“He did the same to me last week. I haven’t seen him so interested in something since the last battle against the Vengeance’s rebellion. And that was ten years ago! I remember him shouting at my father, something about damning him for being cautious and letting them escape,” Torlas says, frowning. “He questioned me with something almost like…”
“Like what?”
“Desperation.”
“I didn’t quite get that impression. Are you sure you told him everything you know?”
“Of course,” he answers, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. “I met the boy looking terrified under the balcony awning and tried to perk him up. He stuck to my side like glue, and I gave him advice about the court and etiquette. He appeared an earnest young noble with something to prove until I introduced him to you. The rest of his actions are public knowledge. He danced with you, and shortly thereafter fled the Ball. From all my knowledge, he seemed to be the person he claimed to be. If he was an imposter, he was well trained.”
“Very,” I agree, my heart sinking.
Torlas definitely knows something he’s trying to hide from me. I thought that Torlas and I were beyond deceptions, but I was clearly wrong. Even though I’ve bared my soul to him, trusted him with everything I’ve done, all of my mistakes... he still keeps this from me. The betrayal hurts worse, knowing what secrets of mine he holds.
“I still can’t believe you faced off with the Vengeance,” he says, clumsily changing the subject. “And you’re still breathing.”
“I shouldn’t be. He made me look like a child playing with a wooden sword,” I say, sighing.
“But you drove him off, right? He ran!”
“I don’t really know how. What I did… the power I called… Father told me I nearly died. That using up so much of my soul nearly made my body shut down. I have no memory for twelve days, Torlas.”
“You can… kill yourself? By Shaping?” he asks, his brow furrowing in concern.
“Apparently. Yes. Normally, a Shaper would lose consciousness long before approaching death as our souls grow weary, but I was desperate and called on everything at once. The margin was… razor thin,” I say, glancing down at my lap. My fingers are twisted into a snarl of white knuckles, and I force my hands to relax.
“What about your other mystery? Did you ever find out what really happened to your messenger?”
“No. Uncle claimed something about the messenger being delusional from his incarceration, but I’m not so sure.”
***
I wake in an unfamiliar bed surrounded by unfamiliar curtains. The darkness is unnatural, sunlight peeking through a crack between the edges of a set of thick drapes. The twittering of birds drifts through the curtains, but their sweet song turns grating as my weary mind struggles back towards sleep. I fight the urge to return to unconsciousness, rolling over and pushing the curtains aside. An open window looks out on rolling green pastures and a herd of distant horses. My mind claws back into clarity, the memories of my fight with the Vengeance filtering back. This is Calladan’s estate. Either I’m in the most beautiful prison I can imagine, or something odd is going on.
I stagger to my feet, a strange, ill-fitting nightgown clinging to my form. As I reach to open the door, a maid jumps in shock, the bowl in her hands splashing broth onto the wooden floor with a wet smack. She turns and darts from the room, her voice raised in alarm. I glance down at myself, trying to figure out what in the Creator’s name could have frightened her so. My hair definitely looks a total mess, but probably not enough to terrify. I hope.
Poline sprints into the room, her clothing immaculate and her sword sheathed at her side, a look of such relief in her eyes that I stare in wonder. She even looks to be blinking away tears. A member of the Tide, crying?
“You woke up,” she says, her voice shaking.
“Yes…” I respond in a leading tone.
“It’s been twelve days. After three, I started to panic. After eight, I was terrified you weren’t ever going to wake up.”
“Twelve days?” I repeat dully. I’ve slept for twelve days. The thought seems so absurd that I almost dismiss it entirely, but Poline’s reaction is far too genuine for me to doubt.
“An entire contingent of the Tide led by the Lord General himself is a day away. I didn’t know what to do, so I commandeered one of Calladan’s messengers and sent to the capital.” Poline said, looking down as if she’s afraid to meet my eyes. “I’m sorry, my lady.”
“Why are you apologizing?” I say, trying to recover some of my humor despite the fog saturating my thoughts. “I would have left you for dead after three.”
