by Bryan Davis
He glared at the stake still embedded in his hand. If he took it out, blood loss might make him too weak to carry Frederick, but if it stayed, it might make digging impossible, and it wouldn’t take long for infection to set in.
Heaving a deep sigh, Adrian shifted to the opposite side of the pit and began clawing at the dirt. One way or another, he would get his brother the help he needed. The first step, though, would be to get back to Marcelle and the children. Drexel had to be stopped.
* * *
TWO
* * *
MARCELLE wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. So far, perpetual cold was the worst part about being a bloodless pseudohuman. It had taken a while to become accustomed to having no heartbeat, but the upwelling surges of bitter chills felt like fountains of inner ice, relentless and numbing.
She pushed through a stand of withered cornstalks and marched on the well-worn path of hardened dirt that led to the governor’s palace. Even though she looked like a walking corpse, it seemed best to go about her business as if nothing were unusual. Sneaking around would only double suspicion, and as long as she acted in a casual manner, she could explain her pallid face easily. Lots of people grew pale because of sickness. That excuse would have to do.
Squaring her shoulders and holding her head high, she strode ahead. Checking on her father was the highest priority. They had parted on reasonably good terms, so he would likely welcome her return, but one worry remained. It had become clear that someone in the palace had been slowly poisoning him. Had he kept his promise to watch for a poisoned goblet? Whoever the villain was, he had to be in the employ of the governor, and the governor likely had commissioned the slow execution in an effort to stop her father from investigating the extane mining company. As royal banker, it was her father’s duty to audit companies doing business with the governor, but his poison-induced illness had rendered him incapable of doing anything more than watching over palace funds. If the governor was involved in shady deals, a sick banker would never uncover the corruption.
Relaxing her muscles, Marcelle kept her eyes fixed straight ahead. No use getting furious now. Too much was at stake. The second priority was vital as well, to muster an army and charge into the dragon world. Convincing the populace of the truth would be the most difficult task, and every minute taken to prove the slaves’ plight could mean another dead slave and another minute Adrian would have to fend for himself against the dragons. Even when convinced, would the men of the land march? The heroes of the past had proven their valor in years gone by, but the courage of the younger men had not yet been tested.
As she walked, the farmland gave way to a commerce district— shops and service providers lined up on each side of the road, now a path of cobblestones. A stocky man wearing a bloodstained white apron swept the entryway to a butcher shop on the left, not bothering to glance her way. On the right, a willowy young woman, her hair tied in a bandanna, poured sudsy water from a basin and let it splash aimlessly on the road. Splatters flew back, dappling her ankle-length taupe skirt with tiny soap bubbles. She, too, paid no attention to Marcelle, apparently too busy preparing her store for customers.
A girl exited the store. Wearing a dark gray cloak that swept the walk with its hem and covered her arms with baggy sleeves, she stopped in front of the woman and curtsied.
Marcelle paused to watch and listen.
“Thank you for the cloak, Mrs. Longley,” the girl said, tear tracks evident on her cheeks. “I’ll go to the home now.”
“You’re quite welcome.” Mrs. Longley set the basin down and pulled the cloak’s hood over the girl’s head. “Remember, orphans hide their faces in public until they are adopted. When you get to the home, you can take it off.”
“Yes’m.” The girl pinched the hood closed in front of her face. “I hope you will visit me.”
“Of course, of course.” Mrs. Longley patted the girl’s head and looked at Marcelle, her eyes narrowing. “Now run along. They’ll be waiting for you.”
As the girl trotted down the street toward the palace, Mrs. Longley kept her stare on Marcelle. “Aren’t you the banker’s daughter?”
Marcelle glanced up at the shop’s sign—Miriam Longley-Royal Seamstress—then gave her a half bow. “I am.”
“You should see a physician.” Mrs. Longley scooped up the basin. “You’re paler than a corpse.”
“I’m not feeling my usual self this morning,” Marcelle said, laying a hand on her cheek. “Thank you for the advice.”
