“Hm. I haven’t come here in a while,” he murmured.
And finally, Rose saw it.
A towering, vaulted ceiling high, high above them, like a glass cathedral, its surface tinted a pale, sweet green. Rose and the prince stood upon a curving, narrow path of red glass bricks, and all around them…
A forest, made of glass.
“Oh…my…” Rose whispered, her breath utterly stolen away.
Mighty oaks ten stories high; spreading pines, majestic beeches, winding ivy, tangled tresses of old-fashioned roses, lolling ferns, draping Spanish moss…
All glass.
The trunks of the trees: obsidians and chocolates, and creams, burnished with coppers and golds. The green leaves—millions and millions of them—creating a dizzying pattern of angles overhead. The ferns that carpeted the ground—like fans, and paper-thin. And the rose petals…
Frosted glass, each of them three shades deep or more, guarded by winding briars and fierce thorns.
The rust-red path wound off through this completely still, silent, majestic wood, whose edges and depths hid in shadow, and whose details faded in the dimness. It hurt Rose’s heart to imagine what it might look like in the sunlight.
Absently, she glanced over to see the prince watching her. The edges of his mouth curled up.
“Why are you doing that?” Rose asked, teasing. “Smiling at me?”
“I’m not,” the prince said lightly, glancing at her once more before lifting his gaze away to the heights of the trees.
Rose laughed softly, then ventured a few careful paces down the slick path toward a thicket of roses, bending toward them to view one particular blossom.
“I cannot believe it,” she breathed. “It’s bigger than my hand. And it looks like a real rose!”
“A real rose,” the prince repeated, coming over to meet her, clasping his hands behind his back.
“Yes!” Rose whispered, reaching out to touch the edge of a hard, delicate petal with her gloved hand.
“Well, must inform you that this is a real rose,” the prince stated.
Rose glanced up at him, blinking.
“Pardon?”
“This is what the rest of the world knows as a rose!” The prince pointed at it. “Of which the people of Glas are justly proud. All of this, in its hundreds of ridiculous colors and fantastic shapes—” He waved a hand to encompass the chamber. “—conjured up by the vibrant imaginations of the fantastic glass-makers of Spegel, ancient days ago, and now our creations live in the myths and legends of folk all over the world,” He turned, and swept his gaze across the giant, silent forest, his voice quieting—and his breath a cloud of vapor around his head. “But the original essence and beauty and reality of each plant all live here within this palace. Created in the total, unchanging, unbreakable perfection of glass.”
Rose slowly straightened, gazing at his profile as his words sank in. Deep silence descended—and she could feel the vast, unnatural stillness of the chamber amidst the frozen, immovable trees. And, as she turned slowly, and peered closer at these unbreakable works of art, she could see thin coats of ice covering every surface. Her gaze returned to the prince—whose features had once again become as pale, striking and splendid as a January morning. Heaviness settled in her heart.
“Your Highness,” she said quietly.
His attention came down, and focused on her.
“I would like to see the rest of this beautiful room, if I may,” she asked. “Would you escort me?”
He paused a moment, considering her. Then, he nodded once.
“Yes, why not,” he decided—and held out his arm.
Rose stared.
Then, she mentally shook herself, and stepped up beside him. Carefully, she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. And without another word, he started forward. And she walked with him.
She tread carefully, for the glass stones beneath her soles were slippery with ice, but the prince never looked down. They passed together through the cavern of the oak and pine forest, to emerge into an open meadow of golden-yellow grass that shimmered like water, even without the fullness of the sun. Long strands of colorful wildflowers accompanied the grasses, and near their feet, there “bloomed” daffodils, lilies of the valley, crocuses and flags. Rose stopped often, bending down to admire each perfectly-formed blossom, unable to restrain her awestruck remarks. The prince said very little, but when she stole glances at him, that small smile always touched the edges of his mouth for just a moment, before he turned his head and hid it. But he always waited for her to take his arm before proceeding.
