Luminous book one, p.12
Luminous: Book One, page 12
Meya was worried about the food, too, but not for the same reasons. With their measly manpower, Gillian suggested he might have to knock everyone out when time came for the search.
Gillian could use the fireplaces and torches to smoke the room with sleeping draught, but he could spike the food as well. Every guest and most guards were gathered in the great hall, making for a rare opportunity to search the castle, not to mention everyone was bound to eat or drink.
If Coris was as smart as everyone said he was, he’d no doubt have realized this. Did he guess the food would be spiked and stopped it leaving the kitchen? Or was it Lady Arinel? She was working in the scullery, wasn’t she?
The Baron and the Marquess’s conversation droned on.
“Yes, I understand you, my dear man. Though I’ve always been, still am, a skeptic of Uriel, this time I fully support you.” Fratengarde dabbed at his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief then waved it in frustration. “The possibility of Nostra’s retaliation aside, we can’t revive a trade that’s been outlawed for two hundred years in a month.”
“Our best course of action would be to investigate the ships’ disappearance and bring back ores as soon as possible,” Kellis agreed. “And in the meantime, limit the use of metals, but His Majesty wouldn’t be pleased if we touched his reforms.”
Despite her pressing matters, Meya couldn’t help her mounting curiosity. The Baron had been talking about the ore ships and the king’s reforms with other lords, too.
Some lords agreed with the Baron about solving the problem and continuing to ship ores from Everglen, but some were adamant about resuming mining in Latakia, to stabilisize our ekonony, or some thingy. Unfortunately, the king was for lifting the ban, too.
“Books and coins for the commoner, eh?” Fratengarde chuckled as if the idea was incredulous. “I’ve known His Majesty since he was a young squire chasing after Zephyr. Far-sighted dreamer he’s always been, but in times like these, we need eyes grounded in the present. Take it one step at a time. He won’t get his reforms unless he can get us enough metal to fend off Nostra.” He took a large swig from his mug of ale.
“Alden is young, naïve. He won’t surrender his dreams. We may need to be discreet rather than drastic.” Baron Kellis caressed his mustache as he shot an insinuating look at Fratengarde. “This is where you come in, my lord.”
The two men exchanged knowing looks. The Baroness and Zier seemed to have no trouble deciphering the secret message, so although Meya had no clue what was going on, she strove to seem well-informed as well.
“I take it you’re talking about my niece.” Fratengarde nodded with a heavy sigh as he patted Kellis’s shoulder.
“I will try, my good man, but I can’t promise anything. Zephyr is a woman with her own mind. Very much like your fine lady here.” Sylvia blushed, swaying as she waved the compliment away. Perhaps Meya had imagined it, but her movements seemed…sluggish?
“She’s mostly kept her lips sealed, and Alden will listen to his queen when she does speak.”
The same phenomenon spread to Marquess Fratengarde. He swayed on his feet, his eyes drooped close then snapped open again. He waggled his wooden mug, his speech slow and slurred,
“So far, she hasn’t, but if it turns out she backs Alden, I’m afraid there’s little I can do to persuade her—”
“Sylvia!”
A blink after Fratengarde dropped as if bludgeoned in the head, Baroness Sylvia fell lifelessly into Baron Kellis’s arms. Rousing his wife in vain, Kellis staggered to the nearest chair. Where he, too, collapsed.
Yet, there were no screams from surrounding women, nor noblemen barking orders for servants to tend to their lord. As Meya stared in horror, lords and ladies teetered where they stood then crumpled to the floor.
Dancing couples fell onto each other. Those sitting around tables smacked their faces into their mugs or the tabletop or slid to the floor. Minstrels slumped against their instruments, guards against the wall or their weapons. Maids and servants dropped their drink trays with much clattering, soaking them as they tumbled.
Meya wheeled around at the tug on her arm to find Lord Zier dropping, his mouth lolling open, the whites of his eyes gleaming between half-shut eyelids.
The lively party had been reduced to a hall strewn with unconscious bodies, plus one bewildered Meya Hild.
What in the three lands—?
Meya spun about, eyebrows knotted in bafflement. Had they decided to spike the drinks instead? But if so, Meya had been sipping juice. Why was she still standing? And why had no one warned her beforehand?
