Shadows in the CliffSpire

Fawks had reached the Cliffspire. Before him stretched a rough, open courtyard where the city’s buildings gave way to bare stone. To the left, a closed door led directly into the rock, guarded by two men.

Fawks had no wish to be seen. Keeping to the narrow alleys, he circled to the right side. Near the last house, he leapt and soared upward toward a high window.

But iron bars blocked it. In the darkness, he hadn’t noticed them before.

Just as he turned to leave, a faint light inside caught his eye. Peering closer, he recognized the place – he had seen it in his dream. Her cell.

Beneath the window, a figure slept peacefully. He couldn’t see her clearly, but he knew it was her. Selora. He held his breath, listening until he caught the rhythm of her gentle breathing. It was soothing, pulling him in. How will I get inside? he wondered, careful not to disturb her even with a loud thought. His eyes swept the tower, searching.

“Have you seen a boy around here this late?” came Cecile’s voice from below.

The guards shook their heads. “No one passes here at night,” they said.

Cecile’s expression shifted from disappointment to suspicion as she looked up at the eerie tower, its silhouette stark against the night. Why would they keep the princess here? she wondered, piecing together why Fawks had asked for such a remote place.

“Thank you,” she smiled politely, turning away. But two streets later she slipped left, circling the Cliffspire instead. “Fawks,” she called in a harsh whisper.

“Cecile!” he stuck his head out from a rooftop above. “I found her!”

“I told you to meet me at the gate!” she hissed, furious, waving wildly – she’d promised Elias to look after him.

“I’m sorry,” he tossed back quickly, brushing her reproach aside as he floated down.
“I found her, Cecile!” His voice bubbled with excitement.

She narrowed her eyes, seeing he wasn’t truly repentant. “I know you did,” she answered flatly.

“They have her up there.” He pointed toward the Cliffspire’s upper windows.

It was dark, but the faint glow of the night-suns fell across the rock, sharpening its lines. Smoke from nearby hearths thickened the air.

“Why would they keep her there?” Cecile murmured more to herself than to him.

“I don’t know. How do we get in?”

“I have an idea,” Cecile said, dismissing her painted stag with a wave.

Soon they crept to the tower’s base, hugging the cliff beside the last house. Most of the time the guards stood at the big door, to the left of it. but sometimes one would glance their way. Now, one had come closer.

As they waited, Cecile’s stag suddenly charged at the gate, thrashing its antlers wildly to scare and distract the guards.

The ruse worked. As the guards rushed to subdue it, Cecile and Fawks darted to the tower wall, pressing close to the stone. From her palette she dabbed paint and whispered, “I got this idea from your dad.” Then she sketched the outline of a door as high as her reach, blending its color with the tower’s stone.

Fawks noticed how all her drawings shared that same distinct style.

“Go,” she whispered. “Be careful.”

He soared up, eased the door open, and peered in. “Stairway,” he breathed.

At that moment, one guard struck the stag in the leg. It bolted, limping into the dark.
Cecile quickly climbed up with Fawks’s help and softly closed the painted door. “I’ll leave it here for our escape,” she whispered. “I hope they don’t notice it.”

Slowly, they began to climb the spiraling stair within. The entire tower was built of massive stones. Along the steep steps, darkness pressed in thick and heavy, broken only by the faint glow spilling from small half-circle landings before each new flight of stairs.

When they reached the third floor, the small landing gave way to a long corridor that vanished into the depths of the rock. Openings branched off left and right, leading to more chambers. But the light there was scarce, and they slipped past quickly.

On the next floor, however, the landing was bright – and faint mumbling drifted out from deeper inside. Cecile and Fawks leaned carefully from the shelter of the stairwell’s shadow.

Before them stretched a broad space, almost like a great room. At its far end stood a heavy wooden door, the kind that might open into a Great Hall. To its right, two men lounged at a barrel-turned-table, picking at food.

“How do we get past them?” Fawks whispered.

Footsteps echoed from below, climbing the stairs – from one or two levels down, perhaps. Either way, they had no time to waste.
“Come on,” Cecile urged. “They’re not looking – now!” she hissed, pushing him forward.

The two of them slipped swiftly across – but the light nestled in the alcove between the two staircases betrayed them, casting their shadows long across the chamber floor.

The guards shot up from their seats, half-eaten scraps tumbling. They shouted, steel scraping as they reached for weapons. From below, the footsteps turned into pounding boots, while louder commotion stirred behind the great door at the hall’s end.

“Go!” Cecile cried. As the guards lunged, she hurled paint at the lamps, splattering them into darkness. Fawks streaked high and fast, flying above the staircase to the next floor.

With a sweep of her brush, Cecile painted a wall across the stairwell, sealing it and holding back the guards swarming from below.