Grim

by Anna Waggener

  Jegud tucked Erika’s hand around his elbow and glanced toward the open palace doors. “You should know by now that Jeremiah always has an escape route.”

  “Yes,” said Uriel, “but you two are here with us. Who does he have left?” He bowed to Erika and turned away with his guest.

  The queen sent away her entire train. She didn’t turn when her bedroom door opened, but she knew who had come in. She recognized his footsteps and hated herself for it.

  “What is it?” she snapped.

  The king hesitated. “I thought …”

  “You thought what, exactly?” She tossed a handful of pearls into the wooden chest that sat open on her bed. “You thought that would be good enough? That little show? Well, it wasn’t.”

  “But —”

  “You put her in the crypt,” the queen said with careful enunciation.

  “She —”

  “You gave her the Sickle!” she screamed, spinning on her heel. Her skirts flew out in a wide bell around her legs. For the first time, the king heard desperation shoot through her voice, and his mother’s selfsame pain. It shamed him. “Not even your own father was that stupid!”

  “It’s nothing,” he whispered. “It’s only a trinket.”

  “A trinket?” The queen’s hand flew to her neck, where her own medallion gleamed; a ring of silver crossed by a pair of sickles. “Then why did I throw my life away for it?” She ripped the necklace off and cast it at her husband’s feet. A pink welt sprung up along the skin of her throat, following the line where the ribbon had lain. “Well, I’ll waste myself no longer,” she spat, “on your little trinket.”

  The first room of the king’s palace resembled a stadium, with a thin line of marble leading to steps that descended to a low-level floor. There, lines of couples waltzed to the vibrato of a string quartet. On the other side of the hall, across from the doors, a platform supported a pair of thrones whose gilded backs reached the skirts of the domed ceiling.

  “The king hasn’t arrived yet,” Jegud said into Erika’s ear. “But keep an eye on Uri and you’ll know exactly when he’s due.”

  Erika had already lost sight of the third prince. He’d vanished into the swirling, dipping crowd of silk, velvet, and organza. The opulence of the hall, radiant with white marble and gold relief, made her head swim, and she stumbled on her way down the steps. Jegud caught her by the waist and waited as she steadied herself against his arm.

  “Too much?” he asked.

  “A bit.”

  He sank down on one of the steps, offering Erika the place beside him. A scatter of other guests were doing the same, putting the staircase to practical use. Erika covered her flushed cheeks as she sank gratefully to the marble.

  “We are the bourgeoisie of the underworld,” Jegud said, a light apology in his voice. “It’s a caste system that Earth’s socialites would kill for. In fact, most of them have.” He smirked. “Only they all end up on the wrong side of the gate.”

  A sharp clap of laughter came from behind them.

  “If it isn’t the fifth son.”

  Jegud turned to his right, where a tall man stood, arms linked with a girl in copper satin.

  “Peter.”

  “My wife.”

  Jegud gave her a flickering smile.

  “You’ve done well, Peter,” he said. “For a roguemaker’s son.”

  “I have,” Peter said. “And is this …?”

  “My wife? No. This is Erika.” Jegud touched her chin. “This is the reason you all are here.”

  “Then I am honored to meet you, Erika,” Peter said, doffing his top hat. His wife dropped a low curtsey.

  “Well, you at least are convinced, darling,” Jegud laughed. “And I hope that you won’t be the only one. But now that I’ve said it, where is my father?”

  Peter checked the empty throne.

  “I couldn’t say,” he admitted. “Fashionably late, I suppose. You’d better hope so, at least.”

  “And why is that?”

  “I’ve heard that Prince Michael brought his own guest early,” Peter said. “A lovely angel from the High Kingdom.” He raised an eyebrow at Erika. “She isn’t …?”

  “No,” Jegud said. “Not quite.”

  “Not that there’s anything …” His voice died in his throat. “Nevertheless, if the contract is being drawn with Michael’s name on the header, then Jeremiah can forget his pardon.”

  Jegud coughed quietly into his fist and Peter’s young bride turned wide-eyed to her husband.

