residence retained generations of historical artifacts and a sense of timeless beauty. But the Banns were not the kind to live in the dark ages – they kept up with the technology of the outside world quite well – and in some cases, outpaced society at large by getting the coolest, most expensive gadgets before most people could afford them.
And so, she passed full suits of armor on one wall, and the blinking LED lights of the palace intercom on the other. And she knew from experience that the armor suits were really robotic servants called autoknights – an invention of her late husband, Phillip.
She fled silently down three flights of stairs to the cold dungeon level – one area of the palace that could certainly stand to use a little updating and modernization.
Following the vision in her head, she reached the chamber, panting from the brisk pace.
It was locked from the outside.
She looked around frantically, and saw a cupboard on the opposite wall in the anteroom. She opened it, and to her relief, a ring of rusty medieval keys hung on a hook – seemingly forgotten.
She tried one after another in the door. Third time was a charm.
With a loud click, the lock opened, and the door swung open smoothly on hinges that waited until they were almost all the way open before letting out a mournful squeak.
She stepped into the dark.
“Ivan?” she whispered tentatively.
A pair of strong arms grabbed her from behind and bound her own arms to her sides. She wanted to scream, but thought better of it.
“Who are you? Let me go!” she hissed.
“Lillian?” came a raspy voice.
“Phillip?”
The arms released her, and she turned to look up into the eyes of her dead husband.
Only he was alive.
“Phillip!”
She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him roughly.
“Phillip, you – you look awful.”
It was true. The former Earl of Bann looked ten times worse than Charlie the vagrant. His black hair was long and matted, his skin smeared with muck and grime, and a thick, long beard with little tufts of gray in the chin area had claimed his face.
But the eyes were unmistakable.
Dark, twinkling eyes.
Ivan’s eyes.
“I – I thought you were Ivan. I couldn’t see clearly – the pathfinder charm.”
“Slow down, Lillian,” said Phillip, holding her arms in his strong hands. “Who’s Ivan?”
“He’s my son. He’s – he’s our son.”
“I – I have a son?” Phillip’ eyes glistened. Then his face grew serious. “Why are you looking for him in the dungeons?”
Lillian quickly explained the situation.
“Vitchoti? He is responsible for all of this? I had no idea. One day, I was eating lunch – then I fell very sick. Next thing I knew I was locked in here. I assumed the estate had been invaded, taken over by a hostile force while I was sick. I’ve had no guard to speak to, just received rations sent by one of the autoknights. I’ve been alone in here for nine years.”
“You didn’t know? Any of it?”
“No. The walls of this dungeon are enchanted – it’s why you couldn’t see clearly into this room – why you thought I was Ivan – we must share similar auras. Likewise, I was not able to use any charms to see out. I’ve been unable to use any of my powers to save myself from this fate. But you – you saved me.”
“And now together we must save Ivan.”
“Yes,” said Phillip, turning to the open door. “Come – we’ll go to the armory first.”
He took her by the hand and quickly led the way out of the depressing cell, out into the light. He approached a wall, tapped a code into a little keypad, and a hidden door opened in the smooth rock surface. “Come on – it’s a short cut.”
They raced up a narrow flight of stone stairs lit by recessed fluorescent lighting that cast a yellow-orange tone on their faces.
“Why would Vitchoti do this?” asked Phillip.
“Well,” said Lillian, “Ivan just turned eight. I bet Vitchoti is making a preemptive strike – planning to kill Ivan to make sure there is no rightful heir to the estate – so he can consolidate his power and make permanent his grip on that which is not his own.”
“Vitchoti has always been very reluctant to draw blood – I suppose that’s why he locked me away instead of just doing away with me outright. I can’t imagine he would kill a mere boy – he probably intended to lock him up, too. Why else would he have spared him and brought him here? He’s likely just trying to decide if he should lock him up with me or give him his own cell.”
They reached the top of the steps, turned right, and exited the secret tunnel, emerging in a room filled with weapons.
“Here,” said Phillip, handing Lillian a laser-sighted 9mm pistol and a short-handled hatchet. “Best we prepare for anything.” He grabbed himself a Walther P99 semi-automatic and slid a two-foot long sixteenth-century katana backsword into his worn belt.