“If you will endure a bit more advice.” Her smile obviously forced, Mrs. Longley gestured toward her shop’s door. “I’m sure I can find a dress that will look lovely on you. With your physique, a size that would fit your shoulders would require that I taper the waist, but I am willing to do that at no extra charge.”
“Thank you.” Marcelle glanced at her battle garb—leather boots, black trousers, and tunic with a sword belt cinching the middle, though no scabbard or sword dressed her hip. Everything looked passable, though half-naked without a weapon. “These are better for my purposes.”
“If your purposes are to keep suitors away.” The smile flatted to a horizontal line. “Good day, Miss Stafford.” Without another glance, Mrs. Longley strode into her shop and closed the door.
Marcelle whispered to herself, mimicking the frosty tone. “And good day to you, Mrs. Longley.”
Shaking off the chill again, she continued along the road. With every few steps, it seemed that the cobblestones evened out, and the shops became larger and more varied, the wares transforming from necessities to luxuries—silks, beads, feathered hats, extane lanterns, and multicolored candies.
Soon, the palace came into view over its bordering trees and shrubs. Marcelle paused and took in the sight. As always, its ivory columns and stairs, sculptures of lions and wolves, and carved oaken doors stood in all their ostentatious splendor. Not long ago, to a younger, starry-eyed Marcelle, the stately ornamentations were like a purple satin robe dressing a dignified queen, but now they were nothing more than filthy rags around rotting bones. Hypocrisy had stripped the governor and his ilk of all their pretense. No amount of hot-air statesmanship could disguise what they really were—self-seeking, power-hungry charlatans.
Breaking again into a confident stride, she stepped away from the road and followed the grassy path leading around the palace’s east side. She crossed the rear courtyard’s Enforcement Zone, passing the familiar torture devices—the gallows with its ever-present hangman’s noose; the pillories that now sat empty atop the red-stone floor; and the burning stake, a six-foot-tall column of charred manna wood.
As she passed by the stake, a muffled cry reached her ears. She stepped across the blackened stones and paused near the block of wood upon which the victim stood. Was it her imagination? A memory of a past execution? Although she had heard about dozens of supposed traitors and witches being burned here, she had witnessed only one—Madam Halstead, the poor widow Counselor Orion had persecuted for years. After finally collecting enough witnesses willing to testify concerning her “magical” feats, which amounted to little more than accurately predicting events and perceiving what people were thinking, he had her condemned as a Diviner and cruelly torched.
Marcelle twisted the toe of her boot over a scorch mark, her ears still alert for another call. Maybe in this semiphysical state she was able to hear beyond the mortal veil. Perhaps even now Madam Halstead’s soul cried out for justice. What was it like to stand on that block, elevated a few feet above the crowd, watching wide-eyed torture lust as the voyeurs became drunk with agony? Which was worse, the flames that melted flesh and charred bone, or the darkness of dying without an advocate, surrounded by gawkers who hoped to tell a morbid tale? While shedding sham tears, they would recount her screams and terror-filled eyes, and they would mutter epithets against the brutality, but would they draw a sword and oppose the oppressors?
Clenching a fist, Marcelle shook her head. The men of this land were a vaci
llating lot. While ready to march together to battle a foreign adversary, when faced with an enemy from within, they cowered in the shadows, fearing to speak their minds, afraid that a word against the powers that be would find its way to the ears of the ambitious and then to purveyors of persecution. A man often swears alone against the oppressors of the land, but the echoes reach only his own ears, a mollifying sound, yet futile when drowned out by the crackling flames.
Pumping new energy into her gait, she ran from the Enforcement Zone, then slowed her pace as she ascended the back stairs toward the palace doorway. Gregor, the guard who normally watched the dungeon entrance, leaned his hefty frame against a marble column. She took in a deep breath, a strange sensation. To this point, she hadn’t breathed except to speak with Cassabrie in the forest and with Mrs. Longley at the clothing shop. It seemed that respiration was optional for this new body, and taking breaths required deliberate thought.
