Jacob took the sack with Louis’s hair from his pocket. His only hope of getting the gate to let them pass as friends. And a faint hope it is, Jacob. Clinging to the pouch was Earlking’s card:
You don’t need the prince’s hair.
Fox looked over Jacob’s shoulder. The green ink kept writing.
Hurry, my friend.
You should have shot that goyl.
The crossbow is so close.
Friend—the word never sounded more fake. Jacob looked up at the Iron Gate. The Red Fairy was also once that helpful. He threw away the card and took the prince’s hair from the pouch.
Another Preacher appeared on the steps. Fox aimed her pistol at him, but he kept walking until he saw the bodies. His grimy coat was covered in thick layers of metal and glass—it really did look like armor. The gate to heaven. Fox struck him down as he stood and stared at the dead. Jacob and Fox been there too long already. A few more hours and they’d start pinning glass and tin to their own clothes.
Jacob took a step toward the gate. It was so high that a Giantling could have carried him through on his shoulders. Most of the gates from Guismond’s era had been built to accommodate Giants. Guismond had some in his service. Their graves were in the mountains, not far from the Dead City.
Jacob put his hand into the pouch. His fingers were going to smell of Louis’s cologne. Not a pleasant thought. He closed his fist around the ash-blond strands. Louis was only very distantly related to Guismond, so his hair would work like a quietly whispered password. But this was their only hope of not being treated like intruders.
Jacob wouldn’t have been surprised if the gate had melted the skin off his fingers. There were legends of monsters that came forth from its iron. The bodies around them did look like they’d encountered just that. Yet as soon as he reached out his hand, the metal burst open like the skin of an overripe fruit. It split into two wings, and each wing sprouted a handle, like an iron bud. They were shaped like wolves’ heads, and even as their teeth were still growing from their pointy snouts, Jacob could feel the wind brushing across the glowing metal until the entire gate was again back to its cool shimmering gray.
You don’t need the prince’s hair.
What had Earlking meant by that? A lie, to see Jacob killed like the ragged men around them? No matter…
Fox and Jacob exchanged a glance.
The passion for the hunt. Was that what bound them, more than anything else?
She smiled at him. Fearless. Yet Jacob could still recall the white fear he’d made her drink in the Bluebeard’s chamber. Over the past months, they had both learned the limits of their fearlessness.
He closed both hands around the wolves’ heads. He thought he’d need all his remaining strength to open the heavy iron gates, but they opened without resistance, with a sigh that sounded like the death rattle from the gilded lips of Guismond’s head.
The air rushing toward them was icy, and the darkness that awaited them behind the gate was so complete that Jacob was blind for a few steps. Fox took his arm until his eyes had adjusted to the darkness. The hall they had entered was empty, except for the pillars that supported a ceiling somewhere in the darkness above. The echo of their steps bounced between the high walls like the flapping of stray birds.
Fox looked around as the cries of a child came through the silence. The screams of a woman soon joined them. Then the voices of quarreling men.
“Stop!” Jacob whispered to Fox.
The voices faded, as though they were moving away, but they would be audible for hours before they died away completely. The Steps of the Dead. A Dark Witch spell. Every step they took stirred the past: words spoken, screamed, or whispered in the palace. And not just words. Pain. Anger. Despair. Madness. Every emotion would become manifest. The darkness surrounding them was woven from sinister threads. They were going to have to be very quiet, lest they get choked by them.
Jacob could make out three corridors in the dark. As far as he could see, they were in no way different from one another. He pulled from his pocket the pale yellow candles Valiant had given him. He and Fox had used candles like these before in places where they’d had to split up. If one of them was snuffed out, so was the other. Fox got out some matches. Then she silently took the burning candle from Jacob’s hand. The voices again grew louder as their steps rang out on the tiles. Guismond had killed most of the Witches, whose blood and magic he’d stolen, in the dungeons of this palace. The screams were becoming so loud that Fox clearly had trouble walking on. She looked around at Jacob one last time, and then the light of her candle disappeared into one of the corridors. She had chosen the middle one.
