Bela hung by one arm, high above Regael Castle. Her flailing legs swept the rounded stone tower, fighting to recover her position. Her burning hand clenched the braided rope, and she strained as it slid through her grasp. Far below, torches illuminated whirling courtyards. But this night she would not fail. She could not fail. The Great King was counting on her. The rescue had to succeed.
She swung her free arm above her head, got hold of the rope, and pulled hard. In a swiveling movement, she wrapped and looped the dangling end around herself. If she slipped again, at least she would be caught up in a tangle of rope and not be a pile of broken bones in the castle gardens.
Bela began her assent at the beginning of the second watch, climbing the southeast side of the northernmost tower. Twenty minutes had passed, and she had at least that to go. Several more slow, well-placed steps and she rose above four other towers that surrounded her. Far out below to the north, lantern lights dotted the immense stone structure that guarded the bay at Port Regael. To the east, a waxing gibbous moon hung just above the Agaes Mountains.
She did not fear the heights or that she almost fell to her death. She did, however, fear the evil magic—the sorcery that guarded the top of the tower.
Much like climbing high in the Agaes Mountains was climbing into a dark spell. With each step, she took two breaths, each long and labored.
But Bela continued to climb, pulling against gravity and pushing into thick magic. Like invisible fog, the spell was dense. Her head did a loop forward, which she caught, but her sight went into a spin. Closing her eyes, she counted to three, inhaled, and, after shaking her head, pressed on.
Reaching the parapet, the icy wind slapped her face and stole her breath. Eyes forced closed, her head jerked sideways. She stretched out her arms and pulled herself through a crenel in the battlement. Twisted in her rope, she fell limp into a thin layer of snow a top the tower. Her chest tight, she struggled for oxygen that wasn’t there.
“Sleep it off.” “You’d do well to rest now.” Voices floated through her head. Or were they her own thoughts? “You are weak and merciless.” “You never should have come.” “A foolish young woman like you will never outlast the spell.” “Sophia is already dead. How’s that for justice? And you will die beside her!”
Bela remembered Sophia’s words from years ago: “The trouble with dark magic is that it will deceive you. It will seek to redirect your focus. You must break through it—keep moving.”
Bela twisted and her body ached, but she pushed herself to her hands and knees. Fighting to lift her head, she thought she would tear a muscle. She shook off the rope as she crawled. When she managed to look up, her exertion paid off.
“Sophia!”
Sophia lay lifeless, chained to the top of the tower. Knotted strands of her greying yellow hair blew feral in the winter air. The rags of her remaining white gown left much of her skeletal frame exposed to the elements. She trembled. Her face, long and grey, turned toward Bela, but her eyes remained closed and she spoke not a word.
“Oh, my dear friend,” Bela whispered.
She met Sophia at the age of seven. Sophia would often visit her at this very castle. Twelve years had passed since then. Besides the grey in her hair, Sophia hadn’t aged. She was old enough to be Bela’s mother yet looked young enough to be her sister. Indeed, Bela considered her an older sister.
“Let’s get you out of here.”
Bela produced a small two-fold rawhide pocketbook from within her brown leather vest. She unwrapped the twine cord that bound it closed and laid it open before her. Between her nerves, the cold, and the dark magic, she fumbled for her tool of choice and went to work picking the locks that bound Sophia to the roof.
The locks were not all that kept Sophia bound. She was under a curse. The evil sorcerer, Medici, was the perpetrator. And this wasn’t the first time he captured her. Sophia escaped from him countless times before.
You see, an evil spell is like a virus. It will attack the body and slowly wane. Not as quickly as one would like of course, but in time, under the influence of cruel magic, one will, to put it simply, get better.
Medici knew this and he knew Sophia’s strength. That is why this time he left her here. Not only under a spell, but guarded by a spell. In the cold temperatures, her body would fight to stay warm and the effects of the spell would last longer. And at the king’s behest she would die slowly.