. ‘We have been under Malakasian occupation for as long as anyone can remember, four or five generations. Malagon Whitward is an evil and violent man, and the occupation soldiers grow more and more heavy-handed as they keep the peace here in Rona.’ She brushed a lock of hair away from one eye and then, frustrated, pushed a handful behind her neck. ‘We are fighting to win our freedom, the right to govern ourselves, to make our own laws and to live in a free nation, not an occupied one.’
‘That sounds reasonable,’ Steven said quietly.
‘It is,’ Mark agreed. ‘Those same goals have fuelled revolution after revolution throughout time. I suppose I’m not surprised it’s the same here… wherever here is.’
‘But you need to understand,’ Steven interjected, ‘that none of this has anything to do with us. We are lost. We made a terrible mistake… I made a terrible mistake, one that brought us here, and we need to find someone who can help us get back.’ He strained to look into her face, hoping for some glimmer of compassion. ‘Do you know of anyone who would believe us – and be able to help us?’
Brynne hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘I do. He’s supposed to be here, but we’re not certain if he’s coming back. If anyone would know how to help you, it would be him.’ She drew a deep breath and allowed it to escape slowly as she added, ‘Ironically, though, he may be the one who orders your death. If you truly are lost, and not Malakasians, then I hope he helps you. We’ve seen so much death here: Malagon just murders us at will.
‘I would hate to see the two of you killed if you are innocent… especially killed by Ronans. We’re supposed to be the good ones.’ Brynne used Sallax’s knife to gesture down a long stone corridor. Steven understood they were to move along the hall to their cell.
‘Why can’t you-’ Mark started, trying to keep her talking, but she held up a hand to stop him.
‘No,’ she said firmly, ‘no more talking now.’ They walked in silence past several doorways until they reached the final chamber off the hall. A large wooden door, charred black and burned almost through, hung awkwardly from one broken hinge. Brynne pushed it aside and motioned for the two men to enter. In the torchlight, Steven and Mark could see the room had been the foyer for a series of rooms. Given the number and size of the chambers, it was evident someone of importance once lived here. A stone fireplace took up most of one wall.
Brynne ordered them to sit on either side of a blackened beam supporting the ceiling in the front room. She threaded several leather straps between the beam and the wall and tied an intricate knot to fasten both men’s bonds to the wooden support. Lifting her torch, she took a last look at Mark Jenkins, slipped the knife into her belt and ducked beneath the broken doorframe into the hallway beyond.
Total darkness quickly swept through the room and for several moments, Steven and Mark sat in silence. Finally, Mark said, ‘Well, she seemed nice.’
Laughing, an uncontrolled response to fear, Steven replied, ‘Sure, maybe she’ll take you home to meet her parents, but make sure you have her in by eleven, young man, or her brother will hack you to fishfood with his battle-axe.’
Mark started laughing too. ‘Look, I don’t even want to think about where we are, or how we got here, or how we are both fluent in a language that doesn’t exist. Let’s just get untied, get down those stairs and find a way out of this building. Do you have your pocketknife?’
‘No,’ Steven responded, dejected. ‘It’s on the kitchen counter.’
‘Terrific. You jumped through a magic rug, a stolen magic rug, into a new world, perhaps even a new time, and you didn’t bring a pocketknife?’
‘Hey, I thought I was stepping to certain death,’ Steven said. ‘You were gone. I figured you’d been vaporised or some damned thing and I was sure I was stepping into oblivion. So excuse me if I didn’t figure I’d need a corkscrew in the afterlife.’