Chapter 6
Trying to make a game of fetch happen
There was a boy by the side of the road up ahead, perched in a tree. He was entertaining himself by throwing and catching an acorn, the nut sailing up, then dropping back into his palm once more.
When he caught sight of the girls, he startled, juggled his acorn, and nearly dropped it.
Isobelle opened her mouth to caution him, but before she could do so, he nearly fell out of the tree, at the last moment converting the movement into an almost-deliberate jump.
Dusting himself off, he looked them up and down as they approached. Slowly, his eyes widened.
‘You’re her!’ he announced. ‘The lady knight. It’s really you.’
‘Sir Gwen, dragonslayer!’ Isobelle agreed brightly. She heard a weary sigh behind her, but wasn’t sure whether it came from Gwen or Achilles.
The boy held up one hand. ‘Go slow, don’t come into town too quick. I got to let them know you’re here. His lordship wants you to have the full arrival experience.’
‘The what?’ asked Gwen warily.
Behind them, Jane’s head popped out of the carriage window. ‘Why have we stopped?’ she called.
Isobelle, never one to turn down any kind of full experience, nodded benevolently at the boy. ‘We’ll go slow,’ she promised.
And so their little procession made its way, in leisurely fashion, towards the town of Galanty-Uponne-the-Sea.
Isobelle found herself studying Gwen’s profile as the other girl gazed ahead, lost in her own thoughts.
The letter from Isobelle’s parents was tucked safely away, buried among the bunches of admiring letters Gwen had received from her Lady Dragonslayer fanatics as her fame grew.
Isobelle had taken charge of keeping them and responding to as many as she could.
She could keep the letter from her parents there until she found the right time to break the news to her champion.
Gwen would have walked into the Darkhaven moat, crocodiles and all, before she read her own fan mail.
And yet, even knowing it was well hidden in their luggage, Isobelle could feel the letter like some corrupted beacon, shining not light and truth, but darkness and heavy uncertainty.
No, said the letter in her pocket. No, no, no. No dowry for you. No future for you. You’re not the daughter we wanted, and you’ll get nothing but ‘no’ from us until you are.
How could she tell Gwen, who’d only ever heard from her father a world of yes?
I just need a moment to catch my breath, she told herself, dragging her eyes from her champion. A moment to figure out what our next move should be. I’ll tell her when I have something we can do about it.
Cresting a hill, they looked down and found the town spread out before them.
It was an orderly place, rows of thatched roofs arranged in a semicircle around the little harbour, where the masts of ships rose from the sea like a rather scanty forest – perhaps one the woodcutters had visited recently. Wisps of smoke rose from chimneys, and the sun sparkled on the winter sea.
Every now and then the curtains behind the windows twitched and rippled, as if people were behind them, peeping out. Isobelle tried not to stare, the tiniest hint of uneasiness supplanting her interest.
‘How utterly charming,’ Hilde said, having not spotted the signs of covert observation.
As they approached the edge of the town, they came upon a large sign, freshly put up, if the sawdust around its base was any indication.
WELCOMME TO GALANTY-UPONNE-THE-SEA
A LEGENDARY HOLIDAYE DESTINATION
Gwen and Isobelle paused to study the sign, and were both caught by surprise – as was Princess Buttercup – when a woman sprang out from behind it, standing to attention and reciting a stiff greeting.
‘Welcome to Galanty-Uponne-the-Sea, Weary Traveller,’ she proclaimed, as if reading off an invisible script. ‘Allow me to Escorte you to Your Guide.’
‘Of course,’ said Isobelle politely, exchanging a quick glance with Gwen. Her champion looked about as enthusiastic as she had a week ago when she’d discovered she’d be speaking at a wedding.
They followed the woman along the road, weaving down the hill past the neat houses.
They were certainly well tended, freshly whitewashed, flowers in their window boxes, all meticulously manicured.
But for that eerie feeling of being watched, it was a perfect show.
Isobelle appreciated how much effort went into a facade as put-together as this.
When they reached the harbour itself, they found a little wooden dais in the centre of the square, all decked out with bunting. There was a jury-rigged curtain hanging nearby, apparently stitched together from flour sacks, and there was a row of chairs set out neatly in front of the stage.
Isobelle exchanged another look with Gwen, but they each dismounted, Gwen helping Tabitha down from Achilles.
They’d stopped a few hours before to water the horses and stretch their legs, and Gwen had filled Isobelle in on Tabitha’s backstory.
