Seregn

By Brooke Martin

Curses are made to be broken ... but oaths are meant to be kept.

 

A cursed king. A garbled legend centuries old. A young woman forced to follow it.

When King Urien of Evergaze is secretly cursed by his own son, the tears of a star are his only hope for recovery.

Ada Wrembeck, a historical consultant with a sombre past, finds herself unceremoniously pulled from her world and appears in his court in a blaze of holy fire.

She agrees to the seemingly impossible: finding the tears of a star to save the dying king.

After all, completing the quest is her only way home.

Ada finds herself among four of the king's best warriors, including his mysterious candle keeper, Matteo. Their quest leads to the heart of a dangerous country where they must steal a fabled weapon-Seregn-from a tyrannical queen and journey to a mighty mountain to shoot a star from the sky.

But with enemies on their heels, a traitor in their midst, and a companion with a secret of his own, Ada begins to wonder if there's any chance of success. And if they do succeed, will it be worth the ever-rising cost?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brooke Martin
• Release date: Feb 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9781922956101

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The Curse

The dingy cellar to which the tall young man had been directed was not easy to discover.

But discover it he did.

Descending rickety stairs from the hovel above, he found the cellar lit solely by flickering firebrands. The sickly flames cast flitting shadows on the rough wooden walls, bare but for myriad strange markings etched deep into the timber. An enormous cauldron bubbled and steamed in the centre of the small room, the firelight shining on its polished iron surface.

The man wrinkled his nose as he was accosted by foul-smelling smoke stinging his eyes and coating his throat in something bitter. Through the haze, he spied a wretched figure dressed in long, ragged robes, hunched over the bubbling mass.

‘You are Lerciore, the magician?’ he asked, stifling a cough.

The wretch turned, his eyes narrow. Like darts, the young man felt the sharp gaze taking him in. For a moment, he imagined how he appeared to the shrivelled figure—the light of flames catching on the gold thread of his waistcoat, shining in his cool blue eyes, glinting on the pommel of the sword hanging at his hip.

‘Yes, my lord, and I have heard your wish, though killing a king is not an easy task,’ Lerciore said. His clean-shaven, wrinkled face contorted into an unnatural smile, blackened teeth peeking out from his foul maw.

‘And can you do it? Such magic was purged decades ago,’ the young man replied, words clipped and voice thick with doubt.

‘So you think, little lordling,’ Lerciore sneered, cloudy eyes glinting. ‘You’d be wise not to speak of the massacres, or I may recall whose forebears were responsible. Yes, I can kill him. The curse can be complete within the hour.’

‘But how long until he dies? I have heard you can kill a man in a day.’

‘You have been ill informed,’ Lerciore replied, voice taut. ‘I can kill him, but it will take some time for the curse to claim him.’

The young man frowned, taking in again the tangled mess of greying hair, the soiled clothes, the hard eyes daring him to doubt.

‘How long?’

‘It is inexact, but no more than three months. Perhaps less.’

The newcomer thought for a moment, brows still furrowed, gloved hand clenching the pommel of his sword. He nodded.

‘Do it.’

‘As you command. As for payment, his death will be payment enough.’ Lerciore’s voice bounced with glee, and the newcomer couldn’t help but shiver from the wrongness of the sound. ‘Remove your glove and hold out your hand over the steam.’

So saying, Lerciore shambled to the bubbling cauldron, so he and his visitor stood on either side of it, and, clearing his throat, began to chant.

The young man’s heart skipped a beat as cruel words burst from the old, cracked lips. As if in response, the smoky haze coating the room wrinkled about the magician’s head like a thundercloud, dancing and swirling in rings and spirals. The firelight flickered, booming forth in angry red, yet darkness conglomerated all about the newcomer. His heart pounded, muscles tight and trembling as he clutched his sword with his gloved hand, the one still outstretched over the scalding cauldron quivering as the accursed words grew louder, seeping into his soul, knocking it off kilter.

His attention flicked back to the magician crowned in sparking black clouds. He flinched as Lerciore’s mouth contorted with the crackle of his unnatural, guttural words. Something brimmed inside that vile maw. Whatever it was garbled the magician’s voice until it overflowed, and then the young man saw it. A black sludge, streaked in blood, spewed forth like dribble, running down Lerciore’s chin, spilling with a hiss on his rags and the floor. The cauldron grew dark and angry, scarlet and emerald sparks shooting out as the magician pulled a cruelly curved dagger from the depths of his robe. Lerciore’s other hand flashed, and with a cry, he sliced the top of it in a strange sign, then, snatching the newcomer’s wrist, repeated the symbol. Blood tumbled, sputtering as it disappeared in the cauldron’s bubbles, and the young man leapt away. Lerciore laughed as his incantation grew, his arms outstretched in supplication to whatever foul demon he served.

The young man ducked his head, huddling against the rough wall, pulling his cloak about him, drawing his sword, reaching for his pistol. But what good it would do, he knew not. His breath came in gasps, and he tried to stop up his ears against the abusive words, to no avail.

The smoke whirled and crackled, the firebrands sizzling with brilliant red flame as a great shadow rose from the cauldron like a demon from the pit. With a final, wrenching cry, Lerciore’s chanting ceased, his shriek echoing about the room in distorted, crooked waves. But his hands remained outstretched, and from deep within the cauldron, an animalistic, discordant scream exploded with a fury and a glee that would haunt the young man forever after. And with a great gale, the darkness flew skyward and away.

All settled back, the smoke ceased its whirring, and the red flames calmed to their golden glow. Lerciore, his hand outstretched, beckoned to the young man huddled against the wall.

