The Treasure Keeper

by Shana Abe

  A line of torches ahead, each one a bright cherry of light, until the tunnel ended, and she walked into a vast cavern of stone, minute, refractive glimmers from veins of quartz sparkling through the shadows. The ceiling was domed and uneven, and reached so high along the far side she could not see the top.

  It was a living chamber. It had been furnished with fixtures and rugs, an agate-topped card table with matching chairs, a teak dining table with carved phoenixes winging up along the legs. Three satin settees. A painted golden screen in the Chinese style, brushwork depicting birds upon branches, a river rushing below them. A gilded candelabra burning with a dozen white candles. There was even a harpsichord, amber-colored wood and ivory keys, flowers painted in a pretty plait upon the sides.

  A bed loomed by the Chinese screen, a big one, with four mahogany posts and ocean-blue covers, furs strewn haphazardly along its base.

  But for a single, elderly woman seated upon a bench at the foot of that bed—and all the gossamer songs of the quartz bespangling the limestone—the cavern appeared to be deserted. There was no scent of Others anywhere nearby.

  Zoe was invisible. Rhys was close to it, hugging the area around the final torch. Yet the woman turned her face toward them anyway, a sheen of gray-white hair bound into a coronet, shoulders straight, her hands frail and elegant. She lifted a small golden watch fixed to a chain about her neck, checked the time, and let it drop. In her other hand was a teacup; she raised that and drank from it, and Zoe realized right then, from all the way across the cavern, that this woman was a dragon.

  Not faint-blooded. A full drákon.

  “Will you take tea?” she called, her voice wavering across the silence.

  Zoe froze.

  “Yes, I can feel you,” the woman said, nodding. “Don’t make me get up. These old bones, you know.”

  Before Zoe could move again, before she could think, a spiral of smoke bloomed around her, brief warning, then shot past, transformed into naked Rhys before the elderly female. He walked casually to the bed, picked up one of the furs, and wrapped it around his waist.

  “Tea would be delightful,” she heard him say. “How kind.”

  The woman made a motion toward the stand by the bed, where a service was arranged. Rhys took a cup, poured from the pot, glanced around him as if to discover a place to sit, then remained standing. He lifted the tea to his nose, appeared to inhale.

  “It’s not poisoned,” said the woman, sounding amused. “If I’d sought to poison you, Lord Rhys, I would have done it long before now.”

  “You’re English,” he said.

  “I am.”

  Zoe began to steal forward into the cave. Rhys was sipping at his tea, pattering on in his damaged, cordial voice.

  “But I don’t know you. I know everyone from the shire, but not you.

  “Are you certain about that?” She smiled up at him, and her eyes crinkled. They were blue, Zoe saw. Not the faded, chalky blue one might expect of a human her age—but she’s not human, whispered her mind, she’s not human, is she?—but an intensely rich blue, like the heart of a midnoon sky.

  Zoe weaved around the candelabra, stepping quietly upon the rug beneath it. She cast the cloak at the woman and had it bounce back to her at once, untouched.

  Astonished, she tried again. And again, it rebounded, as if it’d struck a rubber wall.

  “Mmm, no,” Rhys was saying, a brow lifted, shaking his head. He rested his weight upon one leg and held the teacup with his fingers splayed, a gentleman at his leisure with talons poking in every direction. “Don’t recall you. Sorry.”

  The woman rocked back upon her bench, still smiling. Her gown was blue as well, an old-fashioned powder blue, with a stomacher and embroidery. “Now, that is a disappointment. A girl never forgets her first kiss, but I suppose you males are more fickle than that. And you were always such a flirt.”

  Zoe went motionless once again. Rhys slowly lowered his cup.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’d fallen. I’d scraped my chin. It hurt like the devil, and then you were there. Right there on the street in front of the silversmith’s, the dark and dangerous second son of the Alpha. Oh, how my heart skipped! Even then you were quite the handsome rogue. You smiled at me and told me not to cry. But it hurt, you see. So you bent down, and you kissed it better. You wiped my tears away with your thumb. That’s all.” She tasted her tea. “That’s why I kept you in the basement. That’s why I haven’t killed you, the way I’m going to kill the rest.

