Castle of Lies

by Kiersi Burkhart

  By the meager light of the moon through the window, Corene finds her way to the far wall. “Here.” She pulls on the side of an enormous dresser. It moves, but only an inch. “Help me.”

  I grab the corner and heave. It makes an awful squeaking sound as the legs drag along the floor. “That’s enough,” she says, reaching behind it.

  The whole wall creaks. Some of the stones start to pull away from others. It’s a door, big enough for us to walk through while crouched.

  I don’t have time to be amazed as the noise outside gets louder. “You first,” I tell Corene. She bends over and slides into the damp darkness. “Now you, Parsifal. I’ll close it.”

  Familiar clinking footsteps echo in the hallway. I shove Parsifal into the passage as the knob of the bedroom door turns. I climb in behind them. Corene lights the candle as I yank the heavy stone back into place.

  The last of the moonlight disappears, and we’re entombed in darkness.

  Chapter 8

  Sapphire

  I did not intend to lie to the Priestess. The Commander assured us our invasion would be bloodless. Do no harm. That is always our objective.

  Whatever violence happened must have been necessary to secure the surrender.

  I have tied the Priestess’s hands, and she is surprisingly composed as we leave through the atrium.

  But outside the temple, metal screams on stone. Children wail down the hall. “Let me go,” the Priestess snarls. “I have to help them.” She tries to pull away, but my grip does not relent.

  Up ahead, one of our soldiers in Unit Two emerges from a hallway with a human male struggling in her grasp. She strikes him in the side of the head with her elbow and he falls to the floor.

  “How dare you!” the Priestess screeches.

  I heft her up onto my shoulder and run over as she pounds her fists against my back. “Where is the Commander?” I ask.

  The soldier points behind her. “That way, searching out the King.”

  The hallway walls are smeared with human blood. Some must have died—but how? Why? Our soldiers seem to have convinced most residents of the castle to stay in their rooms, and are posted in front of each door. The serving staff are trapped in the larder, pounding the door as we pass.

  My captive has finally stopped struggling. My wisp settles on her shoulder and pulls back the hairs that have fallen into her eyes.

  At the top of a wide marble staircase I find Zylion leaning against his sword, his mask pulled up so it sits on his hair. “I have her.”

  Zylion looks weary. He gestures down a long hallway. “The Commander is down there.”

  I have to step over the body of what appears to be a royal guard, blood pooled on the floor underneath him. He must have fought back to end up like this.

  I notice a dot of crimson on my boot, and a wave of cold washes over me. I hope this human wasn’t ill. We have no immunity to human diseases, should we be exposed. We would be helpless. I will clean it off at my first opportunity.

  Inside the room, the King is strapped to a chair. Commander Valya prods him with one finger, the tip bathed in angry red light. Each time the Commander touches him, the King cries out. “I don’t know where they are,” the greasy old man sobs. “They haven’t sent a smoke message in—”

  The Commander prods him once more, and the sound the King makes wrenches my stomach. “Where is your daughter?” he snarls. I have never seen him like this.

  “I don’t know.” The King rocks forward, and his voice slurs. “She wasn’t with me.” Another prod, and the man lets out a windy gasp before collapsing in his chair. The Commander looks up when he finally notices us standing there.

  “Ah—Mahove, Sapphire! You have secured the temple?”

  I nod. “Incapacitated all the priestesses, as instructed.” I lean down, roll my captive off my shoulder, and try to help her into a sitting position on the ground. She lies there limply, but her blue eyes are riveted to the Commander in a scathing glare. “I negotiated a peaceful surrender . . .”

  The Commander’s gaze whips back to me. “Why would you do that?”

  “I thought that was the plan, Commander.”

  He snorts. “Plans change. This drunk King was easier to capture than even my wildest hopes. No need for negotiation.” My wisp pulses a dark purple—it is upset. “Have this priestess contact the sworn lords to demand a full surrender. The King’s Magicker claims he cannot do it.” The King coughs and gags.

  “I won’t help,” the Priestess says immediately. “I’d rather die.”

