His feet kicked and danced beneath him as he blew, gripping the horn as if he were hanging by a branch from a cliff. The second third of runes lit up, one by one, each time leaving me to pump my fist in the air.
He kept going, and going, the lit runes climbing up the curve of the final third towards the bell. But his breath was giving out, the volume of noise reducing as it neared the end.
The second to last rune glowed with faint light while the pitch dropped lower until it sputtered and Voltaire collapsed onto his side.
The goddess helped Voltaire to his feet and, as gently as a grandmother dotting on her grandchildren, kissed Voltaire's eyes, one at a time. I was busy pushing towards the stairs, while the crowd cheered the next challenger.
Voltaire stumbled off the last step and I caught him. His vacant stare was heartbreaking.
"You sorry fool. Why did you think you could blow that horn?" I asked, leading him away from the stage.
He murmured gravely, "I almost won. Just another breath, that's all I would have needed."
"Now you're blind," I said.
"What's one man's blindness compared to the world enslaved? I had to try. I didn't know if the other contests would be something I could do. And I want to get out of here. I'm so hungry, and we've only been here a few days," he said. "We won't survive too long without food and drink, and if we take some, we'll be stuck here."
Feeling discouraged by the stark reality, I led him from the cavern while the contest continued. Without the mass of people filling the main tunnels, I found a smaller passageway that led away.
Voltaire patiently held onto my arm while I led him, explaining obstacles so he wouldn't stumble. The further we went, the less I could hear the cheering, until it was completely silent.
A while later, we came upon a natural cavern with stalactites and stalagmites. A clear pool on the far side sparkled in the dim light of a phosphorescent fungus that clung to the walls. I scraped a chunk off with a fingernail. It glowed faintly, so I wiped it off on my leg.
The space was peaceful, and I set Voltaire on the ground. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. Before long, he was snoring.
Staring at the water made me thirsty.
"Neva said we couldn't take Matka's water," I said out loud to myself, "but what about water we find?"
My mouth was dry and my throat constricted. We wouldn't last long without a source of water.
I cupped my hands and dipped them into the cool water. After a moment of hesitation, I sipped, waited cautiously for some arcane sign, then realizing there would be no magical transformation if I was wrong, I kept drinking. I pulled from the pond until my belly was full.
When Voltaire woke, I led him to the lake and helped him drink without falling in. The lack of eyesight made him unbalanced.
"We're stuck here," said Voltaire after he finished. He sounded old and lost.
"I don't think this water counts, since we found it ourselves," I said.
His vacant stare looked right past me. "Not that. I mean in this place. Neva tricked us. There's no way we'll win a contest, and eventually we'll be hungry enough to eat something and be stuck here forever."
I cupped his face in my hand. "Do not despair. There will be time enough before radical choices."
"I did not think her magic would affect me. That I had to believe it for it to work. I've spent my life opposed to religions, and this magic seemed not much different," he said.
To keep him from speaking further, I touched his lips with my fingers. "We'll go back to the other place, but I need a moment to rest. Listen for trouble and wake me if anything happens."
He acquiesced and I leaned over and closed my eyes. It didn't take long for slumber to claim me, but before the last sliver of consciousness slammed shut, I sensed something enter the cave.
Chapter Sixteen
The way something breathed said a lot about its intentions. When my father had taken me to visit the wolfhounds in the kennel at the Winter Palace for the first time, he'd made me enter with my eyes closed.
The first thing I'd heard was growling, low and mean, rolling on for days, making a knot form in the pit of my stomach. When I squeezed my father's hand for comfort, he peeled away my fingers and made me stand alone.
As the clack of claws on stone approached, he told me to stand my ground and hold out my hand, palm up. I did as instructed, trusting my father, but also expecting the inevitable bite of teeth tearing through the tender flesh of my wrist.
The wolfhound got near enough that the air flowing out its nose tickled my hand as it sniffed me. Every hair on my body was at attention. Then the throaty growl shifted to a normal pattern of breathing. I relaxed.
My father brought me back to the kennel many times, until I could distinguish not only the moods of the wolfhounds, but the individuals, based on their breathing.
Later, during a gathering of the nobles for the Blessing of the Waters, he made me close my eyes and perform the same trick with the nobles as they neared. I learned that Count Victor had emphysema by his raspy breath and that my cousin Maksim would get so excited around the young women of court, he could barely get a breath out when he spoke to them. Before long, I knew he was in love with Natalia Antipov.
These skills came in handy much later when I had to determine who was a supporter of Catherine and who was against her. I could tell by the hitch in their breath when they said her name, the fire of their hate tightening their chest.
So when I heard the creature's shallow in-breath on the other side of the little pond, I knew we were in trouble. It wasn't trying to scare us away with a growl, but trying to keep as quiet as possible so it might come upon us unaware.
"What is that?" whispered Voltaire.
"I don't know, but we need to leave," I said.
He squeezed my arm in reply. As carefully as I could, I climbed to my feet, cringing when my boot scraped on the stone floor. Then I helped Voltaire up, watching the shadows around the stalagmites.
