“What’s the worst that could happen?”
“The worst?” I said back, my voice rough and low. “Well, you would marry a witch. And I’d be marrying a prince.”
His expression flickered, and his smile disappeared.
My voice shook again.
“And it wouldn’t work, then I would die, and you would be free.” I shook my head. “But you would have spoiled yourself, and I would die humiliated.”
He said nothing for a long moment. His eyebrows drew together, in something like deep thought.
“How would I be spoiling myself?” he finally asked—softly. I lifted my chin.
“Have you ever taken a woman to bed with you, Prince?”
He shook his head.
“No.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Then your first would be a wife you were forced to marry, someone you do not even like,” I answered back. “An enemy, whose people are the enemies of your people.” I looked away from him, my mouth tightening. “If I could even be persuaded.”
He said nothing. Frowning a little, I looked back at him…
To see him actually smirking, with a sparkling, secretive amusement.
“What?” I demanded.
“Nothing,” he murmured, his smirk growing. “Except that you just described my parents.”
I blinked.
“What?” I said again.
“My mother came from Opellia, in a city called Ostia,” he explained. “The people of that county are descended from the brother of one of the ancient kings of Astrum. These brothers had a feud and the younger was banished, and he settled with his family by the river. The people of Astrum and the people of Opellia hated each other since that day. Until my grandfather and the patriarch of Ostia decided to end the feud by giving my mother to my father in marriage, and making a treaty.” He shrugged. “Somehow, they got to like each other well enough.”
“How do you know?” I shot back.
He laughed and gave me a pointed expression.
“Well…I do have three younger siblings…”
My face got hot. He chuckled and shook his head.
“What are you laughing about?” I demanded.
“Nothing, amica,” he smiled. “Are you feeling better?”
“No,” I bit out, my face still flame-hot. He slapped the armrest.
“Let’s eat something,” he decided, getting to his feet and then sitting in the chair on the other side of the rolling cart. “I don’t want this tea to get cold.”
“What is this pool for?” I asked, my voice echoing through the large, circular space. “Surely no on bathes up here.”
“No, no,” the prince assured me. “This is the star pool.”
I frowned, and stopped just past the threshold. The prince stepped past me, into the giant room. His footsteps tapped as he walked.
The floor was black, polished marble. In the center stood a large, circular pool that looked perhaps knee deep. All around it, facing it, stood benches and wooden desks. The walls that formed the circumference of the room was stone, up to my shoulder. And beyond that, up the rest of the walls and to the ceiling, were broad panes of clear glass, held together by black, iron dividers. The panes slanted in such a way as to keep the snow from piling on top of them—and the glass had to possess some magical quality, for no frost clouded it. I felt, as I stood there, that I stood in the middle of the sky, for the grey, swirling clouds surrounded the tower, and reflected like a perfect mirror in the pool in front of me.
After eating, mostly in silence, trying to regain my strength, I had felt steady enough to walk with the prince when he suggested showing me another part of the castle. We had followed two or three passages, took a few sets of stairs, not very quickly, and eventually found ourselves at the top of the southernmost tower. My knees still felt weak, and my bones ached. But I was grateful for the distraction.
“What do you use the star pool for?” I asked, stepping slowly forward and then sinking down on one of the benches next to it. I leaned forward a little, gazing across the flawless surface, watching the clouds slowly drift by...
“What do you think we use it for?” the prince wondered, stopping and sliding his hands into the pockets of his trousers. I considered a moment, looking down, then up at the crystal-clear ceiling.
“You study the stars,” I decided. “They are magnified and clarified in this pool. And…you don’t have to strain your necks.”
The prince halfway smiled, ducking his head.
“I come here all the time,” he murmured. “Sometimes to look into the pool, sometimes to lay on my back and stare straight up into heaven.” He shifted. “One night, when I was fifteen, my father came and woke me up, and my family—August and Tulia and my mother and father—all came up here with blankets, and laid on the floor, and watched a star shower. Millions of white lights, streaking across the sky. Have you ever seen one?”
“Yes,” I answered quietly. “When I was a girl.”
