The smells were musty and old, and made him feel even dirtier than he already was. As he walked through the labyrinth, he shivered from the damp. It had rained a few days before, and he stepped into a puddle. With no light, he could only hope it was rainwater that had seeped through the ground. It was so dark that he closed his eyes and reopened them, just to make sure that they had truly been open in the first place. Within minutes, the hope he had felt upon first entering the tombs failed him. It was pitch black, with a heaviness he could feel.
And he thought of Nella.
She would never know what happened to him. Perhaps it was better that way. He imagined her laughter and the jokes they’d shared. He thought of her hazel eyes and golden hair. Her smile.
If he thought about her he could stand the blackness. If Bellarmine fell, would she be safe in her tower? He hoped so. Perhaps it is best that she stayed. The palace would be a dangerous place for her if overtaken by the enemy.
Something squeaked and he heard the sound of a rodent scurrying. His stomach lurched, but he kept walking. In battle, he hadn’t cared whether he lived or died, but now it surprised him just how strongly he wanted to live. He wanted to see the sun again, feel the fresh air.
He would not be buried alive.
He kept his eyes open, hoping upon hope that he would eventually see a sliver of light ahead. He kept his hand on the wall as he stumbled in the darkness. First he thought of nothing—of simply focusing on what was ahead of him and the best way to get out of the catacombs. But as the hours passed, and the darkness only grew more and more monotonous, he began to contemplate other things.
He thought of all of his adventures, and the way his parents had disapproved of them. He’d thought them narrow minded and selfish, for had he not been helping the unfortunate? He had exposed liars and thieves, and saved young girls from destitution and families from starvation.
But he had also been running. The problems he solved were always quickly fixed. They were battles to be conquered and then forgotten about. But ruling a country was different. It took commitment and patience. It took a responsibility he’d been avoiding his whole life.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. He had played the hero to satisfy himself, staunching the bloody wounds of society but refusing to address the abuse and injustice that caused the injuries in the first place. All of his quests had been solved within a day or two. He had never kept at anything for long—until Nella.
He wondered if all men on the verge of death felt such regret. Did they all see their lives so clearly, their faults magnified by the mortality of their existence? What good could I have done as prince and king? How many more could I have helped? His eyes closed and he slept, tormented by dreams of what-might-have-beens and his own dissatisfaction.
Orlando was awakened around midnight by the sound of his mother’s wails. He closed his eyes. Benedict. He’d dreaded every messenger that came, knowing it was unreasonable to hope that Benedict had survived. But Orlando knew that if anyone could, it was his older brother. Ben had survived more life-risking situations than any person had a right to.
But it seemed that even he had not survived this one.
Jerome met him at his bedroom door.
“Ruchartes has sent your brother’s armor and sword,” he said quietly.
“And?”
“A letter demanding surrender. Nothing else.”
“He is dead, then.”
“They claim nothing.”
“You disbelieve?” Orlando asked, a tinge of hope in his words.
“If I was king of Ruchartes and I’d killed the son of my enemy, I would do so without any ambiguity or question,” Jerome said firmly.
Orlando nodded. “And would be just as explicit if he was alive, in order to ask for ransom.” He sighed. “You think if he was dead they would have sent his body.”
“Or a part of it.”
Orlando swallowed and looked away, trying to gather his emotions.
“If anything happened to him, he wanted me to give this to you.” Jerome pulled out a letter, sealed with red wax.
Orlando took it from him. “I had not thought I should ever have need to read one of these,” he said quietly. As children, the brothers had made a practice of writing each other “battle letters”: a safeguard in case either of them didn’t come back from fighting. It had started as a lark, during fake battles and jousting tournaments. It had been an overly dramatic form of playacting, and Orlando had almost forgotten about it. Benedict, it seemed, had not.
Orlando took the letter from Jerome and sat by the fire of his sitting room, wanting to read the letter and yet not wanting to. Once he had, his brother would be silenced forever. In a burst of decision, he opened it.
To Orlando, my brother in blood and arms,
We have written more than our share of farewell letters, most of which have been lighthearted and unnecessary, but this time I have a feeling of ill omen. This letter, I fear, will be my last.
Perhaps it is for the best. I always knew you were better suited to rule the country. More times than not it was you who acted the older brother, who kept me stable and focused. You have the steadiness and willingness to follow in Father’s footsteps, and a woman at your side more ready than most to be queen. Though I have never told you so, I am proud to call you my brother.
I also fear that I have given you reason to grieve in these last days. Perhaps you have rightly guessed the source of my agitation. If you have not, I will tell you that her name is Nella. You were right, that day when you told me about the girl in the tower and said I should marry her. I would like nothing better. She is beautiful and intelligent, but she is trapped in a prison. Not one of iron bars or stone walls, but a prison of the mind, which is worse. I know better than most that things are not always what they seem to be, and Nella has never been held captive by a witch. But she is a captive, to something that I cannot fight with sword or arrow. And it kills me. I cannot send you to her, or even send her word of my death. But I implore you to remember her in prayer, with the hope that God can help her where I cannot.
