Robert Newcomb - A March into Darkness

MARY AND THE GIRLS HAD BEEN ORDERED TO SIT IN A ROWof nine elaborate chairs set alongside a hallway wall. Armed with curved swords and shiny golden pikes, three winged warriors stood guard over them, watching their every move. Closing her eyes, Mallory laid her head back against the chair’s plush upholstery.

She luxuriated in the warmth. She could scarcely remember the last time she had been comfortable. It must have been a different place, a different life. She looked down at her tattered school dress. Once it had been new, and had stood for something. She had been proud to wear it. But sitting here in the imposing majesty of this place, the dress’s poor condition embarrassed her.

Gazing down the row, she saw that the other girls looked as bad as she. She spat onto her palms and rubbed some of the dirt from her face. Then she used her fingers to comb the knots from her hair. There could be no telling who might come to them, and she wanted to look as presentable as she could.

Mallory took another look around. The palace was very busy, an unnatural sense of urgency prevailed. Cooks, liveried servants, and musicians scurried up and down the halls, each carrying the tools of his or her trade. More curiously concerned warriors hurried here and there.

Formally dressed men and women wandered about aimlessly, like some recent tragedy had befallen them. Some were strangely tearful and carrying what looked like elaborate ball masks. Aside from its grandeur, the scene wasn’t at all what the Fledgling had expected.

Mallory saw two figures approaching. At first she took them for wayward children, searching for their parents. But as the pair neared, Mallory’s eyes widened and her jaw fell. She elbowed Ariana and tilted her head in the strangers’ direction. Ariana became equally astonished.

The little man was about three feet tall. The woman by his side was a bit shorter. He wore a pair of blue bibbed overalls atop a red work shirt. His hair was red, and an equally scarlet beard adorned his wizened face. A black watch cap sat jauntily on his head. His upturned shoes had seen considerable use. A corncob pipe jutted from between his teeth; one of his hands possessively grasped an ale jug. As smoke curled lazily from the rough-hewn pipe bowl, his penetrating eyes carefully regarded Mary and the eight young girls.

If these two little people were palace servants, the woman by his side seemed more appropriately dressed. Her intelligent face was as wrinkled and worn as the man’s bibs. Her wiry gray hair was collected in a severe bun in the back. The sharp, calculating eyes were bright blue. Over her simple gray dress she wore a white apron.

Her shoes were sturdy, no-nonsense things, their laces tied in double knots so that she needn’t be bothered with retying them during the course of her busy day. Thick calluses marked her palms. Everything about her proclaimed the simple values of practicality and common sense. Whoever she was might be, she was a hard worker.

Oddly enough, the woman was pushing an elaborate stroller. But Mallory knew that she was far too old to be the child’s mother. Then she saw that a golden lion and broadsword adorned the stroller, which prompted her to wonder even more. The gurgling child inside was female and seemed to be nearing two Seasons of New Life. Mallory could easily see how protective the little old lady was of her young charge.

Mallory shook her head. The man, woman, and child formed an unexpected and incongruous trio. This was certainly proving to be an interesting night.

Mallory was about to speak when Ox approached. He pointed a muscular arm at the girls.

“These be the ones,” he said.

The little old lady barely reached the warrior’s knees. “And Princess Shailiha?” she asked worriedly. Her voice sounded nearly as stern as the warrior’s did.

“Princess, Sister Adrian, and Tyranny all notified,” Ox answered. “They were supervising digging, but be coming now.”

Mallory watched the little man take a practiced, one-handed gulp from his jug. He then smoothly transferred his pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other without touching it. Both actions came as naturally to him as drawing his next breath.

“What about the wizards and the sorceress?” he asked.

“Ox not sure,” Ox answered worriedly. “Maybe Shailiha know.”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” they all heard a voice say.

Mallory looked up to see a woman exiting another hallway. Long blond hair graced her shoulders. Her blue gown was strangely covered with some form of gray dust. Her eyes were hazel and resolute, her jaw firm. A gold medallion carrying the imprint of the lion and the broadsword hung around her neck on a golden chain. Having lived at Fledgling House since the age of five, the girls had seen few grown women. They stared at her in awe.

A huge violet-and-yellow butterfly sat perched atop one of the woman’s shoulders. Mallory had never seen anything like it. Gently folding and unfolding its diaphanous wings, it seemed to be quite at home with its mistress.

Two more women arrived. One was wearing a dusty red gown, and her hair was short and dark. Where the first woman seemed regal, the second appeared more dangerous, predatory. Then Mallory regarded the third woman. As she immediately recognized the stranger’s clothing, her heart skipped a beat.

The third woman was wearing a dark red robe. The robe was collected in the middle by a black knotted cord. There could be no mistaking it, for Mallory had been aspiring to that same costume for the last thirteen years. The third woman was a graduate of Fledgling House.

The woman in the blue gown turned to look at the butterfly perched atop her shoulder. “Hover, Caprice,” she said simply.

The miraculous butterfly immediately soared toward the ceiling to start making lazy circles in the air. Something told Mallory that wherever the woman in the blue dress ventured, so did her obedient creature.

The butterfly mistress regarded the girls narrowly. “Which of you is Mallory?” she asked.

Mallory sprang to her feet. “I am Mallory of the House of Esterbrook,” she said. “And if it might please the court, whom am I addressing?”

The beautiful woman clasped her hands before her. “I am Princess Shailiha,” she answered simply.

A collective gasp came from the girls, and the blood rushed from Mallory’s face. She had never dreamed that she might one day stand toe-to-toe with someone from the royal house. Immediately remembering her etiquette, she curtsied, then bent to kiss the back of Shailiha’s gloved hand.

“An honor, Your Highness,” she said as she stood back up. “Please forgive our appearances. We have come far and suffered much.”

Hoping that she wasn’t overstepping her bounds, Mallory added, “In case you are unaware, I regret to report that Master Duncan is dead. Martha was spirited away by strange flying creatures. We do not know what became of her.” Turning, she looked down the row of disheveled girls. “We eight are all who remain of Fledgling House,” she added sadly.

Shailiha gazed sternly into Mallory’s eyes. “How old are you?” she asked.

“At nineteen Seasons of New Life, I am the oldest,” Mallory answered.

“Are you really who you claim to be?” Shailiha pressed. “I have no time for frivolous escapades. Lying will do you no good-we have ways of determining whether you tell the truth.”

“We are indeed,” Mallory answered respectfully but firmly. “A simple check of our blood signatures against the parchments in the Hall of Blood Records will prove it.” A concerned look suddenly came over her.

“We are desperately worried about our fathers,” she added. “Long before Fledgling House was attacked, they stopped visiting us. No reason was given. Not one of us has seen her father for nearly two years. Can you tell us if they are all right?”