Perilune

Chapter 14

Approaching the castle from behind, Lyra heard the resumption of clattering footsteps as guards stormed through the front and poured into the streets.  Keeping to the shadows in alleys, she darted past glimpses of their armor.  Their polish was distorted by the royal crest, which was hastily carved into the chest of each.  She nearly laughed at the distant voice barking,  "She couldn't have gotten far.  Start at the perimeter of the woods and fan out." 

"Bring her back alive.  The dragon prefers its meals that way."  She seethed at the sound of the prince's voice, growing distant as she found her way to the servant entrances.

Alleys gave way to a small garden against the castle wall.  A modest wooden door was framed by ivy-covered brick, the white paint peeling where it wouldn't be seen by the public.  A tarnished cobblestone path was nearly buried in years of tending the various spices and vegetables flourishing in the patch of sun.  Assuming the door locked, Lyra clambered in through the window, landing on the cold marble floor of a kitchen, although it must have been on a higher level than the one she had seen; she never saw sunlight down there. 

Darting for the cutting board, she seized a carving knife and wrapped it in a cloth.  With baker's twine she tied it to her forearm, and let the tattered remains of her sleeve fall over it.  With footsteps which only caressed gravity, she crept silently for the door.  The hall appeared empty.  Lyra hardly paused to wonder where her destination was; uncertainty of her direction would not slow her pace. 

"It's her!" A voice boomed, and without bothering to glance back, Lyra knew of the pursuit; their metal boots were thunder crashing through the halls.  Without the burden of steel Lyra's sprint put distance between them.

Lyra dove into an adjacent hall and through a door.  A familiar face gawked as if seeing a ghost.  "You're still alive?" The maid whispered.  At the approaching of boots, her eyes darted to the door.  She pulled aside the cloth draped over the cart she had loaded with toiletries, tossing aside the pile of rags and bucket of soapy water carried underneath, "Hide." 

In other circumstances Lyra would have taken it as threat and head for the window.  But she wouldn't leave the castle without Amaris, and the footsteps were at the door.  She dove under the cart and wrapped her arms around her knees to fit.  The maid let the cloth conceal her and stomped toward the door.

Lyra's blood froze at her voice; it was panicked, tearful, "The fugitive just burst in here and threatened me," she sobbed.  Lyra held her breath and clutched at the handle of the knife. 

Amaris glanced through the opening she had carved, desperately avoiding the body she wished could be offered burial.  The sun was fresh in the sky, tints of amber lingering on the horizon.  A sigh of momentary relief would have greeted the morning if she were capable. 

The cell and the castle above were an assault on the senses, more so than usual.  Every scent was eclipsed by the blood in the air around her.  Sounds were muddled by the hive-like buzzing of guards, even the loud creak of the cell doors nearly obscured.  She couldn't make out any footsteps, unsure who entered, or if they lingered to speak or not.  It was not worth investigation.  Amaris wouldn't have a word to say even if she had the voice to carry them; nothing could be of comfort if uttered by the executioner.

Her eyes kept drifting back to Kiden.  Amaris closed them as she lay motionless near the waterfall, the sound unable to drown the cacophony or dowse for any memory as comfort. 

Thunderous boots stormed into the room.  "Where did she go?" A voice barked.  Lyra poised to leap from her cover and strike.

"She went out the window," the maid sobbed, "She said she'd slit my throat if I screamed, and when she heard you approach, she fled..."