by Wendy Wang
“You haven’t?” he teased.
She suppressed the urge to stick her tongue out at him like a four-year-old. Why did she feel like such a child with him? She shrugged. “If you must know, my mother doesn’t believe in culling.”
“Easy for her to pick and choose what she believes, I suppose. But she is Queen, so she can do as she pleases.” The bitter undertone of his words struck Neala as strange, especially for a young man who’d been born to one of the most powerful families in all the realms.
“My mother does not get to just pick and choose anything. She has to take into consideration all of her actions. Culling makes no sense to us as a race. Why suppress those who are born with more than just two affinities? It’s not logical.”
“I couldn’t agree more, but it doesn’t mean it isn’t done. It still happens every day in all of the realms and the Queen does nothing to stop it.” His voice dropped half an octave and his jaw tightened.
“She’s made her opinion known to governors. If they’re not following—”
“She should do more to enforce the law.”
“Well, I’ll let her know,” Neala teased, unaffected by his posturing. Long had people in the realms voiced their opinions about her mother’s ability to rule. If it had been her great-grandmother, the ruckus would have been quashed, but her mother did not like to rule with a heavy hand. “I’m sure she’ll be very interested in your feelings on the subject.”
“It’s not what I feel that matters. It’s the fanatics, clinging to what the creator wanted for us.” His hands danced in the air, animated with his anger. “It’s in the ancient book of Kaels — so it must be the only way.” He pivoted on the balls of his feet and clutched the lapel of his jacket like an orator making a speech. His voice boomed as he quoted the religious text. “And to my children, one of the five elements shall be at their command.”
“Now who’s picking and choosing, because the very next line states: The elements will bow to their will. Plural. So which is it? One or all?” she asked, a little excited by the exchange of words. She hadn’t debated since before her father died. “Did you come all this way just argue about religion with me?”
Peter laughed and shook his head. “No, Princess, I didn’t. But it’s nice to be able to discuss such things. Perhaps sometime we can talk about it more.”
“Only if we can do it without heated words.”
“I think I can manage, can you?” He tipped his head and raised his eyebrows.
She sighed. “My father used to say his redheads are quick to argue.” Her heart ached as she remembered how often her father had pointed out her quick wit and even quicker temper. He had once told her it was his favorite thing about her.
“Well, then, your house must be a loud place to be. What, with a mother and sister with red hair,” Peter teased and she could tell he was trying to lighten things between them.
“Sometimes it is very loud.” Although not lately, she added mentally, thinking of last night’s dinner and how silent everyone was.
She picked up her pace, taking over the clearing duties for the next half hour so she wouldn’t have to speak. Where the trees grew thicker, the coat of snow was only a couple of inches deep and she liked the sound her boots made as it crunched through the icy layer on top. Something hard slammed into her shoulder from behind and the sting of snow and ice sprayed against her face.
“Hey!” She rounded on him just as another snowball struck her in the chest. Quickly, she scooped up some snow, pressed it into a tight ball and flung it at him, striking him on the elbow.
“That the best you can do, Princess?” He laughed. She took more snow in her hands and threw it at him, this time hitting him in the chest. She guffawed and two more snowballs struck her.
“Oh, you’re gonna get it now,” she said as she scooped up more snow. Before she could lob more at him, he rushed her, grabbing her around the waist and swinging her in a circle until the world spun. She squealed with laughter. “Put me down, Peter Declan.”
Peter came to a stop and put her gently on her feet. “Look.” He pointed to a stone building balancing precariously on the jutting rock face. The towers of Brythrin’s Castle stood at attention, ever watchful even though no one had occupied the castle in more than three centuries. Vines claimed part of one wall but at least the trees had not tried to take root. “There it is,” he said. “Have you ever been inside?”
“No, of course not. Just look at it,” she said. “One strong wind and I bet it would topple over.”
