The Treacherous Secret Page 10

  It is Sir Greyson. “Please,” he says. “Let us do this the easy way. Hand your children over to the king.”

  But the people do not listen, for they love their children. If only they would listen.

  The “run” in their minds becomes a run in their legs. The whole village erupts in an explosion of sound and color and action, all its people fleeing in different directions, screaming different pitches, slipping on the stones so the king’s men reach them before they can ever rise.

  They run from Death and all the king’s men.

  Perhaps not all the king’s men. For there is one, the one who is called Captain, who cannot trust himself to move. The rain clatters against his armor, and it mirrors so distinctly the clattering of his sorrow inside that he can only drop his head and weep. He must turn away, he must, but he is the leader of these men who slash and slay.

  And what about his mother?

  Death and the king’s men are quick. We could not follow them if we tried. There is a woman who searches the soldiers for her husband, for she would rather hand her daughter to him than the childless soldier who rips the girl from her grasp. There is another mother slain for holding her child close rather than letting him go into the arms of a soldier she knows lives down the street. There she lies broken and red on the ground. And there is her boy, dragged to the edge of the village as if he does not fight with all the strength his little body has, tossed into an iron cage that is waiting for all of them on the wheels of a cart.

  It is the same for too many.

  In all the clamor, Maude draws Hazel and Theo to her side. “Go,” she says. “Go to the Weeping Woods. Meet us there. We shall bring the other children, as many as we can.” She kisses them both on the forehead and thrusts them away from her. That is all they need to begin their flight.

  But they flee in different directions.

  “This way, Theo,” Hazel calls through the driving rain and the roaring wind. Her brother moves toward the thick of the battle.

  “It is me they want,” he says. “I have to at least try to save them.” And he is off and away, moving toward a group of tiny children huddling beneath a merchant cart.

  “Theo!” Hazel screams, but her brother has already vanished in the rain and madness.

  “Hazel!” Mercy says. She is at Hazel’s elbow. “We must go. He will come.”

  They point their feet toward the Weeping Woods and run as fast as they can, without looking back.

  If they had looked back, they might have seen more children streaming in after them, flying on Maude’s words. They might have seen the king’s men give chase. They might have seen another of the king’s men, the leader of them all, slumped on the back of a horse.

  They might have seen Theo crouched beneath the merchant’s cart with a handful of the village children. They might have seen that merchant cart move, barreling through bodies with no place to hide.

  They might have seen parents falling, run through by swords and daggers and trampled by the heavy hooves of horses. They might have seen the streets run red.

  They might have seen the woods closing in on the ones who made it that far.

  Protecting them? Hiding them? Sparing them?

  That much cannot yet be known.

  IN the days after the roundup, the village streets grow quiet. The king has sent his royal custodian to clean them. This is no easy task. There is much blood, though, strangely, the bodies have all disappeared. The royal custodian does not question this, for he knows strange rituals exist for death. He assumes the village people have disposed of the bodies in ways only they know.

  The captured children, at this very moment, sit in the king’s throne room. Most of them are weeping. Weeping because they lost their parents. Weeping because they are afraid. Weeping because they tried to run, but they were not as swift as the ones who escaped.

  “Nineteen,” says Garth, the king’s page. “Nineteen twelve-year-olds.”

  “And how many are there in the kingdom?” King Willis says. The number does not sound right. He thought there were more children.

  “Forty-three, sire,” the royal statistician says. He is a small man, meek and timid with a black mustache that curls around his cheeks. This news of missing children gives him more reason to be meek and timid.

  “Forty-three!” King Willis says. “That makes twenty-two missing.”

  The statistician clears his throat. It is no easy task to correct a king. “Twenty-four, Your Highness,” he says.

  “Unacceptable!” The king explodes with a violent punch to the arm of his throne. It is a wonder he does not break his hand. Perhaps he is saved by the exorbitant amount of flesh covering his bones, for any other man might have cracked bones striking a hand against pure gold. The sound is so unexpected that Prince Virgil, who sits beside the king today, startles.

