Melissa
I put every ounce of energy I have into pumping my legs and arms faster but it’s useless; no matter how fast I am, I can’t outrun Yfel’s guards forever. I throw myself around the castle’s stone walls, down corridor after corridor.
All I have to do is get into my rooms, grab my already packed bags, and jump out the window. It isn’t the most ideal of escape plans but at least it gives me a slim chance of escaping with my life. My freedom.
I see the door to my rooms and put on a burst of speed. Shouts echo down the corridor behind me and I know I have mere seconds.
I reach the doors and slam and lock them behind me. With a dive, I reach beneath my bed to retrieve the pack of clothes and provisions I thought I might need for my journey.
My room’s double doors fly open and I whirl around to find Yfel himself standing in the opening. I spare him only a glance before I dart to the window and push the shutters open. Just as I’m about to jump, I feel fingers brush my hair.
Sheer terror takes over and I pitch myself forward, over the windowsill, and fall swiftly to the ground. Uncle has seen fit to assign the guest suite as my prison, which is on the third floor of the castle.
I aim for the softer bushes but only parts of me make it to the target; the rest of me lands hard in the summer grass.
Groaning as my knees and ankles pop and grind with my movements, I push myself to my feet. As I do, I glance up at the window I just jumped from.
In its opening stands my uncle, Yfel Fairoway. He’s sneering at me. His shoulder-length black hair is oily, his skin, once olive, is now pale and mottled. The long, crooked fingers of his hands are clenched tightly around his scepter.
It’s a gold-plated iron staff. The top of the staff has a snake’s head with its mouth open. Two fangs hang from the top of the snake’s mouth, nearly the length of my middle finger. They’re filed to a point.
I know from experience those fangs are as painful as they look.
In the snake’s gaping maw rests a ruby, large and perfectly round. Although Yfel uses the snake’s fangs to dole out quick and painful punishments, that ruby is the crux of his power.
“Run,” Yfel calls down to me from the window. “Run, but you’ll never be able to hide from me.” He doesn’t use magic to project his voice; he doesn’t need to. Like his body, his voice is permanently altered from the decades’ long use of djinn magic.
I turn away from him without saying a word. I desperately hope he hasn’t harmed anyone because of my actions -my thievery- but there isn’t anything I can do about it now. Guilt slams into me but I shove it aside as I run as fast as my feet will carry me.
The castle, my home-turned-prison, is centered atop a hill. A forest completely encircles the base of the hill, save for the road that leads south to Eorthe’s capitol, Helle.
I don’t take the road but instead sprint north, into the forest. I’ve spent the past two weeks sending coded correspondence to and from a group of people who found refuge in the north.
Rebels.
Two weeks of planning, of strategizing and scheming behind Yfel’s back has brought me here: running for my life in a very literal way. If Yfel catches me, that’s it. He’ll take back what I’ve stolen from him and sic his brainwashed guards on me.
As if to prove my point, angry shouts ring out behind me. It’s taken the guards longer than I would have thought but that only works to my advantage. I push myself faster.
All I have to do is make it to the river Weath. A boat will be waiting for me there, I hope. My last letter to the rebel leader Amberston went unanswered, a fact that sends unease running through me.
Hounds begin to howl in the distance behind me and I know this will be a close call. The river is a mile from the castle, but before I can get to it I have to scale the twenty foot wall that surrounds the castle’s grounds.
Thankfully, climbing was something of a pastime of mine when I was younger.
“You should have been born with wings,” my father would tease me, “because you just can’t keep your feet on the ground, can you?”
My heart pangs at the memory, just as it always does when I think of him, even three years after his death. I push the well of sorrow deep within and push my arms and legs to the point of pain and still I don’t stop.
If Yfel gets his hand on this lamp, if he controls the djinn inside of it for even a day longer than he has, the whole kingdom of Eorthe will pay, maybe even the rest of our world, too.
He’s already too powerful with that scepter, an item created by his pet djinn. Hatred wells within me and I channel it into my desperation to get away.
The barking dogs get closer and I know my time is running out. Branches whip my face and my simple dress is already torn to shreds from its hem to my knees. The nicks and cuts along my arms sting and my breath comes in short, quick pants.
And then I see it. Just ahead the wall looms, daunting and intimidating. I push myself harder until I nearly crash into the stone. It’s warm from the day’s heat. I don’t give myself time to rest; I place my fingers into tiny gaps between the stones and haul myself up.
For three years I’ve pushed my body to move. I’ve toned and strengthened myself, trained and bled and sweat for this moment.
Escape. Freedom. Revenge.
I’m nearly halfway up the wall already. I take a quick look at the ground below me and terror grips my heart; the guards are assembling a tall wooden ladder. Above me, the top of the wall seems too far away but I close my eyes and keep going.
Left foot, right hand. Right hand, left foot.
A thud lands next to me and I whip my head in that direction. The top of the ladder is within reach. My heart roars into overdrive when I glance down to see one of the guards scaling the wooden rungs.
“Shit,” I mutter.
When I look up, the wall is only a handful of feet away. Just as I lift my left foot to reposition it, something brushes my ankle and I jerk in response. My hand slips.
I look down to see the man’s hand reaching for me. By a stroke of luck, they’ve put their ladder just out of reach. The guard climbs higher but no matter how much he stretches, he just can’t get a grip on me.
I grin at him triumphantly and reach for the next foothold. Almost there. Just a foot or two left-
The sound of wood scraping against stone snags my attention and I watch in horror as the man shimmies the ladder in my direction. It’s given him enough of an advantage that when he stretches his arm out, fingers wiggling, he grasps the material of my dress, just below my armpit.
“No!”
I can’t kick at him because I’m barely holding on to the wall as it is. I look up and my fingers are just inches away from the top of the wall.
