“They’re sorted,” Brenna told him. “Happy as lambs.”
“Lambs don’t stay happy for long,” Thorne remarked. “What did you need from me?”
“The Queen,” Brenna said, gesturing to the wasted woman on the bed. “There are signs. Troubling signs.”
Thorne perched on the edge of the bed, staring at Arla’s face. He had never been this close to her before, never noticed how pinched her mouth was, how sunken her eyes.
“What signs?”
“She murmurs in her sleep.”
“I thought you said she couldn’t speak.”
“She can’t,” Brenna said. “I have her securely. Whatever is speaking is something else.”
Thorne frowned, not understanding her words, but not liking them. He had little comprehension of the invisible world Brenna inhabited; was well content not to know, so long as it functioned as it should. He did not want to hear about phantom voices, only the future.
“What about the sapphire?” he demanded.
“I am making good progress.”
“How long?”
Brenna glared at him.
“I’m only asking.”
“You hear, but you do not listen. These jewels, they are difficult to know, as difficult as another person. Just when I think myself close to solving their mystery, they change heart. The Queen speaks in prophecy. She speaks of the True Queen. I can make no sense of it.”
“Does she still suffer?”
“Every moment.” Brenna looked up at him, her pale eyes questioning. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No. What of Elyssa’s sapphire?”
“I am sorry, master. The Princess hides from me. She will not move.”
Thorne’s teeth clenched. He understood this no more than any of Brenna’s other mysteries, but the upshot was the same: he was being balked. He paused for a long moment, then asked the question that worried him most.
“What of the baby?”
“Nothing.”
“Elyssa’s due in two months! How can that be?”
“I don’t know, master!” Brenna replied, her voice rising in agitation. “The child is hidden! I do not understand it. It could be that the jewel hides her, but then it could be something else.”
“Could be, could be,” Thorne repeated, restraining a snarl. “The rebels are coming, and the entire damned city is waiting with open arms. I need certainty.”
A chuckle came from the head of the bed, making Thorne jump. The Queen was smiling. Beneath her closed eyes, her mouth seemed to twist around her teeth.
“Why is she smiling?” Thorne hissed. “You told me she was in agony!”
“She is, master, I promise you!” Brenna leaned down, taking the Queen’s sapphire in her hand. “Yet she speaks, and laughs, and smiles. . . . and the omens—”
“What omens?”
“I have been casting my bones. I see calm all the way to the horizon, but beyond, disaster. The Mace, the Fetch, these signs can end us.”
“The Fetch is dead,” Thorne returned calmly. “You yourself saw him walk into that building.”
“So I did, master. But I have also seen him alive.”
“The True Queen, the True Queen,” Arla croaked suddenly, making them both jump. Her words were tuneless and hollow, utterly unlike the old Queen’s iron voice. “We open the door.”
“What is this?” Thorne demanded.
“I don’t know, master.” Brenna leaned forward and waved a hand in front of Arla’s face. “What are you? Who are you?”
“I am the one who keeps the gate.”
Brenna looked up at Thorne, and her eyes were full of such fear that Thorne felt himself suddenly unmanned, all of his carefully cultivated calm falling to pieces.
“Wake her up,” he said abruptly. “We’ll get the sapphire some other way. Wake her up now.”
Brenna nodded and took Arla’s sapphire in her hand, closing her eyes. But a moment later, she opened them again, looking down at Arla in confusion; confusion, and mounting horror. Arla began to chuckle again, a sound so monstrous that even Galen frowned, disturbed from his sleepless dream.
“The child is hidden, yes,” Arla murmured. “But not from me. The stars rise.”
“Wake her up!” Thorne hissed. Fear had slipped into him now, a creeping, helpless fear that he had never experienced once, not during all of Brenna’s prophecy. “Wake her now!”
Brenna looked up at him, her face a picture of consternation. “Master, I cannot.”
Arla opened her eyes. The irises were bright green, almost like emeralds; Elyssa’s eyes, Raleigh eyes. They all had them, from Matthew Raleigh onward . . . but not Thorne. He had been robbed of those eyes, along with everything else.
“Arlen Thorne.”
Arla’s voice echoed, strangely hollow in the dead air of the sickroom. Her head turned, almost mechanically, to look at him, and Thorne fought the urge to flee the room.
“You will rise, Thorne, and become great. But your fall . . .” That deep, rich chuckle again. “Oh, your fall. Here the queen of spades, and there the victory of ships, and both of them wait for you.”
“Shut her up!” Thorne snapped at Brenna. “Can’t you shut her up?”
But Brenna had retreated to the far wall, sinking down against it, covering her ears with her hands.
Useless, Thorne thought. He suddenly hated her, this freak whose life was guided by that invisible, unseen world. In that moment he would have traded all of Brenna’s gifts for a world that consisted only of what a man could see and touch.
“I know who you are, Arlen Thorne.”
The hollow, otherworldly voice was gentler now, almost kind. Thorne closed his eyes, looking away, trying to master himself.
“Would you speak with her, your mother?”
