The Lost Princess: The Riddle of the Key

Prologue

The Hall of Flowers. A stone temple in the city of Pteleiros overrun with ivy that crept up the walls as it grew, and decadent displays of flower baskets hanging from what little of the ceiling that was not kept open to let the sun's rays wash over the foliage. It seemed more of a garden than a temple, but this was a place of worship, for the faithful gathered here to give thanks to Cybele, the Great Mother. A generous goddess, her gifts to man were without count, and so too were the prayers her faithful gave in return.

To lead the faithful was the priestess Phaedra, dressed in humble garb and flowers woven in her golden hair. Her voice carried a cadence that soothed and kept her fellows at ease, and it is said that the lost and the faithless would come, just to listen. Indeed, often were the times where a few would linger, hoping the ceremony would begin anew. Those few souls leave, sullen, but there was one man who was always the last to leave. He was shadowy, always watching from beneath the boughs in the temple. To the common folk, he was frightening, but not to Phaedra. To her, he was as anyone else, and she did always say that some plants thrive with less light.

Today's sermon was, by all accounts, uneventful. Today though, Phaedra's voice seemed to shake for some reason. A slight shake, but not enough for the shadowy man not to notice; for today, the shadowy man would approach Phaedra.

The sun had set, and the temple had grown dark. Moonlight would offer the illumination here, for torches were off-limits in this place. Phaedra had set to arranging the flowers when she heard the deliberate footsteps. She offered a warm smile to shadowy man when he approached.

Is there something you need from this servant of Cybele? Phaedra asked as she stood up.

Why, yes, I would ask a question of you, child of the Great Mother. Tell me, has Cybele answered your prayers, lately? The man smirked. The backhanded quip warned Phaedra that this man meant ill, and she could tell by the man's expression that he knew her answer.

Well...I will admit she hasn't been responsive, these days... Phaedra replied as she turned to the statue of Cybele, I'm sure she has her reasons. One cannot fathom what goes on in the day of a god, after all!

The man scoffed, with little effort to contain his laughter. It's not just 'these days,' that much I can tell. Cybele has been ignoring your prayers for weeks, now… Perhaps longer, The man pressed, I can tell you why, if you'll listen. Phaedra couldn't help but be concerned, but the man was correct.

While she kept her calm, she proposed, Very well, I'll humour you. Could you tell me who you are?

The man expressed his approval, I knew you'd listen, you're much more open than pretty much all of your fellows. My name is Endymion; I am a worshipper of Arlys.

Arlys!

Phaedra was taken aback at the name. She knew it well, but a servant of the Armageddon Queen within arm's reach of her was a frightful situation.

Oh, me and my big mouth...Though, 'tis only fair that we share the names of our patrons in this place of faith, no? Endymion prodded.

Phaedra choked up a response, Say your piece and leave, heretic.

Endymion seemed intrigued, Oh, it's been too many summers since I've been called that! You're far more interesting than I've given you credit, but we can speak daggers all night. It is time I 'humoured you.'

Endymion spoke of gods who fell silent, of gods who would no longer listen. He spoke of an approaching darkness, a darkness that the gods have preordained to do naught to hinder. The callous gods would have this be humanity's trial by fire; if man could weather the storm, then they were worthy...And if they weren't, they would be replaced by a new race of worshippers. Arlys the Armageddon Queen was the first of a few gods to speak against this inaction. Indeed, she was content with humans and how they prospered. She didn't believe there could be another people quite like humans, she considered them irreplaceable. Her fellow gods turned deaf ears to Arlys as they did to their own worshippers. That Cybele had become silent meant the darkness would soon fall upon Pteleiros, its people forsaken.

Do you understand, dear Phaedra? Endymion asked in a hushed tone. The gods would have the sun set on us...

And Arlys is supposed to be our saviour? She promises naught but ruin! Phaedra interjected.

Endymion gave a knowing nod. Well, yes. We don't get to choose our allies in our throes of desperation. Soon, we'll find ourselves in just such a dilemma. Endymion reached into his jacket and produced a bladed amulet which bore the mark of Arlys.

Nothing this heretic says will convince you, so I'll not waste my time. Endymion placed the amulet on the floor before Phaedra, before he pulled up his hood and turned away.

When the garden burns, use that amulet. Slash yourself across the gut, and anoint it with your blood. Arlys will understand your peril, but she will not give help that is unasked for. Endymion gave a dismissive wave as he made his way out of the temple.

