by Kesia Lupo
Lena looked down at her hands, feeling like an imposter or the host of a parasite. But who is really the parasite in our partnership? ‘So my power … isn’t really mine at all? I’m not a mage?’ She felt a kind of pain in her chest, a grief as she let go of the person she had thought she was becoming – a stronger, better person. Someone who had the power to defend herself, to walk in the sunlight and turn her face to the world. She heard her breath, shallow and fast, roaring in her ears. And suddenly she understood why she always dreamed of the crypts and of the forest, why she felt this constant urge towards a place of death, and sorrow, and pain, and darkness, drawn like a creature on the end of a lead. Because the spell’s heart had to return. Because otherwise … otherwise … Well, she wasn’t sure what. But if she wanted to know the truth, one thing was certain:
‘I have to go back,’ she whispered.
TWENTY
Hope
A night had passed since Constance had spoken to Emris, draining the best part of her energy.
Rats rustled somewhere in the periphery of her sight, glistening shapes pushing through sodden straw, tails pale in the half-light. She pulled her knees to her chest, rested her chin in the ruined material of her ceremonial robes, feeling the silky smooth embroidery against her throat. She breathed the rancid air deeply and watched the entrance to the crypts.
The dungeons overlaid the deepest, darkest sections of the crypts: the chambers of the disgraced. Here, the realms of the living and the resting place of lawless Ancestors were separated only by a rotten wooden door. Prisoners died frequently in the dungeons’ grimy conditions, and guards had no wish to traipse the bodies of criminals to their Ancestral tombs elsewhere in the city.
And now, Constance was terribly aware of their nearness. She’d tried to rest, recuperate her strength, but how could she sleep when noises drifted regularly from the catacombs below, the dead stirring in their palaces of stone?
The spell was solidifying, testing itself, finding its strength – and here in the dungeons they were all unprotected but for the bars of their cells.
Constance reached through those bars and forced her own cup of water to Xander’s lips, but she wasn’t sure whether he swallowed – most of it ran down his chin. Earlier she’d shouted for help, insisted that he be attended to, but the guard who eventually turned up told her to shut her mouth or he’d kick her teeth in.
She hadn’t given up. She’d promised not to. But after a night of sitting in filth and darkness, Constance had to admit she was starting to lose hope. Even if Lena and Emris turned up in Duke’s Forest now, the Justice would simply take them into custody. Somehow she had to meet the girl before the Justice found her. But how?
Her forehead sank on to her knees when she heard a muffled roar from outside.
She met Dr Thorn’s eyes. Both of them frowned.
Constance stood up, craning towards the barred window high up in the wall of her cell. Distantly, she could distinguish different sounds within the growing roar: footsteps, and the pulsing chant of raised voices.
She laughed out loud, pressing her hand against her mouth.
‘What is it?’ said Dr Thorn, his voice a hoarse croak.
‘It’s a revolt,’ she said, unable to believe her luck. ‘I promised the people an end to the storm cloud by dawn today. How could I have forgotten?’
In spite of everything, a spark of hope ignited in her heart.
* * *
The noises outside grew louder as the day slowly brightened. What sounded like a booming, threatening announcement from the battlements had little effect: if anything, the roar of the crowd intensified. An hour later, Constance heard weapons drawn outside. She heard the rhythmic stomp of angry feet against the flagstones, chanting and shouts. And she waited.
Xander lay still, his breath shallow, oblivious. Opposite, Dr Thorn also slept fitfully, the gauntlet on his hand occasionally twitching with red light.
Some of the guards in the room above the cells had been summoned to the battlements – she’d heard them being called, the scrape of chairs and heavy footsteps pounding away. Constance guessed a couple had been left to attend to the prisoners, but she couldn’t be sure. She stood up, paced her cell, wondered for the hundredth time whether to use her powers to escape. Could she break through the spelled bars of her cell and fight her way out without a weapon, winning against two or three armed men at full strength? Probably not. She wished she had her cane – and her mask … but for now she had to pick her moment.
