by Sarah Dalton
RED PALACE
By
Sarah Dalton
Also by the Author:
The Mary Hades series – YA Gothic Horror
My Daylight Monsters (the Mary Hades prequel)
Mary Hades (Mary Hades #1)
Shadow (a Mary Hades short story) Featured in Celestial – FREE
Sister (a Mary Hades short story)
Possess (Mary Hades #2)
Mary Hades Beginnings: Books One and Two, Plus Novellas
The Blemished series – YA Dystopia
The Blemished (Blemished #1) - FREE
The Vanished (Blemished #2)
The Unleashed (Blemished #3)
The Fractured: Elena (Blemished #2.5) (Fractured 1)
The Fractured: Maggie (Blemished #2.5) (Fractured 2)
The Blemished Complete Boxed Set
White Hart series – YA Fantasy
White Hart (White Hart #1)
Red Palace (White Hart #2)
Black Crown (White Hart #3)
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RED PALACE
Sarah Dalton
EBOOK EDITION
Copyright © 2014 Sarah Dalton
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this work, in whole or in part, in any form.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, organizations and products depicted herein are either a product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.
Cover Design by Rhianna Reeve
Interior castle sketch by Rhianna Reeve
Also by the author
Map of Aegunlund
Chapter One – The Sleeping Palace
Chapter Two – The Return of the Borgan
Chapter Three – The Torn Soul
Chapter Four – The Queen’s Code
Chapter Five – The Inventor’s Fear
Chapter Six – The Weight of Responsibility
Chapter Seven – The Alternate Perspective
Chapter Eight – The Little Prince
Chapter Nine – The Huntress
Chapter Ten – The Failed Escape
Chapter Eleven – The Ancestors
Chapter Twelve – The King’s Journal
Chapter Thirteen – The Silent Kings
Chapter Fourteen – The Secret Room
Chapter Fifteen – The Nothing
Chapter Sixteen – The Sihrans
Chapter Seventeen – The Vision of Temptation
Chapter Eighteen – The Powerful and The Weak
Chapter Nineteen – The Black Crown
Chapter Twenty – The Parting Gift
Chapter Twenty-One – The Destiny
~ A Note from the Author ~
More from Sarah Dalton
About the Author:
Map of Aegunlund
Chapter One – The Sleeping Palace
Silence in the Red Palace is as unnatural and strange as snow on the Anadi sands. As I stalk the gloomy palace basement, unease grips me by the throat. Fear shakes energy into my muscles, turning me into a quivering mess. I circle the sleeping bodies over and over as though if I keep moving around them, they will wake up and all this will be some sort of mistake.
But it is no mistake. The flip of my stomach tells me that whatever has gone wrong, it is in part my own doing. I triggered some sort of curse when my blood hit the Soil of the Ancients, and now the court of Cyne lay in slumber at my feet—draped over the cold flag stones like abandoned dolls.
As the magic spreads, a silky dust spreads over the scene. My nostrils become clogged with it and my eyelids chalky. The air is thick with rot. The stench hits the back of my throat and I gag. Before my eyes, the castle becomes as still as winter; cobwebbed, grey, and decaying. The lights no longer flicker. Life has gone.
When the shock subsides, I drop to my knees next to Cas. I have to wipe the dirt away from his face before I lower my ear to his mouth. My shoulders slump with relief when his breath tickles the hairs by my temples. He’s alive. But no matter how vigorously I shake him, he doesn’t wake. There’s some sort of foul play at work here. Ever since I helped Ellen reignite the craft with my blood, some sort of magic has plunged the Red Palace into slumber. With the scattering dust it is as though I have been trapped here a decade, yet it has been mere moments.
I pick my way around the fallen bodies, checking pulses and breath. None of them will wake, not Ellen or the king, or Beardsley or the queen… they lay on the flagstones, skin and clothes coated in grime, like neglected ornaments.
“I need help,” I say to no one.
Tripping over my feet, I dash down the corridor, past the great furnaces, up the steps and into the ballroom. Minutes ago this room had been filled with dancing merrymakers. The tables had been piled high with platters of delicious fruits. Now, I lift a hand to my nose against the stench. Putrefied food disintegrates onto the silver platters. Serving girls and butlers are slumped over tables, their limbs dangling towards the castle floor. No one moves.
My footsteps echo; bouncing from the high ceilings and reverberating from the walls. My heartbeat quickens as I realise how alone I am. With my fists gripping the sides of my skirt, I rush over to a window. Outside, the city of Cyne seems quiet and still. Leaning forward over the stone wall so that it squashes my chest, I wave my arms frantically, and call to those below me.
“Hello!”
No movement at all.
“Help!”
I realise then that the city is deserted. There isn’t a single soul making their way through the markets and establishments. With a sinking feeling, I think of Anta in the stables alone. Is he frozen in slumber like the others? It panics me, and I try to lean further over the sill until my head is out of the palace completely, but it’s like my forehead hits a barrier. Some sort of magical force field prevents me from putting even a finger outside the castle. It’s as though there is an invisible barrier wrapped around the building. I gasp. What if I am trapped?
