by Dylan Farrow
With lithe grace, he twists around, landing lightly on the windowsill. My eyes grow wide in the dim light. He has rappelled down a line from … somewhere.
I can’t see anything else through the window but a sheer wall of rock.
Crouching on the sill, Ravod leans close to the glass mouthing the words:
Are you all right?
I nod.
Ravod nods back, looking somewhat relieved as he glances around tentatively. Admittedly, I feel a rush at the thought that he’s concerned for me. I’m even touched by his odd way of showing it, coming to my window like this.
Ravod leans back to the glass, breathing fog onto the surface. He uses the tip of his index finger to start tracing a shape.
No, not a shape. A letter. And another. It takes a bit for me to follow along, sounding out the letters the way Cathal taught me. Remembering the difference between upper and lower case letters … hard and soft vowels … context …
When he finishes, there’s a single word on the glass.
Danger.
I frown at him, not understanding. What danger? And how does Ravod know how to write? Is this a dream?
The door is slammed open behind me. Light floods the room and obscures Ravod. I whirl around.
There has to be some mistake. This isn’t my room. The quaint decorations and comforting atmosphere are gone. There’s only a plain bed, a small stool, and a nightstand. The walls are white, padded with fabric. I bring my hand to my forehead, anxious and dizzy.
Is this a prison?
A Bard I don’t recognize stands authoritatively in the doorway, silhouetted against the bright light outside.
“You’re cleared for discharge,” he says.
I swallow the growing lump in my throat, looking back to the window.
Ravod is gone, if he was ever there.
“Let’s go, I don’t have all day.” The Bard’s voice is loud, but absorbed by the padded walls.
I step toward the door. The tiny hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand upright. I hug my chest over my simple nightshirt. The floor is cold against my bare feet.
The Bard says nothing as I pass him into a long, stone corridor. Metal doors with small windows line the walls in every direction, lit by twisted metal braziers in between. I hear the faint sounds of moaning, muttering. Screaming.
“What is this place?” My voice shakes.
“High House’s sanitarium,” the Bard replies tersely. “Consider yourself lucky. Cathal doesn’t let most people out of here.”
He leads me past door after door. Other Bards patrol the hall, periodically stopping to shine a light inside each door and check on the inhabitants.
How many Bards are locked up down here? I shiver the thought away, but one far more sinister replaces it.
The cozy room from before was nothing but a Telling. This is the reality.
Cathal lied to me.
22
It has been two days since I was released from the sanitarium, but I was told to remain in my room, still requiring rest. The terror of madness has continued to rush through my veins, my fear growing the stronger my body gets and the more clearer things become. My mind feels sharp; the haze has burned away. And yet I know with certainty that what I experienced during the collapse and subsequent events were shades of madness creeping in. So I have obeyed the rules and kept to myself. I have tried, truly, to rest, and to contain and steady my thoughts.
I feel more alert—and more acutely lonely too. No one has come to check on me—not Cathal, not Ravod, not even Imogen.
More than lonely, I’m restless. Despite wanting to stay safe and not attract any more negative attention, I can’t help my raging curiosity when I turn my mind to everything that’s happened.
Cathal said he knew who was behind the collapse. That it wasn’t my fault. Except he lied to me about putting me in a sanitarium for mad Bards. But he wouldn’t free me if I were to blame.
Who, then?
A plan hatches slowly while I pace the small floor of my room. That’s your problem, Shae. You don’t think before you act. Well, that’s about to change. I’ve got nothing if not time to think in here, after all.
* * *
The collapsed tower has been cordoned off as a “restricted zone” while reconstruction commences. These past few nights, under the cover of darkness, when it is easier to move about High House undetected, I have made my way in its direction, trying to figure out what happened. The token guards that patrol the perimeter switch rotations quite often. It seems no one expects insubordination this deep in the heart of High House, bastion of order for Montane.
Right after the sun dips beneath the horizon, the bell for dinner rings, and I assume my position, hiding in the shadows. Several minutes later, three guards exit the gate into the castle proper. Counting slowly to thirty, I anticipate a group of Bards heading into their wing from the men’s barracks. The next group of two guards should round the corner right …
Now.
Tucking my head down, I slip behind them and head in the opposite direction, up the steps to the collapsed tower. This is the closest I’ve managed to get. I overheard the guards chatting a couple of nights ago about how inside the wing is unguarded. But I can’t help wondering why. Has nothing been done to stabilize the structure? Surely Cathal has engineers and workers galore at his disposal. It only reinforces my theory that there’s something else going on.
The damage looks even worse up close. The broken marble and limestone cast long, jagged shadows down the mountainside. They remind me of something I saw in a dream once, a long time ago. The wind picks up, the darkness beckoning me closer. As if issuing an invitation … or a challenge.
“Damn Bards ought to patrol their own mess,” a voice breaks through the silence.
I stifle a gasp and quickly slide around the side of a large block of debris. I was too slow calculating the first group’s rounds.
“Don’t talk like that. You don’t know who can hear you,” a second guard responds as the patrol draws level with my hiding spot. “I don’t know about you, but I need this job.”
