A Trial of Sparks & Kindling (Fall of the Mantle Book 2)

by Yolandie Horak

  Whatever or whomever the slummers held dear meant nothing to the king. Every drop of their blood became tax on a debt he could only pay with blood. His.

  Lance was drifting to sleep just as the voices rose. The hushed sound carried when the wind turned in his direction. As far as he could make it, they met here twice a week.

  “Let’s make it quick,” Highness said. His voice was deeper, and he spoke with the kind of authority that marked him a noble. Maybe a prince. Ahmed had never taught Lance the protocol and forms of address used for the aristocracy.

  “You really upset her with the cat-thing.” Though he always seemed to report to Highness, Lackey didn’t waste breath.

  “Who cares about upsetting her? I want Laroche killed. That boiling Mord overstepped today, coming into my suite and going through my things as though they belonged to him.”

  “You shouldn’t have taken the damn cat.”

  “I’ll do whatever I want, and you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

  “Yes, highness.”

  Lance suppressed a chuckle.

  “Kill Laroche, then scare the queen,” Highness said. “Don’t harm her—I need her.”

  “You’re going through with it then?”

  “Soon.”

  Cutter’s words back in the slums echoed in Lance’s mind. The queen was good, on their side, but Highness and Lackey were going to hurt her. His heart gave a small tug. Cutter was a good man, and he’d believed Seraphine was good, too. Maybe Lance should tell someone?

  “Listen,” Lackey said, “this other problem is bigger. Someone in the palace is working against us. They killed another of our people.”

  “Do we need reinforcements?” Highness asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “You better handle this before we’re turned into rock-bellied corpses.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “Try harder,” Highness said. “You’re going all soft, googly-eyed over that serving girl. She’s not even Aellish!”

  “She’s—” Lackey grunted. “Fine.”

  “Have you made progress with the survivor?”

  “Yes, he’s bringing what we need. We’ll have to be careful, though, highness. I don’t want to get sick.”

  What was this? A survivor? As in a rot survivor? Could they be plotting to infect someone?

  “We’ll be fine,” Highness said. “Once Richard is out of the way— Wait. Someone’s coming.”

  The dungeon’s metal door clanged as the jailers brought food.

  Prick-faced idiots. Nobody was immune to rot, unless they’d had it and lived. If Highness thought he would be fine, he deserved to get infected.

  Cutter’s word or no, Lance couldn’t get involved. If he told anyone about a plot to hurt the queen, kill this Laroche, or infect Richard, he’d probably be accused of being a co-conspirator and face an earlier execution. He was also a survivor, after all.

  Even if they believed him and spared his life, Lackey and Highness would find him and kill him if he spoiled their plans.

  The plate of gruel sloshed as it slid through the small opening in the side of the cell. Stale bread followed it, dark with mould on the one side.

  Lance savoured every bite. Couldn’t taste it anyway.

  Richard. Why did that seem familiar? Lance thought on it as he chewed. Wasn’t Richard the name of the crown prince?

  Ha. So, rot may come to the royals anyway. The small tug returned to his heart. Creator, keep the queen safe. For Cutter.

  Chapter 8

  Cara stared at a point just above Malak’s reflection in the mirror. Wisps of steam rose from the hot iron around which Malak turned chunks of Cara’s hair.

  About a quarter of Cara’s hair had been curled and pinned to her scalp in coils. To set, Malak had explained the first time. Some of the hair still made waves from the day prior’s curling session, but waves weren’t good enough. No, Malak wanted tight curls. Later, the pins would be pulled out, and the tight curls would be braided or styled anyway, but no, this wasn’t a waste of time, the curling added texture.

  Cara barely recognised herself as the woman in the mirror. She’d become a mannequin. An extravagant mannequin, with rouged lips and kohl-rimmed eyes, bruises not quite covered with makeup. Princess Carabelle of Mordoux looked nothing like the apprentice Carl.

