“I promised her …”
“And what are your promises worth, Brother Silas?” Sister Peace says in a low voice. “You cannot keep your vows, clearly.”
“Enough!” Sister Hope snaps, making us all jump. Silas looks down at the table and I glare at Sister Peace who in turn fixes me with a calm, brown-eyed gaze. Not an alchemist. In fact none of the Sisters seem to be. “Leave us,” Sister Hope orders the alchemists on the other benches.
They don’t protest, rising immediately and filing out of the room. Nia, at the back, shoots me a glance of pure hatred. What is her problem with me?
“Do you have any idea of the damage you could have done?” Sister Hope turns on Silas, her teeth bared, when we and the remaining Sisters are left. “Bad enough to tell an outsider our secrets. But to tell her. You could have ruined everything—you still might have. Only time will tell.”
“Father told you our secrets. You were born an outsider, too. I’ve hardly set some kind of precedent.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
“Will someone please explain to me what’s going on?” I say finally. “I’m sorry if you’re upset by my … our … I didn’t know he was a monk when it started and I meant no harm, truly. No matter what happens, you don’t have to worry, I won’t betray you. Believe me, I know how to keep a secret. In fact, I should tell you now—”
“What?” Sister Hope turns on me, eyes blazing. “What secrets are you keeping, Errin?”
From the corner of my eye I see Silas shake his head. “I just meant I’m not a coward. I wouldn’t endanger you. Any of you. Not for anything.”
“What if you were captured? What if you were locked in a dark room, and denied food and water until you spoke?”
“Mother,” Silas warns but I stop him.
“I’m no stranger to hunger,” I say. Sister Hope’s lips quirk and I have the feeling I’ve walked into a trap.
“Of course. But what if you were whipped?”
I raise my eyebrows. “I had my spine snapped by a golem a few hours ago. I’m hardly afraid of a whipping now.”
Again that twist of her mouth, amusement, distaste, I can’t tell. “What if your nails were peeled off with pliers?” she says. “What if your fingers were broken, one by one, with a mallet?” I feel the blood drain from my face. “What if you were branded with hot irons?”
“Stop …” I whisper.
“What if they didn’t do it to you at all, but to Twylla, or one of your friends from Tremayne, while you watched? What if they did it to my son? Or your mother? What if right now their people are seeking her out, knowing she’s the link to break you? What would you do to save your family, Errin? How far would you go?”
“Stop it!” I scream and the sound rings in the cavernous room.
For a beat no one says anything. Silas looks down at the table, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles, save for those with the Nigredo, are white.
“I love my mother,” I say. “To save her I’d do almost anything. Are you telling me you wouldn’t, to save Silas?”
She doesn’t reply. Finally, though, it is Twylla who breaks the silence. “We’re leaving,” she says suddenly, pushing the bench back from the table. “These people have nothing to do with us.”
“I told you, you will go nowhere until you’ve heard what your mother has to say.”
Twylla slams her hand down, the slap of her palm against the wood echoing through the room. “I am tired of women like you telling me what I am, and what I should be.”
Sister Hope looks at her. “Twylla, soon enough you’ll understand what the Sleeping Prince will do to us, will force us to do, if he finds us. What he’ll do to you. I see why you think me cruel, and I’m sorry for it, truly I am. But her people”—she points at me—“won’t suffer as mine will if he finds us. He can’t hurt them as he can hurt us. She’s a liability and if you knew—”
“Can’t hurt them?” I speak before Twylla can, my voice icy. “You saw the state he left Tremayne in. Hundreds of people dead. Men, women, children. I lived in this town my whole life. I trained as an apothecary in the ruins above our heads. Today I saw bodies that I’ve healed in the past. My friends are missing. Maybe even dead.” And as I say it, I understand it might be true. The Dapplewoods, Master Pendie. “You have miles of caves down here where you could shelter children, and the weak. And you do nothing. Who are you, to think you’re better than us because you’re alchemists? That you’re worth more than we are because you make gold?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sister Hope says to me, shaking her head. “And this is not your concern. Twylla, please. Listen to us.”