  The Commander shrugs. “We can make that happen.” Shame fills me like piss in a bucket. “Sapphire, quarantine her with the others.” He returns to his work, and I am dismissed.

  Unit One has rounded up the rest of the priestesses in an old cellar. When I step inside the door with my priestess, it’s as if someone has clapped their hands over my ears. The room’s been treated to dampen Magic—no priestesses will be calling for help in here.

  I leave my priestess there. My wisp, glowing an angry red, dives into my pouch pocket and refuses to come out.

  I find a stone bench in the atrium, under Melidia’s hateful gaze, and allow myself a moment to rest, close my eyes, and inhale the scent of an immense blue flower planted nearby, its long petals like shards of moonlight.

  “Something wrong, friend Sapphire?” Ellze’s voice. I open my eyes just as he steps on the flower, snapping the stem in half.

  “This—this is not what I expected,” I stammer.

  “What did you expect? We are here to do what is asked of us. You are fortunate you got this promotion. You should be happy.”

  Responding would be a waste. Rising from the stone bench, I walk past him and leave the Temple.

  I know I have this cloak on my back only because Ellze is the Commander’s nephew. And I am not fulfilling his expectations.

  Parsifal

  Corene’s candle shows me what I probably would’ve been better off not seeing: a ceiling so low we brush our heads, and constellations of cobwebs hanging in every corner and crevice. Dust sits in a heavy white layer on the walls and floor, like fallen ash. A little shiver ripples down my back. I hate dust. I hate cobwebs. And I definitely hate spiders.

  The narrow tunnel extends into nothingness in two directions. Through the walls come the muffled sounds of the long ears speaking and of furniture legs squeaking as they’re moved. The elves are searching. They know we were there, but not where we went.

  “Corene,” I whisper, kneeling beside her. I shudder knowing how filthy my clothes are getting. “Where does this go? We need to leave before they find us.” Even my whispers could lead them here.

  Corene says in a tiny voice, “Dad’s room.”

  “Excellent,” I whisper. “Finding the King is a good idea. Which way?”

  The clink of silver boots on stone echoes right next to us. We have to go. Corene makes a sound like a trapped animal, and Thelia twitches with irritation. “Corene. Stop squacking and talk.” I don’t know how effective browbeating the Princess will be when she’s this upset.

  The muffled voices fade. “They must be moving on,” I whisper. If they haven’t gotten to the King already, they’re on the way.

  Thelia grips Corene’s arm. “We have to go now. You can just point.”

  Corene grimaces and points to her left. On we go.

  Through stone walls come the wails of people, dogs barking, and armor clinking—all garbled. I wonder if this is what the demon plane was like, before Melidia supposedly saved us. We walk in the frigid in-between place for longer than it should take to reach another chamber in North Hall.

  Abruptly, Corene stops. “Here.” She holds up the candle, illuminating the faint outline of another door.

  Before anyone moves, Thelia says, “Wait. They may have arrived first.”

  I press my ear to the wall. “I don’t hear anything.” But the truth is that I don’t want to go out there and maybe die. What if we stay in hiding until the f
uror calms down?

  Thelia pushes the door open enough for some torchlight to spill in and peers through the crack. “It’s clear.” She glances back at me. “Come on, let’s take a look around. You know, for the King.”

  I sigh. “Fine. But you owe me.”

  “If we live long enough, I’ll give you as many foot massages as you want.”

  As we slip out, I glance back at Corene, who’s become a piece of furniture—not moving or speaking. “Be right back,” Thelia tells her.

  The King’s chamber is huge. The enormous, velvet-draped platform bed is a mess, sheets halfway off like he was ripped out of it as he slept. He’s gone—grabbed by long ears.

  Thelia jogs to the bedroom door and slips her fingers between the door and the frame to pull it open, avoiding the creaky doorknob. It opens without a sound, a trick I’m sure she was taught by her mother. Delia Finegarden may have been a horrible person, but at this moment I’m grateful she raised my cousin.

  “What in Melidia’s arsehole are you planning?” I whisper. I thought we were just taking a look around the room.

