“I was waiting for—oh, never mind,” I growled. “Go on.”
“He said that so long as your son lived, you would never take the necessary risks.”
Spraki stopped speaking then, squeezing his eyes shut and resting his head on the ground. I jerked the arm I held and he gasped in pain. “Go on,” I prompted.
“He had an idea, and he acted on it,” Spraki said. “It wasn’t my idea. I didn’t know anything about it until he came to me, just before you met with Liut that last time.” His voice took on a pleading tone.
“What did he do?”
“He retrieved your son and brought him back to the palace. We have eyes in many corridors, many rooms and apartments. It was just a matter of looking over what we had recorded—in the laboratory, there’s a contraption that allows for slicing the film and fixing it back together.”
“Slicing the film” meant nothing to me, but I said nothing, hoping he would make his meaning clear.
“He put pieces of the recordings of your son together with pieces of the Officers chasing Alflétta,” Spraki said, as if this confession would explain it all.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“He made it look like the two events happened at the same time. Then when he made me show it to you, it all seemed to happen as though the soldiers, when they were shooting at Alflétta, hit your son. But they didn’t.”
“And the body? You showed me the body on the floor of the corridor!”
“Reister left a heap of clothing there. You saw what he wanted you to see, because it’s what you expected. It wasn’t your son.” Spraki coughed into the pavement.
“But then we were all arrested—”
“Reister was furious about that. Didn’t you hear him? You were there. I thought he would strangle Finnarún in front of the Officers.”
“They weren’t in league? Why didn’t the Officers arrest Reister then?”
“Oh, they were in league,” Spraki said, shifting his free elbow under him to alter his position, I presumed to ease some of his discomfort. “I gather Finnarún couldn’t bear the way the konunger had begun to favor you. Having you arrested was her solution, despite Reister’s plans. I don’t think she knew he wanted you to kill Eiflar, just act as a spy.”
And so he brought me the dagger in my cell, hoping that I would throw myself across the gallows to murder the konunger right before they murdered me. How considerate. How pleased he must be that I’d managed to accomplish the task after all. Although he probably realized that the fact that I had survived the hanging boded ill for him.
I released Spraki and shifted into a crouch at his side. As Spraki moved to a sitting position he gingerly curled the arm I’d twisted around the front of his body, cradling it while eyeing me.
“I expected you’d kill me after I told you what I’d done,” he said.
Pressing my forehead to my hands as I rested on my heels, I answered, “No. I’ve killed three men today. I may yet kill a fourth. But despite all that I’m not so bloodthirsty that I must kill you, too, Spraki.”
It was true enough. I felt untroubled by the arrow that struck Galmr under the chin, or the one that felled the headsman. But the dart imbedded in the back of Eiflar’s neck was harder to forget. I never loved Eiflar, but some part of me still felt a tenderness for him, for the moments he had shared with me—brief glimpses of who he might have been had he not become konunger. I wondered if I would similarly regret killing Reister when I finally found him. Somehow, I doubted it.
Like a dam slowly cracking, first a trickle, then a flood of people poured into the street where we were, all in various stages of dishevelment like the first two from moments before. The battle was breaking up, I surmised, and soon people would try to flee the city much as I intended to once I had Bersi and Kolorma with me again.
As I straightened and dusted myself off, I was startled to see that my feet were still bare. My sprint after Spraki had crisscrossed them with small cuts, but I felt nothing.
“What will you do now?” he asked, watching me.
“Find my son,” I said.
~~~
Alive. Alive. Alive.
The thought echoed with my heartbeat.
First, I went back the way I came only far enough to find a fallen Officer so that I could steal his boots. Pulling them from his feet I scurried like a rat into an alley to put them on. They were still warm, although his body was cooling, and the sensation sickened me. All at once my head spun and my stomach rolled. Except for the berries, I had not eaten in many days, and the excitement of shooting the darts, surviving my execution, and chasing down Spraki had finally worn off.
Alive. Alive. Alive.
