by Beth Alvarez
The tree itself was massive. Three men with fingertips touching would not have been able to encompass its trunk. Odd scrolls of unfamiliar lettering were burned into the bark just above the roots, wrapped around the trunk in a lazy spiral that reached toward its crown. Firal crept closer and laid a hand against the markings.
“It says, ‘From roots and bark to leafing tips, all echoed in this seed.’ It’s incomplete. I suppose there was no room for the whole poem.”
Firal started and wheeled to face the doorway.
A man in leather armor leaned against the wall with arms folded over his chest. The hood of his dark cloak was drawn, his shadowed face further hidden by a mask that was little more than a shapeless scrap of metal.
“I’ll give you a moment to tell me what you’re doing here,” he said, voice icily calm. “Answer well and you might get a chance to run.”
“I—” Firal stumbled back against the tree. “I was just—”
“Time’s up.” He pushed himself off the wall and reached for the battle-worn sword at his hip. “And here I was kind enough to give you a warning. I told you not to come back.” The dark eyes of his mask flickered to life, glowing brilliant crimson. The sight sparked memory and Firal went pale.
The moment he stepped forward, she bolted.
Firal scrambled past the swell of the great tree’s roots and ran for an opening on the far side of the room. Screaming would do nothing. Running was her only option. Her feet beat against the uneven ground, her heart drumming against her ribs. Lightning crackled overhead, blinding her, making her footsteps falter. She stifled a cry and struggled to regain balance, silently cursing her curiosity as she skidded around the first corner. She should have left before the storm.
“You can’t outrun me!” the stranger laughed behind her. “But go ahead. Run, like a scared little rabbit!” His voice carried on the wind as the sky opened and torrential rains crashed down.
Firal jerked her cloak forward against the beating rain. The thunder made her heart skip. Flashes overhead illuminated the rolling clouds as they darkened to black. Storm winds roared over the roofless corridors, whipped back her hood and lashed her dark hair about her face.
He clawed his way up to stand atop the crumbling walls. “You’ll only prolong the hunt, little rabbit. Keep running, I’ll trap you either way!”
She darted left into a curved hallway and threw a glance over her shoulder, just long enough to catch sight of him on the wall. The air grew green, the rain like needles on her skin.
The deafening boom of thunder rang in her ears as vibrations shook pebbles loose from the walls. Firal shrieked and threw her arms overhead as a decaying wall began to slide.
Her pursuer leaped down and hit the ground hard. A hand snatched hold of her arm and he threw her down so forcefully, she cried out when she struck the earth.
Stone cracked, a low crunch beneath the high-pitched whine in her ears. He dropped to his hands and knees and braced himself above her. The otherworldly light in his eyes flickered and faded.
She folded her arms over her head as he fell beneath the crushing weight of the collapsing wall and the rubble swallowed them both.
The earth beneath them groaned, and everything faded until only darkness was left.
9
Queen
“Get up.”
Firal groaned and pulled away from the hand that jostled her shoulder. She was cold. The damp stone against her cheek was colder.
“Get up,” the voice above her growled. He shook her again.
Dizzy and disoriented, she struggled to open her eyes. Where was she?
Wherever it was, the darkness was oppressive. The air was thick and still, heavy with humidity and the smell of mustiness and earth. Shutting her eyes against the blackness, Firal pushed herself up. A slimy film covered the floor, sticky beneath her hands and knees. The cold made her limbs stiff. Sitting upright took some effort.
A pair of dimly glowing violet lights appeared next to her and she shrieked. A leather-clad hand clapped over her mouth to silence her.
“Shh!” The hiss was close enough that she felt the warmth of his breath spill from behind his mask. His glowing eyes turned toward something she couldn’t see and his gloved fingers pressed against her mouth hard enough it hurt. She squealed in protest and flailed at him in the dark. Her knee struck something, yielding a grunt.
“Quit moving,” he commanded.
