Dylan ran his finger along the top shelf of the water fountain fireplace and wrinkled his nose. “Dust on the mantle. There's simply no excuse for that. More importantly, there seems to be only one bath. You won't mind if I take the first turn? No? Good.”
I rolled my eyes and plopped down onto the bed, sinking deeper than I would have thought possible. A single down feather puffed into the air above my head.
“That's disgusting,” he said, looking back at me before disappearing through the door. “Do us a favor and don't go near the other bed until you've washed... or at all, come to think of it.”
I smirked, and watched the feather drift down to land on my forehead. There was no way I could avoid messing with him now. Listening to the sound of water coursing through plumbing in the other room lulled me into an unexpected sleep.
Tired as I was, I must not have slept longer than an hour. Something in the back of my head nagged at my subconscious, and I awakened with a racing pulse. A faint pinkness outlined the horizon, barely visible against the distracting lights of the city.
There was a clean, rolled up towel beside me on my bed, along with an entire folded outfit. It would have seemed a thoughtful gesture if it had come from anyone else, but I knew Dylan. The message was, “Hurry up, take a bath, and don't mismatch your clothes, idiot.”
Both of our quarters had doors leading to the same washroom. I planned on taking a bath, but he'd used all of the warm water. Maybe I should have gone back to sleep, but I couldn't. I didn't want to stay any longer than I needed to. Opening our adjoining door, I found Dylan asleep in the chair near his window. An electric wall lamp was on beside him. He'd been reading, and the book had fallen into his lap. The nightshirt he was wearing was pulled to the side, and I could see the wicked metal twisting up out of one collarbone.
Always a reminder.
With great care, I scooped up his dirty clothes and muddy boots and placed them atop his bed. Satisfied, I crept past him to the door that led out to the hall, and slipped into the palace.
* * *
“Paperglass To Be, Paperglass To Be.” My lips worked to shape the words soundlessly.
The palace was a maze of tall hallways and lavish ballrooms, each themed in a different set of stunning colors. I could hardly believe how much my surroundings could change in the span of a single day.
It was night, but to my surprise, the Gold Palace was still very much alive. Ladies in sweeping dresses walked arm in arm with men clad in the type of finery Dylan wore. I'd passed awkwardly through at least two parties, and earned more than a few strange glances, but no one bothered to stop me.
I looked a wreck. My black boots and pants were plastered with mud. My inky corset and buttoned shirt were splattered with dark spots. I realized belatedly that they may have been blood. Even my nails were grimy. Tendrils of hair had torn free of my ponytail and were hanging along my face in front of my ears.
My satchel was over my shoulder, but I held the leather bound book and pen in my hand like a sword and shield. I must have been obvious enough because I heard a few people lean in toward one another and mutter, “Historian.”
I'd never thought anyone would call me that. It was a title saved for my favorite teacher back home, Professor Block.
It was a good year to take a vacation, professor. I wish I'd done that.
I marched purposefully forward, following my internal guide. Every corner I turned inspired me to hold my breath. When would Prince Raserion return to the palace? I assumed he'd taken up residence here in the Gold Palace. How in the world did I wind up sleeping under the same roof as the inhuman creature that wanted to murder and enslave all of humanity?
Hello insomnia, nice to meet you.
Scouting ahead in my search without Dylan may not have been one of my brightest ideas. The more I thought about Prince Raserion, the more I wished I’d stayed back in our quarters… or Breakwater… or Haven, for that matter. Before losing my nerve entirely, I remembered that I’d planned on coming here alone in the first place.
The dull glint of unnatural metal poking through the skin of Dylan’s collarbone was never far from my thoughts either. I didn’t want to be alone with him. The sooner I found Paperglass, the better.
Finding myself before an imposing set of great wooden doors fitted with brass handles, my apprehension returned. The halls and even ballrooms were all relatively open, with wide, rounded entrances and exits to corridors and balconies. I'd passed many doors, but was never compelled to open a single one until now. In addition to all of that, these doors looked different than the others. There was something imperial about them.
“Here goes nothing,” I said, and turned the knob of the right door. It barely creaked open and I was forced to use the weight of my shoulder to move it.