I huddled in the alley, watching as people ran by, some sobbing with fear or pain, others sternly focused on the path ahead of them, still others looking around anxiously, eyes wild and rolling. I must find food but the delay rankled me. My hands shook, and my head felt so light. I would not last long this way. I must return to the palace immediately to find Bersi, but my trembling was only worsening with each passing moment. Without a clear plan, I joined the throng as they fled the debacle of the ceremony.
Some turned up the streets that led to the palace, and I let the flow of the crowd guide me, even as my head swam. Up ahead, a half a dozen men brandishing guns flew out of a side street, sending the people they startled away screaming as they shot at them.
As those I had been following doubled back, I stumbled and hid in an alley until most had been dispersed with the rebels after them.
Night would be falling soon, I could tell by the lengthening shadows. Already the sun hid behind the tallest buildings and the light was dimming. I made my way up the streets and thought of the marketplace northwest of the palace. No doubt the merchants had all gone to the Tyrablót, and it would be shut down. A detour to verify this would only expend more precious energy and waste time. I must find food somewhere in the palace, on my way to the Sölbói apartments, where I hoped to find Bersi hidden away. Alive—He was alive!—I cursed my weakness, but it was the baby growing inside me that exacerbated my hunger, I knew. He or she was using what little resources I had, and I must find food or I would soon faint.
My weakened state may explain why I did not foresee the state of the palace when I reached it. However, if I had any doubts as to whether the revolution was truly underway, those were put to rest the moment I stepped onto the wide avenue leading to the step-pyramid.
The trees all down the center of the avenue burned. Officers ran to and fro, as did people in courtly garb and others in simpler attire—rebels. Robots marched purposefully, striking out at Officers when they reached them, with devastating results. Everywhere guns fired, and people dodged. Someone threw a bottle with a flaming rag, and when it hit it an automobile it caused a minor explosion, fire spreading over the vehicle.
I kept to the shadows of the buildings on one side of the avenue. Ahead I saw people running up and down each of the palace’s mechanical stairs. Some carried objects as if attempting to save treasured belongings from a burning building. Others threw things at the people below. On one moving staircase, a man and a woman struggled, the man’s hands around her neck. On another, four robots trooped down although the stairs moved up, and half a dozen people fled before them, a mixture of men and women, the former wearing black jackets and silk ties, the latter in feathers and strings of pearls over glittering dresses.
Had I started this? No. I was the spark, but court and our sovereigns cut down the timber, and Eiflar and Galmr doused it with gasoline, and though I may have lit the blaze, the people were the inferno.
I crept by overturned vehicles that smoked ominously, crouching when the rat-tat-tat of automatic rifles sounded. Running from one obstacle to another, thankful they were there to cover me as I passed, I made my way to the palace. Beside me a running man in a white shirt and black trousers shuddered as great red holes burst in his chest, the rattling gunfire continuing on long after his body
hit the street. I skirted the side of the palace, avoiding the stairs and the main doors, slipping round to the service door I had become so familiar with.
I met no robots as I hurried through the hallways, stopping to catch my breath and try to stop my head from spinning. Down one of these corridors lay the palace kitchens. I had never explored them, using the same path every time to make my way to and from the palace when I needed to do so more subtly. At one intersection, I stopped and looked down the left corridor, then the right corridor, and back again for perhaps ten minutes. I could not afford to get lost looking for the kitchens. Not now, when I was so close to Bersi.
Pushing on, I made my way to the apartments that had served as my home without ever becoming a true one. I rode the lift as I had so many times before, my nails digging into the paneled wall, wishing it would go faster. My body had never felt so heavy, and my stomach rolled with nausea. After that, I had to stop at the top of each flight of stairs and rest my head against the wall, my legs like jelly.
At last, I came to our floor and exited the stairwell. I squared my shoulders and walked into the richly adorned corridor as though I was simply returning from an errand. Soon I saw the uselessness of this attempt at normalcy—two of the five sconces along the wall were broken, and a third flickered lamely. The carpet was rumpled and bloodstains soaked it in several spots. In the distance I could hear screams, gunfire, a low roar. I had wished to tear the palace and the metropolis itself down; and so it seemed I would have my wish.