“No!” Thorne snarled, for the question enraged him. He was no needy child, to demand reassurance and explanation! He had been less than a week old when the Queen’s man had sold him for fifty-five pounds and a drink on the house. He had not been a child since.
Now a gentle touch stroked against his hand; Arla’s fingers, and that was so unbearable that Thorne leapt off the bed and toward the door. He scrabbled at the handle; he felt that he could not get it open fast enough, as though the very door itself had turned against him now, just like everything else, defeat snatched from the jaws of victory—
Get hold of yourself!
The words were shouted deep inside his mind, from some deep core of self, the core that never broke, not even in childhood, at the worst times.
It’s hallucination, only hallucination. Brenna’s talk has gotten you all worked up.
Taking a deep breath, Thorne turned toward the bed. Arla’s head was back on the pillow, her eyes closed in sleep.
Thorne stared at her for a long moment, feeling his heartbeat slowly return to normal, calm settling over him like a sheet. Once upon a time, he had admired this woman, admired her in spite of what she had done, or perhaps even because of it. He admired will, and the pimps who had bought him must have admired it as well, for they had named him after the old custom: Arlen, Arla’s son. The Queen could have simply had him murdered, or exposed, but she had sold him into the Creche instead, and gotten a good price. Thorne could admire that . . . but it had been a mistake, all the same. Royal blood was royal blood, and there was no telling when it might come back to haunt you.
The child is hidden.
“Brenna,” he murmured, putting a hand on the seer’s shoulder, tugging her upward. She rose from the wall, her eyes bloodshot and unfocused.
“Master?”
“We must act,” he told her. “Right away.”
“Act, master?”
“The baby,” he said. “We must get rid of it.”
Brenna let out a shaky breath but nodded. Afte
r a moment she said, “It’s late in the day, master. The Princess is some seven months along, and this is dark magic I will work. They may both die, Elyssa and the child.”
“I will risk that,” Thorne replied, pleased to find his voice level. “We will get the jewel some other way. Just get rid of the baby.”
“Done.”
He gestured toward the two Queen’s Guards, who remained silent and dreaming above the Queen’s bed.
“Let them wake in several minutes. Get back to your place.”
He waited a moment while she wiped her face and straightened her dress. The guards might notice nothing, but it was better not to take chances. When Brenna was together again, he nudged her toward the bed, then went to the door.
“One thing more, Arlen Thorne,” the Queen remarked behind him. Brenna gave a small shriek, and Thorne halted, his hand on the latch. Turning, he saw that Arla was now sitting up in bed, her green eyes fixed upon him.
“You crave certainty, Arlen. I can give it to you, but a single certainty, only one.”
“What certainty?” he croaked.
“You will die screaming. I have seen it.”
Thorne stared at her, momentarily startled out of his fear. All of the long years he had spent in the Creche, bought and sold, touched and degraded . . . it was almost comical, that she thought to frighten him now with words of fear, of pain. He was no longer a child, tethered by a strap of leather to an iron ring; now he was the man who held the leash. For a long moment Thorne hesitated, wanting to tell the woman on the bed about all of it, to make her understand the journey he had undergone . . . but in the end he found himself unable. He turned and fled.
Chapter 30
THE THIRD OPTION
Love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking outward in the same direction.
—Antoine de Saint-Exupéry (pre-Crossing Fr.)
Maura was dying.
They had installed her in the infirmary, which was usually used for guards. But no one was injured right now. Beale, the Queen’s senior medic, had complained bitterly about taking care of a morphia addict, but Christian had dealt with that. Securing a bed for Maura had been easy. Watching her die was not.
“Christian.”
Looking at Maura was not easy either. Christian found himself unable to forgive her, even now. He would never forget his first sight of that room, not if he lived for a hundred more years, and when Maura begged for morphia, pleading, sometimes even screaming at all of them, it was not her wasted face that Christian saw, but the room with the mirrors, the children. Morphia itself might be no great evil, but he could not forgive what morphia had done. What it had allowed.
Beale said that it was the withdrawal that was killing her. Her heart would already be weakened by the drug, Beale said, and she hadn’t seemed to be in good health to begin with. Christian thought of telling the medic that she was a Creche child, then thought better of it. Maura was dying, and the reason didn’t matter.
“Christian.”
He looked down at her.
“Please,” Maura whispered. “Just a little bit of poppy. Just to get me over.”
Christian looked up at the medic, asking a silent question.
“This is the Queen’s Wing,” Beale replied stiffly. “Our morphia is for the Guard only, for medical emergencies.”
“Oh, come on!” a voice said behind him, and Christian jumped. He turned to see Coryn and Dyer, standing just inside the doorway.
“No one has broken a leg or taken appendicitis,” Coryn said, moving toward the bed with Dyer in tow. “We have plenty of morphia. What could one shot hurt?”
Little red flushes had appeared in Beale’s cheeks. “I am Her Majesty’s senior medic. I do not answer to you.”
“This woman is suffering,” said Dyer.
“Well, she is an addict. She brought it on herself, did she not?”