  “Oh, come now,” Peter said. “Everyone knows that you aren’t one for social gallantry, Jegud. You wouldn’t be here at all if Jeremiah hadn’t asked.” He turned away. “But just the same, for your sake and his, I hope that your offer’s face is as pretty as her hair.”

  Jegud glanced at Erika as Peter walked away.

  “Maybe Jeremiah was right,” he said to himself.

  “Right about what?”

  “Oh, nothing. He just said that you reminded him of someone, is all.”

  A yelp came from the yard — high-pitched, miserable, animal, and cut short with a resounding whip crack.

  “Gabriel’s living trumpet,” Jegud muttered, getting to his feet.

  The quartet stopped halfway through its waltz, bows clicking against music stands. The rush of guests found itself greeted by the baying of hunting dogs. Erika let Jegud lead her to the front doors, holding on to his hand as if it were a lifeline.

  For a heartbeat, she thought that she had lost him in the swelling crowd, but then she felt his fingers tighten around her wrist and let herself be sucked out of the throng, vacuumed through like a champagne cork. She took a breath of the crisp night air and smoothed her dress.

  The coach glistened bone white, accented by cream, and drawn by a double line of silver hounds. A handsome gift from the High Kingdom, to serve the needs of the future Middle throne. They were huge, stocky, with dinner-plate paws and long teeth that dripped saliva.

  A procession of black carriages trundled past, serving as a backdrop, matte boxes pulled by high-stepping ponies. Jegud took special note of the last driver, who had forgotten his cap. When the steps of Gabriel’s carriage clattered into place, Jegud’s attention turned back to the prince’s coach.

  A footman leaped from the rear of the carriage and took the curved handles of the cabin door. A break followed, like a slip in time. The air of the courtyard felt alive with the static hum of expectation.

  Gabriel stepped out.

  He had his hat in one hand, and accepted with the other a plain porcelain mask from the footman. He returned the favor with a quick nod and an underbreath whisper. The soft laugh that followed prickled the ears of his neglected audience.

  Then Gabriel turned, his hat and mask still in his gloved hands, and his hair, smooth, freshly clipped, and shining in the candlelight, was a streaked blond that reminded Erika of sun-blanched beach walkers. Gabriel let his eyes wander across the breathless faces, his interest subdued. His own expression was perfectly composed and perfectly patient.

  “Am I late?”

  His audience exploded, applauding, laughing, crowing, glowing, as if a dam had broken and left a rush of water thundering down the king’s front steps. He could have said anything. He could have asked for the jewels from their necks and fingers and hair and they would have stumbled over one another to drop them into his gloved hands. There was rapture in the mob, and, for one glittering moment, it was not the crown or the throne or the Sickle that mattered, but the cradle it had built.

  The curtains flapped against the open window, drawing themselves taut against the wooden sill and then fluttering back into the room as the Middle Kingdom breathed in and out. A cloud, the deep silver-gray of charcoal, slipped over the sill with a gust of wind that smelled of the city below. The specter hovered over the carpet, uncertain, and then a pair of heavy boots lowered themselves from the swirl of smoke. Michael walked across the bedroom, hardly making a sound, and looked at the bure
au. There were paint pots of makeup and pretty blown-glass bottles of perfume. Combs and pins and clean strips of dark linen. There was, also, a single pearl earring and an emerald necklace.

  The second prince smiled.

  Jegud brought Erika to the front of the spectators, but the couple was among the last to seek out the crown prince’s audience for themselves. Jegud leaned against one of the lawn’s marble statues, feigning conversation to keep others away, and kept an eye on his eldest brother.

  “Gabriel’s far from the worst of the family,” he admitted. “I do think he would try for change.”

  “Change in what?”

  Jegud rubbed his forehead. “I couldn’t say. He is a traditional, but underneath all the spit and polish, he has a good heart.” He took her by the arm. “Come on.”

  They walked across the gravel drive to where Gabriel stood, wrapping up a conversation with a High Kingdom ambassador and his two daughters. When the group moved on, Gabriel finally smiled at his brother.

  “Am I seeing ghosts?” he asked, tugging off his glove before he accepted Jegud’s hand. “My father’s favorite son back from a decade’s worth of pilgrimage!”

