Red Palace

by Sarah Dalton

  These visions are needlessly confusing. If the Nix wanted to kill me, it could have jumped out from behind a corner and squirted me with its serum. The Gods know that last time I almost finished the job myself. Yet so far it has remained hidden. It is tormenting my mind instead of my body. That is why I must seek it out myself—before I lose my mind.

  As I pick myself up and continue on my task, I can’t help but wonder if the king is secretly plotting to secure Lyndon on the throne. If he is, that would mean murdering his own son, and he would have to do it before Cas married Ellen. The king still believes that Ellen is the craft-born and his plan is for the future queen of Aegunlund to be the craft-born. Perhaps that would explain why Beardsley is filled with regret. Maybe the king has conspired with Beardsley to kill Cas.

  Surely he couldn’t do that. I won’t believe it. But I can believe that it is a dangerous time to be the king’s least favourite son and the heir to the throne. When I break the curse I must warn Cas, or the queen, that I suspect foul play. I feel sick at the thought of Cas being in such danger. The sight of him murdered… it was too much.

  Every muscle in my body shakes from fear and weakness. I need to find food before I hunt the Nix. I’m dehydrated and my stomach growls angrily. Keeping my back to the wall and silently moving my feet, I tread softly through the castle. The kitchen is on the level above.

  The kitchens are eerily silent. I’m used to the cook being there to shoo me away from her stew, or rap me on the knuckles with her wooden spoon when I try to steal a pastry. My heart twists to see her slumped over the long table, her arms hanging down loosely. At least the spoon is still in her fingers. I help her onto a chair, and then do the same for the staff. At least then they won’t hurt themselves when they wake.

  I swallow. If they wake.

  For the first time since the curse began, I find myself considering the fact that I might lose. After all, the odds are stacked against me. I am just one girl who cannot use her powers to their full potential, or fight well with a sword. I cannot see anything consistent within the visions for me to be able to fight through them. What will happen to all the innocent people locked away in Beardsley’s room? Will they just die? Will the Red Palace remain under the curse for years to come? Aegunlund will be plunged into chaos without the security of the royal family. I might hate the king and all that he stands for, but to have no one on the throne would be worse. Who knows what kind of fighting might break out, or what kind of tyrant might claim the throne?

  My burden seems to increase a little at a time, bit by bit, until my back doubles over with the weight. I have a choice—I can shoulder this burden, lift my head up and keep going, or I can buckle under it. I’m not prepared to buckle under. I refuse to see innocent people suffer. Allerton was right about many things.

  The kitchen is not cobwebbed like the rest of the castle. There is an undeniable stillness, and when I knock a pan to the floor, the clatter causes my muscles to tense up and my heart to pound. I reach down, replace the pan back onto the table, and continue into the larder.

  While I’ve never been allowed into the larder, I know this is where the cook stores supplies for the castle, and I know that this is the most likely place to find food. My mouth waters at the sight of fresh bread and cooked meat. I hurry back into the kitchen in search of a knapsack. I settle on an apron, which I can tie up and loop over my back. On my way back to the larder I spot a punnet of fresh strawberries and pop one into my mouth. The juices are delicious.

  After a meal of bread, ham and cheese, and after I’ve filled the apron with slices of cooked meat, bread and fruit, I loop the straps over my shoulders and under my armpits, securing the food on my back. I gather a few extra supplies, like matches and candles. I lift up the sword and practice a swing. With my stomach full and my thirst quenched—I sipped on wine from the larder which both warms my blood and pulses courage through my veins—I am ready. This time, I know I can defeat the Nix. It’s time to hunt.

  As I stalk the corridors of the Red Palace I think of the times Father took me hunting. I was always a bad hunter. Too impatient, I would startle the prey by hurrying towards them with my bow and arrow stretched. More often than not, I released the arrow too quickly, alerting rabbits and deer to my presence, while missing them by an arm’s length.

