Kingdom of Mirrors and Roses

by A. W. Cross

  “You must never open a box until I scan it, Beauty. Never, never.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because… The Beast is not well-loved.”

  What a surprise. “So?”

  “So, sometimes there are things in those boxes. Things that could kill you.”

  “People try to kill him?”

  Yes, he was the Beast, but surely people realized that hurting him would only damage the war effort? When the agricultural sector had risen up against their liaison, their crops had rotted in the field for weeks, an unconscionable loss. And the woman who replaced him was even more demanding.

  But it’s easy to forget the consequences when you live in fear.

  “Maybe he should try to be less…beastly to people.”

  “He has his reasons,” Cybel replied tartly. “Besides, that’s not why they try to hurt him. They think that if they can remove him, they will take his place.”

  “Would that be so bad?”

  “He may be many things, and not all of them pleasant, but he isn’t a thief. Everything he collects here goes where it’s supposed to. Can you say the same of the people you know? People like your…father?”

  “He’s not my father. Not anymore.” But Cybel was right. If the Guild had this much wealth sitting in their care, they would make sure the majority of it went to the right place, of course, but having spent so much time working for a life after the war, skimming off the top would’ve been seen as nothing more than investing in one’s future. She hated to admit it, but it was true. Even she would’ve done it.

  She dusted herself off. “I’ll be more careful from now on.”

  “Good. Come on. We have to get a shipment ready.” Cybel rolled off toward the room that housed the antiquities.

  “Where does everything go?” Beauty had asked this before and still hadn’t gotten a straight answer from the robot. “I mean, I know they go to support the war effort, but where do they actually go to do that? How do they get there?”

  “He takes them.”

  “I know, but where?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Beauty opened her mouth to press her on the subject, but the little robot rolled away, mumbling about an urgent task. Why is she so reluctant to talk about it? Normally, Cybel chattered away almost continually. She must’ve been lonely before Beauty arrived, for the Beast didn’t speak much. At least, not when Beauty was around.

  The Beast. She’d expected to be working under his baleful glare, and so for the first few nights had gone to sleep with a knot of dread in her belly, and the lines of his mask etched into her mind. But each morning after his cursory instructions, she rarely saw him again before the next morning. Was he staying away on purpose? Part of her was relieved, but another part, albeit a smaller part, was disappointed. Now that she’d gotten over her initial fear of him, her curiosity had only increased. He had been different with Raphael, all seething power laced with the promise of violence. With her, he was gruff, true, and he didn’t make idle conversation, but on the rare times Beauty had seen him during the day, and had asked him about a particular item, he’d become animated, the Beast forgotten, especially when the conversation was about books. He seemed to love books almost as much as she did.

  After the first night, Beauty had retreated to the room that housed the books, hoping they would ease her fear. They had, and she’d begun to make a habit of it. She called it the library in her head, and she could barely wait to finish her supper each night so she could go and lose herself for the few hours left before bedtime. Cybel didn’t care much for books, and in truth, Beauty appreciated the solitude. It was a luxury after a life lived in such close proximity to others. She’d never even had her own room before, and now she had not only a bedroom, but her own personal library.

  On her third night, she’d settled into an old armchair, a smaller version of the one already there. She’d dragged it over from what Cybel had christened the ‘junk room’—where they housed the items that weren’t worth anything but still showed up at their door every few days. Cybel said they were from people who were struggling to find objects of worth but were still desperate to maintain their standing in The Vault.

  “That must make him furious.”

  “It doesn’t. He understands. He sometimes adds any surplus items to their accounts.”

  Who was this empathetic man Cybel seemed to worship? Was it the robot’s programming, or was he really not the monster everyone made him out to be? The only way to know for sure was for Beauty to spend some time with him, outside of the orders he’d given her.

  Hence the second chair. She’d pulled it up to the other side of the low table. The larger chair likely meant he came here to read as she did, and if there were two chairs, perhaps he would join her.

  Her plan finally paid off. One night, she sat absorbed in a tale of adventure, danger, and romance, when the Beast came into the library. He didn’t notice her at first behind the high back of the chair, and she watched him scan the shelves for a few minutes until he pulled one free and turned around. If he was startled to see her, he didn’t show it, and disappointment leached some of the anticipation from her surprise. To mask it, she gestured to the second chair a few feet away from hers. “Will you join me?”

  That seemed to surprise him. He glanced between her and his chair, hesitating, and for a moment, it seemed as though he would turn on his heel and walk away. Instead, to her satisfaction, he eased himself down into the chair. He sat awkwardly at first, perched on the edge, but as Beauty returned to her book and didn’t press him for conversation, he settled back and opened his own.

  Beauty stole glances at him out of the corner of her eye. She had so many questions she didn’t dare ask Cybel. Why did he still wear the mask around her? Surely they’d gotten past the point of his charade by now? It must be stifling under there. Why didn’t he just take it off? Or was there more to it than that? Was there something under there he didn’t want her to see?