  For a moment, he only stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh.” The woman gave a cackle. “I forgot to mention that I was only eight years old at the time. Old enough to know better than to cry, actually, but you were so tender. It was the first time you’d ever truly looked at me. Seen me. Such eyes, and that smile! I was swept away. I’ll tell you this, I adored you for years after.”

  Rhys limped back to the stand by the bed, replaced his cup amid the little pots of sugar and cream. The woman watched his every move.

  “My name was Honor then,” she said evenly. “Honor Carlisle. And that was my first kiss, trifle though it was.”

  He had turned to see her. He was scowling down at her, his black brows drawn into a slash, his jaw grim. Candlelight flickered over him, highlighted muscle and sinew and the gloss of his hair.

  “I’m Réz now,” said the woman. “I have reached ninety-one years of age, and my name is Réz.”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Rhys again, still polite. “One does hate to contradict a lady.” He gave a short bow without taking his gaze from hers. “But I don’t think that’s possible.”

  “What, to be this aged and still this fine-looking?” She laughed at her own wit, and it was a surprisingly youthful sound. “Dear me! And I thought you were the brother with the sense of humor. I’m a time weaver, Lord Rhys. I discovered that right before my fifteenth birthday. Right after I was stolen from the tribe.”

  “A time …”

  “Weaver. Yes. Well, that’s what I call it. As far as I know, I’m the only drákon with such a Gift, so that means I get to invent the name. Time weaver. Sounds impressive, doesn’t it?”

  “Extremely. You know, I believe I do recall the incident before the silversmith’s. You were pushed, weren’t you? Another girl pushed you.”

  The woman’s smile faded. Her gaze was vivid blue.

  “And your hair was … not blond. Not red. In between, sort of coppery. The color of …”

  “Sunset,” whispered Réz. “My mother said it was sunset.”

  “Little Honor Carlisle. I say, how you’ve changed. Why don’t you dispel the last of my doubts right now? Go ahead … weave me some time. Prove to me what you’re saying, because frankly—and I’m sorry to be rude—frankly your story reeks like a load of ripe horseshit.”

  Zoe had been circling about the cavern, making her way closer and closer to the woman. Her scent might indeed be subtle, but the animal in Réz was going to sense her sooner or later, and realize that there was not one drákon before her but two. Zoe needed to be close enough to strike when that moment came.

  Réz seemed unoffended by Rhys’s bluntness. “I’d really rather not,” she murmured, sipping more tea. “It happens that there are some unpleasant consequences when I do it. Little bits and pieces of me gone missing. I try to save the weaves until I absolutely need them.”

  “Now isn’t one of those times?” he asked, again with that lifted brow.

  “Not yet.” She set the tea upon the bench beside her, put her hand into the pocket of her gown. Rhys Turned at once to smoke, and the woman glanced up at him, took her hand from her pocket with her fingers curled around something dark and glittery.

  “Did you think I was going to shoot you?” she asked mildly. “Please. Turn back to your human shape, my lord.”

  That was when Zoe realized that Réz held one of the manacles. The manacles embedded with Draumr.

  It was impossible. T
hey’d separated them, given one to the prince and kept the other, and theirs was still back in the palace, Zoe was sure of it. She’d made sure, right before they’d left. And Sandu had to be halfway home by now—unless the cook had turned on him—had managed to hurt him, force him back to the city—

  “Return here, Lord Rhys,” commanded the old woman, and after a barely discernible hesitation, he clouded back to the ground, resumed the shape of a man.

  No. No! He was supposed to be immune. Was it a trick? Was he only pretending? He was gazing at Réz and she was gazing at him; he didn’t glance in Zoe’s direction at all.

  “Thank you. Now I’d like to address your consort. The female. Come forward, my dear. I need to see you as well.”

  Zoe looked wildly about the chamber—the distance yawned before her and she was still too far—if she ran at her, if she ran quickly—

  “Right now,” barked Réz in a sharp new voice, “or else I make your lover suffer. I’m most creative. You really don’t want to test me.”

  Zoe willed herself visible. She was by the harpsichord, one hand pressed to the wood.

