Red Palace

by Sarah Dalton

  “What’s your name?” the boy asks.

  “Mae,” I reply.

  “Father says I shouldn’t talk to commoners, but Mother says I should try to learn everyone’s names. I like your name.”

  “Your mother sounds very wise,” I muse. I turn away and scan the crowd, suddenly curious that the king and queen are in this room. When I turn back to the little boy, he’s gone. “Strange,” I whisper.

  I let the curtain fall back and step away. My footsteps echo against the hard wood floors. It’s only then that I realise the music has stopped. The room has emptied. The ballroom is gone. All that’s left is an eerie sound that I know I’ve heard somewhere before: click-ick-ick-click…

  I trip over on my silly high-heeled shoes and take a tumble on the floor. As I fall it’s like my insides are being pulled down, sucked down faster and faster…

  Chapter Two – The Return of the Borgan

  I yank my hand back from Cas’s face and clutch my chest. What just happened? I wipe a slick of sweat from my forehead and try to calm my breathing. What did I see? What did I feel? What did I hear?

  It takes me a moment to recognise the basement of the palace and the sleeping people spread along the floor. The familiar musty smell brings me back to my senses; it brings with it the panicked, trapped feeling of being stuck in the castle.

  “Cas, what are you showing me?” I whisper. I let my fingers move closer to him, to brush his skin. I wonder if touching him again will plunge me into his world, but this time nothing happens. Not even when I place my palm on his forehead. It seems I am not in control of whatever vision is being shown to me. I decide to move along to another sleeping body and see if the same thing happens. After all, Cas isn’t the only person who needs help. I can’t let myself be sucked into a world I never want to leave. I have to wake everyone in the castle, not just those I love.

  Then I remember, and my stomach sinks. I had heard a voice before the vision. A voice I have heard only once before, and the memory of that voice, plus what it represents, is enough to nauseate me.

  The Nix.

  I close my eyes, trying to block away thoughts of the Waerg Woods: my legs encased in its freezing serum, the events it showed me, my own fears, the way I woke with the sharp stone in my hand, ready to hurt myself…

  It had spoken to me in my mind as it always does. And in the vision I had heard the sound of it moving, the clicking of the great shells along its back. A shudder runs down my spine as I think of its large, insect-like body, and the many crawling legs, and the circular shaped mouth filled with a spiral of teeth. If it is here in the palace… I shake my head. I cannot lose hope. I must focus on the words it spoke to me. It was some sort of riddle:

  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?

  Back home in Halts-Walden, the only people who ever told riddles were the travelling bards and mummers. But they rarely came to our village because of our proximity to the Waerg Woods. I’ve only heard a few riddles in my life and am not particularly good at solving them. I ruminate on the lines, embedding them in my memory, whispering them into the quiet castle, all the time with my skin tingling at the thought of the Nix being out there somewhere, watching, waiting. What does it want from me?

  I am here when you run from me

  That sounds like the Nix itself.

  I am there in the faint of heart

  I stand up and walk around the basement, looking at the sleeping people. The queen, her head turned to one side, Lyndon with his mouth set in a firm line, the king, oddly vulnerable with his eyes shut, and Beardsley, blending into the white cobwebs. When I come to Ellen, a spider runs across her full lips and it makes me shudder. I shoo it away with the toe of my boot. As I gaze at her open face, the voice comes again, with the same words:

  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?

  This time I’m ready for it. The sucking pulls me down, but I remain in control of my consciousness. In a flash I’m back in Halts-Walden. The bright sun sets my skin tingling. I sit on the knoll of a riverbank overlooking the mill, my muscles relaxed, my thoughts calm. The grass is warm beneath my fingertips, and there’s a sense of contentment that I’m not used to. The air smells sweet, with traces of honeysuckle from the nearby garden.

  I’m humming to myself and fiddling with my long hair—a gorgeous raven colour. My voice is not my own, it is prettier, and melodic in a way I could only dream of sounding. My hands are not my own. They are creamy in complexion and more delicate. The callouses I have acquired from climbing trees are now gone.

