by K A Dowling
“Yes, Nerani, for us. They’re looking for all of us. They don’t waste resources searching for the dead.”
“She’s not dead!” Nerani nearly screams. “He said he would stop executing the Cairans when she was in his custody. He wouldn’t keep looking if he knew she was dead, you have to believe me.”
This time, it is the Cairan king’s voice that fills the darkened expanse. “The usurper is a deceitful man. We can’t believe any of his empty promises. I’m afraid Roberts is right, as terrible as the truth may be to hear.”
Darianna doesn’t get to hear Nerani’s response before a firm hand whips her unceremoniously out of her hiding place.
“What do you think you’re doing, dropping eaves on the Cairan king?” It is one of the Listeners from the entryway—the one who complained about the darkness. Behind Darianna, the three figures have fallen into silence. She can feel the blue eyes of the young woman boring into her skin.
Damn.
“I—” She stops short when she sees the expression on his face. His brows are knit together in consternation. She’s astute enough to know that his dismay isn’t meant for her. Something else is going on—something bigger than an eavesdropping girl. It’s time to leave, and leave fast.
“Sorry,” she mumbles, prying her shoulder from beneath his grasp and fleeing the scene. As she runs, she catches the beginning of the Listener’s message, his words clipped with concern.
“We’ve lost another one to the sea, Topan. This time, the general saw.”
CHAPTER 4
The Forbidden City
“How close was he?”
The door slams behind Roberts, sending a gust of air through the room. On the wall, the lit torches sputter, snapping their orange tendrils against the impenetrable stone.
“General Byron, you mean?” The willowy Listener that idles by the door watches Roberts through careful blue eyes. His bony fingers dance along the sleeve of his coat. The collar of his undershirt is low and Roberts can just see the pale line of skin where the summer sun has not quite been able to reach. The rest of him is dark and crisp, baked like bread left too long in the oven. “He didn’t even come close to finding the wooded entrance. I’m not worried.”
“You’re not worried?” Roberts echoes, fighting to keep the derision from leaking into his voice.
“That’s what I said.”
“But that’s how Regalad got out, isn’t it?” Roberts asks.
Regalad the Hapless, until very recently, was quite alive. Very recently, that is, until he threw his body from a cliff—until he dashed himself to pieces on the rocky shores of Chancey. The thought makes Roberts feel like he’s going to be sick. He turns abruptly on his heel, pacing the length of the room. Orange light twists and turns with his movements, casting his long shadow across the ceiling overhead.
“He escaped through the wooded entrance, which means General Byron must have been close enough to see him, and that’s too close for me.”
Across the room, Topan catches his gaze. His dark eyes—almost violet in this light—are admonishing. “Another poor choice of words, friend,” he begins. “To say that Regalad escaped is to imply that I’ve entrapped the Cairans here, which I haven’t.”
“Haven’t you?” Roberts retorts. Even as the words fly unguarded from his tongue, he knows he’s being unfair. He hasn’t been able to think straight. Not since Emerala’s death.
Her murder. He can hardly bear to think the words, even to himself.
Two months are hardly enough time to allow such a deep wound to heal.
Across from him, Topan’s eyes glitter like beetles in the dark.
“Careful,” he warns. “I understand that tensions are high, but let’s not begin throwing out false accusations. This city is a safe haven, and those who came here came of their own free will. I didn’t force a single Cairan to come, surely you must know that.”
Roberts does know. He knows all too well. There were Cairans who chose to stay, to blend in as best as they could, but they were few and far between. The vast majority had eagerly fled. Seeing two of their people so hastily subjected to a public slaughter was enough to send anyone running for the hills.
Roberts allows his attention to rove back to the Listener by the door.
“Did you at least manage to get close enough to hear their conversation?”
“Afraid not.” The Listener scuffs a toe against the stone floor beneath his feet. “Couldn’t give away my cover. I’ve got a nice plot of radishes growing in this summer heat, among other things, and we desperately need the food down here. Anyway, Regalad was scarcely sound of mind at that point—days in the tunnel will do that to you, we’re finding. I don’t think he could have given the general a lot of useful insight.”
“On the contrary, he could have told him anything. A madman is more dangerous than any other. General Byron could be leading a platoon of Guardians to our back doors as we speak.” Roberts’s voice rises in volume as he throws an implicative glance towards Topan.
“And then what?” Topan asks, ever the picture of serenity. His voice is measured, patient. He takes a step closer to Roberts, his hands clasped in the small of his back. Behind him, his shadow contorts and rises, stretching out over his slender frame. “He couldn’t have given the general a turn by turn map to follow back through the darkened catacombs of the Forbidden City, could he? Let me ask you, Roberts, how many of our people have gone missing in the two months since our arrival?”
Roberts clears his throat. “Seven, but I don’t see what this has to do—”
Topan cuts him off with a curt wave of his hand. “And how many have the Listeners found wandering about the Givalen farmstead?”
“Three.”