“Where were you?” he asked.
“On a roof,” I answered, sighing. “Leaning against the chimney to keep warm.”
“Hm,” the prince shifted again, smiling a little. “Yes, we’re…We’re in love with the stars. They’re like beacons, reminding us of who we’ve been, and showing us where we’re going. All the memory of all the earth, mapped out in the sky above us, if we’d only look up and see it.” He tilted his head back. “Because there—there, right at eveningtime, at this time of year, is Elil, the brightest star you’ll ever see.” He lifted a hand and pointed directly at something in the east. Something only he could see. “And there, beside her, as if he’s putting off a red cloak to show his silver armor, comes Eornan. The first and only high queen and high king of Edel. And then, as the pink goes out of the sky and everything turns to deep purple, all round them come their children, like diamonds in a crown. Amhran the Great, Inion the Lovely, Milis the Gentle, Croga the Bold, and Geal the Brilliant. Amhran the Great married Colleen of Doolin, a common woman—and made her the queen of the Eorna valley, named for Amhran’s father. And it’s by Colleen, right there…” He shifted, and pointed toward the mountain. “That we find true north. And we say, if we’re ever lost in the woods, ‘Never fear, if we heed Colleen!’” He lowered his hand. Slowly, his expression grew distant. And sad. He swallowed. And he put his hand back in his pocket.
Then, unexpectedly, the skin around his eyes tightened, as if a thorn had pricked him. He turned toward me.
“Why would you die humiliated?”
My lips parted. Dark, cold images tumbled over themselves inside me—memories of black nights spent beneath the shadow of a jagged mountain…
“I could never…never bring myself to marry a prince. Or anyone with royal blood,” I finally answered, my hands closing around the edge of the bench. “Not ever. Ever.”
He didn’t move for a moment. Then, he nodded, that painful frown tensing his face again. He lowered his head.
“Yes, I remember,” he murmured absently. “You hate me.”
I swallowed, setting my teeth.
Then, he glanced toward me—without seeing—and offered a brief smile.
“Well,” he said quietly. “I don’t hate you.”
A sting traveled from the center of my heart all the way up my throat, across my lips and cheeks.
He cleared his throat, his smile fading, and he turned away.
Some sort of foreign pain spasmed through my chest.
“I’m…” he cleared his throat again. “I’m going down to the library.” And with that, he strode past me toward the door...
He stopped on the threshold.
“You know,” he said into the silence. “You and I probably saw the same star shower.”
And he passed through the door, and disappeared.
I stayed there, alone on the bench, holding tight to it, that stinging growing worse…
Until I had to close my burning eyes, to keep from seeing my scarred face in
that perfect reflection.
Chapter Twenty
I sat by myself in the Star Tower for a long time, listening to the absolute silence. The glass must have been made so thickly—I couldn’t hear the wind whipping by outside at all.
Finally, I got to my feet, turned and gingerly left the tower, descending the spiral staircase to the long, narrow corridor outside the prince’s chambers. Windows marched along both sides of this corridor, looking out over the vast, snow-swept rooftops of the castle. I turned to my left, maneuvering slowly, trying to retain my bearings…
I found another staircase, this one wide and lavishly carpeted, its walls decorated with more portraits of dead royalty. I put my hand to the bannister, leaning heavily on it, and followed it down, my footsteps silent on the padding.
As I descended, the light lessened, and I noticed several of the lamps had gone out. Frowning slightly, I realized that I’d never been this way before. I must have taken a wrong turning…
The staircase opened into a broad hallway, this one carpeted with purple, its walls tall and elegant, its ceiling arched like a church. Banners hung from the rafters, each bearing the same elaborate coat of arms. But half the torches here stood extinguished, and the others burnt so low that shadows hung about the ceiling, and the grey light from the windows made the corridor feel cold and remote. I glanced to my left.
Tall, blue double doors stood in the wall, one slightly ajar. And to either side…
An armored guard slumped back against the wall. Turned to stone.
My mouth opened, and I froze.
The chamber of the king.
