Creatures of Light, Book 3

by Emily B. Martin

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “You don’t see the resemblance?”

  He looked again to me, his frustration clearly written on his face.

  “She’s my mother,” I said quietly. “Rana Maczatl.”

  His gaze jumped back to her. She nonchalantly held out the bag of corn biscuits to him—using her left hand, so that her prison tattoo showed on her wrist. He didn’t take the bag. A look of brief surprise flickered over his face before being replaced by puzzlement.

  “Oh,” he said.

  “Not as exciting as you’d hoped?” she asked.

  “I admit . . .” He looked back to me. “I had expected someone more . . . I just mean, I don’t particularly have anything against you.”

  “Well, that’s gratifying,” she said, taking a biscuit for herself.

  He frowned. “I don’t pretend to be pleased, of course, but it’s better than finding out the queens of Lumen Lake and the Silverwood had organized my abduction.”

  “I told you,” I said. “We’re going to find a new Prophecy. I haven’t had contact with Queen Mona or Queen Ellamae—or anyone, really—since Cyprien.”

  “Then why the heist?” he asked. “Why all the hurried and frankly reckless maneuvering to get me out of the palace—why not just make rubbings of this alleged Prophecy and bring it to the Prelate for consideration?”

  My mother held up her index finger. “One, because I don’t feel particularly inclined to hand myself back over to my sister again.”

  He gave a little start, as if just now realizing the full connection between Shaula and Rana. She continued, raising her second finger. “And two—when has that strategy ever worked before?”

  “Perhaps if you dissenters didn’t rush to cry that every scratch and divot are the work of the Prism himself,” Celeno prompted.

  I spread my hands, hoping to realign the conversation. “We need you to see them, Celeno,” I said. “Our word won’t matter at all to Shaula or the council. But yours carries authority, and you can take the time to decide what it means for Alcoro.”

  His frown deepened further. “And where are we going to accomplish such a thing?”

  “Into the Stellarange,” I said.

  His eyebrows rose. “In the middle of December? With just a few cloaks and blankets?”

  “We’re not going up them,” I said. “At least, not far. We’re going inside them, into a cave system my mother’s field team discovered.”

  “Inside a cave,” he repeated. “To see a new Prophecy.”

  “Well, fragments of a Prophecy,” my mother said. “It’s not complete.”

  “It’s not complete?” Celeno’s jaw dropped.

  “Of course it’s not complete,” she said, unpacking the bedrolls from our packs. “The cave is full of running water. No glyphs would stay fully intact under those circumstances.”

  Furious, he rounded on me. “You told me it was complete!”

  I bit my lip. “I said it was nearly complete.”

  He shook his head in disbelief. “You made it up,” he accused. “You just told me that to get me out of the palace.”

  “I said it was nearly complete.”

  “Even if it’s not complete,” my mother said, flattening out her bedroll, “it raises significant concerns about the use of your title to justify Alcoro’s political action.”

  He tossed up his hands. “So, in the end, this is just another ploy to delegitimize the Prophecy. Is that what I’m hearing? Is that really why we just threw Stairs-to-the-Stars into an uproar?”

  “No,” I said quickly. “No, Celeno. This is more important than that. This means finding a real, legitimate primary source, not relying on hearsay and speculation. This means changing how we make decisions. It could mean stopping an allied war before it begins. If this Prophecy changes what we know about your title, it could free us to pursue another route.” The vellum packet crinkled in my shirt—I nearly pulled it out and offered it as proof. “That’s something you’ve always said you wanted.”

  “Right now I want to get in my own bed and take my evening tincture.” He snatched up one of the bedrolls and stomped to the corner of the room as if to put space between us, though it only gained him a few extra feet. Shaking it open, he laid it down next to the wall and wiggled down into it, his back to both of us.

  I drew in a short breath at the ugly mood in the room. “Don’t you want something to eat?” I asked.

  He wrapped his cloak a little tighter around himself. “No.”