“That’s four of my people, then, that have, most sadly, perished in the tunnels. The catacombs are dark and deep. The tunnels branch off like tangled roots, each one of them winding through pitch-black gloom and leading wanderers to a dark drop and a sudden stop. Only one path leads its follower out. Strangely enough, it is not the same one that leads the follower back in again. If the general were to find the wooded entrance—if he were to lead a platoon of men in to discover us—he would quickly be swallowed within the blackness inside.”
“He would die, you mean?”
“I’m certain of it. And his men, too.”
For a moment, the room is filled with pressing silence. The Forbidden City seems suddenly less like a fortress and more like a tomb. Roberts tries and fails to shake off the chill that has crept into his chest, taking hold of his bones like an unwanted houseguest.
“If it’s that dangerous, why don’t we close it off?” Roberts prompts. “It would keep our enemies from chancing upon us, and it would prevent people from going missing within it. If I’m not mistaken, the last victim of the catacombs was only a child.”
“Indeed, she was. And indeed, it would,” Topan agrees, his expression darkening.
“But you won’t do it.”
Topan doesn’t provide an immediate answer. He instead turns his attention to the silent Listener by the door. “Selven, am I correct in remembering that you are fond of hunting?”
“I am,” the Listener assents with a nod. “Like I said, we need food.”
“Would you care to enlighten us as to how you would go about capturing your prey? Not killing it, mind you, I’m sure there are plenty of ways to skin a beast. I’m more interested in the process of capturing it.”
Selven considers the question for a moment, and then shrugs. “I’d back it into a corner. Once it has nowhere to run, I’d move in for the kill.”
“Precisely.” A knowing smile inches its way across Topan’s face as he looks back at Roberts.
“I won’t be cornered, Roberts. If they breach our defenses and those golden bastards start streaming in through our front door, I won’t leave my people with no escape.”
For the first time, Roberts notes that the distorted shadow that dances at Topan’s back looks less lik
e that of a man and more like that of a wolf; idling on its haunches and waiting for the moment to pounce. He thinks of the wolves of the wood, those silent, grey predators—they are capable and dangerous, but even wolves are hunted by forces that are larger and more daunting than they.
He thinks of a wolf with wild, violet eyes, its haunches raised—snarling, backed against the wall.
And then he remembers the darkness. He remembers death. He thinks of Emerala and what it must be to die. He thinks of the parents of that little girl, and how they had called to her at the entrance to the catacombs, their disconsolate voices reverberating off of the pressing stone walls of the Forbidden City.
Wolves are capable, yes, but they are only beasts in the end. They cannot understand reason. Not like men.
“You’d blindly lead them into those tunnels, knowing that they’ll most likely die?”
At that, Topan’s smile widens. “Not blindly,” he says. “The Mames know the way.”
The Mames know the way.
Nerani lingers outside the door, breathless from anticipation. Her mind feels like a pot too full of water. Her thoughts boil and bubble, threatening to spill over the edge. She remembers the sound of Emerala’s voice against the oncoming rain, can still hear her cousin telling her to run. She remembers glancing back over her shoulder—remembers seeing Emerala fall to her knees, those dark green eyes wild with fear.
In all of their youth together, Nerani had never seen so much as a flicker of fear pass across Emerala’s face. Her cousin had always been fearless, even as a girl. Brave to the point of recklessness. And yet Nerani had seen the fear that day, plain as the nose on Emerala’s pointed face. Her expression had become a mask of sheer terror, her dripping curls plastered against her olive skin.
The Guardians held her down beneath the blades of their swords, their golden cloaks gleaming ever brighter beneath the lightning that snaked its way across the violet sky.
You’re in no position to negotiate, scum, Nerani heard one of them growl.
And then Emerala smiled.
Nerani had played that moment over and over in her mind—had dreamt about it night after tormented night. At first she thought she must have been mad, to think that her cousin had found some sort of deranged source of joy within the seconds before dying.
A gun went off and someone’s scream rent the air, but by then Nerani had rounded the corner.
Emerala smiled at something Nerani could not see.
At someone.
She knew it. She knew she remembered correctly.
The fear had been there—the mask was visceral and real. And then it was gone. Wiped clear by the rain and replaced by that familiar, wicked grin.
Roberts wouldn’t hear of it—he couldn’t bear to be reminded.
Stop trying to find ways to bring her back to life, Nerani. She’s gone. Damn it, she’s gone and you can’t just let it alone.
He’s hurting. He thinks his only sister is dead—thinks that she’s been murdered in cold blood. He’s dealt with too much death, and it is chipping away at him—numbing him to loss.
But Nerani knows otherwise. Emerala is alive. She has to be.
The Mames know the way.
She’ll prove that she’s right. She’ll find a way to bring Emerala back.
CHAPTER 5
Chancey
When Rowland Stoward ordered a great, stone labyrinth built in honor of his wife, he hadn’t suspected that the cursed thing would come to haunt his dreams at night. He hadn’t known that he’d spend his few precious hours of sleep tossing and turning, his subconscious hurtling down corridors of stifling grey and colliding into oppressive dead ends at every turn.
He hadn’t known he’d be trapped by the memory of her ghost, unable to go back—unwilling to move forward.
Haunted.
He is a haunted man—a ghost of a once great king.
And Victoria?