I wondered who was trying to stop me from opening that door. As I pushed it back on its hinges, wind blasted into me, flinging my already flyaway ponytail back. Lights glinted at a dizzying distance below me, past the thick stone railings. I was on one of the bridges that led to the Installment Fortress.
“Of course,” I groaned. When I was alone, the sound of my voice comforted me. The bridge was wide enough to support two carriages, and was lit by a set of metal cased electric lanterns that banged noisily on each wall. Gritting my teeth, I put one foot in front of the other and crossed, humming to myself all the while. My progress was halted briefly at the incredible view of the city spilling off into the distance on one side and plunging into a dark sea on the other.
I hummed my way to the dark door at the other side of the bridge and wrapped a hand around the cold iron doorknob. Looking up, my head swam at the height of the fortress. To me, it embodied everything wrong and destructive in the world, and here I was, little old Kat, traipsing right into the mouth of evil.
“I can't believe I'm doing this,” I said to myself, and pulled the door open.
C hapter 22: An Unexpected Reception
Entering the installment fortress was like falling backward in time. The craggy, angular structure was larger than the one in Breakwater, but its inner design was the same. The floor was tiled with polished slate, and the walls were all stone masonry and metal paneling. Nothing decorated the place but heavy electric lanterns and tall windows barred in iron. Not a single rug warmed the cold floor, not a single potted plant or painting lent it color. It was an oppressive place, intimidating and joyless.
Wasn't it just yesterday that I'd been strapped to a chair with manacles on my legs and wrists, the Spark torn from where it was buried within me?
Four Dragoons in uniform strode purposefully across the hall.
The door, suctioned by the wind outside, slammed behind me. I flinched, expecting at any moment to have the head cut from my shoulders. The Dragoons paid no attention to me and disappeared into a nearby doorway.
Paperglass To Be.
I had to remind myself, over and over, that Commander Stakes was dead, that my eyes were colored brown, and no one here knew who I was or where I'd come from. I squeezed the book and pen, lifted my chin, and held myself back from running in the direction of the Pull.
Stairwell upon stairwell spiraled below me. How high was I? The fifth floor seemed like a mile from the ground. I tapped my way down the steps until I was dizzy. By the time I reached the second floor, I needed a break. My mother was downstairs somewhere, but my head was spinning. What good would it do if I found her just in time to puke my guts out and kill over?
A Dragoon crossed my path at the foot of the stairs. She stared me dead in the eyes as she passed. It was unsettling. I nearly smiled out of politeness and stopped myself short, remembering that friendliness was taboo. The result was a wild-eyed sickly wince that made me look like a psychopath. The woman passed me but turned her head as she went.
As soon as she was out of sight, I crumpled into the corner of a pillar and took a short break to hyperventilate. I was going to kill myself here, plain and simple. What ever convinced my little pea brain th
at I could pull something like this off? Brendon was right about me. I was insane.
I was about to turn around and proceed down the next set of stairs when someone cornered me. It was an older man, probably in his fifties. He was bald, dark skinned and white-bearded. There was a heavy book under one of his arms.
“This way, girl. All Historians, this way,” he told me, scowling. I had no choice but to follow him.
The pin that marked him as a Historian flashed on the cuff of his robe. He caught me glancing at him and must have assumed I was eyeing his leather-bound tome.
“If I so much as see you leaning over my shoulder to glimpse at my book, I'll cut each and every one of your fingers off. Oh, I will.” The way he said it, I believed him. “Ask me what my volume is about. Hm? Ask me.”
“Sorry,” I muttered, and clamped my hands over my book. I didn't want him looking at mine either. It was empty.
The wide passage he led me down was lined with symmetrical pillars stretched from floor to ceiling. As we walked, Dragoons joined us. Some wore armor, some uniforms. To my surprise, most of them were younger teenagers, probably between thirteen and fifteen. Regardless of their age, they moved with militant form, never so much as smiling or glancing at another person around them. Not a word was spoken. Other people joined us too, more Historians. They came in every age, shape, and gender. There was no uniform to distinguish them, just hints of black and red in their dark clothes, and the grim brooch. I counted six among us.
