From Under the Mountain

by Cait Spivey

  Guerline took the first pot and poured some of its contents, a sweet oil, into her hands. Theodor, who had been sitting back on his heels, rose up and lifted Eva out of the water. Guerline rubbed her hands over Eva’s body, biting her lip until it bled in an effort to keep from weeping, her vision blurred by emotion and memories of their fifteen years together. She saw Eva crying when her parents left her behind at the palace, the collateral and payment for her merchant father’s debts. She saw Eva leading the pack of hunters, tall and proud atop her great bay gelding. She saw Eva, tangled in Guerline’s own pale blue sheets, one naked, golden leg exposed, and remembered the way it felt when they were flesh to flesh together.

  She and Theodor washed Eva down with the holy oils and soaps, and Guerline took as long as she could despite the utter pointlessness of it because every moment was another one before Eva was taken away from her forever. Every moment was one where she could pretend that this was someone else, and that Eva would arrive any moment carrying more rags for them.

  But finally it was over, and Eva’s cold, stiff form was washed and dressed in a white gown that once would have made her skin shine in contrast, and Theodor called in the servants to carry her away. Guerline sat on the edge of the fountain, her own dress still sodden, and Theodor knelt in front of her.

  “Guerline. Where shall I send them?” he asked.

  She shook her head to clear the fog. “What?”

  “Where shall they take her?” His gaze flicked briefly toward the servants, holding Eva on a stretcher. “What of her soul?”

  Guerline inhaled sharply. She pushed her shoulders back and looked at the servants, waiting expectantly.

  “Take her to the mausoleum. Bury her as usual, the way it was before,” she said.

  The servants nodded and shuffled away. Guerline looked back down at Theodor, who sat still, with one ear tilted in the direction the servants had gone. When the sound of their footsteps could no longer be heard, he lifted his gaze to hers.

  “Tell me,” was all he said.

  She put her hands in his and gave a slight tug. He took her cue and rose, repositioning himself next to her on the fountain’s wall. She took a deep breath and shut her eyes. Immediately, she regretted doing so. Opening her eyes again felt impossible. She swayed, and felt a hand on her cheek—Theodor’s, guiding her to lean her head upon his shoulder. She acquiesced.

  “The world has upended itself, Theodor. The shifter gods walk among us, but they aren’t gods. And what’s more, they are murderers,” she said.

  She explained what he had missed, how the gods and the Kavanaghs had appeared, how the so-called Mother of Arido had killed Eva, and what Lisyne had told them about the evil that lay under the mountain. She rose from the fountain wall, tracing Ianthe’s steps down the path.

  “Lisyne called her the chaos of the world,” Guerline said, “but she helped me. She made sure Eva’s soul would be at rest.”

  “Ianthe, you mean. The form it used to come to you,” Theodor said.

  She whirled around. “No . . .” Her heart tightened. “Please, don’t take this from me.”

  “Lina . . .” He stood too and walked to her, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tightly. She closed her eyes and pressed her face into his chest.

  It had not been Ianthe she’d seen in the throne room, it was Alcander. Yet Ianthe had known what Lisyne said. Ianthe was no savior, no more than Lisyne herself. Ianthe was indeed the creature from under the mountain. Guerline remembered now all the glimpses she’d had of Ianthe, always showing up in her nightmares, overseeing the phantoms that stalked her—there for the blink of an eye, until Guerline spotted her and she retreated.

  Guerline strongly suspected that Ianthe had killed her parents, had killed Alcander, and had sent the visions of them to haunt both her and Evadine. Ianthe had caused Eva’s madness; Alcander was her puppet. Fiona Kavanagh was dead. The villain could be no one but Ianthe; no one else was powerful enough.

  But Guerline could not deny that Ianthe had always been tender with her in their interactions. How could that be so, how could the evil under the mountain of which Lisyne spoke be the same as the beautiful woman who spoke so softly to her?