Together we crept towards the exit. I walked backwards, leading Voltaire by the hand, trying not to trip over anything, while keeping an eye out for sudden movements. We made it out of the cavern without incident and journeyed back to the main passages.
I led Voltaire to the main cavern with the stage. A few groups picnicked here or there in the wide space, but otherwise it was surprisingly empty. The golden doors were closed. No guards stood outside. Nor, I realized, had I seen any guards of any kind during our days in the Palace.
We'd have to wait for the next contest, since there were no locks for me to pick. Whatever mechanism opened the door, I could not fathom, nor determine how to circumvent.
With nothing to do, we walked the halls. We passed a room filled with hundreds of empty birdcages stacked as high as the ceiling. In another, men in seal coats painted animal designs on hide canoes.
The smell of warm bread drew me towards another place, a wide hall filled with hundreds of tables, each one covered with succulent dishes. Though I could not partake of the food, I couldn't turn away either, like a penniless drunk who milled about outside a tavern.
It was a cornucopia of culinary delights that would have put even the most audacious noble feast to shame. I saw spiced and roasted birds decorated with bright edible flowers, breads shaped like pudgy men with cinnamon eyes, sweets that changed colors, chunks of salted chocolates, juicy meat pies, star-shaped fruits, and more foods that I'd never seen, but could taste just by looking at them.
Voltaire dug his fingernails into the tender flesh on the inside of my elbow.
"Why are you torturing us?" he asked.
My mouth flooded with saliva. "By stones and stars, I do not know."
"Then take us from this place, posthaste, before our resolve lags," he said.
It was hard to turn away, especially as I watched the men and women in their colorful clothing stuffing food into their mouths, eyes rolling back into their heads.
We marched away, the smells c
hasing us. Even when we were hundreds of feet away, I could still smell the warm breads and imagined tearing them with my fingers, releasing curls of steam, then stuffing the soft meal into my waiting mouth.
I saw Pavel across the crowd. He noticed me at the same time. We met in the middle. His hand moved for the non-existent rapier on his hip.
"Why must you wound me with your presence?" said Pavel.
He wore a dark blue soldier's uniform with a furred collar. A strange brooch in the shape of black wings was fixed onto his chest.
Forgetting that we were on opposite sides, I reached out to touch the brooch.
"This is new," I said with motherly interest.
When my fingers grazed the cold steel, I saw a thing in the darkness, squat and black with eyes like burning coals, leathery wings hunched on its shoulders.
Pavel pulled my fingers away in a rough fist, dispelling the vision. His hazel eyes put up a wall of mistrust.
"Don't touch me, Katerina," he said in Russian.
"I'm sorry about Anna. If there'd been any other way..." I said.
"You used me," he said. "I thought we'd come to an agreement."
I yanked my fingers out of his grip. "We did no such thing. You presume too much. I may be your mother, but we stand on opposing shores."
"Then I shall show you no mercy from this moment forward," he said.
"If you'd paid attention to my lessons, you would have known what I would do. I did not survive all those years in the Winter Palace by being soft," I said.
Pavel held a stern facade. His lips paled to white. "No, you survived those years by sharing Catherine's bed."
Voltaire made a noise of surprise behind me. Pavel's gaze flashed to the Frenchman.
"You're a fool, if you didn't know that," said Pavel, switching to French.
Voltaire cleared his throat. "My days were spent considering philosophy, not the habits of Russian nobility. Though I suppose this knowledge makes perfect sense."
"Yes," said Pavel, dripping with disdain. "She dragged me across Europe when the whispering grew too loud."
"I did no such thing," I said. "I dragged you west for your education and to show you the world. Peter the Great did not found Saint Petersburg because he wanted us to keep looking east, it was because he knew west was the answer. Catherine understood this as well. Which is why she allowed me to leave Russia, despite wanting me by her side."
"I always wondered if you killed my father so you could be with Catherine," said Pavel.
I slapped him, hard. A red mark remained on his right cheek. "I loved your father as much as I did Catherine. That he was taken from me so early hurts me still."
My son rubbed his jaw, not in pain, but with consideration, as if he were weighing the slap against some future aggression. The determination in his gaze worried me.
"Just as my father's death brought you closer to Catherine, Anna's death has had a similar effect on me. I know my loyalties now. I thought you sympathized with the cause I stand for, but now I know you are my enemy, completely," said Pavel.
"Though we disagree, I still love you, my son," I said.
He did not answer. After a brief stare down, he turned and marched stiffly away, returning to another soldier who had stayed back. His second was dressed similarly. He had messy dark hair and a crooked nose.
"I'm sorry, Katerina," said Voltaire as the crowd noise resumed around us.
"It is fine. We must make our choices and live with them. My son has made his. I must make mine," I said, massaging my palm with a thumb.
"That I ever doubted you seems foolish now," said Voltaire.
"You should always doubt," I said. "Never stop doubting. To accept with blind faith is to place your head into the jaws of the crocodile."
A smile tried to grace Voltaire's lips, but his melancholy still had hold.
"What was the bit about his loyalties?" asked Voltaire.
