Trylle

by Amanda Hocking

  He went about chopping things up, and I offered to help him, but he insisted that he could handle it. The whole time, he talked amicably about the new motorcycle he’d gotten last week. I tried to keep up with the conversation, but all I knew about motorcycles were that they went fast and I liked them.

  “What are you making in here?” Finn came into the kitchen, his expression vaguely disgusted.

  His hair was damp from a recent shower, and he smelled like the grass after a rain, only sweeter. He walked past me without even a glance in my direction and went over to where Rhys had thrown everything into a wok on the stove.

  “Stir-fry!” Rhys proclaimed.

  “Really?” Finn leaned over his shoulder and peered down at the ingredients in the pan. Rhys moved to the side a little so Finn could reach in and grab something out of it. He sniffed it, then popped it into his mouth. “Well, it’s not terrible.”

  “Stop my beating heart!” Rhys put his hand over his heart and feigned astonishment. “Has my food passed the test of the hardest food critic in the land?”

  “No. I just said it wasn’t terrible.” Finn shook his head at Rhys’s dramatics and went to the fridge to get a bottle of water. “And I’m certain that Elora is a much harsher food critic than I’ll ever be.”

  “That’s probably true, but she’s never let me cook for her,” Rhys admitted, shaking the wok to stir up the vegetables more.

  “You really shouldn’t let him cook for you,” Finn advised, looking at me for the first time. “He gave me food poisoning once.”

  “You cannot get food poisoning from an orange!” Rhys protested and looked back at him. “It’s just not possible! And even if you can, I handed you the orange. I didn’t even have a chance to contaminate it!”

  “I don’t know.” Finn shrugged. A smile was creeping onto his face, and I could tell he was amused by how much Rhys was getting worked up.

  “You didn’t even eat the part I touched! You peeled it and threw the skin away!” Rhys sounded exasperated. He wasn’t paying attention to the wok as he struggled to convince us of his innocence, and a flame licked up from the food.

  “Food’s on fire.” Finn nodded to the stove.

  “Dammit!” Rhys got a glass of water and splashed it in the stir-fry, and I started to question how good this was going to taste when he was done with it.

  “If being picky is a Trylle trait—and it sounds like it is—how come Rhys isn’t picky?” I asked. “Is it because he’s mänks?”

  In a flash, Finn’s face changed to a mask of stone. “Where did you hear that word? From Elora?”

  “No, from Rhys,” I said. Rhys was still bustling around the stove but something about his posture had changed. He appeared almost sheepish. “And I wish one of you would tell me what that means. What’s the big mystery?”

  Rhys turned around, a nervous glint in his eye, and exchanged a look with Finn that I couldn’t read.

  “Elora will explain everything in time,” Finn said. “But until then, it’s not our place to discuss it.”

  Rhys turned around again, but I knew that the icy edge in Finn’s voice hadn’t escaped him.

  On that note, Finn turned and walked out of the kitchen.

  “Well, that was weird,” I said to no one in particular.

  When Rhys finished cooking, he pulled stools up to the island. Fortunately, the awkward moment had passed and our mood lightened again.

  “So what do you think?” Rhys nodded at the plate of food I was trying to eat.

  “It’s pretty good,” I lied. He had obviously worked hard on it, and his blue eyes showed how proud he was of it, so I couldn’t let him down. To prove my point, I took a bite and smiled.

  “Good. You guys are hard to cook for.” When Rhys took a mouthful of his own food, his sandy hair fell into his eyes, and he brushed it away.

  “So . . . you know Finn pretty well?” I asked carefully, stabbing my fork into a mushroom.

  Their banter earlier had left me curious. Before things got weird, Finn seemed to genuinely enjoy Rhys, and I had never seen Finn enjoy anybody. The closest he came was respect and obedience for Elora, but I couldn’t tell what his true feelings were for her.

  “I guess.” Rhys shrugged like he hadn’t really thought about it. “He’s just around a lot.”

  “Like how often?” I pressed as casually as I could.

  “I don’t know.” He took a bite and thought for a minute. “It’s hard to say. Storks move around a lot.”

  “Storks?”

  “Yeah, trackers.” Rhys smiled sheepishly. “You know how you tell little kids that a stork brings the babies? Well, trackers bring the babies here. So we call them storks. Not to their faces, though.”

  “I see.” I wondered what kind of nickname they had for people like me, but I didn’t think that now was the best time to ask. “So they move around a lot?”

  “Well, yeah. They’re gone tracking a lot, and Finn is in pretty high demand because he’s so good at it,” Rhys explained. “And then when they come back, a lot of them stay with some of the more prestigious families. Finn’s been here off and on for the past five years or so. But when he’s not here, somebody else usually is.”

  “So he’s a bodyguard?”

  “Yeah, something like that.” Rhys nodded.

  “But what do they need bodyguards for?” I thought back to the iron gate and the security guard who had allowed our entrance into Förening in the first place.

  When I had looked around the entryway, I remembered seeing a fancy alarm system by the front door. This all seemed like an awful lot of trouble to go to for a small community hidden in the bluffs. I wondered if this was all for the Vittra, but I didn’t want to ask.