Left or right, Jacob? He turned left.
60
THE RIGHT SKIN
One of the Preachers had a fresh sword wound. Nerron shot him dead before his filthy fingers could write his madness onto his skin. The Waterman had already been touched by one, but that didn’t seem to worry him. Maybe he felt immune to human madness. Eaumbre had soon realized that the tracks they were following were not Louis’s, but he didn’t turn around. The palace that had risen above the ruins was too tempting.
It reminded Nerron of the fortresses a clan of moonstone Goyl had built a long time ago against the onyx. Kami’en now used the strongholds as prisons, for they were particularly deep underground.
The ragged lunatics were the only danger they faced in the empty streets, and most of them just let themselves get shot by the Waterman like clay pigeons. It seemed the centuries had weathered the Witch Slayer’s magic, like the city he’d once ruled. Eaumbre was disconcerted by the stone faces staring at them from the walls, but Nerron was not affected. They just proved how much the Doughskins were like his own kind.
When they reached the stairs that led up to the palace, they found Reckless’s and the vixen’s prints like scorch marks on the snowy steps. The snow was now falling ever thicker, tiny icy flakes that felt like stings on Nerron’s stone skin. He hated the cold, and he felt such a sudden longing for the warm womb of the earth that it made him sick. The Waterman, however, just mutely rubbed some snow into his dry skin before he started the ascent.
The scene that awaited them at the top of the stairs proved that the stories about the Lost Palace and its Iron Gate were not just the fruit of some poet’s lively imagination. The charred and ravaged corpses were real, but Nerron could see neither Reckless nor the vixen among the dead.
Where were they? The tracks on the snowy plaza allowed only one conclusion: His rival was already inside the palace.
Damn. How?
Nerron approached the gate, and the iron began to glow immediately. Eaumbre pulled him back as the metal warped to form a mouth. Mouths, claws. The whole gate was coming alive. Spiny necks arching, scaly paws sprouting lava-red claws of iron.
The Waterman stumbled backward over the bodies.
But Guismond had not expected a treasure hunter with a stone skin. In his time, the Goyl had been nothing more than a dark fairy tale.
To protect him from the claws, Nerron wore the kind of lizard shirt that had already saved Hentzau’s and Kami’en’s lives at the Blood Wedding. And the jade machete that he’d had made especially for the Iron Gate by a Goyl smithy sliced through the necks and paws as though Guismond’s gate produced only monsters of wax. Nerron hacked and pierced until his clothes were stiff with cooling metal. Reckless was not among the dead, so there had to be way in. Nerron split a head before its muzzle could swallow his head; he cut off paws barbed with dozens of needle-sharp talons. Reckless was not among the dead. There had to be a way!
His arms were already growing heavy when the Waterman finally came to his aid. The heat of the iron scalded his skin, but he fought valiantly. Soon they were both standing to their knees in shattered metal. Their own panting rang in their ears. Reckless is not among
the dead, Nerron. Damn it, there has to be a way! And indeed, suddenly the iron was just iron again, and the gate formed a frieze of skulls. Guismond’s crest appeared on the glowing surface, and a barely visible crack appeared.
Touching the hot iron was painful, despite his stone skin. It hurt so much that Nerron felt as though his bones were melting. But pain was something the Goyl cared much less about than humans did, and finally Nerron managed to force his finger through the crack. The opening he wrestled from the iron was barely big enough to squeeze himself through. The Waterman smelled of burnt fish by the time he joined Nerron on the other side. Behind them, the gate closed itself with a sound like the dull gong of a bell.