Coryn and Dyer looked at each other for a long moment. Then they grabbed the medic, one to each arm, and lifted him from his feet, propelling him toward the door.
“How dare you?” Beale cried. “I will tell Her Majesty!”
“Do that,” Dyer muttered. “Much good it may do you.”
Two more guards had appeared now: Cae and Kibb, who had been in the arms room, helping Venner sort through a delivery of armor. Venner needed the help, for new arms deliveries arrived at the Keep every day now. The rebels were coming; they had just crossed the Beth Ford, less than ten miles from the city, and there could be little doubt of where they were heading. The entire Keep was scrambling to prepare.
“What’s going on?” Cae asked.
“The medic is taking a leave,” Dyer panted, hauling Beale toward the door. Cae and Kibb moved aside quickly, clearing a path; Coryn and Dyer shoved Beale through, and Kibb slammed the door shut. Beale pounded for a few moments, but that was simply for form. Soon there was silence but for Maura’s breathing, a slow and regular rasp.
“That old man,” Coryn muttered darkly, digging into the supply cabinets in the corner until he came up with a vial of clear fluid. “Blows five ounces on a case of toothache, but not a pinch for this poor—”
He glanced at Christian and said nothing else, filling a syringe with a minute dose from the vial.
Christian looked back at Maura, feeling himself at a loss. They had helped him, all of them, the night he had discovered the Devil’s Club. Together they had burned the bodies and sealed the laddered entrance, blocking off the cursed corridor forever. All sixteen of the children were downstairs now, tended by three Keep servants that Dyer swore could be trusted, at least until they found them homes. Christian did not question it, for what did he know of raising children, of tending to them? What would he ever know, beyond killing?
“You got topside, Christian,” Maura whispered, smiling gently. “We both did.”
No, Christian wanted to say. You never got topside, nor did I. It’s all a greater Creche, even this place. But he could not, for his throat was suddenly tight, as though someone had locked it in a vise. He stared down at Maura, suddenly remembering all of those made-up birthdays, each with their own presents. Five-pence piece; raspberry tart; carved wooden horse; poached egg in a tiny carved cup . . . there had been so many of them, and he had never gotten Maura anything, not once. Topside or tunnels, he had not been able to save her. Coryn tapped the syringe, then injected Maura’s arm, and almost immediately, her breathing began to ease. Her eyes drifted closed.
“What did Beale say?” Coryn asked, holding Maura’s wrist in one hand.
“That she’s dying.”
“I hate that old buzzard, but he’s probably not wrong. Her pulse is weak. Morphia is a vampire, and withdrawal is a bad death.”
Coryn paused, looking at Christian speculatively.
“I could give her more, you know. A lot more.”
For a long moment, Christian did not move. He had taken Maura’s hand at some point, though he didn’t know when. The rest had come closer, gathering around the bed, and as much as Christian wanted to see indifference in their faces, or even triumph, he saw neither . . . only honest sympathy.
“You’ve known her a long time,” Kibb remarked.
Christian nodded.
“Since you were children.”
“Yes.” In the tunnels, he began to say, then bit down. They had not earned the right to know that.
“Christian,” Maura whispered, her voice thin and reedy. Her eyes were still closed. She mumbled something else.
“What?”
“We got topside, but you don’t know it. I know you. You don’t think you should be here. Don’t think you . . . belong.”
Christian did not reply, aware of the guards listening around him. Did they know what topside was? He could explain away Maura’s words later, perhaps, but if he could not answer her honestly, then he d
idn’t want to answer at all.
“Belong,” Maura whispered. “You should. Belong.”
Coryn had readied another syringe now, filled it up. He tapped it, then looked at Christian, and after a long moment, Christian nodded. Coryn bent to her arm again.
“We were children together,” Christian told them. “In the Almont.”
The other guards nodded. Maura’s breathing had begun to slow even further now; Christian could hear it, a dry wheeze.
“She lived on the next farm over.”
They nodded again, their expressions solemn, carefully studied artifice in each face, as though they were a playing troupe miming tragedy instead of farce.
Are they mocking me? Christian wondered.
“Lazarus,” Dyer said gently, almost kindly, as though Christian were a child himself. “Did you really think we didn’t know who you were?”
Christian stared at him, stunned. But the circle of faces around him remained still. Maura’s hand had gone limp in his, and they knew . . . all of them knew, and they hadn’t revealed him. Why? Christian was suddenly tired, so very tired, of pretending to be someone else.
What if I was neither? he wondered suddenly. Neither Lazarus nor Christian? What if there was a third option?
He looked down at Maura, watching her breathing slow, the motion of her chest still and then stop. He hadn’t been able to save her, not then and not now . . . but there were others. Other children.
“Mace!”
Carroll had appeared in the doorway, hurriedly buckling armor to his shoulder.
“I need you. Right now.”
“Have a heart, Carroll,” Dyer muttered. “His girl, she’s—”
“I am sorry for your grief, Mace,” Carroll said, and to his credit, he truly did seem sorry, his broad, open face filled with regret. Then he seemed to recover himself. “But I need you right now. It can’t wait.”
Beneath the Keep Page 31
