Creatures of Light, Book 3

by Emily B. Martin

  I reached the corridor to the Prism’s courtyard all too quickly. The wing was shaped like a T, with the courtyard and Shaula’s apartment at either end of the cross hall, and the long stem lined by acolyte cells. I crept past the small, plain door that had once been mine and toward the turn at the end that would take me to Shaula’s apartment. Everything was quiet and still—the acolytes took simple meals in their own dining room one hall over and then would retire to their rooms to read and pray for the rest of the evening. I needed to be out of this wing before they finished. Picking up my pace, trying not to jostle my laundry basket, I turned the corner for the Prelate’s apartment.

  I nearly halted in my tracks—there was a guard outside the door, something I should have factored in but hadn’t. I forced myself to keep going rather than stand in dismay in the middle of the hall. She stood crisp and impassive as I approached.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “I have the Prelate’s laundry,” I said, trying to inject confidence into my voice.

  “I haven’t seen you before.”

  “I’m new,” I said hesitantly.

  “Since when?”

  “Last week.”

  “Do you have a note from Chara?”

  Was Chara in charge of the laundry? “No.”

  The guard shook her head. “Bring me a note from Chara saying you’re a new hire.”

  I licked my lips. “She’ll be angry at the delay.”

  “That’s no fault of mine. I can’t let you into the Prelate’s chambers if I’ve never seen you before. Go get a note.”

  I dipped a resigned courtesy and retraced my steps back around the corner. Once out of sight, I stood, chewing my lip and thinking furiously. What to do? Wait for guard change? Forge a note? Would the guard know Chara’s handwriting? Find a way to scale the three stories up to one of the Prelate’s windows?

  As I stood vacillating, the door at the end of the acolytes’ hall swung open. The sharp clip of boot heels was instantly familiar to me, and my heart rate spiked in terror. My aunt strode smartly up the hallway, her eyes on a sheaf of parchment in her hand.

  I nearly melted in fright. Ears ringing, mouth dry, I glanced along the acolyte cells lining the hallway. Without waiting to second-guess my timing of the acolytes’ dinner, I turned the handle of the nearest one and slipped inside.

  I let out a breath, shaking from head to foot. The little room was unoccupied, and there were no personal effects inside beyond a quill and parchment on the desk, and a spare pair of unadorned boots under the cot. I hadn’t mistimed the acolytes’ dinner—but I had not expected Shaula to show up here mere moments before the court dined. She would be expected to lead the prayer—what had drawn her away? I leaned against the door, listening to Shaula’s heels clip clip off the stone. When I was sure she had turned the corner, I cracked the door and put my ear to the opening.

  “Unlock the door, Gienah.”

  “Yes, your Reverence.”

  “And come inside, I need to give you a missive for the captain.”

  I heard the lock click and the door open.

  I didn’t hear it shut.

  Heart in my throat, I eased out of the acolyte’s cell. I tiptoed to the corner and peered around. The door was cracked.

  Suppose I could slip inside. Suppose they had gone into a separate room. Suppose I could dive for cover—under a bed, in a closet—and wait until they had left. Suppose I could then make a search for the key to the physician’s case.

  Suppose they were standing by the door and saw my face appear in the crack like the stupidest of criminals.

  Cursing myself and every person that came to mind, I tiptoed to the door. I held my breath, straining to listen. I heard my aunt talking to her guard, but her voice was muffled, as if in another room. I set my fingers lightly on the door handle.

  If I didn’t get myself hanged before the night was over, I’d be pleasantly surprised.

  I peeked into the room. It was more spacious and elegant than the acolytes’ plain cells, but it could hardly be called opulent. Two doors led off the sparse foyer—one stood open, showing the edge of a writing desk. My aunt’s voice filtered from within. My gaze flicked over the rest of the foyer—there was a low couch and two hardback chairs around a hearth, a coffee table, and a large tapestry of the Prophecy on the wall, finer than the one in the Retreat. The couch was too squat to hide under, so my gaze traveled to the second door in the wall. Praying it was a bedchamber with either space under the bed or a large wardrobe to hide in, I slipped into the foyer, crossed the space with my heart in my throat, and opened the door.