The trembling figure stood slowly, sheathing his quivering sword and smoothing back his hair.

‘Was that … it is done?’ he asked, heaving a breath to still his quaking heart.

The magician chuckled.

‘It is done. King Urien will soon be on his deathbed.’

The newcomer pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat to wrap his bleeding hand and glared at the magician.

‘And it’s unbreakable? None can heal it, reverse it, even if we were both to perish?’ He knew he was betraying his eagerness, but he didn’t care.

‘Yes, yes,’ Lerciore sneered. ‘All it desires now is fulfilment. No physician can save the king, and none can stop it, should the whole of Evergaze crumble about us.’

The young man turned his icy gaze into the depths of Lerciore’s dark eyes and smiled.

‘Well, then, I’ll have no need of you.’

He grabbed the magician, slamming him to the ground, and more spittle flew from Lerciore’s wrinkled lips. The magician growled, screeching into the newcomer’s face as he heaved a breath to declare some foul curse. But then strong young hands pressed into his temples, and with a wrenching twist and sickening crack, Lerciore went limp.

The young man, Cay, Crown Prince of Evergaze, spat in disgust as he stood and kicked the body away. Heart pounding, cheeks flushed with his success, Cay cast his eyes about the ominous chamber and considered his options. Destroy the chamber—set it alight and send it all to hell—or leave it to be discovered later. He came to a decision and turned to leave, but as he did, a low cackle echoed about the chamber.

Cay turned, heart threatening to burst from his chest as Lerciore’s corpse, head at an inhuman angle, eyes wide and shining, chuckled, black dribble still dripping from the chin to the ground.

‘You know not what you have wrought today, boy,’ it cackled.

Skin crawling, Cay approached the corpse, its black mouth agape and laughing. With a cry, he jumped forward and ran it through, and the light in its eyes went out. Trembling, Cay skittered away, staring from a distance at the body. It didn’t move again. Nonetheless, he dashed forward one last time and chopped Lerciore’s head from his body, throwing it into the cauldron. It hissed and splattered as, fighting back a shiver, Cay slithered out, throwing a cloak about his shoulders and winding his way through narrow alleys and lanes to a dark tavern where his grey destrier stood patiently. Mounting, he turned and clopped through the cobbled streets to the soaring palace of Empresight, where his father, King Urien of Evergaze, awaited him.

His task was complete.

Now all he had to do was wait.

ONE

A Contrary House

The bustling crowd at a Brisbane city train station at 5.10 pm on a weekday is, and will forever be, overwhelming.

And today, as per usual, one of that crowd was Ada Wrembeck.

She was running late.

Ada spied her train from across the station and dashed towards it, frustratingly hindered by a tight pencil skirt. Her work bag banged against her hips and low heels clopped on the concrete, messy black bun bobbing frantically in time with her steps. Making her way through the crowd, she leapt onto the train with moments to spare and heaved a relieved breath.

The doors shambled shut as she cast her gaze about the dismal carriage and found nearly every seat taken by a mix of hippie-looking students, bleary-eyed businesspeople, and weary mums clutching children’s wrists. Those standing shuffled about in as unobtrusive a position as possible, most gripping their phones, squinting eyes glued to small, bright screens. Ada resigned herself to standing at the doorway and braced herself as the train lurched away, speeding her home.

The heat was enveloping. It was January, and the humid Brisbane summer did little to improve the ripe odour in the claustrophobic carriage. Ada tried to distract herself, bright blue eyes lazing past the dreary company and out the dusty window, brushing past familiar sights as the train rushed by industrial estates, building sites, and neighbourhoods.

Her mind rolled back to work, not fifteen minutes earlier, as a well-meaning but exasperating old lady held her hostage on the phone.

‘It just ought to showcase them. They’re our local boys, not some lot from down New South Wales,’ the woman, the president of a historical society of a small outback town, had urged.

‘Of course, Mrs Cann, that’s what we’re trying to do with the new exhibit,’ Ada had replied, rolling her eyes at a snickering co-worker.

‘When we got this grant, we thought we’d use you lot to get this museum up and running. It’s meant to be about our town; we need to remember the boys that served. We can’t let the town forget.’

‘Yes, Mrs Cann, at this stage we’re only cataloguing what you have, not deciding what’s going on display. We’ll make sure their legacy lives on for you all.’

Even now, Ada scrunched up her eyes in frustration at the conversation. If not for her work—and that of her colleagues—that town’s history could be lost forever, their ‘local boys’ long forgotten. Eventually, Ada had pried herself from the phone, dashing with every modicum of speed she could contrive to reach the station in time.

At length, the train clattered to a halt, and Ada launched herself free. She swiped her train pass and hobbled up the steps to the street and down the footpath.

Sighing, something in her relaxed as she strolled down the green, tree-filled lane, tension ebbing from her chest and shoulders. The sun was sinking but still burning, the heat belting Ada’s back as she clopped down the footpath.

Her phone buzzed, interrupting her reverie. Moaning, Ada reached for her mobile and swiped to answer, barely registering the caller as Aunty Phoebe.

As her aunt greeted her, Ada spoke as quickly as possible. Responding to questions about her work at the heritage consultancy with few words and the congratulations for completing her archaeology honours degree with even fewer, she cast her eyes helplessly about the quiet street. But then came the question Ada was dreading.

‘So, honey, I just wanted to call to see if you were still able to come up tomorrow for Evie’s birthday?’

‘No, I’m sorry, it’s still like I said yesterday—something’s come up with work. Wish her happy birthday for me.’