As she mounted the final step, Gregor snapped to attention, nodding as he opened one of the twin doors. “Good morning, Marcelle. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Nor did I expect to see you.” She stopped and looked him in the eye, trying to ignore the deep pockmarks that ravaged his cheeks. “Why did they transfer you from the dungeon?”
“The governor freed all the prisoners.” Gregor shrugged. “There wasn’t anyone to guard.”
“Why would Prescott do that? He never grants clemency to anyone.”
“I think you’d better get some rest.” He tilted his head. “You look awfully pale.”
She squinted at him. “What has that got to do with anything?”
“Well, you’re either sick, or you’re the only person in the kingdom who doesn’t know that Counselor Orion took Prescott’s place.”
“Took his place! What happened to Prescott?”
“He was murdered by his new bodyguard, Jason Masters.”
“What!” Marcelle shook her head hard. “That’s impossible!”
“Oh, he was murdered to be sure. I saw his body myself. A bloody mess.”
“I mean Jason Masters as the murderer. You know Jason would never do that.”
“Well, unless Drexel’s lying—”
“He’s lying. Drexel would lie to his own reflection.” Marcelle reached for Gregor’s scabbard and began unfastening it from his belt. “I need a weapon.”
Gregor lifted his arms. “What do you think you’re doing? I’m a palace guard now. You can’t—”
“Since I am head of the training school, we are of equal rank.” With a grunt, she jerked the scabbard’s harness from his belt. “If you want to report me, feel free to do so.”
“But what’s a guard to do without a sword? There are dangerous criminals about.”
“I believe that, especially since Orion emptied the dungeon.” She strapped the scabbard to her belt and fastened it in place. “I’m sure you can find an extra one in the weapons cache.”
“But—”
“No buts.” She set her hand on the hilt. “Any rumblings from the Underground Gateway?”
“Nothing since the most recent newsletter. Why?”
“I have a bulletin for the next issue, a story the readers will never forget.”
“Is that so?” Gregor leaned back on the column again. “Fill me in. I have plenty of time.”
“Well, I don’t.” She pointed at him. “Do you know who the editor is?”
He shook his head. “A mystery man. If his identity slipped out, Prescott would have had his head.”
“That’s what I thought.” She strode into the palace’s rear vestibule, calling back, “If I see a patrol guard, I’ll tell him to get you a sword.”
Trying to ignore Gregor’s fading grumbles, she turned left into the palace’s residence area and climbed the spiral staircase leading to her family’s quarters. Her legs seemed squishy as they took on the extra burden, as if her muscles were little more than bricks of cheese. She paused and massaged her thighs. So cold! Everything was cold, from her toes to her nose. And rubbing didn’t help. How could she aid circulation without any blood circulating?
Taking in an unnecessary breath, she pressed on up the stairs. Would her father be in their room? Would he be ill? If he had avoided the poison, might he have had to go into hiding to do so? Yet, Gregor would have mentioned that, so maybe all was well.
At the top of the stairs, she hurried along a corridor to the left, her hand brushing the railing between her and the foyer below as she bypassed the portraits and sketches on the opposite wall. When she reached her suite, she touched the nameplate on the door—Stafford—spelled out in gold letters. Unlike many surnames, this one was common among peasants and nobles alike, allowing her father to transition into nobility without raising too many eyebrows.
She grasped the brass doorknob and leaned close, listening. No sound emanated from the front room, the place where Daddy slept. Although he was usually up and around by this time of morning, he could still be sleeping if he had suffered another bout of nausea during the night.
Slowly turning the knob, she pushed the door open a crack and peered in. At the far wall, his covers lay scattered across the bed, as if pulled askew during a nightmare. An open window allowed a breeze to push sheer white curtains in a lazy wave, coloring the bed with a shifting shadow.