  It was a bedroom, but the bed would be no good—it was narrow and set against the far wall, making the space underneath clearly visible. But I was granted a tiny slice of luck—instead of a wardrobe, there was a curtained alcove built into the adobe wall. Shifting my laundry basket, I hurried to it and let the curtain fall behind me.

  It was only as I shoved stiff black skirts and boleros aside that I wondered if Shaula had also come to dress for dinner, but I couldn’t change my mind now. I wedged myself into the back of the alcove, my nose filled with the funny scent of almonds hanging about her clothes. I curled into as tight a ball as I could in the corner, tucking my feet under my skirt, the laundry basket balanced on my knees. The tarantula twitched under the fabric.

  I must have been sitting against the wall separating her bedroom from the office, because I could hear her speaking to her guard. Her words were just muffled enough that I couldn’t make them out, but I recognized the firm agitation in her voice. I shifted to find a more comfortable position, and something hard poked into my shoulder. A cloth shifted free. I blinked a few times—there was a new shadow on the wall. Or, rather, a new source of light. The room beyond was gray in the winter twilight, and the curtained alcove almost completely dark, but shining on the whitewashed wall beside me was a faint slice of light.

  I shifted and plucked at the fabric, and it slid off a wooden crate. Something rustled in the darkness. Something alive. Half-alarmed, half-curious, I peeked through the metal screen that rested over the top.

  Millipedes.

  It was a box of millipedes.

  They were glowing.

  I squinted in the half-light, peering at the eerie luminescence they were giving off, a dim green-white. They crawled over one another, hundreds of little legs waving and reaching. Several sat on a damp sponge, taking in moisture. Some clustered around a dish of cornmeal. This wasn’t just a box of the creatures—it was a habitat, meant for them to thrive.

  Here, in my aunt’s bedroom.

  My mind drifted back to my mother’s words in her little house in Whiptail Hob, how Shaula had taken up their parents’ profession but dropped it to pursue the life of an acolyte. So why did she have a cage of her old study subjects shoved in her closet? Millipedes weren’t popular as eccentricity pets, like stag beetles or mantids. And anyway, she wasn’t displaying them as if they were meant for show, despite their unusual luminescence. I nudged the box slightly, making the glowing bodies shift and curl. Again the wash of almond scent hit my nose. It was their defense mechanism, I realized. They released a strong-smelling liquid to deter predators.

  Why does my aunt have them here?

  I leaned back from the box, my mind whirling. Only then did I realize the voices from the far room were traveling—circling out into the foyer.

  Getting closer.

  I scrunched up into a ball again, hugging my knees to my chest, squashing the basket of laundry. The tarantula hissed.

  Shut up! I thought fiercely.

  My aunt’s clipped footsteps moved across the floor of her bedroom. “—haven’t gotten a response.”

  “Councilor Izar is still unwell, then?”

  “Quite so, though the healers suggest he may be recovering. Still, we can’t afford to wait for his health to return. I need you to deliver that warrant to the captain, along with the suggestion to split up his forces.”

 
“They haven’t found the queen along the coast?”

  “I have my doubts about the validity of that trail,” my aunt replied. “I don’t want the generals to waste their time, not now that we’ve got a foothold back in Cyprien. With four of the provinces back under our control, our ground troops need to focus on retaking Lilou, not shuffling our feet over the queen. With the king’s signature on the warrant, there needs to be no uncertainty once we’ve recaptured her.”

  “Shall I take it now?”

  “No, stay here until I send another guard to relieve you. I won’t leave my door unwatched. I would take it myself, but I’m expected at dinner—poor timing, but at least the king has given his signature.”

  With a sound like a death rattle, the rings on the alcove curtain slid back, and I could swear everything in my body—head, heart, lungs—stopped functioning. I could see the toes of her polished black boots under the hanging overskirts. Behind her, the room was still dim—she hadn’t turned up a lamp. She rifled among the garments and slid a bolero off its hanger.

  “Chara is late,” she murmured absently.

  “A laundress came,” said the guard. “I didn’t recognize her. I sent her away to get a note.”