Ada’s heart beat a little faster with the lie, and she couldn’t help but glance about guiltily as she continued clopping up the footpath, the occasional car zooming past.

‘Ada’—Phoebe hesitated—‘if this is about me bringing Dennis into the family … he is a good man, and he took such good care of your mum—’

‘No, Aunty Phoebe, no, he’s lovely, I just …’ Ada’s chest tightened, shoulders tense and stomach roiling. She pictured her aunt—blonde hair, bright hazel eyes—and Dennis, her mother’s old nurse, his deep, dark skin and kind-hearted, compassionate smile. But with his face came the day her mother had died.

‘Ada, you can’t keep isolating yourself. We miss you. Evie hasn’t seen you in a year.’ Ada could hear Phoebe’s pleading tone and pictured her little cousin’s bubbly smile, and for a moment, she hesitated. But then she squared her shoulders.

‘I know, and I’ll come soon—I promise. But I can’t tomorrow. Maybe in a couple of weeks.’ She forced herself to smile, voice firm.

‘Okay, honey, but please—’ her aunt began.

‘I’m so, so sorry, Aunty Phoebe, but I have to go. I’ll chat to you later.’

With a sigh, Ada hung up, the phone slipping through her fingers and into her bag. She walked slower now, fidgeting with her sapphire ring, her mother’s sapphire ring, twisting it around her finger with her thumb.

Can she not just leave me be? Ada thought, irritated. How can she still think I need her?

As she passed the local park, Ada found children mucking about on the slide, the swings, the see-saw, their faces bright in the afternoon haze, and she couldn’t stop a faint smile from spreading across her face. The scene spurred a memory—the last time her mum had been allowed out of the hospital. They’d gone to a park and had a picnic and played on the swings together, her dad pushing them whenever they’d slowed down.

Ada shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment as she reached her small front yard. The fence was lined with shrubs, the little porch just a few metres beyond. A wan smile glossed over her face as she rummaged around her bag for her jangling keys, brightening at the thought of a quiet weekend. Finally, her fingers brushed metal, and she fished them out.

The sun was lower now, casting long shadows across the porch and lawn. As she slid the keys into the lock, a rustle snapped Ada’s attention away. She peeked over the porch to the dark shrubs, hoping she wouldn’t see a snake slithering out from the greenery.

Probably just the neighbour’s cat, she thought, but she kept her eyes on the shrubs as she started inside. Tired, achy, and frustrated, she didn’t lift her foot quite high enough for the door sill, and she proceeded to fall flat on her face. Ada groaned, embarrassment and annoyance burning her cheeks. But it all faded in an instant as she lifted her head from the cold wooden floorboards to discover a dark, utterly unfamiliar hallway stretching ahead. Titbits of her surroundings flicked through her panicking mind: a dado rail dividing faded and peeling old wallpaper from the painted timber wainscoting underneath, a large opening off to her right, a flicker of light further down the hall.

Pounding heart overwhelming all else, Ada grabbed her bag and shuffled backwards, blinking. She glanced behind and froze.

There was only black.

Not the black of night she was so used to: the hazy outline of her porch, the fence, her car parked on the street. No, this was emptiness, hollowness, nothingness.

What the hell? Her thoughts buzzed through her brain. It’s not real … It’s not real …

A sudden scrape of timber on timber caught Ada’s attention, and her eyes snapped back to the glimmer of light down the hall. She stood, heaving a deep breath, the smell of damp timber sweeping over her as confused thoughts trembled and flashed through her mind.

The light grew more distinct, emanating from a room further down the hall on the right, its dark doorway stark against the golden glow. Ada fumbled in her bag for something, anything to wield as a figure emerged, an oil lamp in one hand. Its head swung around, stopping abruptly as it found her.

‘Howdy-do there, darlin’?’

Ada’s breath caught as the face of an old man came into view. Slightly stooping and dressed in what seemed to be a bathrobe, he appeared no taller than her own slight frame.

‘Leave me alone.’ Ada forced herself to sound somewhat commanding, a thought of escape out into the black dashing through her mind. But before she could spin and sprint out the door, the old gravelly voice came echoing down the hall.

‘Well, just ’old on there, ’old on! Don’t fret, darlin’!’

Something in that rich voice made Ada pause for a moment, and somehow, the moment was all it took for the old man to amble down the hall to where she stood. Up close, Ada could make out his wrinkled forehead and grey scalp. Skin hung limply from a dappled face, grin-lines furrowed around a wide mouth, and coal-black eyes peered out from crow’s feet and bushy grey brows.

The man flashed her a toothy grin.

‘I’m Giles. Now, ’ere now, calm down, darlin’. You ain’t got nothin’a fear ’ere.’ His gravelly voice, however kindly, sounded hollow as it echoed about the hall.

‘Where am I?’ Ada demanded. ‘Who are you? Where’s my house?’

Giles wheezed what Ada supposed must be a laugh.

‘Startin’ with the easy questions, I see. Now, darlin’, take a breath and let ol’ Giles ’ere explain. Y’ ain’t the first guest as ’as been in this ol’ place. Let’s get a cup o’ tea in y’—then we can ’ave a gab.’

Ada took a deep breath as Giles proffered his leathery hand, the light from down the hall glowing behind his wizened face. Hesitating, she stared him down, considering his dark eyes, a merry twinkle somehow radiating from deep inside.

What the hell is wrong with me? What kind of dream is this? she thought. Is this what a concussion’s like?

Whatever it was, she was here now. What was the harm in taking a peek of this weird dream world, maybe even waking up?