A slow clopping sound rose from behind her. She spun and scanned the palace’s lower level. A man dressed in satin finery strode toward the stairwell, looking at Marcelle, his reddish eyebrows bending and his clean-shaven chin twitching as he chewed on something that made his cheek bulge. His hair, stark red and bushy, covered his ears and swept down to the nape of his neck.
He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and continued his watchful pose, staring with piercing green eyes and saying nothing. Although wearing what appeared to be the garb of a high-level official, the colors—black with orange trim—didn’t match any of the uniforms she had come to know.
Marcelle gave him a nod but nothing more. Since this was a new official, he likely didn’t recognize her, especially considering her appearance. She had to act as if she owned the place.
She strode in and scanned the room, calling in a hushed voice. “Daddy?”
No one answered.
She ran to the adjoining room and scanned the small confines—empty except for her bed and dresser. Her covers had also been thrown to the floor, and every drawer had been pulled open.
Ransacked? She leaped to the dresser and tossed away a tunic that draped the top. Underneath lay a hairbrush and a mirror—her manna mirror. She snapped it up and caressed it in both hands.
The glass had been smudged but not broken or scratched. She turned it over and read the message burned into the manna wood frame on the back. Your heart is reflected by the light you shine. How great is your light when you sacrifice all you have for those who have nothing to give.
She breathed a relieved sigh. No harm had been done. Her heirloom from Mother was intact. Maybe leaving it here was a mistake. With spies in the palace, who could tell what might become of her family’s irreplaceable possessions?
As she gazed into the mirror, old thoughts drifted in. It seemed that Mother’s face took the place of her own as Mother sang a lullaby. Her soft, gentle lips moved in time with the lyrics, painting the portrait of so many dreams of late. Whenever danger rose to a peak, the dream always returned the following night, featuring Mother’s voice as she showed a young version of Marcelle this very mirror.
“When you look into this glass, remember my face and these words I speak, for we are reflections of one another. You are part of me, and I am part of you. Your heart beats in my bosom, and mine in yours. As long as you keep this manna mirror close, you will remember my love, and love will protect you—my love, your father’s love, and most of all, the Creator’s love. When you’re frightened, never forget that love is what makes your protector cover you with his shield.”
Marcelle clasped the mirror tightly against her chest. Le
aving it here was stupid. Maybe that’s why she was wandering around as a collection of dirt and dust, a wraith without a heartbeat. Forgetting about love had made her vulnerable.
She slid the mirror into her tunic’s inner pocket, then hurried back to her father’s room. She sat on the far edge of the mattress and looked out the window overlooking the palace’s east side. The village stretched out before her, dozens of citizens now milling about, likely going to their jobs. No one seemed dressed for Cathedral, so it had to be a normal workday. Daddy wouldn’t be among them. Ever since his illness, he never ventured beyond the palace doors.
She closed the window and set her fists on her hips, again scanning the room. If something had happened to Daddy, wouldn’t Gregor have told her, especially after her display of ignorance about Prescott’s death?
Her gaze fell on her father’s desk situated against the adjacent wall. Papers lay strewn across it, and the rolling chair had been pulled back. Daddy would never leave his work area in such a condition. He was a stickler for order.
She picked up a sheet of paper lying on top of a haphazard stack, a memo from Governor Orion, and read it, whispering out loud. “All royal officers are required to attend a meeting in the commons court one hour after dawn. I apologize for the short notice, but recent circumstances have raised the need for urgent action.”
Marcelle dropped the memo back to the desk. Apparently one item on the meeting agenda was to search the rooms while they were vacant. Someone had already been in here rifling through the desk and bed. Maybe Orion was searching for a way to break into the royal bank accounts without permission. He might have learned that Father’s safeguards against stealing applied even to the governor.
She hustled out of the room and down the stairs. Running seemed so odd now, no breathing, no racing heartbeat, no muscle strain, no sweat—almost like running in a dream, as if at any moment she might awaken to a different reality.