  My aunt sighed and slid the curtain closed. “We have more important things to worry about than a new face in the laundry. Next time just let her do her job.”

  “Yes, your Reverence. I’m sorry.”

  “Go ahead—return to your post. Make sure the captain gets that warrant.”

  “Yes, your Reverence.”

  Two pairs of boot-steps left the bedroom. They made their way across the foyer. The door creaked on its hinges. Then it shut.

  My breath streamed out in a low hiss. I stayed frozen where I was, squashed against the millipede cage, the tarantula squirming under the laundry. Clearly things were moving quickly, both within Alcoro and outside it. Four of the six Cypri provinces back under our control . . . how long could the other two hold out? How long before we reestablished our strategic position in the waterways and made the leap to seize the Paroan ports?

  And what warrant had Shaula finally gotten Celeno to sign? What had he agreed to? She didn’t believe I had fled to the coast, as my mother had intended. That meant we had to get this thing done tonight—it had to be now.

  When I was positive that both of them had left the room, and that nobody was coming back in for something they forgot, I let my legs uncurl. I shifted forward and crawled out from under the Prelate’s stiff black overskirts. My body felt loose and wobbly, as if undone by the terror of imminent discovery. I knelt on the floor of the bedroom, trying to stir up enough courage and ignore the fact that I was now effectively locked in this apartment by the guard outside the door.

  I rose to my feet. The light from the narrow, diamond-paned windows was almost completely gone, but I didn’t dare light a candle and risk the lingering scent of smoke. I cast a quick glance around the bedroom—besides the narrow bed, there was a wooden trunk, a washstand, and a bureau. The only ornaments in the room were two elaborate prisms hanging in each of the windows. I dismissed the thought of rifling through the trunk and bureau—perhaps if I didn’t find the key elsewhere, I’d search there, but I doubted it would be so furtively hidden. It wasn’t a secret that Shaula had it, and her door was already guarded.

  Nervous as a jackrabbit in the open, I went back into the parlor. The words of the Prophecy glared down from the wall tapestry, imposing and definite. An enormous, illuminated Book of the Prophecy sat on a thick wooden pedestal. The key wouldn’t be in this space, not where guests might chance upon it. No, if anywhere, it would be in her study. I opened the door.

  It was no larger than her bedroom, with the same prisms in the windows. Bookshelves lined the walls. A more worn Book of the Prophecy lay on top of a generous winged writing desk. The rolltop was closed, but not locked. Fingers shaking, I slid back the top. If I thought I might stumble across damning correspondence, I was disappointed. The work space was tidy, with only an askew penknife offering any hint of disarray. I peeked through the little paper drawers, picking through religious texts and letters to township acolytes as unobtrusively as I could. Quietly I set the top back down and turned to the deeper drawers along the sides of the desk.

  Ink, blotters, paperweights, quills, parchment, notebooks waiting to be filled . . . I closed two, three drawers. I slid the fourth open with a sigh of relief—inside was a wooden document case labeled Seventh King Celeno Tezozomoc. I lifted it out, but my fingers paused on the lid. Underneath it was another case simply labeled Gemma.

  I hesitated for the briefest second. Impulsively my hand shot out to unlatch the lid with my name on it. Inside were sheaves of papers, medical documents, records of my audit to assess my suitability for the monarchy, a copy of my thesis. Resting on the very top was a weather-stained vellum envelope, stamped with a foreign seal and bearing my full name and title in neat handwriting. A letter to me. Heart thumping, I pulled it out.

  Shaula might come back and open this box tonight and find the envelope missing. She’d realize there had been an intruder in her room. She’d check through everything else and would find the key gone—by this point I recognized there would be no way I could replace it after I’d taken it away. My fingers tightened on the vellum. I didn’t care. This was a letter to me, and I was going to take it. Before I could change my mind, I stuffed it down the front of my uniform and snapped the box lid shut.

  Celeno’s box contained his medical records and a smaller wooden box . . . which held the twin to the little brass key I knew so well. Quickly I pocketed the key, packaged everything away, and hurried from the room, laundry basket in tow.

