The Thorn Prison (Avallon Academy Book 2) Read online

  “AS YOU PROBABLY NOTICED, my fangs are quite sharp-edged for a human. And maybe you already assumed that I do not belong to the human species.”

  The demonstration a few minutes earlier left no room for doubting his claims.

  “Vampire is the most common of our names, although in our time, we were given many others,” Tristan started his narration. “In Romania, they call us strigoi, in Greece, we are called vrykolakas. You might wonder if I have ever been a member of the human race. Yes, I used to be a human, but that was centuries ago, four to be precise. I cannot claim that being a vampire has not been difficult, but I would never say that my human life was less painful either.”

  He looked at me and for the first time, I noticed that his face was so pale as if the blood had drained from his body.

  “Even under normal circumstances, you should not be afraid of me. Centuries ago, I made the choice to not feed on human blood. I consciously accepted becoming a vampire in order to serve a specific purpose, I never wanted to provoke terror and misery. It was a desperate attempt to find again the happiness people, ignorant and spiteful, so violently deprived me of. So, unlike others of my kind, I do not satisfy my hunger with human blood. I prefer to hunt animal prey.”

  He caressed his cheek on the cold surface of the ice cube he was in, apparently enjoying the coldness on his skin, and continued his narrative.

  “Years ago, I do not even recall how many, I went hunting with my close friend, Marshall. My little Marshall. For three centuries he had been my faithful companion. Though he had been the fear and terror of Connecticut, he was a small-bodied, good-hearted black Basset. You know, he has been given a nickname. The Black Dog of the Hill of the Hanged Men.”

  A small cry escaped my throat. “I know that legend. It was in the book__ Oh that book again!”

  “What book?” he asked.

  “An old book of spells someone gave me before I left Avallon Academy,” I said indifferently.

  “How did it look like?”

  “It was a heavy old book with brittle yellow pages and a brown leather cover full of scratches. Why?”

  “Just asking,” Tristan said and we both remained silent for a few minutes. I could feel him holding back, hesitating to resume his narration. “Who gave you that book?”

  “Why are so interested in that silly old book?” I raised an eyebrow.

  “You are expecting me to be transparent about who I am and how I found myself in Thorn Prison, while you are not willing to answer the single question I asked you about an old silly book, as you called it.”

  Well, he was right. If I were to ally myself with this man, or whatever he really was, I had to give as short of information back to him.

  “It was Arthur. Arthur gave me that book before I left for London. I do not know if that book has some sort of significance to him. But he told me to study it before I got back to Afall Island.”

  “As if he knew that you would end up to the Thorn Prison,” Tristan muttered.

  “What makes you say that?” I was surprised as much as I was confused.

  Tristan paused for a few minutes as if he were lost in his thoughts. “Was there any kind of stamping on the book cover?” he finally said.

  “Indeed, there was a fainted stamping on it, some sort of fancy medieval monogram.”

  “What letter was it? Can you remember?”

  “I did not pay any attention to it. It was so fainted that I could hardly see it. But I love the sensation of old leather on my fingers and I caressed its cover several times.”

  I closed my eyes trying to bring back the memory of my fingers caressing the medieval floral monogram.

  “It was an A.” I opened my eyes again and looked at Tristan. “A as in Avallon Academy?”

  “A as in Afall, Afall Island. What was in that book will help us solve the riddles and get out of here before they come back.”

  “Who are they?”

  “We will come back to that later.”

  “And how do you know that the key to the riddles is in that book?”

  “Because I eavesdropped them saying that before I was locked in here. They caught me spying on them and they threw me in Thorn Prison.”

  “Who are they?” I insisted.

  “The bad guys,” he said. That was progress. At least this time he did not shut me down saying that it was a matter of future discussion.

  “Who are those bad guys?” I asked, but only to get no answer. It was time to show my cards.

  “Are the Black Sword Riders the ones you are talking about?” I asked.

  “How do you know about them?” He looked surprised.