  But this time I am more aware of what is happening around me. I understand that this is some sort of vision. I know I am in Ellen’s body and that this is in her mind. It’s almost as though I am accessing her memories and her experiences.

  A blonde girl walks towards me and my heart soars.

  “Alice!”

  It’s not me who focusses on her golden hair or the way her dress hugs her narrow waist, it’s the body I’m visiting.

  “Ellen!” She grins and breaks into a run. “Look! I have daisies to put in your hair.”

  Ellen’s body flushes with joy, and yet I feel it as though it is my own. I feel the blood rush to her cheeks and her chest constrict with worry.

  “Will you braid my hair?” she asks. There is a tremor of vulnerability in her voice. She is nervous, something I never imagined of Ellen. Especially not back in Halts-Walden.

  “Of course, sweet girl.” Alice’s skirt rustles as she places herself next to Ellen—and me—on the grass and she gathers my—Ellen’s—hair in her hands. “I wish I had hair as soft as yours.”

  “Alice, your hair shines like the sun. Why in all of Aegunlund would you want hair like mine?” Ellen’s heart is pounding against her ribs and her cheeks remain flushed with blood.

  It’s strange that she feels this way in the mere presence of her friend. I remember Ellen always being in Alice’s company. They would walk around the village holding hands, shoving their little noses in the air like they owned it all. The way she feels now is exactly like the strange way my body reacts around Cas. I never know what words or innocent touches will make my cheeks burn with embarrassment.

  Alice’s fingers braid Ellen’s hair with deft precision. Every now and then she pauses to show Ellen her handiwork, pulling the braid around to reveal tiny daisies woven like jewels through the strands of black.

  “Alice?” Ellen asks. Here I sense the trepidation in her voice and the slight shake emerging in her hands. “Do you think we could do it again?”

  Alice pauses for a moment. She tugs on the plait once, then wraps it around Ellen’s head, holding it in place with pins that dig against her skull. Ellen winces.

  “I don’t think we should.” Alice speaks in a hushed tone, rough and fast.

  “Of course,” Ellen says. “You’re right. Have you… have you wanted to since the last time?”

  “No,” Alice snaps. “Because it is forbidden.”

  Ellen bows her head, staring at the grass below. There’s a sickness in her churning stomach that is at odds with the girl I used to know. She wraps her arms around her body and hugs herself. One word pops into her mind but she doesn’t say it aloud. Shame.

  Alice moves to face Ellen. Her lips are puckered and her eyelids half closed as though in contemplation of her actions. She lets out a sigh and tucks an errant strand of hair behind Ellen’s ear.

  “I have wanted to. Very much,” Alice says. “But it is wrong.”

  “I know,” Ellen replies. Tears burn behind her eyelids and she blinks rapidly to keep them at bay. “I’m sorry I mentioned it.”

  Alice turns her head and
looks around them. “Well, we are alone.”

  Ellen’s heart soars again. Blood thuds in her ears. “Yes, we are.” When she speaks, her voice is breathy.

  The grassy knoll, the soft swing of the mill, the lapping of the river, the birds in the trees, they all melt away. There is only Alice. Her hair smells like rosemary and lemons. Ellen’s fingers rise to her cheek, touching the smooth skin and tracing a line to her ear. Both Alice and Ellen lean into each other, and when their lips touch, Ellen’s heart flutters.

  She tastes like honey and her mouth is warm. Inside Ellen’s body, I’m aware of how bawdy songs from the tavern described this act as against the Gods, an insult to Celine, yet I’m also aware of how it feels to Ellen. It seems natural to her, like breathing. How can that be? It goes against how we are brought up.

  In that instant I question everything I’m taught, because none of those who preach could possibly understand the true meaning of the world and of the universe. They don’t even know what the Gods want or believe. I am aware of my gift in this moment. There is nothing more powerful and true than the nature in my powers, and the love Ellen feels stirs the powers within. That is my truth now.

  In the next instant I’m ripped away.