Firal glowered in what she assumed was his direction, but stilled. His hand over her mouth eased and he looked away again, listening, though she didn’t know for what. The occasional plink of dripping water was all that broke the silence. Seeming both satisfied with and disappointed by the quiet, he turned his attention to her again.
Firal’s eyes widened when his gaze locked with hers. It was strange enough that his eyes glowed and stranger still that the centers were slit like a snake’s, but strangest was the way the varying shades of purple in his eyes seemed to swirl and twist. She shuddered, but couldn’t bring herself to look away. The slow shift of color proved mesmerizing in the dark.
“Relax.” He drew his hand from her mouth. She heard him shift with a soft grunt of pain, then felt him ease down to sit beside her. “I hoped you’d learn your lesson after the first time I tried to spook you out. I suppose I was wrong to assume you would.”
“Spook me out?” Firal repeated, her voice thick with disbelief. “I thought you were going to kill me!”
“Well, I don’t think that’s in my best interest.” He moved farther away from her, his breath labored. “Make light.”
“What?”
“You’re a mageling, aren’t you? Make light,” he snapped. “Use your powers.”
Firal hesitated a moment before she decided not to argue. Her hands explored the slimy ground until she found a small, elongated piece of stone and curled her fingers around it. Magelings were not permitted to use their Gift outside of controlled practice sessions within the temple. Though she wasn’t against sneaking an occasional flame for her lantern on her own, she was reluctant to break the rules now that a stranger bade her do it. But wherever they’d fallen, it was so dark she couldn’t see anything but his strangely illuminated eyes. A light would help. If she was going to escape from whatever this place was, she didn’t have a choice.
Warmth blossomed against her palm and a red glow outlined her fingers. Firal opened her hand and the stranger beside her twisted away from the light with a sharp growl. She squinted against the mage-light and waited for her eyes to adjust. When they did, she yelped.
They sat in a vast crypt. Row after row of carved stone sarcophagi filled the room, more standing upright along the walls with bones piled between them. A thin, white film floated atop shallow water pooled in the crevices and hollows of the floor.
One of the sarcophagi lay in pieces where stones had fallen through the ceiling, presumably along with the two of them. Bones and copper coins mingled with the dark shards of sculpted stone and paler rock from the ruin walls. Firal’s eyes drifted to the vaulted stone ceiling that arched overhead. A single hint of light shone between the broken branches, stone, and what she thought were tree roots that sealed the gap they must have come through. She only vaguely recalled falling. The hole they’d come through was a good twenty feet up, and smaller than she’d expected. It was a miracle she’d landed without breaking any bones.
The sound of movement beside her drew her attention. She turned and squealed when she discovered her attacker only inches away.
Firal scrambled backwards, pushed herself to her feet and clung desperately to the tiny mage-light she’d created. “Stay back!”
In spite of his mask, the look he gave her was clearly skeptical. “Really?”
He had pulled up his hood and was struggling to loosen the straps of his leather armor. He sucked in a hissing breath every time he jostled his leg. Dark liquid plastered his trousers to his calf and his sleeve to his arm, both on the same side. He had taken off his
gloves, and what lay beneath made her stomach flop.
Four-fingered hands, scaled and tipped with claws. They made the memories of childhood stories and the spook-tales of Underlings come flooding back.
“Who are you?” She held the light before her as if it were some sort of weapon, something she could deter him with. Never mind that he’d asked her to make it.
He’d produced a knife from somewhere and used it to tear strips from the bottom of his cloak. The scent of blood tainted the air. He stifled a curse as he wrapped the makeshift bandage around his arm and struggled to knot it one-handed. “My queen calls me Daemon.”
“Your queen?” Her brows lifted. Both halves of the island were ruled by kings who had no queen. “What queen?”
“I think that’s enough questions,” Daemon growled, struggling to get up.
She retreated as he moved, but his leg buckled and he abandoned the attempt with a sound of discomfort and frustration.
