by Beth Alvarez
“What does that have to do with me?” Firal cried. “I didn’t know!”
The Underling queen’s fine features hardened. “We bear the burdens our fathers leave behind, child. Remember that when the wars begin.”
“Wars?” A thread of ice wormed its way into Firal’s heart. Unconsciously, she rubbed her arms as if to ward off a chill.
“Selfish men rarely give up stolen things.” Lumia shrugged. “I see no reason to expect your king will look upon us kindly when we seek a return to the surface. But we will address that in time, hmm? It shall be interesting to see which side your temple takes.”
“The temple is loyal to King Kifelethelas,” Firal said, strong and certain, for all that she felt a twinge of doubt.
“The Eldani king,” Lumia murmured. There was something in her voice—not quite contempt, but still laden with venom. “One more grudge for me to hold against them.” She stroked Daemon’s hair one last time before she motioned him forward. “She is yours, darling, since you found her. Do with her as you wish, but see to it that you get rid of her.”
Daemon rose, adjusting the plain mask that covered his face.
The dark heat that burned in his luminescent eyes made Firal’s blood run cold. She took a step back, then darted for the doors.
He shot from the dais like an arrow. His talons shrieked against the cold stone floor. He was fast—too fast for her to have any hope of escape. Her panicked cry cut off as he caught her by the collar of her dress. It tightened around her throat, threatening to choke her as he hauled her back. She cried out and lashed against the monster as he reeled her in and wrapped an arm around her waist to drag her step by step across the room.
Lumia gave Daemon a nod of approval as he pulled Firal behind a tapestry and into a hidden hallway.
His grasp on her tightened and Firal gasped for breath. She kicked at his legs and stomped at his feet. Neither yielded results. Firm as his grasp was, he held her waist, not her arms. She clawed at his arm, the edges of his scales sharp beneath her digging fingernails. She wrenched those scales backwards. He did not react.
“Let me go! Please!” she wailed.
His glowing eyes turned crimson behind the slits of his mask and her stomach flopped. Finally, he released a low, hissing breath. “Over and over again, I spare you when any of my men would see you dead. To speak as you did before Lumia...” He shook his head in disgust. “Hold still. You try my patience.”
She growled and kicked again. Her toes hit his shin hard enough to hurt and she bit back a yelp. He merely grunted as he hauled her around the corner. From the lackluster reaction, she assumed she got his good leg. Angry, she shoved against his shoulder and wriggled in effort to escape.
Daemon caught her by the biceps and gave her a shake. “If you don’t stop, I’m going to tie your feet together and sling you over my shoulder.”
She froze, her eyes wide. He wouldn’t dare. Her jaw tightened and she stubbornly met his eye. “Where are you taking me?”
His hand slid down her arm until his clawed fingers could wrap around her wrist. “Be quiet,” he commanded.
Sullen silence fell between them as he led the way, his grip firm, but not painful.
The twists and turns were innumerable. The hallway split so often that Firal grew dizzy trying to keep track. Eventually, she squeezed her eyes closed and concluded the passages underground were worse than the labyrinth overhead. At least in the ruins, one had the sky above them to help distinguish compass directions. The catacombs wound up and down, looping and twisting over each other until she suspected they would emerge on the other side of the world. Instead, they stopped at a spiral stairway illuminated with the same blue-glowing lights that lit the path to the throne room. Daemon pushed her forward and she was all too happy to move ahead, one hand on the wall for balance.
The stairs wound upward forever. Firal’s legs burned with overuse by the time they reached a hallway that was long and straight and unlit, save a dim glow at the far end. It wasn’t until they reached a short flight of squared steps at the end of it that she caught the stirring of wind and the scent of fresh air.
They emerged from a yawning cavern built into the wall of the ruin itself. The ground was trampled to a smooth dirt path, the corridor tidy and free of fallen stones. Stars winked in the sky overhead, the position of the moon declaring it well past midnight.
