Unblemished

by Sara Ella

  “My business is whatever I choose.” He falls in step beside me. “Were you in love with him?”

  “How did Ky get me here? We were in the middle of the sea, about to be eaten by a Leviathan.”

  “The girl works for me, of course. She brought you and Kyaphus here.”

  That was no girl.

  “The Leviathan brought you up the Stae River, which borders Gnol Island on one side and the Forest of Night on the other.” He extends a hand toward the shadowed trees. His explanation comes out like a speech. Formal. Professorish. No way I’m related to this guy.

  We reach the courtyard again. A crow caws and lands on the fountain’s lip, then pecks at the ice and shudders before it takes flight once more. Jasyn sits on a marble bench, crosses his legs, and smiles wide.

  I don’t sit next to him. His friendly act won’t work. “If you don’t want to kill me, what do you want?”

  “You get straight to the point. I admire that.”

  What is this, an interview? Enough patronization. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “In time I will. For now, let us enjoy getting to know one another.”

  I want nothing to do with you. I need to see Mom. “I’m actually kind of tired. I’d like to go to my room.” So I can formulate a plan of escape.

  Jasyn lifts one eyebrow. “Certainly.”

  He escorts me back inside without any further attempts to get me chatting. We walk a different route than before. Beautiful paintings, some portraits, some scenery, adorn the white-walled halls. One rendering in particular stops me, turns my blood reptilian. It’s a teenage girl portrayed from empire waist up. She’s lovely, with curls like chocolate shavings heaped high and bonbon eyes to match. I’d know her anywhere.

  It’s true. He wasn’t lying.

  “Your mother the day she turned sixteen.” His voice falters a bar. “I was not present for this particular birthday.” Was he freeing the Void at the time? “It was a time of distress for our people.” The Revolution? “By the time I gained a handle on things, I was quite grieved to learn she had run away.” He casts a sidelong glance. “Now I know why.” He picks up his pace.

  I linger by the painting. Run my fingertips along the custom-gilded frame. It’s all coming together like a dress rehearsal the day before a show opens. Mom was sixteen when she had me. Jasyn didn’t know Mom was pregnant because he was too busy playing tyrant.

  When I catch up to him and enter my suite, Jasyn shuts the door. He doesn’t say good-bye. Click.

  I jiggle the handle. Locked. So I am a prisoner.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  The sound doesn’t come from the door.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  The second set is louder. Where? I do a 360. Wait for it. The knocks play again. I inch toward my bed. Again. I’m getting warmer. There they are. The wall behind the headboard. I rush over and press my ear against it, pounding back in response.

  “Hello? Is someone there?” The voice is faint, muffled, but distinctly male.

  “I’m here. Who are you?”

  “It isn’t real.”

  “What do you mean?” I press my ear harder. I can barely hear him, whoever he is.

  He’s saying something.

  I don’t understand. “What?”

  “The mirror. Look in the mirror.” Cough. Hack. Wheeze.

  The vanity across the room. I took care to avoid it when walking by. Like most opportunities to gaze upon my reflection, I simply turned it down.

  I take hesitant steps across the room and place myself directly before the mirror.

  A gasp escapes me. That girl isn’t me. She’s beautiful with frizzless hair and airbrushed skin. No birthmark mars her porcelain face, no red vines crawl along her cheek. But her eyes, a warm, hot-cocoa brown. Mom’s eyes. My eyes.

  And Jasyn’s.

  I stumble backward, my heel catching on the lip of a rug. I reach out and grab the bedpost before I land on my rear. I can’t look away. That can’t be me. I wish it was.

  At the wall I yell, “Are you there? What’s happening? I don’t know how, but my reflection—”

  “Look again.” He sounds tired, old. “Not with your eyes, though. See with your heart.”

  How am I supposed to do that? I try anyway. I stand before the mirror again and gawk at the beauty reflected there.

  See with your heart.

  I close my eyes. No matter how much I want it to be true, the beautiful girl with her unblemished face isn’t me. I know how I look, and it doesn’t come close to her.

  My eyelashes flutter open. I swallow, taking in the full measure of the transformed image. The birthmark is back. But that’s not what has me quivering, sweating, my jaw plummeting to my collarbone.