At any rate, I should be asleep myself.
Meya emptied her goblet onto Zier, then flattened herself on the cold stone. Just as she relaxed her limbs, footsteps approached from the hallway outside, then the doors burst open. Meya prayed the crackles and sputters of the fireplace would mask her thundering heart.
The scattered clapping of metal-soled boots on stone swelled into a chorus as a dozen pairs of feet joined the march. The congregation halted a few feet away from her.
“Trunt, you gave them the aconite?” Gillian’s voice rang in the silence.
Aconite? The poison? What’s that for?
“Yes, commander. Got one of ’em maids to put it in the stew.”
The stew?
Meya couldn’t believe her ears. Gillian had meant to kill everyone by spiking the food with aconite? Fortunately, her folk in the kitchen had found a way around by putting everyone to sleep and delaying the food.
Dead or asleep, no one could thwart their search for the dowry, so overall, there was no harm done, but how could she trust Gillian now?
It was one thing to steal to feed your hungry family, entirely different to murder dozens while you were at it. This was insanity. Utter insanity. What should Meya do now?
“The stew, you say?”
As Meya shivered, Gillian’s ice-cold voice void of mercy answered. He allowed a moment of excruciating silence, so Trunt would notice the lack of food on the tables.
“Explain to me, Trunt, why they are all asleep when not a dish of food is in sight, and when I told you to put aconite, not sleeping draught, into the food?” said Gillian, his voice still chillingly soft.
“I-I saw to it that she put it in, commander. I really did. I dunno how—” Trunt stammered.
“Then bring them here and squeeze the truth out of them! What are you waiting for? Go!”
Trunt scampered. Gillian turned and barked to his men.
“Where is Meya Hild? Find her!”
Pure fear coursed through Meya. She prayed to Freda for protection as the bandits scattered. If they found she was the only one awake, they’d think she was behind this, although she hadn’t the slightest idea how it all came about.
A pair of boots stopped before her. Warm air caressed her cheek as the bandit peeled her face from the carpet and brushed aside her golden locks. Perhaps, with all the beautiful blonde ladies around, he wouldn’t recognize her?
Meya held tight onto her only hope. That was, until he lifted her eyelid. Though it was too quick for him to notice Meya’s eye focusing on him, it was more than sufficient.
“Green eyes,” he muttered, then hollered, “over here, commander!”
Stupid, cursed eyes of doom! If I survive this, I’d stick me head down a cesspit to dye you brown!
A heavy, eerie silence descended as twenty men gathered around her. The pressure of twenty ogling pairs of eyes threatened to crush Meya flat.
“She faking, right?” a bandit suggested hesitantly, prompting another bandit to prod her waist with the tip of his boot. Meya tried her best to stay limp as raw dough.
“Read her, Torbald,” Gillian commanded. Before Meya braced herself, Torbald knelt and pushed up her eyelids.
Emerald green eyes pored into hers, breaking contact only to blink. Unlike Gillian, Torbald’s gaze was warm. Meya willed her eyes to convey her honest plea to him. At last, he released her and turned to his leader.
“She knew nothing, commander.”
Gillian dipped a nod of satisfaction then turned his focus to the doors. Meya melted in relief. Torbald rested his calloused hand on her shoulder.
“You stay asleep now, little female,” he whispered, chuckling at the sight of her frown. “Wouldn’t wanna blow our secret, eh?”
He winked. Meya blinked, puzzled. What did he mean, their secret? That aside, one look in the eye, and they believed she wasn’t involved?
Torbald didn’t explain, nor did he have time. Footsteps echoed from outside again. Trunt reappeared at the door, stringing Lady Arinel along with a tight grip on her arm.
Meya’s heart thundered as she closed her eyes. She’d been proven innocent. Now she feared for her lady. Once the approaching footsteps died, she cracked one eye open a slit, then shut it just as soon.
A panting Trunt stood before Jerald, Arinel, Gretella, the five guards and nine scullery maids. He jerked his chin at Arinel.
“Here, commander. The female. It’s gotta be this one.”
