purpose.
His clothes were torn by this point, blood prickling his skin as he tried, unsuccessfully, to hack back the rank growth with his sword, resorting at last to a smaller knife. Despite his fears, however, Osiman was valiant enough and full of determination to press on and find out what secret lay at the heart of this strange place.
He had no idea how long he had been fighting his way through the woods when, at last and to his surprise, he saw a wall in front of him. The grey stones looked very old and thick, stout granite blocks piled high on each other though the tops of the wall were hidden by the trees overhead. Forcing his way through, he eventually came to a gate. It was large enough for several men to pass through on horseback and Osiman realised that this must be the castle that had once been the home of the Nysan court that had vanished so mysteriously a century before.
Torn and ragged, he climbed past the final brambles that blocked the way into the palace and was astonished to see that inside the castle walls there was none of the thick growth that sprung up everywhere outside. Instead, he saw peasants, servants and the occasional courtier lying on the floor, some of them slumped against walls as though they had just settled down for a quiet nap on a pleasant afternoon. Overhead the air was clear and he could see that the sun was still shining, while his skin prickled with the sense of a bizarre and unusual magic.
“Hello!” he cried out. “Is anyone awake?”
No sound answered him, and he crossed over to one of the nearest men who was lying against the wheel of his cart. The man was dressed head to foot in thick, woollen clothing, very different to the Nysan style of light, diaphanous fabrics that had returned to fashion, and his mouth was open slightly. Gently, Osiman prodded him with his toe. The man stirred slightly, snoring as he did so. Curious, the king leaned down and shook the man, increasingly harder, but nothing appeared able to make him wake.
Similar scenes confronted Osiman wherever he went. The kitchens and halls were filled with servants who seemed to have fallen asleep in the middle of whatever task they had been doing, and food and water was left on tables and surfaces. Tentatively, he lifted up a piece of bread and nibbled it and was surprised that it tasted as fresh as though it had been baked that morning.
The stables were full of slumbering horses, and pigs, goats and chickens lay down in their stalls. Elsewhere, courtiers were resting against each other, some of them snoring softly. From time to time Osiman would attempt to wake one of them, but always with the same result that they would mumble and shift and then fall more deeply into their sleep. Everywhere it seemed that the entire palace had been preserved exactly at the moment when this magic had been cast.
Eventually, the young king came to a stairway that led up into a high tower. Unlike the rest of the palace, which appeared spotlessly clean other than where various odds and ends had fallen from sleepers’ hands, as he climbed the stairs Osiman saw that this part of the castle had not been disturbed for a very long time - other than by one visitor. He corrected himself. In the thick dust that lay on each step, there were two pairs of footprints: one set, very dainty, led upwards; the other, slightly larger in size, led down.
Frowning to himself, Osiman climbed higher and higher. Here no doubt would be the answer to this mystery, and he desired more than ever to have an answer to the questions that crowded his mind. At last he came to a thick, heavy door, on which were frankly erotic carvings that made his eyebrows rise. Tentatively, he placed one hand on the thick wood and pushed it open.
The door swung to easily, revealing a room that was dark but for the flickering of flames in a hearth at the other end. The wood had burned down low, but it seemed as though the fire had been made up only a few hours before.
Though
His clothes were torn by this point, blood prickling his skin as he tried, unsuccessfully, to hack back the rank growth with his sword, resorting at last to a smaller knife. Despite his fears, however, Osiman was valiant enough and full of determination to press on and find out what secret lay at the heart of this strange place.
He had no idea how long he had been fighting his way through the woods when, at last and to his surprise, he saw a wall in front of him. The grey stones looked very old and thick, stout granite blocks piled high on each other though the tops of the wall were hidden by the trees overhead. Forcing his way through, he eventually came to a gate. It was large enough for several men to pass through on horseback and Osiman realised that this must be the castle that had once been the home of the Nysan court that had vanished so mysteriously a century before.
Torn and ragged, he climbed past the final brambles that blocked the way into the palace and was astonished to see that inside the castle walls there was none of the thick growth that sprung up everywhere outside. Instead, he saw peasants, servants and the occasional courtier lying on the floor, some of them slumped against walls as though they had just settled down for a quiet nap on a pleasant afternoon. Overhead the air was clear and he could see that the sun was still shining, while his skin prickled with the sense of a bizarre and unusual magic.
“Hello!” he cried out. “Is anyone awake?”
No sound answered him, and he crossed over to one of the nearest men who was lying against the wheel of his cart. The man was dressed head to foot in thick, woollen clothing, very different to the Nysan style of light, diaphanous fabrics that had returned to fashion, and his mouth was open slightly. Gently, Osiman prodded him with his toe. The man stirred slightly, snoring as he did so. Curious, the king leaned down and shook the man, increasingly harder, but nothing appeared able to make him wake.
Similar scenes confronted Osiman wherever he went. The kitchens and halls were filled with servants who seemed to have fallen asleep in the middle of whatever task they had been doing, and food and water was left on tables and surfaces. Tentatively, he lifted up a piece of bread and nibbled it and was surprised that it tasted as fresh as though it had been baked that morning.
The stables were full of slumbering horses, and pigs, goats and chickens lay down in their stalls. Elsewhere, courtiers were resting against each other, some of them snoring softly. From time to time Osiman would attempt to wake one of them, but always with the same result that they would mumble and shift and then fall more deeply into their sleep. Everywhere it seemed that the entire palace had been preserved exactly at the moment when this magic had been cast.
Eventually, the young king came to a stairway that led up into a high tower. Unlike the rest of the palace, which appeared spotlessly clean other than where various odds and ends had fallen from sleepers’ hands, as he climbed the stairs Osiman saw that this part of the castle had not been disturbed for a very long time - other than by one visitor. He corrected himself. In the thick dust that lay on each step, there were two pairs of footprints: one set, very dainty, led upwards; the other, slightly larger in size, led down.
Frowning to himself, Osiman climbed higher and higher. Here no doubt would be the answer to this mystery, and he desired more than ever to have an answer to the questions that crowded his mind. At last he came to a thick, heavy door, on which were frankly erotic carvings that made his eyebrows rise. Tentatively, he placed one hand on the thick wood and pushed it open.
The door swung to easily, revealing a room that was dark but for the flickering of flames in a hearth at the other end. The wood had burned down low, but it seemed as though the fire had been made up only a few hours before.
Though
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