“Yes, yes. We all know about your sick brat back home.” I can practically hear the first guard roll his eyes at his companion.
“I’m sorry, am I boring you?” the second guard asks. Their footsteps come to a halt right on the other side of my hiding spot.
“Just be glad he doesn’t have the Blot,” the first guard responds. “And yes. It’s as boring as it was the first fifty times I had to hear about it.”
“Could be worse. You could be stuck down in the caverns on back-door duty with Sergeant Kimble.”
The first guard grumbles. “I hate that guy.”
“I know. You hate everyone.”
I peek out at them while they are absorbed in their discussion. My only exit is cut off as they stand in my way.
The mention of a back door in the caverns was quite interesting though.
“Back door has fewer shifts. I could be off-duty by midnight and only have to deal with a couple of hours of Kimble’s abominable singing.” The first guard is a short, squat man whose gruff voice somehow fits his physique. He’s facing away from me, while his tall and lanky younger companion has a good chance of seeing me if I try to move.
I inwardly thank them for giving me such useful information, a small smile touching my lips as they finally walk away and I’m able to safely turn the corner back to the training grounds.
Later tonight, when the shift changes, I’ll find this secondary entrance and finally see what’s being hidden in the rubble.
* * *
Evening has fallen, and the Bards’ Wing is mostly empty. The bulk of the Bards are in the refectory enjoying dinner.
Everyone except Ravod, it seems. My heart somersaults when I see him standing near the door. His eyes are narrowed and his arms are crossed over his chest in his usual stance. He taps two fingers absently against his bicep.
“Shae,” he says, looking s
tartled as I draw closer. Quietly, he adds, “We need to talk.”
I open and close my mouth a few times. Was he worried for me? Why didn’t he come check on me, then? Inwardly I shudder, remembering his face appearing in the window in the sanitarium. I must have imagined it. I was in a sanitarium, after all.
“Is something the matter?” I ask.
Ravod shifts his hands to his hips, clearly vexed by my deflection. His eyes dart swiftly up and down the hall. I’ve never seen him so agitated.
“Ravod!” A familiar harsh call cuts him off before he can speak, followed by the sound of purposeful striding feet.
Kennan sweeps toward us, her haunting glare locked on Ravod as she ignores me entirely.
Ravod’s eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second before he turns to Kennan. In an instant, his tension and paranoia melt away into a disarming smile.
“Something I can do for you, Kennan?” he asks.
“Don’t play dumb with me.” Kennan scowls. Unlike me, Ravod seems unperturbed. He regards her with his usual cool indifference as she continues. “I’m not covering for you again. If Cathal had placed me in charge of the investigation in the first place, we would already have a suspect. Instead, you can’t even be bothered to attend Cathal’s debriefing, and I get blamed for your incompetence.”
“But I thought he already knew who the culprit was?” I interject before I can think better of it.
Kennan rounds on me, eyes spitting fire. “Nobody cares what you think.”
“There’s no need for that,” Ravod says, placing his arm between Kennan and me. He shoots me a warning glance before turning to the other Bard. “I understand your frustration, Kennan. I was preoccupied with a lead and will explain everything to Cathal. You have my word.”
Kennan clearly isn’t finished with him. Her mouth thins to a tight line as she steps closer to Ravod. She’s slightly shorter, but her stance is somehow far more threatening.
“You only got your fancy gig because of my misfortune,” she seethes. “I’m twice the Bard you are. Don’t forget it.”
“That was not so long ago, as I recall,” Ravod replies. “You were cleared to return to duty. I suggest you do so.”
Kennan is poised to retort, but her eyes flick to me and she steps back, unwilling to air her grievances in my presence. With a final glare, she disappears into the dining hall.
Ravod sighs, turning back to me. “I must report to Cathal or risk further suspicion.” He lowers his voice. “I’ll find you tomorrow.”
Confused, I nod, and he places a hand on my shoulder. He’s about to say something else when he sees my breath catch at his touch. Ravod hastily removes his hand and exits the Bards’ Wing swiftly and soundlessly, leaving my shoulder tingling with warmth where he touched me.
I have to shake my head to clear it. My thoughts turn immediately to what Kennan said. What was her misfortune that caused her to be passed up for Ravod’s position? I narrow my eyes at the door to the dining hall, as if it will somehow allow me to see into Kennan’s mind.
You’re cleared for discharge … A voice echoes in my not-so-distant memory.
You were cleared to return to duty … Ravod’s voice replaces it.
Was Kennan taken to the sanitarium?
* * *
“What do you want?”
I didn’t expect Kennan to give me a warm welcome when I plopped myself down across from her, but I had hoped the surprise might delay some of her hatred.
“I only want to talk,” I say, forcing my fear down. I can’t let her get the better of me.
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“Then listen.” I’m impressed by how level my voice sounds, considering how terrifying I find Kennan. “If you give me a chance, you’ll find we have a lot more in common than you think.”
Kennan makes a noise of disgust. “I have more in common with the scum beneath my boots.”
“I know what you did, Kennan,” I say, point-blank.
She turns and stares at me. Fear flickers across her eyes and is gone, replaced by hardness.
