Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 120974 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 403(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120974 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 403(@300wpm)
“Very well then, I will await your return,” the Sorceress tells us. “But though you go together, you, my dear, must open the door.” And she nods at me.
“I will,” I say. Taking a deep breath, I step forward and Valen steps with me. I reach for the knob—it feels ice-cold in my hand—and turn it.
The door opens and radiant, pale purple light spills out. I feel a cold chill rush down my spine as I squint into the brilliance. What am I going to see in there? And how will I know if it’s the truth or a lie or something that happened in the past or something that hasn’t happened yet and might or might not happen in the future?
I have no answers—only more questions. But Valen’s hand is warm and strong in mine—it gives me courage.
Together, we step through the doorway.
60
IRENA
The purple light blinds me for a second. I blink my eyes, trying to adjust to the radiance. When my vision finally adjusts, I see that I’m standing in the middle of a familiar spot—the dining hall of my own castle.
Also, I’m alone. I look all around me, but Valen is gone.
I feel a stab of panic. Has the Door of Uncertainty simply transported me home? And if so, how am I ever going to get back? When will I ever see Valen again? Somehow that upsets me the most.
I take a step, but my slippers make no sound on the flagstones. The familiar arched ceiling overhead is hung with the banners of all the Noble houses. The hall is filling with people—Courtiers and Nobles come to dine with the King.
Wait—the King? Yes! For sitting at the Royal table on the dais above the rest of the tables is my Father—Good King Ferrand. He is alive again—his beard black and bushy and his face pink with health.
I can’t help remembering how he looked the last time I saw him. So shrunken and wasted, all his hair turned gray. But here he is in the flower of health, looking hale and hearty.
“Father!” I cry and run to him…but he doesn’t lift his head. And though the people around me step out of my way, they don’t seem to see me.
I try again.
“Father!” I shout, at the top of my lungs. I want him to look up—to see me. I want to hug him and tell him that I’ve missed him dreadfully.
But he is busy talking to an advisor who is seated to one side of him and again, no one so much as glances in my direction. I try pinching one of the Noble women—Atribella is her name and she’s always been nasty to me—on the arm. To my astonishment, my fingers pass right through her flesh, as though it wasn’t even there.
I look around again…am I a ghost here? Is the Door of Uncertainty showing me something that happened in the past? If so, then this is not my father—not truly. It is only a shade of him—one I cannot touch or talk to.
I feel a stab of bitter disappointment, but then a voice whispers in my ear,
“Look and see, child. You have been brought here for a purpose.”
I glance around, but there’s no one beside me—where did the voice come from? Is it the voice of the Door of Uncertainty itself…or some benign spirit that lives in its strange, other-land spaces?
I have no answers, but I feel drawn to look again at my father as he sits at the Royal table. A moment later, my older brother comes in. He is dressed in his Court finery, as are all the Nobles and he bears The Cup of Sovereignty to my father. It is a large chalice made of pure gold with a stem as long as a candlestick and a cup as wide as a bowl. It can hold nearly an entire bottle of wine, though that much is almost never used, since it is for ceremonial purposes only.
I frown—why is the Door showing me this? It’s not an unusual occurrence—it’s standard practice that the Heir Apparent is always the Cup Bearer to the King.
As I watch, my brother lifts a rich crimson cloth and runs it carefully around the lip of the large golden chalice before handing it to my father.
“Your Majesty—health, wealth, and long life to you,” he intones, speaking the traditional words as he passes the Cup.
“Thank you.” My father takes the Cup of Sovereignty in both hands, nods to my brother, and takes a sip. Then he passes it back again.
Once more my brother wipes the cup. Then he bows and retreats. He will hand the Cup off to a servant and then come back to take his rightful place at my father’s right hand for the banquet.
I’m still frowning with uncertainty when the scene shifts—but only subtly.