by Molly Ringle
“Arlanuk’s guards say Ula Kana burst from her sleep all on her own, with no other fae infiltrating the fortress to free her. She couldn’t be contained, and escaped soon after.”
“These fae cannot lie, I suppose.”
“They cannot. I’ve discussed this with the queen and prime minister. What this means is that if anyone meddled with the spell, it was in the human realm, on our end. In your bower.”
Larkin smoothed the cuff of his shirt. “Or perhaps Rosamund intended the spell to end after a certain time, to free me in case no one else had.”
“Perhaps. But it’s time we had our discussion about who else you might have spoken to, and what else you remember. Perhaps you’ve even thought of something that would change your story?”
He smiled politely. “I haven’t.”
She returned the smile. “Nonetheless, can we meet tonight? I’ll come to your rooms. In fact, we could record a speech from you. Something to broadcast to the country, to cheer them, as you were saying.”
Warning drums pounded again in Larkin’s blood. “I would certainly like to speak to the public. Perhaps I might be allowed more time to select what to say, and deliver the speech tomorrow. This seems to be the queen’s wish.”
“The prime minister has already approved the idea of recording it tonight instead. Shall I come to your rooms in, say, half an hour, and we can try it?”
Larkin assented. She bustled away.
Very well, she might come, but he need not be there.
How gullible did she take him to be? Larkin had lived all his life in this palace, among politicians, diplomats, witches, and courtiers. He recognized maneuvering, manipulation, and all the other tricks in the deck. She would come, likely with more witches at her back, and together they would force a truth spell on him. He would give Merrick’s name against his will, and that would be the end of Merrick’s freedom.
Not to mention they might put Larkin to sleep again.
Absolutely not. He must find a way to warn Merrick, or to speak with anyone more trustworthy than these vipers.
In his rooms, Larkin locked the door—though little good the lock would do, of course. He picked up the iron sword from the bower, which he had lain atop the mantle, and tipped the scabbard until the resistance chain slid out. He looped it around his neck and dropped its length down inside his shirt. Then he fastened the baldric round his waist. If he was about to leave, he wished to bring his sword along, not only for sentimental reasons but because instinct still insisted he don an iron weapon at dangerous times.
He went to the northeast corner of the room and felt around the ridge of the wainscoting. Was the latch still here? Surely no self-respecting royal family would brick up something as useful as a hidden passage … ah! There. He gave a tug, and the panel slid aside, revealing a waist-high doorway into the walls. A gentle light shone within. Clearly the passage was still known and used.
Larkin crouched and stepped into it, and nearly shouted in alarm to find a pair of armed guards there. They crossed their bayonets over his path, in the light of the electric candles in the wall sconces.
“You are here to ‘protect’ me from this approach, I take it,” Larkin said.
“Those are our orders, Your Highness,” said one.
“And if I wish to leave?”
“We’re meant to keep you here for the evening for your safety.”
“Or what? You’ll shoot me?”
“We very much hope not to have to,” said the other.
Larkin tried to stare him down, but the man’s military training held, and he did not even blink.
Larkin did have powers as an exo-witch. He could have immobilized one of them, but probably not two at once. Besides, there were the guards at his front door, who would swarm in at the first sound of a fight. It was no use.
He smiled in sheepish regret, as if giving up. “No matter. I only wanted to see if this old passage was still here. I’m glad it is. Goodnight, friends.”
He ducked out of the hidden door and slid the panel shut, then stalked to the main door and opened it. He tried to stride out nonchalantly, but was again stopped by the crossed bayonets of those guards.
“I must see the queen,” Larkin told them. “At once.”
Could he even trust Her Majesty? Did she know what Janssen was planning?
“We’ll send her the message, Your Highness,” one said. “She can come to you if she’s able. We have orders to keep you here the rest of the night.”
“For my own safety.”
“Indeed.”
“And you have orders to subdue me with force if I attempt to get past you.”
“No one wants it to come to that, Your Highness.”
