The beast had no trouble moving.
It charged down the hill. Her poor father took no notice, even though the beast shook the ground as it ran. It consumed him completely with a single swallow, and she fell, as if pierced through the heart. She collapsed onto the grass, struggling to breathe. In the distance, the beast was coming for her now, coming to finish the job, coming to swallow her up—his legs squeaking louder and louder as he advanced.
She woke up in a cold sweat.
She was sleeping on her stomach in her feather bed with the pillow folded up around her face. She hated sleeping. Sleep always brought nightmares. She stayed awake as long as possible, many nights sitting on the floor in front of the little window, watching the stars and listening to the sounds outside. There was a whole symphony of frogs that croaked in the moat and a chorus of crickets. Fireflies sometimes passed by her tiny sliver of the world. But eventually, sleep found her.
The dream had been the same every night. She was on the hill, her father unaware of his impending death, and there was never anything she could do to prevent it. However, tonight’s dream had been different. Usually it ended when the beast devoured her, but this time she had woken early, and something else was different. When the beast came that night, it had made a squeaking sound. Even for a dream, that seemed strange.
Then she heard it again. The sound entered through her window.
Squeak … squeak … squeak!
There were other noises too, sounds of men talking. They spoke quietly but their voices drifted up from the courtyard below. She went to the window and peered out. As many as a dozen men with torches drew a wagon whose large wooden wheels squeaked once with each revolution. The wagon was a large box with a small barred window cut in the side, like the kind that would hold a lion for a traveling circus. The men were dressed in black-and-scarlet armor. She had seen that armor before, while in Dahlgren.
One man stood out. He was tall and thin with long black hair and a short, neatly trimmed beard.
The wagon came to a stop and the knights gathered.
“He’s chained, isn’t he?” she heard one of them say.
“Why? Are you frightened?”
“He’s not a wizard,” the tall man scolded. “He can’t turn you into a frog. His powers are political, not mystical.”
“Come now, Luis, even Saldur said not to underestimate him. Legends speak of strange abilities. He’s part god.”
“You believe too much in church doctrine. We’re the protectorate of the faith. We don’t have to wallow in superstition like ignorant peasants.”
“That sounds blasphemous.”
“The truth can never be blasphemous, so long as it’s tempered with an understanding of what’s good and right. The truth is a powerful thing, like a crossbow. You wouldn’t hand a child a loaded crossbow and say, ‘Run and play,’ would you? People get killed that way, tragedies occur. The truth must be kept safe, reserved only for those capable of handling it. This—this sacrilegious treasure in a box—is one truth above all that must be kept a secret. It must never again see the light of day. We will bury it deep beneath the castle. We will seal it in for all time and it will become the cornerstone on which we will build a new and glorious empire that will eclipse the previous one and wash away the sins of our forefathers.”
She watched as they opened the rear of the wagon and pulled out a man. A black hood covered his face. Chains bound his hands and ankles, yet the men treated him carefully, as if he could explode at any minute.
With four men on either side, they marched him across the courtyard out of the sight of her narrow window.
She watched as they rolled the wagon back out and closed the gate behind them. Modina stared at the empty courtyard for more than an hour, until, at last, she fell asleep again.
The carriage bounced through the night on the rough, hilly road, following a sliver of open sky between walls of forest. The jangle of harnesses, the thudding of hooves, and the crush of wheels dominated this world. The night’s air was heavily scented with the aroma of pond water and a skunk’s spray.
Arcadius, the lore master of Sheridan University, peered out the open window and hammered on the roof with his walking stick until the driver brought the carriage to a halt.
“What is it?” the driver shouted.
“This will be fine,” the lore master replied, grabbing up his bag and slipping it over his shoulder.
“What is?”
“I’m getting out here.” Arcadius popped open the little door and carefully climbed out onto the desolate road. “Yes, this is fine.” He closed the door and lightly patted the side of the carriage as if it were a horse.