  I whirl, taking in my new surroundings.

  The lavish, kingly bed is gone, replaced by a toddler-sized cot with brown stains on the sheetless mattress. All the furniture has vanished, too, aside from a low stool in one corner. There’s no door leading off to a bathroom, just a bucket against a wall where the door used to be. I don’t even want to think about what the bucket is for. Sick.

  My regard returns to the mirror. No more than a tall shard of glass leaning against grimy stone. No fire. No rugs. No cascading curtains. The window is a simple barred rectangle. I jog to it, fit my face between the two middle bars.

  I’m not on a high floor. This is a basement—a dungeon. The familiar odor of horse doo forces me back. I hold my breath and press my face forward, wanting the full picture to sink in.

  Whinny, neigh.

  My prison is below a stable, not near one. That dirty, rotten, no-good—I didn’t want to let him fool me, but he did. He called me granddaughter, with a term of endearment. I actually believed he was going to let me see Mom.

  I turn my back to the wall, sink to the cold floor, and hug my knees. I’m starving, exhausted, crying yet again. I should’ve eaten more when I thought the tray of stale rolls was a mountain of baker’s goods. There’s no hope of escape or rescue. As Jasyn’s guest, I really believed it might be as simple as sneaking Mom out after everyone went to bed. How could I have been so naive?

  The stranger doesn’t call to me again. Just as well. I’m not in the mood to talk.

  I could shout out the window for help, but what’s the point? Even if I could lead the people to their king, what chance would an old, incarcerated man and the cast of Les Mis have against Jasyn and the Void? He’s Javert to their Jean Valjean. Except this time, the villain wins. The people of the Haven dress in rags and carry outdated weapons. Jasyn’s men have blades and guns and possess the ability to paralyze with a look or injure with a snap. He has electricity—power. What other weapons and resources does he have up his custom-tailored sleeves?

  My blood boils and burns, drying my tears. This is all King Aidan’s fault. I pity the people of the Haven and their useless, dangerous hope. Aidan and his queen didn’t vanish, they left, but everyone is too blind to admit it. Too afraid of the truth. The rulers must’ve sensed mutiny was on the horizon. If they hadn’t given up, the Void might still be imprisoned. Joshua might still be alive. Mom would probably be working on her first winter sketch right now.

  Jasyn Crowe might be a horrible, evil man, but King Aidan was worse. He abandoned his people, left them with nothing.

  Clang. Crreeeaaakkk.

  My head snaps up. I did it again. I fell asleep.

  The cell door fans open. In the fractals of lamplight bleeding through the window bars, only a shadow is visible.

  “Go away, Jasyn. The jig is up.”

  He steps into the cell and closes the door. He doesn’t speak. Slinks toward me, keeping to the shadows.

  My heart stampedes. This isn’t Jasyn Crowe. I get up, pressing my back against the stone. If whoever it is plans to try something, I won’t go down without a fight. I’ll kick and shriek, making it as difficult as possible for him to get what he wants.

  Closer, closer. I open my mouth to scream and then .
. . then the stranger steps into view. He flashes a crooked smile, his mismatched gaze exuding arrogance. Beneath the moonlight his tussock of cowlicks is the color of warm honey, caramel streaks melted in here and there.

  What am I thinking? Nothing about him is warm. He will always be that boy—the one who took everything from me.

  Arms crossed he says, “Are you going to stand there all day, or are we getting out of here?”

  Anger flares. Three, two, one. Breathe.

  “Ky.”

  FOURTEEN

  Don’t Dream

  I’ve never punched anyone before. First time for everything, I guess.

  Charging, I reel my right arm back. Swing.

  Ky blocks the blow easily, catching my clenched fist in his palm. “I’d love to stay and teach you a thing or two about self-defense. But I’m afraid we’ll have to reschedule.” He’s clad in black, a knife sheathed at his hip. Black boots. Black leather jacket. Black. Black. Black. Could it be any more obvious he’s one of the bad guys?

  I rip my fist from his grasp. “I’m not going anywhere with you.” My knee jerks up.