  The royal statistician, poor man, does not want to say more, but he clears his throat again. “Also four eleven-year-olds and three ten-year-olds.”

  King Willis lets out a loud roar. The children huddle together, hiding their eyes from this angry red man with the combed over hair and fiery face and a belly bigger than any they have seen in their lives.

  And then the great throne room falls silent. The children do not move or speak and barely breathe. I do not have to tell you, dear reader, that silence can sometimes be more frightening than sound.

  “Where could they have gone?” the king says. His voice is much calmer now. More kingly. The children open their eyes.

  “We combed the streets, sire,” Sir Greyson says. He speaks beneath a mask of armor, does not even lift the eye plate. Perhaps he knows better than any that his work is far from done.

  “The woods?” King Willis says.

  “The Weeping Woods are a dangerous place,” the statistician says. He appears surprised that he has spoken. He is not a man who speaks out of turn. He looks at the captain, but it is impossible to see Sir Greyson beneath all the silver.

  “We will search it,” Sir Greyson says.

  “I command it,” King Willis says. “The lost children must be found.”

  “I might lose men,” Sir Greyson says. He does not, in truth, know if the danger is worth the risk. To find children who have disappeared? Magic children who might be anywhere?

  “Do not return until you find them,” King Willis says. “Visit every kingdom if you must.”

  Sir Greyson bows his head. “As you wish,” he says. He graces the king with another bow that makes his armor clank, and then he strides out the door.

  Prince Virgil looks at his father. His father looks at him. “We will find them,” King Willis says.

  “Yes,” Prince Virgil says. His stomach twists once, twice, and he finds that he cannot look his father in the face. He is worried. Worried about his friends. Worried about the children who stand before him. But he must not show that worry to his father, for King Willis would not understand it.

  “Now,” King Willis says, as if to himself. “What shall we do with these?”

  Prince Virgil looks at the children and then quickly away. Some of them are friends. Some of them are not. He does not want to know what will happen to them. He would like to leave the throne room, before this decision is made. And so our prince starts toward the door, but, alas, he is not fast enough.

  “Throw them in the dungeons beneath the dungeons,” King Willis says.

  The children begin to cry out. The whole room is filled with their weeping.

  Prince Virgil begins to run. And he is gone before their cries turn to words, pleas, bargains for anything that might keep them from visiting a place that the tales say is a world of dark and cold and rats and spiders and stale bread and sour water and loneliness. Yes, mostly loneliness. It is everything a child hates most.

  But what the children do not know is there are people waiting. People waiting to warm them, to hold them, to help them sleep.

  One hundred forty-three of them.

  They will rock the children
to sleep tonight and every other night the dark is filled with bodies.

  Even a dungeon can become a home when it is warmed by love.

  The End

  Don’t miss out on the next Fairendale adventure!

  Will the magical children escape the relentless pursuit of King Willis? Find out in Book 2: The Pursuit.

  About the Author

  WHILE SHE HAS NEVER possessed the gift of magic, L.R.’s teachers claimed she had a gift for words, which one might agree is quite like a gift of magic. Bringing a story to life that did not exist before is very much like transforming an old shoe into a dish towel. L.R. feels quite honored that she was given this gift and hopes to use it to encourage other young writers to discover their own gifts, for what is the world without words and stories?

  L.R. is the queen of her castle in San Antonio, TX. She lives with her king and her six young princes, who daily give her inspiration for more grand tales of magic and adventure.

  www.lrpatton.com

  A Note From L.R.

  I HOPE YOU’VE ENJOYED reading this book from the annals of Fairendale’s history. The world of Fairendale has been a lovely world to create, and I’ve had fun sketching maps, re-reading fairy tales and thinking, endlessly, about characters and their plights—because a series like this one takes lots and lots of time and hard work. But because it’s always been my dream to create a fantasy world and share it with my readers, I knew it was something I had to do. (So, you see, dreams really do come true.)

  If you have any questions about Fairendale or simply want to send me a note to tell me who your favorite character is or what kinds of extras you’d like to see me release in the future (a Creatures of the Violet Sea is coming soon!), email me at lr@lrpatton.com. I always enjoy hearing from my young readers.