Beyond the meadow waited a wood of an entirely different kind. Rose had never seen these kinds of trees before: their bark smooth and dark, their leaves broad and strange, with thick vines draping down in tangled curtains. Long yellow fruits hung in bunches from some of the other trees, whose leaves looked like immense fans. Massive blossoms of cherry-red and white adorned gleaming bushes as tall as she. The path turned to silver here, and meandered in tight corners. Rose felt the chill of the air penetrating her clothes as this “jungle” darkened, and reflexively, she drew closer to the prince’s side.
“You’re infernally warm,” the prince muttered, scowling at her. She chuckled, her teeth chattering.
“I wish I were,” she managed. He kept frowning at her, but he didn’t withdraw his arm, so she bound it tighter in hers.
At last, they arrived at a jade-colored gate fashioned to look like intertwining vines. The prince reached out and worked the latch, then allowed Rose to proceed through into the green corridor before following her, and shutting the gate behind her.
“And that,” he said, as it latched. “Is what lies at the bottom of that absurd slide.”
“This palace is truly splendid,” Rose told him. “Even this gate…” she touched it, marveling at the intricate detail. “Any king would be content with even one such piece at the front of his castle.”
“Many are, I’m told,” the prince snorted, glancing up and down at the gate also. “Though the kings who made such purchases are no doubt long dead. Their grandsons have no idea what they truly possess.”
“Yes, they do,” Rose replied. He looked at her.
“Glas is famous throughout all the kingdoms,” Rose assured him. “Everyone knows that it’s the land of the greatest glass makers who ever lived, and that the palace itself is a piece of art beyond anyone’s reckoning.”
“Indeed?” the prince’s brow furrowed, but the edge of his mouth lifted again. She nodded firmly.
“I was eager to come here, and see it for myself,” she said, and grinned. “All my friends are madly jealous.”
And suddenly—he smiled.
It was real. A real, unpretentious, startled smile. It transformed his face.
But only for an instant, for he ducked his head, and stifled it to a small quirk.
“Rightly so,” he said. Then, he drew himself up. “I have a meeting with my council. Follow the corridor and at the end of it you’ll find a Jetta to take you to your tower.” And he turned to stride away from her.
“I shall see you at dinner, Your Highness,” she called after him. He turned and faced her.
“You know very well you cannot dine in the hall.”
“Not in the hall,” she shook her head. “In your chambers.” She canted her head pointedly. “Remember our endeavors with your new diet.”
He rolled his eyes.
“Very well. Six o’clock,” he said, turned and paced away from her. Rose grinned and bit her lip, watching him go, then turned the opposite direction and found her way to the Jetta.
Chapter Seventeen
And the Prince Told a Lie
Rose wore a different dress tonight, a lighter one of faded pink, remembering the prince’s promise to keep the doors shut. To her satisfaction, when she drew up to the doors, she found them tightly closed, with Captain Elfrid standing guard.
“It’s been a long day for you, hasn’t it Cap
tain?” Rose asked as she approached.
“Yes, madam,” he admitted. “Though I will be relieved soon, to have dinner.”
“Good,” she smiled. Elfrid then opened the door for her, and she stepped inside.
Since the sky had darkened entirely, the outer wall didn’t glow at all, and of course the magic fire in the hearth knew what time it was, so it lowered to suit. The entire chamber seemed to smolder, its scarlet colors gently throbbing like the breath of a sleeping dragon.
The prince stood before the fireplace, still wearing his white suit trimmed in silver, having doffed his long cape. His elbows slightly bent, his fingers held each other inattentively. He stared down into the golden flames, the light of them washing across his tall, splendid figure—richening the color of his curls, touching his face and shining in his eyes. He looked just like a painting done by one of the great masters.
“You left your affects here,” he murmured into the crackling of the fire.
“Oh,” Rose blinked, recovering herself, and spotting her bag on the table, and the black, smooth stone lying on the rug. “Yes. Well, I didn’t feel I ought to intrude upon your chambers when you aren’t in them.”