Even so, a smile reached her lips as she spun on her heels.
Sounds from below the prison floor stopped her in her tracks.
The steps of the dungeons, hidden behind the rotten wooden door, led down into blackness so deep that she could feel it – even though she couldn’t see it. She looked at the door. A waft of stale air from underneath it flicked a strand of hair across her face. She heard the tinkle of metal on stone. Jewellery or coins falling from rotted flesh, from disintegrated clothing. The scrape of bone on bone – and footsteps. Slow, unsteady footsteps on the old, worn steps.
Not now. Please, not now.
But the noises were insistent and distinct. The spell had reached its final stage of development, no longer fumbling in the dark but reaching towards the misted light. And she had no doubt that it hungered for fresh lives to feed its strength. She set her jaw and tried to stop herself from screaming in frustration.
The gods give with one hand and take away with the other.
Dr Thorn had sat up. His cell was the closest to the door to the crypts: Xander’s too, on the opposite side. Constance braced herself as another waft of stale, cold air rustled her hair and the door opened.
A skeletal figure stood in the doorway, dressed in prison rags, a filthy, rusted shackle encircling its neck. Its remaining flesh was blackened and dry, clinging to white bones like limpets to the hull of a ship. Shadows stared from empty eye sockets. The hair alone remained untouched – brown and matted – while the teeth were bared by decay into a terrifying yellowish grin. It held something that might once have been a length of chain, but was spoilt and rusted nearly beyond recognition.
The figure appeared to be startled by the dim daylight, and stood quite still.
Dr Thorn staggered to his feet and backed away from the bars, his face white with horror. He raised his ungloved hand, but as he tried to summon his magic – which Constance felt surging within him, even from across the floor – something in the glove jolted him and he cried out in agony, doubling over. At this, the dead man regained his wits, and flung himself against the physician’s cell with surprising strength. Another was close behind, this one larger, broader and less decayed.
Constance’s eyes shot to Xander, completely helpless on the filthy floor of the adjacent cell.
She didn’t hesitate. She rested her hands on the lock of her cell and focused, blocking out the sounds of the rising dead. She needled her magic into the red spell reinforcing the bars. The spell glittered to her magical senses, hard as sandstone against her careful touch. She persevered, frowning as she picked at its structure – clumsy, even though it was brutishly strong. At last, she found a point of weakness, tugged on a strand: the spell crumbled. Her head was pounding now – it would have been easier if she’d had her mask. She felt for the catch of the barred gate, turned it and was out. The whole process had taken a matter of seconds.
‘Help me!’ Dr Thorn’s attacker had been joined by two others, and together the three dead men were attempting to tear the prison bars from their rusted sockets in the wall. Purple magic flashed and sparked as Constance’s reinforcement spell was torn apart along with the cell’s structure. But it was Xander she was determined to save. Another two figures had emerged from beneath and were trying to force the door of his cell. Extending her hand, she flung a concentrated ball of magic at them. Already fragile with decay, they disintegrated into dust with a flash of purple light. Coughing, she hurried to the cell and unlocked it with trembl
ing fingers.
Xander was deathly pale, but breathing, still breathing. She heaved his arm over her shoulder and hoisted him upright.
‘Help!’ Dr Thorn shouted again. Constance turned her back and half-supported, half-dragged Xander towards the stairs, his eyelids fluttering.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs leading to the upper levels and she steeled herself for the arrival of a guard. But instead, Winton – longsword drawn, horror on his face – appeared at the bottom of the steps, his breath billowing in the cold. To her surprise, the Justice’s dog, Barbarus, was at his side. Winton held a bundle under his free arm, which he dropped quickly on the bottom step. With relief, Constance recognised the shape of her cane, wrapped up in an old cloak.
‘Help!’ Dr Thorn’s voice was desperate – the three remaining Ancestors, working together, had pulled free the bars, and one was sliding through the gap towards the physician, who was cringing against the wall.
Her brother was already hurrying towards the onslaught, the dog growling at his heels.
