Tolivar tried to banish his desperation as he listened to the rain beating at his bedchamber window. It was a sound that provoked sleep. Several times the Prince found his eyes closing and managed to snap back into wakefulness. But the time passed so slowly, and the raindrops’ drumming was so monotonous, that eventually he could not help drifting off.
Once again, the familiar nightmare began.
It had haunted him for the past two years: the rumbling terror of the great earthquake, smoke from burning buildings, himself a snivelling captive, his small-boy fear coloured with the guilt of betrayal. And then miraculous escape! A sudden surge of courage in his heart that had emboldened him to take the great treasure! In the dream, he vowed to use it and become a hero. He would save the city of Derorguila from the attacking army, save his royal parents and all the embattled people. Even though he was only eight years old, he would do it by commanding magic …
In the dream, he used the magical device, and they all died.
All of them. Loyal defenders and vicious invaders, the King, the Queen, his brother and sister, even the Lady of the Eyes and the Archimage Haramis herself, dead because of the magic he had wrought! A great pile of bodies lay in the bloody snow of the palace courtyard outside Zotopanion Keep, and he himself was the only one left alive.
But how could it have happened? Was it really his fault?
He fled the horrible scene, running through the devastated city. Snow fell thickly from a dark sky, and the gale wind that drove it spoke with the voice of a man:
Tolo! Tolo, listen to me! I know you have my talisman. I saw you take it four years ago. Beware, foolish Prince! The thing’s magic can kill you as easily as it killed the others. You will never learn to use it safely. Give it back! Tolo, do you hear me? Leave it out there in the Mazy Mire. I will come for it. Tolo, listen! Tolo –
‘No! It’s mine! Mine!’
The Prince woke with a start. He was safe in his own bedroom in Ruwenda Citadel. Thunder was faintly audible through the thick stone walls and the echo of his own terrified cry rang in his ears. He checked the clock on the bedside stand, discovered that it was still too early, and fell back onto his pillow uttering childish curses. The nightmare was so stupid! He had killed no one with magic. His family was alive and well and suspected nothing. The sorcerer was dead, but that was his own fault. Everyone knew that.
‘I will retrieve my treasure in spite of the rains,’ he said to himself, falling back onto his pillow. ‘I will take it with me to Derorguila and continue practising its use. And one day, I will be as powerful as he was.’
At last the little clock chimed two. Prince Tolivar sighed, sat up on the edge of the bed and began to tug on his stoutest pair of boots. His frail body was weary after a day spent gathering and packing the things he would take with him to Labornok. The servants had dealt with his clothes, but packing everything else had been his responsibility. Six large brassbound wooden chests now stood ready in his darkened sitting room next door, and four of them were filled, mostly with his precious books. There was also a smaller strongbox of iron with a stout lock that the Prince hoped to fill and tuck in among the other things.
If Ralabun would only hurry!
The clock now showed a quarter past the designated hour. Tolivar put on his raincloak. He wore both a short-sword and a hunting dagger. Opening the casement window and peering out, he saw that the rain had let up, although lightning still flickered in the west. The river was not visible from this side of the Citadel, but he knew it would be high and swift.
At last there came a soft scratching at the door. Tolivar dashed across the room and admitted a sturdy old Nyssomu male, dressed in dark brown rainproof leathers handsomely decorated with silver stitching. Ralabun, the retired Keeper of the Royal Stables, was Tolivar’s crony and confidant. His usual aspect was one of sleepy amiability; but tonight his broad, wrinkled face was ashen with anxiety and his prominent yellow eyes seemed almost ready to pop out of his skull.
‘I am ready, Hiddenheart. But I beg you to tell me why we must go out in such weather.’
‘It is necessary,’ the Prince replied curtly. He had long since given up urging Ralabun to bestow a more auspicious mire-name upon him.
‘It is a foul night to be abroad in the Mazy Mire,’ the old one protested. ‘Surely this mysterious errand of yours can wait until morning.’
‘It cannot,’ the Prince retorted, ‘for we would surely be seen in daylight. And early tomorrow the Lord Steward gathers all of the baggage of the royal family and begins forming up the wagon train. No, we must go tonight. Quickly now!’
The boy and the aborigine hurried down a back stairway, ordinarily used only by chambermaids and other lackeys who tended to the royal apartments. On the floor below, a mezzanine overlooking the great hall, was the chapel, together with the small presence chambers of King Antar and Queen Anigel and the adjacent offices of the royal ministers. Guardsmen of the nightwatch were on patrol here, but Tolivar and Ralabun eluded them easily and slipped into a tiny alcove next to the chancellor’s rooms where boxes of old royal correspondence filled three tall shelves.
‘The secret way is here,’ Tolivar said softly. As Ralabun gaped in astonishment, the Prince took out a single letterbox and reached behind it. He then replaced the box, and the entire middle shelf swung soundlessly outward like a door, revealing a black opening beyond. ‘Do you have your dark-lantern, as I requested?’ Ralabun drew it from beneath his cloak, sliding open the aperture so that light from the glowing swamp-worms within shone out in a wan beam.
The two of them entered the secret passage. Tolivar closed it behind them, took charge of the lantern, and began to walk briskly along the narrow, dusty corridor, bidding the Nyssomu to follow.
‘I have heard tales of these hidden passages in the Citadel from Immu, the Queen’s nurse,’ Ralabun said, ‘but never have I been in one. Immu says that long years ago, when the three Living Petals of the Black Trillium were still young princesses, she and Jagun led the Queen and her sister Lady Kadiya out from the Citadel through such a passage when the evil King Voltrik would have murdered them. Was it your Royal Mother who showed you this secret way?’
Tolivar’s laugh was bitter. ‘Nay. I learned of it from a more obliging teacher. Look sharp! We must go down these steep stairs here and they are damp and slippery.’
‘Who then told you of the passageway? Was it Immu?’
‘Nay.’
‘Did you learn of it then through one of the ancient books you are so fond of perusing?’
‘No! Stop asking questions!’
Ralabun fell into a wounded silence as they descended more cautiously. The walls of the cramped staircase were now very wet. In the crevices grew masses of pale fungi that harboured faintly glowing creatures called slime-dawdlers. These little beasts crept along the steps like luminescent slugs, making the footing treacherous and producing an evil smell when they were trodden upon.
‘It’s not much further,’ Tolivar said. ‘We are already at the level of the river.’
After a few more minutes they came to another secret portal, with wooden machinery that creaked when the Prince operated it. They emerged into a disused shed full of decayed coils of rope, sprung barrels, and broken crates. A couple of startled varts squeaked and ran away as Tolivar and Ralabun went to the shed’s exterior door. The Prince shuttered the lantern and peered cautiously outside. Only a light drizzle fell now and it was very dark. There were no guards, for this quay had been abandoned years ago following the war between Ruwenda and Labornok, and its entrance into the Citadel sealed.
They cautiously made their way over the rotting planks of the dock with Ralabun now leading the way. The Nyssomu’s night-vision was much keener than that of humankind and they dared not show a light that might be detected by patrols on the battlements above.
‘My boat is yonder,’ Tolivar said, ‘hidden below the broken bollard.’