The Exiled Queen

Chapter 9

(Photograph by @r30colin, Dunluce Castle, Northern Ireland used with permission)

Back at the estate, I allow Berylstone to tend to me. I wouldn't be able to unlace the intricate workings of the gown myself anyway. And I don't want to keep acting in a way that would seem out of the norm for Taryn, causing Berylstone reason to suspect something. Or give her something to report back to Locke as I unintentionally did earlier. As well, tending to Taryn is part of her duties in her employment here. I would not want to cause her to be coincidentally insubordinate to her master. There are rules of formality here amongst the Gentry.

Most of the house has retired at this late hour. The kitchens were dark, the cooks long returned to their own dwellings. And I did not see any of the other servants who work in the house, aside from the footman who received me, and Berylstone. Nothing will seem amiss: I left the palace as Taryn and returned home as Taryn.

I wait restlessly after Berylstone has finally finished fussing over me and leaves me to myself in Taryn and Locke's rooms. Pacing back and forth in front of the hearth and alternating bites of apple and cheese with sips of tea, I listen for her slow and heavy footsteps to clop down the back stairwell. The fire has since died down to glowing embers, tinting the room an eerie orange. Satisfied that it is now safe, I dash over to the wardrobe on what I consider Taryn's side of the bedchambers and quickly rifle through her belongings in search of a tunic and hopefully a pair of trousers and boots.

At the bottom of the wardrobe, folded neatly and tucked away beneath the frill of Taryn's countless dresses and gowns, I find a pair of thick wool riding pants and tall leather riding boots. In a small drawer I find one of the bras Taryn bought at the mall. With a thankful sigh I cast off the nightgown Berylstone put me in as if I were a small child and shove my legs into the pants and boots.

I couldn't find a tunic. And I'm not surprised; Taryn always preferred wearing gowns. When we were children, months and months after we first came to live in Madoc's home, Taryn told me that she liked dressing just like the princesses in the storybooks that Mom used to read us. That she pretends she is one. I didn't feel the same way. I liked the dresses just fine but I preferred to pretend to be a knight, wielding my practice stick around as if were a real gleaming sword of the strongest metals.

I resort to one of Locke's wide shouldered and frill-sleeved shirts. I have to roll the cuffs twice which creates a ridiculous bulk over my wrists but it'll have to do. Berylstone left my hair loose for sleeping so I gather it up into a braid down my back and secure it with twine.

The quickest way to Insweal, which hosts the Tower of Forgetting on the highest of the craggy bluffs above the fiercest tide of Elfhame, is not far from Locke's estate. There the sea covers a mass of jagged rocks the size of ships. The waves crash so violently against them that they reach to the top of the prison's soaring tower in thunderous beatings. And continuously shower the cells within with cold, salty sea water.

I debate taking a toad the edge of Insmire. It would be less conspicuous to travel by foot. And it's possible there could still be a groom in the stables who would see me. As well someone might spot the toad if I leave it secured at the cliff side. I choose to walk instead, although I will have to hurry.

My eyesight is poor in the dark, I stumble and fall and trip and nearly twist an ankle as I run through the rough terrain of the island between Locke's estate and the shoreline. There is no frequented pathway here; the ground covered in thick and twisting roots and scattered in hollowed out acorns, fallen branches and broken pine cones. The night is cool and the wind kicks up the closer I get to the sea, carrying with it the scent of brine and juniper. When I nearly collide into a large thorny shrub inhabited by sprites, I inadvertently attract their unwelcome attention. The bush lights up in a flash of startled and angered sprites who dart after me, plucking at strands of hair and nipping at my exposed flesh. Finally they tire out or give up, or realize I am not trying to cause harm just as I reach the edge of the isle.