“Oh, I think it’s safer than that. Come on,” he said, taking her hand. “There’s something I want you to see.”
Her belly fluttered as he laced his fingers with hers and pulled her to the base of the rock wall, where an ancient staircase almost blended completely with the gray, lichen-covered rock. He swept the snow and ice aside with his baton and started the ascent with her in tow.
As they drew closer to the top, a vine brushed across her neck and she shivered. Not willing to take any chances, she held up her dagger in case something worse than a vine appeared.
Once they made it to the top of the steps, she could see that the castle nestled against part of the mountain for protection. The foundation was built into the rock more than on top of it, and she could see her assessment of the building’s hazardous placement was wrong. In fact, the vantage point of the castle allowed her to see for miles around, so an enemy’s approach would be seen long before they made it to the castle doors—if they could make it to the castle doors.
Peter guided her around the crumbling wall, their boots scraping across the carved granite blocks. She cleared a drift of snow that leaned against the castle’s entrance, turning it to mist that floated away on the steady breeze coming over the side of the mountain.
“Come on,” he said, flicking his wrist so the tip of his baton glowed red and caught fire. Neala blinked, slow and steady, as she breathed in the sharp fumes of dead leaves and stale earth. She had never been inside the ruins before. It was always thought to be too dangerous. Holding her dagger out in front of her, the blade glowed blue, casting an eerie glow in the grand entrance hall. Ashy gray light filtered in through long, slit windows, making the shadows deep. The hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention like waiting sentinels, ready to warn her of any real danger. Once they reached the center of the room, she heard something unnatural, something that made her want to turn around and run away. Whispering. Whispering. Whispering. Her eyes went to the vines, looking for signs of the wind blowing through – tricking her into thinking she’d heard whispers.
“Hello?” she said.
“There’s no one there,” he said softly.
“You hear it, too?” she said.
“Oh, yes. That’s how I found it. It called to me.” He grinned, taking her hand in his again. “Come on.”
The fire from his baton lit the way, driving back some of the darkness, making the shadows leap around them. Her grip tightened on her dagger as he dragged her towards the stone steps.
“Wait. Are these safe?” She stopped at the first step. Leaf litter and dirt covered the wide stone treads. In the shadowy light, she saw a vague trail of cleared space. Boot prints? They looked fresh.
“Safe enough,” he said. She pulled her hand from his and pointed her dagger at the stone stairs. She closed her eyes and thought of nothing but reinforcing the stone steps, ensuring the foundation was strong and that no harm could come to them as they climbed. She touched her dagger to the first step and a tremor went through the staircase.
“Should be safe, now,” she said.
“Ladies first.” He held his hand out to guide her up the steps. Neala kicked dirt and leaves from her path as she walked up the steps, her dagger drawn, glowing blue to light the step ahead of her. The life rustled inside the walls of the building — the birds and animals scratching at their nests kept her senses alight. The whisper, which grew louder as they came up to the balcony looking down on the entranc
e, drove her forward. Peter touched her shoulder and she almost came out of her skin. He put his finger to his lips and took the lead. They moved towards a narrow corridor, and rounded a sharp corner. Her eyes adjusted and she noticed patterns in the walls. Parts of the ceiling had squares cut into them, driving back the thick darkness with milky gray light.
“Skylights,” Peter said.
“How is the glass not covered in snow?” she asked.
Peter shrugged. “I don’t know. You’d have to ask the builder. Probably an intention when he created it.”
Neala nodded and they continued to wind their way through the maze of halls.
Finally, she saw it in the distance — a large rectangle, glowing pale white. The whispering stopped as they drew closer. Peter extinguished his torch and re-holstered his baton as they entered another grand hall. As she approached the center, she spun around and saw there were dozens of paintings — frescoes, lining the walls.
“A gallery?” she whispered.
“Yes, Princess. A gallery.” Peter grinned.
“This is amazing,” she breathed.
“That’s what I hoped you say,” he said.