  “You flatter, Gabriel,” Jegud said. “But I think we all know that the throne’s affections are played by number.”

  If the crown prince felt the sting of those words, he did not affect to show it.

  “Then you will be my favorite, Jegud,” he said. “I would repeat all of this grand entrance nonsense just to see you here, and happy.”

  “Here, in any case,” Jegud said.

  “And with a proposal? The throne will be pleased.” Gabriel bowed to give Erika’s hand a kiss. “You’re an ice princess, milady, with a discourteous chaperone to keep you in the cold. Or is that my fault?” He offered his arm and led her back toward the house. “Your name?”

  “Erika.”

  “Charming. And what brings you and Jegud together, Erika?”

  “Well, I …” She glanced over her shoulder and faltered.

  “Has he gone already?” Gabriel asked. “I would have given him ten minutes more. He’s a matchmaker, Erika — don’t worry. We’ll be seeing him again before long.” He leaned in close to her ear. “Between the two of us, I would say that he’s looking for your actual chaperone.”

  Erika’s heart jumped to her throat. “I don’t understand,” she said. Pounding. Pounding.

  “Don’t be coy, Miss Stripling,” Gabriel murmured. “What kind of an heir would I be if I had fewer eyes than the king himself?” He led her up the stair, taking short steps for her benefit. Her skirts rustled over the gleaming marble. “I find it admirable, but I think my brother hopes too much.”

  “You won’t say anything?”

  “Why should I? I grew up with Jeremiah. I won’t forget that. Right now,” Gabriel said, “it is the king’s business, not mine. Speaking of which, is it too bold to ask for a first waltz with my stepmother-to-be?”

  He hardly waited for an answer. The court could watch, and they could whisper, and Gabriel would never mind, just as long as all the secrets managed to wind their way back into his own pockets.

  Two hours into midday, and the tops of Jeremiah’s shoes were already scuffed. Black leather gone dull from running through sand and gravel, but he knew that his mother wouldn’t care. After all, she wasn’t his mother anymore. Or that’s what Michael said.

  Jeremiah pounded the wall in front of him with one fist, the brick hot against his skin. His stomach flipped at the sound of other shoes behind him — the firm, confident knock of Michael’s heels, the eagerness of Uri’s. They ran because it was more fun than flying; more of a game than snaking their way, dark and smoky, through streets and over buildings. So Jeremiah gathered; he had not been invited to play with them since the queen left, veiled and silent in the night.

  “Jeremy,” came Jegud’s voice above him, hissing down from the rooftops. “Jeremy, hide.”

  Instead of looking up for his brother, Jeremiah spun on his heel and thrust out his chest; he had often been teased for being so small. Michael came around the corner. Jegud cursed.

  “Stop following me!” Jeremiah shouted. His voice flew too fast and high-pitched through the humid air, the only thing in the city not rolled in sweat and dust. Michael still came forward, but he slowed, shoving a handful of dark hair out of his face. The grease of Limbo stood out on his skin, dark smudges across his nose and cheekbones. His smile sparked with August sun.

  “If you weren’t pressing your dirty nose against my windows,” he said, “I wouldn’t follow.”

  Jeremiah gritted his teeth. “Stop it. Stop saying that. You can’t scare me.”

  “You can’t scare me,” Michael parroted, voice shot to a trembling falsetto. “Thou shalt not lie, Jeremy.”

  Uriel shot past the alleyway and then backtracked, panting. He flashed to smoke and sped up to Michael’s side, then changed again. He glanced at his big brother to gauge the situation.

  “I told you not to cheat, Uri,” Michael said. “It sets a bad example.”

  Jeremiah looked up, careful to move his eyes but not his chin, gauging the distance to the top of the building. To Jegud. To someplace out of the streets and back to the big empty house that his father said was safe.

  Michael’s fist closed around his neck and slammed him backward into the wall.

  “You said not to shift,” said Uriel, running forward, his edges blurring like he thought he should change too. “You cheated.”

  “He’s getting ideas,” said Michael, words sticky against Jeremiah’s ear. “Aren’t you, little Jeremy?”