  She mouths, “The armory.” I give her a bewildered look, and she clenches her hands into fists. “So I can get a sword.”

  That’s what she’s after—a way to fight back. Against seven-foot-tall murderous elves. What an inspired plan.

  Yet, here I am, jogging down the hallway after her in my least comfortable heeled boots, wishing I’d worn absolutely anything else today.

  Thelia stops at the third door. The armory.

  That’s when the clanking starts on the stairs. Soldiers’ footsteps. Thelia glances behind us. “They’re coming.” She reaches for a door, pushes it open, and shoves me in.

  Thelia

  Glittering silver everywhere. A feast of blades, each one capable of its own select deeds. My hands itch to grab one. The truly impressive weapons—the halberds and spears—are arranged on elaborate silver stands. I could have anything I want, but first we have to hide. I only hope they don’t look in this room right away.

  Along the wall, four suits of armor hang on vaguely human-looking statues. Perfect. I start unlacing a set of plates and point at a statuette dressed in leather. “Put it on, Percy.”

  “No way.”

  “Just do it.” It’ll be easier than mine—putting this on properly could take whole candle-hours. Thankfully, I’m small enough that I can slide on the chestplate without taking it apart.

  Parsifal reluctantly dons the jerkin. “Don’t bother tying it,” I hiss at him.

  A door opens across the hallway. They’re looking. I throw on the pauldrons, but the greaves will take forever. I hope the darkness will hide it. I slip the plate helmet over my head and tuck in my hair.

  Parsifal’s barely got the leather helm on when I pull him into line with the other statuettes. “Close your eyes,” I hiss. “Don’t move.”

  The door creaks open. Eyelids pressed shut, I stand dead still, praying that it’s too dim for them to notice something is off.

  Light footsteps enter the armory, then pause, looking around. The elves speak in melodic, rhythmic words utterly unlike what I know as speech. It’s more of a song, with rising and falling pitches. Two voices. Two monsters I might have to gut if they catch us.

  I don’t breathe as they pass through the room. Then the footsteps recede, out through the open doorway.

  I gasp for air as soon as the door closes. Parsifal yanks his helmet off. “It’s too tight!”

  “Maybe your head’s too big.” Still, we survived. The long ears may be bigger than we are, but they can’t see any better in the dark—and they’re definitely not as smart as I feared.

  “Hey.” I tap the jerkin strapped across Parsifal’s chest. “Give me that.” I need something to protect my organs. He slides off the chest piece and hands it to me. Even if it doesn’t fit right, it’ll still keep off glancing blows.

  And now, my reward: the wall of death. It’ll take time to choose the perfect weapons from such a pristine crop. A weapon is a comrade, a confidante, a partner. It should fit your hand just right, weigh neither too little nor too much, and cut through the air precisely the way you want.

  But time is in short supply. I snatch a dagger and a belt, then a shortsword and a sheath—and finally a long, slender, curved scimitar, like the ones my mother’s ancestors used. The people who lived in the scrubland between the Holy Kingdom and the Northern Republic—until the Hindermarks decided the iron buried in those sandy hills belonged to them. Now they’re all dead, except Mother. Not sure if that bodes well for the scimitar, but it’s beautifully light, and I twirl it once before sinking it into a sheath with a lovely fooohh.

  Parsifal needs something. I lift a slender saber off the wall and offer him the pommel. “We both know how this will end,” he says, slipping it into his belt. “A missing finger. Maybe a lopped-off prick.”

  Even a breath away from being discovered and killed by elves, Parsifal reaches for quips to feel better. I roll my eyes. “You haven’t been taking fencing lessons all these years for nothing.”

  “Not for nothing. Those lessons are how I came by this excellent physique, thank you very much.”

  We’ve been here too long, but I still can’t resist taking down a hatchet as we leave the room. “Planning to arm the entire castle?” Parsifal asks.

  “Planning to kill some damned long ears.” I nod. “Let’s get back to Corene.”

  The King’s bedroom is still empty.

  “Corene!” Parsifal taps the wall. “Open the door. I don’t know how it works from this side.” Nothing.