A brief pause. Meya reckoned Gillian was taking a gander at the maid, then came the sickening sound of gagging and sputtering which was unmistakably Gillian heaving Trunt off his feet by the collar.
“Useless! Of all the maids, you handed it to Lady Crosset!”
Gillian roared in exasperation. Even under such dire circumstances, Meya stifled a snort of laughter. Poor Trunt. Arinel would’ve been the only one in that kitchen smart enough to know poison when she saw it and concoct a countermeasure.
“Why does it matter who gets the draught and what is spiked, lowlife?” Arinel’s icy voice drowned out Trunt’s intelligible whimpering. “The castle is asleep. As planned. Now go loot to your heart’s fill. We’ll return to our posts.”
A long, deafening silence followed. Meya chanced a second peek.
Gillian glared at Arinel, the tendons taut on his scarred face, his dark green eyes cold and calculating. His lips twisted into a tight grin.
“No, Lady Crosset. I can no longer trust you not to interfere.” His voice was as soft and serene as ever, but the menace mingled in it sent shivers down Meya’s spine.
Gretella pulled Arinel into her embrace. Sir Bayne stepped up to shield them both. Gillian’s smile stretched wider.
“And yes, it does matter greatly. My plan has never been to leisurely scour the whole castle for the dowry. Lord Hadrian will deliver it to me willingly.”
Strength flowed out of Meya and seeped away into the carpet. Gillian had planned to hold all these people hostage, bargaining the antidote in exchange for The Axel. She’d miscalculated his true motive, had trusted in his camaraderie. If Arinel hadn’t intervened, she would’ve been responsible for all these innocent lives.
As she lay stiff as a skeleton, Gillian delivered his ultimatum.
“Lady Crosset. Meya Hild. Lord Zier. The Baron and Baroness. Tie them up. We’re moving out.”
The bandits dashed towards Arinel and Meya. Wrenched back to reality, Meya closed her eyes and played dead. As much as she longed to act, she was powerless and overwhelmed. It was best for her comrades for her to let these heartless bandits believe she was still their ally.
“Milady! No! Milady!”
“Let go of me. Let go! Grandma!”
“Stop! You lowlife! Scum!”
Gretella and Arinel screamed. A bandit pulled Meya’s arms behind her and looped twine around her wrists. Jerald’s voice joined the din of shrieking maids as the Crosset guards unsheathed their swords, but outnumbered four to one, that was the furthest they went.
Meya longed to do something, anything. She landed them all in this catastrophe. Yet, as always, when it truly mattered, Meya was at an utter loss for bright ideas. The shame, the guilt was such that she couldn’t muster the will to wag a finger. The bandit pulled her to her feet by her bound hands.
“What in the three lands are you doing? Do you not want the antidote?”
Arinel screamed the question ringing in her head. The chaos died. Meya sneaked another peek. Arinel was standing before her, panting, arms pinned behind, glaring at the bandit who held Meya.
“Meya Hild knows too little of the world. And herself,” said the bandit, his voice brimming with a smirk. Gillian’s second-in-command, Dockar. “There is only one poison to our kind.”
Meya felt as if the ground had opened and Fyr’s Lake had swallowed her whole. Gillian’s mysterious smirk when she suggested the antidote exchange. All made sense then. The reason Meya was unaffected by Arinel’s sleeping draught.
They were all Greeneyes. Their bodies were different from normal people. The only poison that could kill them was Lattis. If aconite couldn’t kill Greeneyes but could kill normal humans, then Lattis could protect normal humans while killing Greeneyes?
The dowry is The Axel. The Axel is made of Lattis. If The Axel is inside someone, it would protect him from poison. That’s why Gillian poisoned everyone. Whoever has The Axel won’t be affected!
Gillian had kept his promise. He had meant to spare Meya and take her to join their kind, but the same couldn’t be said for everyone else. The moment Meya made that pact, she sentenced the deaths of all these people who had trusted in her.
There was nothing, nothing she could have done. Dockar’s chilling last remarks rang loud and clear in her ears.
“You needn’t worry. Since Meya Hild honored her end of the deal, we’ll uphold ours as well.” Tension undercut Dockar’s voice. He wasn’t comfortable with Gillian’s decision to rescue Meya.