Poline offers a wan smile, then launches into an explanation about the past twelve days. She’s maintained control of the entire property by herself through a mixture of mystery and the threat of Markis Calladan’s death. He’s locked in a closet of a bedroom not far from mine, and Poline has held a constant vigil outside our respective doors for two long weeks. I can see the strain and the weariness hanging on her proud frame like a leaden cloak. When she blinks, her eyes open just a hair slower, and her steps are far from certain.
“Sleep, Poline,” I say, patting her on the shoulder.
“But, my lady, what if you grow tired again?” Poline asks, though I can tell it takes everything in her being not to collapse into a bed instantly.
“Honestly, I feel fantastic,” I say, surprising myself to find it true. There’s a vigor in my limbs and a spring to my step, and the fog of my long sleep burns away the more I move about. I’m fresh and focused, as if I’ve been remade, or at least renewed.
“But—”
“Poline, you have watched my back long enough. It’s time I watched you. Perhaps you can sleep easy for once.”
The question is how to watch over my friend while also getting up and moving. I don’t want to stand guard outside her and Calladan’s doors like some kind of sentinel. The screen of duet I used in inn the night before—or perhaps a few weeks before—should serve. The dust jumps directly into line, invisible and swirling. The earth answers my call more readily than it ever has before; I hardly feel the need to concentrate.
Walking down the hall, I leave a part of my concentration back with the screen of dust, but the strain doesn’t grow with distance. It seems that I can stand watch and explore without worry. Which is a good thing, because the house calls to me in a way I can’t resist. The rustic woods and natural growing trees speak to my soul in a way that’s fundamental. It reminds me of my garden at the palace. I miss that space more than I ever thought I would.
The rampart of earth filling Calladan’s study hasn’t been altered. Between the massive split in the natural beams and the sheer tonnage of earth that moved at my desperate command, it’s hard to fathom how I survived the effort. The echo of that terror wells in my heart, the unfiltered fear for Poline’s life, and the earth trembles in response. The grasses outside are rumpled beyond repair, and several shrubs and small trees fell in the near distance when the earth suddenly abandoned them. At my call. I can barely believe my will caused this level of destruction.
My other purpose for being in Firdana floats to the front of my mind. Where is the messenger? Has he been slain? Are there even dungeons in an idyllic place like this? I’m struck by the quiet of the house. When we arrived, the estate had been populated by half a dozen guards and several servants. Their presence is no longer in evidence. The kitchens are silent, the fires cold and the counters immaculate. A creak from the hall draws me back towards the front of the house, where I find the maid who was bringing me broth. She immediately starts in surprise and hurries away from me.
“Wait,” I call, but she doesn’t slow. “Stop!”
I growl in frustration. Just before she can turn the corner, I draw the earth from a nearby potted plant and throw it in her path. She screams to see me bearing down on her, cowering to the side and covering her face with her hands.
“What is the matter with you?” I ask, more confused t
han angry. “You look like you’ve seen the Eternal returned.”
The girl peeks up at me through trembling fingers, her chestnut hair falling messily across her face. She meets my eye for the briefest moment, but then squeaks in fright and covers her face again. I get the distinct impression the girl believes she may indeed be seeing the Eternal once more.
“What is your name?” I ask, trying to make my voice kind. She doesn’t respond, but instead continues to cry into her hands. Creator, she’s starting to annoy me. “Girl, what is your name? I won’t ask you again.”
She peeks up at me again, terror in her gaze.
“Elle,” she says, almost too faintly to be heard.
“Elle, listen to me. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to ask you about this place.”
“You hurt the master. You destroyed the house. You even made… him… run,” she says, her eyes wide and searching.
“Well,” I say slowly, shocked to realize that everything the girl said is true. From her simple perspective, maybe she’s right to be afraid of me. She certainly would mean less than nothing to Father or Uncle. “It would seem wise to answer my questions then, yes?”
Elle nods furiously.
“Good. There was a messenger who came here from the King. A soldier sent to deliver a missive to your master…” The blankness in the girl’s eyes is enough to end that particular line of questioning. She has no idea what I’m talking about. What would she know about matters important to the Earl? “Elle, if someone got in trouble here, like serious trouble, where would they go? Say, if they stole something.”
