Narses stepped through the doorway. “Perhaps you should invest in a more practical weapon. Something that doesn’t rattle like a box of bones whenever you move.”
“You’re full of great suggestions today.”
He pressed the hidden lever again. The altar began to swing closed. “You’d best hurry. As I said before, we’re on a bit of a tight schedule.”
She followed him into the darkness. “You sound like a character from a story. Not mine, though. Something from her world.”
“You mean your shadow.”
All she could see was the back of his head, and patches of light against the narrow walls of the corridor. His voice was neutral, and it was impossible to read his expression. Spadones were the most skilled players. They gave away nothing.
“I think she knows more about me than I do about her. Is that normal?”
“A moment ago, you offered an arrow to a giant wheel. Since when are you concerned with what’s normal?”
“I just want to understand how this works.”
“You mean the game itself.”
“I guess.”
She had a dim memory of Narses telling her that it wasn’t a game at all, that it was much more dangerous and seductive than any wager. But that was her shadow’s memory. Hypnotized by the spado’s wavering lamplight, she found it hard to keep everything separate. Morgan knew that she was in a chamber, stirring up dust and other unpleasant things. But a part of her remained elsewhere, behind a gauzy veil that moved with the same patterns of light, the same shifting mosaic. She had the faintest impression of watching herself, an indistinct shape that followed a bobbing light with peculiar trust.
“There are stories, of course.” The spado’s voice seemed to come from a long way off, even though he was only a few feet in front of her. “There have always been stories. Now they’re full of holes, so we fill in the unknown with whatever makes sense at the time. But the stories are older than us. We worship them in our own way, like the lares, or Fortuna’s wheel. In the end, we want them to save us. But that isn’t their responsibility.”
“Is this supposed to make things clearer?”
Narses stopped, and turned. The lamplight framed his face. His hair was vermillion in the glow, and for a moment, he seemed larger somehow. “Asking how it works is like asking how the worlds began. I don’t simply carry that answer around, like an icon. The worlds are. They live, and struggle, and dance with each other. They’ve always been close. And if you know where the edges are, you can move between them. In the space between a great city and the greater wilds that surround it, there is always an edge. You’ve seen it. You’ve stepped sideways, into another life. But neither place is more real than the other.”
He kept walking after that. Morgan followed him in silence. She kept thinking about her sister, the shadow. What remained of her life, when she ventured beyond the edge? And what about Morgan herself? After sunset, did she still exist? Or was she nothing but a sleeping reliquary, waiting for someone to lift the lid?
Narses knew more than he was saying, but she didn’t want to press further. All he had to do was snuff the lamp, and she’d be at his mercy. Belief was expensive, and she didn’t yet know how much he was willing to spend on her. If she became too complicated, it would be easier to do away with her in a hidden passage, far from the hope of aid. Morgan was almost certain that she could see bones on the floor. The remains of other visitors.
Gradually, the air began to change. She could hear faint noises and smell something other than packed earth. They came to another doorway. Narses drew an L-shaped key from his belt. Morgan realized with a start that the door had six separate keyholes. Various images were painted around them. A boar stalked one keyhole, while a cockatrice writhed around another, its feathers painted with unblinking eyes.
“Is the door indecisive?” Morgan asked.
“Not quite.” The spado sank to one knee and brushed away a panel near the bottom of the door. A seventh keyhole was hidden behind the piece of wood, which moved on a clever hinge. Narses fitted the key carefully and turned it clockwise. The door gave a shudder, then opened to reveal a well-lit chamber.
“The false keyholes activate a trap,” he said. “You wouldn’t want to see it in action.”
“That’s quite the precaution.”
“You’ll understand why in a moment.”
She followed him down the new corridor. Light shone through glazed windows, and painted lares followed their progress. By force of habit, Morgan looked up, and saw a series of raised platforms above. Sagittarii stood with their bows at the ready, watching them below. One of them nodded to Morgan. She had no doubt that they were even higher up as well, concealed among the ornate stalactite patterns of the ceiling.