  Get into the palace. Get the key. Step one. Step two.

  Step three. Get into the physician’s bag.

  But first, step two-and-a half.

  Get out of the damned apartment.

  I tiptoed to the main door and crouched down, setting my face to the crack under the door. Two shiny boots stood outside, facing down the hall.

  I sat back on my heels, chewing my lip. I reached for the door handle and silently tested it—not locked. My eyes fell on my laundry basket.

  “Time for you to do some work,” I whispered. The fabric twitched.

  Carefully I gathered up the cloth with the tarantula inside. I lowered her to the floor and worked her free. She sat by the crack, disoriented. Sending a quick prayer that this stupid plan might work, I gave the spider an almighty flick and sent her sailing out into the hallway beyond.

  She recovered before the guard did. I watched the shiny boots leap to one side just as the tarantula righted herself and lifted her forelegs defensively in the air.

  “Son of a—”

  The tarantula, the beautiful little thing, hissed dramatically.

  I heard the rattle of a sword hilt and saw a naked blade swipe toward it. The spider skittered backward, waving its claws.

  The guard cursed and sheathed her sword. One of the shiny black boots disappeared above the crack in the door, and I was washed suddenly in a burst of regret.

  No!

  The boot came down with a crunch, splaying the legs out underneath it.

  I gripped my basket. Oh, little friend. I’m so sorry. I’d give you a medal of service, if I could.

  With a swipe of her boot, the guard kicked the body of the fallen tarantula toward the far doors leading to the Prism’s courtyard. She followed it, kicking it again as she passed the acolyte hallway. I turned the handle on my aunt’s apartment and slipped out into the hall. As the guard opened the exterior door, I turned the corner. I loitered, hidden, in the doorway of an acolyte’s cell while I waited for the guard to pass back across the hallway. Just as she did, I heard the murmuring at the intersection of the acolytes returning from dinner. Sweating, almost dizzy with fear, I fled, restraining myself just short of running from the hall. One or two of the acolytes might have seen me, but with all luck they’d see an errant laundress rushing to complete her
chores, not the traitorous queen sneaking out of her aunt’s guarded apartment.

  I didn’t slow down until I’d put three corridors and a staircase between myself and the Prelate’s apartment, and then I leaned on the wall, clutching my basket and trying to calm my heartbeat. The little brass key shifted in my pocket, and the vellum packet crackled in my uniform as I breathed deeply.

  Step two-and-a-half, done.

  Step three. The physician’s bag.

  In comparison, getting in and out of Rastaban’s office was like a jaunt along the canyon rim. All I had to do was find a stray, unfamiliar palace guard, nod to my basket, and say, “bandages,” and he unlocked the physician’s door for me. The case was in a glass cabinet behind his desk. I took it out and turned my aunt’s key in the lock, revealing a double row of poppy syrup, each vial labeled with the day of the week. My hands were steady but my stomach was in knots as I removed the one for that day, pulled out the cork, and drizzled the sticky solution into a potted aloe plant. When I’d wiped the last residue from inside, I pulled out the flask of honey from my mother’s bees and poured it into the vial. The honey was slightly lighter in color than the poppy syrup, but it was hardly noticeable when I set the vial back with its fellows. Hopefully no one would have any cause to suspect it was anything other than that potent, sleep-inducing drug.

  I left Rastaban’s office.

  Step one. Get into the palace.

  Step two. Get the key.

  Step three. Replace the poppy.

  Step four . . .

  Get into the king’s chamber. Get in, and hide.

  Hefting my basket, I turned for the familiar corridors that would take me to the place that until just a few weeks ago had been my safe haven and home.

  Unfortunately, the halls were growing more crowded. Dinnertime for the court meant a transition period for the rest of the palace. I’d never thought much about it before, but now was the time that the palace was readied for the shift from day to night. Lamplighters were moving down the corridors, lighting the wicks in the red-shielded lanterns. Hearth maids were moving from room to room, toting buckets of burning coals. Caretakers were moving into the spaces occupied during the day, mopping the tiled floors and tidying the detritus left by both business and pleasure.