  The Guard was already mobilizing; the Lords Paramount had flown back to their clans to gather their forces. Guerline had given the order to muster, and it did not feel like she could take it back. And what if Lisyne was right, what if Ianthe’s behavior toward Guerline was a manipulation? Why had Ianthe left Guerline alive?

  And while she sat here, her people were starving in the south, being hunted in the north, waiting for another disaster in the west. Guerline broke away from Theodor and rubbed furiously at her face.

  “We go to war against the mountain,” she said. “Ianthe—the creature—will be resealed in its prison, and things will go back to the way they were.”

  “Let me come with you,” he said.

  She faced him. “To what end?”

  He reached for her hands, and she laced her fingers through his.

  “You will always have my support, Lina,” he said.

  She closed her eyes again and sighed. As much as she wanted to say yes, to bring him with her, she couldn’t. There was no one left for her to trust but Theodor. Evadine was dead. She was wary of Desmond, of the way he looked at her and his obliviousness to her pain. The gods were maniacs. The Kavanaghs were impotent. And the creature from under the mountain had given her a tiny, shining sliver of hope that was snuffed out by the truth.

  “I need you here, Theodor,” she said. She opened her eyes. “I need you to stay in Del.”

  He frowned, almost, just a slight downward twitch of his mouth; but then he sighed and nodded.

  “Of course, Your Majesty,” he said.

  “Please, Theodor, I wish you wouldn’t call me that. Not when it’s just us,” Guerline said.

  He sighed again and squeezed her hand before letting go. “I know. But Guerline-basi, you are empress, no matter who you’re with. Your father—”

  “My father hardly set an example I wish to follow,” Guerline whispered. After a moment, she asked, “Was he a good emperor? Really?”

  “He was not loved . . . but he was respected. He was decisive and just.”

  Guerline sat down again on the fountain wall and traced her finger through the droplets of water on its surface.

  “The thing is, Theodor, I don’t want to be empress,” she said. She laughed briefly, in relief at finally saying it out loud. “I never thought I’d have to be, and I was always grateful for that. You’re so . . . exposed as a monarch. Visible. The measures my father took to create privacy for himself. . . . And half the time there’s no correct way to do something, because you’ll always be disappointing or angering someone. All you can really go by is your own sense of right and wrong, and it’s so hard to be confident in that when everyone is telling you differently.”

  She looked up at him. “When they all died . . . you and Eva were the only ones who made me feel like I could handle this. And now that she’s . . . you’re the only one I trust to stay loyal to me when I’m gone.”

  “So you intend to ride with them,” he whispered.

  “What else can I do?” she asked.

  He took up her hand and kissed it. “Then come. We must prepare you for the muster.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Desmond stalked through the garden’s labyrinth, walking, walking, not minding at all the turns he took. When he was ready to get out, he’d vault the hedges; he was tall enough. For now, being able to simply move provided at least some outlet for his agitation. Spurned. She had spurned him, had sent him away in favor of Theodor Warren, as simpering a nobleman as Desmond had ever met. What of all their years of friendship? He had taken special pains to reach out to Guerline, to befriend her, because he had sensed how lonely she was. Did she have so many friends now that she could discard him?

  It was only yesterday that she’d told him she was glad he was with her.


  Evadine, again, had influenced Guerline—even in death, apparently, Evadine held sway over her. Evadine had not liked Desmond, and therefore Desmond was no longer permitted to be alone with Guerline. The memory of Evadine and Guerline kissing played over and over again in his mind’s eye and he dissected it, drawing a different conclusion with each viewing. Was it a kiss of lifelong friends? Or were they really lovers? Jealousy squirmed like a snake in his belly, and he was instantly annoyed with himself. He had never been so possessive . . . but then, he had never truly loved a woman before Guerline. That was the only explanation that fitted all the circumstances; he was in love with Guerline, and that was why the thought of her being Evadine Malise’s lover made him so uncomfortable.