  He dodges my attempt. “Did you really think that would work a second time?” He shakes his head, blond tendrils brushing his eyelashes. “Nice try, princess. Let’s go.”

  Feet planted, I lift my chin and glare.

  “Don’t make me carry you out over my shoulder.”

  Gaze narrowed and teeth gritted, I hiss, “Go ahead and try.”

  And he does.

  “Hey! Put me down.” I pound his back with my fists. Pointless. We’re out the door and into a new-to-me sconce-lit hall. How did Jasyn do that? Not only did he lead me to believe I was in a suite, but he made me see white-walled halls and paintings and fancy carpet. Was it one of those façade things Stormy mentioned?

  Two guards lie crumpled in a heap on the floor. Ky steps over them, hoisting my body and tightening his hold. The guards are dressed in the same pirate garb my captor wears. My brow knits. Ky’s dressed the same, but he had to knock the guards out to get to me. What game is Jasyn playing?

  When we head up a spiral stone staircase, I stop fighting.

  Ky sets me down on the step above his. “Can I trust you to behave? Once we’re out of the dungeon, we’ll have new problems.”

  “You really expect me to believe you’re rescuing me? After all you’ve done to prove where your loyalties lie?”

  An orange glow washes his face, a grin lifting his cheeks. “Consider this. How do you think your mother escaped the castle the night I kidnapped you?” When I don’t answer he says, “I freed her so she could help you, genius.” His eyebrows arch.

  Makai said Mom had someone on the inside. But it couldn’t be Ky. Could it?

  My guard lowers a fraction.

  “If David and Archer had arrived at the Pond sooner,” Ky continues, “Haman wouldn’t have involved himself. Then you, them, your mom—you’d all be safe right now.”

  Guard back up. How dare he blame this on Joshua and Makai. “What a load of manure.” I move to walk past him. I’d rather be back in my cell than listen to this garbage.

  He grabs my shoulder. “Stop. I can prove I’m telling the truth. Just give me a chance.”

  Ugh. I face him. We’re on the same step now. So close. Too close. “Why kidnap me in the first place then? If you’re so bent on helping the rebels?”

  “I never wanted to aid Crowe, but I had my reasons for making him believe I served the Void.” A pause. He stares at the wall past my shoulder. Clenches and unclenches his fists. “Those reasons are no longer valid.”

  This oughta be good. “Do tell.”

  He flattens his lips. “Look, all you need to know is before I delivered you to Crowe, I couldn’t let him know I helped the rebels in secret. Now it doesn’t matter. I don’t care if he finds out.”

  “Why not?”

  His shoulders sink. “Because I have nothing left to lose.”

  “So your ‘poor me’ act at the Haven. That was . . . ?”

  “I thought if you felt sorry for me it’d be easier to get you to trust me.”

  “I don’t believe this. ” I fling my arms in the air, then let them collapse at my sides. “You’re admitting you deceived me and expect me to go with you now?”

  “Actually, yes.” He thumbs his chest. “I just incapacitated two of Crowe’s men, guys I know, to get you out. Why would I do that if this wasn’t really a jailbreak?”

  “Some warped version of capture the flag?”

  Thud, thud, thud.

  Ky grips his knife’s hilt with one hand and presses me against the curving stone with the other. His pulse throbs through his wrist.

  “Find them. Don’t let them escape!”

  That honeyed voice. No. Not him. Anyone but Haman.

  I take in Ky’s nervous stance. The way he hides from a man who’s supposedly on his team. Maybe he is being genuine this time. Only one way to find out. “We have to find my mom.” I tug on his leather sleeve. “She’s somewhere in the castle. Jasyn said she’s safe, but I don’t believe him.” Sweat seeps into my shirt. So much for clean clothes.

  “I know where she is.” He doesn’t look at me, his gaze attending the commotion above.

  “And there was a prisoner. A man. He spoke to me. He sounded ill. We should go back and free him.”

  “I’m sorry, there’s no time. You’re my priority.”

  “But—”

  “No.”

  I don’t argue. We wait, our heartbeats a single percussion instrument. A drum roll ushering in the big finale.

  Silence. Ky creeps forward.