  “I fought against them in the Great Battle of the Lake. It was legendary. Haven’t you ever heard about it?”

  He looked baffled like he did not understand what I was talking about.

  “How long have you been here?” I asked.

  “It must be weeks, or months, I do not really know. I have lost track of time.”

  “Look, Tristan, I am freezing and I do not want to die from frostbite. So please tell me, how can we get the frack out of here?

  “FIVE RIDDLES MUST BE solved; five inmates must be freed,” Tristan said. “I do not know who decides who should be freed, but I suspect inmates do not actually have any saying on the selection.”

  “What are those riddles?” I asked.

  “You were the one who solved the first of them. What was it?”

  “There were several metal engravings hidden in the rose thorns that my cell was made of. They were not some random pictures, or symbols. They were Anglo-Saxon runes, the exact same alphabet I had been studying a few hours earlier in the old book Arthur had given me. It was a thorn wall full of hidden runes. I rearranged the runes again and again until a familiar word came into my mind. Glass island as Afall island is also known. As soon as I formed the two words gallons of water gushed into the cell from every crevice between its thorns. My arm was still locked, and the level of the water kept rising. Putting these runes together was probably the right move, however, the handcuff did not dissolve like when I was freed by Merlin in the prison Mordred had sent me in.”

  “You were incarcerated before?” Tristan raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes, for misuse of powers. Is that a problem?”

  “Never mind. Tell me what happened next,” he said.

  “Then I remembered the ring Merlin had sent me through Camila. Do you know who Camilla is?” He nodded negatively so I kept on talking. “A tiny red dot was flashing on its brass surface. I assumed that the ring was a spell breaking device like the rings the Black Sword Riders used to wear. I cast the spell of transportation and the water turned to ice.”

  “The ice that I got trapped in too,” Tristan said. “You solved the first riddle and that led you to my cell where we must together solve the second riddle, and the third, and the fourth, and finally the fifth riddle.”

  “How are we going to do this?” Nothing made sense to me.

  Tristan looked at me as if he had a eureka moment. “How important is Afall island to you?”

  “Very important,” I admitted. “It is the only place I call home, the only place on Earth where I have friends and people who care about me.”

  “Afall island was mentioned in the old book.” Tristan’s eyes were glowing. “I have a theory. The key to each riddle represents something that is important to us; something that is mentioned in the old book. You said that your ring started glowing the moment you solved the riddle. That was the sign that you passed through the next level.”

  “When the ring flashes, the riddle is solved.”

  “Exactly,” Tristan said smiling.

  “What is the most important thing to you then?” I asked anxiously.

  “It is not a thing; it is a person. Izolde.”

  We both starred at my ring’s gem. It remained dark. Izolde was not the answer to the riddle that would open us the door to the next challenge.

  The frozen look in Tris
tan’s eyes frightened me. Was he dead? Did he succumb to frostbites?

  “Tristan!” I yelled. “What is wrong?”

  “Izolde is my whole world. The reason I still exist on this planet. If I am wrong and the key to each riddle is not something precious to us, then I do not know how we can get out of freaking here.”

  “Maybe what we consider the most precious to us is not what we should be looking for. Maybe what the book considers important to us is the key; something that is already written in the book.”

  “Some kind of prophecy,” said Tristan as if he had just emerged from a lethargic state of mind.

  “Okay, that sounds pompous. Let’s just say that somebody wanted us here and they now helping us find our way out to fulfill a purpose.”

  “If that was their goal from the beginning, then they should be more helpful,” Tristan moaned.

  I could not agree more. However, we had to work with what we had in hand. Or to be more accurate, what was imprinted in my memory.

  “I had read the entire book a few hours before the vortex opened and dragged me to Thorn Prison. I still have some fresh memories from what was inside that book. However, I still cannot connect the dots, and I can only see a way to do that.”

  “What is it?” asked Tristan, tiredness in his eyes.