I lean back and grip the stone sill with my fingers, mustering every ion of strength. Then, I yell, loud as I can, hardly even forming the word “help”, merely screaming, until I feel the tendons strain from my neck. My throat is scrubbed raw by the time I stop. It takes a few seconds to recover, and during that time my eyes scan the city below, praying to all the Gods I know that someone, somewhere, heard me.
Nothing.
Breath escapes my lungs in a rush. I can’t be trapped in the castle. I can’t be stuck in here, the only conscious soul, with lives to save. What will I do? What can I do?
“No, no, no,” I mumble, backing away from the window.
I turn and sprint towards the castle hallway, tripping on the hem of my dress and stumbling over spilled goblets. I pass slumped guards on my way. Their swords lay dormant at their sides. With a second thought I stop running and reach down to unbuckle a guard’s belt, releasing the sword and the scabbard. There aren’t enough belt holes to fit it against my narrow hips, so I have to knot the belt loop through the buckle. The sword hangs low and heavy on my body, but at least I have a way to protect myself.
I return to my task.
I know that on this side of the castle is a small doorway that leads to the courtyard before the great wall into Cyne. Perhaps I can at least make my way into the courtyard. What I can do then, I don’t know, but I have to try.
The wooden door looms ahead and I collide with it, too anxious to slow myself to a stop. I count down from ten before throwing all of my weight against the bar across the door, my forearms st
raining. Not a groan or a shove will shift it. The thing is stuck.
When I weaken from the effort I take a step back, wiping away the sweat from my forehead. There’s only one thing I can try now. I have to call upon the craft.
I take a deep breath to calm my fluttering heart. The image of Cas laid out on the floor tightens my chest in panic, but I push that thought away and concentrate on the matter at hand. If this is a magical curse, perhaps it can be broken by my magic. I’ve used the craft before, I’ve even used it to defend myself, but there are times when it is difficult to control. I’ve learned the hard way that emotions can throw me off course, even hurt the people around me. I’ve known it to blast through me like an uncontrollable force of destruction. Then there are times when it doesn’t work at all. But it is all I have: my weapon, my gift, my one true power.
Summoning the craft takes all of my focus. The air shifts around me. My hair lifts. I call upon air to help me break through the door, to rip the wood from its hinges and tear it through the castle courtyard. A hurricane storms through the hallway, knocking tapestries and suits of armour to the stone floor. I am immune, and I stand with my arms stretched out wide, waiting for the door to break.
It holds steady.
In the Borgan camp, I lost control of my powers. The tornado had grown so powerful that it took all of my concentration to keep it under control. I’d destroyed huts and belongings that day. It is something I will never stop being ashamed of. But all of that means that I should at least be able to knock the wooden barrier from the door.
I frown. Perhaps I didn’t try hard enough.
The second attempt is a tornado that whips up the carpet and even shatters a large mirror on its journey down the hallway. Still the door remains locked. And after that, I try to summon nature. Birds and butterflies appear at the windows from my request, but they can’t come in, and they can’t move the door. I try to talk to them, but somehow I get the feeling they can’t hear me anyway.
The hopeful swell in my chest dissipates after an attempt to make the earth shift below the door. Instead, I cause a little more than a slight rupture between the stones. But, there is dirt! Without a second thought I drop to the floor and begin digging. Maybe I can tunnel my way out of the castle to find help. I start with my hands, but the dirt is solid. I try the sword, seeing if I can pierce the ground at all. The magic prevents me from even breaking into it. My hopes of tunnelling are quashed.
I back away and half collapse against the wall. If I can’t open the door to the castle, chances are I can’t escape from any part of it, not from the bell tower, or any of the windows, or through the dungeon. The magic is too strong.
Someone set this up. They cursed the palace, knowing what would happen. And they used my magic to do it.
But who? And how?
I have only known of two individuals to channel my magic, the first being Ellen, and the second, Allerton, the leader of the Borgans. Both of them used an amber coloured amulet to pull the craft from me. But what would a Borgan gain from this? Who stands to gain from sending the palace into a slumber? I shake my head and pull myself onto my feet. My muscles ache from summoning pointless powers.
It’s a shaky walk back into the basement, and on the way I pass the silent engines of the great palace. It’s strange not to see the dirtied men shovelling coal into the great fires, or the moving pistons sending steam into the air, keeping the palace alive. Without the engines, the special lights no longer blink, and the kitchen cookers are cold. I run a finger along the metal tubes, when I remove it, black coal dust stains my skin. The silence is unbearable, and after many attempts to open the castle door, I feel alone and dejected on the long walk down the castle tunnel. It takes a touch from the locket hidden under my dress to inspire me with the confidence to go on. What would father say if I gave up now?