I ignore her. “We won’t hide. We won’t cower in the dark. We’re going to fight him,” I say, relishing the words. “We’re not going to let him hurt anyone else.”
“And if you won’t help us, then you become our enemy, too,” Twylla adds. “I learned cruelty at the knee of the wickedest woman to walk this world. So may the gods help you if you try to stop me.”
She leans across the table, glowing with rage. In this moment I understand how she became the embodiment of a goddess; I almost believe in it.
There is a scuffling from outside the curtain and one of the Sisters rises swiftly, crossing the room and throwing the shade back.
Standing there, clearly eavesdropping, is a group of people, alchemists and non-alchemists. I realize with a start that it’s the group that helped Twylla fight the golem. Including Nia.
“Forgive us, Sister. But we want to fight, too,” a tall brown-haired man says and the others nod.
“They are our people.” Nia steps forward, hand in hand with the white-haired woman she sat beside earlier. “We want to fight.”
“He can’t be beaten in battle,” Sister Wisdom says.
“Perhaps not,” Nia replies. “But she stopped one of the golems.” She points at Twylla. “We saw it. If we work together, we can thin his ranks, make him vulnerable.”
“And we can fight men. We can kill men,” I say. “The Silver Knight leads an army of men; we can battle them, to begin with, even if we can’t kill him with a sword.”
Sister Hope stares at me.
“I can teach them to fight,” Silas says, standing. “I can use a sword, and a bow. I’ll teach the willing what they need to know.”
Sister Hope looks back at him. “Silas, you know there’s only one way to defeat him and it isn’t a duel.”
“You can’t stop them,” he says softly, looking from her to me and then smiling ruefully. “You know that.”
Sister Hope turns to look at her fellow Sisters, seeming to confer silently with them. “As you wish,” she says, looking at the crowd in the door. “Silas, find the girls somewhere to rest until Amara arrives. And I’ll … I’ll send a message to the Council. Your mother is Trina Vastel, yes?” She looks back at me.
“Yes.”
She nods again, then turns, her cloak gliding over the floor like a snake.
“Errin.” She pauses in the doorway. “I’m sorry. I truly am.” Then, followed by the other Sisters, she moves past the crowd now looking sheepish and unsure in the doorway.
“What do we do now?” Nia calls to Silas.
“We’ll meet tomorrow after breakfast. I’ll form a training schedule.” He sounds sure, nodding firmly at them, his lip twitching when they solemnly return the gesture.
When they withdraw, he turns to me and smiles, and it’s like a lightning bolt. There is no warning: One moment his eyes are hazy and the next they’re blazing, his grin taking over his whole face. I can’t help but smile back.
The sound of heavy fabric brushing against the stone makes us turn to see the curtain swinging. Twylla has gone.
We don’t speak, instead turning to follow her, catching up with her in the corridor.
“Forgive me. I have a headache,” she says in a flat, empty voice. “I’d like to lie down.”
“Of course,” Silas says.
S
he nods, but doesn’t turn around. Silas raises his eyebrows at me and I shrug.
The passageways seem endless as he takes us to our sleeping quarters, corridor after corridor, until I’m sure we’re walking in circles. I try to count the sconces on the walls on the way through the passageways: one, two, three, left turn, narrow, five scones, another left turn, a slight descent, right turn … but it soon becomes too much. Twylla walks a little ahead of us the whole way, her head down, and Silas and I stay quiet, not touching as we trail behind her.
Finally Silas calls on her to stop, reaching for a torch from the wall and throwing back a curtain to reveal a cavern with two beds resting as best they can against the uneven stone walls, a small table between them. In one corner is a washstand with a ewer and basin. I can see a water closet behind a screen in the second corner, and a large cow-skin rug in the center of the room. The beds are made up with furs and woolen blankets, and on each lumpy-looking pillow is a nightgown.
“I’m a few rooms down. If you call me, I’ll hear,” he says, looking at Twylla, then back to me. When he leaves the room I follow.