‘Alright.’ Ada nodded, crossing her arms.

With a shrug, Giles withdrew his hand and grinned.

‘Now, y’ just follow ol’ Giles down to the kitchen, why don’tcha’?’

Images of bloody butcher’s knives flashed through Ada’s mind, but, shaking the thought away, she straightened her skirt—hands quivering—and pulled the sleeves of her blouse down around her wrists.

Wait, my keys! she thought. I could do some damage with those, right? But they’re still in the door, aren’t they? Damn it, I’m probably passed out in my open doorway …

Giles watched her with interest, head tilted slightly, his lopsided grin brightening his weathered face. He shut the front door behind her. There were no keys.

‘Right now, darlin’?’

Not waiting for a response, Giles turned and started down the hall, and Ada, no better option presenting itself, followed.

Ada’s heels clopped behind the flap of Giles’ slippered feet on the creaky floorboards, the orange glow of his lamp lighting the way down the dingy hall. Her eyes jumped from one shadow to another. Faded painted landscapes and portraits hung at odd intervals, laced with spider’s webs laden with dust. Between them were paintings of fanciful worlds and planets—some were circular, some flat, some cubic, and some so twisted and confused she couldn’t make them out. The scent of damp and dust overpowered all else, the peeling wallpaper frowning down on her disapprovingly, leering as she shuffled by like a lost child.

A loud creak underfoot snapped Ada’s attention back to her plight, and she was certain the floorboard had been about to crumble beneath her. To her right, the hall opened up, and she glimpsed the outline of a sitting room lying in disrepair. It was lit, but she couldn’t see where from. Giles caught her glance.

‘Ah now, the ’all opens onta the sittin’ room there, and the kitchen. And the sittin’ room and the kitchen open onta each other, y’ see.’

Ada nodded, eyes wide as she spied a blackened fireplace, rickety furniture, faded couches, and frayed rugs outlined in the faint light.

With a few more steps, they arrived at the door from which Giles had first emerged.

‘Now, Giles, who’ve you got there?’ The raspy voice of an old woman echoed from the kitchen as Giles stopped at the doorway, motioning Ada in with a grand wave of his arm.

Ada hesitated, pausing in the doorway to discover a stooped, homely old woman from whom an air of authority and surety radiated with stunning assurance. Dressed in a cuffed and collared blouse, ankle-length skirt, and dirty brown apron, she stood on the far side of a timber table lit with lamps. Upon it rested not bloody butcher’s knives but a delicate porcelain plate filled with biscuits, matching teacups, and a steaming damasked teapot. Around the walls wrapped whitewashed kitchen cabinets and benches. More peeling wallpaper arced down towards her, casting strange shadows on the musty ceiling.

‘Well then?’

Ada’s eyes leapt back to the old woman. Her whitening hair was pulled back in a tight bun, but tendrils of grey curls defied their confinement, and smart green eyes stared right into Ada’s soul.

‘Oh, deary me, Elsie. Would y’ believe I didn’t ask ’er? What was y’ name there, darlin’?’

‘Ada,’ she breathed.

‘Well, come in then, Ada, and sit down, for heaven’s sake. Goodness me, you look like you’re about to faint right there in the doorway!’ The woman, Elsie, motioned Ada in like a grandmother who would have nothing but her way.

Ada shuffled forward, heartbeat echoing in her ears.

Two’re a little harder to get away from than one, she thought, then berated herself. This’s a concussion-induced weirdo dream. I’ll be fine.

‘’Ere now, allow me.’ Giles scraped out a chair, and Ada, after a moment, slid in. Elsie rolled her eyes.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Giles!’ She reached out to swat at him. ‘Sit down, sit down, or you’ll overwhelm the little thing.’

Ada, eyebrow raised, watched as Elsie deftly swung out a chair and sat down opposite her all in one swift move. Giles grinned and took his own seat between the two at the square table.

‘There now, how about a nice cup of tea?’

Ada froze. No knowing what’s in that teapot …

She began to shake her head, but Elsie guessed her thoughts.

‘Nonsense, nonsense—you won’t face any harm in here, never fear! Now have a sip of my ol’ home brew. Beaut stuff, I tell you. Calm you right down in a jiffy.’

Elsie poured three cups of dark tea, plonking one down in front of Ada and sliding another across to Giles before taking a deep draught herself. Tentatively, Ada took the teacup. Lifting it to her lips, she sniffed, then breathed deeply, relishing the scent she couldn’t quite place. Vanilla? Rose?

Dreams can’t hurt me. She took a sip and then drank, the warm tea soothing her raw nerves. Then again, this feels less and less like a dream …

‘There, now. You’re wondering where in the worlds you are?’ Elsie asked.

Ada frowned.

‘Worlds?’ she said, instantly suspicious. Her clammy hands tightened about the hot teacup.

‘Yes, of course. It’s quite simple, I can tell you, whatever Giles here might have you believe.’ Elsie hooked a thumb towards the gent as she sipped her tea.

Giles only grinned like a schoolboy, flicking Ada a wink.

Eyes rolling, Elsie continued.

‘You’re in the House, dear. The House Between Homes. The place-between-places, so to speak. You don’t understand?’

Ada shook her head, finding herself still sipping the tea, its ever-so-slightly floral fragrance calming, soothing.

The stuff, whatever it was, was heavenly.

‘You live on Earth, don’t you?’ Elsie asked.

Ada’s frowned deepened. She seemed perfectly serious.

‘Well, obviously.’

Elsie studied Ada closely.

