“But…But…the queen…” Elfrid stammered.
“She is not your queen though, is she?” Rose cut in.
Elfrid blinked.
“No—but she will be!”
“And yet your prince is to be king!” Rose reminded him. “And will he not be pleased with you that you helped cure him of his terrible pain?”
“I…Well, yes—”
“And does the king not hold more power than the queen?”
Elfrid’s brow furrowed, but she could see his mind working.
“Yes…” he ventured slowly.
Rose reached out and grasped his hand.
“Then please, Captain,” she whispered. “Please do this for your prince.”
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then, he nodded firmly.
“I will do my best, madam.”
Chapter Eight
She Risked the Forbidden
Rose quieted her breathing, slowing her steps as she made her way down the long corridor. She was thankful her Dust Boots had soft soles, and she could move through the palace almost soundlessly if she wished.
This morning, she had arisen when the sun came blazing through her ceiling, the rose vines of her canopy creating crisscrossing shadows over her blankets. She had quickly gotten too hot, and told the fire to calm down, before getting up to wash her face and brush and braid her hair. She had dressed in the center of her room, marveling at the crystal clarity of the blue sky that seemed so close, right above her. It seemed as if her room floated on a cloud.
She’d then taken out her Feasting Stone, sat on the floor and taken breakfast and tea—a tart, bacon, and fresh-sliced apples—then put all that away, cleaned her teeth, and reluctantly donned her winter clothes. She snatched up her key, stuck it in her pocket, and cracked open the door.
When she stepped out into the corridor, thankfully, it was no longer swallowed in that mine-like darkness, but filled with bright light from the windows at either end—and the milk glass captured it, and shimmered with a mother-of-pearl tone. She turned, shut the door, locked it, and set off.
She had no idea where she was going. But she wanted to learn the layout of the palace herself, so she wouldn’t have to rely upon Captain Elfrid or anyone else. So, she determined to try and find her way to the prince’s section of the palace. If she could remember the general direction. It looked so different, now that the sun cut through every angle of the castle like a Christmas ornament.
She rounded the corner, her breath still fogging around her head, and found a long, empty hallway that seemed slightly familiar…
And then she caught sight of that opening again—ornate and door-like, with a brass beam near the top. Instead of a room, it opened into darkness.
A slide.
Rose hurried toward it, her boots kicking up remnants of frost from last night, and leaned into the opening.
She listened.
Far beneath, vibrating up the glass tube, sounds of voices and footsteps, probably originating from several levels of the palace.
Then, she glanced up at the bar itself—
And blinked.
There was writing etched into it, between two very worn places where the designs had come off after years of use.
And it read: The Ember Keep
Rose grinned.
Gathering her skirts, she stepped over the short threshold, then grasped the brass bar in those worn places with her gloved hands. Her heart picked up speed, and her face flushed. She glanced up and down the hall—but nobody appeared.
Facing the opening, she took three deep breaths, then held it—
Swung herself forward, landed on her rear end—
And shot downward.
She let out an involuntary howl as she was forced to lay on her back—she shot downward at a steep angle, white glass like a snow-chute all around her.
Then, of a sudden, the slide turned, and the glass beneath her turned emerald, whilst the glass overhead turned transparent—
And above her, a glass jungle filled with delicate blooms and semi-transparent leaves canopied the sky, whilst the sun far beyond blazed through and created rainbows of color all across Rose’s body.
Before she could gasp in amazement, she shot into a tunnel, curved again—
And plunged straight down.
She screamed again, at the top of her lungs, keeping her arms wound tightly around her chest, frantically hoping her key wouldn’t fly out of her pocket—
Then, it swooped up, then down again—
As she traveled through a tube wreathed in fire.
Blinding, blood-red flame patterns swirled all around her as she dipped and swung, and then, all at once…
The light turned dim, and bluish. The slide leveled out, she slowed down…
And the slide opened. She slid to a very graceful halt. Gasping, she glanced up and around, to find hand rails waiting to accommodate her. She grabbed them with both hands, and heaved herself to her feet, breathless and dizzy. She shoved her hand in her pocket—
Good. She still had her key.
After regaining her balance, she stepped up and out of the slide channel, and glanced around the tall room.
Rectangular, with a towering ceiling, where hung a chandelier that looked like some sort of many-legged sea-creature. But she couldn’t see any of its true colors, because the clear sconces in the walls burned that dim blue flame, and the chandelier cloaked itself in shadow. Flame patterns decorated the floor, but a very thick coat of ice shrouded it, making the edges cloudy.
From the feel of the air, and the deep silence and cold, Rose instantly sensed that she had plummeted to the deepest level of the palace.
Remembering her skating motion from last night, she carefully slid forward, her soles whispering against the ice. Off to her right stood a massive doorway containing a wide, dark, upward staircase, and above the door hung a giant coat of arms bearing the symbols of the royal house of Glas.
That must be the way up to the prince’s chambers.
Rose paused in the middle of the floor, and glanced to her left.
