Reign: The Prophecy

by Lily Blake

  But what was he supposed to do? How could he leave the boy out there, alone, knowing that he would die among the villagers? What was he to say to the guards—could he have really let Pascal go to the dungeons alone? How could he go back to Kenna, how could he ever face her again, knowing that he’d turned his back on the boy when he needed him most?

  Bash settled down against the wall, pulling his knees to his chest. He studied his own fingernails, looking for the bluish-black circles that he’d heard about—one of the first signs the infection had set in. His hands were clear. He rolled up his sleeves, checking his skin again for any signs of mottling. There was a swollen pink mark on his right forearm. He rubbed at it, the spot tender to the touch. It’s from the rope, he told himself. It’s just the bruise setting in from where you caught the rope. Nothing more.

  “Bash?” the boy asked. It took Bash a moment to look away from the mark. When he turned, he saw Pascal was awake, sitting up, rubbing his eyes.

  “You slept a long while,” Bash said, pulling the chair up to the bed. He pointed outside the cell door, at the subtle pink shadows that spread out across the stone. “The sun is setting. You’ve been asleep for hours.… How are you feeling?”

  “Fine,” the boy said. Then a look of understanding passed over his face. “You mean, do I feel like I’m sick? Like I have the plague?”

  Bash let out a deep breath, looking into the boy’s massive brown eyes. He hadn’t been sure how much of their current circumstances Pascal understood. It was a relief not to have to explain it to him. “Yes,” he said. “Does anything feel different? I know you took quite a fall out of the tree, so you must be sore. But does your chest hurt? Does it hurt to breathe?”

  “I scraped my arm,” Pascal said, pointing to his shirt, which was ripped and bloody at the elbow. “But that’s about all.”

  Now that the boy was sitting up, Bash could examine him more closely. His eyes were clear and bright. His cheeks looked normal, except for the crease where his face had been pressed against the cot. Each of his breaths seemed long and even.

  “I know I promised you a bath and cake,” Bash said as he leaned back in the chair. He gestured around the dank room. “I bet this wasn’t exactly what you were expecting.”

  “I’m fine with no bath,” Pascal said, a small smile forming on his lips. “Believe me.”

  “As soon as we get out of here,” Bash said, “I’ll take you to the kitchens. You must be starving. I bet there’ll be fresh bread, blackberry tarts, maybe even some double fudge cake with butter frosting.…”

  “Will we, though?” Pascal asked, his voice uneven. He fixed his gaze on Bash. “Get out of here?”

  Bash’s half brothers were quick to believe anything he told them. He could talk of ogres that lived in the forest or make up stories about magical horses that could fly to England and back. But he knew there was something different about Pascal.… He was not an ordinary boy. He had been through so much, and he had survived, even fighting against The Darkness. The least Bash could do was tell him the truth.

  “I’m not sure,” Bash admitted. “I hope so. I’m praying so. But… I don’t know.”

  Pascal nodded. He clasped one hand in the other, twisting his fingers so hard they turned white. “Are you scared?”

  Bash remembered his own childhood, how it had terrified him when one of his parents seemed afraid. He’d gotten lost in the woods with Henry once, after one of their hunting guides fell ill, and they’d spent hours taking the horse in circles, trying to find their way out. His father had tried to stay calm, but as night fell he grew more agitated, more unsure. Nothing had frightened Bash more.

  Bash leaned in, pretending to sniff around Pascal. “I’m mostly scared of what you’re going to smell like in a few days,” he said, teasing. “You really needed that bath.”

  He was hoping that Pascal would laugh or smile, but the boy just looked at him, his dark eyes solemn. “It’s all right to be afraid,” he told Bash. “It’s normal. I was afraid when I was with The Darkness at Visegard. When he had me in that house.”

  Pascal had said almost nothing about the time that he was held captive. Kenna said that she couldn’t even bring it up to him, that he immediately changed the topic—wanting to get something to eat, wanting to go outside and play. He’d told Nostradamus a little bit, here and there when he was being treated by him, but not enough that anyone really understood what he had gone through.

