Creatures of Light, Book 3

by Emily B. Martin

  I climbed the staircase that would take me from the public halls into the more removed ones reserved for private concerts and events. There were guards posted at the top, but they didn’t look twice at me. It made me a little nervous, actually, that any interloper dressed as a servant could move relatively easily through the halls—provided they could get inside. Again I blessed the Light that only Ancha and a few other folk knew anything about the termite baits, and none of them considered that a suitable route into Stairs-to-the-Stars.

  I rounded the corner to find a caretaker mopping the landing to the staircase that led to the royal apartments.

  “Hold tight a moment, else you’ll leave prints,” she said, dunking her mop in the bucket with a splash. I halted at the edge of the wet tiles. Behind me came the sound of footsteps, and another girl appeared—the hearth maid, going to light Celeno’s fire. She stopped at the edge of the wet floor as well. I felt her look sideways at me, and hurriedly I busied myself with pointlessly arranging the bundle in my basket. I felt another twinge of sorrow for the tarantula.

  The hearth maid was on my left side, and she didn’t look away. I felt my face grow hot, trying not to make it obvious I was avoiding her gaze. I hoped I wasn’t sweating off my freckles.

  “New, are you?” she asked.

  I gave as quick an acknowledgement as I dared. “Yes.”

  “Chara giving you a hard time?”

  Yes or no? “Little bit.”

  She gave a sympathetic snort. “Try goldenseal.”

  I gave another quick glance. “Sorry?”

  “Goldenseal, on that burn of yours. Lye can do that if it’s too concentrated. They’ve got goldenseal salve in the staff supply room. Might help.”

  I ducked my head. “Thank you.”

  “I’m Mira,” she said.

  I stared at the mop as it sloshed in the bucket again.

  “Ancha,” I said, because it was the first name that jumped to mind.

  “A word of caution,” she said, clearly trying to be helpful. I peeked at her again. She gestured up the stairs on the far side of the landing. “I’m sure you’re aware that things are a bit of a mess, what with the queen and all that?”

  My cheeks blazed. “A bit.”

  “Get in and get out quick. That’s you’re best line of action. Their rooms are fancy, but don’t linger or look around. Everyone’s on edge since the queen got locked up.”

  I drew in a sharp breath and nodded, staring desperately up the staircase. Please stop mopping, please . . .

  “When did you get here?” Mira asked. “I feel like I’ve seen you around. Were you in the kitchens before?”

  “All right, skirt ’round this way.” The woman with the mop gestured to the periphery of the landing, a hero. I jumped forward and tiptoed my way to the stairs, trying not to look like I was fleeing Mira. Fortunately, she spilled a spot of ash from her bucket as she crossed the floor, earning a verbal lashing from the caretaker. I hurried on, grateful for the escape.

  My heart pounded as I climbed the stairs. Get in and get out. I should be so lucky. My plan relied on the idea that I could remain hidden in the royal apartments without being found out. It relied on the fact that even if Celeno wasn’t dining with the court, he at least was in our private dining room and not sick in bed.

  Which was a very, very big if.

  I reached the landing, confronted immediately by a set of liveried guards. I gulped a breath and looked down. A moment of truth. I passed the royal guards every day—if anyone outside my old inner circle might recognize me, it would be them.

  “Stop there.”

  I halted in my tracks, my head bowed. I arranged my basket so my stained arm was out in front.

  “You’re not authorized to be in this wing.”

  “Chara sent me,” I said breathlessly.

  “It’s not time for the laundry.”

  “She got a message from the king’s physician saying the king felt ill.” I tipped my basket slightly. “He wanted fresh rags brought in case . . .”

  “Hm.” The guard clearly wasn’t satisfied. “Chara should have sent the usual laundress.”

  Behind me, I heard Mira puffing up the stairs. “Don’t give her a hard time, Pavo, she’s new. Chara’s probably running her all over creation for spilling lye.”