For the next hour, as what little light shone inside grew dimmer, she walked along the hall, stopping at each painting. Some she recognized, but most she did not. All of them had a ghostly glow to them. The first was of two lovers, being torn apart by warring factions. The painting captivated her attention for only a moment before she moved on to the next— a desert scene with red mountains and golden-red sand. If she closed her eyes halfway and looked at the painting through her lashes, it looked almost as if the sand was shifting by force of some invisible wind. The next painting she recognized immediately as Casilladin’s grand square where a great fountain flowed from the hand of a statue of Casillad, one of the original Kaels and the commander of the element of water. As she made her way around, the whispering began again and a chill crawled over her spine, making her turn toward it. She understood now what Peter meant -- it called to her, too -- and she could not stop herself from getting close to it.
The painted scene was of no place she’d ever seen before, even in books. A black road stretched before them and on either side, thick-trunked trees with graceful limbs curved over the road creating a tunnel. Silvery beards of moss hung in the tree branches and between the trees shrubs and small saplings grew thick. In the distance, the road curved to the right and a yellow and black sign with an arrow showed the way. A pale, foggy mist hung near the base of the sign. She did not have to squint this time to see movement, as the fog grew thicker, curling around the edges of the sign before finally obscuring it. The leaves rustled in the trees, and the sound—the sound of the palm fronds rubbing together, sounded like voices whispering.
“It’s moving? Am I imagining this?” she said.
“No. It’s definitely moving,” Peter said. Neala drew close, reaching her hand out. She wanted to feel the plaster.
“Stop. Don’t touch it,” Peter said, putting his hand on hers, pulling it away.
“Why not?” she said.
“I’ll show you. Hold onto me.” He offered her his elbow and she hooked her arm through his, not sure what to expect. Peter stretched out his other hand towards the fresco. Her heart thudded in her throat, watching his hand go through the painting. As he pushed his forearm through, his feet began to slide as if the painting was pulling him forward, as if it wanted to pull him through to the other side. She dug her heels into the dirt floor and leaned away, anchoring him. Sweat trickled down the side of his face and dripped off his chin. He moved his arm around, searching for something before finally yanking out his arm. In his hand he held a long, pointed leaf with a sharp tip. He gave it to her and she brushed her fingers over the sturdy, smooth surface. She touched the needle-like point to her finger and it pricked through her skin, drawing blood.
“Where did this come from?” she said, mystified.
“The other side,” he said.
“I don’t understand. The other side of what?” she said.
“You really don’t know what this is?” he said.
“No,” she said.
“It’s a break in the fold. I think this is Nescien,” Peter said, a grin playing on his lips. “I think someone used it to escape.”
“Why? Why would anyone want to leave the realms?” Neala gaped at the painting again.
“Oh, I can think of a couple of reasons.”
Neala skimmed her hand above the painting. Her fingers tingled as each element within the painting called to her—metal, earth, fire, water and wood. It enticed her, pulling her towards it. If she let it, she thought it might just pull her all the way through to the other side. There were legends about a group of Kaels who had crossed through the protective boundary that separated the realms from the ordinary world. Only a few survived to tell the stories about the Nesciens—barbarous human beings that lived out of sync with nature and the universe.
“How long do you think it’s been here?” Neala asked.
“I don’t know. It doesn’t look that old,” he said. Neala leaned in as close as she could without touching it so she could study the technique. The plaster had tiny fractures in places, and despite being inside of the ruins, it didn’t look dirty. Neala had been taking art and painting lessons since she was nine years old. She had studied most of the Kael masters and had painted copies of almost every painting in the palace. The style of the painting looked familiar, but never had she seen a painting move. Maybe when she got home, she would go through some of her art history books to see if whoever painted the fresco was well known. Or maybe she would ask her art teacher, Ms. Blabbit, if she’d ever heard of such a thing.
“Peter?” she said, taking a step back from the painting. “How did you find this?”