  “Ah.” Réz raised her white brows. “There you are. I’ve heard about you. Read about you, rather. Zoe Lane. Invisibility. That’s a useful Gift too, I must suppose. Except for right now, of course.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Zoe asked. “We’re your kin. Whoever you are, we’re your family.”

  Réz came to her feet, clutching the manacle with both hands. Two spots of color burned high in her wasted cheeks. “Family. Is that what you think? I had a family, Mistress Lane. I had a husband, and a child. And now they’re dead—they will be dead, they will be born and they will be dead—” She cut herself off with a snap of her teeth. “You are not my family.”

  “Did you kill the prince?” she asked quietly, and took a step closer. Rhys was still unmoving, watching the woman without blinking. “Is that how you got the manacle back?”

  “Kill him?” The color began to fade from her face. “How little you know, girl. Kill him, indeed—when all this has been for him. Ever him. No, Prince Alexandru of the Zaharen is quite well at the moment. I’m going to take this fascinating bit of iron from him three days from now in the luxury of his castle. He won’t even know it’s gone for a week. Time weaver,” she spat. “I told you.” She cocked her head toward Rhys. “Lord Rhys. I regret to inform you your presence is no longer required. I want you—”

  “No,” said Zoe, with another step.

  “—to Turn to smoke. Do not Turn back.”

  “No,” screamed Zoe as Rhys went to vapor, a cloud of gray lifting and thinning against the stratums of radiant stone above.

  There were men in all the tunnels. He supposed he’d not heard them before, not smelled them, because of all the stone surrounding them. He’d never been so deep within the earth, never been so encased in steady music besides that of Draumr. But the songs of the limestone and the quartz combined created a weirdly deadened effect, and Rhys only realized that he and Zoe were surrounded by men after he became smoke, and the music lessened.

  Holy God. The head of the sanf inimicus stood below him, and her minions were everywhere. She’d known they were coming. Somehow, she’d known. And Zoe was alone down there amid them all.

  She had gone to her knees, staring up at the last spot she’d seen him, veins of quartz glinting and glinting against the dull dark.

  She’d folded her hands over her stomach and stared, just like in the cellar. Just like with Hayden.

  Réz clucked her tongue. “Yes. Love is terribly painful, is it not?”

  She could not speak. She could not move.

  “I want you to know,” the woman said, “how very tempting it is to let you live and be my messenger. That was my original notion for you. I thought I’d feel a touch of affinity for another female of the shire burdened with a singular Gift. I was going to tell you to tell the English drákon that I’m coming for them. I will come for them. I did not create the sanf inimicus, you see, but I certainly did revive them. Yet it occurs to me now, Zoe Lane, that I may send my message just as effectively by letter. The post these days is fairly reliable. Perhaps I’ll include a lock of your hair.”

  Zoe gasped a breath; it choked in her throat. “Are you mad?”

  “Yes,” answered Réz serenely. “I think I must be.” She smiled. “I told you there were consequences to my Gift. For every glory, a price. Isn’t that what the council used to teach us? Stand up, my dear. Do stand up. You don’t want to die on your knees.”

  Zoe climbed to her feet. She faced the old woman. Rhys did not reappear.

  “I’m not so ill informed as to think this will work on you,” Réz said, lifting the manacle. “I did a little research after you thieved back my creature in the basement. That’s yet another fine Gift of yours, young Zoe, immunity to Draumr. So I’m going to have to destroy you the human way. With a bullet. Or an arrow. Whichever gets you first.” She tipped her head to the black rounded entrance nearby; the twists of her coronet shifted between gold and gray by the candlelight. “Do you know why I chose this place for my home? Because of the music. You think it’s soft at first, but it’s deceptive, and distracting. It’s nearly solid, you see. Nothing beyond it reaches you easily, not scent or sound. Go ahead and Turn invisible, if you wish. My men will hit you anyway.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Zoe vanished. She went unseen, sprinting at the same time, bending and turning and racing toward the pale blue figure that was her enemy, who had murdered Zoe’s two drákon and her heart. She felt her lips curl back in a silent snarl, heard the sudden commotion of feet scraping stone, hammers cocking and the creak of strings from bows, but before she could even finish her dash to the bed a deep gray column of smoke fountained from the ceiling to the floor, became a man standing behind the old woman with one arm around her chest and razor-sharp talons jabbed up high against her throat.