  The guard made another impatient noise and then jerked his head behind him. “Don’t dawdle. And tell Chara next time to give us a note when she sends someone new.”

  I dipped a courtesy, thinking that Chara was going to get an undue earful from the palace guards. “Yes-most-certainly-thank-you.” I moved past him.

  “Oi,” he called over his shoulder. I glanced back, panic flaring. Had he finally recognized me?

  “There’s goldenseal in the staff supply,” he said.

  I drew in a breath and dipped my head before hoisting my basket and rushing after Mira. I blinked—my eyes were stinging. Stress crying.

  “They’re all right, the guards,” she said as we headed to the apartment double doors. “They have to be careful, you know. Once they know your face they won’t give you any trouble.”

  She squinted at me again, her hand on the knob. “You were in the kitchens, weren’t you?”

  “The hearths,” I confirmed.

  She nodded, satisfied, and turned the handle. We passed into the antechamber. I was so used to the sound of rattling metal as the guards inside snapped to attention that I faltered briefly when it didn’t come. The two merely glanced our way, leaning on one wall and holding a casual conversation. The nearest eyed my face before dropping his gaze to my arm, and his attention went back to his comrade.

  “All right, Mira?” asked the second guard.

  “‘All right?’ Glad to know romance isn’t dead.”

  “My offer still stands, you know.” The guard jerked his head inside with a rakish grin. “King’s bed is free.”

  “I’m reporting you for unseemly behavior,” she said breathlessly, her brown cheeks a little redder. She turned the handle on the other side of the antechamber and passed into the front parlor. I followed, head down, flushed with embarrassment at the loose talk concerning my husband’s bed.

  “I know I said the guards are all right,” Mira said as the door closed. “But some of them are imps.”

  I forced what I hoped was a chuckle. She headed to the fireplace and set down her ash bucket. Across the room, a man was washing the windows that looked out on the canyon, now hidden by darkness. A woman was sweeping up shriveled sage branches and replacing the vases with fresh, fragrant ones. With a surge of discomfort, I remembered that my face was displayed above the mantel, staring out from Celeno’s and my wedding portrait. My gaze flew to the painting—and then my jaw dropped to see an embellished map of Alcoro instead.

  They’d taken down our wedding portrait.

  He’d taken down our wedding portrait.

  “Bedroom’s down that way,” Mira said, nodding. “Wait till you see the embroidery in there.”

  I attempted an eager smile and failed, trying to wipe away the sudden feeling of betrayal—which was undeserved, because it was the other way around. I hoisted my basket and hurried down the private hallway that branched off the main parlor. The familiar scent washed over me, through me, an invisible wave. Our rooms were adorned with desert flowers in the summer, but I had always preferred the winter arrangements of sage . . . I inhaled deeply, my throat constricting with emotion. This hallway was home, once upon a time our only safe haven, the center of our intimate lives. The nearest were our study doors—first his, the Prophecy carved deep into the wood, and then mine. Out of curiosity, I tested the handle—locked. I was sure Shaula had had the whole place searched and then sealed off, hoping to make a decisive case of treason against me. My field sketchbooks, my textbooks, my research, all my correspondences—all being pored over and analyzed like an insect on a spreading board.

  It could have been worse. I’d removed all my most private documents befor
e leaving for Cyprien and hidden them deep in my wardrobe. I meant to retrieve them now, supplementing the vellum packet I’d taken from Shaula’s desk. I moved on, past our breakfast room and private parlor, and came at last to our bedroom door. I turned the knob.

