“That can be arranged.”
After digging around in a cupboard earlier today, I discovered some crystal wine glasses, hand-carved in the shape of the Hindermarks’ coat of arms. As the girls walk around, observing the artwork I painstakingly packed in my trunks, I pour some wine for each of us and hold out the glasses. “Here you are, ladies.”
My cousin snickers as I pour one for her. “Always willing and able to get everybody drunk.”
“That’s his job, isn’t it?” Corene stretches out even further, like a cat when sunbathing. “First time I ever had a drink was at the mansion, and so were my second and third and fourth. I remember when Mom let me try her wine for the first time and I forgot to be disgusted by it. She guessed right then what we’d been up to.”
A snort escapes me. “Queen Laine! It only took her, what, a year to catch on? Melidia bless her memory.”
Corene raises her glass, which I fill. “Thank you, Percy.” Thelia gives her a look. “I mean, Parsifal.”
I smile and clink my glass against hers. “You’re both perfectly welcome.” It’s like escaping our awful families has taken us back in time, to when everything was less complicated. When we didn’t fight. I throw back my own glass and pour another.
This was the night I’ve needed for so long. Bayled isn’t here, and while I’m sure he hovers on the edge of Corene’s mind, she doesn’t bring him up. I don’t want to think about him out on the Low Road, cold and sleeping on the hard ground. I certainly don’t want to imagine that cratertooth sneaking up on him in the night and burying a dagger in his back.
We cover every meaningless topic possible, from artwork to architecture to gossip about our history tutor. Corene’s wine sloshes forward in her glass and her face is bright red. We’re in the second bottle now and it’s almost gone. “I swear to you, I saw him with old Madame Feroult,” she says. “They were out in the courtyard, sneaking kisses in the dark right under my window.”
“Had you been drinking?” Thelia asks with a bright, ringing laugh. “Your eyes make stuff up when you’ve had a few.”
“What? You think I’m a liar?”
“I think you saw what you wanted to see. That lady is so old, her coot is probably dried as a prune.”
I raise a hand. “Stop right there. Women only get better with age. There is no such thing as a dried out coot. It is all good—always good.”
Corene’s mouth falls open, and Thelia howls. “Melidia hold me! You have it for Madame Feroult.”
My fists clench. “That’s not true.”
“Yes it is. You cannot tolerate the idea of her getting poked by Sir Pedrekel because you want to poke her yourself.”
I know it’s the wine that’s getting me all warm and angry, but I still say, “No, it’s you who wants to get poked by Sir Pedrekel. You like older men.”
The room goes silent. Corene hunches her shoulders like she’s trying to disappear and takes a long gulp of her wine.
Thelia’s scowl could melt holes in iron. She gets up and puts her glass down. “Theels,” I say, getting up to stop her.
“I’m hungry since I skipped dinner. I’m going to the kitchen.” She’s trying her hardest not to sound angry, just flat. She glances at Corene. “You want anything?” Corene shakes her head, so Thelia disappears out the door.
“I’m sorry I ruined it,” Corene says into her glass. “Seems like I ruin everything lately.”
I tilt my head. “To what are you referring, Princess?”
“I’m the one who messed up everything with the Baron. I hurt her so much. She truly loved him.”
Even the demons could’ve predicted Corene would make this about her. I gulp down the rest of my wine. “You did what you thought was right at the time.”
Time to open more. Corkscrew in one hand, I reach for a fresh bottle—my last one.
“I guess.” Her eyes grow misty. “I just . . . Thelia is all I have.”
I lower the wine bottle. “What about Bayled?”
“It’s not the same. I was almost eight when he came to the Holy Kingdom. But Thelia’s always been there.” She hiccups as her tears brim over. “And she was going to leave. If I said nothing, she’d have married the Baron and left for the Crimson Woods and never come back. I did you a favor.”
I can only gape at her. The selfish little pliggan.
Corene’s tears fall into the wine. “I lost Mom already.” She won’t look at me, won’t take in the horrified look on my face. “Someday I’ll lose Dad, too, and then who would I be left with—?”