‘The House … it ain’t like a normal house. It’s got a bit more life than most. And it doesn’t like to stay in one spot—got one foot on Earth, as it were, and … well, lots of feet everywhere else.’ Elsie paused to let the explanation sink in.

‘You’re saying the house is alive? And what do you mean everywhere else?’ Strong as the tea’s soothing powers might be, Ada’s heart began to pound again, and a great weight descended on her shoulders.

This feels too real …

Suddenly, her chest felt painfully tight. The teacup clinked as she placed it back on the table.

‘Well, y’didn’t expect to be alone, did y’ darlin’? Y’ ain’t the only one out in the big ol’ world!’ Giles wheezed.

Elsie threw him an exasperated look, then turned back to Ada.

‘The House … has a mind of its own. Don’t ask me what drives it, but it seems to take great delight in jumping all over the place, and when it does, it tends to pick up guests.’

‘Me?’ Ada offered, disbelief souring her voice.

‘That’s it.’ Elsie seemed pleased. ‘There, you old goat—I told you I’d do a better job than you.’ She looked pointedly at Giles, poking his chest in glee.

‘But … I don’t want to be a guest. I have a house, a job. How can I get back?’ Ada’s words came out in a rush, as if their speed could keep this nightmare, this impossibility, at bay.

‘Here, now, calm down.’ Elsie poured her another cup of tea, and Ada paused before taking the teacup. ‘That’s the kicker, I’m afraid. The only way out is through.’ Elsie said the words slowly, looking hard at her young guest, willing her to understand.

‘Through? Through the house?’ Ada pulled the teacup from her lips.

‘Well, now. Not exactly, darlin’. Y’see, the House, it picked y’ up from one place, and it’ll drop y’ off at another,’ Giles said, serious now for the first time since Ada had laid eyes on him.

‘How is that getting me back?’ Even Ada noticed her voice rising, incredulous, and she forced herself to take a deep breath.

‘Hold on, now, hold on.’ Elsie glared at Giles and turned to Ada. ‘The House, most times it’s got some sorta task, or tasks, for guests to do for it. It drops them off somewhere, and once it’s finished, it’ll take them home.’

The shatter of porcelain broke the quiet that had enveloped the trio as Ada jerked out of her chair, her delicate teacup in pieces on the floor.

‘A task?! I’m sorry,’ she stuttered, wrenching her gaze from the smashed porcelain, ‘but I’m not taking any task. I’m going home. Now.’

‘Calm down, now, darlin’, please now,’ Giles said as he stood, but Ada was already out the door and marching down the hall, her bun bobbing furiously.

Insane … they’re insane! No, this is my dream … I’m insane! It must be a dream. It has to be a dream …

The words repeated over and over in her head. But if it was a dream, why was she so terrified? Reaching the front door without an answer, she wrenched it open, launching herself out onto a rotting porch.

‘Stop!’ Elsie’s scream echoed from inside the house. ‘Please stop!’

Something in the desperate cry made Ada pause, hand on a splintered post supporting the porch roof, her foot poised on the first stair leading into the inky darkness. She spun as Elsie and Giles stumbled up behind her.

‘Please,’ Elsie heaved. ‘Don’t go into the darkness. We hate that worst of all. They never come back. We hear them sometimes, when we try to sleep. We hear them crying, weeping, screaming … they can’t find their way back.’

Ada stared at the old couple, fear and concern etched in their aching eyes. The air seemed dead around her, not a breath to be felt. The darkness was heavy, oppressive, and all was utter silence but for the door creaking on its hinges. Ada turned again, peering into the dark. Were they telling the truth? Or was home just beyond? What if it wasn’t? Would she wander forever? Was this even real? What if it was?

She spun back, the timber steps creaking as Giles stepped towards her, offering his hand once more. Ada paused, then slowly stepped back from the stairs leading down into the dark. The weight on her shoulders crashing around her, she crumpled onto the porch.

‘I just want to go home,’ she whispered, frustration thickening her throat. The rough porch reminded her of her little house on her familiar street, her green pot plants, and the comfy little seat where she would sip her tea on a lazy Saturday morning.

‘We know, darlin’ … we know.’ Giles knelt to pat her shoulder gently. ‘Come on inside now, why don’tcha, and get y’self some sleep. We’ll chat again t’morrow. Everythin’ll be right, y’ll see.’

With a deep breath, Ada stood, squaring her shoulders, and allowed herself to be led inside, feet barely lifting from the timber floor. Guiding her to the sitting room, Elsie bustled about as Ada sat, despondent and numb, on a squeaky old chaise lounge.

‘Here, now, these’ll do for tonight.’ Elsie smiled in the dim light as she placed two old blankets, one purple, another burned orange, on the chaise. Ada tentatively unfolded the heavy blankets, sneezing as dust billowed about her.

Stepping back, Elsie pushed Giles out the doorway.

‘G’night, darlin’.’ Giles smiled; then he and Elsie took the last lamp and strode down the hall.

As the light faded, Ada’s eyes drooped. She fiddled, twisting the sapphire ring around her finger. Would she fall asleep and finally wake up at home with a bump on her head? Or was she truly whisked away? What would happen if—or when—she didn’t get home? When she didn’t turn up for work? She’d left her front door open; would it be open still? Would she be robbed? Her imagination ran away with her, conjuring up all manner of horrible circumstances.

But even as her mind whirled, her eyes fluttered and lowered until she breathed deeply and was asleep.

TWO

The Candle Keeper

Matteo, Candle Keeper of Evergaze, slumped heavily into a richly carved walnut chair. He held his face in his hands, eyes screwed tight, brow furrowed in pain.

