From Under the Mountain

by Cait Spivey

  “They were banished the year you left. They tried to steal Neria’s Shield from my mother’s study, and she cast them out. They’ve been quiet ever since, but now Mother believes they are working black magic and damaging the curtain between life and death.”

  Bridget frowned. She dug her fingers into her hair and massaged her scalp.

  “Do you know where they are, Bridget?”

  “What, do ye think I know everything that goes on in Del?”

  “Yes.”

  She laughed and sat down on a bench, pulling her legs up and sitting cross-legged.

  “I don’t know everything, Desmond, but I do know this. I know that we can’t get into the old prison tower no more. It’s warded strong; ain’t no one I know likes to get near to it. Been that way about a year. And I know that the Mongers don’t go into the Vale no more. They say it’s haunted, say there’s evil afoot in the woods. Brigands, scared of ghosts, can you imagine?” She tilted her head to one side. “Might be they’re connected. Might be it ain’t ghosts scaring Marcus’s men.”

  “The prison tower,” Desmond said.

  “Aye.”

  He frowned at the cellar floor. The old prison tower hadn’t been used by the crown in one hundred years. It was just outside the palace walls. If the Maravilla twins had taken up residence there, that put them dangerously close to Guerline.

  “Get back to your empress, Desmond. I’ll go to the tower,” Bridget said.

  He looked up. “What? No. I’ll come with you.”

  “Empress needs you a good deal more than I do, witch-son. Do as I say and move your flat arse!”

  Desmond stood up quickly, groaning as he hit his head on the ceiling, and started up the stairs. He stopped just as he lifted the door, looked behind him, and then back at Bridget.

  “My arse is not flat!” he said.

  Bridget’s laughter followed him all the way out of the tavern.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was long after dark when Guerline settled into bed. Dinner, a meal for her and Desmond and Eva together, had begun tense, but eventually they’d shed their new political selves—Guerline, at least, had pretended she was as she had been before, a second-child with no need to spend time thinking of who might be plotting against her. Eva and Desmond had even achieved a sort of stalemate born of their desire to entertain Guerline, as Desmond told stories of his travels and Eva provided wry commentary. The effect had Guerline laughing for hours, long after their food was gone, and she was almost happy. Desmond was, if nothing else, a fine dinner guest. He had brought bad news, but he also managed to make her forget about it, and everything else.

  Almost everything. He couldn’t do anything about the new tension she felt in his presence. It wasn’t constant, but every now and then she’d turn to him and catch a look on his face, one she had not seen often before but which lent new significance to her behavior toward him. She’d found it difficult to stay aware of it during the afternoon they spent alone together. Sometimes, she would forget, fall back into their casual sibling-like rapport, and then he would put his hand on her back a little lower than he used to, press a little harder than he once would have. He touched her bare shoulders over and over again, lingering caresses, his hand hanging against her skin and running across her neck or her chest if she turned.

  Remembering those uncomfortable moments chipped away at her relief and relaxation, and tension crept over her again. She took deep breaths and waited for sleep, trying to keep her mind blank.

  Eva had come upstairs with her after dinner, and they had spent the sunset in each other’s arms—but when the sun was gone and they sought sleep in earnest, Eva could not be still, tossing and turning. Guerline had tried to comfort her, but whatever disturbed Eva had made her irritable. Eventually, she had stormed out; between this and the new awkwardness with Desmond, Guerline actually found herself grateful for a night alone.

  She missed the moment when her eyes finally closed, because rather than the blackness of her eyelids, she still saw her own room. It took a moment to understand that she was dreaming. Her mind swam. Her fingers tingled on the edge of numbness. No longer on the bed, she stood in the middle of her chambers. Every object took on a curiously sharp aspect. The hard lines of her furniture glinted like daggers in the red light of the setting sun.

  The nightmare was upon her.

  Someone pounded on the door. Her brother opened it without waiting for her leave and walked into the room. He shoved the door shut behind him.