  Bash looked down into the boy’s huge brown eyes. He didn’t want to say the wrong thing or push Pascal too far. “Why were you afraid at Visegard?” he asked, trying to keep his tone casual so Pascal wouldn’t feel that he was being asked too much. “What happened there?”

  “The Darkness was hurting people.…” Pascal looked down at his hands. He twisted his fingers together. “I could hear them. I could hear them screaming.”

  He took a shaky breath, then let it out. “He didn’t hurt me, though. I thought he would, but one night he came in and he said he wanted me to do what he did. He wanted me to hurt those people too.”

  When Pascal looked up at Bash, his eyes were shining with tears. “But I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to make them scream like he did. I didn’t want to touch the knife. There was so much blood everywhere.…”

  “Oh, Pascal,” Bash said, wrapping his arm around the boy’s shoulder. “Of course you didn’t. I don’t think you would be able to hurt a mouse. It’s not who you are.”

  Pascal stared at the floor, not meeting his gaze anymore. After a moment, Bash went on, “But you didn’t hurt anyone. You escaped.”

  Pascal nodded. “I did escape. But while I was in there… I didn’t think I was going to ever get out. I thought I was going to die.… Is that what’s going to happen to us? Is that what you’re worried about now?”

  “No, no, we’re not going to die here,” Bash said, believing it more than ever. “I’m hopeful. After all, it’s been several hours and neither one of us has signs of the plague. One of us would have a rash by now. We’d start feeling ill, I’m sure we would have by now. We may just make it out. We may be all right.”

  “I hope so,” Pascal said.

  “And look… if I have to be stuck in here with anyone, I’m glad it’s you.”

  A smile curled Pascal’s lips, then disappeared again.

  “Are you hungry?” Bash asked as he retrieved the tray by the door. “It’s not cake, but the bread’s not bad. The stew’s cold, of course.…”

  Pascal shook his head. He was still staring at the floor, lost in thought. It seemed as if there was something else he wasn’t saying, something he wanted to ask. Bash was just about to reach out to him when Pascal took a breath, starting again.

  “Who are the princes?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?” Bash asked, frowning. “Which princes?”

  Pascal shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “I heard about them from the girl in the tunnels underneath the palace. She was talking about them. She wanted to know if I was one of the princes. When I told her my name, she seemed confused.”

  The hairs on the back of Bash’s neck bristled. The tunnels beneath the palace? A girl who was lurking there, looking for the princes? What on earth was Pascal talking about? “Why don’t you tell me what happened, from the beginning,” he said, trying to sound calm.

  “I found a passageway. I was running in the tunnels because I was scared,” Pascal said.

  “I know,” Bash said. “I’m sorry you were afraid… that you were confused. Kenna and I love each other very much. You know I would never hurt her, right? That I would never hurt you?”

  Pascal looked down at his hands. “I guess…”

  “No guessing,” Bash corrected. “I wouldn’t.”

  Pascal took a deep breath, then continued, “I was running through the tunnels and I got lost. And then I saw this girl. She wanted me to play with her.”

  “What did she look like?” Bash asked. He was studying Pascal’s face, trying to
see if the boy was telling the truth. He’d been through enough; it would have been perfectly understandable if he’d retreated into fantasy as a way to make sense of his circumstances.

  But Pascal looked him in the eye, his expression earnest. “She had a mask on,” he said. “It was made of cloth. There were eyeholes cut out, but I couldn’t see what she looked like. But I know she was a girl, because she was wearing a dress.” He paused, taking a breath. “Could I have some bread now?”

  Bash handed a piece to the boy, who tore into it, apparently unaware that anything he was saying was out of the ordinary. But Bash was concerned. Only a handful of nobles knew about those tunnels, and none of them fit the description Pascal had given. A girl with a sack over her face? A girl wandering around alone in the bottom of the palace?

  “And she asked you about the princes?”