"I wish I knew," I said. "This is not the first time I've heard this. I know there are factions in Russia. I suppose that Pavel was part of one before, but changed to another. One with harsher tactics, I presume. That's why he wore that brooch. To show his loyalty to the other side."
"I'm hungry," said Voltaire.
My stomach gurgled in response. "I know. But we must endure."
His gaze was looking sunken, as if it'd been longer than the four days we'd been in the Earthen Palace. The dreamlike quality of this place worried me that time worked differently than in our world. Would we even last until the third contest? I kept my insights to myself.
We made a trip back to the cavern once for water. We couldn't survive without that and could take no sustenance elsewhere. The creature had left, but we sipped with a wary eye and left as soon as we were sated.
A few days later, the high whistle announced the second contest. Voltaire and I were in sorry shape. The other revelers appeared hale and whole, rejuvenated by the festivities, while we were wasting away.
Voltaire's coat was open, revealing the dirty shirt beneath. Our hands and faces were smudged with rock dust from sitting along the passageway, conserving energy.
Still, we received no second glances from the assembled in the main chamber. The horn on the stage had been replaced by a pedestal upon which rested a golden apple.
The goddess Matka entered through the golden doors. The diadem on her brow sparkled briefly before dimming and fading from sight.
"Once every slow turn, we gather under my roof and celebrate the Festival of the Infinite Earth. And each festival, I offer boons to those that are worthy enough to earn them." She gestured towards the golden apple. "Today, I offer a challenge. Upon that pedestal lies the golden apple, upon which I have cast a spell. While it is in your possession, be warned, you will experience nightmares worse than death. To the first person who carries the Golden Apple from that pedestal to my hand, I will give a second boon."
A handsome young man wearing a striped cap, a green silken vest over a cream shirt, and tan trousers burst onto the stage to the cheers of the crowd. Before he could touch the golden apple, Matka held up her enormous hand, from which hung an empty birdcage. She set it next to her foot, then motioned for the young man to begin.
He stared at the cage for a moment, doubt creeping onto his face, tugging the corners of his lips downward. Then he glanced at the crowd, which was still cheering him, and rather than disappoint, reached out for the golden apple.
I cannot properly describe the effect its touch had on the young man. The horror reflected in that youthful visage seemed an affront to mankind. The young man seemed to age, not physically, but by the cynicism of knowing what a cruel and capricious place the world was. Whatever he saw eventually grew too much, and before he could take a third step, the golden apple slipped from his grip and thudded onto the floor.
The release of the golden apple failed to release him from his stupor. While the crowd's cheers quieted, his hangdog face remained.
The long limbed goddess gracefully strode to the young man and with a touch to the crown of his head, transformed him. His face elongated into a beak and his arms stretched wide, dark feathers sprouting from his flesh. His back arched, his legs shrunk. In the time it took for me to gasp and whisper to Voltaire, explaining what had been done, the young man was a vulture, complete with nasty, bright red extra flesh around the neck.
Once the goddess slipped him into a cage and handed the burden to an assistant standing on the side of the stage, she motioned for the next challenger. I watched the man with the cage scurry towards the golden door, which was still open, and disappear inside. It gave me an idea.
I led Voltaire in that direction, carefully, so as not to draw too much attention.
"Are you going to attempt the challenge?" asked Voltaire, patiently holding onto my sleeve as I maneuvered through the crowd enraptured by the next challenger.
"I have a different idea," I said over my shoulder.
The second challenger, a portly gentleman in billowing r
obes in colors of crimson and gold, gave a high-pitched scream and dropped the golden apple, right next to the pedestal. He quivered as he waited for Matka, a stain on the front of his trousers. After the transformation, he was a bright blue songbird that flitted around the cage as it was carried away by the assistant, who was somehow back already.
The third challenger, a thin woman with an overbite, lasted only slightly longer than the portly fellow. The crowd took a collective step backwards during her transformation. She became a monstrous condor with a beak the size of a plow. No cage would hold her, so Matka placed a manacle on her massive segmented ankle and hooked the chain to an iron ring on the back side of the stage.
The bird let out a bloodcurdling screech as it hopped from foot to foot. Many people put their hands over their ears.
"What was that horrid noise?" asked Voltaire.
"Be glad you cannot see it," I told him.
It took a while to maneuver to the golden doors. Five more challengers were turned to avians during our journey. Each was placed into a brass cage.
Voltaire took position along the wall, clutching the stone as if it were a lifeline thrown from a ship. His jacket was torn and dirty, bits of the phosphorescent fungus on one elbow. My heart tightened just looking at him.
I turned to look for guards. Only the assistant went through the golden doors, though I found it odd I never saw him come back out. Yet, each time Matka transformed a challenger, he appeared on stage as if he'd been there the whole time.
"What am I going to do out here?" asked Voltaire after I explained my plan. "What if you get caught?"
"A blind poet with no access to food or water in a strange goddess' realm? I'm sure you'll think of something," I said.
"I still object to calling them gods," he said.
"Would you prefer exquisitely powerful beings? Or maybe miracle men—or woman, in this case," I said. "I believe you'll have some time while I explore inside to come up with a suitably appropriate moniker."
Nightfell Games (The Dashkova Memoirs Book 5) Page 13