‘Winton!’ Constance said quietly but firmly, catching him by the shoulder. ‘The gauntlet – it’s channelling Thorn’s magic into the Justice. If the physician dies, the Justice will be stripped of his greatest weapon.’
As the meaning of her words dawned on him, Winton’s face twisted in mingled understanding and disgust. ‘What is wrong with you, Constance? We have to help him!’
Constance gritted her teeth in annoyance, nodded.
He hurried forward, swung his sword in broad arcs at the heads of the dead creatures, fighting his way through. The first crumbled at the first slice of metal. Barbarus disabled a second by dislodging its shin. The third had its bony fingers closed around Dr Thorn’s neck: the physician was struggling, kicking out. Winton slid inside the cell and dispatched the corpse with a single sweeping strike, while Constance eyed the door of the crypts in anticipation. All the corpses in the dungeons had been destroyed or turned to dust, but countless others remained, stirring, in the darkness below …
For a few moments, everyone was still, the only sound the slowing of their breath and Barbarus’s panting. Constance relaxed a little, lowering Xander with difficulty on to the steps. He was shaking, his face pale and slick with sweat.
‘The noises have stopped,’ said Winton quietly. ‘What in the thousand crypts is going on?’
‘The storm spell has reached the final stage of its development and is gaining power in a series of contractions, like a woman in labour,’ Constance explained, drawing out her cane from the bundle on the floor, her heart rising in relief. ‘Each time, the periods of activity grow longer and stronger, the peace in between shorter and more desperate.’
‘And then what?’ Winton breathed.
‘The spell is trying to gain autonomy. It wants to be free to roam wherever it wishes. I have to stop it. We should get out before the contractions start again.’
‘Gladly,’ said Winton, who was helping a shaken Dr Thorn out of his cell.
‘Winton … thank you.’ Constance had found a change of clothes in the package, including her dark purple cloak, which – unknown to Winton – contained the mask in its hidden pocket. She changed quickly, glad to leave behind the unwieldy weight of the dirty coronation gown.
The Swordmaster was gaining consciousness, his head nodding as if he was struggling to surface from a dream. But Constance noticed the slick of sweat against his brow, the sour smell of his skin, and knew he was still in danger. ‘What’s going on out there?’ she asked.
‘The people are rioting. The guards are trying to hold them at the portcullis, between the two gatehouses. The Justice is up on the battlements, directing everything. I slipped away in the confusion – they’d locked me in my rooms, but the guards were needed elsewhere and no one was left to watch me. The Ancestors are emerging from other entrances to the crypts too.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s chaos.’
‘We can work this to our advantage,’ said Constance, her mind racing as she fastened her cloak.
Winton nodded. ‘All the guards have abandoned their posts to help on the battlements, and I found the cell keys on the ground outside. Here,’ he said, taking one of Xander’s arms over his shoulder – Dr Thorn took the other, still speechless, his face white with shock. Winton pressed a ring of keys into Constance’s hand. ‘Let’s free the other prisoners and get out of here.’
Constance nodded gratefully and straightened her back. A plan had already taken shape in her head. ‘Winton, take Dr Thorn, the Swordmaster and what remains of his men to my rooms in the south tower – it’s the furthest from the fighting. Dr Thorn, there you will attend to Lord Irvine.’
‘So you have a use for me, after all,’ the physician said, shooting Constance a sharp glance that left her in no doubt he’d heard her quiet advice to Winton minutes earlier.
‘And what will you do?’ Winton asked.
She turned to face her brother. ‘Do you remember the cryptling with a birthmark on her face? The one who … at your mother’s Descent …’
Winton nodded, frowning at the memory.
‘She’s on her way here, and she has the heart of the storm spell. If she gives it to me, I can destroy the spell for good. She should be trying to find me too, so I’m guessing she’ll be headed for the castle. I’m going to try to intercept her before the Justice gets in the way.’
‘All right. You know where I am if you need me.’
Constance felt a sudden rush of affection for her half-brother. She reached out for him, squeezed his shoulder. ‘Thank you, Winton.’