  They looked very much alike, she and Alcander, except that he was nearly two heads taller than her. They both had red-gold hair and freckled brown skin, and they were both solidly built, though her flesh was soft where his was muscled. Were he not three years older, they might have been twins. He smiled at her.

  “Are you ready, Lina?”

  Darkness fell around her and the torment began. The part of her that remained horrifyingly lucid during her restless sleep struggled to wake, but was weighed down by the emotions of her dream self and by the questions dropped on her from above like falling stones in an avalanche. Why now, when it had been at least a week since her last nightmare? And why had the pattern ruptured, why was this the first memory in the cycle when it was usually the last?

  Her dream self and her lucid self both cried out as her dream self lunged for the knife, the knife that had been a gift from Eva. The beam of hope her dream self always felt as her fingers wrapped around the dagger hilt burned her lucid self—it was an intoxicating wave of triumph and anger, and it called for her to give herself over to it. But lucid Guerline knew how quickly that beam was snuffed out, how easily Alcander knocked the dagger from her hand.

  Trapped in the nightmare, weaponless, she trembled and froze and wept as she wondered how to get through it alive, as that word became the only thing she could think, as she shut her eyes and those two syllables became her pounding heartbeat.

  a-live, a-live, a-live, alive, alive, alive alive ALIVE

  On the night of the incident, Guerline had been saved, ironically, by the news that her parents had been stricken with the flesh-eating curse.

  The nightmare did not include that, though. It continued as if Eva and Josen had never decided to summon Guerline as well as Alcander, as if they had not arrived just after the dagger thudded to the floor. The part of Guerline that was lucid tried to pull herself away from the nightmare, thrust herself above the will to stay alive and into the certainty that she had survived. She remembered her bedroom door closing as Alcander left with Josen, over and over again, cementing it until the slamming of the door punctuated her mantra.

  a-live, SLAM, a-live, SLAM, a-live, SLAM

  Lucid Guerline shuddered from the effort. Fear sliced her, but amazingly, the nightmare did not jump back to the beginning of the assault, nor did it proceed without intervention. Alcander left with Josen, and Evadine rushed toward Guerline’s bed.

  Guerline reached for her, but when their hands met, it was not Eva’s skin she touched. The hand in hers was pale as milk, and, with the certainty that she had done this very thing before, she followed the hand up an arm and saw in full the girl who had visited her the night of her family’s death, and so many times since then. The girl’s eyes widened, and she turned away, pulling her hand out of Guerline’s grasp; but Guerline lunged forward and seized the girl’s black robe—

  Hot, bitter-smelling air sucked the breath from her lungs, and a roaring wind buffeted her with grit. She squinted against the barrage and saw that she stood in a grey desert. The sky was like charcoal above them, swirling with dark fog, and the land around flat as far as she could see. Something crawled over her foot; she jumped back and looked down, and saw that the earth was infested with creeping lizards, small and frantic, running as if from some predator Guerline could not see. Animal cries pierced the wind and sent chills down Guerline’s spine.

  She looked up again and saw the girl, her white brow lined with an incredulity that was somehow familiar. Her
cascade of blonde hair remained still, even as Guerline’s unbraided twists were like whips around her.

  “You’re not meant to be here,” the girl said.

  “Where are we?” Guerline asked.

  “You’re no witch,” the girl said. Guerline wondered if she had heard the question and chose to ignore it, or whether her voice had been carried away by the winds that did not appear to touch this creature. Her tone was one of mild confusion, and gave Guerline no clues as to who this girl was and where she had been taken. Was she a witch? What landscape was this? Was Guerline still dreaming?

  “That is true,” Guerline replied. “Please, where are we? Who are you?”

  The girl stepped in close to Guerline, and the wind died down to nothing, as if the girl was surrounded by a calm within the storm. She resisted the sigh of relief that wanted to escape her chest and kept her eyes on the girl—the pale-skinned, golden-haired creature she forgot often but recognized instantly.