  “Tell the story of your life. Let the ring detect what connects you to the book, and who knows, maybe it will show us the way to pass to the next challenge.”

  CHAPTER 4

  *

  “I was born in the Kingdom of England during the English Civil War,” Tristan started. “I was ten years old when my parents and I relocated to the Colonies. Before I was 17 years old, I had already traveled to Barbados, Jamaica, and Maryland before settling on Aquidneck Island, now known as Rhode Island. A mansion owner, Nathaniel Sylvester, used it as a refuge for those seeking shelter. On the welcoming land of Rhode Island, my family found asylum, and I found my first and eternal love.

  I remember the time I first saw her like it was yesterday. We had just settled in Sylvester Mansion, when one night, I left my room in search of the kitchen, led by late night food cravings. I walked on my toes so as not to disturb the sleep of the other residents. In the darkness, lost in the corridors unfamiliar to me, I felt a gentle hand touching mine. I turned my head and saw an angel on Earth standing beside me. She beckoned me to remain silent, but my voice was already lost from the beauty I was facing.

  Her brown wavy hair framed her face and fell to her shoulders. The glow of her almond eyes tore through the darkness and her beautiful smile made my heartbeat like a drum. She lifted the lantern she was holding; the light of the flame gave an otherworldly aura to her angelic beauty. She asked me if I was lost. I told her I was looking for the kitchen, and she said she would lead me there. She showed me the way to the kitchen and smiled good night at me. As I watched her disappear in the dark, I knew that my heart has been scarred forever.

  The next morning, I found myself waking with the urge to learn the identity of the fairy who had upset my night. I went back into the kitchen, hoping to meet her. But none of the young daughters, slaves, or indentured servants looked like the one who had stolen my heart. I walked the corridors of the Mansion, but none of the maids resembled her. I wandered through plantations hoping to spot her wavy hair, but she was not among the workers. Disappointed by the failure, I returned to the villa. I refused the lunch I was offered and headed to the library to submerge myself in Mr. Sylvester’s rare book collection. After passing by a small group of children studying Dutch, I immersed in one of the comfortable armchairs, pondering which of the books on a nearby shelf I should choose.

  And then I saw her. I recognized her once when she brushed away a strand of hair that had escaped from her tight bun. Sitting in an uncomfortable chair, she leaned over a child holding a wooden hornbook. A young girl trapped in a young woman's body. My gaze was so intense that she felt it on her. She turned toward me and when our eyes met, she immediately moved her gaze away and focused again on teaching Dutch to the children.

  I realized that I had to fight every erotic impulse caused by our random midnight meeting. I retired to my room heartbroken and stayed there, locked up for about a week, despite the entreaties of my mother and my father’s reprimands. When I finally opened my door again, I had made my decision. I would immediately leave the mansion and avoid any meeting with her. I would travel to the new colonies. I would gain knowledge and experience. I would make my own fortune, and then, if my lust for her had not faded, I would go back to look for her. And if it was determined by fate, I would be able to locate her and ask for her hand in marriage. That was my plan, the same plan I announced to my parents.

  I collected my few belongings and the very next day, before dawn, I left the villa. My mother’s tears and some silver coins from my father were the most valuable things my parents gifted me. More than anything else, I treasured these, and her image, still imprinted on my mind. I did not even know her name. I did not want to know anything about her; I did not want to have ties to Shelter Island. I wanted my feelings for her to be tested. I wanted to ascertain what Fate dictated for me.

  Seconds before the front door of the villa closed behind me, I saw the figure of a young girl crossing the half-lit room. It was her, following an older woman, probably her mother. As she headed to a distant room, she turned her head back and looked at me. She was aware of my presence; she knew I was watching her. Her sweet smile, a mixture of innocence and feminine coquetry, was a memory I cherished the following years of my life, throughout my wanderings in the New Colonies.