  Pascal wiped his hand across his mouth, brushing off the crumbs. “She asked me about my mother. When I told her my mother was dead, she was surprised. She kept saying she would have heard if the queen was dead. I told her my mother wasn’t the queen. And that’s when she said something about the princes. Something about wanting to find them.…”

  Pascal looked at Bash, waiting for him to explain, but Bash was just as confused as he was. He had no idea who he was talking about. It wasn’t the boy’s imagination, though, of that he was sure. The story was too detailed, too specific, and Pascal didn’t know anything about Bash’s half brothers—they’d kept him away from them while he was recuperating, not wanting to overwhelm him with new friends.

  The details of it were concerning. Were the princes in danger now? Had an assassin somehow found her way into the palace? Why was she moving through the tunnels, her face hidden? What was her plan?

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Bash said, shaking his head. “Did she tell you her name? Anything else?”

  Pascal shook his head. When he looked up at Bash, his eyes were wide. “I… think I might have done something wrong, though.”

  Bash leaned forward. “Whatever it is, you can tell me,” he said. “I promise it will be all right.”

  “The girl—the one with the mask—she told me that she would help me outside, she would show me the way, but that I would have to remember how I came, because she wanted me to be sure to go back in.”

  Bash furrowed his brow, unable to make any sense of this. “Did she say why?”

  Pascal nodded. “She said she wanted to bring something into the palace,” he said in a rush. “Something bad. I didn’t want to help her—I swear I didn’t, Bash. But I didn’t know how else to get out. I was already lost, and it was so dark and scary.…” Pascal’s face crumpled in tears.

  “It’s all right,” Bash said, bringing the boy close. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I promise.”

  “She took me through a tunnel and it let out outside the palace walls. But then she left me there. I got lost again. There were all those people yelling… they were so mad. I couldn’t find my way back in, even if I wanted to.”

  Bash’s thoughts were racing. She had tried to lead Pascal outside the walls, then draw him back in. But why? Was it possible she wanted him to get infected? Did she want to bring the plague in? Was she trying to do this—trying to infect everyone in the palace, everyone who still believed they were safe behind its walls? Whoever was behind this, she knew about the passageways. She’d even found one that went beyond the gates. She was hiding in the tunnels, waiting. Surely there were other plans in place, other more foolproof methods. No one could have predicted Pascal would pass through.…

  Bash’s breaths were tight. Even if this person hadn’t succeeded with Pascal, she might have succeeded in another way. She could’ve brought infected villagers through the tunnels, up the secret staircases, into the palace proper. It might already be too late. The palace—and everyone in it—could already be compromised.

  Bash leaped to his feet. He grabbed the metal spoon off the tray and ran to the cell door. He ran it back and forth across the bars, trying to make as much noise as possible. “Hello! Someone, anyone!” he yelled. “Please, just listen to me. Someone is trying to bring the plague inside the palace walls!”

  He screamed as loud as he could, but there was no answer. No servants passed through the corridor. No guard came downstairs to see what was wrong.

  “Please, just come down here for a minute,” Bash yelled, his voice breaking. “Someone… you have to listen to me! You’re in danger!”

  But there was still no answer. No one came. Bash’s words echoed down the dank corridor, growing fainter and fainter, until there was only silence.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Mary turned over in bed, the room slowly coming into focus around her. The vanity, her washbasin, the thick pink towels that hung beside it, embroidered with her initials. She recognized the tapestry that hung on the wall across from her bed, the picture of the tiny village she’d seen a hundred times, every morning when she woke up. She let out a long slow breath, relieved to know she was back in her chambers. When she tried to sit up, she was met with a stabbing pain in her side.

  Greer climbed off the chaise lounge, hurrying to Mary’s bed. “Careful,” she said, resting her hand on her shoulder. “The doctors said you banged yourself up pretty good. How are you feeling?”

  Mary looked down, noticing that her right arm was wrapped in a tight bandage, a sling keeping it close to her chest. There was a thick mound of gauze on her shoulder. Her hip throbbed, and her ribs hurt whenever she took too deep a breath.