I love you, my brother. Tell Silvie she has always been the sister of my heart, and perhaps, if you have a dozen children, you might spare to name one for me.
Your favorite (and only) brother,
Benedict
Orlando stared at the fire, chewing on his brother’s words as the candles melted with the hour. Silvie eventually came in.
“Are you all right, Orlando? Your mother was asking for you.”
“I have Ben’s battle letter.” He extended his hand, which still grasped the paper. “I’d like you to read it.”
She took it from him and moved closer to the firelight, where she held the letter up to better see the writing.
“He’s wrong, you know,” Orlando said quietly when Silvana had finished reading. “I was never meant to be king. I’m too easily stressed, too agitated. I crack under pressure. He never did. Benedict was stronger than I.”
“And I never desired to be queen,” Silvie smiled sadly. “Is there no hope for his survival?”
“The Ruchartans want the royal family dead. They consider us traitors. If he did not fall in battle, he was surely captured and executed.” He gave her the worse possible case he could think of, not wanting to give anyone the false hope he feared he now carried.
“Then why do they not send us word?” Silvie asked wretchedly. “Why do they not solidify their claim by sending us his body? I do not believe he is dead, Orlando!” She sat next to him. “And I cannot believe that you think so as well.”
Orlando stood up abruptly and walked towards the fire. Silvie knew him too well. He kept his back towards her. “I want nothing more than to believe it. But I cannot let myself hope. If my hopes are raised and then dashed…”
“You are like your mother,” Silvie said softly. “She will not believe it either.”
“What do you think of the girl he mentioned—this Nella. I
t all seems cryptic. Perhaps we could find her—”
“I don’t know who she is, but it does not seem to be Benedict’s wish that we seek her out.” She took Orlando’s hand. “But that is not what is most important at the moment. Your family is. And your parents need you.”
He nodded. “I know.”
Nella was nearly towards the Ruchartan border. She told herself there was nothing between her and Benedict but a stretch of lonely, deserted road facing the mountains and filled with the fresh alpine air. No people. Just the distance. The thought made her breath a little easier.
As she passed a small copse of trees, she noticed a child in her peripheral vision. She glanced at him and realized he was older than she’d first thought—twelve or so, perhaps. He stared at her and then got up and ran away. Nella felt the first tremors of unease. She picked up Persephone in her arms and quickened her pace.
Another two figures appeared on the side of the road: a man and a woman. They came up behind her and started following her, first at a distance, and then closer.
Nella was almost running now. Persephone meowed against her chest.
Even with all of her recent walking, Nella was still not used to physical exertion, and the two figures caught up to her quickly. She was gasping for breath, both from fear and tiredness. She tried to veer to the side of the road, but the man stuck out his hand and grabbed her elbow. She tripped and almost swung into the dirt. She dropped Persephone and the cat howled.
“I have nothing!” she yelled. The man laughed, and nodded to the woman she assumed was his wife. She pulled Nella towards her and patted her hands over Nella’s bodice.
“Stop it!” Nella pulled away but the man took her arms and held her tightly so that the woman could continue her search.
The woman moved on to her skirt. Nella twisted, but it was no use. The woman felt the lump near Nella’s hem and grinned. She took out a knife and tore it through the bottom of the skirt. The small pouch of money fell to the ground. The woman crowed and scooped up the bag. “Ah, you thought you were a smart one, didn’t you?” She opened it and let the coins fall into her hand.
“That’s mine!” Nella bit out, furious. “You have no right!”
The man pushed her down and the two thieves ran off, leaving Nella alone after an encounter that had lasted only moments. “You have no right!” She yelled after them, wishing she had some godlike power to strike them with lightning bolts.
Nella sank to the road in despair. Had she not known the depravity of mankind? How could she have let her guard down, even for a moment? The emotion within her was not fear, though: it was anger. She knelt close to the ground and pounded it in anguish as tears rolled down her face. Hate and frustration oozed out of her body as she hit the earth, over and over again. Why, why, why? Finally exhausted, she collapsed on the ground in sobs. Her golden hair drifted in the dirt. Persephone tentatively walked towards her and nuzzled Nella’s face, the cat’s whiskers tickling her nose. Nella got to her knees and lifted her eyes towards the sky. She took a deep breath. Benedict needs you. She needed that money. Her food was almost gone, and she couldn’t neglect her need for shelter—or options for bribery when it came to the enemy’s camp. What can I do?
Then she saw her hair.
IX.
Nella had an attack that evening. She’d been less than a mile from Luzarche—the closest village to the battle camp—when she’d begun to feel nauseous and her head began to spin. It was her third episode since she’d been without Cornelius, but enough time had passed since her last two that she had begun to wonder if perhaps the curse she’d lived with for so long had left her. But that night found her in an agonizing panic—her worst since Benedict had convinced her to leave the tower. She could only assume it was a belated reaction to her assault on the road earlier. That was what she could never understand about her body— the way it rebelled against her will at the oddest of times. All she could be thankful for was that she’d hadn’t yet entered the village, where others would see her. She shivered, wondering if they would think her demon possessed or filled with sorcery.