  The evening caretakers had already been in to close the thick russet drapes and turn down the cream coverlet, both heavily embroidered in gold thread, as Mira had mentioned. My bedside table had been swept clean; Celeno’s still bore the silver astrolabe—pushed to the back and collecting dust behind the washbowl that had been moved in the frequent event that he was sick in the night. I crossed the room, passing the cloth-covered telescope standing in the corner like a specter, to the nondescript panel in the wall. The paint and wainscoting were perfectly matched to disguise the seam, but when I pushed at the edge, it gave a little click and creaked inward. I peered into our escape route, an irregular tunnel in an elongated hexagonal shape, leading into the fathomless darkness. We’d never had to use it before, but twice our guards had orchestrated a practice escape, timing how long it took for us to reach the terminus outside the palace wall. That had been early in our reign, and Celeno and I had taken turns spooking the other and pausing for extended kisses—throwing off the guards’ timekeeping and helping me tamp down the fear of the narrow, dark space.

  I closed the door. There would be no such giggling and frippery this time to chase away my nerves, but there was nothing to be done about that. I turned away from the wall. My plan was to nestle myself inside my wardrobe much as I had in my aunt’s alcove. I could see no reason why anybody would want to open it that evening, and the long overdresses inside would hide me well. But just as I started moving in that direction, a voice spoke behind me.

  “I’m telling you, don’t dawdle.”

  I whipped my head over my shoulder to see Mira bustling in with her ash bucket. She nodded to me. “You best get a move on—sometimes they finish up early.”

  I stood frozen for a moment as she knelt down by the wide, tiled fireplace. Then, with no other option, I changed direction and went to Celeno’s wardrobe. I opened it to the rows of starched boleros, their gems glittering in the light of the lamps. I pretended to rummage around in my basket, hoping Mira would finish her work and leave quickly. Hoping, too, that the guards at the door would lose track of who had come in and out. Was it likely, or even possible, that they’d make such a grievous blunder? I bit my lip at this oversight—I’d been repeating the gesture so often that evening I’d created a blister.

  Behind me, Mira was chattering. “. . . nobody’s sure what will become of the lady’s maids, or the queen’s valets and guards. My bunkmate wonders if she’ll be reassigned, or let go entirely.”

  I gave a noncommittal answer and drew my fingers down the intricate embroidery of a bolero sleeve. It was the one with the golden fish on it. He’d worn it last Starfall. June. Just days before the bottom dropped out of everything. I had worn a sash with matching embroidery, and we’d laughed at the absurdity of wearing fish on such a hot, dry day. He’d sweated buckets and cast it off with relish once we finally retreated to the privacy of our star courtyard. As the night deepened and a breeze swept off the canyon rim, he’d picked it back up and tucked it around my shoulders.

  The fire tongs rattled. “You know,” Mira said, and her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, “I wouldn’t go spreading this around, and I swear by the Light I’m no gossip, but Talitha in clerical told me there’s even been talk of him executing her.”

  My fingers stilled as I pulled out a pair of embroidered gloves. “Executing the queen?”

  “Of course the queen. It sounded like it was only a matter of paperwork, but everything’s paperwork to clerical—more likely it’s going before the council . . .”

  My heart rattled in my chest, my mind racing back to Shaula’s fragmented comments to her guard. She’d had the document in her hand. It had his signature. That was what she’d finally gotten him to sign.

  The order for my execution.

  I’d considered many ends, but I hadn’t imagined it would go that far.

  Stupid me. Stupid, sentimental, childish me.

  “I’m done,” I said loudly, despite having accomplished no visible task in the wardrobe. I stuffed the gloves back into their drawer and shoved it shut, pinching two of the fingers in the crack. Hastily I hoisted the basket back onto my hip.

  “It’s about time. Come on, let’s see if . . . oh. Who’re you?”

  I hadn’t heard the bedroom door open. I turned around, gripping my basket.

  Two people stood in the doorway. The first was the rakish guard from the antechamber, no longer casual and boorish, but tense. He flexed his hands, as if preparing to reach for a weapon, his gaze drilling into mine.

  “You there,” he said sharply. “State your name and business.”

  Standing at his side, wearing a look of mild consternation, was the laundress.

  Chapter 4

  “Oh,” Mira said again. She looked between us. “I don’t understand.”

  The guard put his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Who are you?” he asked me.