  “Who could have predicted this?” the girl whispered, lifting her starlit fingers to Guerline’s cheek.

  At her touch, an incredible sense of joy, like galloping across verdant fields, overcame Guerline and she could not suppress a gasp. The girl smiled at her, a brilliantly bright smile that chased away the dark grey fog swirling around them.

  Guerline awoke as abruptly as she’d fallen asleep. The red light of evening was gone, and her room was black with full night again. Her chest rose and fell with a steadiness that belied her agitation. She sat up and stared into the darkness.

  What was that place to which she’d been dragged?

  And her nightmare had returned. She could feel her hands trembling against the covers, just as they had the night of the incident. She’d spent the rest of the night assuring Eva that she was fine, though inside, she’d wrestled with whether or not to tell Eva what happened. By morning, all she’d wanted was to pretend it had never happened, because if she acknowledged the danger, she would also be forced to acknowledge that there was nothing to be done. Her parents were alive but unable to speak, and Alcander had become emperor in all but title. The incident was pushed to the back of everyone’s minds. Alcander was drawn constantly away by his newfound duties as their parents deteriorated. Though she kept Eva’s dagger in the open instead of in the drawer, Guerline had kept silent.

  Yet, she knew: if Alcander had not also died, he would have come again.

  Rage welled up in her. She got out of bed and rushed to her dressing table. She felt around in the dark until she found it: a glass cat as large as a man’s fist, a gift given to her by Alcander for her last birthday. The cat was in a stretching pose, its forelegs flat on the ground, head tucked, spine arched and tail curved like a scythe.

  She ran her fingers over it; then she threw it as hard as she could against the wall.

  It shattered with a sound like a human scream, and Guerline felt a gust of wind. She walked carefully over to her sole window, but it was closed. Her heart sped up. Something brushed her arm. She spun around to face her door. A sound like laughter rumbled down her body and she froze.

  The familiarity of the experience sickened her. She swallowed her fear and spoke up.

  “Who’s there?”

  The door swung open and she screamed. It was Alcander, bare-chested, his skin yellow-grey and his throat dripping red. She saw him clearly in the dark, his image flashing as if illuminated by lightning.

  Then the lightning stopped and was replaced by a soft white orb that grew until it was larger than the one who held it. It was not Alcander at all; it was Undine.

  She took a step forward and looked down with a hiss when her feet touched the shattered glass.

  “Guerline? What happened?”

  She walked carefully toward Guerline and put a hand on her arm. Guerline swayed and sat down on the bed, and it was then that she realized her hem was dirty. She brushed a spot of dust, and it came away silty and soft on her fingers. It was ash. Tears touched the corners of her eyes, though she could not say what she wept for. She blinked them back and flicked her blankets over her lap to hide the hem of her nightgown.

  “Only a dream,” she said.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Desmond knocked on the large black door that led to Guerline’s private chambers. There was no answer for a moment, so he knocked again. Guerline herself opened the door and stepped back, her hands working at the front of her silk overdress, the open-front sort that Evadine had been wearing yesterday at dinner. He stared and realized she was closing it. She must have only just finished her morning toilette, and alone, by the look of it. Her handmaiden was nowhere to be seen.

  “Did you sleep well?” he asked.

  One corner of her mouth lifted in what was not quite a smile. “How did you find your rooms?”

  “Perfect, as always,” Desmond laughed. “May I come in?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll call for some breakfast—have you eaten yet? And you can tell me more about these rogue witches and what’s going on with Thiymen.”

  Business was the last thing he wanted to discuss, but at least she was inviting him to do it here in her private rooms instead of moving into the council chamber or the throne room. And he really did need to get her up to date on the information he’d learned thus far; if only he weren’t still so distracted, imagining her in her undergarments just moments before he came to see her.

  Perhaps he could put off the business for a bit longer. He shut the door behind him and followed her into the room, close on her heels. When she turned around, he grabbed her hand and held it tightly between his. She gasped; he wrapped an arm around her waist.