Sometimes she wondered if she was.
She had picked herself up and continued, shakily at first, and then stronger as she put more time between her and her attack.
She would not allow her fears to stop her. She would not allow her body to stop her. And she would not allow others to break her and drive her from her purpose.
Luzarche was a provincial town, far removed from the bustle and progress of the city—much like Ivly, Nella thought. The roads were narrow and dirty, full of the sounds and smells of animals, and of people worried about things more important than their own personal cleanliness. She’d rented a small room over a tavern after making a quick stop beforehand to get the money she needed.
The money. It weighed more heavily on her heart than in her hand.
She stood in the small, decrepit room, barely larger than a closet, and touched her shoulder, covered by fabric but naked without the hair that had streamed over it for so long. Ragged blonde edges touched her jawline. Her regret was tempered with the knowledge that her haircut had been necessary; she knew she had to find some sort of employment, but that would not pay for her lodging that night. The man in the shop had been generous with his payment, though she knew that her well-kept, ankle-length blonde hair had been no easy product to obtain. Her neck felt cold, and her head light enough to make her giddy. She moved a strand away from her face. Haven’t I lost enough? Did the world have to take this from me, too? She tiptoed across the creaking wooden floor and curled up in the lumpy bed, grateful for Persephone’s warm body heat and calming purr. She took out her kerchief, still scented with lavender, and laid upon it, hoping its scent would calm her and remind her of home. Home. At that moment, she missed it more than anything. She missed her bottles and oils and flowers. She missed her chair in front of the fire and her stacks of books. She missed Benedict. Persi nuzzled her temple, eliciting a small smile from Nella. She stroked the little animal. “Thank you,” she whispered, and fell asleep dreaming of Benedict reading to her by candlelight.
The next morning Nella dressed quickly and went downstairs. Her accent was good, and if she was quiet and spoke little, she didn’t think it would be too difficult to pass as Ruchartan. “Do you know of any work that needs doing?” she asked the mistress of the tavern. “I’m a hard worker.”
“Many hard workers are without employment,” the woman said. “You’re not alone.” At Nella’s fallen expression she added, “But the army’s always looking for laundresses. I hate to send you there, though. The army barracks are no place for a young girl.”
“Thank you.” She smiled softly. “I don’t mind, and I’m older and stronger than I look.”
The woman viewed her somewhat doubtfully, but said no more. The camp supervisor did not seem very particular with the women he employed, so much so that Nella, had she been less nervous, could have smiled at his underestimation of her motivations.
Nella was not there for dirty laundry.
She carried a basket piled with pungent and dirty clothing across the camp, grateful for something to hide behind and even for the dreadful smell that distracted her. Her steps slowed as she walked past the captain’s tent.
“The rumors are spreading, captain,” one of the men inside complained. “The Bellarminian countryside rings with the hope that the prince is still alive!”
Nella almost dropped the clothing in her arms. She looked around and, not seeing anyone paying much attention to her, pretended to stumble and spill the laundry outside of the tent. She listened intently as she gathered it back up.
“Well, he is not,” the captain said emphatically. “The rumors are meaningless to the campaign. They are best to be ignored.”
“We both know that isn’t true. We cannot break the Bellarminians’ spirits whilst they cling to the hope of their prince’s survival.”
“You never should have let him escape,” another voice, a
uthoritative and cultured, snapped. “Even if he has been buried alive in the tombs, we truly do not know whether or not the prince lives. Take a group of men and search them. Find him—or his body—and set these rumors to rest.”
“The men won’t enter the tombs,” the first voice complained. “The superstition surrounding them runs deep. They would rather die by our hand than enter.”
“You command an army!” The authoritative voice—one that could only belong to a lord—yelled. “Can you not capture an already-dead prince?”
“Sending men into the catacombs will lead to mutiny,” The captain said in a clipped tone. “Which would be a disaster even greater that what we face now.”
Having finished, Nella crept away from the tent and back to the steaming pot, where she dumped in her load of laundry. She thought hard. How long had he been in the catacombs? The battle had taken place weeks ago. If he had been escaped into them that long ago, it was doubtful he was still alive.
That night at the tavern, she listened closely to the talk around her. The town might have been Ruchartan, but they were not immune to the temptation of gossip, and Prince Benedict was a subject ripe for discussion.
“If you ask me,” one man said loudly, “they should have run him through at the first, before he had a chance to escape.”
“To find oneself in the catacombs of Sainct-Maurice is a crueler punishment,” one grizzled old man said wisely. “Men have grown mad long before dying of hunger. My uncle fell into the catacombs when I was a child. He stayed where he was and called for help. It was two hours before he was rescued. But he was never the same afterward.”
The room’s response was divided by snorts of derision by one half and nods of acceptance on the other. “I remember that,” the proprietor’s mother, ancient and wrinkled, croaked across the room. “Your uncle was one of the lucky ones. Aside from him, I’ve never heard of anyone making it out.”
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