“We’re in the arx,” she whispered.
“Indeed. That was the point of the shortcut.”
“What are you going to do? Sell me to Basilissa Pulcheria? Because I’d make a terrible bed-servant. I can barely walk in cork heels.”
“Hush now,” Narses said. “You’re about to see something that few ever do.”
He led her past a grand set of doors, flanked by two miles. The marble lintel was carved with names. Euphrosyne. Theodora. Irene. Pulcheria. They were all basilissae. The hereditary rulers of the city-states. They passed into a circular chamber whose walls were made of dark porphyry. It was like being enclosed by a mantle of deep purple. Sunlight lanced through an opening in the ceiling, dancing in waves across the jeweled walls. The chamber was empty, save for a carved chair with a purple cushion. Basilissa Pulcheria sat in the chair, absently reading a book with gilt covers. She wore a purple stola with red fringe, and her hair was caught up in a diadem of pearls and silver wire.
“Now is the part where you bend the knee,” Narses whispered in her ear.
Morgan almost made a joke about curtseying, but it didn’t seem appropriate. She sank to one knee on the cold floor, and the spado did the same.
Pulcheria looked up from her book. “That was quick.”
“We took the shortcut, Your Grace,” Narses replied. “I thought it best to avoid the crowds. Basilissa Latona is no doubt looking for us.”
“My sweet sister.” Pulcheria put down the book. “She’s quite put out with you. The last time we saw each other, in fact, you were mucking about with her assassination attempt. That’s like poking a beehive.”
“An apt metaphor, Your Grace,” Morgan said. “As I remember, a mechanical bee did figure quite prominently in the attempt on Your Grace’s life.”
“You can stop gracing me. I know my own worth.” Her eyes were the same color as the walls. “As well as yours. Do you know what this chamber is, archer?”
Basilissa Latona had a grand reception chamber, called the oecus, complete with a hydraulic throne that could reach the ceiling. But this was something different. It was dark with accumulated memories. Older by far than her sister’s throne room.
“Are these your private chambers?” Morgan asked.
Pulcheria laughed. “A bit too uncomfortable for that. Although it is a sanctum, known to very few. This is the purple chamber. The birthplace of basilissae for centuries. This is where the power to rule is transmitted, from grandmother, to mother, to daughter.”
“Egressus was once the capital of the empire,” Narses murmured. “Before it was split down the middle. The old ways are still respected here.”
“You make us sound like a dusty scroll,” Pulcheria said. “This city is the beating heart of the order that was. That’s why my sister wants it so badly.” Her eyes fell on Morgan. “That’s also where you come in.”
She frowned slightly. “I don’t understand.”
“Latona stole something from you. Now she wants to steal something from me. But we’re not going to let her. The old ways die hard, and I have no intention of letting her usurp my position in w
hat’s to come. If the empire is to return, she won’t be the one holding the reins. Not as long as I draw breath. She wants to wake the lares? Fine. Two can play at that game, don’t you think?”
Morgan stared at the glittering walls. They were streaked with wine-dark veins and reminded her of something subcutaneous and alive. A beating heart. Gently, she placed her hand on the nearest wall. It was warm to the touch.
“What will become of the oculus?” she asked.
They’d been friends, once. In the days before he shed the red tunica of the auditor for the black of the oculus. Morgan didn’t know if she could trust him anymore. She didn’t even know who he was. Roldan? That shadow was long gone. Now he had another name. Aleo. In both worlds, she felt connected to him. Their shadows touched. She didn’t want him harmed, though part of her feared that he was the true threat.
Narses and Pulcheria exchanged a look but said nothing.
