Heart of Stone

4. A Man Of Flesh And Blood

Thistle stood surrounded by the statues of her brothers, the small courtyard lit by a glimmer of moonlight and a small lantern. To save her brothers, to break the curse, she had to kill a man she cared about.

Yet, what other choice did she have? Time was slipping through her fingers like water cupped in hands, and at sunrise, she would have to leave – with or without her brothers. She could leave him and her brothers behind to start a new life, or she could try to break the curse and one of them would die. Either way, whether she broke the curse or not, she would never see him again.

She wiped the moisture from her eyes, looking up at her brothers. "I don't know if I can do it," she whispered. "Why didn't he tell me there was a way? He said he'd tried everything. Why would he lie?" 

They didn't answer.

"Can you even hear me?" She touched the cold stone and shook her head. "Of course you can't. I'm talking to statues."

The gargoyle at her feet chirped.

"You don't count."

Thistle raised the lantern and looked up at her brother's empty eyes, the stubbles on his chin, his face frozen in a snarl. He used to smile all the time, laugh lines around his mouth and light in his eyes.

"I miss you." She touched his face and decided in that instant. "I'm going to bring you back. I promise."

She kissed his stone cheek and turned away. She strode past the gargoyle and snatched  up the leather satchel she had brought, the old journal inside hitting her leg. The cramped writing had told her where his private rooms were, or where they had been when the journal was written. It seemed like the best place to start looking.

Determination in her step, she made her way through the stone bridges and towers that spanned the green mountainside like a large grey web, the beast at its heart. She stomped up flights of stairs and walked over narrow ledges, passing countless statues, until she reached the mountainside.

The large tower in front of her seemed to rise from inside the mountain, the walls hewn straight from the ancient rocks. Six platform courtyards surrounded it on its free side, each holding the ruins of a fountain. It was not as tall or as wide as the main tower, but the weathered stone marked it as the oldest tower of the palace.

Thistle strode over the wide bridge, up to the double doors and pushed them open.

A gust of air snuffed out her lantern as it was sucked in from behind her. Dust whirled up inside, lit by the beam of moonlight in the shape of the doors, a thousand glimmering specks floating through the room. She covered her nose as she entered the circular hall, her shadow cast over the floor. Faded tapestries covered the walls, their meaning lost as moths had eaten holes in their stories. A double staircase circled around the room, remnants of flaking red paint on the wooden handrail.

Her steps echoed through the hall as she walked towards the staircase. There was something different about the statues here. The stood straight and their clothes were plain—no armour, no weapons. She inched closer to the statue of a little girl, its stone eyes wide, confused, and one little hand reaching up.

She stepped away quickly. It was unnerving.

Thistle hurried up the stairs, trying to ignore the empty stares of the statues.

What if he was here, waiting for her?

She emerged in a wide dome, the moonlight shimmering through the coloured glass, breaking it into more colours than she could imagine. The sky above the mountaintops in the east had turned a pale blue, the sunrise drawing closer with each heartbeat.