My throat and chest feel hot. I can never tell Thelia this. Time for more wine. But when I go to pour it, the bottle shakes in my hand, spilling red droplets.
I stare at my hand, wondering if I’m that upset—when the bottle wobbles again.
“Do you feel that?” I ask. Corene gives me a strange look. Now even the couch is vibrating underneath me. “Is the ground shaking?” They have these in the Sand Shelves, great quakes that rip holes in the earth. But this feels like . . . a warning.
Corene starts to look angry. “Nothing is shaking, Parsifal. You’re drunk.” Behind me, the three-pronged candelabra on the desk topples off, falling on the ground with an immense clang!
I jump to my feet. “You know,” I say, putting the bottle of wine down. “I should go help Thelia bring food back. I wanted some too.” The candlesticks keep trying to tell me things.
Parsifal, do you know how absolutely rung up the parapets you sound? But I’d rather be wrong and know it than be right and ignore my instincts.
I put down the bottle and run out of the room. I nearly slip on the stairs but catch myself on a windowsill. There’s so much wine inside me that my limbs aren’t working. “Thelia?” I hiss. She must be coming back this way. “Theels!”
When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I slide across the stone floor, tripping over the runners. I make it down the main hall, almost to the kitchens. Someone is moving around inside.
Clink, clink. It’s coming from down the hall. I freeze.
They’re metallic footsteps—someone in armor. I dive through the open kitchen door, landing at Thelia’s feet. She’s picking through the leftovers from dinner, a candle on the center island.
“Parsifal? What are you—”
“Shhh.” I duck behind a counter and gesture for her to follow. She picks up her plate of food and swaggers after me.
“Playing a game?” she asks. Too loudly. “You’re quite drunk, aren’t—”
More clinking. I grab her arm and drag her down next to me. “Quiet,” I whisper. She stares into my face and, for once in her life, she shuts up.
A shadow appears in the doorway. Maybe they’ll move on—whoever they are. But the shadow doesn’t move. Thelia’s candle flickers on the counter. A head peers in, hidden in a silver helmet. Two long, pointed ears stick out the sides.
I grab Thelia’s hand. Please don’t make a sound.
Sapphire
Humans are so small. I have to stoop to avoid brushing the ceiling as my wisp and I traverse the tiny hallways. A few steps up. A turn. Another turn. A few steps down. I must be right back where I started—except for the thrumming, pulsing energy running through me.
I can feel Melidia’s eyes boring a hole into the back of my neck. She’s here, watching. The Magic flowing through this place is thick with her. If their goddess is focused this intently on them, our operation here may not go as we expect.
I shake it off. I’m a trained soldier, and no goddess will unroot me.
The bobbing wisp stops. Its arms curl in and it ducks behind me. “What is it?” I take two more steps before I can feel it too. The air is hotter, thicker, more fetid, like sweaty bodies and feces. I cover my face with my hood and gasp into it. I’ve never smelled anything as repugnant as this. I offer the wisp my hand and it climbs in, hiding behind my thumb.
I stop at a small wooden door bound together with crude iron rivets. It opens with a croak. The next room is just as dark,
and the smell is much worse.
Wood racks rise up to the ceiling all around me, lit by the wisp’s dim glow. I have to hunch to climb out the trap door, then it falls closed behind me.
Bottles fill the racks—probably wine. I’ve heard humans like it. We started getting it from the Northerners a few cycles ago, but most of The People don’t consume. Who would enjoy losing control?
I close my eyes and feel through myself for Melidia’s unwavering gaze. It is more of a glare. But from where is she watching me?
Down a hall, I meet a dead end. Voices echo overhead and I usher the wisp into my pocket, following the sound. Light floods in through a metal grate. And the smell—humans are the foulest creatures ever created. Melidia, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.
There’s splashing, and then footsteps. The voices recede. I push open the grate and peer out. I am in a small, round room—with a pool of feces right in the middle. Before I can vomit, I cover my face and race out, behind two squat women.