  Her imagination wouldn’t rest, running in circles in her head and making it impossible for her to concentrate on her book. When she laid awake at night, gazing at the young man in the locket, a story had begun to form; she couldn’t help it. She told herself that the Beast was the handsome prince’s evil brother, that he’d been banished from their kingdom to The Vault as punishment for his crimes. There he ruled over the people with darkness and fear, but one day, his golden brother would come and liberate them all, including her. He would fall in love with her the minute he laid eyes on her, and she would become a princess. He would carry her far away from here, to a land where no war existed. But now, watching the Beast reading next to her, the story sounded ridiculous.

  He’d come again the next night, and each night after that. They spent the evenings in silence, he absorbed in his book, and Beauty absorbed in her curiosity. Once or twice, he caught her staring at him and, face burning, she lowered her eyes to her own book, determined not to look at him again. But she always did.

  “Yes?” His voice startled her. She’d been staring again.

  “Nothing. Just wondering what you’re reading.”

  He leaned over, his eyes shining oddly in the low light. “You?”

  She showed him the cover.

  “A romance?”

  She nodded. “I’ve read it a hundred times. It’s one of my favorites.” It was impossible to read his expression behind the mask. Was that a note of amusement in his voice? Was he laughing at her? Of course he was. He probably thought she was just another silly girl.

  “Don’t they die of grief at the end?”

  “Yes, but—”

  He pointed at the stack of books she’d piled on the table between them, tapping the spines as he went. “Suicide. One hung and the other dies of grief. Dies in childbirth. Suicide. Drowns.” He peered at her. “A bit grim, don’t you think?”

  “You’ve read all of these? You like romance novels?”

  “I’ve read them. I don’t know that
I like them.”

  “Why not?”

  He shrugged. “They never seem to end well. Don’t you think a romance should have a happy ending?”

  “I—”

  “I mean, what’s the point otherwise? To go through all that heartache for nothing? Doesn’t make love very appealing.” He shrugged. “Mind you, I suppose a tragic ending is closer to real life.”

  Hopefully, he couldn’t see her blush in the dim light. “What are you reading?”

  He held up the volume for her to see. A book on war. “Ends about the same as your books.” His tone was dry.

  “Do you think the war will end soon?” Since he actually seemed to be open to conversation, Beauty seized the moment. Maybe she could find out more about him.

  “No.” He snapped the book shut, stood, and left the room.

  Beauty stared after him. Had she said something wrong? Why would that question bother him so much? Had he lost someone in the war, like the rest of them? Or was he just as fed up with it as the entire Vault?

  He didn’t return the next night, or the night after, and the pleasure Beauty had gotten from the library diminished. If only her curiosity would do the same. But it didn’t. And though she would later tell herself that what happened next was purely an accident, her stomach twisted just a little, the way it did whenever she said something that wasn’t quite true.

  She was on her way back to her room one night, her nose stuck in the book. She usually tried not to take books to bed because she’d spent more than one night reading until Cybel came to get her in the morning, and she’d blundered through the day in a state of exhaustion, making mistakes and getting scolded by the small bot. But tonight, she just couldn’t help herself. She was only four chapters from the end, and if she just—

  Where the hell was she? She must’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere; the corridor she stood in was unfamiliar. I don’t think I’ve ever been down here before. Portraits lined the hallway, pictures from another life. Young men and women’s faces smiled at her, grinning with the immortality of youth and the confidence of heroes. Some wore civilian clothes, but many more were dressed in the deep green military fatigues of the national army. Official portraits.

  I can’t remember seeing any of this before. In her mind, she retraced her steps. I walked down the first hall, turned left, then…

  This must be the Beast’s wing. The one place he’d told her never to go. She should turn around right now and get back to her room as quickly as she could, before he or Cybel saw her. She’d managed to avoid his legendary temper thus far, but she doubted he would forgive her after being so explicit that she was never, ever to come this way. But why? What was the big deal about a bunch of portraits?

  She couldn’t help herself. Slowly, she made her way down the hall, studying each of the images. One in particular drew her eye, and she leaned closer, peering at the individual faces in the group. Her breath caught in her throat.

  There he was. Her prince.

  He stood at the back of the troop, smiling up at her like he did in the locket, his arm slung over the shoulders of the young man next to him. Like the others, he wore casual fatigues, his face ruddy with health and high spirits. His hair was unruly, not yet cut in the severe style of soldiers, and his skin was unmarked, his clothes freshly pressed.

  Her prince had been a soldier. If so, he must be dead. Or at least, his family must be. Why else would his locket be here, among all the things scavenged from those who no longer needed them. Grief and pity for him welled in Beauty’s heart and she again made a promise to him. I’ll remember you. And if you’re still alive after the war is over, I’ll find you and return this to you.

  She traced her fingers over the engraving as she continued down the hall, her trespass forgotten as she tried to memorize all the faces on the wall. Some of them may have died for her, but she would never forget them. And tomorrow, I’ll work even harder to give you what you need to win this war and go on living.

  The hallway ended with a single door. A wildness took hold of her. If this was the Beast’s wing, the door in front of her must be his door. Was he inside? Should she knock? And then when he came to the door, apologize for getting lost and ask him about the portraits? Or should she bust in, demand answers?