  He’d opened his mouth to suggest that they sneak into the kitchens for a snack, like they used to do, when Lord Warren burst through the door.

  A glare crossed his face briefly when he saw Desmond standing a mere inch or two from Guerline. Desmond tried hard not to grin. Lord Warren composed himself and bowed hastily.

  “Your Majesty. Master Kavanagh. I’m sorry to interrupt, but you must come quickly. Both of you. Something is wrong.”

  Desmond and Guerline exchanged a quick glance before following Lord Warren out of the room and down the tower steps. The tall northerners quickly outpaced Guerline’s short gait. Glancing over his shoulder, Desmond put a hand on the Lord Engineer’s arm. They slowed, and Guerline, holding her dress out of the way of her feet, caught up to them.

  “What’s happening, Theodor?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure, Guerline-basi,” he said. “All I know is that people are beginning to gather outside the palace gates. And some of them appear to be carrying corpses.”

  “What?” Desmond asked.

  “I know. I can’t imagine why, but that’s what I was told,” Lord Warren said. “Hopefully the guards will have more information for us when we get to the front hall.”

  Guerline stopped abruptly. Desmond spun around and stared at her.

  Lord Warren stopped too. “Guerline-basi?”

  “Dead things. More dead things, at my doorstep,” she whispered.

  Desmond walked over and stood directly in front of Guerline. It took several moments for her eyes to focus on him, first on his chest and then on his face. Her eyes narrowed, and she gave the tiniest shake of her head. Then she pushed past him and took off. Without a word, Desmond and Lord Warren followed, after exchanging worried looks. Desmond had noticed Guerline unfocus like that several times during the previous night’s dinner, her expression going vacant, and then flickering with fear for the span of a heartbeat before returning to normal. More dead things? He gritted his teeth in annoyance with himself. He should have come to the capital as soon as he heard the emperor and empress were stricken. He should have been with her this whole time.

  When they arrived, they saw several of the councilors and two dozen or so guards gathered before the door, talking heatedly.

  “Guerline!” Evadine said when she spotted them approaching. She hurried over, threw her arms around Guerl
ine, and kissed her on the mouth. Desmond jerked to a stop and watched, shock-like pressure in his skull, as their kiss deepened.

  Evadine pulled back and whispered rapidly, “I’m so sorry about last night, Lina—”

  “Don’t worry, love,” Guerline replied, kissing her again, “don’t worry, I forgive you.” She broke away and strode toward the guards, her hand gripping Evadine’s.

  “Who can tell me what is going on outside? Josen?” she said.

  The Captain of the Palace Guard stepped forward and bowed. Desmond bit the inside of his bottom lip to stifle his scowl and ran up to the rest of them. No wonder Guerline was so willing to be lenient with Evadine.

  No wonder she was so stiff under his hands.

  “Your Majesty, the gatherings started this morning,” Josen said. “At first it was only a few people. They were demanding to see you. We told them that you were not holding court today, and that you would see them tomorrow. They went away from the gate, but a few hours later they came back, and there were more of them. Since then, more and more people have been coming, from all over the city it appears. Some of them are carrying corpses with them.”

  “Why on earth have they brought corpses? Are they newly dead, or have the people been plundering the catacombs?” Guerline asked.

  “We finally sent a few men out to inquire. It appears that all those gathered have recently deceased family members or friends. They’ve all been holding their watches, but the Thiymen witches have not come.”

  “What do you mean, they haven’t come?” Desmond asked.

  Josen nodded to him. “Master Kavanagh. I know only what was told to me. These people have been having their watches, some for nearly a week, but the witches have not come to escort the souls of the dead to Ilys. The people are panicking. They believe that the witches have turned on them and are punishing their loved ones by leaving them trapped in their dead bodies. They are refusing to bury the dead until the witches come to take the souls.”

  “Oh no,” Guerline said. “And they’re gathering outside, with the bodies?”