I follow them down the halls as Melidia’s presence grows stronger. I keep myself pressed to the wall, in the shadow. “If I have to empty another one of that old, creepy wizard’s chamberpots . . .” one woman says, or so I think—I’m out of practice with this language.
“It’ll only get worse. Or maybe better, when the food runs out and they have nothing left to shit.”
The women disappear down the hall. Following the smell of sulfur and cinnamon, I take the other fork. It is night, so most of the humans should be asleep.
It hits me like a sling to the head: Melidia is staring right at me.
I will not be intimidated out of completing my mission. I follow the force of her gaze until I am standing before tall stone doors. Drawing my sword, I push them open with a horrific creak.
The temple is silent. When I pass a pool of water, a glass globe rises to the surface, pulsing with light. There is Magic here. Deeper in the temple, I enter a vaulted atrium. It reminds me of the High Seer’s garden back in Viteos—except for the towering statue of Melidia. Her stone eyes glare down at me as I walk underneath. The smell of Magic leads me deeper, to a hall of doors. This must be where the priestesses live.
I enter the first room. The person in the bed shifts but doesn’t wake up. I lean over and tap her three times on the temple. Her eyes open for a moment before they roll back in her head. She should be out until morning.
I repeat my task in each room. But in the last one, the bed is empty. I search the closet, under the bed. This isn’t good—only priestesses have access to the sort of Magic that would present a problem to us. If even one of them gets away . . . “Can I help you?” I spin to find a tiny girl standing in the doorway, white-blond hair piled on top of her head. “Wow,” she says, smiling at me. “You’re beautiful.”
It would be three steps and three taps. She wouldn’t get away. She is small and human. But that smile is brilliant.
The Commander will surely dismiss me if I ruin this task. I take a step toward her—and she points a knife at my chest.
I can probably move faster than she can, and my hard skin might be able to repel a weak attack. But I don’t know what powers Melidia might grant her most precious servants, and I rather like my life.
“What are you after?” the Priestess asks.
My grasp of the language is awful, but I might as well try. “To clean.”
“Clean? Clean what?” She takes a step closer. I take a matching one in reverse so the backs of my legs press against the bed.
“Magic.”
She tilts her head. “You want to clean Magic? That doesn’t make sense.” She carries smokesticks in her hand—ready to call for help.
I gesture around us, hoping I can convince her not to. “Too much Magic. Unsafe. For everyone.”
The Priestess follows my eyes to the sticks in her hands, and she smiles even wider. I leap onto the bed, whipping out my sword. She raises the smokesticks in the air and, with a single word, lights them.
“Try it and I send a message,” she says. “The army will turn around and come back.”
“Try-y-y it.” I level the sword at her: a dare.
“Melidia has chosen me to live and to die. Death matters not.”
“We not here to kill.” I lower my sword. “Just help. Too much Magic—dangerous.”
“Dangerous? We’re fine.”
“No. Soo-o-oon, will be dangerous. More, more Magic.” The steady burn at the end of her smokesticks suddenly leaps into flame. She drops them, surprised, and I stomp them out before she can burn down the temple. “See?” I say. “Dangerous.”
We are face to face, weapons down. In her icy eyes I see the shadow of Melidia. Finally she says, “My people are what matter to me. Don’t hurt them. Please.”
I shake my head. “Not if yo-o-ou co-o-o-operate.”
She evaluates me. Her face is expressive and intelligent—not like giants or ogres or animals. Human eyes are not supposed to look into me, to consider me like one of my own kind would. This is wrong.
“Fine,” she says, putting her dagger away. “Let me tell my people why you’re here. Then we’ll surrender.”
“Yes.” I sheathe my sword. “Tell them.”
I take her arm in my hand, when a scream ripples down the hall. The Priestess’s face falls. “What’s that?”
I do not know myself. They were supposed to wait for my signal. I hold her tighter as the sound of metal on metal echoes through the temple.
“No!” she shouts. “You lied to me!” I yank her by the arm and run toward the sound.
Thelia
We’re going to die. Right here, in the kitchen, under one of the tables, among crumbs of stale bread and crusty ham.