  Did it matter, though, what their relationship had been, now that Evadine was dead? Soon enough, Guerline would forget the strength of her feelings. The dead would fade and make room for the living.

  He sank to the ground, leaning against the prickling hedges. He must be patient, that was all.

  “Enjoying the mild night, witch-son?”

  Desmond leapt to his feet and jerked toward the voice. Lisyne herself stood two horse-lengths from him, leaning casually against the hedges and smiling at him, white teeth with a hint of red gums visible in the still warm light of late afternoon. He took a deep breath and gave her a small bow. Her smile widened and she came closer.

  “Enjoying may be the wrong word,” she said.

  He stiffened, and the pleasantry he’d been prepared to offer died on his tongue. Did she know what had passed at the fountain?

  “Of course,” she said with a scoff. “You’re no fool, witch-son, you know your blood belongs to me.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

  She lifted her amber gaze to his, and though he truly didn’t know what she meant, he felt that what she said was true. In the moment of their eye contact, every atom that made him up reached for her, sang to her, begged to be given instructions and to serve her will. The sensation frightened him, but he could not step back until she looked away; when she did, he staggered into the hedge behind him. She circled him, and he watched her, wariness and awe battling for dominance in his mind.

  “Your great-grandmother betrayed me, witch-son, and I have taken the blood of the Kavanagh line as my repayment,” Lisyne said. “Lirona, Seria . . . even your mother and aunts will be mine, one way or another. But you . . . your blood is mine twice over.”

  The shapeshifter moved with such precision it was almost uncanny to his human eyes, and awe won the war inside him. It was easy to believe that every stretch of sinew within her was handcrafted by magic, that she was in utter control of herself in a way that neither he nor even the witches could ever understand. She was nature itself, beautiful and impartial, servant to no one, master of all. Guerline, he knew, was frightened by Lisyne, and rightfully so; yet Desmond found that he felt no fear in her presence.

  As if she knew his thoughts—which was foolish of him to even wonder; of course such a creature would know what his human mind could not hide—she smiled and said, “You must never fear me, Desmond Kavanagh. You are my miracle, the only creature of my blood in existence and the only one worthy of my love and loyalty.”

  “I still don’t understand,” he said.

  Lisyne’s form rippled, and when it stilled again, she was a male version of herself. Desmond blinked, and saw his mother in the arms of this male version of Lisyne, and understood.

  “It’s not possible. Lirona—”

  “It is possible, Desmond. It is simply not the purview of witches to demand or decide,” Lisyne said with a laugh.

  Desmond sank to the ground again, his chest empty of air and organs and all except a single gaping question. “But why?”

  “Many reasons, I’m sure,” Lisyne replied, voice light and almost uninterested. “You needn’t concern yourself much at this point in time. I tell you only to ensure you know that you can trust me, and should do so above all others, above even Olivia. I know your little empress fears me. She is wise to do so, but I fear her dislike of me will be the ruin of us all.”

  Guerline was afraid of Lisyne, but that didn’t mean she would ignore the shapeshifter’s counsel, did it? She had agreed that the thing under the mountain must be stopped, after all, and was mustering an army to support Lisyne in trapping the creature once more. Desmond frowned, torn between his fondness for Guerline and the certainty of his loyalty to Lisyne. He looked upon his newfound parent, once more in her female form, and sighed.

  “Desmond, you must keep a close watch on the empress,” Lisyne said. “Only she was left alive by this evil thing, and it must have some plan for her. It is possible that she has been spared only to become a trap for us.”

  He had not once wondered at Guerline surviving the massacre of her family, but now that he did, it seemed both unlikely and suspicious. Not on Guerline’s part—she would never willingly truck with evil things—that, he was sure of; but Guerline had so little experience with magic, it would not be difficult for a powerful creature to trick her. He stood, filled with purpose. Lisyne’s amber eyes gleamed proudly at him.

  “You must not leave her side, Desmond,” Lisyne said.

  “She doesn’t want to see me,” he replied, remembering.