  She yawned, and not as a part of her act. Though the greater chunk of her exhaustion could be attributed to trauma, walking like a wraith required more energy than she’d imagined.

  A week spent in Malak’s presence had also taken its toll.

  The woman had an opinion on everything. A princess didn’t do this, a princess didn’t do that. A princess here and a princess there. The hairstyles and cosmetics, and the outrage that Frank hadn’t yet sent a tailor. Malak had managed to find only seven viable dress options, and today Cara would reuse her first dress.

  Not that she went anywhere. Malak was the only person Cara had seen since the day Frank had said he wouldn’t come again. Her room was her whole world and prison.

  Worse still were the times Malak babbled about personal matters. Her sex-life with Frank. Her annoyance when her flow returned month after month, while she so desperately wanted a baby, but despite using herbs to promote pregnancy, nothing quickened within her. She talked about her life before, a slave for the emperor’s late general, Daiki, but never said anything Cara might use later.

  That damned draft caressed Cara’s cheek, and a slight echo followed it. Perhaps the sounds came from the fireplace. A bird must have nested in the chimney.

  “What do you think we should have for lunch?” Malak pinned the final coil of hot hair in place. She waited about ten seconds, then tapped Cara’s shoulder with a gentle smile. “Did you hear what I said, my lamb?”

  Cara swallowed and blinked hard. “Hmm?”

  “Lunch, my lamb. What would you like?”

  “I’m, uh, not hungry.”

  “You must eat something, Cara. It’s almost time for your medicine.”

  “Oh. You decide.”

  Was it time for another dose already? Three hours hadn’t passed since the last time Malak had fed Cara a spoonful. She needed to get away from here, but with Malak always around or the door locked, there was no way of escape.

  “Let’s get you dressed.” Malak gathered the dress and helped Cara out of her nightclothes. Her breath whistled as she inhaled. “Creator, Cara. You can’t keep losing weight. You don’t look well.”

  Of course, she didn’t look well. She’d been violated and continued to be violated daily at her brother’s command.

  Some of the weight loss had followed her from Aelland, but her time here made it worse. She had no appetite. She tried to eat a few bites of every meal, but the food stuck in her throat, and it was a struggle to keep it down. Sometimes, when the nightmares were especially bad, she couldn’t keep down the food, no matter what she did. She didn’t mean to throw up, it wasn’t as though she made herself nauseous on purpose, but while the trauma ate away at her soul; her appetite, her will to fight, dwindled.

  Cara always shook a bit with the effort it took to keep her emotions in check. She was either numb or felt everything in excess, and any little thing could push her over the edge, but all of it had to be contained. The act was the only thing that gave her purpose in this place. She could not let them see what she felt—even if what she felt was murky—or they’d take away those feelings too.

  Malak dressed Cara, then hurried out of the room to fetch lunch. A click sounded as she locked the door.

  Isolated, drugged, and locked in. Cara’s skin tingled, and her heart thundered. The weight of it all crashed down on her. How could Frank do this to her?

  She trailed her hand on the wall for support as she made her way to the bathroom. Once she was safely inside, she crumpled to the cold stone floor with her back against the door. Her lungs allowed only panted breath, short and sharp, in and out, in and out, faster and faster until the edges of her vision blurred and swa
rmed with black dots.

  She counted and breathed and her frantic heart quieted.

  The door to her suite opened and she froze.

  “Carabelle?” Malak asked.

  Cara flushed the latrine just as Malak peeked into the bathroom.

  Malak took Cara by the shoulders. “Come along, my lamb. I have some tea for you.”

  Waves of laughter rose on Cara’s tongue, but she kept them inside. Back in the bedroom, the painting of Marceline smiled down at her as though she were in on Cara’s secret.

  Cara glanced at the bottle of sedative on the bedside table. If only she could smash that cursed thing.

  Malak noticed Cara’s glance and scrunched her nose. “Your food is here, but…I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt if you had the medicine first. I’ll get a spoon.”