A low, frustrated huff escaped him. “Come here, mageling.” It was less of a request and more of an order, but Firal did not budge.
Her eyes drifted over him, from his plain metal mask to the claws that tipped his three-toed, too-reptilian feet. Unconsciously, she tightened her hand around the mage-light.
“What’s the matter?” he taunted. “Are you afraid of me?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” she replied hoarsely. She had spent her whole life listening to myths about Underlings and other inhuman creatures that walked like men, had read of them in the books kept in the temple library, but she’d never believed they were real. Her mouth had grown dry. She swallowed and forced herself to go on. “You threatened to kill me.”
“Kill you?” Daemon laughed aloud, an odd gleam in his illuminated violet eyes. “I did nothing of the sort. I said I would hunt you and trap you.” A note of dry humor colored his voice.
Her eyes drifted toward the ceiling again. “Well, you’ve done a good job of trapping us both.” The mage-light in Firal’s hand reached much farther than a flame could have, and though the room was large, most of it was visible. An open doorway waited at the far end of the room. She turned toward it, holding the light in front of her.
“Wait.”
She scowled over her shoulder. “What do you want?”
“To be able to stand would be nice.” He laid a hand against his thigh, clearly wanting to move but dreading the pain it would cause. “I think I broke your fall a little too well, and broke something else while I was at it.”
Guilt pulled at her for just a moment. Then his scales glinted in the light and her queasy fear returned. “I have no reason to help a monster like you.” Proud of how venomous the words sounded, she lifted her chin and strode toward the doorway.
“Firal,” he called after her.
She froze at the sound of her name. He knew her? How? She’d never spoken to this creature before. He’d known she was a mageling, but anyone who was Gifted could sense the presence of another mage.
Her stomach dropped as she realized she could feel Daemon’s presence behind her. She hadn’t noticed it before, distracted by her discoveries in the ruins. Now that she focused on it, his Gift swelled in her senses, betraying immense raw power. A chill rolled down her spine.
A soft rustle reached her ears. “Ahem. ‘Today I found strange writing on a wall. The letters were filled with moss and hard to read. I almost hated to scrape off the growth, as it feels wrong to alter anything I find in this most sacred place.’ Sacred, really?” Daemon chuckled. “Ah, there are drawings, too. Not much of an artist, but no one is perfect. Let’s see. ‘When I left the dinner hall this afternoon, it was raining. That was no surprise, but coming back to my room to find the temple’s new chickens loose in it certainly was. I suspect that Ran—‘”
“Give that here!” Firal wheeled just in time to see him snap the plain leather journal closed.
His eyes gleamed behind his mask. “Heal me. Then we’ll discuss you getting this back.”
Her hands curled into fists at her sides as she resisted a scowl. Fed by her anger, the mage-light in her grasp glowed so brightly that it outlined every bone in her hand. The idea of helping him, even being close to him, made her sick. But he had her journal, and with it, her pendant. She saw no other options. Mentally cursing the predicament she’d landed in, Firal opened her hand to hold up the mage-light and returned to his side.
Despite the mask he wore, she was positive Daemon smirked when she knelt beside him. Loath to touch him, she let her hands hover over his bloodied shin for a moment before she forced herself to lay her fingertips against the sticky cloth of his pants. Healing was dangerous; it drained both the healer and the patient, and it was best to wield the power with extreme care. The magic that flowed through her was little more than a trickle at first, a hint of tingling warmth that seeped down her arms to spill into his body, but when it met and twined with his energies, she gasped at the way it magnified.
His torn flesh burned in her senses—it and the shattered bone in his leg, which bound itself together faster than she’d thought it could mend. Firal had healed a number of her fellow students as part of her training, but she’d never seen a reaction like that. Weariness hit her like a wave and she forced herself to abandon the effort.