‘You are certain, Garreth? There can be no other diagnosis?’ His words were quiet, strained, as he slowly raised his eyes to the physician standing before him.

Dressed in a crisp shirt, trousers, and suspenders, the older man regarded Matteo, peering into those deep brown eyes pleading from beneath a mop of messy dark waves and curls.

‘I’m sorry,’ Garreth replied. His wizened voice was gentle as he laid a hand on Matteo’s wide shoulders. ‘There can be no mistake, Matteo.’

The physician looked away as the young man’s head dropped. He knew all too well the silence that stretched between them. While he waited for the keeper to speak, Garreth cast his gaze about Matteo’s chambers from his place by the door. Matteo sat by a side table, a plush rug lying across shining timber floorboards in the centre of the room. A comfortable bed was pushed against the far wall, above which hung a long tapestry. Next to it was a wide window overlooking the palace gardens—through which early morning light streamed—and beneath it sat a rich writing desk. A music stand and cello stood in the far corner, a wardrobe and a door leading to a private bathroom over on the right. It was a room bright and breathing light and life, befitting the young man’s rank. How hollow it would seem now. He felt Matteo’s shoulders rise as he took a deep, shuddering breath. Head still in his hands, Matteo found the words Garreth knew were coming.

‘How long?’

‘It’s difficult to say. If you submit to bedrest, you may yet live a twelve-month. Exert yourself, and you may not live to see the summer.’

‘How can this be?’ Matteo’s words burst out as he caught Garreth’s gaze and searched his kindly eyes for answers. In that moment, everything seemed heightened; he could make out every grey hair, every wrinkle in the physician’s face.

‘Matteo, I’m sorry. These growing unknown illnesses have perplexed us, and I may be wrong in the timing, but they all have the same end.’ The physician reached for his bag and stepped away to depart. ‘Please, allow me to send for someone.’

Matteo stiffened but stood and, after a moment, came to the physician. Garreth marvelled, as he always did, at the tall young man’s willowy frame. The high, dark trousers held by suspenders and the half-untucked, billowing white shirt only accentuated his gentle figure. Garreth had always mused that one day the wind may blow Matteo away, wide shoulders, thick waves, and all.

‘Thank you, Garreth.’ Matteo forced a smile. ‘I wish for some time alone, but, if you insist, send for Gaene.’

‘Very well. I must go to the king now. If I may speak plainly to you, his condition troubles me greatly.’

Matteo seemed not to hear him, but Garreth persisted.

‘The king will wish to see you. I hear he is assembling the Breningard. I will delay him, but come when you can.’ Garreth spoke softly, finally catching Matteo’s glazed-over gaze. It was a tragedy, he thought, for one so young, only six and twenty, to be brought so low.

‘Yes, Garreth, thank you.’

Seeing the physician out, Matteo, hands quivering, eased the door closed. The room’s emptiness suddenly crashed about him, and, overwhelmed by its weight, he slumped into his chair.

It cannot be! he thought. He buried his face in his hands, eyes squeezed tight, trying to calm the frantic breaths that seemed to make the world lose its focus, trying to stop the numbness in his feet, his fingers, his lips. Angry, afraid, disoriented, he tried to stop it all.

Dio Caria, why?

That was how Gaene found him.

With a quick knock, Gaene strode into Matteo’s chambers and found his friend hunched in his walnut chair.

‘Garreth told me. I’m so sorry,’ Gaene said.

Matteo finally looked up and met him with an empty look.

‘I remember when I carved this chair for you,’ Gaene said softly. ‘For your one-and-twentieth. I knew then you would be one of the greatest candle keepers Evergaze had ever seen.’ Gaene’s eyes hardened, and he caught Matteo’s dim gaze in earnest. ‘I still know it.’

‘Gaene, I’m dying. I will be nothing,’ Matteo’s said, voice flat.

‘Matteo …’ Gaene’s soft voice was by nature deep, airy, soothing. But he faltered then, casting his gaze about the empty chamber. Finally, he pulled up the chair from the writing desk and waited for his friend to speak. Matteo’s features drew tight until he eventually slumped forward, head in his hands, and Gaene could almost see the world crashing about him, even as the birds twittered gently outside.

Everything in Matteo was twisting, pulling. It was as if his ribs had become claws and turned on him, digging in, threatening to tear him to shreds. As Gaene’s hand clasped his shoulder, he realised how soon all would fade around him. Such a thought, such a truth, how could it be? How could it be that a young man of health and strength could be so ill and yet not even know it? First, his king—his master, his friend who had plucked him from anonymity—fell ill, cursed by some foul magic believed destroyed for decades, and now even his own body was failing. Not by some curse, but by a strange illness and its own weakness.

Dio Caria, why?

Matteo’s chest constricted as he pictured the sickened lungs that would soon destroy him and ran his hands through his hair, grabbing it into fists. The pain felt good, real, tangible. Alive.

‘Matteo, please.’ Gaene gripped Matteo’s shoulders until the keeper heaved a breath and sat up, hands slipping to his lap.

Gaene poured water from a pitcher on the side table and handed Matteo the glass, waiting as he drank deeply. They sat in silence a while longer before Matteo spoke, voice broken and raw.

‘I am sorry, Gaene.’

‘No, Matteo,’ Gaene said, still finding only resignation in Matteo’s dark eyes.

‘What is said of the king?’ Matteo asked, voice stronger, determined.

Gaene hesitated.