  Turn around. Turn around, right now.

  Then a strangled cry cut through the air from behind the door. Was that him? Was he in trouble? There was a loud crash and the sound of glass shattering. All sinister thoughts of him fled, leaving only the memory of the quiet man reading next to her.

  He needs help.

  She pushed at the door, and to her surprise, it was unlocked. The assailant must’ve broken in. Well, she would surprise him.

  You don’t have a weapon.

  She didn’t care. She had to help him.

  “Stop!” She burst through the doorway, searching frantically for anything she could use as a weapon. On a small table next to the door was an ornate pewter lamp, sculpted into the shape of a slender woman, her arms thrown behind her arched back, like she was soaring toward freedom or death. Beauty grasped the woman around the ankles and swung her up over her head to knock the intruder unconscious.

  Except there was no one in the room but the Beast. He stood before her wearing nothing but a pair of loose linen trousers. The floor around him was littered with glass, and a few feet away lay the frame of what had been a mirror.

  “Beauty.”

  The Beast, his chest heaving, his wild eyes fixed on her. The lamp clattered to the floor, forgotten, as she took in the man they feared throughout The Vault.

  But he couldn’t be called a man. He was more machine than living thing. His face was human enough, it was true, even with the odd light that shone through his irises. His nose, his full lips, and the uncut ivory hair that brushed against his chin, were all undoubtedly human, as was his left arm, well corded with muscle and marred by scars…but the rest of him. Skeins of metal fibers and fine mesh formed his cheeks and neck, his collarbone, chest and abdomen, so fine and delicately sculpted they could’ve been flesh but for the light dancing off the metallic surface. His right arm and hand were also completely machine, but of a much cruder make than his torso, the fingers complexly jointed and archaic. One bare foot was visible under the lined hem of his pant leg, but the other was an even cruder version of his hand, the toes barely anything more than jointed steel.

  A cyborg. Inhuman.

  Vomit rose in her throat. He was hideous, a true monster. How could he be alive? There seemed too little of his human body left to even be called a cyborg.

  “Beauty.” He said her name again, and a chill raced up her spine. His voice was low and deadly, like the hum of the vipers that haunted the deep ruins of The Vault before they struck.

  She stared at him, too stunned even to scream. She no longer felt her body, only the coldness of his voice mingling with her fear and dissolving her piece by piece.

  “Get out.”

  She met his eyes and was blinded by the fierce life she saw there. He was a miracle. A grotesque, terrible miracle.

  “Get out!”

  His mouth opened inhumanly wide, and his roar wasn’t that of one man, but a multitude, discordant and full of rage.

  Beauty could no longer endure the sight of him and his anger. She turned and ran blindly down the corridor, taking each turn as it came until she found herself at the main exit. She braced her hands on it, gasping for breath as her heart threw itself against her ribcage, begging for escape. Her mind tried to make sense of the past minutes. Had it truly been him? How could so little of a man be left and still survive? How could anyone human bear it? And yet, the sound that had come from him had been so full of grief and suffering there was no question in her mind that the real beast was whatever monster had done that to him. She’d seen the death of a man and his resurrection as a demon, and suddenly, she couldn’t stay there anymore. She had to get out, get as far away from him as she could.

  His voice echoed th
rough the corridor, tearing at her heart once more.

  I can’t leave. I’m trapped here. She pounded on the reinforced door, as though that would make a difference.

  “Let me out. I can’t stay here. I can’t. Not with him.”

  The door swung open, and Beauty stared at her hands in shock. The corridor to freedom stretched out before her, long and empty, and suddenly, she wasn’t so sure.

  What do I do? I can’t go home.

  Not after what Raphael had done. But how could she stay here with the Beast, now that she’d seen his true face, his rage? What would he do to her, now that she knew what he was? And the way she’d reacted to him? No. She had to leave now, while she had a chance. She could worry about the where later.

  Just run.

  She sprinted down the hallway as though the Beast himself was after her.

  Don’t look back. Don’t look back.

  She darted through tunnel after tunnel until, finally, she had to stop to catch her breath. As blood pounded in her ears, blocking out any other sound, she leaned on the wall for support and tried to take stock of her surroundings. Where was she? Nothing around her was familiar.

  I’m lost.

  Cold fear gripped her. The warren of tunnels under the city could go on for miles. What if she never found her way out? What if she—As she pushed herself away from the wall, her ankle turned under her and she went down hard. Searing pain shot up her leg and a scream tore from her mouth before she could bite it back. She clamped one hand over her lips and the other on her throbbing ankle. It’s okay. It was only one scream, just—

  What was that?

  She held her breath, willing her heart to quiet. Was someone there in the dark with her? Her stomach twisted. Was it him? Or something even worse?

  “Hello? Who’s there?” Her voice echoed back at her in the narrow tunnel. Something shifted behind her, and terror rose in her throat.

  Something is here. Something—

  The dim safety light went out, plunging the tunnel and Beauty into inky blackness. She pressed herself against the wall as flat as she could and inched forward.