“That hasn’t happened in Firdana in years,” Elle says, her eyes clearing. “No one does bad things here.”
“No one has committed a crime in years?” I ask, skeptical.
“Nothing worth locking up,” she answers, a hint of pride for her town rising to the surface. I pause for a moment, considering this strange piece of information. How can this girl believe no one breaks the law here? Donir’s jails are full to bursting.
“Right. Well, say someone did commit a crime. Where would they be put?”
“Well, the old jail in the town proper is empty. But—” she cuts herself off before she finishes the thought.
“But?”
“I’m not supposed to say.”
“Do I have to remind you who you’re speaking to?” I snap, tiring of the game. “Tell me what I want to know.”
“It’s just, the Earl didn’t want anyone to know, and I’m not supposed to know, and I’ll get in trouble if I say, but he would be dead if I hadn’t been sneaking him some water and food when no one was looking, ever since the Earl—” she breaks off, sobbing, seemingly unable to decide whether her terror of me or the thought Calladan’s harm is a stronger emotion.
I call on the earth, the symbol of my power flaring emerald in the hallway, and she tells me. It still takes me half an hour to find the stables they modified to house the imperial messenger, as it’s almost half a mile out in the pastures. Farmhands and grooms take one look at me and grow far more interested in their work than wondering what I’m up to. My connection to the earth watching over Poline doesn’t waver despite the distance. What was once difficult is easy as breathing.
The stables are conspicuously silent as I slide aside the bar and open the doors. It’s dim, a few beams of sunlight filtering through cracks in the wooden slats. A distant scraping, rhythmic and unnatural, carries over the faint sounds of horses running. I follow the noise, stepping carefully and quietly in the darkness. The scraping emerges from the far corner. The dimness is strangely unsettling, and I mentally curse myself for forgetting a lantern. But why should I need one in broad daylight?
Makeshift bars have been hammered into the wood in and around one of the stalls in the back, barbed and cruel. A gleam of light falls on a sliver of the bars, and I wince to see old blood caked to the dull iron. They’ve been torturing him.
“Locke?” I call softly.
The scraping immediately ceases. A man’s face appears at the bars as if by magic. I fight not to jump, my pulse suddenly galloping along. He has narrow features, his cheekbones high and his eyes cold and hard. He’s not wearing a uniform, but instead a dark and tattered form-fitting set of silk. The clothing hangs off of him, far too baggy for someone so small. Clearly, he hasn’t been getting enough to eat.
I almost step close to try to find a way to get him out, but something in me whispers a quiet warning. The way he’s standing, the look in his eyes, the strange way he holds his hand, almost as if concealing something…
“Locke?” I ask again.
“My latest minder,” he suddenly speaks, his voice rough from disuse. “How did you learn that name?”
“No, Locke. The Lord General Kranos himself told me your name. I’m here to rescue you.”
“Kranos? You’ll have to come up with something better than that,” he says, his eyes tightening at the corners.
“But it isn’t a lie!” I say, stepping forward. “He told me of your plight and—”
His hand is in my hair before I can react, spinning me around. The point of a blade presses against my throat. Eterna’s cursed name, why did I ignore the warning of my instincts? This man, whether Locke or some other assassin, has been waiting for just such an opportunity.
“You’re going to get me out of here, whether you know it or not. Struggle, and I’ll cut your throat before you can scream,” he hisses in my ear. “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I whisper, ignoring the horrifying feeling of the blade moving in time with my words.
“You should have told a more believable lie. Kranos would never spend resources on a failure.”
“I didn’t lie,” I say, trying to inject as much sincerity in my voice as I can muster. “I’m not foolish enough to ask you to let me go, but can I show you who I am?”
“Nothing funny,” he answers, tightening his grip in my hair.
I draw gently on the earth, allowing the symbol of my power to glow in the dimness. Either he’s going to let me go, or he’s going to kill me, here and now. After a brief hesitation, he sets me free. I stumble forward, rubbing the back of my head. I turn back, trying not to scowl. The man has obviously been through a lot. I don’t know why he’s wearing such a ridiculous outfit, nor how long he’s been trapped and tortured in the dark.