  Father said it was because my heart wasn’t in it. When we practiced with bottles in the woods, I hit the target dead on. But when it came to taking a life, I always missed. He thought that my heart ruled my head, forcing me to make a mistake and spare the animal’s life. After that, I let Father hunt and I cooked instead, nursing my wounded pride. I always considered it a weakness, and indeed, I tried to keep Cas from noticing my reluctance to take a life. It was only when Sasha brought it out into the open that I was forced to acknowledge it.

  I cannot let that weakness resurface when I face the Nix.

  As I’ve travelled the length of the East Wing, logic tells me that the Nix must be hiding somewhere in the West Wing. I set off in that direction, gripping the hilt of my sword. This time I can’t miss my mark. I don’t have anyone here to help me, not even Allerton. I can’t hesitate. I can’t scuff my heels against the stone floor, or drop a bread roll. I must stay alert. I must be ready. My skin tingles with anticipation, and my recent meal gurgles in my stomach. What if I don’t have the heart for it?

  I focus myself by thinking of Anta in my vision. This one felt different. It felt as though Anta saw me, really saw me. I could be wrong, of course. It could be the Nix trying to mess with me. That’s how it works after all. It wears you down until you can’t fight anymore, can’t think anymore. It was a warning. It had to be. If I close my eyes I can feel the warm blood dripping through my fingers. He is in danger, and when Anta is in danger I run to him without hesitation. This is no different. Only this time, I have a curse in my way.

  Somewhere in the west of the castle comes a sound. It’s faint, but a thud followed by a scuttling noise. I freeze. My pulse quickens and I move back against the wall, lifting my sword, listening.

  Silence.

  After a few moments, I press on, moving gingerly, catlike. I’m aware of my breaths and the slight film of sweat on my palms. I adjust my grip, taking care not to drop the sword. Never before has the tiny scrape of my shoes against stone sounded so loud.

  Clickerickericker-ick-ick.

  The Nix! I spin towards the noise, but am faced with nothing. I can no longer control my breaths, they become ragged and laboured with fear.

  Ick-ick-click-click.

  As soon as I hear those sounds I am back in the Waerg Woods. The memory of the sickly coating of its serum on my arms and legs is real enough to cause me to check I am still unhindered.

  Those terrible visions flood my mind: a servant to Cas, unequal to him as he becomes king, melancholy and lonely as I attempt to take my own life. I had wanted desperately to leave that vision. I resolved to disappear from the Red Palace and travel down to the Haedalands to allow him to live his life with Ellen without my interference. Now, as I hunt the Nix, that’s all I can think about, how I still might become the woman in my fears.

  No. This is what the Nix wants me to contemplate. It knew all this time that I would never be able to stay with Allerton, and it knew that I would be alone. I am not strong. I am weak, and I let my own fears swallow me whole.

  I lift my sword and move forwards. The East Wing is long and winding, with many unused rooms to pass. But I head towards the library in the west, passing slumped guards and dusty tapestries. The light streams in from the narrow windows, picking out tiny specks of dust suspended in the air, and highlighting bright squares on the floor.

  The noise comes back, but this time I am ready for it.

  “Your clicking doesn’t scare me anymore, you overgrown slug!”

  My voice echoes through the winding corridors of the castle.

  Click-ick-icker-ricker-ick.

  That scuttling sound never fails to make the hair stand up on t
he back of my neck.

  I steel myself, lifting the sword aloft. As I walk towards the sound, I calm my breathing and think of wind. I must make sure my powers are at the surface if I am to fight.

  Craft-born, you do not need to be scared, it says. That is not the purpose.

  “Then what is? Tell me what you want.”

  A sick chuckle ripples through my mind. I want nothing more than to clamp my hands over my ears.

  Telling you would achieve nothing, craft-born. You will retrieve what I want regardless. You will have to.

  “Why?”

  I step around another corner, expecting to see the sight of its enormous black, slithering body. There is nothing to see.

  “Why?”

  That laugh comes back and it makes me gag. I’ve never heard a laugh dripping in such malice. The evil almost seeps through my heart.

