The Caged Queen
Page 15
The angry, grieving crowd dispersed. The servants returned to work. Warily, her father rode back to the funeral.
The girl remained behind, staring at the locked door.
Slowly, she approached and sat down.
With her back pressed to the wood, she listened to the sound of him crying.
“It should have been you,” she whispered, thinking of her sister falling from the roof—right after she saved him. “It should have been you.”
The girl hated him.
She would never stop hating him for what he’d taken from her.
And yet, she couldn’t bring herself to leave him.
They intend to strike at the king by striking his son, her father had said.
Perhaps you should let them.
The girl stayed there all night, like a sentinel, listening to the sound of him weeping. Her father found her just after midnight, curled up outside the storeroom door, asleep.
Carefully, he unlocked it. The boy sat on the storeroom floor, his arms gripped tight around his knees. He stared up at the man before him, the salt of his tears encrusted on his cheeks.
The girl’s father lifted a finger to his lips and beckoned him out.
Silently, beneath the cover of night, he took the boy to the stables. They saddled a horse, mounted up, rode out. The moon rose high and full above them, lighting their path through the blight-ridden fields of Song.
Because no one should suffer for the crimes of their fathers.
Fifteen
Roa woke the next morning to find Lirabel gone and her sister’s silver hawk eyes watching her from the pillows. Roa turned onto her side, cradling her cheek on her crooked arm, and stared back.
Essie. She sent the name toward her sister’s mind, like she usually did, like she’d always done. But the thought was met with silence. And the hum was weaker than ever.
The Relinquishing was only five days away now, and if Roa didn’t lose her sister before then, she would certainly lose her on the longest night. Essie’s soul had lingered for eight years now. Eight years was too long. She couldn’t keep resisting her death call.
Roa stared at her sister.
The Skyweaver’s knife was their only chance. She needed to find it tonight, in the home of her enemy. A home she’d never been to.
“Essie,” she said aloud this time. The white hawk lifted her head, her gaze piercing Roa.
What if I can’t do it? Her eyes prickled with tears and her vision blurred. What if I fail?
Suddenly, the weight on the pillows shifted. Soft feathers brushed Roa’s forehead, then the tip of her nose. A solid, familiar warmth curled itself up against her chest, close to her heart.
Roa palmed the tears from her eyes and found Essie pressed against her, perfectly still, listening to the sound of her sister’s heartbeat. Roa’s arm came gently around her.
“I won’t fail,” she whispered into her feathers. “That’s a promise.”
When Roa opened the door to step out into the hall, Safire’s grinning face greeted her.
“Finally. I was beginning to think you’d sleep all day.”
The commandant didn’t wear the king’s crest—a dragon entwined around a sword—but a seven-petaled flower that mimicked the shape of a flame. A namsara flower.
Safire’s gold tunic was fitted to her tall, strong form; while her face was measured and calm, her eyes raged like bright blue flames.
“Saf?” Roa frowned, looking beyond her to the three soldats—all young women—standing behind her. “What is this?”
“I’m officially on guard duty,” said Safire. She stepped into the room, forcing Roa back, and immediately started looking around. The three soldats filed in after her, two of them taking up positions inside the door. The last one, Roa noticed, was a scrublander with bright onyx eyes. Her curls haloed her head and she lifted a fisted hand over her heart in a scrublander salute, just for Roa.
“My name is Celeste.” The girl let her fist uncurl and fall back to her side. Looking to the other two soldats, she said, “This is Saba and Tati.”
Though neither Saba nor Tati was a scrublander, they both followed Celeste’s lead and gave Roa the same fisted salute.
Stunned, Roa returned the gesture.
“Guard duty?” she murmured, turning to Safire.
The commandant crouched down near the bed, scanning the floor.
“What are you doing?” Roa demanded.
“A member of the queen’s personal guard was found dead in an alley this morning.” Safire rose, her gaze fixing on the queen. “His throat was cut open. From the look of the wound, it was a small blade that did it.”
Roa pulled her sleeve down to cover her wrist—still flecked with Sirin’s blood.
“The soldats at the gate told me he left with you in the night.” Safire’s black hair was pulled into a simple bun at the nape of her neck, keeping it off her face. Those blue eyes watched Roa closely, as if measuring her reaction. “Where did you go?”
Roa forced herself to remain composed.
There were three other guards who—she was sure—had already told Safire the truth. That Roa had left with Sirin as her escort, and neither of them returned to her rooms.
“I went for a walk,” she said. “I needed some air.”
Safire pulled one of the throwing knives from her belt and started examining its very sharp edge. “You needed air . . . at midnight?” Her gaze returned to Roa.
“It was only moonrise when I left.”
“And Sirin escorted you out?”
Roa nodded.
“But didn’t escort you back in?”
“Is this an interrogation?” On her shoulder, Essie flexed her wings in agitation.
Safire smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “If this were an interrogation, you would be in the dungeons right now.”
Roa lifted her chin in defiance.
“Sirin didn’t escort you back in,” Safire repeated, waiting for Roa to confirm or deny it.