  I know she’s in there, cowering in the darkness. Feeling sorry for herself. “Corene, let us in. I have swords and you won’t die. I promise. No elves.”

  As prepared as I am to fight, my blood’s still filled with wine. Which is probably how I ended up with two swords, two daggers, and a hatchet.

  Slowly, the door opens. I’m so done with this creepy passage, but I crouch down and crawl back in anyway. Corene closes the door behind us. “Did you find him?”

  Oh, piss. I can’t have her break down, so I temper my voice. “Your dad must have hidden somewhere the long ears wouldn’t find him.” I have to let her believe he escaped. Corene closes her eyes and massages her temple. “But,” I say brightly, “I did get into the armory.” I hook the hatchet onto my belt.

  “I see.” She looks over my new personal arsenal.

  “Does this secret place go to other parts of the castle?” Parsifal breaks in. “Like South Hall?”

  Suddenly I think of Daddy, trapped somewhere. Or worse.

  Corene shakes her head. “Wrong level.”

  “Are there any other tunnels like this?” he presses.

  “Loads. Stuff from the old days. A whole set of pipes run under the castle, though most of those are sealed . . .”

  She’s babbling, so I cut her off. “Do you know where they are?”

  Corene shrugs. “Bayled and I played in some of them when we were kids, though Mom didn’t like it. We can’t reach them from here.” That’s a great help.

  “Where does this passageway end?” asks Parsifal, like he’s speaking to a small child. Corene doesn’t answer but starts to walk, holding the candle out in front.

  Soon we reach a flat wall that marks the end. “Here.” She illuminates a latch holding the door closed. We hear chaos in the room beyond.

  “What’s on the other side?” I ask.

  “No idea. Mom and Dad only said how to get to their room from mine.” Her tone’s defensive. “That’s all they thought I’d need—to hide until the threat passed. I do know how to get to the old sewers, though.”

  “Sewers?” I ask.

  “Before the Split, when we were friendly with the dwarves, they helped us build a system for disposing of our waste. After the Split, parts of it collapsed.” Corene sounds like she’s reading something from her memory. “That’s where the Pit is now—we dump our waste in a derelict sewage drain.”r />
  “Does it leave the castle?” Parsifal asks. “Can we get out?”

  “One of the pipes dumps into the moat.”

  Parsifal sits forward, avoiding the jeweled pommel of my shortsword. “How do we get to it?”

  Corene’s head swivels slowly toward him. “How do you think?”

  I’m instantly nauseated. “Ugh. The Pit?” My handmaid went there for me, until Dad dismissed her because we couldn’t afford the expense. I went myself once or twice, emptying my chamberpot in the pool of feces, but I flegged each time. Now I dump my chamberpot out the window, hoping nobody’s down below.

  “Why couldn’t the door have been in the kitchen?” Parsifal moans, just as horrified.

  “I’d rather fight and die,” I say.

  Parsifal glares at me. “I say we wait. Let everything quiet down out there, then take a look around.”

  “You mean, after everyone who would fight back is dead and the rest have surrendered?” An image flashes in my mind of Daddy collapsed on the floor like a puppet. “Coward.”

  Parsifal shrugs. “Correct.”

  But we need hope, even if it’s false, or we’ll stumble right off the cliff of despair. I know how dangerous that crevasse is. I managed to avoid it for most of my life—believing that when I was finally perfect, Mom would be finished. She would tell me I was ready. Then Morgaun sliced me open, and I went over the edge.

  I clench one hand into a fist. Daddy had no part in that. He doesn’t deserve . . . “We have to try,” I growl. “If there is a way to get out of Four Halls, we can’t leave them behind.”

  “Shouldn’t we at least wait until it quiets down?” He looks like he hopes that will be never. “No point charging out and dying before we get anywhere near South Hall.”

  I hate that it comes from cowardice, but he’s right. I don’t know if I can take on one of those huge creatures.

  “When it dies down, I go.” I stare at Parsifal. “With or without you.” He looks away, his face turning red.