  Please consider leaving (or ask your parent to leave) a review of this book wherever you bought it. Reviews help get books into the hands of potential new readers, which is incredibly important for authors like me. And don’t forget to pick up your free bonus materials when you stop by my web site! (www.lrpatton.com)

  Thank you so much for supporting my work.

  In love,

  L.R.

  The Royal Family of Fairendale

  KING WILLIS: The current king of Fairendale. Has a deep love for sweet rolls, and it shows in his, well, wideness.

  Queen Clarion: The current queen of Fairendale. Is underestimated by her husband, but we shall see just how powerful she is soon enough.

  Prince Virgil: Son of King Willis and Queen Clarion, best friend of Theo. Prefers rye bread with melted butter to sweet rolls, depending on the day.

  King Sebastien: Deceased king of Fairendale, exception to the line of boys who tried to steal thrones and were, upon failing at their quest, forever banished. Was killed by a blackbird.

  The Villagers

  ARTHUR: Village furniture maker and magic instructor to girls who possess the gift of magic. Is a bit reckless but always manages to come out on the other side—though one is not always assured it will be so.

  Maude: Arthur’s wife. Bakes spectacular pumpkin sugar cookies. Prefers caution to reckless abandon.

  Hazel: Daughter of Arthur and Maude, twin of Theo. Cares for the village sheep and can even, amazingly, understand them.

  Theo: Son of Arthur and Maude, twin of Hazel. Finishes his chores early so he can sit in on magic lessons.

  Mercy: Daughter of Cora, best friend of Hazel. Prefers spectacular acts of magic to “boring” ones.

  Cora: Mother of Mercy, widow, shape shifter. A woman who moves.

  Garron: The town gardener. Talks to plants as if they can hear him.

  Bertie: The town baker. Enjoys showing off his air-kneading skills for the children.

  Staff of the Castle

  GARTH: Page for King Willis, the oldest of twelve children. Sometimes calls King Willis “Your Wideness.”

  Cook: One of the few shape shifters in the land. Shape shifts into a bear. Is highly annoyed by her assistant, Calvin.

  Calvin: An orphan who began working as Cook’s assistant instead of traveling to live with distant relatives in Ashvale—and so did not perish in the volcano that claimed the entire population of Ashvale many years ago. Tasked with feeding the prisoners in the dungeon beneath the dungeons.

  Sir Greyson: Captain of the King’s guard. Receives medicine for his service to the king, which keeps his mother alive. Carries a magical sword that cannot be lifted by any but him.

  Sir Merrick: Second in command to Sir Greyson.

  Important Prophets

  ALEEN: A prophetess who is one hundred forty-two years old, from the kingdom of White Wind. Wears ebony skin and what appears to be snakes for hair (though it is not, dear reader).

  Yerin: A prophet who is one hundred forty-two years old, from the wild land between Lincastle and Eastermoor. Has white hair that makes the dark of the dungeons where he is imprisoned a bit less dark.

  Dragons of Morad

  ZORAG: Leader of the dragons of Morad. Lost his parents in the Great Battle, when King Sebastien stole the throne from the Good King Brendon. Would like nothing more than peace.

  Blindell: Zorag’s nephew, raised as the leader’s son. Lost his parents in the Great Battle, when King Sebastien stole the throne from the Good King Brendon. Would like nothing more than revenge.

  Larus: One of the elder dragons of Morad, male. Counselor to Zorag.

  Malera: One of the elder dragons of Morad, female. Counselor to Zorag.

  The missing 12-year-old children

  URSULA

  Chester

  Charles

  Thumbelina (known as Lina among the children)

  Minnie

  Jasper

  Frederick

  Ruby

  Martin

  Oscar

  Homer

  Anna

  Aurora

  Rose

  Edgar

  Harriet (known as Hattie among the children)

  Isabel (known as Izzy among the children)

  Ralph

  Dorothy

  Julian

  Tom Thumb

  Philip

  www.lrpatton.com/goodking