Roa shook her head. “He said”—she shivered at the memory—“something about ridding the king of his problem.”
Roa’s eyes held Safire’s, daring her to press harder. To ask Roa what the king’s problem was, exactly.
But Safire didn’t. Instead, she turned and walked to one of three arched windows against the south wall of Lirabel’s small room.
“Until a replacement can be found,” said Safire, her back to Roa as she glanced out the window, the sunlight washing over her, “I’m the new captain of your guard.”
Roa frowned. “What?”
The person most loyal to Dax, his own flesh and blood, watching her every move? It was the last thing she needed.
“And these”—Safire nodded toward the young women near the door—“are my three most trusted soldats.”
Roa glanced at the armed guards, all of them staring attentively at their commandant. From the looks on their faces, Roa knew without a doubt their loyalty couldn’t be bought. From the looks on their faces, they would cut down anyone who so much as tried to turn them against Safire.
“Their orders are to defend you with their lives,” said Safire, walking back toward Roa. “So that’s what they’ll do.”
“Perfect,” Roa said through gritted teeth. “I hope they do a better job than Sirin.”
“You can count on it,” said Safire. Her throwing knife flashed as she tossed it in the air, then sheathed it next to the others in her belt.
But as inconvenient as it was, Roa found herself relaxing. In the presence of these new guards, she felt truly safe.
“Now.” Safire smiled, and this time, it was a cheerful one. “Shall we escort you to your rooms? I’m sure you’d like a bath and a fresh change of clothes before Baron Silva’s dinner party tonight.”
The dinner party.
How was she going to find and steal the Skyweaver’s knife with Safire’s too-keen eyes trailing her wherever she went?
Roa followed Tati and Saba through th
e door. Celeste and Safire fell into step behind her.
I’ll have to lose her somehow.
How Roa would manage that, she had no idea.
An Unexpected Visitor
On the first Relinquishing after her sister died, the girl helped her mother snuff all the lights while her brother bolted the doors and let in only the living.
The Relinquishing was not a time for celebration. You did not wear fancy clothes or eat lavish meals. You didn’t sing or dance.
The rules for relinquishing needed to be carefully observed. Otherwise, the worst could happen.
In the girl’s household, when the sun went down, her family and neighbors put on their masks, gathered in the central pavilion, and told each other stories until sunrise.
Normally, the girl and her sister loved Relinquishing nights. Loved listening to her father tell stories about the Skyweaver and the world beyond this one. Loved the way the heart-fire—the only flame allowed tonight—flickered across their masks, keeping their identities hidden. They even loved the burned bread. Loved to dip it in soured wine.
This year was different.
The girl didn’t want to hear her father’s stories, nor did she want to think about the Skyweaver. She didn’t like the look of the wooden masks painted white, hiding the faces of her loved ones. She had no appetite for scorched bread.
It reminded her of everything she’d lost.
So the girl got up and left.
She didn’t leave the house—she knew better than that. But she left the pavilion and walked the dark, silent halls to the parlor.
It was too dark. With the heart-fire burning on the other side of the house, she couldn’t see a thing. So the girl lit a candle—what harm could a single candle do?—and set it on the window ledge.
The girl stepped onto the table where a gods and monsters board sat, then climbed on the windowsill and looked out. No moon glowed in the sky. Everything was black.
Except her candle, burning bright.
Like a beacon.
It wasn’t long before the door creaked. The girl sucked in a breath and went very still. But the light of her candle couldn’t reach that far, and the door remained in shadow.
She felt the rush of cool air from the hall.
“Who’s there?” she whispered, the hair on the back of her neck rising.
A voice answered from the shadows: “It’s the longest night of the year and you put a candle in the window?”
The girl’s heart hammered. She grabbed the candle and held it out.
“Who are you?” she whispered, her hands shaking, the candle flickering.
She knew, though.
Of course she knew.
The thing behind the door stepped into the light. It wore her sister’s face, her plaited dark hair, and the sky-blue dress she died in—a cotton one that came to her knees.
“Hello, sister.”
The girl swallowed hard from behind her Relinquishing mask, knowing the danger. Knowing that what stood before her could wear the face of her sister but be a twisted version of her.
“Stay back.”
The thing paused, its brow wrinkling, as if puzzled.
“You think I’m corrupted,” it said, looking to where the girl’s hand slid beneath her dress, to where a knife was sheathed at her calf. “A knife is no good against a corruption, silly.”
The girl didn’t take her hand away from her knife. “My sister died. Months and months ago. If you want me to believe you’re her, and not her corrupted spirit, prove it.”
The thing with her sister’s face chewed its lip. Its gaze swept over their parlor and came to settle on the table just beneath the windowsill. On the gods and monsters board.
“Could a corrupted spirit beat you at gods and monsters?”
“My sister couldn’t even beat me at gods and monsters.”
The thing put its hands on its hips and smiled just like her sister smiled. “Is that so?”
It wasn’t so. It was a test.
The thing came toward the window.
