Court of Shadows

by Madeleine Roux

  He smelled strongly of the woods, of pine and nettles, and when he smiled his teeth were dyed a hideous green. “It will be taken to Father at once. You will join us.”

  “What is this? Get back to your swamp, Green Healer; the Mother’s very essence is in that thing and it will go to her priestesses first.”

  She leveled the spear at him but he hacked up a laugh and pushed it away. “You have precious little power while she remains on papyrus,” he hissed. He spat when he talked, and his right eye twitched constantly, his round shape and pointed face reminding me of a tick. “Father will know what to do. He is, after all, eager to be reunited with his bride.”

  I felt numb all over. Of course I knew the book was irreplaceable, but to think it carried Mother herself? My relief at having safely brought her so far was swiftly extinguished. The Green Healer yanked the book out of my arms and stumbled back, not anticipating its weight. The other robed figures closed around him, and they all oozed as one back down into the fortress.

  “This is an outrage,” the other spider guardian muttered. “We cannot allow it, Coszca! Mother will not be herself. She will not have her full strength until she is released.”

  “I know, Cuica, I know. You.” The one who had pointed her spear at me, Coszca, pointed her weapon at me again and nodded toward the stairs. “Follow us. I do not trust those druids; their love is for Father and, I fear, for Father only.”

  We rushed down the stone stairs, and I was relieved to find the passage lit all the way down with gouts of flame shooting up from gaps in the walls. The entirety of the fortress was painted with murals, most of them forest scenes, but some showed the Sky Snake and the half women, half spiders as they triumphed in battles. I gave the pictures little more than a glance, for the women were much faster than I, and used the walls as naturally as the stairs to travel down. A wider landing came into view, and off that a door that led into a shadowy place I could not yet see.

  The women tore ahead, breaking through that archway. I heard them scream an instant later as I stumbled through the opening. The druids had been waiting there. They tossed massive nets over them and pelted them with stones. The women fought, trilling loud, beautiful cries as they thrust their spears again and again. More druids smothered me with their cloaks, picking me up and hoisting me away.

  I did not see what became of the warrior women and could only hope they would be shown mercy for doing nothing but demonstrating loyalty to their Mother.

  I, too, fought as the robed men and women forced me along an unseen path. The ground changed from stones to mud, and my feet sank deep, sucked down by the wet earth, the mud covering me up to my knees. I smelled the primeval oldness of the forest, the perfume of dense trees and rotting leaves, and then, finally, they released me and pulled their cloaks from my face.

  Before me stood a tree. I could not describe it even if threatened with death, for it was both dead and living, black and yet unburned, flourishing with leaves except those leaves were like daggers dripping poison. The druids shoved the book I had carried for so long back into my arms, and I cradled it like a beloved child. Then the robed figures vanished, leaving me to tremble in that place alone.

  And then they came.

  They emerged from the tree like worms from the earth. More shadow than mass, they slithered out from between the groaning cracks in the trunk before making their way to the clearing. The roots of the tree were as thick around as horses, broad and gnarled, never touched by man and rarely even glimpsed by him. The creatures came out of those roots gradually at first, but as twilight dipped into evening, they arrived at a steadier pace, a slow drip that became a constant stream. . . .

  Father was real. Mother was real. It was all real. I reminded myself that I had no allegiance, that Mr. Morningside had been kind but that he had also lied, that the shepherd had been kind but he had also sent his cruel Adjudicators, and that Father had been generous with truth but equally generous with lies.

  I had no allegiance, so why was it so difficult to choose the side that counted most: my side.

  I needed more. More proof, more assurance that I was doing the right thing. It took no more than passing a note to Lee during lunch to set my plan in motion. He was not necessarily part of it, but I needed one last thing from him, a favor for me that I hoped would wind up being a favor for many. By then, it had gotten around that I had thwarted Sparrow, and that she had not shown her face since the humiliation of a spider popping out of my clothes and evading Judgment.