Daemon caught hold of her arm again and guided her wordlessly through the maze, never once stopping to check the walls for the guide marks he’d sworn were there.
Suddenly they were in the open space between the ruins and the temple, and Daemon shoved her forward.
“There. Get out.” He dusted his hands against his shirt as if to brush away her existence.
Firal stumbled over her own feet. After the chase, the threats, the order to get rid of her, that was it? “But—”
“Hurry up. Before I change my mind.”
She stared. “You’re letting me go?”
Daemon gave her a hard look. “Don’t come back. Lumia was generous to let you go this time. She has no love for mages. Don’t expect she’ll be willing to give you another chance.”
Firal swallowed hard as a vision of the Underling queen’s stern blue eyes flashed through her head. She regarded him in silence for a long moment before she picked up her skirts, turned toward the temple, and ran three paces before she skidded to a halt. “Wait, my journal! What about—” She spun back and stopped short.
Daemon was already gone.
10
Strangers
“Wake up!”
Firal squealed as Kytenia tore her blanket away. Gooseflesh rose on her exposed skin. “Hey!” She snatched the cover from Kytenia’s hands and pulled it up to her chin. The room was dim, the shutters closed and the sound of rainfall drumming outside, but she could still see her friend’s scowling face.
“Where have you been?” Kytenia planted her hands on her hips. “You left without a word, didn’t come back when that bad storm rolled through, stayed out until nearly sunrise, then just sneaked back into your room without telling any of us you’re all right?”
Firal bunched the blanket at her throat. The air in her room was thick with heat and humidity but she still felt cold, as if the chill of the underground had settled in her bones. “Well, I apologize for suffering a calamity!”
“Where were you?” Kytenia reached for the blanket again and frowned when Firal yanked it away.
“I was—” Firal stopped short, uncertain. Where had she been? A crypt, caverns, tunnels, a palace...she opted for the simplest explanation. “I was under the ruins.”
“Under the ruins?” Kytenia pulled the chair from the desk beneath the window and spun it to face the bed. She sat and crossed her arms, making it clear she had no intention of leaving without the full story. “What do you mean, under the ruins?”
“I fell.” Firal hugged herself, the blanket wadded in her arms. Her brows drew together. “I tripped, I think, and the ground gave way. I thought the catacombs might stretch on forever.”
Kytenia leaned back in her seat. Her face twisted with skepticism. “How did you get out, then?”
Firal didn’t appreciate the doubt. She discarded the idea of making something up; the truth was absurd enough. “An Underling showed me the way.”
“An Underling!” Kytenia laughed aloud. “Really? What was it like?” A sarcastic smirk twisted her lips. Firal saw the thoughts behind her friend’s sparkling eyes. After that story Ran had made up—or that Firal thought Ran made up—it would seem like a convenient defense, and the girls would tease her mercilessly.
“He was awful.” Firal shuddered. “I was hunting for my journal when he found me. He threatened me. I ran, but I didn’t know where to go. I only got more lost. I don’t know what happened after that, exactly.” The bits and pieces she did remember didn’t make sense. Daemon had grabbed her, but she could have sworn he’d done it knowing the ruin wall would fall on them. Protecting
her? That made no sense at all. She pursed her lips. “I remember screaming when he grabbed me, then falling.”
“And what did this Underling look like?” Though the question came out mocking, there was a hint of genuine curiosity in Kytenia’s expression. Perhaps she believed someone had been out there, if not an Underling.
“I don’t know,” Firal said. All the feelings of fright churned up anew. She put her hands to her stomach as if to settle it. “He was wearing a mask. He stood like a man, but his hands, those feet...I’ve never seen anything like it, not even in books. Like a great lizard, I suppose. I thought Ran was the one who brought me back from the ruins before. I mean, he said as much, but Daemon’s eyes...” She trailed off and stared into nothing, unsure what else to say.
Kytenia started to speak, then closed her mouth. Her brow furrowed and she seemed to puzzle over it for a time before she spoke again. “You really believe this happened, don’t you?”