The cold that greeted them brought a relieved sigh from the Waterman, and even Nerron was grateful for the respite it gave to his scorched skin. Through the darkness that surrounded them like the fur of a black cat, Nerron caught the scent of Witch magic. Eaumbre gave him a startled look when he heard the voices, but Nerron smiled. A Step-Spell. He once knew a treasure hunter who was driven to madness by it, but nothing left a clearer trail. Once the voices were aroused, they could be heard for hours. You simply had to follow them.
“You stay here and watch the gate!” he said to the Waterman. Maybe Reckless was already on his way back with the crossbow.
But Eaumbre shook his head. “No, thank you!” he whispered. “I’ve been the doorman for far too long. Anything I find is mine, right?”
“As long as it isn’t the crossbow.”
The scaly face stretched into a scornful grin.
“Right. I’d forgotten. A crossbow is not what you’re after,” Nerron muttered. “But I’m sure you can find treasure you can lay at some girl’s feet. There should be enough for a dozen.”
The look from Eaumbre’s six eyes grew icy. “We only ever love one, for a whole life.”
“Sure. Just that they don’t tend to live very long under your care.” Nerron went to the first corridor and listened. Nothing. But the voices of the dead echoed out of the other two. Reckless and the vixen had obviously split up. Couldn’t afford to waste any time when you had death lurking in your chest.
The Waterman disappeared without a word into the first corridor. Nerron decided on the one to the left.
61
AT THE GOAL
Jacob had been in many enchanted palaces. Every door could mean danger, and every corridor could end in a trap. Stairs disappeared. Walls opened up. But not here. Open doors, halls, courtyards. Guismond’s palace breathed him in like an animal whose stone innards were fermenting the past like an indigestible poison.
Horses scraping in empty stables. Weapons clanging on empty courtyards, the stars above still hidden behind dark clouds. Children’s voices from deserted nurseries. Invisible dogs growling. And all the time screams, echoing through the dark halls and corridors. Screams of fear. Screams of pain… Jacob felt Guismond’s madness like grime on his skin.
He found rooms filled to the ceiling with treasure, armories with such precious swords that every one of them would have fetched enough to renovate Valiant’s castle. But Jacob barely looked at them. Where was the crossbow?
He wondered whether he should have taken one of the other corridors. He kept glancing at the candle in his hand, but its flame kept burning steadily. Fox was having no more luck than he.
Hurry, my friend.
You should have shot the goyl.
The crossbow is so close.
He spun around a dozen times, thinking he’d heard steps, but all that followed him were the ghosts he’d aroused. Maybe that was Guismond’s magic: to make them roam his palace until they lost themselves in his past, becoming one of the ghosts whose voices were haunting them.
Another door.
Open, like the others.
The hall behind it seemed to have been an audience chamber once. The tiles on the floor were worn from countless boots, and the weathered stucco was streaked with the soot of long-snuffed torches. Jacob could feel anger, like acrid smoke, despair, hatred. The voices were whispering, dampened by fear.
Carry on, Jacob.
The door at the end of the hall bore Guismond’s crest.
He stepped through it—and took a deep breath.
He’d reached his goal.
Guismond’s throne chamber also brought the past to life, but not through voices. Jacob heard only his own steps echo through the silence. Here, just as in the tomb, Guismond’s lost world was evoked in paintings on the walls and ceiling. Their color was hauled out of the darkness by swarms of will-o’-the-wisps. Battlefields, castles, Giants, Dragons, an army of Dwarfs, a sinking fleet, the city that was now crumbling outside, filled with people. The frescoes were painted so masterfully that Jacob forgot for a few breaths what he’d come here for. On the wall to his left was one particular picture that made him pause. A band of knights was galloping, swords drawn, through a silver archway. Their livery was white, like that of Guismond’s knights, and it was emblazoned with a red sword, but also with a red cross above the sword. Where had he seen this before? The Livonian Brothers of the Sword, Jacob. A knights’ order from his world, disbanded more than eight hundred years earlier, after they had usurped large parts of northern Europe. Jacob looked at the archway. It was covered with silver flowers.
