A high gale carried the scent of salt and sea air. An arboreal inferno billowed behind, but it could not be far behind.

Sweat bathed Felderon's back under Cylene's weight. She had not stirred since he'd first thrown her over his shoulder and her slight torso thumped his back with every footfall. Renadan refugees who had escaped the vineyard fires tramped along through knee-high seed grass. The sound of muffled sobs echoed in Felderon's ears, punctuated by the silence of unspoken grief.

Homeless tramped the only direction left to them--toward the ocean, or death.

Few could know what they would do when they reached the sea. Perhaps they would reach a harbor. Maybe they could hail some peaceful merchant vessel with food and fuel. Most likely they would do neither.

Felderon searched his memory of physical maps of the country. How close was the River Della from their present location? It had to be close, not far to the north. Maybe they could find a way south by heading upriver. What did he know of the coast? Sand? Soil? Rock?

The answer came soon enough. Sand--ah, sand. Only lovely when you didn't want to go anywhere fast. His calves burned as he leaned into the steep climbing dune. Grass disappeared. Sand dunes stretched to the horizon. The dunes seemed to be endless! He'd never seen the like!

Sea wind swept sand into his eyes, coating his sweat-bathed brow and neck. His groin itched and he had no free hand to scratch.

The ocean couldn't be far. He could smell it. Gulls called in the sky above free-loading on powerful wind. He stared up at the gulls. Keep your wings fit, or you'll regret it.

He paused for a breath. It couldn't be much farther. And from that vantage point, he'd be able to see the coastline for miles, evaluate his position, bathe his burning feet in the sweet, cool water.

Water, yes. But he needed something drinkable, and he'd get nothing from he ocean. Good enough. He would head north. North to the River Della to finally turn south toward home, but what of that? He couldn't go to his father who had already forbade him from interfering with his war. No. He would return to the Sage of the Sun. He was behind this. He was the only one who understood the mystery of the mirror. What had he said? The mirrors were the things of dreams? What did that mean?

The old sage had sworn that the light mirror would dissolve if he failed to peer into the dark mirror when he gave the first away. Then there must be a way to destroy the light mirror! If there was a way to preserve the Three Kingdom Covenant, then he had to get to the Sage of the Sun!

Some commotion stirred up ahead and a few single male refugees began waiving their hands, hollering something. What?

Leaning forward, he scrambled up the rise of the next hill. Reaching the top, he froze. Throat closed and blood chilled, he stared out at the ocean, filled to the far horizon with a full armada.

* * *

Felderon's gaze searched the coastline. Southward lay a quiet inlet. There would be boats there and that might be tempting. But it was a fool's wish to think of braving his father's navy. He'd meant to go north. Up shore, the landscape changed from soft sand to jagged rocks. Beyond, steep bluffs plunged into a restless sea, where surf thundered against the rugged shoreline. The navy would avoid the bluff. He opened his lungs and breathed. To the rocks!

* * *

Vapor hung low about the land, haunting the shoreline like a specter. The dark, craggy rocks folded into mysterious contours, making trollish faces. Ghoulish mouths gaped wide, puffing deep drags of sea fog.

What was that?

It might be a shadow.

Felderon squinted.

But—it could also be a cave.

His throat burned and the thought of water dogged his labored steps. He staggered up the beach toward the rocks, convinced he could make it to the cave's mouth, but not a step farther. Cramps squeezed his calves, and threatened to lame him on the spot, but it was only a few more steps, and chances were--if the shadow was a cave--there would be condensation.

It was all he could do not to drop Cylene like a bag of sand, but let her go gently upon the unfriendly rock at the cave's mouth. He groaned and stepped inside the opening of the cave, rather wider than he'd thought. His ears pricked at the drop, drop, drop of liquid down a stalactite column. He thrust his palms under the patient drip and waited. A few drops and he raised his palm to his tongue. It took forever, but at last he'd partially slaked his desperate thirst.

Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

When he'd collected enough, he knelt next to Cylene and let the liquid condensation fall down his fingers into her mouth, dampening her tongue. She swallowed reflectively, begging for more. He returned to the stalactite column.

The second time he dropped water into her tongue, she opened her lovely gray eyes.

She stiffened. "Where am I? Where have you taken me?"

"I warned you not to look in that mirror!"

Her beautiful face twisted in pain, and tears filled her eyes.