  “Hold,” he bellowed in French, a single word that crashed through the cavern, gained pitch and echo, and deafened. He stood tall and straight, and his eyes glowed poisonous bright green; a thread of scarlet snaked fast down Réz’s neck. “Hold or I kill her now!”

  Like a marionette on strings, Zoe did as all the others: She stopped in place, staring at the wrinkled woman and the taloned man, the light gliding over them, shifting and changing.

  “Zoe,” said the dragon-eyed man, and she finished the distance between them at a jog, still invisible, touched her hand to his arm.

  Réz’s gaze shifted. She seemed to see Zoe standing before them; she smiled once again, beatific.

  “Adieu.”

  She blurred. There was no better word for it; she was solid one second and a blur the next, and the next second after that, Rhys’s claws closed upon empty air.

  Réz was gone. Not invisible, not smoke. Just gone.

  “Well,” said Rhys, stepping back. “That didn’t go right.”

  Someone shot at them. Zoe ducked and Rhys Turned back to smoke, and the bullet whizzed by and pinged against the stone wall. As if that single retort had tightened all the other fingers, pistols fired from all corners; gunpowder sparked; arrows whistled past, up and down, puncturing the bed, the golden screen, the harpsichord. Zoe’s thigh.

  She cried out and collapsed to the carpet, rolling, clutching the shaft of wood. It was perceptible even if she was not, three rows of bright yellow feathers, and nearly at once a hail of new fire came toward her.

  She rolled. She screamed and broke the feathered part of it from her leg, tossed it away—but a bullet found her hand, and another ricocheted off the floor, spraying chips along her body.

  Without noise, without wavering, a shadow formed above her. It was huge; it blocked out all the light and the arrows, it crouched over her and fashioned sounds not from its own throat, but from the thrash of its tail belting the Others, from its claws—metallic claws, razored claws—scraping sparks along the limestone, digging trenches, swiping at men. Shrieks and bloo
d, more gunfire, bullets that bounced off him and struck stone. She lay on her back and stared up at his belly, the scales that glistened there, thick and glassy and emerald, shielding them both from the worst of the assault.

  The dragon reared, still thrashing, and began to move, taking out everything in his path. She heard wood splintering, harpsichord strings twanging in a jarring medley. Zoe maneuvered to her hands and knees and crawled with him, she didn’t know where, but it was clear they couldn’t go much farther like this. He was too large to fit into any of the tunnels.

  She scrambled out from beneath him. He’d drawn them both near one of the black open entrances, and she scratched at the floor with her fingers, dragging herself upright. She hopped on one leg and kept her shot hand close to her chest, pressed against his neck so he’d know she was there—hot, his scales burning hot, and humans yelling behind him—slipped around the pair of men frantically reloading their guns and hurried down the passage.

  She felt him Turn to smoke behind her, but he didn’t follow. Zoe stopped, grimacing, reeling against a wall, and from inside the cavern came fresh shouts and then a rumbling. Stones falling. Heavy stones, their impact shaking the earth. A rush of limestone dust devoured the two men with guns, began to boil toward her.

  She lurched away again. When she glanced back she saw at last a trail of blood behind her in the final, clouding light; as it left her body it became visible, slick and dark against the paler stone.

  She clutched her good hand to her thigh and forced herself to move faster. The dust became plumes overtaking her, choking, and then one of them Turned into Rhys. He scooped her up into his arms and ran.

  It was ungainly and very swift. Zoe dropped her head to his chest and closed her eyes and let the deadened stone air wash all along her, wash all along until she hooked her arms around it and drifted away.

  * * *

  He took her back to the palace. It was the only place in the city he knew besides the cellar and the maison. He got her in by the last squeak of dawn, laid her down upon her bed, and was glad she’d passed out, because getting the barb of the arrow out of her leg was a vicious enough affair, especially for a creature with claws. Only one of them should be weeping over it, and he reckoned since she never woke, it might as well be him.