  I cannot take this anymore. I have to finish it once and for all. When another turning becomes fruitless, I break into a sprint, running as fast as I can towards the library.

  “What are you going to do to Anta? If you harm my stag, or Cas, I’ll kill you!”

  More laughter. This time it doesn’t sound as though it is in my head. It is coming from the right. I change direction and follow the sound. As I pass old paintings of the royal family, and dusty suits of armour, the sword weighs down my arms until the muscles ache.

  “Come out and face me, you coward!” I scream.

  All in good time, craft-born, it taunts.

  That’s when I realise that I’m being tricked. The Nix has planted the sound of its laughter in my mind, and while I’ve been chasing it through the hallways, the Nix has gone in a completely different direction. I swear under my breath and turn back. Where could it be?

  I have to take a risk. If I cut through the library and run to the left, maybe I can cut the Nix off as it moves through the West Wing of the castle. It must be heading in the opposite direction to me. It might not work. For one thing, the Nix might have turned off along the way, but it is the only thing I can think of.

  I grip the hilt of the sword and enter the library through the great wooden doors. It is a large, tall room with a mezzanine floor and a balcony overlooking the stacks. Normally I love the sight of the library, it reminds me of Father teaching me to read, but now I am tensed, coiled like a snapped whip, my knuckles white and my throat dry. Yet I concentrate. As I stalk through the quiet library I think of wind. I focus on howling gales and twisted tornadoes. I imagine the doors on the opposite side of the library and the corridors beyond. I can send two gusts of wind coming from either side to trap the Nix somewhere along the hallway, giving me an advantage.

  It takes much of my attention to summon wind and run at the same time, and as I cross the room my mind slips into a dangerous wooziness that I have to pull back. With a shake of my head, I manage to keep myself together. One of the tornadoes rips ahead of me, churning the castle in its wake, shredding a tapestry as it travels.

  I hurry along behind with my sword lifted. There is no longer silence in the castle and the clicking noise of the Nix has ended. Out of the library, I take a right and follow my creation. There is little I can make out through the wind, but I keep my eyes on the lookout for a large black shape. Surely even the great Nix will be hurt by the searing strength of a tornado.

  I duck to dodge a flying piece of debris as I move forwards. The tornado answers my command when I force it on faster, like a loyal dog. I put both hands on the hilt of my sword, knowing that we must be close. My heart pounds with anticipation. This is it. This will be the moment I defeat the Nix.

  A sickening squeal rises above the sound of the wind. I rush on, bursting through the tornado, which doesn’t touch or hurt me. However, a flying silver jug hits me hard on the shoulder.

  When I see it, my blood runs cold. This is the first time I have faced the monster since the Waerg Woods, and all the taunts, riddles and sickening laughs spin around in my mind as fast as my own tornado. For a horrifying second I am petrified by its presence. The Nix has reared up and is being buffeted by the wind. Its many legs wave in the air and its jagged teeth gnash together. As its body bends, the hard shells on its back clack together, as though it is made of more teeth; teeth and shells and squidgy underbelly. The eyes hold mine, a translucent green over blackness. At the sight of me, it squirts out its defensive serum, but the wind sweeps it away from me.

  Using more of my power, I create a mini hurricane to dislodge some of the bricks from the surrounding walls, careful not to take too many. There’s a rumble as the bricks fall from the walls, hitting the Nix in all directions. I stop quickly, in case I bring the palace down on us all.

  You are not as powerful as I am, craft-born, it taunts me. Where is your white stag to protect you now?

  At the mention of Anta, I lunge forward and stab at the Nix. But too late I realise this is what it wanted all along. In the midst of tornadoes and bricks, the Nix is able to strike me with one of its long, pointed legs, and it scratches me all along my face and down my chest. The shock causes me to fall back, and it’s then that the Nix sprays its serum over my body.

  Whatever you see, he will never love you. It will not be because of the craft-born imposter, it will be because you lied to him.