We will meet again.

Phaedra stood dumbfounded as she watched Endymion leave. She took the amulet placed before her into her hands. Phaedra admired the craftsmanship, she ran her finger along one of the blades and found it razor sharp. She gasped as she bled on the amulet, quickly wiping it on her robe.

Such an evil thing...I must dispose of this, but how? Phaedra wondered. After a minute of thought, she thought it best that she keep the amulet, rather than risk it falling into someone else's hands. It was late, and Phaedra decided it was time to retire for the night.

That night, and the nights of the weeks after, would be plagued by nightmares.

She saw cities that burned, Pteleiros being one of them. She walked through the devastation, and saw faces both old and new stare back at her with twisted expressions on their dead faces. Among these people, none were spared, and Phaedra saw the bodies of women and children crushed beneath rubble or burned in the street. Phaedra saw herself sitting alone in the Hall of Flowers, covered in the ashes from the burning garden. Oddly, Phaedra didn't see the perpetrators; people seemed to die spontaneously, slain by invisible hands.

She saw herself at the head of an army. At her side were legions of wretched creatures of varied shapes. Some resembled huge men in dark armour, while others were as insects that crawled on spindly legs. She saw more creatures that took forms she could never fathom. She caressed the head of one creature as if it was a pet, and it hissed with joy. She turned to her enemy, and saw men in organized ranks who wielded strange weapons she hadn't seen before. The men were backed by giants of a dark yellow metal that gleamed in the sunlight, and who seemed to bristle with weaponry. She gestured her forces to charge, and the weapons of her foe spewed fire and metal. Her 'pet' was killed instantly.

She saw a small hamlet in the woods that she had lead the wretched creatures to. The inhabitants who fought back did so desperately, but stood no chance. Only one of the houses seemed to matter. She kicked down the door, and found a woman cowering inside. She cornered the woman, and in one fluid motion, tore away enough of the woman's clothing to reveal the tell-tale belly of pregnancy. Phaedra saw herself brandish a wicked blade before she had forced herself awake.

She saw herself in a desperate battle against an armoured warrior. The warrior wielded a spear with a point that seemed attached to a chain mechanism on the haft. The helmet the warrior wore resembled the head of a dragon. The two exchanged titanic blows, with neither seeming to gain the upper hand. The warrior pointed their spear at her, and the point shot out and impaled her. The warrior yanked her upward and slammed her into the ground like a ragdoll, again and again, and only relented when the spear point had been ripped out of her. She stood up, and saw that the warrior's helmet had opened. In the dragon's maw she saw not a face, but eyes that flared with rage. The warrior swung their spear, the point fired out mid-swing, and she felt the chain wrap around her neck before the warrior pulled back hard. Her head flew from her shoulders.

Every nightmare saw Phaedra awaken with a blood-curdling scream.

Phaedra's brothers and sisters at the Hall of Flowers, no doubt concerned for her well-being, thought it best that Phaedra retire from giving sermons until she recovered. She was sleeping less and less, and the voice that once soothed had grown hoarse. The prayers of her peers intensified, but like Phaedra, they found no answer from Cybele. With Phaedra's absence, less people came to the Hall of Flowers. The temple's garden began to wilt, as if it knew her absence as well, and the flowers that still had petals took on dull shades.

Phaedra herself suffered dearly, for her nightmares had shown her horrific sights. She fell into depression, and her mannerisms, once wholesome, grew sardonic and nihilistic. Phaedra blamed her suffering on that blasted amulet; she tried to get rid of it. Break it, throw it away, nothing helped; the amulet would return to her person each time in whole. While Phaedra suffered, Cybele remained silent, and it seemed the Great Mother would neglect her children.

It was during Phaedra's times of despair that Endymion's words would prove prophetic. The sky fell with a shriek, the land buckled, and the screams began their chorus. Pteleiros was under attack.

This had been the only night where Phaedra had no nightmares. She slept through the noise before being, in twisted irony, awoken to a real nightmare. Phaedra scrambled from her bed to assess the carnage from her window. Flame covered the skyline, black smoke blotted out the sun. Phaedra saw the invaders; men who wielded weapons that killed from a distance, uttering three snapping sounds each time. With these men were metal warriors who butchered Pteleiros' defenders with blades that spun and blended flesh, and hands that grasped with the strength to crush Pteleiran skulls beneath their helms, all to the chorus of metallic ticks. Among the mess of citizens who ran from the invaders, Endymion stood, he stared back at Phaedra while making the sign of Arlys with his hands. An invader turned his weapon on Endymion, and with three snaps, punched two holes in his chest and one through his eye. Endymion's body crumpled, his intact eye still fixed on Phaedra.