  My mother rolled her eyes in his direction and held out the bag of corn biscuits to me. Dejectedly, I sat on my bedroll and shared a silent, stilted meal of biscuits and jerked venison with her. My mother burrowed down into her bedroll and fell asleep with the ease of someone used to sleeping in the field, but I sat cross-legged on mine, idly studying her map of the cave. When her breath had deepened, I quietly pulled the vellum packet out of my shirt. I turned it over to study the thick wax seal in the dim light coming from our red-shielded lantern. It was broken—Shaula had already opened it and read the contents. But despite the crack in the yellow wax, I could still make out the two stylized bolts of lightning around an angular S.

  Samna.

  Finally, the response from Samna.

  As quietly as I could, I lifted the corner of the first page. It was dated four weeks previously, which meant Shaula had probably intercepted it around the same time that I’d been locked away in the Retreat.

  Greetings to Queen Gemma Tezozomoc of Alcoro, may you stand tall in the Light,

  I have brought the matter before the board and am pleased to accept the terms of your proposal . . .

  I snapped the edge of the parchment back down, my breath quickening. I leaned my head against the wall, clutching the vellum to my chest. After months—no, years—of correspondence, after letters of introduction and speculation, setbacks and victories, my official proposal had gone before the board of directors for the University of Samna. They’d conferred! They’d accepted! How long had I dreamed of this? How many nights had I sat scribbling at my desk, while Celeno slept listlessly in the other room, drafting and revising and finalizing my letters? And now, here was the answer. They would send one of their own scholars to Alcoro, to open discussion about organizing our own similar institution of education.

  An actual university.

  Not a faraway dream, but right here in Alcoro. I thought of my mother’s work, how a university would give it a place to thrive, along with all the other scholars whose work was passed over by the crown. Even Celeno’s research on the movements of meteors had had to be abandoned upon his coronation, left with no way to grow or be handed over for others to continue. An Alcoran university. The jobs it could create, the revenue it would bring in . . . it could make Alcoro a hub of the Eastern World, not a border country grasping at its neighbors’ wealth. Think, think, think of what it could do.

  Celeno shifted on his bedroll, and I forced myself to calm down. Quietly, I opened the letter again and read the rest, scanning the time lines and discussion points the Samnese board had suggested. My excitement tempered somewhat.

  It was a relief to have a response after months of waiting, but so much had changed since I sent my last letter on the week-long voyage across the sea. The attempt to reach out to Queen Mona had come and gone, followed by the subsequent disaster in Cyprien. The Samnese had made their agreements with the queen of Alcoro, and now I was little more than a fugitive, waiting to be tried and hanged as a traitor. On top of everything, now Shaula knew, too. My efforts to keep my correspondences secret from her had failed—at least in this instance.

  I glanced over at Celeno, who was lying rigid and still, too much so for real sleep. I let my breath stream out and folded up the letter, tucking it back in my shirt with the others. I blew out the lantern light and slid down into my bedroll. The sky was clear that night, the moon a waxing sickle, giving just enough light to illuminate the cracks in the ceiling.

 
; The petroglyphs. The Prophecy. The remaking of Celeno’s title. That was all I could count on at this point. Whatever my plans had been before, I had lost the opportunity to carry them out myself. If Celeno saw the petroglyphs and managed to regain control of the country, I could pass on my correspondences to him. He could take the opportunity I’d created and bring it to fruition himself—while I disappeared.

  Just like everything else.

  I rolled over, as if trying to physically put my back to that little voice that had flared in my head. It’s for the good of Alcoro, I thought angrily. If he could rebuild our country into something bright and hopeful, what did it matter whether I had a hand in it or not?

  But can he really do it? asked the voice. Will he really do it? He’s angry at you. You’ve broken his trust. He’s put his name on the order for your death. What if he takes your work and merely casts it aside, the folly of the failed queen?