The girl drew back, afraid.
It raised its hands, then slowly reached for the black and white pieces scattered on the table, so as not to scare her again.
“Would a corrupted spirit know that this piece is your favorite?”
The thing sitting at the board lifted the ivory caged queen. The girl took it, still wary, then slid down off the sill and sat across the table.
“If I win,” said the thing, setting up the board, “I want you to come cliff jumping with me.”
Its fingers ran gently over the chiseled pieces, as if this was the last game it would ever play and it wanted to memorize everything.
“If you were my sister, you’d know I hate cliff jumping.”
The thing looked up, and their eyes met. “But I love it. I want to do all the things I love tonight. With you.”
The girl softened.
She gave in and played the game.
When the thing wasn’t looking, the girl studied it. It had her sister’s ebony eyes, black frizzy braids, and soft round cheeks. It even had her snaggle tooth. Every now and then, when their father’s voice would float down the halls, still telling stories, the thing with her sister’s face would look up and the girl would watch an unbearable sadness flicker in her eyes.
When the candle was on the verge of guttering, the thing said, “Would a corrupted spirit know the secret code?”
The girl looked up, surprised. Back when their mother suffered from debilitating headaches, on her very bad days, their father instituted a no-talking-in-the-house rule. So the girl and her sister made up a series of complex gestures. They didn’t remember most of them. The fun was in making them up.
One, however, had stuck.
The thing smiled. Very slowly, it reached across the table and touched the girl’s wrist. The girl shivered, even though its hand was warm, its fingers soft. When it found the girl’s wrist bone, it tapped twice.
Pay attention, it meant. I’m about to win the game.
The girl looked to the board and saw, indeed, the game was over. She turned to the grinning face of her sister, who laughed a golden laugh. It was so familiar, that laugh. It was her favorite sound in the world.
“I believe you,” she whispered. “But if you aren’t corrupted, why are you here?”
The grin faded. “I couldn’t cross,” she said, and there was the ache of sorrow in her voice.
Suddenly, it all made sense. Her sister was here, in her true form, to walk among the living on the last night of the year . . . because she hadn’t been relinquished. She was uncrossed.
“How much time do we have?”
Her sister looked out the window to the sky. Half the night had passed already.
“Just until dawn.”
“Well then,” said the girl, snuffing out the candle, “we’d best get going if we’re going to reach the cliffs in time.”
Her sister beamed at her through the dark.
This time, the girl climbed the sheer rock, even as her legs shook. And though she was terrified, she jumped.
And jumped. And jumped.
Her sister held her hand and laughed the whole way down.
How she missed the sound of that laugh.
The fear didn’t lessen with each jump. The girl just didn’t care as much about dying as she cared about soaking up her sister’s presence. She wanted to spend these last moments doing whatever her sister wanted. Because when the sun came up, that would be it. Her sister would cross, as all souls must.
When the sky turned red, they climbed out of the water, their teeth clattering in the early-morning cold, and collapsed into the grass. The girl clutched her sister’s hand, staring deep into her eyes, not daring to look away, even to check the sky.
“Don’t go,” she whispered. “I don’t know who I am without you.”
“You’re my sister. You’ll always be my sister.”
Not if you’re gone, thought the girl.
The girl couldn’t look.
“Don’t leave,” she begged, watching her flicker and fade. Her vision blurred with hot tears.
When she blinked them away, her sister was gone.
Sixteen
Roa stood in the heart of enemy territory, with Essie perched on her shoulder, watching the dizzying spectacle of Baron Silva’s great hall.
In honor of the new dragon queen, Rebekah’s guests all wore Relinquishing masks. At least, that’s what Roa assumed they were supposed to be. But unlike the masks Roa’s people wore on the longest night of the year, these were a gaudy show of wealth. They were golden shimmering things, some inlaid with gems or sewn up with bright ribbons, each one distinct to match the wearer.
A thin, cackling man wore the snout of an elephant. A huge woman with ruby rings wore the face of a hyena. And standing alone, near the wall, a dark-haired young woman with glittering black eyes wore the face and horns of a dragon. It covered one whole side of her face, and half of the other.
Guests laughed as they showed off their masks, casting haughty glances at Roa, Lirabel, and Essie, who stood gaping at the awful mimicry. This was not an attempt to honor Roa and her scrublander heritage. This was little more than a mockery.
“This is supposed to protect us from wandering spirits?” One woman smirked. “I never realized how superstitious they were.”
“So backward thinking,” agreed the man at her side.
Essie ruffled her feathers in irritation as Roa and Lirabel exchanged furious glances. The masks they’d been given—a cobra and a fox—were buckling in their clenched fists.
Relinquishing masks were simple, rudimentary things for a reason. Fashioned out of wood and painted all in white, they were intended to be plain, each one the same as the next, to confuse and repel the dead—not draw them in with their dazzling beauty.
More than this: the masks were only worn on the longest night of the year—which was still five days away.
“That’s right,” said Lirabel darkly, eyeing them all. “Keep laughing.”