“A few months back, I was up here with a couple of buddies of mine. We hiked up here to climb the rock face. I heard it—you know the wind and whispering sound.” His eyes stared at the painting, mesmerized. “One of my friends is kind of an idiot and he threw a rock at it trying to crack it, and the rock went right through. He lost his mind for a little while and we had to drag him out.”
“The painting made him mad?” She took a step back.
“No, of course not. I think it was just the shock of it. He’d never seen anything like it,” he said.
“Isn’t there a painting on the wardens’ base that moves? I read about it in one of my art books,” she said.
“Yes, there is. But I don’t think you can pass through it.” He laughed. “Once we got him outside he was okay, but I thought for a second he was going to jump through it.”
“Why did you want me to see it?” She folded her arms across her chest.
“I don’t know,” he smirked. “I know you paint. I thought you might like it.”
“How do you know I paint?” Warmth crept in to her cheeks.
“You’re not as invisible as you’d like to think you are.” Peter tilted his head slightly and cocked an eyebrow. “People talk about you. Whether you want them to or not.”
Neala bristled and tightened her arms. “And you listen to these people?”
“Maybe a little, but I figured the best way to separate the truth from the lies was to get to know you myself. If you’ll let me.”
Neala thought about it for a moment. Her match hung over her life, a dark, stormy unknown. No matter how much she liked Peter or how handsome she thought him, there was no way she would let him wheedle his way into her heart, but maybe they could be friends. He was easy to talk to and he was smart. Especially on topics she cared about. Of course, it didn’t hurt that he was nice to look at, or that he made her laugh.
Peter stepped in front of her, closing the gap between them. Even though she was tall, he was still taller and she had to crane her neck to look up at him. “I wasn’t teasing before when you said I should apply for your match.”
“Oh,” Neala said, her mouth going bone dry. She swallowed hard. “Well,
then, you should. If that’s what you want.”
“It is what I want.” He brushed his thumb across her cheek and she felt hot and cold all at the same time. Her heart fluttered wildly against her ribs as if it were a caged dove trying to escape. “I just wanted you to know that.”
“I see,” she said. For a long moment, they stared into each other’s eyes and she wondered if this was some sort of magic, some spell that he was casting upon her. A love spell. “I’m glad you told me. And I think it’d be nice to get to know you better, too.”
Peter glanced at the window. The shadows grew long across the floor. “We should go soon if we’re going to get down the mountain before sunset.”
Neala took a step back, forcing the magic between them to break. The thought of being matched to Peter Declan sent a shiver through her like she had never known before. She pushed the thought away. Even if he applied, there would be no guarantee he would be chosen. Clear your head, girl, she thought. She had to remain sensible about these things. Still, the touch of his thumb on her face lingered and she had to stop herself from placing her hand on her cheek. Neala took a deep breath. “Yes, you’re right. We should go.”
He brought his gaze to her face again and her heart stopped its wild flutters. It felt like it stopped completely, but she knew that could not be the case since she was still standing. He reached for her hand and laced his fingers with hers. “We should do this again tomorrow. I can be your security officer. Would you like that?”
“Yes.” She nodded.
“Good,” he said, and the corners of his mouth curved up into a smile. He gently tugged her forward towards the dark corridor. The warmth of his skin against hers chased away any sensible thought she might have had and she knew that if Peter Declan wanted her to follow him to the edge of the earth, she would do it. Without hesitation.
Three
Neala sat at her vanity, brushing her hair with long strokes, thinking about her day with Peter Declan. She could not stop herself from smiling. The day had not unfolded exactly as she’d thought it would, but she came home feeling better than she had in months. Tomorrow, she would go and meet with the chief commander and make a formal request to have Peter assigned as her security officer, then they could spend every day together, walking the streets or hiking in the mountains. A soft knock on her door pulled her out of her thoughts and made her stop mid-stroke.