  “She’s the Queen. It’s just standard procedure,” Rhys answered evasively, and he purposely stared down at his plate. He tried to erase his anxiety before I noticed, and forced a smile. “So how does it feel being a Princess?”

  “Honestly? Not as awesome as I thought it would be,” I said, and he laughed heartily at that.

  Rhys kind of straightened up the kitchen after we finished eating, explaining the maid would be in tomorrow to take care of the rest of it. He gave me a brief tour of the house, showing me all the ridiculous antiquities that had been passed down from generation to generation.

  One room only held pictures of previous Kings and Queens. When I asked where a picture of my father was, Rhys just shook his head and said he didn’t know anything about it.

  Eventually we parted ways. He cited some homework he had to get done and having to get to bed because he had school in the morning.

  I wandered around the house a bit more, but I never saw either Finn or Elora. I played around with the stuff in my room, but I quickly tired of it. Feeling restless and bored, I tried to get some rest, but sleep eluded me.

  I felt incredibly homesick. I longed for the familiar comfort of my regular-sized house with all my ordinary things. If I were at home, Matt would be sitting in the living room, reading a book under the glow of the lamplight.

  Right now he was probably staring at the phone, or driving around to look for me. And Maggie was probably crying her eyes out, which would only make Matt blame himself more.

  My actual mother was somewhere in this house, or I assumed she was, anyway. She had abandoned me with a family that she knew nothing about except that they were rich, and she knew there was a risk that I could be killed. It happens sometimes. That’s what she said. When I came back, after all these years away from me, she hadn’t hugged me, or even been that happy to see me.

  Everything felt way too big in this house. With all this vast space between everything, it felt like I was trapped on an island. I had always thought that’s what I wanted, to be my very own island. But here I was, and I felt nothing but isolated and confused.

  It didn’t help that people weren’t telling me things. Every time I asked something, there were only half answers and vague responses before the person I’d ask
ed quickly changed the subject. For being set to inherit a kingdom of sorts, I was pretty low on the information ladder.

  TEN

  precognition

  After sleeping fitfully, I got up and got ready for the day. I wandered around the house, but not intentionally. I had been trying to get to the kitchen, but I took a wrong turn somewhere and got lost. Rhys had given me an explanation of the palace layout the day before, but not enough, apparently.

  The palace was divided into two massive wings, separated by the grand entryway. All official business took place in the south wing, which housed the meeting rooms, ballroom, a massive dining hall, offices, the throne room, as well as staff quarters and the Queen’s bedroom.

  The north wing was more casual and contained my room, guest bedrooms, a living room, the kitchen, and the sitting parlor.

  I was wandering around the north wing, opening doors and investigating. As far as I could tell, this place had almost as many guest rooms as a Holiday Inn, only they were a whole lot fancier. I eventually found Elora’s parlor, but she wasn’t there, so it didn’t help me any.

  I moved on and tried to open the door across the hall from Elora’s space, but it wouldn’t budge. So far, this was the only door I’d found that had been locked, and I found that strange. Especially in this wing. I suppose in the south wing, locking up official business would make sense.

  Fortunately, I knew a thing or two about lock-picking. In attempts to keep from being expelled, I had broken into a few school offices and stolen papers. I don’t recommend it, and in the end, it was usually ineffective.

  I pulled a bobby pin from my hair and looked around. I didn’t see anyone, and hadn’t so far this morning, so I set about breaking in. After a few unsuccessful twists in the lock, I felt something give, and I turned the knob.

  Pushing the door open slowly, I peeked in, half expecting to find the royal bathroom or something. When nobody screamed at me to go away, I pushed the door open wider and stepped inside. Unlike the other rooms, this one was completely dark.

  Feeling along the wall, I finally found the light switch and flicked it on. The room reminded me of a large storeroom. It had no windows, and the walls were dark brown. With a bare lightbulb in the ceiling, it held none of the grandeur of the rest of the house, and it had no furniture.

  But it was filled to the brim with paintings. Not hanging on the wall. Just stacked and piled around in every available space. At first I assumed they must be leftovers from the King and Queen room, but from what I could see, none of them were portraits.

  I picked up the one nearest to me, and it was a lovely picture of a newborn baby wrapped in a blue blanket. I set it aside and picked up another, which appeared to be Elora, looking much younger and even more beautiful, dressed in a gorgeous white gown. Despite the beauty of the picture, her eyes looked sad and remorseful.

  Holding the picture at arm’s length so I could get a better look at it, I realized something. It had the same brushstrokes, the same technique as the painting of the baby. I picked up another picture to compare, and it was the same too.

  These were all painted by the same artist.

  I thought back to the drawing room and the painting I had seen Elora working on. Something with dark smoke and chandeliers. I couldn’t be certain, but I would guess these were hers.

  I sifted through a few more of the paintings, growing even more bewildered, and then I saw one that stopped my heart cold. When I picked it up, I wasn’t surprised to see my hands were shaking.

  It showed me, looking about the same as I did now, except dressed nicer. I wore a beautiful flowing white gown, but there was a tear in the side of the dress, revealing a thin line of red blood. My hair had been pulled back, but it was starting to come loose, wild strands falling free.