  Did she think Cara wanted the sedative? “Oh. Thank you.” Cara slouched and made no effort to conceal how much she still shook.

  Malak fed Cara a spoonful of medicine, then set out Cara’s lunch—scones and tea—on the small table.

  Cara held the medicine in her cheek and pretended to sip her tea, then pushed the medicine into her cup with the unswallowed tea. She placed the cup back on the saucer. Who wanted food at a time like this? Yet, she ate what she could, then stood and climbed into bed without another glance at Malak.

  “You didn’t even drink your— Sleep tight, my lamb.” Glassware tinkled as Malak left the room.

  Cara sighed and turned on her back to stare at the ceiling. Now for two or so hours in which she’d try desperately to get some sleep, only to be woken by nightmares.

  Something thumped, and she frowned. The sound had been too close to come from the hallway, but had she ever really heard anything from the hallway? No, this was closer. As if it had come from inside the wall.

  Cara stood and placed her ear to the wall next to her bed. She closed her eyes then knocked. Nothing, just a knock. She crossed to the other side of the bed and knocked again. Still the same.

  She was right, though. She’d heard something. She was not losing her mind.

  Cara sat on the edge of her bed, and that stupid draft came from somewhere to taunt her again. Where?

  She bit the corner of her lip. Maybe the sound and the draft were connected.

  She turned her gaze upwards to study the ceiling and caught Marceline’s reflection in the mirror.

  A painting. She’d never seen quite such a large painting before, almost like a door. She went closer and inspected it.

  All the paintings at Magnus’s house had hung away from the wall at the top, and when removed, the space underneath had retained a more vibrant, truer shade of the original paint or wallpaper. This painting sat flush to the wall. How had she never noticed this before?

  Cara rose and tried to lift the golden frame from the wall, but it was stuck. She knocked on the picture. The sound was much different this time. Hollow.

  She pushed the frame from both sides, but it wouldn’t budge. Tried to pull the frame, push back the picture, but to no avail. Searched her room for switches but found none.

  The key ground as it entered the lock to her door, and Cara barely scrambled into bed as Malak entered.

  ***

  Malak had no sooner put her in bed for the night, than Cara was up again. She spat the medicine and returned to the painting.

  She dared not turn on the light or open the window. What if Malak or someone outside looked up and noticed?

  The light from the fireplace would have to do.

  How would she come at this problem? Cara pursed her lips. With rot and the Mantle, she’d spent time studying the subject. So, she pulled up a chair and sat in front of the painting. She hadn’t noticed the fine dragon-and-flame pattern on the frame before, or the stack of books by Marceline’s feet, half-hidden behind her dress.

  The stones in the wall around the painting were uneven, just like the rest of the stones used to build the castle—that meant nothing. Just as it meant nothing that the stones differed slightly in hue, but the cement had been replaced in places, which could be a clue. She leaned closer to compare the colours.

  The dust between the stones was thick around all stones but one, a small one on the left of the painting.

  Cara stood to touch this stone, and it gave way beneath her fingertips, then bounced back as she released it. She pressed harder this time, and the stone sank back into the wall. A click, and the painting flipped away from the wall next to her hand.

  She took the frame and edged it open. A hinge was hidden just inside the other side of the frame, and the painting moved like a well-oiled door. Not a squeak.

  Darkness with substance met her on the other side, thick enough to be alive. A cold wind hurried out of this secret place. A tunnel? That led to where?

  She searched the armoire for a lamp or a candle, but no such luck.

  Her veins froze as she slipped on a cloak and studied the darkness ahead. She could stay in her room and pretend to be drugged for months still, or she could take a breath and enter the tunnel.

  With a nod, she inhaled and entered the dark. She’d done plenty of stupid things by now and would survive this one. Hopefully.

  The glow from the fireplace stretched her shadow ahead of her. The shadow grew darker and darker as she progressed. Her heart hammered, and her lungs quivered.

  How far would the echoes of her panting travel? More importantly, who heard them on the other end?