He walks a little farther along the passageway and stops, leaning against the wall. In the light from the torches his hair looks translucent, like a halo. When I stand in front of him, I see the flames reflected in his eyes, turning his gaze to fire. His eyes meet mine and he flushes. My body feels warm and heavy. I’m too aware of how close we’re standing, of the rhythm of his breathing. Of how alone we are. Then he raises a hand tentatively and touches the ends of my hair, and I have to fight not to lean into his touch, not to frighten him away. “I like this, by the way.” He allows a few strands to trail through his fingers before lowering his hand. “When did you do it?”
I smile. “Did you stop in a cottage outside Tyrwhitt, the night after we last saw each other?”
“Yes. I was trying to catch up to you. I saw hoofprints in the mud and followed, but you’d gone.”
“Actually, I was on the roof. I heard you at the window.”
“You were there? Why were you on the roof?”
“Not long before you came I was robbed. Two refugees broke into the cottage, so I hid there. If you’d stayed five more minutes, you could have watched me fall flat on my back.”
His eyes widen. “Gods … If I’d known.” He rests his hands tentatively on my waist. “So, you did it then? After that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I think of the mercenaries, then the soldiers. “I’ll tell you one day. But not now.”
“All right.” Then his gaze moves to my lips and I lick them self-consciously.
“Gods,” he says slowly, his fingers contracting on my waist. My stomach flutters in response, leaving a strange ache behind.
Nia walks past us, huffing loudly. “Good night.” She spits the t at the end.
Silas snatches his hand from my shoulder, and we both glower after her. When he turns back to me he looks thoughtful. “What made you decide to fight?” he says quietly. “I thought you wanted to stay safe and hidden.”
I shrug. “I did. But it won’t work. I saw the camp at Tyrwhitt. All those people, caged like animals. And the way it was changing Tregellan, making people superstitious and cruel … He won’t stop, and if he gets a tight grip on things, then … it will only get worse. Besides, he killed my brother. And my friends. And almost me. It’s right that I try to return the favor.”
He runs his fingers through my hair again. “I wanted to do something from the start. That’s why I was sent to Almwyk; I was going mad cooped up in the temple. Sending me to wait for Twylla was supposed to keep me occupied and out of reach.” He grins.
“Why did she tell me she was called Dimia?” I ask.
Silas grows quiet. “That’s her story to tell.”
“But you know?”
He nods slowly. “I do. And I’ll talk to you about it afterward, if you want me to.”
I don’t like the sound of that, but I know better than to question him. “Ask no questions and I’ll be told no lies?” I say.
“You’ll be told no lies, even if you do ask. But speak to her first.”
We both fall silent, listening to the rhythmic drips of water falling farther along the passage.
“The apothecary, the monk, and the living goddess went to war,” I say finally. “We sound like the start of a joke.”
He’s quiet for a moment, his brow furrowed. “I want …” he begins, then shakes his head. “Us,” he says. “I don’t know how to do this. But I want it. I’m sure of that.” His face darkens, his words coming fast and earnest. “The second I saw you on the ground, I knew for certain it could only go one way for me, after that.” He raises his left hand, trembling again, and strokes my cheek.
This time I do lean into it. “We don’t have to figure it all out tonight,” I say, then press one light kiss onto his palm. “It’s been a long day. We should rest.”
I hear the words, sensible, practical, coming from my mouth and want to bite them back. I don’t want to rest. I want to spend all night exploring this, whatever it is. But I know it’s a bad idea. Right now we need to think about the Sleeping Prince, and my mother, and whatever it is that Twylla’s mother wants from her, and how we all fit into it. I need to find out why Twylla lied to me.
And I need to be sure of him. That he won’t push me away again.
“There will be time,” I say, hoping I’m right.
His eyes search mine, worry pulling the corners of them tight. Then, slowly, he leans forward and kisses my cheek, the touch of his lips so hot I half think I’ll be branded by them. “Good night, Errin Vastel.” He is so close his breath kisses my mouth. “But … I’ve made my choice. And it’s you. Us, if you want it.”
I want so much to sink my fingers into his hair, to pull his face to mine. To touch, to taste. But I step away from him. “Good night, Silas Kolby. I’ll see you in the morning.”
I can feel him watching me as I walk back. “No,” he calls as I go to pull one of the curtains. “Next one. I’m four away. If you change your mind.”
