‘The Hall of Kings became the Hall of the Stewards,’ said Violet.
Justice nodded. ‘The Stewards swore when the battle was done that they would keep guard against the Dark King’s return. Humans were growing in number, and the last remaining magical creatures of that world spent what was left of their power to hide the Hall, shrouding it in wards and magic. Now we Stewards serve in secret, and those who have the Blood of Stewards are Called from across the world to join our fight.’
It explained why many Stewards seemed as if they were from other countries, if they had come here from across the world as their kings had once done. Violet had heard different languages spoken in the Hall, particularly when the Stewards had gathered in knots to discuss her arrival with Justice. She remembered that she had also heard Stewards with different accents, like the French Steward on the ship.
‘It’s said that in our darkest hour, the Stewards will Call for the King, and the line of Kings will answer.’ Justice smiled a little ruefully, as if even to him this was just a story. ‘But for now, we stand because we are the only ones left. And we hold to our vows – to guard against the Dark, to watch for signs, and to remember the past – as Stewards have done for centuries.’
She couldn’t help wondering what had happened to those ancient kings. They had left the fight to the Stewards, who had taken it up loyally, holding to their duty for far longer than anyone might have imagined. What had made the kings turn from the fight?
Around her, the Hall took on a new importance, and as they walked through its forest of marble columns, she thought about the kings and queens who had lived in here, glimmering, majestic beings who surpassed humanity in power and beauty.
Then she turned and saw a face.
It was floating midway up the wall and staring at her. She let out a sound and stepped back.
A second later, she saw that it was only an etching. Tarnished and faded, the face of a lion was staring back at her with liquid brown eyes. It was carved onto the old, broken piece of a shield that hung on the wall like a trophy.
‘What is that?’ she said.
‘The Shield of Rassalon,’ said Justice.
The Shield of Rassalon. That name echoed in her, stirring something deep. The lion seemed to look right at her. She reached out to the stone beneath the shield, where strange writing was carved into the wall. Time had half eroded its words.
Violet’s fingers brushed the words, tracing the cool stone, her heart pounding. ‘What does it say?’
‘We Stewards have lost most of our knowledge of the old language,’ said Justice, ‘but I’m told it says, “Rassalon the First Lion”。’
Violet jerked her fingers back as if singed. She was staring at the lion with its great mane and liquid eyes, her pulse racing.
The First Lion …
‘The Stewards have few artefacts of the old war,’ said Justice, ‘but this is one of them. Here the Shield of Rassalon was broken.’
She couldn’t help staring at the lion on the shield, her mind racing with a thousand questions.
Who was Rassalon? Why had the Stewards fought him? How had he come to fight for the Dark King? This shield … what is it? What am I caught up in?
The lion seemed to gaze back at her. She imagined Stewards with spears encircling an animal that bled where it was pierced in the side. Stewards had been fighting Lions since the great battles of the old world.
‘Excuse my interruption, Justice.’ A girl’s voice jolted Violet out of her reverie. She recognised Grace, the janissary who had shown her to her room the night before. ‘The Elder Steward is ready to see Will.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
HEART POUNDING, WILL followed Grace down a long corridor, deep into the Hall.
The architecture changed around them, the archways lower and narrower, the shapes of the carvings different, the walls thicker. A stillness hung over everything, as if no one ever came to this part of the Hall.
They reached double doors set at the end of a passageway. Will stopped, aversion keeping him back. He felt as if he was about to enter a tomb, a place that should not be disturbed. I don’t want to go in there. But Grace pushed the doors open.
The room was circular with a domed ceiling, the grey stone old as the immovable rock of a mountain. In the centre was a stone tree, carved to reach the ceiling.
The tree was dead, desiccated and blackened, as if a living tree had ossified centuries ago.
Will shivered with a shock of terrible familiarity; he knew this place, but somehow all he knew was gone, replaced by the strange, desolate presence of the dead stone.