  I move in harmony with him, the distance to the next floor brief. The steps continue to ascend, but we exit and enter a smoky hall. Sizzle, clang. A greasy bacon odor gusts toward us. Barf. How can anyone stand the artery-clogging muck?

  A rounded door looms at the hall’s end, open archways running toward it on either side. Ten feet ahead, a plump woman wearing a gravy-splattered apron waddles across, a wooden bowl in her dough-caked hands.

  If I’m ever going to have a heart attack . . .

  She bends over a flour sack and scoops some into the bowl. A strand of hair falls into her eyes. She swipes it away, straightening and arching her back. Her gaze trains on us.

  We’re doomed.

  Ky rolls his shoulders, throws my hand aside, and strides forward. He walks with all the pomp and confidence of a rock ’n’ roll legend taking the stage for the thousandth time.

  I trail him, head down.

  “Master Kyaphus.” The woman bows her head.

  Master Kyaphus?

  “Ophelia.” He nods in her direction. “Our security has been breached. His Sovereignty instructed me to transfer the girl to a more secure location. Please, do not let us interrupt your work. Carry on.”

  We saunter straight past as she stares. She doesn’t protest, but my heart batters violently until we’re free.

  When the door moans closed, I lean against the outside wall. “Which way to my mom?”

  “Follow me.”

  We circumvent a turret, relying on sparse shadows to conceal us from the guards above. The stables I saw—and smelled—lie just ahead. A long brick building with a sloping roof and several archways punched out of its face.

  “This way!” Haman shouts.

  Double snap.

  Ky drags me forward, practically catapulting me behind a stack of hay bales. The spiky straw bites my palms.

  “Rhyen?” Venom drips from Haman’s tone as he nears. “I was not aware you were on the patrol schedule this evening.”

  Ky leans against the side of the bale stack, props an elbow on the hay, and shifts his body, shadowing me even more. “Switched with Carmichael.” He crosses one leg over the other, adding to his casual front. “Thornson authorized it.”

  “You know very well all shift changes are to be approved by me. Only. Me.”

  I hold my breath, but I can’t do anything about my very audib
le, hammering pulse.

  “I didn’t think you’d mind, Haman. After all, I’m the only reason His Sovereignty has forgiven you for losing the girl at the bridge.”

  I have to hand it to him. He’s got guts.

  Pause. Scuffle. “Be very careful, Kyaphus.” I can almost see Haman’s leer, cruel and condescending. “Or you might find yourself without a soul one of these days.” More scuffling. Retreating footsteps.

  My lungs free a breath. If I doubted Ky was truly rescuing me before, I don’t now.

  He comes around the bales and crouches. “Shall we?”

  I nod.

  He helps me up and we rush through an arch into the stables’ shelter. It’s quiet aside from the horses’ heavy breathing. I inhale the stale air. Choke. My eyes water from the manure odor. I pull my shirt collar over my nose like a medical mask. We continue forward, our footsteps muted by the hay-clumped earth.

  Ky stops. Scoops something off the ground. Click. A flashlight beam illuminates his face. He shoulders a tan leather pack. Opens a door. “In here.”

  I’m shoved into what appears to be a supply closet. Push broom. Saddle. Coils of rope. “What are you doing? Where’s my mom?”

  Ky steps into the closet. The space is cramped, hardly big enough for two people. His chest presses against my arm.

  I shrink into myself. This is a little too close for comfort.

  “Ready?” Ky says.

  “For what?”

  The door snaps closed. First comes a chugging whine, like cogs turning, metal grinding. I cover my ears. The back wall swings out. A staircase. Ky shoves past me, points the flashlight down the steps. “Come on.”

  We descend, dust motes floating on the shafts of light preceding us. The passage narrows the farther we go. Great. I just love small, cramped spaces.

  At the bottom I stop. “Where. Is. My. Mom?”

  “Don’t worry.” He moves along what appears to be an underground tunnel. The flashlight beam only illuminates the space a few feet in front of him. “We’re nearly there.”

  My hesitant heart twists.

  “He rescued you. Give him a chance.”

  Sigh. Okay, Mom. I trail Ky.

  “You still don’t trust me,” he muses over his shoulder.