  Cara held her right hand to the wall and the other stretched out in front of her, as she counted her steps. Five, ten, fifteen. Slowly, slowly, on the tips of her toes.

  The deeper she went, the colder it became, until her shivering caused her teeth to chatter. She locked her jaw—the rattling teeth could alert someone to the fact that she was in here, where she shouldn’t be. Her nose and eyes watered, but all she could do was blink and dab away the moisture.

  The wall on her right ended in a corner. She reached over to touch the left, which also formed a corner. Two steps forward, a solid wall met her. A crossroad.

  She looked back the way she’d come, and the light from her fireplace lit the back of the passage. Anyone in these passages could see that as easily as she did, and she didn’t want to alert someone to what she’d done. Best to go back, close the entrance, and try again.

  What if she got lost, though? Or closed the door and couldn’t find a way to open it again?

  She shook out her shoulders. She hadn’t gotten lost in the slums, and if she didn’t try this, she’d always wonder.

  Cara turned and closed the painting so that no more than a sliver of light was visible, waited for her eyes to adjust to this new level of darkness, then went back up the path. She checked over her shoulder that she’d see her suite when she came back, then went right.

  The way sloped up, and she must be climbing higher into the tower. Thirty paces in, the path split off again, this time to the front, left, and right. Cara kept right. She progressed into a dead end, but low noises reached her from the other side. Muffled voices.

  She pressed her ear to the wall. The words bunched together and were difficult to discern, but as Cara concentrated, she gathered that the voices belonged to a pair of women discussing some sort of excavation.

  Somewhere in this dead end, there would likely be a switch, just like the stone in her room. This passage was connected to her room, which meant these passages were probably connected to most, if not all, of the rooms in the castle.

  What else did she know?

  Pointy had wanted to come here, to Collinefort, and would have brought her all the way if Frank and his friends hadn’t found them in the valley. Nita had led Cara straight to her room, without any input from Malak. They knew more about Collinefort than they’d let on in Aelland.

  She returned to the crossroads and took the middle way. Once again, she went up, and the passage didn’t split off again. She reached another dead end, but no sound escaped.

  What if Collinefort was connected
to Mordian Intelligence? That would certainly explain the passages. Intelligence must have used the ways to spy on the people who came here. Which meant listening holes. Hadn’t Frank said something about the walls listening that first night?

  Ashes, what if they’d been listening to her? Did they know she pretended to be drugged? If they knew, they hadn’t done anything to alert her to the fact, but knowing Celestine, that didn’t mean much. What if they were playing games with her? What if they’d wanted her to enter the passages?

  She was paranoid or she was right, but either way, she had to know the truth.

  Cara searched for a switch or a latch, but her fingers were numb with the cold, and she struggled to grip. She stifled a yawn. Time to go back.

  Her apprentice gloves were still in her luggage. If she came back, she’d be better prepared. Did she dare return to the passages? What if she played right into Celestine’s hand? She shook her head. No use in overthinking.

  She shuddered in the warmth of her room and shut the painting behind her, then placed her coat in the armoire and slipped into bed.

  Wait. Her coat hadn’t been covered in dust, and she hadn’t stomped dusty footprints all over her floor. Did that mean the passages were maintained? Had she been right to fear Celestine in the dark?

  Cara held herself tighter. The passages could be her only way out. She had no choice but to go back in tomorrow, whether that was a part of Celestine’s plan or not.

  Whatever exhaustion had hung on her eyelids disappeared. What if someone spied on her as she slept? Anyone could come in, if they knew about the passages.

  But what could she do about it? Nothing. If she blocked the entrance with a chair, Malak would be alerted to the fact that Cara had figured out something she wasn’t supposed to know. There was no way to lock the passage either.

  She shivered and wrapped her bedding around her.

  For now, all she could do was pretend to be drugged and explore the passages. The right passage went up, so the left had to go down. Down towards the entrance of the castle. Down towards freedom.