  Ellen’s panic becomes my panic. Never before have I felt so trapped.

  “Get off her!” the miller booms.

  “Daddy,” Ellen says. Tears swell as her stomach twists with fear.

  A rough hand yanks her up, grasping the collar of her dress, and Ellen can only stare down at Alice who sits with her hand over her mouth, looking up with wet eyes.

  “Daddy, please.”

  Another yank tears Ellen away from her love. Ellen’s shoes drag across the grass as she’s pulled away. Hot water falls down her cheeks and she struggles against the large man.

  “You make me sick, you little whore,” he growls.

  Ellen cries out as she’s thrown into the small cottage the Millers call home, a place I had often been jealous of. I will never be jealous of Ellen again.

  “Husband, what is happening?” Ellen’s mother—an attractive and slightly plump woman in an apron—rushes to her daughter’s aid, helping her up and away from the man.

  “I caught her at it with a farmer’s daughter. That Alice.” He says her name in a hiss.

  “Oh, Ellen,” says the Miller’s wife. “We talked about this—”

  “You knew!” he booms. “You’re in on it together? Two whores trying to trick an old man like me!”

  His face turns red and his fists clench by his side. The Miller is a hefty man, but not someone I had ever considered violent. If anything, Father and I had often made fun of him being hen-pecked by his wife and daughter. As one of the wealthiest in the town, he often flashes his coin in the tavern or comes back from Fordrencan with new cloth for dresses. We had always assumed the women in his life were the cause of his spending. Now I know differently. Perhaps those gifts were bought out of guilt for violent outbursts.

  The Miller strikes his wife across the face and Ellen catches her as she falls backwards. Ellen screams as the Miller approaches her, grabbing her by the throat and pulling her to her feet. Her pain is mine. Her panic is mine, too, and my throat burns from his tight grip.

  I think of those absences from school. It wasn’t because Ellen thought she was better than the rest of us. It’s because she had bruises that needed to fade.

  “You’re an abomination,” he says. “You make me sick.”

  Ellen claws at his fingers, but the Miller slaps her around the face with the back of his hand. I feel the smart as though I had been hit myself. My cheek stings from the blow.

  “I had high hopes for you. You were supposed to marry the prince and become a queen.” He yanks an amulet from inside her bodice. It’s almost identical to the one I saw Allerton wielding in the Borgan camp. It harnesses my own magic. “I got you this to make it happen.” He tightens the chain around her neck until Ellen is gasping for breath. “But you disrespect me with your whorish dresses and by whoring yourself out in the most perverted of ways.”

  The panic gurgles in Ellen’s throat. Rough gulps of air become stuck in her windpipe while her lungs burn with asphyxiation.

  He throws her back and she staggers towards a chair. Ellen’s body, mind, and soul are numb, as though she has disconnected from her feelings. I scream pointlessly from the depths of her body. I want to give her a voice.

  “Daddy?” she whispers.

  “You’re not my daughter,” the Miller says, as he pulls a poker from the fire place. The last thing I see before I’m ripped from Ellen’s body, is the miller approaching with his weapon.

  *

  I gulp in air and am met with the dust of the Red Palace basement. Next to me, Ellen’s chest heaves up and down and her head shakes from one side to the other. I hope she might wake, but a few seconds later her breathing is as measured as before.

  I rub my neck. Ellen’s vision had been so real that I’m still sore from where the Miller gripped his daughter. I glance down at her. For years I have been jealous of Ellen, of her beauty and popularity, and all this time she has struggled with her own secrets and her own troubles. I see her in a different light now, and I am sorry that I never stopped to wonder what the cause of her bad behaviour was. She hated herself. Perhaps we all hate ourselves at least a little bit. We’re all out there right now—spread out across Aegunlund—punishing ourselves for who we truly are.

  “The visions are showing me secrets,” I say out loud, trying to make sense of everything. “But why?”

  “Why indeed, young Mim.”