  I bundled my blanket tight around my ears. I wouldn’t tell him. I wouldn’t tell anybody. I wouldn’t tell them anything, lest it all somehow be twisted and misconstrued and preached away. I knew how this worked. I knew how easy it was to unravel an idea before it had fully spread its wings and taken flight. It had almost happened to my thesis, when the group of old-guard scientists nearly overturned all my work to reclassify the cicada. But I’d won then, by waiting and working and writing until there were no holes left in my argument, and I’d do the same now. I’d keep it all quiet until Celeno had wrestled his title back from the false ramifications of the Prophecy. And then I’d hand him my university—and run. He could bring it back as his own grand idea without any whisper of my involvement.

  My stomach in sour knots, I closed my eyes and reached desperately for sleep, still aware that across the room, Celeno lay in a twin image of my own, curled up with his blanket holding back the world.

  Chapter 6

  When I woke to the sharp nudge of a boot toe against my ribs, my mind immediately jumped to the worst possible conclusion—we’d been found. The Alcoran army had followed us from the palace, climbed the track to the hut, and surrounded us with loaded crossbows. I sat up hurriedly, blinking up at the figure silhouetted against the midday sun.

  “He’s puking,” my mother said.

  I shook my head to clear it and got stiffly to my feet—everything ached from all the out-of-the-ordinary activity the previous day. “Celeno?”

  “He’s been tossing all morning,” she said. “Just a moment ago he threw off his blanket and barely made it out the front door.”

  From the open door came the sounds of retching. I quickly slipped back into my boots and went to the threshold. Celeno was kneeling in the snowbank, still in his nightclothes from when we escaped the palace, trembling as he emptied his stomach into the pristine snow.

  My own stomach squirmed. This was a scene that used to be a daily occurrence, one I had learned to anticipate and recognize before it happened. The number of times I had hurried out of the council room after him, or jumped from bed to accompany him to the washbowl . . . I scooped up a canteen and went to crouch beside him.

  I touched his shoulder. He drew in a deep gasp and glanced at me, his arms clutching his middle. He apparently had been sweating—his hair hung in limp tendrils over his forehead, not stiff with leftover wax.

  “Did you sleep at all?” I asked.

  He shook his head and gave a dry heave, his body convulsing. I pressed the canteen into his hand.

  “Drink,” I said. “I’ll get you a ginger pellet.”

  While he took short swallows of water, I went back in and rummaged in the pack with the medical kit, coming up with the pouch of dried ginger pressed into little pills. My mother watched as I plucked one out.

  “Did he eat something off?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “It’s nerves. He’s always had a bad stomach.”

  “Hm,” my mother grunted.

  I went back out with the ginger pellet and gave it to him between swallows. He set it in his mouth with shaking hands, and then accepted a change of traveling clothes from me—a thick, unadorned bolero over a plain shirt, sash, and trousers. Waving away my help, he slowly dragged them on and then returned his head to its former position hanging over the snow.

  While he stayed crouched outside, my mother and I packed up our travel gear and brought it back out to the blanketed mules. Only when they were loaded and ready to go did I go to shake his shoulder.

  “The mules are ready,” I said. “Come on.”

  But instead of rising, he shook his head. “I can’t.”

  “Why not? Your stomach?”

  “It’s not just that, I . . . my whole body feels . . . I can’t stop shaking.” He held out the canteen to illustrate.

  I heard the creak of leather as my mother mounted Checkerspot. Not wanting to cause a delay, I put my hand under his arm. “Maybe you’ll feel better after breakfast. You can eat while we’re riding.”

  “I doubt I can keep anything down.”

  “Well, we have to move forward,” I said. “We can’t run the risk of lagging if someone picks up our trail. Come on. I’ll ride behind you.”

  Somehow, despite his wheezing and wobbling, I managed to get him on his feet and into his mule’s saddle. He sat hunched on its back, one hand on his stomach, the other clutching the reins and a fistful of mane. My mother watched with her lips twisted to one side.

  “Go on,” I said to her as I mounted the bay. “I’ll sweep.”