3
Shelby watched the coffeemaker, willing it to brew faster. She’d slept all of four hours last night, and her body was still feeling the effects of the transition. Jet lag between worlds. The drops of coffee reminded her of sands in the hourglass. These are the days of our grad student lives. Her phone was already blinking, but she pushed it away. Not yet. Her thoughts were still too disorganized. She could barely remember a time when her phone hadn’t delivered pointless updates at seven in the morning, like a breathless messenger who had absolutely nothing of consequence to impart. I got here as quick as I could, milady . . . to tell you that you were tagged in a post about cats ignoring vegetables. She feared the encroachment of technology but couldn’t stop looking up facts on IMDb. Wondering about television careers kept her up at night. That, and clandestine meetings with rival basilissae who wanted her to be a double agent. Shelby looked past the coffeemaker, at the stack of Get Fuzzy comics that threatened to fall off the kitchen table. Anxiety gnawed at her. Was she really up for this? She could barely format her thesis. How was she supposed to foment a revolution? The light on the coffeemaker went off, and she poured herself a cup. This she could do. Even double agents needed something to keep them awake.
In the beginning, it was just a game. She’d always dreamed of falling into Narnia, or Middle Earth (not realizing for some time that the latter was simply another name for the medieval world—a rung on the ladder between angels and insects). The park had seemed like a dangerous diversion. Like anything worthwhile, it had risks, but they were acceptable. When Roldan died, everything changed. They weren’t just casual players who fulfilled their fantasies at arm’s length. The characters were real. They had lives, and secrets, and memories all their own. When they vanished, there was no way to recover them, no button to press or DM to argue with. Their loss diminished both worlds. And when Mardian appeared at the hospital, she’d realized that there was no real distance between Anfractus and Regina. Latona had charged across the Victoria Street bridge with a pack of silenoi behind her. What they did at night had finally begun to haunt them in the morning, and there was no escape from the consequences. Looking back, she should have known that it would be this way. But a part of her had thought: Magic is easy. As it turned out, magic was more of a relationship than a spell. It was beautiful, and devious, and surprising by turns, but never easy. And certainly not without a price. She’d signed the contract without reading the fine print.
Andrew had also signed a contract. Maybe he’d done it to save them, but now he was working for the other side. His wounded arm—clawed by a silenus—remained a silent witness to his change of fealty.
The coffee was beginning to work. Her body hurt, but her mind was wobbling to life. She checked her phone. There was a text from Ingrid and an e-mail announcing the two academic jobs in her field that would be available worldwide this year. She couldn’t deal with either, so she texted Carl instead. Hopefully his phone wasn’t buried. She brushed out the tangles in her hair, one foot on the toilet seat as she tried to maneuver within the tiny bathroom. She needed a full-length mirror but wasn’t sure where to put it. The living room seemed like a perverse location, as if she were silently judging her guests. The bedroom had just enough space in one corner, but she was afraid of mirrors in the dark. There was something deeply unsettling about how they offered no reflection.
Shelby did the dishes. Washing up had always relaxed her. The smooth, repetitive motions lulled her into a pleasant trance, and she liked the idea of the plates slowly drying on a clean dish towel. As technologies went, it was flawless. It couldn’t stop working or tell you that you had limited connectivity. Using a dishwasher was like asking a teenager to do your dishes for you. The activity was loud and prolonged, and afterward, everything had to be done over again. The thought made her slightly rueful. Even a few years ago, she never would have described “teenagers” as a shifty group, like some superannuated character from Scooby Doo. Now she caught herself thinking darkly about anyone who was younger. They’re loitering, officer. Texting loudly. One of them pointed at me. Her own adolescence was still within spitting distance. All the epic frustrations and bewildering desires, along with the feeling that she would never be free. What precisely had she wanted to escape from? Now she regularly fell asleep on her mother’s couch and loved waking up to the sound of her grandmother singing in Cree. The songs knew so much—far more than she ever would.