Another doorway waited, this one much narrower but just as tall. Lights illuminated a short corridor beyond, which ended in double doors, one of which hung open. And through it, she glimpsed an eerie sparkle.
Frowning, she skated that direction—through the first door, and down the corridor. She lengthened her strides and swung her arms, sweeping along until she reached the double doors. She skidded to a stop, then carefully stepped across the threshold…
And her lips parted.
It was a huge chamber. Half again bigger than Hoarfrost Hall, and shaped like a great oval. The walls and ceiling arched upward to form a vast, byzantine dome, and where the edged angles met, chandeliers melted downward and split into billions of chips of blinking crystal. There looked to be at least forty of these chandeliers, their candles swathed in ice, their surfaces dimmed by frost. And in the center and height of the ceiling, an opening formed, and glacial ice intruded down through it—black, and jagged. The walls themselves, though Rose could hardly see them, seemed to twinkle, like stars through a blanket of clouds.
But it was the floor which truly captured her attention.
It looked as if, once upon a time, the floor itself had been one enormous, spectacular mirror—like the surface of a lake.
But now, the mirror lay utterly shattered, pieces lying every which way, sundered from the center. As if the fist of a giant had descended from the heavens and struck it with the force of thunder.
An alien chill traveled down Rose’s spine, and she wrapped her arms around herself. And, for a very long time, she stood listening to the silence, wondering at the forgotten ruin before her, and the walls that winked mysteriously through the blackness.
“Psst! Psst!”
Tap, tap, tap.
“Madam Healer!”
Rose frowned hard, forced her eyes open, and halfway sat up. She squinted through the disorientin
g darkness toward the door.
“Erm…What is it?” she asked hoarsely.
“Madam, please open the door.”
Groaning and rubbing her eyes, pushing her wild curls out of her face, Rose shoved the covers off and climbed out of bed, threw on her dressing gown, and hurried to the door. With a crackle of ice, she opened it, and peered out to see Captain Elfrid standing there with his little crystal lamp, his eyes wide as before.
“Captain Elfrid!” Rose exclaimed quietly. “What is the matter? Is it the prince?”
“Yes, madam,” he whispered, glancing up and down the hall. “I was guarding His Royal Highness tonight—and when he called for help, I came straightaway to you.”
“Thank you!” Rose gasped, reaching out and grasping his wrist.
He jumped—but Rose smiled brightly at him.
“Just give me a moment to get ready!”
Still stunned, Captain Elfrid didn’t say anything before she shut the door and hurriedly dressed herself. She braided her hair and gathered up her bag and key, and hurried out the door, locking it behind her.
Together, she and Elfrid hurried down the same corridors they had traveled the other night, and Rose didn’t slow to marvel at any of the cave-like spookiness around her. Every chance she could, she skated rather than walked, and Elfrid kept looking over at her with arched eyebrow.
“What are you doing?” he finally demanded.
“Skating,” she whispered. “It’s much easier than walking on this stuff. You should try it.”
“It isn’t dignified,” he sniffed.
“Neither is falling on your bum,” she answered.
She saw him give her a sharp look, but she ignored it, her eyes fixed on the corridor ahead.
Finally, they reached those set of stairs, and approached the prince’s bedchambers. Elfrid opened the door for her, and she stepped inside, onto the frosty rug.
The chambers looked just as they had last night: dark, dripping with icicles, the furniture and curtains in disarray.
Except no queen loomed like Death beside the bed.
Rose released a sigh, her chest relaxing, and advanced.
The prince lay on the bed again, only half covered with mangled blankets, his pillows askew and shoved to the side. His head lay on the mattress, his right hand pressed over his eyes. He wore the same shirt, with its laces flung open, and she could see that his white skin shone with sweat once more. He breathed raggedly and tightly, and once in a while he would swallow in spasm.
Rose stopped, her muscles suddenly locking. She glanced back at the door…
To see Elfrid lean in, his eyebrows raised.
“I shall keep watch!” he whispered to her.
She could only nod, and he withdrew, and shut the door behind him.
Rose turned back to the prince.
Took a deep breath, and fought back her trembling.
“Your Highness?” she said quietly. “Your Highness, it’s Rose. I’ve come to help you.”
The prince swallowed, then slightly lifted his hand, squinting at her with one eye.
“Where is Iskyla?” he grunted, his jaw tight, his lower lip quivering.
“The queen is resting,” Rose answered quietly, drawing closer. “I’ve come to give you something to relieve your pain.”
He only snorted, and covered his eyes again.
Rose braced herself, set her bag down on the bedside table, and took off her gloves. She opened her bag and fished out the wooden goblet again, as well as the little brown bottle.
The drop of sunshine hissed as it fell into the cup, and then she poured in the frothing cider, its cloud of steam catching in the prince’s canopy.
“What is that?” the prince grunted. “Smells like a rotting carcass.”
Rose’s brow furrowed as she capped the cider and put it back into the cap.
“No, it doesn’t,” she answered. “It just seems that way because you’re not feeling well.”
“Don’t you dare contradict me, you useless shrew,” he bit out, still covering his eyes.