“The Counter-Tellings,” I say. “Cathal told me everything. You tried to sabotage me. Why?”
Kennan scoffs and turns away. “You got what you wanted, didn’t you? Cathal’s attention? So what does it matter?”
“Why do you hate me?” The question blurts out of me. I can’t understand the depth of her anger toward me.
“Do you know what I hate?” Kennan slams her hands on the table, causing her teacup to rattle its saucer. “I hate seeing real potential languish.”
Does she mean hers or mine? “This is all about power for you?”
“Of course.” She says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Real power is subtle. Something you know nothing about.”
Bitterness flares behind my eyes, swiftly warping my fear into anger. “Subtle? Don’t make me laugh. You’ve been anything but subtle with me. We could have been friends, you know.”
“I know enough,” Kennan replies readily. “You think Cathal didn’t do the same with me when I was the new girl? You think he won’t toss you aside as soon as the next one shows up?”
“If Cathal favors me so much,” I say, keeping my tone slow and deliberate, “why did he send me to the sanitarium?”
A few nearby Bards shift uncomfortably in their seats upon hearing the word. Kennan goes silent, her eyes widening for a split second.
“You know what I’m talking about, Kennan.” I keep my eyes leveled on hers across the table. “That was the misfortune that caused you to lose Ravod’s position. If I had to guess, I’d say the others thought you were too unstable to handle it.”
Kennan opens her mouth to reply before snapping it shut. Her eyes narrow dangerously, her palms pressing so tightly against the surface of the table that her fingers are trembling.
“Whatever you tried, it backfired.” I watch her carefully, as if she is a snake about to strike.
“Yes. There are limits to our gift,” Kennan says quietly. “For now. But beyond those limits exists possibility. Knowledge. Solutions … Power. For those reasons alone, the limits are worth testing. There’s no risk that isn’t worth taking.”
“You’re talking about something specific.”
Kennan nods. Her whole body is afire with energy I’ve never seen from her before. “The Telling alone is not enough. Not when there’s so much more out there,” she says. “Enough not only to wash these lands clean of the plague, but make it so it never existed. I reached for that, and perhaps I failed once, but I won’t again.”
Without elaborating, Kennan rises from her seat, abandoning her tea and half-eaten meal. As a servant hurriedly clears it away, I stare at the space she vacated, lost in thought.
It’s not only about the accumulation of power for her, she wants to apply that power. She wants to erase the Blot. Cathal spoke of a conspiracy against him by one of the Bards. And if Cathal took Kennan under his wing like he did with me, perhaps he similarly shared with her a secret to finding such power.
It starts to sink in—the truth. It all comes back to the Book of Days.
23
I wait until High House is silent before venturing into the caverns. As I traverse the winding, labyrinthine corridors, the conversation with Kennan turns in my head.
Does she know of the Book of Days?
Has she tried to find it?
The natural next thought follows: Was it she who caused the collapse of the tower? Could she have been looking for the Book when it happened?
A feeling consumes me, like the heat of a distant flame—I’m getting closer. I can feel the truth flickering against my skin, but I cannot see it yet.
I pass the outlet that leads to the waterfall, the farthest I’ve ever gone, and find myself in uncharted territory.
I fumble in my pocket, pulling out a tiny spool of dark thread that mimics the color of the ground. I quickly tie one end to a low rock ledge and unwind a good bit before walking
forward. If I keep the thread slack, no one will ever see it.
Hopefully, I won’t lose my way.
Multiple pairs of heavy footsteps pierce the silence.
My body goes rigid in fear. I strain to listen.
Footsteps and … singing?
Singing very, very badly. I cringe when the distant voice cracks on a high note. Something tells me I’ve found Sergeant Kimble.
I make sure the thread is still slack and slide into the shadows, peering around the corner at the source of the noise.
Two guards stand in front of a black, wrought-iron gate, protecting the large cavern opening. A portly guard, whom I assume is Sergeant Kimble, is belting out his song, agonizingly off-key. His companion stands nearby, rubbing his temples under his helmet and grimacing.
I count the seconds under my breath. If the guards outside were correct, their shift should change in a matter of minutes.
Finally, Sergeant Kimble reaches the end of his song and appraises his comrade. A look of expectation fills his face. His partner slowly removes his hands from his temples, as if surprised by the silence.
“Is that how you appreciate the musical talent of your ranking officer, Abernathy?” Sergeant Kimble nudges his companion.
“It’s … very good, sir,” the other guard offers meekly. The praise seems to placate Kimble. “But I believe we are done for tonight.”
“Pity, the acoustics down here are truly unparalleled.”
“Indeed.” The other guard leads the sergeant away from the gate.
When their footsteps disappear in the distance, I quickly walk over and press down on the latch, but the gate doesn’t budge.
“Of course it’s locked,” I mutter to myself. I grip the iron bars and shake them in frustration.
Footsteps. The next shift is on its way.
I take a deep breath and try to tether myself to my surroundings, like I did in the wasteland with Ravod. But my concentration fails as the thundering of my heart gets the better of me. The guards are approaching.