He stepped back into his room, hands shaking with rage, though he kept his voice steady. “Very well. Good evening, then.”
He locked the door, paced to his balcony, and stared out into the misty night. It was just a regular sea mist, the weather experts had assured, but after the ghoulish fog of the bridge disaster, it had unnerved everyone.
They were putting off his public appearance until tomorrow because they intended never to have it. The one last “appearance” they would show the public would be the recording they intended to take tonight, in which he would state, under magical compulsion, that he had volunteered to go back into the sleep to help the nation.
They had been dragging him to one conference after another because they wanted to weary him, for then he would be more easily influenced into the sleep, via magic or outright force, but only after giving up all he knew of his rescuers.
Janssen was on her way to his room, undoubtedly with others to help subdue him. He had minutes at best.
Pacing back in from the balcony, Larkin caught sight of himself in the gilt-framed mirror, his face a mask of panic, his braid over his shoulder, his hair slipping out and becoming all blowsy except where the clovers pinned it down.
He stood motionless, holding his breath. Then he began moving in a rush, tugging out each clover pin until he found the little red button.
How had Merrick caused it to work? Simply by—
Larkin squeezed it hard between thumb and finger. The button clicked, then began hissing and blinking with a red light. Praying he had not somehow just alerted the entire palace to his actions, he took it back to the balcony, where his guards would be less likely to hear him.
“Merrick?” he asked the button in a hushed voice. “Merrick, for the love of Spirit, how do I summon you? Merrick!”
CHAPTER 25
SOMETHING IN THE VICINITY OF THE SOFA began beeping and spitting static. Interrupted in discussing a map, Merrick and Sal stared toward the noise. Realizing what it was, Merrick dove across the room to grab the hoodie he had left there.
“Merrick?” Larkin’s voice, sounding tinny, came from the button stuck to the fabric. “Can you hear me? Laird-a-lady, am I speaking to anyone, or am I speaking to a button, like a lunatic?”
Merrick plucked the button free. “Larkin? Are you there?”
“Highvalley!” The relief came through like a wave. “Are you well?”
“I’m fine, how about you?”
“Bloody Lord, you were right. I should never have trusted them. They’ve confined me to my rooms with armed guards, claiming it’s for my own safety. The Witch Laureate, and likely others, are on their way here this moment, undoubtedly to force me back into the sleep after compelling me into a truth spell. Which would of course betray you. Janssen didn’t believe my story, and they’ve been trying to persuade me to accept the sleep again. I’ve resisted, but after the bridge collapse, they’re desperate.”
Merrick expelled a few swear words, then said, “There’s no way you can escape? No other way out?”
“The secret passage from this room is guarded as well. And I’m on the fourth floor; I can hardly jump off the balcony.”
“Shit. Uh … ” Merrick drummed his fingers on the back of the sofa. Then he stilled them. “You have a
balcony?”
Larkin had just silenced the button with another squeeze, in accordance with Merrick’s instructions, and watched its light go out, when someone rapped on his door.
“Who’s there?” he called.
“Janssen.”
He slid the clover pins and the button into his pocket. “I’ve changed my mind, Janssen. I’m tired and feeling unwell. I would prefer to be left alone and speak with you in the morning, if you’d be so kind.”
“It will only take a minute, friend, we promise. But it’s vital we take care of it tonight. Every minute counts. I’m sure you understand.”
The lock clicked and the door opened. That was the work of Feng, matter-witch and Merrick’s former lover, who stood beside Janssen. Larkin had noticed him during the meetings: an immaculate short haircut, a modern black three-piece suit; handsome but conceited. How Merrick had ever borne the man was beyond Larkin.
On Janssen’s other side was a burly man with a yellow sash. Exo-witch: an excellent choice for subduing people. Behind them lingered two additional armed guards, aside from the pair at his door. Janssen’s gaze flickered to the sword he had put on, but no one made any comment. He couldn’t fight the entire group, and they knew it.
His resistance charm would help for a short time, but they’d restrain him, find it, and take it off, then overpower him.