  “Lass, that was pure art.” Chijioke had retold the story at least three different times over the meal. I laughed along, but only half-heartedly, knowing full well that this meal might be the last I shared with them. My heart ached to tell him the truth about Mary, to relieve his worries that she had passed him over. He had been wooing my master deceiver of a father, not the shy, kind young woman we both liked so much. There would be time for that truth later. I did not plan to leave Coldthistle House alone. If Mr. Morningside actually kept his side of the bargain . . .

  The thought of reuniting Chijioke and Mary was almost too pure, too good to entertain. And it was a vanishing possibility that still lay at the end of a long, long tunnel filled with spikes and traps and twists and angry gods.

  “Just: wham! And a ruddy great spider flies out of your apron! Legendary.” Chijioke doubled over with laughter. Poppy could hardly breathe she found it all so funny. Even Bartholomew, awake for once, snuffled against the girl’s leg.

  “Serves her right,” Mrs. Haylam said from the range. She was toasting a last bit of bread for herself, and then turned to the stew pot to fix herself a bowl. “Your powers of transformation have certainly grown leaps and bounds since your father’s arrival. It sounds like he’s taught you much.”

  I could not read her tone, so I simply nodded and minded my food. “His presence has been most instructive.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at me, staring for a long, long time. “The Court should finish its business this evening. I look forward to a bit more peace and quiet around here once they all pack up and go.”

  “What about Mason and his father?” I asked. “Are they staying with us much longer?”

  “No, Mrs. Haylam says I should take care of them just as soon as Mary’s well,” Poppy said brightly. “That mean old Samuel Potts did bad, bad things to folks down in Few South Ales and it’s time he paid for it. Right, Mrs. Haylam?”

  “New South Wales, Poppy. And yes. I will need to have a discussion or two with Mary, and then she will return to work as usual.”

  I nearly choked on my mouthful of stew. Chijioke patted my back, trying to help me overcome the sudden coughing fit.

  “Some water will set you to rights,” he said, hopping up and hurrying to the spigot out in the yard.

  I took the opportunity to pass a note to Lee under the table, tapping his leg with it until his eyes opened wide and his hand closed over mine. Our gazes met, and I held his for a moment. He frowned, looking worn, frayed around the edges, his eyes no longer so brightly blue, his hair dull and greasy. It was not that he was no longer handsome, but that the strangeness of the new life I had thrust upon him did not suit him at all. What I was about to do was as much for him as it was for me. Or so I told myself.

  Lee took the note and smoothly transferred it to his inner coat pocket. When Chijioke returned, I faked a few more coughs and accepted the water from him, drinking deep.

  “Thank you,” I said, putting up my plate and cup before giving Mrs. Haylam a quick curtsy. “May I go? The library needs dusting, and Mr. Breen left a mess of books in there yesterday.”

  “See to it, then,” she sighed. “But be washed up and ready for the trial. It will commence at sundown.”

  Sundown. Right. That was more than enough time. I glanced back once more at Lee and smiled before I left and crossed the foyer, going swiftly up the stairs and up again to the library, which was actually not as dusty as it could have been and tidied nicely. It didn’t ma
tter; I just needed somewhere private to speak to Lee. I might have asked Chijioke or Poppy to help, but Lee was the least attached to the house and to Mr. Morningside, at least in an emotional sense. He was tied to the book forever, yes, but I hoped to change that, and anyway, he did not seem to have any love for Coldthistle.

  What I had to say would make Chijioke panic, and Poppy was too much of a loudmouth.

  I waited for only a moment or two, pacing nervously in front of the windows. The sun had come out and harshly, leaching all color from the lawn, which needed rain and had begun turning brown in places. Lee entered the library and gave a soft tap on the wall to let me know he had arrived.

  “There you are,” I whispered. “Shut the door!”

  “What’s going on, Louisa?” he asked, doing as I said but only after hesitating, squinting suspiciously.