“He’d gotten hurt. I was going to just leave him, but he had my journal. The beast read from it.” Firal shook her head, angry at herself for failing to get it back. “I tried to strike off on my own, but I couldn’t find the way. I had to heal him. It was dark, the tunnels were so foul and wet and cold. I don’t know why he brought me out, or why he let me go. I don’t understand it, Kyt.”
Kytenia sat back, her face unchanging, though Firal saw a gleam in her friend’s eyes that indicated Kytenia thought her mad. She bristled.
“I know what I saw, Kytenia.” The bruises spread across Firal’s body and the blisters on her feet should have been proof enough that something strange had happened.
“So did you get your book back?” Kytenia asked, neatly sidestepping the issue.
“Not yet, but I will. Now that I know where to get it.” Firal sniffed and pushed herself out of bed. Her thin shift twisted around her legs and she pulled at it in irritation. Kytenia’s eyes followed her to the mirror, where she’d hung her dress the night before. Firal pulled the dress on over her head and sucked in her stomach to do the laces up the front of the bodice.
Kytenia sighed and turned toward the shuttered window. With as wet and gray as it was outside, little light shone through the cracks. “The carriages taking us to Ilmenhith for the solstice are due to arrive this evening. We’re to depart tomorrow afternoon. Are you going to be ready to travel? Will you even be here? Every time you set foot in those ruins, you’re gone a little longer.” Something—not quite accusation—colored her tone. It was closer to concern, though Firal heard something else, too. It reminded her of Nondar’s suggestion she was growing addled, and she didn’t like it one bit.
“I’ll be here, Kytenia.” Firal tugged the laces a little harder before she tied them and tucked in the ends. Kytenia eyed her, and she sighed. “I mean it. You know what this chance represents for me. For now, I’m hungry. I’m going to get something to eat before the dinner hall gets crowded.”
Kytenia waved a hand. “It’s probably crowded anyway. There have hardly been any classes since the ball was announced. Everyone’s been so busy getting ready. It’s not like anyone will notice you sneaking out.”
“I’m not missing the solstice ball, Kytenia. It’s too important.” Firal pulled her cloak around her shoulders. “One way or another, I’ll be there.”
Kytenia smiled at her as she left, though the expression didn’t touch her eyes.
Once Firal was out of earshot, she allowed herself a wordless grumble. Let her friend think her mad. She wasn’t—she’d struck a deal and Daemon hadn’t held his end of the bargain. Agitation prickled hot beneath her skin as she made her way to the dinner hall. Kytenia was correct; the tables were packed with magelings and Masters. Firal stayed just long enough to snatch a few pastries. She had another stop to make before she could finish what she’d started the day before.
The library doors were closed against the rain, but unlocked this time. Firal inhaled the comforting scent of books as she ducked between the stacks. It didn’t take long to find the dusty, worn collection of books she remembered, though she had to put down her food before she could carry all the tomes. Aside from a few blue-robed magelings and a single Master in white who served as chief librarian, the place was empty. It usually was. The mage-dried air that helped protect the books from the tropical climate tended to make one’s nose bleed if they stayed too long.
Firal claimed a small table hidden between bookcases and paged through one book after another as she ate. Food was not allowed in the library, but she was in a hurry. She suspected the librarians were too busy to notice, anyway, their usual volunteers absent. Distracted by travel preparations, Firal assumed. She stuffed half a pastry into her mouth and opened another book.
With all the stories about Underlings they’d heard as children, she couldn’t fault Kytenia for her skepticism. But Firal had never lied to her friends. Not told the whole truth, perhaps, but never lied. It both stung and rankled that her dearest friend didn’t believe her, but surely there was something in the library to set her straight. She had more information now. She’d met their queen. One book would be enough; one volume she could leave on Kytenia’s desk before she returned to the ruins.
None of the books held any mention of a queen or a connection to mages, though, and it wasn’t long before Firal turned her attention to history books instead. If the Underlings truly had been driven into the ruins, there had to be at least one historical record of the encounter.