“All you have to do is be a good little lady, until Coris Hadrian gave us what we came for. Then, we’ll deliver the Hadrian family to the waiting arms of your goddess Freda.”
Ransom Demand
Gillian led the party of bandits and stumbling, tied-and-gagged guards and maids down silent hallways, passing countless guards slumped against the wall, unconscious. At least, Meya hoped they were. Those were Gillian’s work, not Arinel’s.
Baron Kellis, Baroness Sylvia and Lord Zier were hog-tied and thrown unceremoniously over the bandits’ backs, heads bouncing to their captors’ heavy gait.
Meya was on Dockar’s back, under orders to feign sleep, but she was never one to follow those. Her long, loose sleeves had elaborate patterns embroidered onto them with minuscule beads and sequins. She pulled a thread free and let them fall soundlessly to the stone.
They traversed another hallway then stopped. Silence, the sound of a lock clicking in place, a door creaking open on rusty hinges. Cold wind grazed her behind. Gillian was using a sally port to sneak out unnoticed.
They waded across the moat and ventured into the moonlit night, the wind batting their dripping clothes as they sloshed their way down the hill and through the grassland to the Lord’s Forest.
The shadow of the canopy beat down on Meya’s eyelids. Safe under the cover of darkness, she creaked open one eye and craned her neck.
Gillian stood at the neck of the woods. He motioned for someone in the throng to come forth. Meya couldn’t see whom. She closed her eye and played dead as footsteps stomped towards her.
“This is where we leave you. You will return to the castle and deliver our ransom demand to Lord Coris,” said Gillian.
“I shall stay with the lady,” the man growled—Sir Bayne. The shriek of a blade unsheathed echoed alongside muffled screams from the maids.
“Deliver our ransom demand to Lord Coris,” Gillian repeated. Jerald made no further noise. Gillian sheathed his sword, and the group soldiered forth into the gloom with half the number of crunching footsteps.
The faint, dull light of the full moon peeked through murky clouds and tangled twigs. Her hair snagged on dangling, dying vines. Low-hanging branches poked her behind. She rose and fell with Dockar as he navigated the treacherous terrain. Fallen leaves crunched whenever he stepped.
Meya wasn’t sure beads would work beyond this point, but for lack of a better idea, she continued dropping them in clumps, lathering them with sweat from her feverish hands.
They emerged into a moorland as vast as her eyes could see, dotted with boulders and rapids, bathed in bright silver moonlight. Far at its seams, Meya made out the pitch-black peaks of Neverend Heights. The massive Zarel river carved a path between its peaks, slicing Latakia from Nostra like a shred of parchment barely hanging on to the rest.
Under the Heights’ shadow, at the mouth of Zarel Pass, was Amplevale Fortress. Although Rutgarth was two hundred years ago and widely considered Nostra’s last attack, Amplevale was still heavily manned, supplied with troops and victual from prosperous Hadrian.
Yet, even Amplevale’s might may not save them. Mounting an ambush in open moorland with mere rocks and hillocks to hide behind was impossible, especially with the full moon illuminating every dip and chink of the terrain. The bandits would spot them creeping from a feather’s flight away, and she’d be dead in a breath.
Gillian led them a safe distance away from the forest, signaling his men to set up camp by a crop of rocks.
The bandits shoved Meya, Arinel and Zier against a boulder, binding them side-by-side to the cold, jagged surface. The Baron and Baroness were given another rock to themselves to their left.
“What are your demands?” Arinel called.
Their captors glanced at the lady as one, then all but Gillian returned to their tasks without a word.
“Nothing out of the obvious.” He pored over a map spread on the boulder, studying it by the moonlight. “I asked Lord Coris to come alone with the dowry. If I see one soldier with him, the deal is off and we silence you all.”
Meya shivered at his bland delivery. It was no threat but a statement.
Arinel trembled, yet forged on with bravado, probably to keep Gillian talking and glean information.
“But there’s no deal, is there? You said you’ll deliver the Hadrians to Freda. Coris is no idiot. He won’t come. How can you be sure he won’t leave his father and brother to die and become Baron Hadrian himself?”