As I approached the door of the Sölbói apartments my heart tightened; I had no key. But when I arrived and tried the knob, I found the door unlocked. Breathing in deeply, willing my stomach to calm and my body to find some untapped inner source of strength, I entered.
Someone had already been there—maybe several people, if the extent of the destruction was any measure. How much time had passed since my failed execution? The rebels had already been here? Or was this the work of Officers, searching, perhaps, for me? For evidence that I was Raud Gríma? For anything incriminating that they could find, on the advice of Jarldis Vaenn?
I could not know, but the longer I looked at the damage, the more convinced I became that it predated the Tyrablót, and was the work of the Officers of Tyr.
The mirror lay in shards, the chairs overturned, their upholstery sliced open, stuffing pulled out. The vase of silk orchids rested on its side. The mantel clock was dashed on the stones of the cold hearth. One chandelier’s crystals lay scattered about the floor, the frame crushed through the low glass coffee-table. Another hung unevenly from the ceiling, still.
Stepping through the debris I could not believe that Bersi was here. If he was when they came, surely they would have found him. Would they have hurt him? Where would they have taken him?
But as I crushed glass under foot I heard another sound, and froze.
Carefully, as silently as possible, I crept towards the corridor to my room. My heartbeat accelerated, hope spurring me on, and I opened my door to see more destruction beyond. And no sweet face waiting for me. Only every item of clothing tossed about like a great wind had blown through. The chests overturned and emptied. A tall porcelain vase in ruins on the floor. The covers of the bed ripped, and the mattresses yanked free of the frame. If Bersi had hid in here, he had been found.
The sight of my room undid me. I sank to my knees in the doorway and wept.
The sobs shook my body, and made my stomach revolt. I wretched, but nothing came up. Resting on my hands and knees, I hung my head. Then out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of bare feet.
Jolting up, scrambling to stand, I turned to the hallway, and saw my son standing in the doorway of his father’s study, staring at me.
The sight of him paralyzed me. He couldn’t be real. If I moved, he would disappear.
He blinked.
“Bersi…?” I breathed.
I saw his mouth form the word Mama, and I threw myself across the corridor, landing on my knees before him, my arms wrapped round his strong little body, clutching him hard against me, weeping again. Alive. Alive. Alive.
Leaning away to look at his face, I blinked away tears, unable to believe my eyes. He reached out a small, thin hand—so thin—to touch my hair. I took it in mine, kissing it, feeling little bones. Gone were the chubby fingers of his babyhood. Tears rolled from my eyes.
“Mama,” he whispered. “Your hair is red.”
Laughter bubbled from my heart, and I kissed his hand again. “Yes, dearling, it is,” I said. “Do you like it?”
“It looks like fire,” he said in an admiring tone. “Will my hair turn red one day, too?”
“I don’t know, my love. Perhaps,” I said.
He frowned then, gazing at me. “Where were you, Mama? I waited and waited.”
“I know, my dearest, and I am so very sorry to have made you wait so long.”
“The soldiers came, and I hid,” he said, pointing into Reister’s study. I peered over his shoulder. The door to Reister’s bed chamber was ajar. Beyond it, I glimpsed Reister’s closet, which was also open.
“Did you fit yourself in that tiny hole in the closet floor?” I asked, eyes widening.
He nodded, and then his face brightened with a smile. “They never found me,” he said. “If we played hide-and-seek, Mama, you wouldn’t have found me there, either.”
“I don’t suppose I would,” I agreed. With an effort, I got to my feet. “Bersi, it’s very dangerous everywhere right now. We must find you some shoes, and I must find some food for us, and then we must be off. Are you hungry now?”
The simplicity of once again seeing to my son’s needs felt like stepping back into my old self, like meeting an old friend after a long absence.
Bersi slipped his hand in mine. “I’m a bit hungry,” he said. He gazed up at me, a smile on his face. “My shoes are under Papa’s bed,” he added after a moment.