They’re here. Did they defeat Bayled and the rest of our army—or bypass them entirely?
The soldier in the doorway peers around the room, helmet built around its long ears. My eyes drop to the plate of food on the floor next to me, the plate I wouldn’t abandon when Parsifal showed up. My back’s pressed up against crates of apples and potatoes that will creak if I breathe. The plate’s out in the open. If this . . . thing sees that—it sees me.
As the creature steps farther into the kitchen, armor clanking, my heart pumps so loud I can hear it. My lungs clench, desperate for new air. The candle’s tiny flame flickers but the open kitchen door shields us, just barely. Should the soldier look in our direction, the whites of our eyes would give us away.
I keep my gaze on the floor as the thing pivots, walking around the center island. It stops in front of the candle, one silver boot less than a foot from my plate. The soldier reaches out and picks up the candle by the finger hook. Its flesh isn’t gray or wrinkled like my nightmares. Its skin is . . . shiny. Perfectly smooth. A deep gold, like metal. The perfect hand, with its perfect fingernails, brings the candle up to its face.
No. It . . . it can’t be. This is worse than anything I imagined—so much worse.
A pink tongue shoots out, licking the metal. It sets the candle back down and continues on. Four feet away from us. Five. I’m feeling dizzy from not taking a single proper breath.
The creature heads toward the other end of the kitchen, its back to us. A mane of long, flaxen hair tumbles down a silken cape from under the helmet. Flaxen hair?
Behind me, Parsifal moves. No, no! I want to shout at him. You’ll slip on the floor and give us away! I grab Parsifal’s arm to stop him, but he dodges. He snags a piece of hard bread off my plate and leans around the door. I don’t have time to interfere.
He chucks it. The crusty bread skitters across the floor, hits the doorframe, and stops. Parsifal clenches his fists. Not far enough.
The monster spins. Its gaze slides right past us as it storms toward the bread.
They are not the beady, black eyes from my dreams. Even in the dim light I can make out small pupils in a ring of bright hazel, whites around the outside, and long lashes. Just like mine. I clamp my mouth shut, hard.
When the elf g
ets close, the piece of bread wobbles—then falls over. And falls over again. Soon the bread is rolling, of its own accord, into the hallway. The elf rushes out the door, following the rolling hunk of bread away from us.
The moment it’s clear, Parsifal jumps up. He runs over and peers into the hall, holding up one hand, as footsteps clink away.
He gestures forward and we run, leaving behind my plate of food and that miserable candle.
The elf catches the fleeing bread the moment we leap around the nearest corner. It’s not the right hallway, but we know this castle. Or we would, if we were sober.
The wine in my belly makes my steps sloppy and uncoordinated. Parsifal lags at the end of the hall. I grab his hand and yank him after me up the stairs. “Come on!”
His eyes are red and watery. “I’m trying!” He’s frightened. So am I—except Mother trained the freeze of fear out of me.
We race up the stairs, two at a time. Dusty dogs sleep on the steps, children mixed in with them. “Run!” I shout as we jump over them. When we reach the next floor, I head for the open walkway that leads to North Hall. We have to get back to Corene.
“This way!” I yank Parsifal along. Halfway across the walkway, the screaming starts. Parsifal’s panting and gasping, so I clutch his hand tighter. “Move,” I tell him.
“Shut up, Mom.”
Thank Melidia that the servants lit the torches so I can make out the door to our room. We made it. When we charge inside, Corene sits up on the couch and smiles. Until she sees our faces. “What’s wrong?”
“Remember when we were little, Corene?” I ask her, keeping my voice calm. “You told me that there was a secret chamber? A hiding place?”
She stares at me blankly.
“Where is it, Corene? Tell me. Now.”
“Why?”
“They’re here.”
I have to grab Corene to get her up, because she’s drunk too. We run back into the hallway, where the sound of screaming echoes up the stairs. I look at Parsifal. “They’re coming here next.”
Corene whimpers as we reach the door of her suite. Inside, she tries to light a candle but I stop her. “Just bring it. The fire striker too.”
Castle of Lies Page 9