Rose didn’t answer, just swirled the liquid in the goblet, then knelt beside him on the freezing floor.
“Here,” she said. “Sit up a bit, and drink this.”
“Why?” he snapped. “Not a single concoction in this entire kingdom has done anything of value for me. Why should this one be any different?”
“This isn’t like any other concoction in the kingdom,” Rose countered softly. “That is why you sent for me, Your Highness, remember?”
He said nothing for a moment, then dropped his hand entirely, and leveled a poisonous glare.
His mouth tight, shadows haunting the hollows of his features; his eyes a brilliant, stark grey in this light. And his lion-like brow knotted, as if he held back a tide with only the force of his frayed will. His curls plastered to his head, his breaths strained. His jaw clenched.
“I can’t,” he muttered, shifting to stare at the ceiling.
“You’ll choke, otherwise,” Rose murmured.
“I told you, I can’t!” he snapped, then instantly gasped and squeezed his eyes shut.
Rose paused.
“Just turn onto your side,” she finally suggested. “And lift your head a little.”
The prince didn’t move.
Rose leaned a bit closer.
“Come, Your Highness,” she urged. “I promise you will sleep.”
“It did nothing last night,” he gritted.
“That’s because it was allowed to get cold,” Rose answered. “It won’t work unless it’s warm.”
The prince closed his fingers, white-knuckled, around the bedsheets. Rose waited.
At last, he let out a short grunt, and laboriously shifted onto his right side, raising his head up just a bit. Rose held the goblet toward his mouth.
“I can do it myself,” he said, taking it from her—though his left hand shook. He put the cup to his lips, tipped it back and took a large gulp.
Rose’s breath caught—
He swallowed, then coughed violently—
And furiously flung the goblet down.
It bashed against the floor, and splashed cider all over Rose’s front.
She gasped, jerking backward—
“It’s far too hot!” he accused, wracking coughs shaking his whole body. “What the…devil are you trying to do?”
Rose stared down at the cider splattered all over the floor and her dress. Her heart pounded, her hands closed into hard fists—
But then, the prince’s coughing escalated, wringing with distress. He collapsed onto his back, his eyes going wide.
Rose instantly leaped to her feet, her rage
forgotten—
And, without thinking, she grasped his icy wrist.
“Anáil, anáil, anáil,” she whispered, closing her eyes and drawing from the Source warmth deep inside her chest, letting it flow down her arm and into his skin. “Maolú…maolú…maolú…”
Instantly, his coughing calmed, his breathing steadied…
And he swallowed hard, once.
He drew in deep, shaking breaths, his body breaking out in goosebumps, and shut his eyes again.
Quickly, before he noticed, she released him and straightened up.
“You…” the prince rasped. “Are trying to kill me.”
Rose said nothing, just watched him as he lay there shivering, winding the sheets through his fingers.
Taking a short breath, she summoned more warmth from deep inside her, and dusted off her sleeves and skirt—and the cider instantly dried up and disappeared. She snapped her fingers toward the floor, and the mess there vanished also.
She paused again, running her eyes across the prince.
He hadn’t drunk all of the potion. But he had swallowed some.
“What are you gawking at?” the prince growled huskily, eyes still shut. “You’ve done your duty. Now get out.”
Rose didn’t move.
Thoughts formed, rising
slowly from the depths of her mind, and she turned them over, allowing them to fall into place…
Then…
She took a deep breath, stepped toward the bed again…
And started to sing.
Long ago, when she was just a little girl, and so lonesome for her home in the valley, with the apple orchards filled with fireflies, that she could only sob into her pillow, Effrain—ethereal as the evening star—would float to her room, open the windows to the summer night, and sit beside Rose’s bed, stroking her curls, and sing this song to her. Her effortless words would spin visions of wispy magic, of dancing creatures gliding over surfaces of ponds, flitting between willow branches, and skating between the stars…
Rose knew her voice didn’t float and soar like an elf’s. But she let the familiar notes flow strongly and softly from her mouth, lilting through the frozen silence, warming the very air.
“Sleep, O babe, for the red bee hums
The silent twilight’s fall:
Aibheall from the Grey Rock comes
To wrap the world in thrall.”
The prince’s eyelids flickered. His brow eased.
And, as she sang, Rose stepped up to his side, and gathered the twisted, thick top blanket up and off of him, rolling it slowly back toward the foot of the bed.
“A leanbhan O, my child, my joy,
My love and heart’s desire,
The crickets sing you lullaby
Beside the dying fire.”
With great care, Rose grasped the sheets and drew them back also, laying the prince bare save for his knee-length night shirt.
She grasped the edges of the sheet and the blanket and shook them once—and as she did, she released the Source from her fingertips into the very weaving of the blankets, so they would catch every bit of warmth, and keep it within.
“Faintly sweet doth the chapel bell
Ring o’er the valley dim:
Tearmann’s peasant-voices swell
In fragrant evening hymn.”
She gently draped the sheet over him again, then the blanket, tucking them in properly around his shoulders. She moved softly, soundlessly, every movement in rhythm with the song, barely stirring the air.
Glass Page 7