We don't get to choose our allies in our throes of desperation.

Phaedra was not about to stand idle, but she was no warrior. Her only recourse was to pray to Cybele for salvation. If the Great Mother did not answer, then perhaps Phaedra would be satisfied if she died in prayer.

Phaedra made her way through the temple, its halls choked with smoke. Many of her brothers and sisters in faith, in acceptance that they were forsaken had already fled. Those who stayed lay dead or soon to die, the temple littered with corpses and pained moans. Phaedra took care as she stepped over her peers; she couldn't help them, nor was there time to do so. Phaedra came into the garden, which had already burned to ash. In the chaos, the burned garden was as a quiet haven, with ashes and soot that fell like a light snow. Everything seemed so distant in this hall of death; the combat, the shouts and screams, that the city had fallen mattered little. Blackening her skin and robes with ash, Phaedra prostrated herself before the statue of Cybele and made her plea.

Great Mother, your doomed child, perhaps the last of your children, asks of you. Do you not see the destruction that befalls us? Do you not hear the evil and madness that darkens our city? Do you not smell the death on our winds? Your city destroyed, your garden ruined, the bodies of your children burned...Great Mother, I care not what form our salvation takes; I beg of you, deliver us! Deliver us from this chaos!

...

Phaedra raged at the statue of Cybele.

Why do you ignore us in our darkest hour? What have we done to deserve this fate? Is it your wish for us to suffer?! Answer me, damn you! Phaedra slammed her fists onto the stone floor. Her tears took on a black hue as they mingled with the ashes on her face, streams of black on her cheeks. She sobbed alone and pitiful, but she wouldn't be alone for long. The shouts from two invaders outside attested as much.

The two men entered the once-Hall of Flowers, training their weapons on Phaedra. One of them shouted at her in their strange tongue. Phaedra turned back to the men, and she wiped her face on her robe. One of the invaders' jaws dropped, and then a wicked smile crawled upon his face. He lowered his weapon, and muttered to his comrade, who soon followed suit with a similar grin. Phaedra didn't need to know their tongue to understand their intent, her heart started to pound.

No... She told herself, hatred grew within her as she took out the amulet of Arlys. Very well, if you would forsake us, then I would forsake all things! Phaedra took the amulet beneath her robe, and winced, an inky blackness stained her robe at the midsection. The two men stood confused.

Outside, Endymion smiled, and he shuddered with laughter.

The ashes of the plants Phaedra loved took on a life of their own, and they whirled like a hurricane about the garden and surrounded Phaedra. The invaders screamed and tried to flee, but to no avail. Clawed hands formed from the whirlwind of ash, they seized the two men. They struggled; one of them scrabbled on the stone floor as they were pulled toward Phaedra. The other invader gathered the wit to fire his weapon at Phaedra, but this only made matters worse. Several more grasping hands latched onto the attacker, and he was lifted off the ground and pulled ever faster. The ash had formed a swirling cocoon around Phaedra, the churning violent enough that the first soldier to be pulled onto it was disintegrated. His bone, gore, and the cloth and leather from his uniform mixed with the cocoon's ash. His comrade whimpered, too terrified to look, and soon shared his fate. The cocoon shuddered and contracted, and the swirling came to a stop. From the solid black cocoon burst a new fiend both beautiful and terrible to behold.

Phaedra abandoned everything, and became the first Arlysian.

Chapter 1

The Princess Awakes

The woman's eyes fluttered open. She lay in her silken bed, her mind felt like a blank slate. She felt as if she had slept for weeks, but didn't ache anywhere nor did she feel dirty. She also felt a bit warm, and she threw her covers aside to find she was clothed.

She sat up to the side of her bed to examine her clothes; they were regal in nature, as was everything in this room she woke up in. The outfit seemed to favour mobility, and didn't assume much despite being a deep red, sleeved, corset top with a skirt of similar colour, black breeches, and thigh boots with slight heels. Small white frills emerged from the cuffs on the sleeves. 

Who am I? She asked herself.  She examined the room around her; whoever she was, it was clear she was important to someone. The room was spotless, and the furniture was made of ornate, dark wood. The red carpeting felt soft. The white curtains on the windows were tidy and set, which allowed only a small amount of light through. On the white walls hung portraits of vast expanses and landscapes that the woman enjoyed looking at. 