As if pulled by something I couldn’t control, I ventured closer, my pain and weakness fading to the back of my mind. My footsteps remained silent as I tread even more carefully across this rug. I stopped on the threshold, my breath caught.
The room inside lay in shadow, except for the light coming in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. The large, circular chamber was twice as big as Princess Tulia’s, and thick, masculine furniture loomed in the darkness around the edges, like gargoyles guarding a gate.
In the center of the room stood the largest bed I had ever seen, with four posts and a canopy all draped with elegant curtains. And upon the bed lay a man made of stone.
He lay on his back, the blankets drawn up to his chest, both his arms draped over the top of the blankets. His head was bound in bandage. And a woman sat on a stool at his bedside, both her hands grasping his right hand. She was slumped over, her face pressed into the coverlet, her long hair cascading like a curtain all the way down her side to the floor. She was also made of stone.
I stopped. The front of my legs bumped the footboard—but the bed was so long and broad that these two figures still seemed to remain at a distance. Untouchable as the statues on the peak of a castle.
Yet, I could not draw away.
The king’s face was noble and refined, his eyes closed, his heavy brow furrowed in dull pain. He had a short beard, and a large, distinguished nose. All of him made of the purest white marble, his every feature defined.
The queen—for it simply had to be the queen—had long, delicate, beautiful hands, and she only wore one ring: a simple one, on her left hand. Her wedding ring. I could see every detail in her brocaded sleeves and tumbling skirts, every curl in her long, luxurious tresses.
The way those delicate hands wrapped round and intertwined with the king’s, with a gentle desperation I could see clearly in her knuckles and the angle of her shoulders…
Had she been weeping? Had she been pleading for him to hear her, to open his eyes…?
“You just described my parents…”
I twisted my head away, screwing my eyes shut. And the pain in my gut, my bones, returned full force.
I fled.
Before I knew it, I was outside the room again, in the silent corridor, the great silence of the castle looming around me, pressing on me…
As if a clawing darkness was reaching out toward me from that deathly bedchamber…
A sound.
My head came up.
A doorway stood to my right, and the door hung open. This passage looked brighter than the one in which I stood—and I heard shuffling at the far end of it.
I hurried through. The light from the torches came around me, and I managed to take a deeper breath. I straightened my back and slowed my stride, refusing to look back.
I padded down the carpeted corridor, passing sets of curtained windows on either side, and then slowed as I found a tall set of red double doors with golden handles. One stood just a little open.
I stopped.
But as soon as I did, I felt that claw-like darkness touch my back, like chilling breath against my neck.
Biting my cheek, then setting my teeth, I stepped forward and slipped through the door.
I halted, blinking at the brightness.
I stood in a circular library, all its walls covered in bookshelves and ladders, with a sparkling chandelier hanging down from the painted ceiling, and dozens of lamps blazing from sconces between the shelves. Three windows interrupted the shelves: one to the east, one to the west, and a great window to the south. The great window was made of stained glass, and showed a crowned king in lavish robes sitting at his leisure, pouring over large tomes spread out on a table in front of him.
The floor was covered in lavish red carpet ornate in gold, bearing the king’s shield directly in the center. Leather furniture sat about in nooks, and a fireplace burned to the right of the great window.
Prince Krystian sat in an armchair by that fireplace, his expression absent. A red book lay in his lap, and the fingers of his right hand methodically traced the pattern in the leather cover.
I shut the door behind me.
His head came up and a frown flashed across his face. I cleared my throat.
“Just me,” I murmured.
He nodded once, then went back to staring at nothing—but his hand had gone still.
I stopped, suddenly feeling off-balance. I took a breath to say something…
Fell silent. My right hand caught my left, and squeezed my fingers together. My eyebrows tensed as I watched him.
“Would you…” I started. I cleared my throat again. “Should I read it to you?”
He blinked. Turned his head toward me, as if weighing what I’d said.
Then, he gave a half-hearted smile and shrugged one shoulder.
“If you like.”
And he held the book up.
After hesitating a moment, I stepped closer and took it from him, then moved across and sat in the armchair facing him. A lamp stood nearby. I settled myself into the leather cushions, biting my cheek again…
But that darkness from the death chamber hadn’t seemed to be able to pass through those doors. So, shifting in my seat, I opened the front cover of the book to the first entry.