“You may come and go when you please,” he said absently. “I don’t care.”
“Oh,” Rose said, watching him closely. “Thank you…”
He said no more. Rose ventured around the table, slowly removing her cape and laying it across the back of a chair.
“How are you?” she asked.
“I feel fine,” he replied, still lost in the sight of the flames.
“I meant…” Rose paused. “How are you, otherwise?”
His jaw tightened.
“My emotional state is none of your concern.”
Rose nodded, and glanced down. Then, she slowly sat down on the rug in front of the feasting stone, reached out, and tapped it.
Once more, the table bloomed with settings for two: steaming Cornish game hens doused in orange glaze, creamy mashed potatoes, buttered cabbage, honeyed carrots, accompanied by a bowl of hot bread pudding, a glass of sparkling wine, next to a glass of water.
Taking her napkin and spreading it in her lap, she picked up her jingling utensils and began to carve her little hen, watching the steam rise into the air. The prince just leaned his right forearm against the mantel, his brow dark, and his attention distant. For a long while, he was silent, and Rose just ate her food and quietly drank her wine and water.
“I have been thinking of the flowers in the garden,” the prince murmured. “Ageless. Perfect. And beyond the value of kingdoms. Time can never touch them, and nothing can break them or fade them or ruin them. But I can only admire them for a short while before I think of her.” His voice tightened. “And what I am in stark contrast.”
Rose stopped, her wine glass in her hand. She said nothing—but listened.
“Pity the man who would say it aloud, as my vengeance would come swift and sharp upon his head,” he whispered. “But still…vengeance for speaking the truth. For daring to utter it into the open air.” He took a low breath. “For it is the truth.”
“Who told you that?” Rose asked softly, a pain traveling down her breastbone.
“No one had to tell me,” he answered, his eyes narrowing at the fire. “It is something I have known since birth.” He gave her a cold, sideways glance. “Don’t deny that you think it also. But you wouldn’t say it because you fear me.” He turned back to the fire. “And rightly so.”
Rose didn’t speak. She felt her eyebrows drawing together as she watched the flamelight flicker across his face.
“She has seen me. She has known and understood what I am when no one else has,” he murmured. “Yet she—a creature of perfect beauty—has chosen me. Without her…” his voice quieted to a whisper. “I am nothing at all.”
Rose listened, almost without breathing. And the silvery bit in his eye twinkled at her. Her chest tightened.
She drew in a slow, purposeful breath, then lifted her head.
“Will you not eat, Your Highness?”
He didn’t answer. It was as if he hadn’t heard her. So, reluctantly, she finished her meal, dabbed her mouth, and stood up.
“The food will stay warm for another hour before it disappears,” she told him. “Please eat it. It will help you sleep.”
Again, he didn’t answer. Rose winced, hesitating—but finally moved to put on her cloak and gloves, and to take up her bag.
“Goodnight,” she said—but was answered by silence. And, with one last look at him, she left his chambers, and shut the door behind her.
“Madam Healer!”
“What?” Rose yelped, jerking into a sitting position before she was even awake. She blinked against the darkness—the blizzard howled even more fiercely overhead, and her room felt chill, the air heavy. She blinked several times, but the banging on her door rattled the panes. She threw her covers off, shoved her curly hair out of her face and hurried across the grass to tug the door open.
A different guard stood outside—very young, with wide blue eyes.
“Oh!” Rose yelped, half closing the door to hide herself, for she only wore her nightgown.
“Madam, you must come now!” the young man gasped.
“Why, what is the matter?”
“The prince!” he cried. “He has killed himself!”
Rose’s heart stopped. She closed her fingers around her throat.
“What…?” she rasped.
“Oh, please come!” The guard reached in, grabbed her wrist and tugged her hard.
“Wait! I…I have to put on my shoes!” Rose gasped, her head reeling, her heart slamming into her ribs. She dizzily turned around, grabbed her boots and pulled them on, then snatched up her dressing gown and her key.