Victoria is gone, always gone. Her memory dissolves like the rain of a summer afternoon. Her laughter rings out somewhere in the depths of the labyrinth, just out of reach—always out of reach. The nightmares are vivid. Real, all too real. As if he could touch her again, hold her again, if only he could reach her.
And then—then.
Rowland doesn’t know if he’d embrace her or snap her neck.
His eyes snap open. He stares up at the translucent lace of his grandiose canopy and blinks away the remnants of nightmare that cling to him in beads of sweat. His body is twisted in the sheets. He coughs and the sound echoes back at him in the grey loneliness of his empty quarters. He sits up, dots of color swimming across his vision. For a moment, he wonders if he might pass out.
Anything to bring the dreams back.
The night terrors are his only chance of seeing Victoria—of facing her penultimate betrayal.
He clears his throat and reaches over to his nightstand. His swollen fingers grope blindly for the small golden bell that sits waiting to summon the help. The tinny clanging clatters mercilessly within his ears.
He sets the bell down, listening to the fading echo reverberating off of the walls. It grows silent in the room. Too silent. His perpetual frown deepens, casting deep grooves in his sleep filled eyes. Propping himself up against the multitude of golden pillows at his back, he folds his arms across his chest and waits.
The silence continues.
How much time passes, he cannot day. Moments, hours, days. Finally, he hears the slow creak of hinges. A small, wiry man creeps through a narrow slit in the door. Averting his gaze, he drops into an overzealous bow.
“I rang the bell,” Rowland snaps.
“Yes, your Grace,” the man says to the floor. Stray strands of his thinning hair fall down into his face.
“Did you hear the bell?”
“I did, you Grace.”
“Why then, did you make me wait?”
“I came as quickly as I could. I was preparing your things for the day.”
“Preparing my things?”
“Yes, your Grace.”
“Why was that not done before I rose?”
The man’s feet shuffle across the stone. “My apologizes, great king, but you awoke early today. The sun has not yet risen.”
Rowland glances toward the tall window at the far end of the room. Outside, fingers of red bleed through a violet sky.
“So I see.”
There is another spell of silence. Rowland glares down from his vast bed at the quivering man before him. He despises weakness. Fear is an ugly thing in a man. Real men—strong men do not feel fear.
Coward, he thinks.
Imbecile.
“I’m sick at the sight of you,” he says at last. He does not attempt to conceal the revulsion in his words. “I want you gone. Find someone else to take your place for the day.”
“Y-yes your Majesty.” The man bows even lower before turning to rush out of the room.
“Stop!” Rowland commands. The man freezes. His back is to his king. His shoulders are hunched. “Where are you going?”
“Your Grace has ordered me out of his sight.” The man’s voice is scarcely loud enough to clear the breadth of the room.
“I haven’t yet finished giving you your orders.” Rowland sighs; feeling for all the world as though the burden of dealing with such incompetent fools day after day is a cross he is to be forced to bear until the day he dies.
“What would you have me do?”
“Fetch General Byron. Send him to me.”
“Right away, your Grace.”
Silence.
“Get out.”
And with that, the man flees from the room.
Rowland watches him go, allowing his eyes to flutter closed only once the heavy door slams shut behind him. He is weary. His head has begun to throb. He wonders if perhaps he might be inclined to remain in bed the whole day. He will need to send for someone to bring him breakfast soon. As it is, he can already feel his stomach grumbling beneath the folds of his silken
nightdress.
Just as he leans over to reach for the bell, he hears the door opening once again. His eyes travel up from his outstretched fingertips to see General Bryon entering the room.
“Ah, at least someone around here is quick.”
The general cracks a small, comfortable smile. He drops into a respectful bow.
“I’ve sent for some trays of food to be sent up from the kitchens, your Highness. You must be hungry.”
“Why, James, you are even better than those bungling menservants I have on hand! If you weren’t such a great leader to my Guardians, I would have you moved to my personal staff.”
General Byron’s stiff smile does not falter as he proffers a small chuckle. He remains as still as stone before the king.
“I suppose you are wondering why I called you here,” Rowland says.
“I am, your Majesty.”
“It’s that gypsy wench. The witch keeps creeping into my thoughts.” He shudders, shaking out his fingers as though attempting to rid himself of something unclean.
Before him, General Byron is silent.
“Is there any news?”
“I’m afraid we’ve heard nothing about Emerala the Rogue, your Grace.”
There is something strange about the way General Byron speaks. The Guardian’s words seem stilted—his manner stiff. Rowland peers at him closely for a moment before continuing.
“I don’t like that this murderess is wandering about my streets, uninhibited.”
“With all due respect, your Grace, we don’t know for certain that she is. We haven’t found a single Cairan since the day of the execution, let alone the Rogue.”
Rowland shudders again. “Don’t remind me. I don’t like to think of it. Evil stuff, that witchcraft.”
“Witchcraft?” General Bryon echoes. His face remains blank.
“Do you really think the entire Cairan clan could have conducted a mass exodus right under my nose without me noticing? It’s inconceivable. Not without witchcraft, anyway. Dark and powerful magics, the likes of which have been forbidden around these parts since long before you or I were born.”