“‘The First Account of Vassilissa,’” I announced, reading out the ornate and sprawling title. “‘Recorded by Artus, son of Arturus, in the Hundred-and-Eighteenth Year of the First Age. Reproduced in Common Edelian by Brutus, son of Belian.’” I turned the page. I suddenly frowned, bringing the book closer to my face. “Gog’s bread, this writing is small…”
The prince snorted. I glanced up at him to see him almost smile again, and turn away a little.
“The monk who wrote it went blind.”
“Oh,” I said—thrown. The prince chuckled a little, then rubbed his eyes. I hesitated again, but he didn’t say anything more. So I braced my elbow on the armrest, lifting the book to the light.
“‘Vassilissa was born in the town of Izborsk, in the one-hundredth year of the first age. Her mother, Anna Kararov, died in childbearing. At the time of Vassilissa’s birth, Izborsk was home to one noble family, as well as a knight and his household, and fifty village families. Vassilissa was the daughter of Vasili Kararov, a merchant. When Vassilissa was twelve years of age, her father married Yelena Arovski, who brought with her three daughter
s. When Vassilissa was fifteen years of age, her father departed for his yearly trip to the Eorna Valley, but took ill from a toothache near Tirincashel and died there, of blood poisoning. Yelena Kararov and her daughters reduced Vassilissa to the status of servant thereafter. Her bedchamber was taken away and she was moved to the kitchen. When Vassilissa was seventeen years of age, Valentin Lopukhin, son of Vladislav Lopukhin, the lord of Izborsk, fell in love with Vassilissa. Yelena Kararov invited Valentin to five parties, during which many witnesses agree that she endeavored to place her own daughters within Valentin’s notice. However, during the final party, Valentin vanished from notice, and was later discovered in the kitchen, kissing Vassilissa.’”
I stopped. A slight chill passed through me. I looked up at the prince. He didn’t say anything—just tapped the armrest as he listened. Frowning hard, sensing cobwebs in the corners of my mind begin to stir, I went on.
“‘According to three witnesses, Yelena Kararov flew into a rage, tore out a handful of Vassilissa’s golden hair, and locked her in a broom cupboard. Against the protests of Valentin Lopukhin, Yelena Kararov dismissed everyone from the household. Valentin returned to his father’s house to demand that something be done to rescue Vassilissa. But at that same hour, Yelena Kararov took Vassilissa, bound and gagged her, and put her into a carriage, which she then drove herself. The carriage passed along the coastal road until midnight. A full moon shone that night, and four people bore witness: Boris the peddler, Viktor Imrov the innkeeper, Lady Anastasia Obolensky-Naryshkin—wife of Sir Gleb Naryshkin—and Pytor Yegor, the watchman in the harbor tower. Yelena Kararov stopped the carriage at the road’s end at the Cliffs of Skoye, and there took Vassilissa out of the carriage and flung her over the cliff and into the sea.’”
I truly did stop now. And I glanced at Prince Krystian. But he didn’t say anything. Feeling even colder, I kept reading.
“‘Lady Anastasia Obolensky-Naryshkin had been visiting her ill sister, who lived in the manor house called Razumov, and was starting home when she witnessed this violence. In drawing nearer, though careful to remain unseen, she recognized the family mark upon the carriage. She returned to her own carriage, and immediately went to the home of the Lopukhins. When she related what she had seen to the lords, Valentin burst into a despairing rage, and demanded that his father exact vengeance. Vladislav Lopukhin and his son traveled to the home of Yelena Kararov within the hour, along with their household soldiers. They arrived just as Yelena Kararov was returning with her empty carriage. When they questioned her, she attempted to attack Valentin. Her daughters, upon hearing the accusations, protested that they knew nothing of their mother’s plans, and disowned her. Yelena Kararov was taken that night to the town square and hanged for the murder of Vassilissa Kararov.’”
Curse-Maker- the Tale of Gwiddon Crow Page 15