He smiled, his eyes shining. ‘Let’s do this.’
TWENTY-ONE
The Chase
The street was quiet and the night was clear, starlight silvering the narrow path leading to the main road. The moon was a dim grey, mercifully, and the stars faded, occasionally shadowed by thin scarves of cloud. It was too dark for searching – no riders circled the sky now. Lena and Emris, hooded and cloaked in the robes of Mythris, led a pair of black horses uphill towards the outskirts of the city. A pair of horses with godspeed charms, Emris had said, was the fastest way to fly to Duke’s Forest – but they had to get to the very furthest reaches of the city to avoid attracting attention, and to conserve the horses’ energy and the spells’ effectiveness.
A few men and women watched from shadowed doorways as they passed by – but quickly slipped inside, eyes wide, as they caught sight of Emris’s mask. The increasingly ramshackle houses eventually turned into the slums, where the very poorest scraped out a living.
‘Why build a temple here?’ Lena whispered.
‘This place and these people are invisible to the rest of the city,’ Emris said under his breath. ‘What better place to hide a temple that does not want to be found?’
The dwellings extended nearly to the hilltop, but grew hunched and shadowed, petering out as the hill got steeper and rockier. As Lena reached the top, breathing heavily, she stopped at the sight of the view beyond. The hill dropped off sharply, a steep slope tufted with grass. At the bottom, the grey starlit land stretched into a long, uncultivated field, yawning into the distance.
Emris drew to a halt. ‘Are you ready for this?’
Lena looked back. A strange peacefulness had settled over the city, like the calm before a storm. Lights glowed in the darkness, sharp and real. And yet … everything that had happened since she’d left Duke’s Forest … it felt like a dream.
The spell was inside her, swirling in her stomach, its coldness flooding her veins. The butterfly slowly opened its wings and fluttered from her shoulder to her hand. This was real. This was the piece of the puzzle she was missing. If she could only understand it, she knew she would finally understand herself.
‘I’m ready,’ she said at last.
‘Then let’s go.’
They mounted their horses, and Emris laid his hands over both of the godspeed charms tied into the bridles, speaking the incantation to seal the spell. Once he was done,
he nodded. Lena took a deep breath, and dug her heels into the horse’s flanks.
Their journey to the City of Kings sped past in reverse, far into the night – twinkling lights broken by long swathes of blackness, the hoots of owls rising from solitary barns. Otherwise, the ride over the King’s Road was silent. The moon was a sliver of white like a god’s fingernail. Hours later, as they gained on the mountain range in the west, the sun started to rise and the horses descended, their hoofs thudding as they met the road surface.
Lena reined her horse to a stop at the edge of the forest. Sure enough, she felt a kind of tug in her stomach, as if the spell was drawing her inside. And yet …
This is the place I killed the serpent.
Further in, the dead explorers lie in the clearing.
Further still, the hounds tried to catch me under the city walls.
And beyond that, Vigo’s bones lie bare outside the castle.
There was no glowing path to guide her this time – and even if there had been, she wasn’t so sure she would want to follow it.
‘The spell’s heart is inside you, Lena. You have to follow your instincts to lead you to the castle – we have no other choice.’ Emris was a few paces behind, scanning anxiously over his shoulder for signs of pursuit. Dark clouds had gathered on the eastern horizon, and it was difficult to distinguish the black shapes wheeling in the sky – birds, or riders in flight?
‘What if …’ Lena started, but shook her head. Even Emris didn’t know about her deepest secrets, her hopes and her fears.
‘What is it?’ He pulled his horse beside her, reached across to her and squeezed her shoulder. ‘Lena, you can tell me anything.’
The ghost of his kiss burned on her lips. If she didn’t trust him, whom could she trust? She took a deep breath, her mind spinning back to the first time the butterfly had found her, how she’d felt special: as if she’d been chosen. ‘What if I wasn’t chosen at all? What if I’m not special? What if this is all just … chance?’ She swallowed. ‘I was the only cryptling down there that night. It might’ve just been an accident of timing.’