  In the painting, I lay on my belly on a marble balcony. The floor around me was covered in pieces of glass that shimmered like diamonds, but I didn’t seem to notice. My outstretched hand extended past the balcony, reaching into a dark oblivion.

  But my face was what struck me the most. I looked absolutely horrified.

  Once I got past that, I realized something even more disturbing. This picture looked exactly like me. And I’d only been here for a day. There was no way Elora could’ve painted something this detailed within twenty-four hours of meeting me.

  But how could she paint me with such accuracy if we’d never met?

  “I should’ve known you’d be snooping,” Finn said from behind me, startling me so much I dropped the painting.

  “I—I got lost.” I turned to look at him standing in the doorway.

  “In a locked room?” He raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms.

  “No, I—” I started to formulate some kind of lame excuse, but decided against it. I picked up the picture, the one of me reaching for nothing, and held it up for him to see. “What’s this?”

  “It appears to be a painting, and if you hadn’t gathered from the locked door, it’s also none of your business.” It came as a relief that Finn didn’t sound very upset. At least not as upset as Elora would be if she found out I was in here, I’m sure.

  “This is me.” I tapped the picture.

  “Maybe.” He shrugged, as if he wasn’t convinced.

  “No, I wasn’t asking. This is me,” I insisted. “What am I doing?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” Finn sighed. “I didn’t paint it.”

  “Did Elora?” I asked, and when he didn’t say anything, I took that as my answer. “Why would she paint this? How did she paint this? We’d never met before yesterday.”

  “She gave birth to you. You’d met before,” Finn replied dryly.

  “Yeah, when I was a baby. That doesn’t count.” I raised the picture higher so he couldn’t help but look at it. “Why would she paint this? Or any of these?”

  “In all your myriad questions about this room, did you ever stop to ask yourself why this room is locked?” Finn gave me a hard look. “That Elora might not want people looking at these?”

  “Yeah, it did occur to me.” I looked back down at the painting, ignoring him. “But this is me. I have a right to know.”

  “That’s not how it works. You don’t have the right to know other people’s thoughts just because they include you,” he said. “Just the same as I don’t have the right to yours just because they’re about me.”

  “You presume that I think of you?” I fought the growing blush on my cheeks and shook my head, trying to get back to the point. “Just tell me what’s going on. And don’t just tell me to wait for Elora to tell me, because that’s not good enough. Not after seeing this.”

  I put the painting down and returned my gaze to Finn.

  “Fine. But get out of there before Elora finds you.” He moved back from the doorway, making room for me to step out.

  I had to climb over all the paintings I had disturbed, but he didn’t tell me to put them back in order, which was good because I didn’t think I could. The room had no organization, and all the paintings were placed haphazardly.

  Once I made my escape, Finn shut the door, making certain it was locked properly.

  “So?” I asked, looking at him expectantly. He had his back to me, testing the door again to be sure it wouldn’t budge.

  “So, that’s Elora’s private room.” He turned to look at me and pointed at the door. “Do not go in there. Do not touch her private things.”

  “I don’t know what’s so bad about them. Why does she paint them if she’s gonna hide them away?”

  He started walking down the hall, so I went after him. “She paints them because she has to.”

  “What do you mean?” I crinkled my brow. “Like an artist’s urge takes hold of her?” I thought about it more, and it made even less sense. “Elora doesn’t seem like an artist type.”

  “She’s not, really.” Finn sighed. “She has precognition.”

  “What? Like she can see the future?” I asked dubiously.

  “
Kind of.” He wagged his head, like that wasn’t quite right. “She can’t see it. She can only paint it.”

  “Wait.” I stopped short, and he walked a few more steps before stopping to look back at me. “You’re telling me all those paintings were of the future?”

  Finn nodded. “At the time they were painted, yes. Some of them are old, and they’ve already happened.”

  “But that means the picture of me, that’s in the future!” I pointed back at the room. “What does that mean? What am I doing?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged, as if he hadn’t thought of it. “Elora doesn’t know.”

  “How can she not know? That makes no sense—she painted it.”

  “Yes, and all she knows is what she paints,” Finn explained slowly. “She doesn’t see anything. She picks up the brush, and it just . . . comes out. Or at least that’s my understanding of the process.”

  “But why would she just randomly paint me looking so scared?”

  “It’s just how it is,” he said, a note of sadness in his voice. Breathing deeply, he started walking away again. “And that’s why the room is locked.”

  “What do you mean?” I chased after him.

  “People want to know more about what she’s painted, but she doesn’t have the answers,” Finn said. “Or they want her to paint a particular spot in the future, and she can’t. She has no control over what she sees.”

  “What’s the point of it, then?” I asked. I quickened my pace to keep up with him, staring at his profile while he continued to stare straight ahead.

  “She thinks it’s a punishment.”

  “For what?”

  “Everybody has something to be punished for.” He shook his head vaguely.

  “So . . . she has no idea what will happen to me? Or how to prevent it?”

  “No.”

  “That’s horrible,” I said, more to myself than him. “That’s even worse than not knowing anything.”

  “Precisely.” Finn looked at me and slowed down, then stopped completely.