Prologue: "You are the Illusion."
Fifteen years earlier
The dreary day reeked. Cannon fire rattled doors on their rusty hinges, and Guinevere’s house shook.
Gwen’s mother, Elisabeth, yelled at her husband, “We have to get them out of here!”
Gwen’s father grabbed his sword, musket, and cape off a coat rack in the kitchen. “Let me rescue the baby. It’s about time I take him to her.”
There was no time for small talk, but Elisabeth asked, “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” the musketeer responded. “She will look after him until he is ready. In the meantime, go find Gwen.” He took the small bundle out of Elisabeth’s arms and hugged it.
“I’ll be right back,” Elisabeth promised. She found Gwen huddled in the living room. The area was simple, decorated with just a few bookshelves, chairs, and tapestries.
Gwen smacked her hands over her ears and yelled, “Mommy!”
Elisabeth picked her up from the corner. “I’ve got you, Gwen! I promise that nothing will happen to you and your brother!”
A cannonball blew through the window where Gwen had just hidden.
Elisabeth dropped to the ground and braced her but quickly got up. Once the coast was clear, she met back up with her husband.
He shook his head, seeming to fight something, and said, “We need to be quick!” He and Elisabeth hurried through the house, staying low to the ground.
Gwen’s father led her and her mother to a secret door in a small storage room.
Broken dishes crunched under their feet. It sounded like a continuous array of fractured bones, and the noise was excruciating.
Gwen’s father opened the door and gently lowered Elisabeth and Gwen down the cellar.
It smelled of mud, but that was because it was not uncommon for there to be leaks. Three wooden barrels were lined up side by side. The first one held gunpowder, the second muskets, and clumps of fur and books for the third. The fur looked like it belonged to a dog. It was as if the Emberblight family were secretly animal skinners.
Elisabeth glanced at her husband and begged, “Find her, and please come back.”
Gwen’s father gave a small smile. “Don’t worry about me. I’m a musketeer.”
“Yes, but you’re not invincible!”
“I’ll be careful. Just wait, dear... this is not the end of the line. There are still two heirs for the Emberblight family. No one else will die from plague and famine.”
Before leaving, Gwen’s father kissed Elisabeth. He shut the cellar door and quickly sought a basket to put his son in.
The infant boy cried and screamed, but the musketeer rocked him in his arms to calm him.
Underground, Guinevere cuddled close to Elisabeth.
Her mother ran her fingers through her hair and whispered, “It’ll be over soon. I promise.”
***
Gwen’s father hurried outside and grabbed his enormous brown horse, Despereaux, tied up in front of the house. He adjusted his hat and took a deep breath. Just over the hill was the kingdom of Irodia, bruised and broken from war. The battle waited, and the musketeer knew what to expect; he just had to gallop into the fray.
Big mistake! It was chaotic!
Musketeers fired muskets at one another. Other soldiers ran their swords through the enemy.
Horses whinnied. Some were so frightened that they tossed their riders off their backs.
Gwen’s father galloped his fastest. His blue cape flapped behind him, and he held the reins in one hand, his son in the other.
Again, he shook his head. His teeth receded into his mouth, and fangs replaced them. No, he could do it! The Emberblight family depended on getting their son to her. He just had to push through the armies and make it to the river on the other side of the hill. A mix of blood, bodies, and dirt caused the battlefield to look like something a giant threw up.
Almost there. Almost there. Almost—!
“Ahhh!” Gwen’s father shouted. An arrow smashed him in the back, and a bullet pierced his heart like a sharpened sword. He fell from his horse but curled into a ball to protect his son, breaking his shoulder in the process.
Despereaux called for him but lost his rider in all the chaos.
Gwen’s father rolled down the hillside and halted at the riverbed. Powerful waves splashed into his face. Blood stained the river.
Death was imminent. There was no way the musketeer could find her now; he had lost too much blood. But his son!
He used the last of his strength to set his basket in the river. Gripping his tiny fingers, he gave them a gentle shake. “I’m so sorry, son.”
Gwen’s father held his bloodied hand to his face. He inhaled and exhaled. His warm breath touched his palm, and his skin shimmered. “The most important thing now is for you to keep this safe.” With that, he set his glowing palm on the child’s belly. A blurry design that looked like a mirror entered it and moved toward his heart.
The musketeer kissed his forehead, careful not to hurt him with his fangs, and pushed his basket.
Instantly, the current caught it.
Dirty tears streamed down the musketeer’s cheeks as another cannonball exploded overhead. “Please forgive me. I had to do it. After all, you are the Illusion,” were Gwen’s father’s last words.