“Princess,” he says, his voice that of a ghost.
“Yes. The Lord General genuinely did tell me about your presence here. I know you’re just a messenger. You didn’t fail. Calladan’s treachery is completely to blame.”
“Calladan’s treachery… yes,” he says, his voice drifting. “I couldn’t deliver my message. Not the one I meant to.”
“It’s all going to be okay. Let me figure out how to get you out of these bars. The Lord General will be here tomorrow, and we can take you home.”
“Kranos? Here?” he says, his voice suddenly filled with fear.
“Yes, he’s coming to make sure I’m okay,” I say, trying and failing to come up with an excuse that makes me sound less helpless.
“Princess, what few stories escape about you are mostly of kindness,” Locke says, his eyes locking on mine. “Will you do me one kindness?”
“Anything,” I say, smiling.
“Kill me.”
***
“Well, that’s one mystery only you can solve,” Torlas says between bites of biscuit. “Those aren’t the kinds of questions I can ask around the palace.”
“Who would I talk to? The messenger, whoever he is, has probably been long since deployed again. It’s not like I can just look up a registry and find out the barracks he’s assigned to.”
“Are you sure he is what he says he is? What if he isn’t a messenger at all?”
“I don’t know,” I answer, shrugging. “He seemed so scared of Uncle; it was strange.”
“Perhaps there’s one place you could check,” Torlas says thoughtfully. “If the man was so frightened, maybe
he had a reason to be. What if you went to the dungeons?”
“Surely not.”
I mean the words to come out flippant, but they end up like a question. Even as I asked Locke why he would seek death, a rushing presence disturbed the dust guarding Poline. I left him and sprinted back to the manor to find that Uncle had ridden in far earlier than expected. His horse was lathered and gasping, almost stumbling from the cruel abuse he forced on it to reach Firdana. He’d given me a crushing hug and lifted me from my feet as I rushed into the estate.
The arrival of a waiter interrupts our conversation. On a platter rests two steaming cups, and Torlas’ eyes light up at the sight. He grins a boyish grin as the cups settle in front of each of us, filled to the brim with warm chocolate. The grin recalls the days of our childhood, the mischief and mayhem we spread throughout the palace, the laughter and the joy. I smile, more for his smile than for anything else, but it feels wrong on my face.
So much of what I’ve learned the last few weeks refuses to add up. The older I get, the more mysteries surround the palace. Perhaps they’ve always existed, and I was too young or blind to notice. The desperation of the people on the Way of the East. The rebels earning good will with nothing but bread. The betrayal of Markis Calladan, a wealthy man with everything to lose. This messenger, so afraid of my uncle he would rather die than see him. The falling water at the King’s Ball, all due to a dance with a stranger, a stranger Father and Uncle are devoting resources to find weeks later, without any discernible reason why.
And now my best friend, one of the only people I can trust, has lied to me. It’s time to solve some of these mysteries.
The moments when Torlas’ arms surround me, brief as they are, always make my heart beat a little faster, my breathing come a little more difficult, and my blood warm. He’s grown strong and solid, and his arms are a safe harbor in an uncertain sea. This time, though, as Torlas and I part, our hug is awkward as it’s never been. I’m tired of people hiding things from me.
The Spring day is perfect, the feeling of life drifting on a light breeze, the colors of the city brightening in the burgeoning Summer air. It should be a perfect day to stroll back to the palace. Instead, I keep my hood up, feeling the gaze of strangers, skin crawling as men glance at me in passing. I still use the loose bar to escape to the city, but only with a purpose. The last time I let my guard down in the streets… needless to say, I don’t exactly trust the common man any longer. The palace is fully awake and bustling when I replace the bar and return to my gardens. Some of the tension leaves my shoulder blades walking amongst the beauty of life. I gently caress my white lily on the way past. Poline falls into step with me as soon as I enter the palace proper. The stress eases out of me further to hear the familiar ringing step of her gait as we walk through the halls.
The Crux of Eternity: Eternal Dream, Book 1 (The Eternal Dream Saga) Page 39