  “Listen, there are a hundred things I wish I could tell you right now, but there isn’t time to explain it all.” I rushed to him and took him by his cold hands, leading him through the stacks of books to the back of the library, where once we had spoken of our families, of dashed hopes and sins long past. It had been a lifetime and a half since then, or so it seemed, for he did not look at me with hope or joy any longer, only skepticism. “This is going to sound mad, but you must trust me. My father is not who he says he is; he’s an old god, a terrible one, and he’s very, very dangerous. He didn’t come here for me or for reconciliation; he came to start a war. The shepherd and Mr. Morningside defeated him long ago, and now he wants revenge.”

  “An . . . old god? Is it possible?” Lee raked his eyes over me as if in disbelief that I could be the daughter of such a thing. I couldn’t blame him. “How do you know all of this?”

  “The pavilion; it reveals your true self, and I saw what he was when I met him inside,” I explained, tumbling over my words in my haste. “Everything he told me is confirmed by a journal Mr. Morningside has had me translate. He came here to start trouble, and I’m terrified that all of you will get caught up in it and hurt. Which is why I need you to make sure that you, Poppy, and Chijioke do not go to the Court tonight.”

  Lee pulled back, still studying me closely. His brow furrowed and he tilted his head to the side as he said, “Why? What do you think will happen?”

  “Something bad,” I replied hotly. “Something bad will happen because I am going to make it happen. I’m not smart or strong enough to get rid of my father, but Mr. Morningside and the shepherd will know what to do.”

  “You’re going to stab your own father in the back?” Lee cried. “Isn’t that awfully cruel?”

  “You don’t know him,” I said, closing my eyes tightly. “You don’t know him, Lee; he’s not anyone to pity or admire. I don’t care if he’s a god or a ditch digger, he cannot be trusted. He’s been impersonating Mary.”

  His eyes blew wide and he shook his head. “No. . . . No!”

  “He has. Why is she locked in her room all day? Have you ever seen them in the same place? She spurned Chijioke and forgot her own good-luck charm. These are not accidents, Lee, think.”

  “Mary is your closest friend here,” he whispered. “You must have told him all kinds of things. . . .”

  “Precisely. But I discovered the deception, and as far as I know, he has no idea that I’m wise to it,” I told him quickly. “He wants the book, the Black Elbion, and in exchange I’m to receive a fortune and freedom from the book’s grip.”

  His head sank low and he gave almost a yelp of helplessness. I took his hand, squeezing.

  “Don’t do that,” I said, desperate. “I won’t give it to him, Lee. I wouldn’t risk it. But I must know what he intended to do, and I must know that betraying him this way is the best path forward. He is downstairs right now, in the west salon, reading. Can you keep him there?”

  “What do you intend to do, Louisa?” he asked, pulling his hand away. “You won’t find the book—they moved it. . . .”

  “I know that, Lee. I don’t want it. I need to get in his rooms and have a look around, that’s all.”

  “The last time you did something like this you nearly died, and I did die. Why on earth would I let you try that again?”

  I threw my head back in exasperation, spinning and pacing from the window and back to him, chewing my knuckle. “Fine. Don’t distract him; I’ll do it on my own. Just please, promise me that you will keep everyone safe in the house tonight. Promise me, Lee—it’s important. Whatever happens, I want to make sure you’re all protected.”

  He rolled his eyes and grabbed me, pulling me in for a tight embrace. I made a soft oof sound of surprise, then returned the gesture.

  “I won’t let you do this alone. God help me, I believe you. You never lied to me before. I know you tried to save me from Mr. Morningside, even if it . . . didn’t go as planned.” He leaned back, holding me at arm’s length. “Are you sure this is the right thing to do? I’ll be very cross if you go and get yourself killed, too.”