‘It’s quite certain he’s been cursed. How though … some are saying one of the rebels is responsible, but they were quashed near a year past, and those of magical skill were purged long ago. How a curse could have been called … but there is no remedy, save what legends …’

‘The legend of the Shooting Star.’ Matteo smiled weakly. He knew Gaene didn’t trust folklore and wives’ tales. But as the candle keeper, he himself was more inclined than others to believe in the power of myth, and he found himself continuing, as if by the mere act of talking, the truth of his oncoming demise might fade away, lost beneath his words.

‘It is said that many hundred years ago, a realm crosser appeared from the Worlds Beyond and brought with him a gun, the first gun. With it, he ascended the heights of Athnost and shot down a star, and the star brought healing to a mighty lord, cursed to great darkness.’ Matteo turned to his friend. ‘Such is the legend.’

Gaene shrugged.

‘And what of it? What use is it? Rhodanthe of Warnost claims she has the weapon, and even if we did have it, we’d still need a realm crosser, if the legend is true.’

The candle keeper sighed.

‘But such a thing as that, can you imagine … our king would be saved from the most unholy of deeds! Perhaps’—he grew quiet—‘myself also.’

‘Matteo.’ Gaene leaned over, clutching his friend’s shoulder again. ‘Please, let’s not dwell on such things. There’s much yet to bring us joy.’

Matteo allowed a small, lopsided smile to cross his face.

‘Gaene, the thing that will bring me most joy will be to see your child born. I long to see that day.’

‘And see it you shall.’ Gaene grinned.

They sat together a few minutes more, listening to the birdsong wafting through the window, and Matteo relished anew the sweet chittering, then stood.

‘I must go to the king. He is expecting me, and you. You know he has called for the Breningard.’ His voice was firm, resolute. Or, at least, he hoped it was.

‘Are you certain? I’m sure the king would—’

‘I’m certain.’ He forced a wan smile. ‘Thank you, Gaene.’

Gaene stood with a sigh, and Matteo regarded his best friend—strong, confident, dark eyes framed by dark hair that swished about his ears and neck.

Gaene grinned again.

‘Best get dressed then; can’t be seen as the candle keeper like that.’ He clapped Matteo’s shoulder and, with a final look, was away.

Matteo sighed, swiftly arranging his official attire, then squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, breathed deeply, and left his rooms, striding decisively down the palace halls.

Dio Caria, give me strength, he prayed.

Ada woke with a gasp. Titbits of dreams flickered through her mind—an immense rollicking sea under swift storm clouds, a great spark of light, a boom like thunder, a sense of falling, tumbling without control or hindrance, and the strangest gun she’d ever beheld lying smashed at her feet. A fog of foreboding crept over her, and she shivered, finally convinced this place, her predicament, couldn’t be a dream. Her heart lurched with the thought, as if a snake had slunk around her in the night and threatened to squeeze her to death.

Forcing herself up, Ada groaned with the unfortunate reminder of the uncomfortable skirt and blouse she’d slept in. She peered out the window, the ever-present inky darkness impenetrable beyond the solid glass. Any remaining vestiges of an escape plan fled from her then. If she ever left that rickety porch, she knew she would never find it again.

What time it would be at home, she had no idea. It was a weekend; it could be days before someone realised she was missing. From then, how long until she lost her job, until she lost her house, until her dreams were swept away, never to be seen again?

A golden glow, the chinking of porcelain, and the mumble of voices seeped into her consciousness, and Ada turned to the archway that opened onto the kitchen to find Giles and Elsie bustling away.

Giles, who was setting the table as Elsie busied herself over the stove, looked up and flashed Ada a toothy grin. He stood straight and hooked his thumbs under his faded striped suspenders.

‘Well now, ’ow’d’y’ feel, darlin’? ’Ow’d’y’ feel?’ he chirped, waving her over.

Ada picked her way through the broken furniture into the kitchen; the golden oil lamp light cast long, strange shadows through the room. Her stomach rumbled, and the sweet scents set her salivating as she drew near the table laden with bowls of fruit, yoghurt, porridge, toast, scones, and the ever-present teapot.

‘Go on, now, help yourself,’ Elsie urged, and, with the briefest flicker of hesitation, Ada reached for a bowl and began spooning out steaming, honeyed porridge.

Might as well make the best of it, right? she mused.

‘Now then, after you’ve eaten, we’ll get you sorted and see you off,’ Elsie huffed as she sat and buttered a piece of raisin toast.

‘There’s really no other way home?’ Ada asked, looking from Elsie to Giles, who smiled faintly, placing his wrinkled hand on hers and squeezing affectionately.

‘Ah, don’t fret now, darlin’—it’ll all come right. The ’Ouse always ’as its reasons for lettin’ guests in. Y’ll go on a little trip and be ’ome before y’know it,’

‘I’ll definitely get home?’ Her tone left no room for uncertainty, but Giles hesitated, and Ada couldn’t help but let her eyes bulge in disbelief.

‘Oh, f’Pete’s sake, Giles.’ Elsie swatted at her companion. ‘Ada, dear, it’s very likely you’ll be home soon, I’m sure.’ The old woman smiled, but to Ada, it seemed out of place on such a serious face.

‘So some people haven’t got back?’

‘Some people haven’t,’ Elsie admitted. ‘But those who stay here certainly never will.’

‘But it’s safe, right?’

Giles jumped in. ‘It depends on where you’re going.’

‘You don’t know?’ Ada almost scoffed, disbelieving. ‘How many places are there?’

‘We … we lost count.’ Elsie’s eyes dropped. ‘Thousands, easily. It got too hard, and we each had different numbers … it makes no difference.’

Ada’s brows drew together, another thought occurring to her.