  I meandered through Plymouth, Massachusetts Bay, and Hartford, I gained knowledge of the cultures and trade, and I came to New Haven. I founded a tobacco marketing company that imported goods from Chesapeake and marketed them in Connecticut. With hard work, my company began to produce a profit and when I collected a significant amount, I bought this little piece of land by the Quinnipiac. As my business flourished and my income increased, I built my mansion. The house of my dreams was now ready; it was time to look for the woman of my dreams. The girl in Sylvester Mansion was still in my mind, despite the six years that had passed. In the time that had elapsed, I met many others worthy of my affections, but unfulfilled love is always the most powerful. So, being a successful marketer, mature man, and landowner, I decided to return to Shelter Island, but without the certainty that I would meet the mysterious girl again.

  By the time I decided to return to the island, persecution against Quakers had eased after the Declaration for Liberty of Conscience. My parents, feeling safer, had returned to our home on Aquidneck Island. Several of our acquaintances had left Shelter Island. When I got back to the mansion, only a few familiar faces had remained. I asked everyone I met, acquaintances, strangers, masters, and slaves, about the girl with wavy brown hair who had been studying Dutch. Nobody remembered her; nobody understood whom I was talking about. I spent hours wandering in the fields and plantations, looking for anything that would lead me to her. As the hours passed, I felt despair. The sun had already begun to set when I reached the accommodations of some worn-out indentured servants who had begun to return from another grueling day of work. I began to recite the description, as I had done dozens of times in the day, but no one seemed to recognize the girl. I was ready to leave when a mature female voice urged me to stop.

  ‘I think I know who you are looking for,’ she said reluctantly. ‘I shall tell you more if you swear on your manly honor that I shall not get into any trouble.’

  I replied that my word was a contract; four centuries later, my word still is a contract. Anxious as she was to end the conversation, she said briskly, ‘I remember some years ago a family with two young women that found shelter in the mansion. One of the girls used to sneak in the kitchen at dawn when I lit up the stoves. She told me she wanted to be a cook and asked me to teach her a few recipes. She had come with her family from England and she was probably of humble origin. She said her
parents had forced her to take lessons along with the other children in the mansion, but she wanted to learn how to cook. She confided in me that she used to walk around during the nights lightly dressed and stopped when she was told that it was inappropriate.’

  I knew now that I had just found the first lead on the girl I was looking for. With bated breath, I asked the maid if she knew of the girl’s whereabouts. The maid said that her family left the mansion a couple of years before and moved into a settlement near the port. It was very likely that the family was running an inn or tavern, she reckoned.

  With my heart flapping impatiently, I thanked the woman and rushed to leave. ‘Wait, you did not inquire about what is most important,’ she yelled back at me.

  Panting turned and looked at her. ‘What is that?’

  ‘Her name,’ she said.

  Her name was Izolde.”

  “DARKNESS HAD ALREADY fallen on the island when I arrived at the small port settlement, which had developed over the years that had passed. Among the few scattered buildings, it was not difficult to find the biggest, which I supposed might be an inn or a guesthouse. As the lights were still on inside the building, I armed myself with courage and pushed the heavy front door open. Two young women were tucking away crockery left by customers on the large wooden tables. One of the girls turned and looked at me.

  ‘Is there a place to rest?’ I asked her.

  ‘Do you have money to pay?’ she asked, coming toward me.

  ‘Money is not an issue,’ I replied and focused on her tired blue eyes. She was not the one I was looking for.

  ‘There might be a bed for you to spend the night.’

  ‘Could I also have dinner?’

  ‘There is some soup left. I'll fetch some bread too,’ she said and pointed to a table.

  As she moved toward the kitchen, I looked at the other young woman, who had not stopped tidying the place up. She was dressed in a plain black dress, and her chestnut brown hair was crammed under a black house bonnet. A barb hit my heart. The girl took a broom and started sweeping the floor. She was focused on her work and didn’t show any interest in the client – what I was to her – who was waiting to be served a meal. She was tall, and her movements were full of grace. As she had her face down, I couldn’t make out her features.