“Where we going?” asked Lillian, following on his heels.
“If I know Vitchoti at all, he’ll be struggling with the whole thing – trying to pretend to treat he boy nicely – feeding him and such – while he tries to figure out what to do. He often did things without thinking them through first. He probably nabbed Ivan, then realized he didn’t have a good plan in place.”
“So, you think they’ll be having breakfast?”
“Yes,” he said, punching up a security camera view on a screen on the wall of the armory. “There.”
They stormed up another flight of stairs and burst into the breakfast hall through a service door.
Vitchoti was trying to play good guy, feeding the little boy a plate of eggs and fresh bacon. He sat next to young Ivan, wearing a regal blue robe that brought out his blue eyes and contrasted with his graying blond hair that was cut short. A trim reddish goatee framed his mouth squarely.
Ivan looked healthy, but not happy. He looked up and saw his mother.
“Mama!”
Vitchoti shot a shocked glare at the intruders, then grabbed Ivan around the neck in a headlock and pointed a knife to his throat. “Stay back!”
“Mama!”
“Hold on, Ivan,” cried Lillian, “it’s going to be all right. Don’t struggle.”
“That’s right,” said Vitchoti, gripping the boy tighter. “Don’t struggle.”
He stood up, dragging Ivan backward with him, keeping his eyes on Phillip and Lillian the whole time. He walked him back to a door, but did not look around to open it.
“Why don’t you just forget about this, Vitchoti,” said Phillip. “It’s over now – I’m free, I know all about what you’ve done. And soon, everyone else will know, too. My people will be loyal to me, and they’ll probably want to see you hang. But I will spare you. Just release the lad.”
Vitchoti dropped the knife.
He flicked his wrist and a tiny parlor pistol slipped out and into his hand. In one fluid motion he brought it up and fired at Phillip.
Phillip was struck in shoulder. As he staggered back he dropped to one knee, took aim with his own gun and shot the weapon right out of Vitchoti’s hand.
A true sharpshooter.
Vitchoti shook his hand from the sting, reached into his vest and pulled out another weapon. But as he drew it out, it went off, putting a hole through Ivan’s neck.
The boy crumpled to in his grip.
Vitchoti looked shocked.
He dropped the gun and fell to his knees, the limp young Ivan in his arms. “No,” he mumbled, “no – I – I didn’t mean to – it was an accident.”
Lillian’s hands flew up to her mouth and she gasped. Her legs buckled and she fell to the floor.
Phillip’s face contorted into a snarl and he screamed “Noooooo!” as he clambered to his feet and rushed at Vitchoti in a rage.
Vitchoti didn’t know what hit him.
>
The two grappled and rolled around on the floor, choking each other.
Lillian tried to stand up, but her legs were jelly. Her eyes were overflowing with tears. She could not believe what was happening – what had just happened.
She struggled to maintain focus. Somehow, Vitchoti was now getting the better of Phillip. He was straddling him on the floor, his hands clenched around Phillip’s neck.
Lillian picked up the hatchet she’d dropped, staggered over to the men locked in battle, raised the blade, and brought it down on the back of Vitchoti’s head.
He immediately collapsed, the hatchet buried in his skull.
She pushed him off of her husband.
It was too late.
Phillip stared up at her glassy eyed.
Dead.
Lillian touched his face with a shaking hand, then turned and saw Ivan. She dragged herself over to his little body, and cradled him in her arms, rocking and crying.
Surrounded by death.
As numbly she rocked her dead child, she felt the hard surface of an object poking her in the side.
A thought fought its way through her grief, tickling at her mind.
Suddenly, it hit her.
The flask.
The timewater.
Perhaps all was not lost.
Reluctantly, she gently laid Ivan down on the cold floor, stood up on quivering legs, walked past her dead husband, and out of the breakfast hall.
She knew the palace fairly well, and was able to quickly find the main kitchen.
“Oh, excuse me,” said a housekeeping woman when Lillian entered. Then she did a double take. “Oh my, aren’t you Lady Lillian? What are you doing here? Oh my,” her eyes widened. “You’re covered in blood. What is going on here?”
“I need the freezer. The flash freezer. Where is it?”
“The flash