  You will break your heart in two.

  I’m always wrong and so are you.

  “No!” I cry out. It’s no good. I’m sucked away, sucked back into a vision.

  *

  It’s Cas again. His eyes have lost the swimming tears of the young boy I saw at the ball, to be replaced with the contemplative melancholy of adulthood. Yet, as I watch him by the window of the bell tower standing out towards the sea, he reminds me more of that boy than of the Cas I know. I think of the queen’s worst fear and my heart hurts. I’ve watched him murdered twice. The pain had been to the point of unbearable, and not just because I had felt the queen’s emotions, but because when he hurts, I hurt.

  He speaks. He does not know I’m here.

  “What am I going to do?” he whispers. “Mae. Mae, what am I going to do?”

  He shakes his head sadly.

  “I’ll never love her.”

  “Never love who?” I shout. I rush towards him, desperate for him to see me. “Who will you never love?”

  I’m a ghost in his world and I always have been. I’m desperate for him to see me. It’s not a thing that I can prove, it’s just something that I know deep down in my bones: I have always been the ghost in his world. A spirit of a girl. A spectre to haunt him. My heart has never felt so raw, and so swollen.

  I reach out to touch him. He bows his head and grips the sill of the open window. The cool breeze coming from the sea lifts his hair, and it ripples down to the collar of his tunic. I long for him to turn his silver eyes towards me. Just one more time. One more.

  I imagine them damp with tears.

  Well this confirms it. He must be talking about me. He said my name. Cas will never love me and had may as well move on with my life. At least now I have the confirmation I need.

  But as I turn away from Cas, the world shifts once more. I’m sucked away and pulled into another scene.

  I’m back at the ballroom. The quiet solitude of the bell tower has been replaced by the bustle of gowns and the thumping of the orchestra. It’s a fast tune, one different to the slow melody played at the last ball. My chest is constricted once more, proving that I am squashed into yet another uncomfortable corset. When I lift my hand to the chill on my neck, I discover that my hair has been braided away from my face, and a mask has been clipped into my hair, covering my face. But apart from that, I am me. My skin is still dark, I stand in an unladylike manner, and my mouth waters at the sight of the food.

  Perhaps I have been sent back to the same ball I saw the young Casimir at. With a sinking realisation in my stomach, I realise that I could be here just to watch Lyndon kill Cas for a third time.

  But then the room spins. My feet move in time to the music, a
nd I am swept away by a dancer. It is as though I have done this before, and my body already knows how to react. If I am in someone else’s fear, that must mean I am myself, but playing the part of myself in their vision. I gaze up at the high ceilings. There are banners and bunting hanging from the chandelier. They spin and spin above me as I dance around the room.

  My partner is tall and wears a mask which conceals his features. There is some sort of gauze obscuring the colour and shape of his eyes. The mask disguises the view of his hair, too. But his arms are strong and he moves well across the floor, even when I trip. I am not a good dancer, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. He pulls me a little closer, until there is only a finger’s breadth between our bodies. It is perhaps a little too close for polite society, but again, my partner does not seem to mind at all. He appears quite at ease with the dance and the ball in general. His clothes are fine. The tunic is embroidered with gold thread. He must be extremely wealthy.

  It’s only then that I look down at my own gown, expecting it to be made out of cheap fabric and ill-fitting. It is not. It is a beautiful white gown with delicate flowers stitched in silver.

  “You dance well,” I say. The words spill out of my mouth without any thought.

  “As do you,” he replies. His voice is stiff and stilted, as though he is nervous.

  I relax into the dance. Before long I enjoy the twists and turns, and the way my dress sways with my body. My partner’s warm hand rests on the small of my back. His touch is a comfort to me, something I can relax into, and with each lap of the dance floor we move closer until our noses are a hair’s breadth from each other. We’re verging on scandalous, but I don’t care any longer. I am consumed by the thought of his arms around me and the desire to rip away the mask. I long to reveal his eyes, to know this man.