Bound by Roses (The Bound Series Book 1) (22 page)

The ideals would be nothing but a memory.

Marguerite left the meeting with the Ministers. She rushed her way to the Seven’s small tower, and up its seemingly never-ending staircase. The door, ancient and carved intricately, opened of its own accord. Before Marguerite stood the Seven.

“How can we help you, Marguerite?” One asked.

“What have you all conferred?” She questioned them, the door closed behind her as she crossed the threshold. The pool rippled and churned out multicolored bubbles. The air was damp and heavy. Her nostrils inhaled sweet oranges and lilacs.

“Answers to questions, are ultimately not found with us,” another stated. All with heads low.

“Then these matters must be discussed with the Mirror,” Marguerite, fully clothed entered the pool of water.

The Seven look upon each other under their hoods with disdain.

“I do not need to remove my clothes,” Marguerite declared.

“But—”

“But nothing my friends. I have no time for formality and tradition,” Marguerite’s teeth chattered, but not as badly as they have in the past.

The Seven paused for a moment before they all responded in unison to Marguerite, “Very well.”

Like previous times before, the Seven hummed and sang. The pool stopped producing bubbles. Water changed from cold to warm. It churned violently and from its magically unending depths, raised the shards of the Magic Mirror. Green sparks repelled the pieces as they attempted to form a complete surface. The pool became still as the night.

“Mirror, Mirror upon the wall,” Marguerite’s voice echoed upon the currents of air. Spectral fire appeared in all the pieces before the white face of Specularii appeared with a grin. His vacant eyes showed only the fire behind him.

“Ah, Marguerite, what do I owe the pleasure of
this
visit?” Specularii’s voice echoed within each of the Mirror’s shards. The pools surface rippled.

“I am looking for Mora Rose,” Marguerite demanded with a huff. Her arms waded upon the surface of the water. Fingers delicately played with the water as she waited for a response.

“You have that answer, having been told that by the Shattered One,” Specularii stated with a chuckle.

“The Shattered One, as you call him, did not know certain details. Tell me, what do I look for?”

“You will look for the most ancient tower. That which is covered and sleeps in a forest of thorns and vines,” Specularii’s voice was ethereal to Marguerite’s ears, but one toned as it echoed through the water.

“Who must I look for?” Marguerite questioned.

“Protected by her two most loyal Apprentices. They will show you to her, but whether she can help you is another—”

“How long must I travel?” Marguerite interrupted the Mirror.

“The Sorceress you seek, lies beyond the reach of both Ashok Orai and Zhan’ding, to what was the domain of the House of Grene.”

“House of Grene?” Marguerite stared deep into the creature as he began to speak again,

“I am bound—”

“Yes. By the Law of Three, I am
intimately
familiar with the Law that binds you!” Marguerite yelled. Her sharp voice cut off the Mirror a second time.

“Then I bid you goodbye. For now,” his chuckle taunted Marguerite. Her face twitched. She could feel her knuckles tighten against her body under the pool. Specularii’s face vanished. The fire died and the pieces sank once again below the pool of water. It began to churn once more. Steam, and mist rose upwards. The multicolored bubbles spit from the center. They ascended softy. The temperature dropped.

Marguerite’s teeth chattered.

She waded to the edge of the pool and sat upon the shallow steps. Small waves crashed against her boots. Fists slammed them into the water. She bellowed out in the tiny tower room,

“More questions than answers!”

“As is the nature of the Mirror,” the third of the Seven spoke. She merely looked up from her ghostly reflection in the pool and at the Seven with heavy heart, all hands before their chests, fingers locked.

Damp hands ran through her ebony hair. She wanted to cry. Face fell into her palms, “Almost more questions, than answers.”

“What weighs so heavily upon your heart, Snow White?” Another of the Seven asked.

She ran her hands through her hair once more before talking, “Forces stir upon the Realm. Those seem intent upon tearing our fragile peace apart at the seams. I do not know what I must do.”

Her eyes finally locked upon the hole-filled ceiling. The afternoon light shone upon the books the Seven possessed. The Seven paused before speaking. None moved from their spots, but all looked upon her.

“You have heard the Mirror speak, child. Your path lies outside Ashok Orai,” another spoke. This Seven stood closest than all of them. She could feel his gentle eyes stare at her tenderly as he did, “You must prepare. For your destiny is shadowed and clouded, even to us.”

“Prepare for what?” Marguerite folded arms before her chest when she began to shiver.

“The complete unknown. Yet powers familiar to all of us. For that we are certain. We do not suggest you dawdle too long. As answers do not come if one does not search for them,” the first stated.

Marguerite heading the words of her most trusted friends and advisors, removed herself from the pool of waterand the Seve
n’
s presence. Down the steps, past unending cascading wax waterfalls from candles that lit the way, and out to the spacious courtyards where Captain Iritis stood. He paced back and forth waiting. Hands clasped behind his back tight.

“You are going to wear a hole into the stone, should you keep pacing as such,” Marguerite exited the tower. Her voice echoed in the courtyard.

Iritis stopped his pacing. The door behind Marguerite closed silently.

“What is the word, my Lady?” Iritis kept pace with Marguerite as she scuttled from the tower, damp footsteps in her wake. Clothes clung to her tightly. Iritis tried to keep his eyes focused forward.

“Trouble brews. My destiny is clouded. I have to leave.”

“Leave?” Captain Iritis wondered. “And go where exactly?”

Marguerite stopped and brought Iritis close. She looked about the empty courtyard. She wanted to take no chances. Her voice fell to just a whisper, “
To the Sorceress, Mora Rose.
”

“Mora Rose?” Iritis’ voice bellowed.