  “Momentary ire over the girl’s death,” Lisyne said dismissively. “The reality of war is upon her, and she will need you for courage. Be moderate and respectful, and she will admit you.”

  “But if I must stay with her, I will not be able to join you on the field, to fight against the thing under the mountain.”

  Lisyne smiled. “Of course you will. Her Majesty will join us.”

  Desmond laughed and said, “I would be very surprised if she did.”

  “Morgana is sure of it, and has already departed with the intention of forging armor for her,” the shapeshifter said.

  Forging armor overnight? If there was anyone who could do it, it was his Aunt Morgana, but it still seemed a great risk to do so with battle so near at hand.

  “The little basi doesn’t know what Morgana intends to gift her; keep it that way,” Lisyne said. “You must reestablish your friendship with her, and it is best that she be as unsure of herself as possible when you do so. Go now.”

  Desmond nodded and gave Lisyne another bow, then left the labyrinth, suddenly sure of his path even without jumping the hedges. His mind churned with all that had been revealed to him; he had not even asked if Olivia knew who had fathered him. Surely she would have recognized the shapeshifter’s power, even if the form was not a commonly known one? And why else would she keep his parentage such a secret? She must have known; he would ask her before the battle, if he had a chance.

  First, he must attend to Guerline. The thought of her being in thrall to the evil under the mountain made his heart ache. Hadn’t she suffered enough in her life? The thing under the mountain was truly cruel to prey on the weakest of the imperial family in this way, to manipulate such a pure soul into possibly undermining everything she wished to accomplish. Guerline would be a good ruler, Desmond was sure of it, as long as he could ensure that she was completely in control of herself.

  He made it back to the fountain and found only Theodor there, gathering up the materials from the washing. The Lord Engineer looked up in surprise.

  “Master Kavanagh,” he said. “I wanted to thank you,” he added, before Desmond could say a thing.

  “For what?” Desmond asked.

  “For leaving,” Theodor said. “I know Her Majesty was short with you, and I’m sorry for that, but letting her do the washing alone was a kindness she needed, and for that, I thank you.”

  Desmond snorted. “She wasn’t alone. She was with you.”

  Theodor did not smile, only piled jars into his arms. “She wanted me here specifically because I can be unobtrusive, Master Kavanagh. I can diminish my presence in a room, and that is what I did here for her. She needed help physically, which I gave, but otherwise,
she needed solitude. You could not have done that for her.”

  Desmond bristled even as he acknowledged the truth in what the councilor was saying, and the hidden compliment soothed him. Theodor was a meek man, to hide himself in such a way; Desmond was not, nor could he ever be such.

  “My only wish is to help her,” he said.

  “I’m sure that’s true,” Theodor said evenly. “It is my hope that, from now on, you will help her in the way that is best for her, and not merely based on what you desire.”

  Desmond did not answer; even though he did not accept the rebuke, he didn’t want to argue. After a few breaths, Theodor said, “She’s gone to the armory. She means to ride into battle, and needs to be properly outfitted.”

  “Thank you, Lord Warren,” Desmond said. He dipped his head and left.

  The mail shirt was of good quality and fitted her well enough over the padded shirt and leathers, but finding a breastplate of the proper size was proving difficult. Guerline was as wide as a man, but shorter in the torso than most, and even with the layers and wrapping around her chest, her breasts gave her a shape that couldn’t be matched by any of the unclaimed breastplates stored in the palace armory. The number of women in the Guardsmen’s Guild had been increasing over recent decades, but most of them saw to their own armor, and the ones who had offered theirs to Guerline were, to a woman, taller and thinner than the empress.

  “Never mind it,” she said wearily to Josen, who was pulling off yet another breastplate that could not be buckled. “I’ll wear no breastplate.”

  “Your Majesty, I cannot recommend you going into battle without one!” Josen said.

  “Don’t lie, Josen, you would not have me go into battle at all,” Guerline said.

  “That is true,” he said without hesitation.