The guard yanks and only the sheer force of my will and the muscles I’ve earned keep me on the wall. I bite my lip and take a chance. I let go of the wall with my left hand and grab at the guard’s wrist.
He isn’t expecting the action and I take advantage of his momentary shock. I rip his hand away from me and shove it back toward him. The movement causes the fingers of my other hand to slide an inch and my heart lurches into my throat.
With only seconds to act, I grip the wall tightly with both hands and pull myself upward, kicking at the stone with the tips of my boots. I just barely manage to grasp the top of the wall and I scream in pain as I haul my body up and onto the ledge.
I’m panting hard, my fingers are bleeding beneath their nails and my toes are numb from being forced into too-small cracks in the wall. The guards are shouting and cursing beneath me but I don’t stay to listen. With a sigh of resignation, I force myself to descend the other side of the wall.
I’m painstakingly slow but once at the bottom, I don’t pause for breath. There isn’t time. I throw myself into a sprint once more. The river isn’t far now, maybe a quarter of a mile, but my body is flagging. The wall took more out of me than I had expected.
Images of my father’s face, memories of his benevolent nature and patient attitude floods my mind and I keep running. I will do this for him. I will do whatever it takes to right my uncle’s wrongs.
And I’ll do it by using his own djinn against him and take the throne for myself. I am Eorthe’s true queen.
I make it to the river before my body collapses, but only just. My head pounds with exhaustion and my heart beats rapidly. I’d been worried that Amberston wouldn’t show but a sigh of relief escapes me when I see a boat anchored to the bank with a man sitting inside.
“Ho there,” the man says when he spots me.
I raise my head from the rocky riverbank and the man who I assume is Amberston clambers out of the wooden rowboat. I struggle to sit upright even as my lungs seize with exhaustion.
I groan as I stand on unsteady, sore feet. When I look down I’m embarrassed to see my dress is tattered and torn indecently and my boots, already old and worn, now expose the tips of my threadbare socks.
“My goodness,” the man says as he runs towards me. “Are you alright, child?”
At the age of twenty-five, I’m hardly a child, but I nod anyway, too exhausted to correct him.
The man begins to reach out to steady me but he freezes and his eyes turn wary.
“When the river turns red, and the sun goes dark-”
“‘The rebellion is dead’, cries the last lark.”
It’s the rebellion’s identifying code, one of the very first things I learned when I discovered the correspondence in my father’s office only days after his death -before Yfel moved into the castle and threw all of his brother’s things to the yard to be burnt.
The man in front of me visibly relaxes and a broad grin stretches across his face.
“Ah, Melissa Fairoway!”
Before I can utter a protest, William's arms wrap around my shoulders. I only just realize that, while he appears to be in his late sixties, the stranger is tall and strong.
“Excuse me,” I say as politely as I can with a strange man hugging me. “Please remove your hands.”
He does so immediately and steps back, a sheepish grin on his face.
“Apologies,” he says. “My name is William Amberston and I am delighted to make the acquaintance of Eric’s daughter.”
He holds out his hand and I shake it, relieved to be out of his embrace.
“Melissa.” I shake his hand. “We should probably-”
Shouts ring behind us and William and I both jump and turn to face the woods.
“Yes, let’s go.”
William strides to the boat and gets in easily. I follow, less elegantly, and soon enough we’re settled. William begins to row quickly.
“Can I help?” I feel useless sitting idly while he works hard.
“Only two oars, unfortunately,” he responds between powerful thrusts of the oars into the water.
More shouts come from behind us and I turn to see several guards rushing into the water after us.
“Go, go, go!”
“I’m going,” William pants, “as fast…as I can. Get the slingshot.”
I look around the bottom of the boat and next to William rests a bulging satchel. I lunge for it just as something whistles past my right ear.
“Shit!” The boat lurches to the left.
“Are you okay?” My voice is a high scream.
“I’m fine, just shoot them!”
I dig through the satchel and it doesn’t take long to find the slingshot. It’s larger than I expected. I pull out what I assume is the ammo for it: perfectly round, shiny stones the size of my palm.
“Get the princess!”
One of the guards is swimming toward us, three more on his tail. I take aim with the slingshot and, although it’s incredibly tight, I use all of my strength and launch one of the round stones at the nearest guard.
I’ve only trained with melee weapons, though, so I aim poorly and the round stone hits the guard in his right shoulder instead of where I had intended: his head.
Luckily, all of the guards in the water removed their armor prior to swimming after us, so only a tunic protects the man’s skin.
The guard cries out and clutches his shoulder, causing his head to fall beneath the river’s surface.
“Again,” William shouts.
I do as he says and ready another stone, this one aiming for the guard behind the first. I watch as it sails through the air toward my target but at the last minute, the guard lurches to the right and the stone sinks harmlessly beside him.
I fling another, this time hitting my target square in the head, and he goes under, unconscious.
The first guard resurfaces but he swims toward the opposite shore. Soon, three of them are on the other side, no longer chasing us.
I turn to stow the slingshot and stones inside the satchel. My eyes catch movement on the bank and shock floods my system.
A group of twenty or so men and women stand in a line, facing us. As we approach I notice they’re all holding various weapons -bows and arrows, spears, swords and daggers- but the longer I study them, the more I realize that all of the weapons are crudely made or rusted.
As we near the bank, I notice their clothes are just as ragged and patched as the weapons. But it’s their expressions that really draw my attention.
Each of them wear matching faces of determination. I look into each stony face and, for the first time in three years, hope begins to bloom deep within my chest. Hope for the people of Eorthe.
Hope that I will avenge my father and take back the crown that is rightfully mine so that I can lead the kingdom toward a brighter, freer future.