Perhaps if I drop my blood back onto the sacred earth it will break the curse. It sounds too simple, but I have to try. I pull the ceremonial dagger from Ellen’s hand—the one she pretended to use after I gave her my blood so it would look like she is the craft-born—and run it along my palm, wincing at the pain.
“Please.” I squeeze my hand over the bowl of soil and think of my powers. I imagine each element filling me up until I’m whole. The earth, air, wind and fire fuel me, fuel my gift. Precious drops of blood spill onto the soil, but nothing happens. Not even a twinge. During the ritual I’d experienced an overload of sensations, hearing the waves of the sea, smelling the dewy grass of nature, and feeling the heat of fire on my cheek. I’d felt them deep within me. This time the magic is dead.
After losing enough blood to make me woozy, I sit down on the floor next to Cas, tearing a strip of material from my dress to bandage the wound on my hand. I didn’t survive the Waerg Woods to be thwarted by a curse. There has to be some way around this.
I sigh. And then there is Anta, out there in the castle stables. I have no way of getting to him if I cannot leave the palace. I can only hope that he is safe, and that when I lift the curse I will be able to go to him again.
Cas looks so peaceful. I can’t help it. I reach out to his face and my fingers brush his hair. He will never love me, but we will always have that one journey together. I stroke his face—wondering how I can make him wake up—when a voice pops into my head. A voice I recognise, and one that makes the blood drain from my face.
I am here when you run from me,
You cannot touch me, but I make you cold.
I am there in the faint of heart,
But rarely with the daring, and bold.
Who am I?
I gasp as a sudden sensation of falling, no, being sucked downwards, pulls me from consciousness. I reach out and claw the air in front of me, as though trying to find purchase; gripping onto nothing. The room goes black.
The next moment there is an explosion of colour. The air is scented lavender and powdery, like the expensive talc Ellen and the queen use. Skirts twirl and the boots of men chase them. Women’s laughter ripples over the sound of a string orchestra as it plays a slow, melodic tune. When I look up, a glittering chandelier sparkles as bright as the stars on a clear night.
My breaths seem shallower, and when I try to fill my lungs, it’s as though there is a fist gripping my chest. I examine myself, confused by this restriction, to find a tight corset around my waist. I’m encased in a gown of deep blue. It’s soft to the touch and balloons out into a full skirt which trails the floor. The sleeves float as I move my arms, but a chill around my neck reveals that the neckline is low. I would never wear this dress in a million years, and yet here I stand, in the middle of a ballroom, surrounded by dancers who glide like they are on ice. Why?
It’s certainly a fancy dance. The kind where waiters walk with one hand tucked behind their upright backs, holding out silver trays filled with tiny portions of delicious treats. I steal one, moving away before someone fathoms that I shouldn’t be here.
How did I get here? As I lap the room, strange images flash before my eyes, sights that turn my stomach—like maggoty bread and disintegrating apples. In a flash those images disappear, replaced with piles of sweet pastries and tiny cakes stacked into towers.
No one seems to notice me. Party-goers stand around in gaggles, sipping from their champagne flutes and laughing loudly. The men wear britches with high-waists and loose tunics. The women are encased in dresses with bone-crunchingly tight corsets and large round skirts. All the guests wear masks. I find mine tucked into the pocket of my dress, so I put it on. Handy clips keep it in place.
I back away from the tables and slip into the shadows by a long drape. It’s here that the ballroom tapers into an entrance with a strange little man holding a scroll. A tall, silver, powdered wig sits atop his head, curled into tight ringlets that are piled high like stacked scrolls. His face has been covered in white make-up and there is a little red heart-shaped mouth drawn over his lips. A tiny black heart is sketched on his cheek.
“Psst.”
“Wh-what?”
“Psst,” it says again.
I shuffle towards the drapes, beginning to worry about my sanity.
“Um, is someone there?” I whisper.
The curtain twitches and a hand appears from behind the drapes. A tiny hand. After the hand comes a tiny face, with bright silver eyes. They brim with tears.
“Can you see him?” the boy says. He must be around seven years old.
“Who?” I ask.
“My brother.” The small fingers grip hold of the drapes so tightly that his knuckles pale. “He was chasing me with a whip.” The boy shudders.
“Well, that’s horrible. Did you whip him back?” I say.
The boy shakes his head. “He’s bigger than me. Even though I’m a year and a half older. I hate my brother. He’s a brute.”
“You should fight back you know, then he won’t hurt you anymore.”
“If I fight back, Father locks me in the cupboard and won’t let me have supper. He says the future king shouldn’t be beaten by someone younger than me. He says I’m a mummy’s boy and I need to learn.”
“Your father is the king?” I ask.
The boy nods sadly. “Yes.” He pulls the drape back a little further. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Of course.”
“You promise not to tell anyone?”
I draw across my heart with my fingers. “Cross my heart.”
“I don’t like my father or my brother, and I don’t want to be king. But, I know I have to be king or Lyndon will rule the realm. That wouldn’t be good.”
“I’m sure you’ll be a very good king one day,” I say. “You already sound much nicer than your brother and your father.”