She was halfway out the door before she had thrown the dressing gown around herself and tied the sash. The two of them broke into a run.
The guard led her at a skidding pace down the dark corridors, as the wind cackled outside, clattering against the panes of the windows and thrumming through the floors.
“No, no, no, no,” Rose gasped as she ran, her soles sliding across the floor, the icy air cutting through her thin clothes. Her breath tore through her, her hair bannering out behind.
They leaped down the set of stairs in the Ember Keep, both almost losing their balance…
And ahead of her, Rose saw the prince’s doors hanging open.
A wave of ice frothed across the threshold.
She skated frantically forward, nearly spilling to her knees as she tried to make the turn. She dashed into his chambers—which had plunged into darkness. The fire in the hearth had extinguished, the lamps burned a low, sinister blue. The furniture looked black, and the ceiling hid itself entirely.
Captain Elfrid stood near the prince’s bed, holding up a blue-glowing lamp.
And stretched out on the rug before the captain in its grim halo, on his back, lay the prince.
Wearing his white trousers and loose shirt, a half-empty bottle of blue liquor spilled by his right wrist. His skin paler than ash, his eyes closed. His white curls gracefully crowning his head.
Lifeless and beautiful as a sepulcher.
“No, no, no,” Rose kept breathing, without knowing what she said—and she threw herself past the captain and stood over the prince, grabbing the post of the bed for support.
“We heard the bottle hit the floor,” the captain told her, his voice shaking. “I looked through the open door and saw him thus, and I felt his skin—it is like ice, ma’am.”
“No, no…” Rose felt hot, desperate tears spring to her eyes and tumble down her cheeks. She fell to her knees beside the prince, frantically pushing her hands in past the laces of his shirt to press her palms against his chest.
He did indeed feel like ice. And he was not breathing.
“Oh, no, no, please…” She reached up and slid both hands around his neck, pressing her thumbs against both sides of his pulse. “Pleas
e, Nikolas, please, please don’t do this…”
No heartbeat answered her touch. Tears stung her face as she stared desperately down at his closed, unmoving eyes. She squeezed his throat harder, searching, searching…
“Elfrid!” she yelped, tears dripping from her chin. “Bring me an ember from the fire!”
“What? An em—”
“Do it, please!” she shouted.
He immediately set the lamp down beside her, hurried to the hearth and bent down to sift through the ashes.
“Are there any still burning?” she called.
“Yes…yes, here is one that is fairly hot!” he answered.
“Bring it to me!” Rose let go of Nikolas and stretched out her left hand. Elfrid, carrying the little ember in his gloves, brought it carefully back to her.
She grabbed it. It scalded her skin—but she ignored it.
She brought the ember up to her mouth, squeezed her eyes shut and whispered to it.
“Tar abháile. Tar abháile, tar abháile.” Terrible heat flared through her palm. She reached down with her right hand and parted Nikolas’ soft lips, and pushed the glowing ember into his mouth, and down his throat.
Then, she urgently rubbed the outer of his throat, bent her head down and pressed her forehead to his.
“Tar abháile, tar abháile, tar abháile, Nikolas,” she rasped. She moved her hand down and urgently rubbed his upper chest, pushing warmth back into it, letting the Source build up in her chest, flow down her arm and through her fingertips, into him, into him…
“Nikolas, Nikolas, hear me,” she whispered. “Listen to me, Nikolas. Come home, Nikolas. Come, Nikolas. Come home.”
Her left hand cradled his neck as she squeezed her eyes shut even tighter, willing him to hear her. Her right hand spread across his breastbone, waiting, waiting…
“Nikolas…dearest, please…” she breathed. “Tar abháile…Tar abháile…”
Then—
A pulse. Beneath her left-hand thumb.
She jerked up. Feverishly searched his face through the blur of tears.
Her right hand suddenly rose with the sound of a ripping gasp.
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