“Dear journal, today I met a real, live Underling. He was big and scary, but my poor, tender little mageling heart wouldn’t let me walk away,” Daemon goaded.
Firal gritted her teeth, clenched a fist and slammed it into his shin. He almost doubled over in pain. Smug satisfaction welled in her chest. If used in time, magic could heal even the most grievous of wounds, but the pain often remained.
“You rotten little chit!” he spat, his slitted eyes flaring crimson behind his mask.
She recoiled, though she regained composure quickly when he didn’t lunge after her. “You’re healed, now give it here,” she ordered. The command came out strong, but Firal tucked her dark hair behind her pointed ears and fussed with the laces that ran up the front of her bodice. If she didn’t keep her hands busy, she was certain they would shake.
“I said we would discuss it.” His voice carried an edge that matched his acid glare. “After that, I’m not sure I want to be so accommodating.”
Firal clenched her jaw. “Be that way, then!” She whipped around and stormed toward the doorway again. “Stay there and rot while you wait for the pain to subside.”
“You don’t want to go that way.”
Ignoring him, she continued on with the mage-light held out before her.
The corridor beyond the doorway was relatively clear. A few pebbles and flakes of stone dotted the damp floor, but little else. The walls on either side were a mixture of gray and black stone that glittered in the light. The floor was uneven, buckling and rising before dipping into shallow puddles. Silt stirred in the water as she sloshed through them, her legs too short to span the pools.
It didn’t take long for the corridor to branch into countless hallways. The number of doorways was enough to make her head spin. Firal picked which to take at random, but tried to keep her path to a zigzag. Minutes dragged into what must have been an hour, and the mage-light grew dim. She replenished its magic more than once.
Eventually, she heard the echo of a large room. Eager to escape, she picked up her pace. Her enthusiasm faded when her hurried footsteps carried her into the great crypt again.
Daemon climbed to his feet, though it took him a moment to gain his balance. Evidently, the pain had begun to subside. “Back so soon?”
Firal resisted the urge to glower. “You think you’d do any better?”
“I’m fairly certain I will.” His movement was languid and careful. He favored his newly-mended leg and likely would for some time, unless he found a way to dull the pain.
Reluctantly, she trudged toward him. “Where do we go, then?”
“We?” He stifled a laugh. “What makes you think we are going anywhere?”
“Because I’m the one wi
th the light.”
He regarded her silently for a long moment, then gave a quiet harrumph. “Fine. The corridor at the end of the room, to the right. Since you have the light, you’ll lead the way.”
“Very well,” she agreed, though her mouth pressed into a frown. She wasn’t entirely sure she wanted him behind her. Even in a weakened state, he was probably far stronger than she. But she was faster, and she set off at a brisk pace she knew would give him difficulty, slime and gravel crunching beneath her feet.
Now and then she paused and looked back, impatient. Daemon shuffled along quietly, leaning against the wall for support. He gave directions to guide the twists and turns they took, though sometimes he had to pause and think before he chose a direction. It did little to instill confidence that he really knew where they were going. Not that Firal trusted him, anyway—she had merely accepted her odds of escaping the maze-like tunnels were better with his help. Beyond that chase through the ruins aboveground, he hadn’t done anything threatening. She suspected that between the mage-light and the healing she’d provided, she’d made herself useful enough to be safe.
“So, an Underling, is it?” Firal broke the silence, her words colored with too much indifference to be natural.
“That’s right.” A hint of pride touched his voice and he straightened when she glanced back. “Faithful servant and general to Lumia, Queen of the Underground.”
She could have groaned. It was bad enough that she’d lost her journal and her mother’s pendant, worse that she had gotten lost while looking for them. But to fall into some long-forgotten maze of a tomb alongside an Underling? Silently, Firal berated herself for dismissing the old stories. More often than not, frightening tales were based on something worth fearing. And he’s a general, she thought, biting her lip. Of all the monsters to be trapped with, it would happen to be one with rank and power.