‘How long will it take? I’ve already been gone a night. I have a life, a job …’

Giles and Elsie cast each other sidelong glances.

‘It depends,’ Elsie said apologetically.

Ada sighed.

It seems near well everything in this hole ‘depends’, she mused darkly. This is madness.

Giles piped up, speaking slowly.

‘Some people stay a lifetime … others stay just a few ’ours. That’s why we want’a ’asten y’off, darlin’—get’y’ goin’ quick. ’Opefully it won’t take too long—you’re only what, twen’y-four, twen’y-five? Y’got some spark ’idden away in there, I’ll bet. Y’ll be right.’

With the words, Ada heaved a breath. Regardless of how she’d fallen into this insanity, one thing she had begun to understand.

She had no choice.

She sucked in a deep draught of air. She wanted to go home. She needed to go home. So go home, she would. In the deep recesses of her mind, a small part of her still hoped this was some strange dream. Perhaps walking through the door might be the kick she needed to wake.

‘Alright, I’ll do it.’

After breakfast, Elsie led Ada down the drooping hall, past the crackled wallpaper and strange paintings to a dilapidated bathroom complete with an old-fashioned water closet, a curving, free-standing bath with golden feet, and an elegant but cracked sink over which hung an ornate but stained mirror.

‘Why don’t you freshen up?’ Elsie said, filling the bath with steaming water and leaving a cake of soap, toothbrush, and an oil lamp on the sink to cast a warm glow over the depressing scene. Ada slipped off her constraining clothes and sunk delightedly into the hot water. Lingering for a while, she eventually forced herself out and cleaned her face. Pulling out her now hopelessly ruffled bun, she let her wavy black tresses tumble down her back like ink spilt on paper. She combed her fingers through the best she could, then looked over her clothes, twisted and crumpled, cheeks reddening as she realised how dishevelled she must have appeared to the old couple.

Although, she thought wryly, considering the state of this place, they can’t judge.

As she stared into the stained mirror, bright blue eyes gazing back at her, a tear tore away and slipped silently down her cheek.

All she wanted was home.

The darkness, the claustrophobia, the decrepit state of the house was overwhelming. She longed for the sky, for birds, for a fresh breeze, for sound to break the unceasing silence, and she couldn’t help but frown at the thought she’d take arguing with Mrs Cann from the historical society over this hell.

More tears began to fall, but she splashed her face once more and took a deep breath, annoyed at her sudden wave of emotion.

Just get home, she resolved, her heart fluttering.

Dressed and clean, Elsie led Ada down the hall to a door on the left and ushered her into a small square room. It looked as if it were meant to be a bedroom—though there was not a bed to be seen—and it was far tidier than the living rooms to which she’d become accustomed. Its walls were like the hall she’d come from, a dado rail splitting frowning old wallpaper and flaking timber panelling. Rough, dark wooden floorboards creaked as she stepped in, a threadbare, faded blue rug covering the centre of the room. To one side stood a tall, heavy-looking timber wardrobe, stately and ornately carved. To the other was a table and sitting chair. On the far wall, a window looked out into the darkness, and a peeling door stood ominously beside it.

‘Now then, the House’ll often give you some things to help you on your way,’ Elsie began, placing her kerosene lamp on the table and crossing the room to the wardrobe. Turning the iron key with a clang, Elsie pulled the squeaking doors open and peered at the dimly lit contents.

‘Well, there you go!’

The old woman reached up to a hanging rail and pulled out a high-necked and cuffed button-up blouse of creamy fabric and intricate lace, followed by a glittering brooch, stockings, undergarments, a long, navy-blue skirt, and low-heeled shoes. Ada raised a brow.

Elsie caught the look.

‘Now, now, take a closer look.’

Ada stepped closer, flicking the woman a sceptical glance, yet she couldn’t help but admire the delicate fabric. It was beautiful, elegant, and thoughts of stylish ladies in old London sipping tea flashed through her mind.

If this’s it, maybe it won’t be so bad after all, she thought.

Elsie laid the outfit across the table and turned back to the wardrobe. After a moment’s search, she promptly discovered a black velveteen case about half a metre long and passed it to Ada, dusted off her hands, and turned back to the wardrobe. Ada paused, unease slithering up her spine as she clicked open the lid. She started, almost dropping the case with a gasp. Elsie spun, brow furrowed, to find Ada’s eyes wide and hand trembling. Ada turned the case in her hands, revealing the contents.

A dagger.

The weapon glinted in the lamplight. Its hilt and crosspiece were slim and the blade incredibly fine, as if designed for the petite hands that held it. It was a marvellous, terrible piece.

‘I’m not taking this,’ Ada refused, voice low.

Elsie’s eyes narrowed. Ada ignored her, staring at the blade as memories of a cruel knife wound bubbled in her mind. Elsie brushed her forearm, pulling her gaze with those expressive green eyes.

‘The House seems to think you should. Just because you don’t have a weapon doesn’t mean others won’t.’

Ada flinched, then, fingers quivering, lifted the dagger. It was light, almost weightless, but her heart was heavy as she turned it in her grip, and she returned it to its case with a shudder. After a moment, Elsie turned back to the wardrobe and pulled out a leather sheath.

‘Well, looks like you’ll have to strap it to your leg under that skirt,’ the old woman mused, passing it to Ada. Ada frowned as she fiddled with it, trying to ascertain the purpose of a second long pocket beside the main slot for the dagger, and two smaller pouches.

The next items Elsie produced seemed to complement the sheath’s strange design: a slim candle, which fit perfectly next to the dagger, and a tiny lock-pick set. As Ada opened the