  The sound of his voice has me on my feet and gripping the sword at my hip. Allerton, the leader of the Borgans, and a man I almost killed, stands before me with his cat-like amber eyes gleaming through the gloom. There isn’t a single hair on his head and, as always, to see him twists my stomach. This is the man who ordered the attack on Halts-Walden. This is the man who caused my father’s death.

  “You know my name isn’t Mim,” I reply, in a voice as cold as I can muster.

  “Yes, my dear Mae, I do. But I thought it might grasp your attention.” He giggles like a little girl and tosses the sleeves of his robes as he claps his hands together. “Oh, I am sorry. I forget that not everyone shares my unique sense of humour.”

  He comes to a halt at a man’s distance between us and lowers his eyes to mine. I find the bile rising in my throat, longing to plunge my sword deep into his chest.

  “You did this. I don’t know how but you’re working with the Nix,” I say. “You used your amulet to curse the Red Palace and sent the court to sleep. Why did you do that? If you wanted to kill me, what was all that spiel about in the Borgan camp? That hogwash about being my mentor?” I pull the sword from its sheath and almost drop it. I’m not used to such a hefty weapon.

  Allerton watches me with the sword and then sighs. “Why in the name of the Ancients would you unsheathe a sword in order to kill me? You have the greatest power within yourself! My dear girl, you have so much to learn regarding the craft-born powers. I do hope you’re not going to let your stubbornness get in the way of fulfilling your great destiny.”

  My cheeks warm as he mentions the sword. It was a very foolish action to take, especially when I could knock him to the ground with a simple gust of wind. I consider dropping the sword to the stone slabs below, but then decide that would admit defeat.

  “Why did you curse the palace? Why have you done this?”

  Allerton shakes his head and turns away from me. “Why, why, why. You’re asking all the wrong questions—”

  I can’t control myself any longer. I lunge straight for him, aiming the hilt of the sword at his head to try and hurt him, but not kill him. As I run at him full pelt, a cry escapes my lips, releasing the frustration and anger that has been tightly winding itself inside me since the court fell asleep. This causes Allerton to turn and face me just as I am flinging myself towards him. His lips twist into a smile at the very m
oment we are going to collide. Just as I wonder why he would react in such a way, I find myself hurtling through him and hitting the stone floor with a crunch. The sword is propelled from my hand and clatters across the ground. My cheek grazes the stone slabs, and my elbow sings from the hard knock.

  “Forgive me, Mae, I should have mentioned… I’m not really here.”

  Chapter Three – The Torn Soul

  “You’re a ghost.” I push myself onto my feet and wipe the dust from my dress. “You’re dead. You’re a ghost!”

  He chuckles and begins to stride around me in a circle. It could be the significant bump to my head, or it could be the slow, steady rhythm of Allerton’s footsteps, but watching him sets me in a cloud of wooziness.

  “No, no. Not a ghost. I’m still quite alive. Much to your disdain, I would imagine.”

  “This is more trickery. You’re using my powers for your own evil gain so you can set sleeping curses and… and… walk through walls.”

  Allerton tips his head back and laughs until his robes shake. “I do love your imagination, dear girl. But no, I’m afraid that’s not it either.”

  “Then tell me,” I demand. “You keep saying that I need to learn, and that I can learn from you, yet you speak in riddles. Tell me what it is you want and why you’re here. And please, if you can wake the prince—”

  “Ah,” he interrupts. “It’s funny how you mention the prince first.”

  I twist the skirt in my hands. “Well, he is the most important person in the realm.”

  “But that isn’t true, is it? You are far more important than any prince. You have the craft inside you. The prince doesn’t even come second in this little scenario. The king, of course, is the second most important person in the realm. Unless you are a traitor? Are you a traitor?” he asks.

  “If a traitor is someone who thinks the king is a tyrant and a bully, then yes, I am a traitor and I don’t mind admitting it… as long as he remains unconscious.” I flash a wary eye over towards the sleeping king. “The prince is more important than the king because he will rule the realm with a just and fair hand. The king is treading this world into the dirt.” I twist the material of my skirt harder and harder until it forms a tight little ball in my first.