  I swallowed. “My name is Ancha. I’m running a special errand for Chara. I’m not usually on this shift.”

  “Chara’s been out for a week because of her bunions,” said the laundress. Her basket held freshly starched trousers, perfectly creased.

  “Yes,” I said quickly, as if this was obvious. “That’s why she shifted me around. To cover for her.”

  The guard moved forward, his hand still on his sword. The laundress trailed behind. “Chara didn’t alert the king’s guard of the change.”

  “No, I expect she . . .”

  “The king’s guard are always supposed to know about staffing changes.”

  I fought the urge to back up against the wardrobe. He was staring me straight in the face. I squeezed my basket. “I’m sorry for the confusion, truly. I’ll be off right away, and I’ll tell her about the mix-up.” Anything to get away—I’d just have to find another way to sneak into the royal apartment. Assuming they didn’t triple the watch and set out guard dogs, as well.

  But the guard wasn’t convinced. “What’s your normal station?”

  “The hearths,” I said. Mira was watching me curiously.

  “Who’s your superior?”

  I couldn’t remember who was in charge of the hearths. I couldn’t even conjure the name of the head chef, my mind was so paralyzed with dread. I swallowed, aware that the brief moment that would have provided a reliable answer had sailed past. Not answering right away had sealed my fate.

  Several things happened at once. The guard’s blade slid from its sheath. Mira clapped her hand to her mouth. The laundress backed away. And the door behind the guard swung open.

  I dropped my basket.

  On the threshold stood Celeno, followed by the second guard from the antechamber, also gripping his sword. I followed Mira and the laundress into a deep courtesy, keeping my head bowed low. It would hardly matter—my wine stain, which had disguised me to everyone else, was now bare before the one person who knew it most intimately. Everything went deadly silent.

  When the king spoke, his voice was quiet. “All of you, out.”

  “My king,” said the first guard—still pointing his sword at me, I could only assume, as my eyes were on my toes. “This girl says she’s a laundress but can give no account of what she’s doing in the royal apartment.”

  “She’s delivering clean linens, as you should have been able to observe, Nash. Put your sword away and let her finish her work. The rest of you, get out. And tell the others in the parlor to leave their work for tomorrow—I’m going to bed.”

  “Yes, my king.” The guard sounded wholly reluctant, but I heard the slide of his sword back into its sheath. Mira’s fire tools clanked as she rushed to follow the laundress out the door. When I peeked back up, Nash was still hovering on the threshold, scrutinizing me.

  “My king,” he said.
“I should like to leave a guard with you.”

  “I should like you to leave a man to do as he wishes in the privacy of his own chamber,” Celeno snapped.

  Nash drew in a breath, as if finally understanding the suspicious nature of my presence. Face flaming, I looked back down at my boots. The door closed with a snap.

  A moment of silence the length of the echoing canyon stretched between us. I stared at the basket at my feet, shame and defeat and anger all warring with each other in my chest.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t recognize you?”

  I looked up slowly. His normally golden-brown skin was pale, and his eyes were shadowed by dark circles.

  “I hoped everyone else wouldn’t recognize me,” I said.

  “And did they?”

  “Not that I’m aware.”

  “Then this is a palace of fools,” he said. “You’re unmistakable.”

  I flushed again, unable to interpret if he was chastising me or not. I certainly didn’t think he meant it as a compliment, and anger won out briefly in my chest. I straightened slightly.

  “Why did you cover for me?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Shall I go get Nash?”

  “I suppose so. Will you attend my hanging yourself, or skip it for something more pleasant?”

  His lips tightened. Silence fell again, both of us staring at the other. A corner and one poster of the bed separated us, but it might as well have been the ocean.

  Finally he let out a deep breath. “Rastaban will be here in a few minutes. I don’t know what you’re doing here, Gemma, but in honor of the few happy memories we once shared, I’ll give you the chance to get away. Take the escape tunnel. Get out of the palace, get out of Callais. If you do it now, I won’t tell anyone you were here.”