  “I’m… a little confused,” she admitted as Greer propped up a few pillows for her. She tried to think back to the last thing she remembered.…

  Her hand, pushing against the stone door as she tried to get out of the tunnel. The terror as she stood there in the dark, trying to break free. Finally coming out into daylight, only to feel lost again. Trying to find her way around the palace, and noticing the ledge that wound around the turret. She remembered the guards yelling at her. Remembered turning just in time to see the man pull back his arrow, aiming it at her neck.

  “The guards…” Mary said as she looked at her friend. “They thought I was one of the villagers.”

  “We found you in the courtyard by the front gardens,” Greer said, and Mary could see in her face just how worried she had been. “That guard, James, he realized what was happening, but wasn’t able to stop the other guard in time. He called for help right away.”

  “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Two days,” Greer said. “You woke up at certain points, but then went right back to bed. I worried you’d never wake up.”

  “My head…” Mary said, touching the tender spot just above her ear. “I hit it pretty hard.”

  “It could have been worse. The rosebushes broke most of your fall,” Greer said. “But when you came down, you hit the base of a statue. It knocked you right out.”

  “One of those hideous lions, I’m sure,” Mary said, trying to make a joke.

  Greer pulled Mary’s hand into hers, smoothing the top of her palm with her fingers. “The doctor said you should be all right. The wound on your arm should heal within the month. You cracked your ribs when you hit the ground, though. You’re going to have to take it easy for a while.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem,” Mary said, wincing as she tried to sit up a little further.

  “Oh, Mary…” Greer fussed with the pillows. She bit her lip the way she always did when she was upset. “When I woke up and you weren’t there… I thought the worst. I was so scared. Everything Nostradamus had said, the vision… I thought his prophecy had actually come to pass.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Mary said, squeezing Greer’s hand in her own. “I had this idea, this crazy idea. I realize that now. I was convinced someone was in the tunnels, that I’d surprise them there. I wanted to find them before they could find me.”

  “The tunnels?” Gre
er furrowed her brow.

  “I saw that door, right there,” Mary said, pointing to the tapestry. “The night of the feast. It was open just an inch. I wanted to be sure no one was hiding in there, plotting… trying to kill me.”

  “You couldn’t have found much,” Greer said. “I remember the time I went through them. Just a bunch of rats and some cobwebs, right?”

  “Not exactly…” Mary looked down at her hands. She could still smell the thick congealed blood on the tunnel floor. There was that doll… its worn, beaten face. Who had brought those blankets down there, that food?

  “There was blood,” Mary continued. “Someone must’ve gotten injured passing through. But so few people know about the tunnels.… Who would’ve gone down there?”

  “Are you sure it was recent?” Greer asked. “The tunnels have been used for hundreds of years. Maybe it was from some other reign, some other time, decades past.”

  “It was recent,” Mary said, unsettled by the memory. “But it doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have gone there by myself, not in the middle of the night. It was foolish. I should have told you what I was doing.”

  “So I could have talked you out of it?” Greer smiled. When Mary laughed, she could feel her cracked ribs, the soreness there.

  “Most likely,” Mary admitted. “But that would’ve been a good thing, right? It would have prevented all this.… I wouldn’t be sitting here, my arm in a sling.”

  “I’m just so glad you’re all right,” Greer said. When she looked up, her eyes were filled with tears. “I thought I’d lost you too.”

  “Me too?” Mary asked. Who was Greer talking about… Aylee? Or was it the boy she’d loved before meeting Lord Castleroy, the poor baker Leith?

  Before Greer could respond, the chamber door swung open. Lissy stood there, dropping a quick curtsy. “Your Majesty—”

  “I understand you were mistaken for a peasant,” Catherine interrupted. She swept into the room, pushing past Lissy without a second glance. She stood at the foot of Mary’s bed, her arms crossed over her chest. “Tell me, how does that happen, that a queen could be found climbing the palace walls like a wild heathen? How could you allow yourself to be seen in filthy, dirt-caked nightclothes?”