We found his shoes and I helped him on with them, thought it had been years since he’d needed such aid. Then with a nod, I led him to the kitchen, scrounging biscuits from a tin the Officers had left open. The kitchen had not escaped their search. A cheese with a hard outer skin lay on the floor. As I swallowed dry biscuit, I wiped off the cheese and wrapped it in a discarded cloth. The biscuit settled my stomach, and I began to feel stronger. A basket of apples remained in one of the lower cabinets. I gave one to Bersi, took one for myself, and wrapped the remaining four in another cloth. Once I had devoured the apple, I gave Bersi a drink of water and had some myself, then we both went to my room to find a bag for our supplies. I only wished I had a weapon, but there were no knives left in the kitchen, and I had taken everything I had to the machine on the night I’d tried to fetch Bersi from the school.
“What was it like at the school?” I asked him as I sorted through the mess in my room to find a bag.
Bersi stilled. “Hateful,” he said, after a long pause.
As I donned a pair of low-heeled black leather shoes in place of the ill-fitting Officer’s boots, I gazed at him thoughtfully. His eyes, downcast, would not meet mine, and his mouth was set in a firm line. Would he ever tell me what I had left him to endure? I swallowed against a tightening in my throat and rage flowering in my heart. I should have killed them all. I should never have left him there for so long. I should have found him, and killed Illugi and the rest, and—my throat closed on the anger and grief that threatened to overwhelm me.
I had him back now. I must focus on that.
Under the remains of my blue beaded gown I found a large purse and fit the cheese and apples in it. I had just extended my hand to Bersi when Reister appeared in the doorway.
“Myadar,” Reister said. “I see you have at last recovered your son.”
After a frozen moment, I grabbed Bersi’s hand and pulled him behind me. We were trapped in this damned room. I was unarmed. My eyes cast about me for a weapon—anything.
“No thanks to you,” I said.
My eyes lighted o
n a long piece of broken porcelain that lay between me and Reister. My gaze flicked up from it to his face. I would not give away what I had seen; he might reach it before I did.
“Rancor is so unbecoming, Myadar,” Reister said. “He’s safe, is he not?”
“You let me think—” I stopped myself from finishing that he was dead in Bersi’s presence. Clenching my jaw, I took a step closer to the shard.
“The ruse was effective, you must admit,” Reister said.
“The ruse had nothing to do with my actions at the Tyrablót. Nothing you ever did steered me to aid you to attain your goals, Reister. I would have done the deed with or without your intervention, because I made a promise to someone I love.”
Reister’s brow furrowed at that.
“You wouldn’t understand such an idea,” I said, taking another step, my eyes never leaving his face.
Then, quick as a whip, Reister drew a pistol, and I dove for the shard, bringing it up to slice the wrist of the hand that held the gun. Reister yelped, dropping the weapon, and I leapt to my feet and pressed the pointed end of the shard to his throat. I clutched the porcelain sliver so tightly it sliced my fingers and my blood mingled with Reister’s. The tip pierced the skin of his throat as he clasped his left hand over his injured right wrist. Reister leaned his head away from the shard, but I followed his movement, pressing the point in a bit deeper. With one simple thrust I could end his life.
“Mama,” Bersi whimpered behind me. “You’re hurting Papa.”
For a moment my mind argued with my heart: Reister had brought so much pain to us—he was the one who summoned us to Helésey, he was the one who took Bersi from me and locked him in that school, he was the one who set Vaenn and Liut to seduce me, he was the one who wanted to make me his assassin, he made me think Bersi was dead, so that I would throw my life away and leave Bersi motherless, all to satisfy his aims. He deserved to die, and I deserved to be the one to kill him; surely that outweighed the damage seeing his mother kill his father would do to my son.
But it did not.
Baring my teeth at Reister, still pressing the shard’s end to his throat, I reached my free hand behind me, and felt Bersi grasp it.
The City Darkens (Raud Grima Book 1) Page 42