Where am I? She asked herself. The woman almost fell over when she stood up. How long was I asleep? She wondered. She had enough of asking questions, it was time to find answers, starting with this room.

She searched each piece of furniture, with the wardrobe first. Inside the wardrobe was a variety of outfits, each seeming like they would fit the woman, but she was fine with the outfit she had. 

The striking feature of the wardrobe was the ornate rapier that hung from one of the doors, and the pair of fencing gauntlets that hung next to it. Curious, the woman put on the gauntlets, which fit perfectly, and took the rapier into her hands. She gave it a few swings and thrusts, and seemed to have an instinct for a few advanced techniques with the weapon. Whoever she was, she was a practiced hand with the rapier. Similarly instinctive was when she sheathed the weapon into the sling at her waist. She chuckled and stopped to take a breath. 

This is all something I would keep in a diary, if I had one... She reckoned.  Next was the vanity, which included a mirror. She sat in the chair before the vanity, and took a good look at herself in the mirror. She was young, twenty summers at least, with hazel eyes. Her dark blonde hair was kept shoulder-length, the bangs braided back to keep her hair from getting in her face. She figured she wasn't one to brag, but she found herself fair. She looked at the vanity itself. Rouges, powders, all manner of make-ups neatly set about the vanity. She wouldn't need these; this was no time to be concerned with her appearance. At the end of the make-ups sat a discreet little notebook. The woman seized the book and opened the first page.

Diary of Vera Castellana, Princess of Cagliostro

Could that be me? The woman asked. She took an ink and quill, and she flipped to the back page and decided to pen a cursory entry. 

I woke up today and I don't know who I am. I am good with a sword. 

She put the ink and quill aside while her work dried. Then she flipped to another entry.

The handwriting was the exact same.

A flood of answers came, and the woman knew herself to be Vera Castellana, a princess, and the place she was in was the kingdom of Cagliostro. Each entry had been meticulous in how it was dated; each entry even included the time of writing. It made Vera wonder where that information came. She searched around the room again, and she noticed a grandfather clock in the corner, though something seemed wrong with it. The time ran as normal, but the date was haywire! The numbers ran up and up, the hand representing the sun and three more that resembled moons where spinning madly, and Vera sensed something unnatural about the clock. Vera flipped through her diary for a reference to the clock:

Mother enchanted a clock for me today; it senses the position of the sun and the Three Graces in the sky! She said it gives an accurate time and date, no matter what. I thanked her, and went to see Master Barba to practice my fencing some more.

Interesting choice for a gift, Vera noted, I wonder what other magic my mother knew... The clock's spinning came to a halt, and the numbers landed on one final display: today's date! Vera took the last entry in the diary and compared the date to that on the clock. Her eyes went wide when she looked at the year.

The last entry was from two hundred years ago!

Two hundred...? No, this clock is faulty, it has to be! Vera said, shaking her head. The clock made to effort to agree or disagree as it continued to tick along. Vera noticed a winding-key resting on the clock. She took the key, and she inserted the key into the hole where she might reset the date, and turned. Each turn, the date would change forward. When she stopped and removed the key, the date reset by itself back to the date she started on; an accurate date, no matter what. 

Magic doesn't lie...What happened here? Two hundred years, and this place isn't in any disrepair? Maybe I should look for someone to ask... Vera told herself. Vera stood up and made her way to the door, wondering if anyone was left in this empty place...

Chapter 2

Shades of our past

The halls were silent save for the faint echoes of Vera's steps on the carpets that lined them. The loneliness in the castle felt like an overbearing weight, and Vera felt breathless as she took in her environment. The high ceilings were arched, and from them hung ornate chandeliers that once served to provide light to the halls. The chandeliers were not lit, but Vera imagined them themselves coming alight by nightfall. Magic was apparent in this place, after all, and Vera could feel it. 

My mother knew magic; do I know magic as well? Vera asked herself.  Vera had arrived at the castle's courtroom, where two great thrones formed the centerpieces of this vast space. Red linens hung from the walls to provide contrast to the white stone colonnades along the walls. A massive, even more ornate, golden chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling. Unlike the others, this chandelier lit itself when Vera entered the courtroom, providing a touch of warm light to the colour of the decor.

Vera approached the thrones, her