  Our pace the rest of the day was slower than my mother and I had anticipated. Celeno seemed unable to keep his mule going at more than a plod, no matter how much my mother called to him. I rode just behind him, watching him hunch forward, head down, entirely unaware of the landscape we were passing through.

  As much as I tried to keep an eye on him, I couldn’t fully ignore our surroundings. The wide, plunging canyon of Callais was easily the most astounding natural feature in Alcoro, but we were slowly climbing into my favorite kind of landscape. The sagebrush flats disappeared, replaced by a steeper incline populated with cottonwood trees and, later, aspen groves. The aspens were beautiful in the snow, a perfect charcoal sketch, the black patches on their white bark stark against the frozen backdrop. The air carried the kind of quiet that only comes in winter, broken occasionally by the chipping of a few bald eagles and, somewhere, a late-season elk bugle. The higher we climbed, I knew, the land would turn to rugged slopes of alpine meadows, rushing creeks, and towering firs, all bedded under snow for the winter. A thread of quiet nostalgia distracted my thoughts all afternoon—my mother’s and my twirly house had been tucked into such a place. Not so high that we forfeited a productive garden, but high enough that few days got too hot for comfort.

  At the front of our line, her thoughts seemed to be similar to mine. “Remember the little lily field a few miles from the twirly house?” she called over her shoulder.

  I smiled. “With the hanging lake and spruce-fir grove.” My heart swelled as I recalled the piercing evergreen scent, and I realized with a start that I wouldn’t be seeing those alpine meadows or smelling the conifer forests again. If my plan was really to bring Celeno to the petroglyphs and then flee—then these were my last days in my native country. I closed my eyes and tried to conjure images of Samnese beaches and tropical fruit trees. But despite the allure of warm white sand and salt water, the high, fresh field of lilies wouldn’t budge from my mind.

  Between us, Celeno coughed wetly several times and spat into the snow. I opened my eyes and focused my energy back on urging his mule to move faster.

  The day was short, and because of our slow pace we didn’t reach our destination until the light was nearly gone from the sky. Our mules’ hooves caught on the rocky path as we directed them alongside the trapper’s hut, the windows boarded up for the winter. It was even smaller than the hunting cabin the previous day, without even a roof over the hitching post. My mother directed Celeno to sit on the floor of the hut while we fed and blanketed the mule
s. The king sat with his knees drawn up to his chest and his forehead resting on his arms.

  The hut was no warmer inside than outside, and small enough that the three of us and our saddlebags took up most of the space on the floor. My mother took out the food bags, handing me the bag of jerked meat. I extended it to Celeno, who turned his face away. My mother huffed, her breath clouding in the lantern light.

  “There’s no sense in a hunger strike,” she said.

  “I can’t stomach it,” he said.

  “You need to eat something,” I said. “Today was only a half day, but tomorrow’s a full one.”

  “I can’t, Gemma,” he said with irritation.

  “Here,” I said, rummaging in the packs. “Take another ginger pellet, and have some of the pine nuts. Maybe those will sit better for you.”

  “Why don’t you just leave me alone?” he said, his face turned away.

  I paused with the ginger pellets clutched in my hands, stung. My mother snorted.

  “Because she’s trying to keep you from keeling over, you ungrateful child.”

  He turned his head slowly back to the two of us, his eyes locking with my mother’s. “I would suggest sticking to Your Majesty, if you cannot manage the notion of my king.”

  She chewed a strip of jerky, regarding him. “It’s not the title I’ve never been able to swallow. It’s the means you use to uphold it.”

  He glared at her. “I suppose it was too much to hope that five years in the Mesa prison might have reoriented you.”

  “It was ten years, my illustrious king.”

  My hurried mediation died on my tongue, and my gaze swung to her. “Ten years?”

  She was still looking at him. “And you have a misguided view of the efficacy of your prison system if you think being a chattel in a long-dead mine softens one to the struggles of their monarchy.”

  “Shaula told me it was five,” I said to her. “She gave me the release documents.”