I smile at him and enter my room.
* * *
Though I wasn’t gone long, when I return Twylla’s in her bed, seemingly still fully dressed, save her boots, the nightgown ignored. She has the covers piled over her, facing the wall as I light the candle on one of the torches, before extinguishing them.
“I’m not asleep,” she says, startling me. She turns over and props herself up on an elbow.
“All right,” I say, sitting on my bed and pulling one of the blankets over my shoulders.
“You’ll want to know why I lied?” she asks, and I nod. “It’s a long story. But to begin, you should know that Dimia was the name of the girl the Bringer used to wake the Sleeping Prince.”
I inhale sharply. So that’s why it had sounded familiar. I remember then, the men who came through Almwyk asking if we’d seen a girl and a young man. She was Dimia, with the Bringer.
Twylla continues. “He took her from the castle in Lormere. She was a servant there. I heard the Bringer when he came for her. I heard the music he played to lure her.” She lapses into silence, her brow furrowed. Then she takes a deep breath. “Dimia was the first name that came to me once I got to Scarron. I was escorted part of the way there by her brother, Taul. Merek had dispatched him and some others to try and find her. And I didn’t want to be Twylla anymore, I was done with her, and her life—lives—so when Javik asked my name, I said it without thinking. I’d already colored my hair so I could leave Lormere unnoticed, and it seemed fitting: new hair, a new name. New life.” She pauses and I feel as though I’m missing huge parts of this tale. Daunen Embodied was desperately important to Lormere. Surely they wouldn’t let her walk away from it?
As if she’s read my thoughts, she continues. “I left, if not at Merek’s desire, then with his understanding. I had to go and he respected that. He helped me. It was his money that paid for my cottage and that we wer
e going to use to rescue your mother.”
“Weren’t you betrothed to him?”
“I was.” Twylla hangs her head. “I knew your brother,” she says. Her voice has changed. “When I saw you on my doorstep, I thought at first he’d sent you. Then when you said you sought a Lormerian named Dimia, I knew that he hadn’t.”
“Why would he send me to you?”
She pauses. “I was betrothed to Merek, but I had a brief … relationship with Lief.”
“Relationship? With Lief?”
She nods. “He was assigned to guard me and we became close. It’s why I left the castle.”
“What happened?”
“It didn’t work out as I’d hoped.”
“He hurt you?” I say quietly.
She pulls the strangest expression, looking as though she might fly apart, but at the last moment she pulls herself together and meets my eye, her gaze defiant.
“I thought you were him, you know. When you knocked. You have the same knock. Isn’t that strange, to think something like that is a family trait. But of course it would be. I’ll bet one or even both of your parents knocks in the same way.”
Now it all makes sense, why she looked so hopeful and yet so scared when she answered her front door, why she looked so sad at my father’s grave. But it doesn’t explain why she’d want to help me.
“Were you disappointed?”
She takes a deep breath, looking down at her hands. “My heart was. My head wasn’t. Most days I’m at war with myself. My head wins, usually. And for that I’m glad.”
“I’m sorry,” I say finally, because I don’t know what else to offer.
“You’re not responsible for it,” she says evenly, though her gaze drops. “He spoke about you. And your mother. Told me about your farm. And your father.”
It makes me want to cry, imagining Lief miles away, confiding in this strange girl about us.
“Why did you offer to help us? If you and he … If it didn’t end well, why would you help us?”
“I’m not glad he’s dead,” she says, ignoring my question. “No matter what happened. I don’t want you to think that.”
She closes her eyes, as though praying, and I watch her in the thin light from the candle. She has an oval face, a neat chin. Her cheeks are freckled, and the corners of her mouth turn down slightly, making her look pensive, even when her face is relaxed. The more I look at her, the more I think she’s pretty, which surprises me because I didn’t notice it at first. Lirys is obviously beautiful; all my life I’ve been used to how people react to her, how they smile automatically on seeing her, as though her beauty is a treat to them. Twylla’s beauty is the kind that sneaks up on you. I wonder if Lief thought the same.
The Sleeping Prince Page 24