  I managed a small smile, and swallowed the urge to cry. “I’m only trying to stop a war and outwit an ancient god of the forest. How hard could it be?”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Father’s chambers were the very definition of neatness. His bags were arranged in an orderly row under the window, his suits packed in the wardrobe, a leather case with rows and rows of little glass vials sitting on the desk. Most of the rooms in Coldthistle were arranged similarly, with a wardrobe to the left upon entering, a small bathing area connected to a sitting area on the right, and a writing desk beyond, the bed across from the desk and a window center to it all.

  The air was thick with his now familiar woodsy cologne, though other whiffs of perfume danced across my nose. My heart raced as I tiptoed to the desk, inspecting the dark leather case. There were three rows of ten little bottles, each fixed with a handwritten label describing the scent within. This was the life’s work of Croydon Frost, a man who was probably rotting in a ditch somewhere, his face and fortune stolen by a mad god.

  I peered into his bags but there was nothing of interest there, just jars of insects for his spider and a few changes of undergarments. Nothing. For a “man” of wealth and taste, his traveling style was practically ascetic. But I had seen him handling correspondence, so he must be storing his post somewhere. I returned to the desk, poking lamely at the black case. The bottom of it did seem rather thick, but no tray of bottles sprang out of it no matter what I did. Was it a false bottom?

  Running my fingers over the entire thing produced no result. Out of desperation I began picking up each of the vials and checking underneath. And there it was—on the second row of bottles, third from the left, a round depression that looked out of place. I pushed down on the circle and heard the false bottom unlatch, a tray springing out from under the vials.

  Stacks and stacks of letters were revealed, and I began paging through them at random. Most were leftover correspondence of Croydon Frost the actual man, for the penmanship did not at all resemble the letter I had received from Father. Underneath those notes was an expense ledger and under that a series of folded papers. I spread them flat on the desk, glancing at the door, reminding myself that I did not have all afternoon to spy through his things.

  At first the pages just looked like nonsense, lists of names with lines drawn haphazardly between columns. Then I looked closer, realizing that they were not random at all but organized in chunks. Family trees. At the very top he had listed his own name and then jotted down women he had taken as lovers over the years. And, although the records went back only twenty years or so, there were many name. Dozens. I flipped the page. Hundreds. My stomach tightened, a sick feeling spreading through my body as I read the names over, searching for my mother. Most of the names were crossed off, which I could only assume meant they were dead.

  The troubling part was just how many names were struck through, and the sheer number of his own children who had mysteriously died young.

  My God, in the twenty years since he awoke
, he has been breeding offspring and then eliminating them.

  I searched desperately for my mother’s name, and in doing so came across a family tree that looked painfully familiar.

  1793: Deirdre Donovan ________ Brandon Canny

  Daughter: Amelia Jane Canny

  Mary had killed Amelia. Mrs. Haylam had been right, only not in the way she thought she was. Was it sheer coincidence that Amelia had been here, too? That she was, God, my half sister? That was his latest kill; other girls remained between Amelia and me, and there were others after, but no other child on the list had their name circled. Just me.

  He hadn’t been lying about that; he really was here for me. I had no idea if I would ever find this list again, and did my best to memorize what names I could that had not yet gotten the strike-through. Auraline Waters, Justine Black, Emma Robinson . . . I could never have imagined in my wildest dreams that I had this many half sisters. The busy, miserable cheat.

  Perhaps I could warn them if my scheme tonight did not go as planned. But then, if that happened, I would not live to write those letters. I thought of all those crossed-off names and wondered if he would kill me, too, after getting what he wanted. He needed the book, and maybe he really was too weak to handle its burning touch, but once he had it I would no longer be necessary.

  I left before I could be discovered, a renewed sense of purpose putting wings on my feet. It was late afternoon. Not much time now. I rushed down the stairs, breezing by one of the Residents, who didn’t seem puzzled by my emerging from Father’s room. After all, it was my job to change over the bed linens and empty the chamber pot upon request. My timing was perfect, for I met Lee just as he came scurrying out of the west salon.