"Renada is under naval siege and invaded by my father's armies."

Cylene shuddered. "I knew it would come to this."

"We've no way south, that I can tell, unless we can get to the River Della. This is the best we've got for accommodations."

She glanced around. "These are the Caves of Curiosity--which sounds harmless enough, but I do not think we are safe here. There are many tunnel tributaries, and..."

"And what?" He arched a brow.

"Bandits."

"Safety under siege is a relative term."

"Thank you for the water. And for not leaving me, but I almost wish you had."

"Only almost? Surely you can muster more contempt than that--nay, I know you can."

"Before this morning, I'm sure I would give you so much contempt, you could shovel it, but right now I cannot."

"The effects of the dark mirror."

She nodded, and a strong sense of knowing passed between them.

* * *

Felderon stared at the void where Cylene had stood. He cursed, and stalked into the darkness after her.

"Who are you?" Felderon called after her. "If I'm going to march after you to my death, I should at least know who it is I'm following."

Cylene's voice was soft, but it echoed off of the cave walls. "Daughter of the Queen.”

"That's exactly--" Felderon paused, finally perceiving. "But not the King?”

"No. I am daughter of the exiled Queen Wendolyn.”

"Ah. But you're of high birth."

“Not exactly.”

"Then how did you come to be in the palace?"

“The King wanted to have me. I don't exactly know why. Sometimes kings like to keep wards. My mother protected me as long as she could. It isn't easy to play cat and mouse with a determined king. She had to disguise herself and me, and work. She was always moving--often before she could tell me about it."

"So you got lost?"

"My mother never lost me. We had a system of codes. She taught me to be alert--to look for the signs of where to follow her--how to meet her again. Sometimes her signals were very subtle."

"Like the indentation of a walking stick."

"Yes. That was one she used a lot."

"And you think the old man knew about your mother's signs."

"Why not? He did say I smelled of the plague."

"You don't smell like plague."

"I smell it everywhere. My nose will never be rid of the stink of it."

In fact, Cylene smelled of rose water, though Felderon would rather die than tell her so. "You're a heir of the king. It is nothing to be ashamed of."

Cylene grunted. "I could say the same thing to you."

"Ah--but you are not the sixth son."

"And what, pray tell, is wrong with being the sixth son?"

"You are not familiar with the Seventh Son prophesies?"

"Is your father also the seventh?"

"Aye. He is the seventh son of the seventh son in an unbroken succession of sons. I am the sixth in an unbroken succession of sons. By rights, my younger brother--were I to have one--would be endowed with supernatural powers. By lore, a werewolf, or a snake charmer, but certainly powerful. Certainly celebrated."

"But there is no younger brother."

"Do you know what they say about sixth sons of seventh sons?"

"No."

"Exactly. Because the sixth cannot be spoken of--nay, MUST not be named; he is so loathsome. The seventh son with all his power and fortune, steals fortune and grace from the sixth, making ME the most despised, the most ridiculous, the most GROTESQUE creature of royal creation in the history of the Chalbeams line!"

"I think you overstate the case."

"I cannot believe you are arguing with me when we are both refugees of the Kingdom I--the sixth son of a seventh son--am singlehandedly bringing to the ground. The Sage said so himself. Sixth sons crush kingdoms!"

"You created the opening, but your father is the one who is bringing Renada down, I believe."

"You're splitting hairs."

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps nothing. I am unerring! Remember, I have seen the mirror!"

"What did you see in the mirror?"

"Do you really wish to know?"

"I told you who I was."

Felderon stifled a groan. "I saw many images, most of them symbolic, I would guess."

"Describe some."

"As you have repeatedly noted, I am not a poet."

"I did not mean to insult you that way!" Cylene's voice echoed of the cave walls.

"It does not matter! There are hordes waiting in the wings to stand in for the job!" Felderon sighed. "Would that that were the sum of my crimes--fool is bad, but it is nothing to the hell I have set into motion."

"And I have actually wished that the Renadan House would fall." Cylene's voice broke. "I wished it."

"Then we will both have to live with our stupidity--or die by it."

"Death is preferable, I think."

"What is that?"

From deep within the interior of the cavern, an acrid odor wafted down tunnel.

"Smoke!"

In the distance, a tiny ember flickered.

Felderon funneled his hands around his mouth. "Who goes there?"