There was Lumia’s brief outburst, too, something about being sent off, but Firal wasn’t sure how to search for that. Surely the woman hadn’t meant to say she’d been sent away from the temple. Firal hadn’t sensed so much as a stirring of a Gift in her. She hadn’t mentioned Lumia in her short conversation with Kytenia, though the Underling queen’s words put a weight on her heart as they ran back through her head.
War didn’t seem like an empty threat, but what could Firal do about it? Kytenia already didn’t believe her. Firal dreaded to think what Nondar would do if she tried to tell him. Kifel came to mind, but one lesson in swordplay hardly made her friends with the king. Even if he deigned to let her speak, he’d likely also think her mad for suggesting people from folklore planned to move against his country. Yet even if someone did believe her, sending word meant going to one of the Masters, and that meant revealing that she’d been in the ruins.
The racing thoughts gave her a headache; she needed to clear her mind. Firal shook her head and licked her fingers clean as she finished her food and closed the books. She considered taking them back to her room, but decided against it and left them on the table. There would be no time to read further until they returned from Ilmenhith, and it wasn’t as if the library was going anywhere. She still needed her necklace. Drawing up the hood of her cloak, she ventured back into the rain.
Even through the heavy wool of her cloak, the fat raindrops stung. Thick clouds overhead indicated the storm wouldn’t let up any time soon. For only a moment, Firal regretted having started toward the ruins in the rain.
The ground squished beneath her sandals and gritty moisture seeped around her toes. She should have asked Marreli to heal the blisters she’d earned in the underground. Aside from Kytenia, Marreli was best at tending injuries; odd, considering the girl’s earth affinity. At least the sores were scabbed over now. The mud just served as an unpleasant reminder of their existence.
Firal wasn’t sure where she was going, though the ruins seemed more stable here, which eliminated the fear of walls collapsing. Thick moss grew over stones of mixed grays. Between the stones, tangles of vines tried to choke out scraggly wildflowers that had only just begun to bud. As she rounded a corner in search of the stairway into the underground she now knew existed, she studied the stone. As she’d expected, there was nothing there. No marks. She snorted. Why had she believed a word Daemon said?
A crunch of stone made Firal pause. Staying as still as she could, she waited, and cringed when it crunched again. She wasn’t alone, but she didn
’t think she was anywhere near the passage Daemon had used to get her out of the underground. What were the odds he would have heard her? Her stomach wrenched with anxiety, but she continued forward.
Whether or not she was afraid of the confrontation, she intended to find Daemon. Underling or not, he had agreed to give her journal back, and she wasn’t about to let him go back on their deal.
Her sandals squeaked on the wet weeds as she darted around the corner and collided with a steel breastplate. She shrieked, reflexively swinging her fist upward as she stumbled back.
“OW!” All but howling, her adversary jerked his hands to his face. “What was that for? What did I do?” His words were muffled, but the hateful look in his bright blue eyes couldn’t have been clearer. “I think you just—”
“Blight it all, Lomithrandel, I swear I’ll gut you alive!” Firal snapped.
“I think you just broke my nose,” Ran finished angrily.
She huffed, though her heart still raced. Was she glad or disappointed that it hadn’t been Daemon? “Oh, quit fussing. That probably hurt my hand more than your face. Brant’s roots, but that felt like walking into a wall. What are you wearing?” She glared up at him and reached to take hold of his cloak.
“Stoppit!” He slapped her hands down and wiped a dark trickle from his chin.
Concern flitted across her face. “Did I get your mouth? Well, your nose is fine, then. I might have busted your lip, that had a good pop. Here, let me see.” Firal grabbed for his jaw, undeterred by his efforts to shove her hands away. He missed her arm and her fingers landed on the dark, sticky bloodstain that marked his chin. She paused, surprised. “You have a beard.”
“I do not,” Ran fired back, pushing her away and rubbing the last of the blood from his face with the edge of his hood. “Stop touching me.”