Jacob had always wondered whether there was only the one mirror.
The answer was obviously no.
He looked around. The throne stood in the center of the room. Narrow steps led up to the stone chair. The armrests and the back were upholstered in gold. An effigy of Guismond was staring at Jacob from empty eyes. But Jacob was looking for a mirror. And there it was, at the rear end of the room. It was huge, nearly double the size of the one in his father’s room. The glass was just as dark, but the flowers on the frame were not roses; they were lilies, just like on the archway in the picture. A skeleton stood next to the mirror, holding a golden clock in its bony hands. No clocks had existed in this world in Guismond’s time. But they had on the other side.
Jacob! Only the pain in his chest finally reminded him why he’d come here. He turned his back to the mirror and went to the throne.
The statue sitting on the throne wore the Warlock’s cat-fur coat, but it also showed Guismond as a warrior king. The helmet, which encircled his face, was shaped like the mouth of a wolf. Beneath the coat Jacob saw knee-length chain mail, as well as the white tunic with the red sword. Jacob had so often looked at the silver ringlet that surrounded the sword and never thought anything of it. Guismond sat with his legs apart, like a man who’d conquered a world. After he’d arrived here from another.
At the bottom of the steps stood a stool, and on it, on a golden cushion, lay a crossbow.
Jacob blew out the candle.
The tiles beneath his feet formed a round mosaic with Guismond’s crest. The stool with the crossbow stood right on top of the crowned wolf’s head.
Jacob was just a few steps from the stool when the moth took its final bite.
He dropped to his knees. He saw, heard, felt nothing, only pain. It seared the final letter from his memory like acid. The Dark Fairy had her name back. Then the moth rose from his skin. It peeled its furry body from his flesh as from a bloody cocoon and began to flap its wings. Jacob heard his scream echo through the throne room, and he flailed in agony on Guismond’s crest as the moth fluttered off, back to its mistress, taking her name—and his life—with it. All she left behind was the imprint on his raw flesh, and Jacob lay there and waited for his heart to stop. It stumbled and raced, clinging to the last bit of life left in his body.
Get up, Jacob! But he didn’t know how. He just wanted the pain to end, this hunt to be over, and Fox to be with him.
Get up, Jacob. For her.
He felt the cold of the tiles through his clothes and on his pain-numbed skin.
Get up.
62
EXTINGUISHED
The voices were terrible. They quarreled. Screamed. Cried. They were waiting behind every door, and as Fox drifted from room to room, from hall to hall, she found gold and silver, haphazardly piled loot from plundered cities, chests filled with precious clothes, golden plates on empty tables (which briefly brought back the memories of the Bluebeard’s dining room), beds under blood-red canopies, jewel-encrusted furniture. The light of her candle peeled them out of the darkness like unreal images—and the opulence just whispered of Guismond’s madness. The entire palace was a ghost. All the voices, the sinister hunger permeating it… the dead life that didn’t want to die.
The trembling flame lit a writing room. Books. Maps. A globe. The hide of a black lion spread out on the floor. The patterns on the carpet that hung on the wall announced that it could fly.
The candle died.
Fox felt her heart beat faster.
He’d found it.
Jacob had found the crossbow.
She shifted shape. The vixen would get to him much faster.
Jacob would live.
All was well.
63
THE TRAP
On your feet, Jacob. The pain began to subside, but his heart was sputtering as though every beat could be the last.
Never mind, Jacob. Just a few steps.
Take the crossbow. Fox will be here soon.
He actually managed to get up.
What if she didn’t find him in time? Do you want to shoot that bolt into your own chest, Jacob? The thought was almost funny.
From this close, the figure on the throne looked so lifelike, as though Guismond had created it from flesh and blood. The dead eyes stared right through Jacob as he stepped toward the stool. Heavens. His feet were stumbling as badly as his heart.
Reckless II Page 25