She locked the door and went downstairs, careful of the tricky step. She’d formerly lived above a vegetarian restaurant, but now it was a busy travel agency. The décor was all in red, and just looking at it made her feel tense. She couldn’t imagine planning a vacation while staring at those angry walls. The cities on the board offered glimpses of parallel lives. London, Shanghai, Barcelona. For a reasonable price, she could reinvent herself for a weekend. A part of her wanted to grab the Sharpie next to the board and add two cities. Anfractus. Egressus. The ticket was free, but accommodations could prove difficult. So much depended on the grace of the wheel. Shelby walked past the bronze buffalo statue, which named the area oskana ka-asasteki in Plains Cree. Pile of Bones. What they now called Wascana Park (named after a grammatical error) had once been an ossuary for buffalo bones. She’d thought that the park itself was a strange miracle. But now it seemed that Wascana wasn’t alone in its magic. Different parks could take you different places.
Shelby crossed Scarth Street and entered Victoria Park. The wind was picking up, and it licked the edges of the flyers posted nearby. Sunlight gleamed against the metal structures at the entrance to the park, which had been installed a few years ago. They were supposed to be art, but they looked like scrap metal. The park was an oasis in the heart of the city, though it turned a bit seedy at night. Some folding chairs had been placed near the entrance, where a woman was reading poetry before a small but attentive audience. Nearby, a student had fallen asleep, still holding her engineering textbook. A dog ran in ever-more-excited circles, waiting for his person to throw the Frisbee. A yoga group went through poses by the war monument, achieving a level of elasticity that made Shelby feel like a pile of bricks. She smelled coffee, roasting onions, and a faint miasma of pot.
It was hard to believe that this little park offered access to a strange city, where a queen ruled from a purple chamber. Aside from the folk festival, it was usually quiet. She could understand some secret power living in Wascana Park, which extended for miles and was girdled by its own lake. But this place was entirely unassuming. You might as well find an enchanted kingdom in a hotel mini fridge. Still. There were memories here. Dancing clumsily on the stage. Watching the glowing monuments that they called light sabers changing color, until they cycled back to a shade of quicksilver that cut through the darkness. Watching Ingrid’s shadow as it crisscrossed her own, and wondering if there was anything at all there. Most recently, she remembered the chill as she undressed before the war monument, like an acolyte performing a sacrifice. She supposed there was power in every place. Most people couldn’t even pronounce Regin
a, but to her, it was home.
Carl was waiting for her beneath a tree. That was a surprise. She hadn’t realized that he could move so quickly. In her mind, he was always on the verge of having a siesta. But over the past few months, he’d been more brittle. She guessed that he was sleeping less. As she approached, her suspicions were confirmed. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his beard looked more wild than usual.
“Hey.” He offered her a paper bag, which smelled delicious. “Steamed bun.”
“Are you communicating in a hundred and forty characters or less this morning?”
“My brain’s still in sleep mode.”
She took the bag. “Thanks. I haven’t had breakfast yet.”
“I figured.”
“I thought the weed I smelled would be coming from your corner.”
“Bit early for that.”
The response confused her. “I once saw you drink vodka out of a mixing bowl. And it wasn’t even your bowl. Why the sudden hesitation?”
“That was ages ago.”
“It was last summer.”
“I’m not always that guy.”
She frowned slightly. “I happen to like that guy. I seem to remember a time when I was falling-down drunk, and he made sure that I got home safely. Even after I’d told him that he had a cute assonance.”
He smiled at the memory, but it didn’t reach his eyes. She ate her steamed bun in silence, while the park murmured around them. Carl stared at a patch of sunlight in the grass. He was somewhere else. Shelby realized that she would need to adjust her tactics. Carl had always been her sweet antagonist, but now it looked as if he’d been disassembled and put back together in a hurry. The seams were showing. Andrew was something else now. Perhaps he’d bargained for their lives, but something about it was wrong. She couldn’t dispel the idea that he might have always wanted this. A whole new company. A new kind of power. Their group needed a leader, and Shelby was the closest thing that they had. Before Ingrid, she’d been the one with the most experience, the one with signing authority. It was time to step into that role again. Otherwise, they’d all sink beneath the weight of what was coming.
Prize of Night Page 4