  Then Jegud was with them, feet puffing up dust as they touched step-smoothed cobbles. His fist connected with Michael’s jaw and propelled him back, mouth frothing spit and curses. Jegud’s face had gone red, his skin as rosy as it was the afternoon Jeremy had found him in the woods with the son of a courtier and his laces undone. Embarrassment then, but anger now, and maybe fear caught up between them both.

  “He’s still our brother,” Jegud shouted. Michael wiped away saliva with the back of his hand.

  “He’s a halfie,” Michael said. “A whore’s son.”

  Jegud punched him again and then looked at Jeremiah.

  “Go, you idiot!”

  The three of them shifted at once. Clouds of black and gray smoke tumbled over one another until one dove-colored blur shot up and disappeared over a lip of brick rooftop. Jeremiah re-formed and peered over the ledge, hair falling in his face, his face gone pale. He heard a flutter behind him and spun to catch Selaph staring, arms hanging at his sides, his expression thoughtful.

  Sharp sun licked them both, burning the bricks beneath their feet, sucking the color from their clothes. Selaph tilted his head, barely enough to notice, off in the direction of Jeremiah’s new home. Then he shifted into smoke, clean white as milk, and flew past his little brother, plunging off the rooftop.

  “He’s gone,” Selaph said, voice calm in the alley. “Follow me.”

  Jeremiah dropped to his knees and hid behind the searing bricks as he watched his brothers shoot off down the alley. He shifted to smoke himself and streaked away, back to the place he had been told to call home.

  Jegud walked into the stables just as Jeremiah came down the aisle to leave.

  “My God,” Jegud hissed. “How brash can you be?”

  “Plenty, thank you.”

  “In Gabriel’s own train?”

  “He didn’t say anything, did he?”

  “No.” Jegud’s face clouded. “Jeremiah, don’t tell me that he saw you!”

  “I’m sure he did.”

  Jegud leaned against one of the stall doors and let out a long, wandering sigh.

  “Gabriel never misses much,” Jeremiah said. “But how else was I supposed to get in?”

  “You weren’t. That’s why I came in the first place.”

  “I had to see how things went.”

  “You couldn’t wait to hear?”

&nbs
p; “Storytelling doesn’t have the flavor of the moment.”

  Jegud grabbed Jeremiah by his lapels and shoved him against the wall.

  “Don’t you understand?” he spat. “Don’t you see at all? You think that you can do anything, because you’ve always gotten away with it, but that won’t work anymore! They want you gone, Jeremiah. You’re so afraid of Father, but it’s Michael who wants to bury you. Michael and trigger-happy Uriel, who can’t quite believe that this is no longer a game. Open your eyes, Jeremiah.”

  “What do you want me to see?”

  “The truth,” Jegud snapped. “Michael knows that he’s second for the throne, and wants his own children there after that. He wants that crown on his own head, and he’ll kill for it. He’ll kill Gabriel and he’ll kill me and he’ll certainly kill you. You think of that as brotherly love? To hell with you, then! This isn’t family, Jeremiah, this is politics.” Jegud let go of his brother’s jacket and turned away. “You’ve been fighting to get in all this time, when you should have been begging to get as far away as possible.”

  “Like you?”

  “Yes, like me,” Jegud said, unaffected by the snub.

  “If you’ve finished, then I’d like a breath of air.”

  “You’ve used us, Jeremiah,” Jegud said, sounding tired. “You’ve used all of us. Anyone who ever tried to help you. Gabriel may not care that you’ve come, but there are other people in the audience and you’re throwing yourself on full display. What do you think the council will make of this?”

  “You’re overreacting,” Jeremiah said. “I’m not as stupid as you make me out to be, Jegud. I won’t be killed over this.”

  “And if you are?”

  “No one will blame you.”

  “I’m not worried about the blame.”

  “Then don’t act like it,” Jeremiah said, and headed out into the night.

  A rumor of the king’s arrival and disguise began to circulate; Erika overheard the warnings that were offered in the strictest confidence to Gabriel. He listened to each with a feigned gravity, as if this or that mention was the first he had heard.