Isobelle hadn’t had much opportunity to talk with the girl, much less find out about her witchiness, so she hoped Tabitha would stick around a bit longer.
Isobelle suspected she would. She’d noticed that Tabitha’s eyes lingered a bit on Gwen anytime she thought no one was watching her – well, Isobelle could hardly blame the young witch for that. Who wouldn’t stare at Gwen?
Behind them, the carriage door opened to disgorge the rest of their party, the girls obviously delighted by this reception.
Townsfolk with the slightly red faces of the hastily scrubbed stepped forward to lead away their horses. Achilles went willingly and, after a show of consternation, Princess Buttercup allowed herself to be bribed.
The girls arranged themselves in the row of seats, gazing up at the dais expectantly.
From behind the makeshift curtain sprang an energetic young man whose golden curls and friendly energy reminded Isobelle of nothing so much as a spaniel that desperately wanted to play fetch.
‘What’s going on?’ Gwen whispered, from the other side of Tabitha. ‘My god, he’s like a puppy.’
‘I think,’ Isobelle whispered in reply, ‘that he’s trying to make a game of fetch happen.’ She was rewarded by a quick, sharp huff of laughter from Gwen, who quickly got herself back under control.
The young man bounded up onto the dais, cleared his throat, assumed a theatrical pose, and began – there was no other word for it – to declaim.
‘Welcome to Galanty-Uponne-the-Sea! I am Lord Felton Bingleton, and it is my pleasure to greet you as you enter my domain. But, my friends, though Galanty-Uponne-the-Sea is a warm and welcoming town, I must warn you that it was not always so.’
He lowered his voice, stepping to the front of the little stage in the manner of an actor playing for thrills.
Isobelle obligingly leaned forward in her seat, genuinely interested at this point to see what would happen next.
This might not be what they’d had in mind when they began adventuring, but her feet were dry, and she had a strong suspicion that a good meal was on the horizon. She was willing to play along.
‘Behold!’ thundered Bingleton, surprising her into rocking back in her chair with a squeak. ‘High upon the hill, la tour de la mort!’
He pointed up the coast towards the north where, sure enough, high atop a hill was a lonely stone tower, jabbing up at the sky like an accusing finger. It was not close enough to the sea cliffs to be a lighthouse, and loomed over the town in quite an ominous way.
‘Oh,’ said Jane with interest. ‘Is it French?’
‘I think it’s just dramatic,’ Sylvie muttered.
Lord Bingleton continued, entirely undeterred.
‘In dark days past, an evil sorceress resided in that fateful tower. She was a summoner of monsters most foul, and terrorised the local populace. Lives were ruined. Indeed’ – and now his voice dropped to a whisper – ‘lives were lost. The town lived in fear. They called her home la tour de la mort. The tower of death!’
Jane obligingly gasped, clasping her hands, and Bingleton broke character long enough to wink at her.
‘Just as it seemed that all of the town must become her thralls, Galanty-Uponne-the-Sea was saved by the shining paladins of the Order of the Evening Star. The Order triumphed over the sorceress and then vanished themselves, no doubt bound for some other town in need of their protection. Our torment was over … or so we thought. Alas, the sorceress had a lover! He was distraught by her loss and turned to necromancy, seeking to claw her back from the cold grip of death. Most say he wasted away, but some say he is still there to this very day, and still seeks to return his beloved to life, and continue her reign of terror.’
Isobelle honestly had to admire his delivery – his hand was clasped to his heart, his gaze fixed on the distant tower.
She glanced aside at Gwen, whose brow was furrowed but whose face was otherwise unreadable.
Isobelle had a feeling the other girl was working hard to hide her dismay.
Gwen didn’t have much patience for insincerity.
Then Lord Bingleton whipped around, hands spreading, drama dissolving in favour of a broad grin.
‘Assuming we survive the night, ladies, please enjoy every luxury Galanty-Uponne-the-Sea has to offer, and let that soupcon of danger bring an extra something to your holiday! Soak in the hot springs, their steam reminiscent of a dragon’s breath – the very dragon once summoned by the sorceress!
Drink a tonic brewed from flowers from the sorceress’s own garden – just a little and you’ll sleep blissfully, though too much and you’ll sleep forever!
Sample the local textiles, including patterns created by local women to ward against evil!
At night, sleep in comfortable and well-appointed hotel rooms in the tour de la mort itself! ’
‘Can we really?’ Hilde asked, clearly delighted.