But with any luck, all he needed to do was stall them.
With a languid sigh, Larkin strolled to the open balcony door, upon which he rested his arm. “I beg you, friends, I’ve a headache. The cool air seems to do me good, but I would wait until morning for any further conversation.”
“We’re sorry to disturb you, Your Highness,” Janssen said. Larkin heard the door shut behind her. “We’re all tired. We know how you feel.”
Larkin turned. “As I said, I understand the wish to hurry, but I don’t think it would make much difference.”
The witches walked toward him. The guards stayed in front of the door.
“How about we just record those few lines?” Feng smiled. “And you can go over again what you remember after waking up. See if you think of anything new, any clues.”
“I promise you, I’ve nothing to add.”
“Perhaps if you consented to a light memory-boosting spell?” Janssen said. “They can do wonders.”
Indeed, and if he allowed that, she would lay a truth spell directly on top of it.
“And what should I say in this speech?” Larkin asked.
“Well, Your Highness,” she said, “first, if we could discuss what we mentioned before. About the possibility of just a temporary reenactment of the sleeping spell.”
They all took a step closer.
Larkin feigned a drooping mien again, and looked outward. The lights of the plaza made fuzzy, bright orbs in the fog. His eyes raked the air in search of a dark shape flying in. Nothing.
“What of it?” he asked.
“It wouldn’t be like before. We wouldn’t leave you for centuries. Days at most. It was painless, wasn’t it? Restful? Better than being awake around here lately, I bet.” She chuckled.
Of all the appalling attempts to persuade someone. Larkin squeezed the edge of the door, then turned to face them. “It doesn’t even trouble you, does it? The knowledge that I was compelled into the spell. You would even consider repeating Rosamund Highvalley’s offense.”
Feng’s faltering glance, slipping downward, was verification enough.
Janssen’s gaze stayed steady. “The last few days have been the most violent and troubling in the memory of any islander living, other than yourself. We’re seeking your cooperation. All of us are facing, and doing, things we’d rather not. It’s a time for sacrifice.”
Larkin moved back onto the balcony and seized the stone railing behind him, his instinctive terror of falling weakening his legs even now.
Even when he must fall.
“Then you do intend it,” he said. “To compel me into saying what you wish in a recorded message, then forcing me back into the sleep.”
They clustered at the balcony door, a human barricade.
“It’s become what you are.” Janssen sounded almost kind. “It’s your most lasting contribution to the nation, and it’s a great one. There’s nothing to fear.”
“It won’t work.” Larkin held onto the rail at his back. “Enchanting me will not stop her in the slightest.”
“If it doesn’t, we’ll awaken you again. Simple.”
A thump, barely tangible, touched the stone. He spared a glance back, over the railing. The ground whirled, stories and stories below. His stomach flipped, and he held the stone edge tighter. He saw no one. Then he looked again.
Merrick clung like a lizard upon a section of thickly decorated wall at the balcony’s corner, almost within Larkin’s reach. His skin blended with the mottled golden-gray of the stone, his dark clothes and hair fading into the shadows. A chameleon spell. Endo-witches could do such things. His eyes, fixed upon Larkin, were also changed to golden-gray, even the whites of them. He smiled, his whole body rising and falling fast as he breathed. His teeth at least remained white, an appealing human grin.
Larkin’s heart leaped, but he kept his face still, not betraying any change. He turned a stern look upon his pursuers. “Forgive me, but I’m unconvinced. Kindly step away.”
“Come in and talk to us,” Feng coaxed. “There’s nowhere else to go.” He laughed, in a ghastly parody of friendliness. “After all, you can’t fly.”
Larkin slid one hand a few inches down the exterior of the balcony.
Merrick’s hand wrapped around Larkin’s wrist, warm and solid. Larkin grasped back.
He drew a deep breath, his legs quaking. “No indeed. I cannot.”
And he vaulted over the railing, horribly certain he was about to die.
Instead he landed, as he designed, upon Merrick’s back.