Marguerite shot her hand over his mouth.

“
She may have answers to questions unanswered.
” Marguerite whispered more. 

Iritis again kept pace with Lady White, “If you must go, allow me to accompany you?”

Marguerite stopped her most loyal soldier. She kissed him upon the forehead and sent him on his way. Iritis understood his silent orders to remain, to watch, and to protect the city.

“Are you positive?” Iritis asked once more.

“Someone needs to keep the Ministers in line,” Marguerite winked and chuckled, “and they are under orders, smallest force possible to send refugees back to Zhan’ding.”

“Understood.” He walked away without looking back at Lady White.

Marguerite in her quarters packed all she could into a single tan leather satchel, including her small purse full of coins. She never has traveled past Zhan’ding; she did not even know what currency the rest of the wider Realm used. She never thought too much about it. Looking back, she recalled learning geography in her lessons and the world seemed to stop just above the Hessen Woods, North of Zhan’ding. She laughed to herself, and realized the world was bigger than she believed. She wondered if her father knew what lay beyond.

Wet clothes strewn about. Kaniz would worry about them later for her. She changed to dark brown riding pants, and a loose white blouse to which the Bloodstone hid within. Gold chain glinted upon her neck. From underneath her massive bed, she removed a sword, more than the length of her arm and sheathed. Out of its ancient holder, Marguerite looked upon the silver blade. It possessed runes etched and carved deep into the shining metal. She did not know what they said. She only knew they were old, and kept not only her father safe but all the generations of the White Rose that possessed it. Just below the hilt, a symbol she never asked about. It was three intersecting crescent moons, whose points looked outwards from one another. Putting it back into the holder, she slung along her waist.

She always heard the legend that it was given to the House of the White Rose by a guardian of a lake. She was rumored to be a frightfully beautiful woman, with the power over destiny and fate. Her father never took much stock in the legend, nor did she. With this ancient sword, she knew she would be safe.

Under the cover of night that approached, Marguerite rushed from Ashok Orai upon her majestic white horse. She rushed into the unknown. At this early evening hour, the streets were winding down, and her horse had few obstructions. She was quickly through the city. Marguerite turned her head and watched the great gates of her shining white city shut for the night. A tear fell from her eyes.

The further she rode, the fainter the city lights became. Until it the lights were nothing but a single flame upon the horizon. That flame soon died away into a point in the sky, a point that would become a star should she keep looking. She pushed her horse, and rode on.

Marguerite reached the outskirts of Zhan’ding well before the moon rose. It was a late crest. Unusual for the season, this much she knew. What it meant was lost to her. Marguerite only took a short stop to stare at the once crumbling city. It was unrecognizable in such a short time period. Massive scaffolding was built all around its outer wall. They were hard at work. She could see the workers light flicker. She could hear their tools bang. Marguerite was happy. Happy the city would one day look as it did in her youth.

She wanted to stop; hoping that what had happened to Rose Red was a dream. She wanted to reconnect with her sister, and the people of the House of Red. But she dare not venture too closely. Those that now controlled Zhan’ding were out for blood. Her blood.

Marguerite as she stared upon her sister’s city, watched seven horses make great haste from the gates of the dying city, under the cover of darkness, just as she fled from Ashok Orai. They flew on the wind. Flew away from Zhan’ding, and away from Ashok Orai. She watched until they disappeared in the darkness.

Marguerite waited until the moon crested higher in the sky, to ensure that she did not run into unexpected company upon her own campaign. She did not know their ultimate destination, and she did not want them knowing hers. For all actions would be judged with the utmost suspicion.

Marguerite continued on with the long journey she knew lay ahead of her. Hoping to make half the forest before the night grew too late.

She tried to remain off the main paths that ran through the forest. Sword at her waist, and ready to be withdrawn, for Marguerite knew that the Hessen Woods were becoming dangerous to travelers, and she was no exception. The Wolves knew Saledii well, but they would not be unfamiliar with her own bloodline.

She eventually came to rest in a clearing within the forest. It contained a waterfall, no larger than a child that flowed beautifully in the shining moonlight into a small brook. The brook spread out in several directions like fingers that playfully caressed the forest floor. She tied her horse off loosely, and built a fire to collect her thoughts. Marguerite was not hungry, so she lay back and merely stared up at the stars. Her mind wandered away. The sky was cloudless. The crescent moon waned brilliantly just past the clearing of treetops. Her mind wandered to thoughts of adventures, and times long ago, as her eyes closed and listened to the Wind.

      Fifteen.

The sun disappeared hours ago upon the desert horizon. The stars formed an ever-expanding sea in a cloudless sky. The amber crescent moon hung low in the sky, a crooked smile of interest to the happenings within the tower. The Huntsman awoke in the four-post bed. His head pounded. A thousand fingers squeezed so tight that his vision was blurred slightly. His head split down the middle. He tried to move, but barely could. Every muscle was drained of energy. His body was numb because of it. Stomach swam in circles. Wooden beamed banisters spun terribly. Avarice wanted to throw up but could not move.

“I would not move, the ordeal is challenging upon the body, and your life force was so delicious. I couldn’t help but indulge,” Theodora Talisa walked from the windowsill. She licked her lips as she spoke. Hair golden. It shined brilliantly in the moonlight. The thin rose nightgown she wore hid nothing. Through the moonlight, every inch of her body was on display for Avarice, every delicate curve, from her breasts to her hips. Her arms swayed gently side to side like waves as she glided upon moonbeams.