He nearly tumbled off, just managing to stay on by throwing his arms and legs round Merrick, panic sparking in needles throughout him. He and Merrick plummeted downward. The witches cried out in alarm and rushed to the balcony.
Pressing his cheek against Merrick’s hair, Larkin looked up. Janssen and the burly man, leaning over the railing, had spotted them.
“Move!” Larkin urged.
In a burst of speed, Merrick shot up, past the balcony, close enough that Larkin felt the tingling brush of the spells the witches flung. Reflexively, he knocked down all three of them with a spell of his own, one forcing their knees to buckle; it held only a second, but it was long enough for he and Merrick to fly out of range.
They soared up and up, skimming the roof, winging around flagstaffs and statues and decorative spikes that Larkin had only vaguely known were up here. He held on for his life, no doubt squeezing the breath out of Merrick. Though terror throttled him, he found he was laughing. Sections of his hair came loose, streaming in the wind and tangling across his face. He shook it out of the way.
To fly! How unnatural. How exhilarating.
“Are you okay?” Merrick shouted.
“Yes. Thank you. Truly, thank you.”
“I felt a spell—”
“They tried. Only a glancing blow. Are you well?”
“I’m fine.” Merrick gestured with his chin toward the gates, over which they were flying. “The people want to see you.”
Larkin discerned, through the mist, the mass of citizens with their signs. “Then let us see them.”
Merrick swooped downward. The falling sensation felt like riding a galloping horse down a hill, an experience Larkin had always liked.
“Hey!” Merrick called to the crowd. “Up here! Who’s this?”
All the faces turned upward. Then everyone began pointing, cheering, and shouting Larkin’s name.
Larkin freed an arm and reached down. Merrick, divining his purpose, flew low enough to let Larkin’s touch sweep the upstretched hands of the crowd, brushing one set of fingers after another.
“I am fre
e,” Larkin shouted to them. “And I am well. And so shall all of us be again soon!”
They cheered louder.
Putting on extra speed, Merrick carried them higher and away. “Sorry,” he said, winded, “but we can’t stick around.”
“No, we mustn’t.” Larkin tugged the resistance charm from beneath his shirt and threw its long loop around Merrick’s neck too, to encompass them both. “There. That should assist.”
“Thanks. Sal’s house is warded too. They won’t be able to track us once we get there.”
“Perfect.” Larkin hugged him and held on while Merrick darted round buildings and trees, choosing the darkest streets, diving up and down in the fog in what Larkin assumed were evasive tactics. Larkin looked behind several times, but saw no one following. After a minute or two, they plunged into a quiet garden behind a bamboo fence.
They landed, a tumbling crash across mounds of moss. Damp and bruised, but ecstatic, Larkin rolled over and caught Merrick, who had collapsed. Larkin drew him across his lap and cradled him in both arms. Merrick lay with eyes shut, panting rapidly, and Larkin would have feared for his health were it not for his wide smile.
“Well done, Highvalley.” Larkin stroked his cheek and let his hand linger in the wind-tossed curls behind his ear. “Oh, truly most well done indeed.” And he bent and kissed Merrick’s lips.
It was an impulsive kiss born of gratitude, lasting only a second, the sort of gesture that in his time one was allowed to bestow on a friend. Perhaps it wasn’t such a common custom anymore, he realized, as a surprised stillness overtook Merrick. But before Larkin could assemble an apology, Merrick sat up, wrapped his arms around Larkin, and latched his mouth back onto his, and all at once it became a kiss for a lover.
Larkin felt overtaken by a wild force, a gale or rushing river, rousing him in a way he hadn’t properly felt in ages. He was flushed and desirous and desired, breathing fast as he sank into Merrick’s kisses. Merrick tipped him over backward until they lay on the soggy moss, Merrick atop him.
This was what it meant to be awake and alive. The feeling filled him, replenished him. Not until now did he realize how hollow he had been without it. He held Merrick, feeling the heat of his body through fog-dampened clothing, tasting the tang of exertion in his mouth, sliding his hands down his back.