Then, there was the Commander. I could feel him as much as see him, the way prey can sense a predator on the wind. He was brown-haired with black eyes, and may have even been handsome once. Now, his entire bottom jaw was broken with metal. I couldn't bear to look at him for longer than a second. My entire body was on alert.
I tried to drift away, but the gathering crowd pressed me ahead to an indoor balcony. Moon shaped, it hugged a massive hall like oversized box seats at a theater. A twin balcony was parallel to us, across the gaping expanse of the hall, and there were more above too. Careful not to drop my book, I leaned against the railing and craned to look up at the ceiling. I counted four more levels of balconies before the roof gave way to a glass ceiling, under-lit by spot lamps and cross hatched with iron.
The throng of people around me dispersed, each finding a place to stand against the railing. There were people on the other side too. I wondered if the other levels were as crowded.
Just my luck. I was sandwiched between the grumpy old Historian and the only Commander on our floor. I shivered. He turned to look at me and I averted my eyes, remembering to bow. The old man was doing the same. The metal-jawed Commander didn't pay us much attention. His sights were fixed on the first floor below.
In an abrasive contrast to the rest of the fortress, the floor of the hall was blindingly white. Rings of chandeliers were hung beneath us, casting circles of light, bright as day, on the impeccable alabaster marble. Diamond crowned arches broke up every bit of wall on the first floor. Away to my left, one such opening was twice the size and width of the others. It was from there that a mass of Dragoons poured into the grand room.
I had a good view of them from the second floor. They were adults, both young and mature, and all were seasoned. They held rifles, swords, axes and spears. I'd have needed to be blind not to see that most of them were injured. Some limped or shuffled. Some sagged in on themselves. Some swayed, spilling their own red blood on the clean floor. A few stood tall. No one leaned on anyone else for support.
“We are one. Together, alone, we are strong. We are power incarnate. Glory to Prince Raserion,” they chanted in unison. The gathering of voices was deep and genderless. The teenaged Dragoons and the Commander beside me joined their voices to the monotone chorus. I wanted to run away.
One of the Dragoons below crumpled to the floor. No one moved to help her. Casting a paranoid glance around me, I slipped on my goggles and zoomed in. The woman's eyes were open, lids fluttering, and agony was all over her face. She struggled in vain to rise, fingers twitching on the slick ground. In a moment, she was unconscious. Her eyes were closed. I hoped she wasn't dead.
“Welcome home,” came a smooth male voice. I had no trouble hearing it. Facing the hundred battle torn Dragoons, stood a black figure. Where had it come from? The form wasn't dark by human standards, but black as a starless night. Black as blindness, as if it could swallow all the light around it. I could see no features on him. No ears, no nose, no mouth, no creases on his face. He wore no clothes, but there was nothing beneath to see. It was like I was looking at a three-dimensional shadow, very much like the little Shadow Chasers that I practiced my Abilities on. He even had the same hollow, white eyes.
“You, that have been summoned here,” the shadow man said, with a voice as slick as oil. “Have shown exceptional strength today. You've fought with exquisite grace. Each of your names has been noted and your ranks have been elevated to Cormorant Dragoon. Three among you, already at the Cormorant level, are under review for Command.
“You are a superior force. Let your pride numb your injuries. There is no glory without bloodshed. I have departed to deliver our force to the doorstep of our enemies. Only you who have fought at Rocktree Camp remain. Now, clean your wounds. Tonight, the battle is won. Tomorrow, you may face another. Follow your Margrave, and wait for further orders.”
“My life is your command,” everyone chanted. It was the Prince of Shadows, the master of my enemies.
The shadow man turned one hundred and eighty degrees, walked four paces, and vanished into the wall. A violent chill clawed down my back. I fumbled with my book, nearly dropping it on the Dragoons below. They were beginning to disperse, filtering out of the hall in every direction, leaving long streaks of dirt and blood on the white floor.
My peripheral vision raised an alarm, grasping a familiar figure, and I nearly panicked.
Rune!
At first, after our separation, I'd poured hours into preserving his memory in my mind. When even Haven Valley's warmest nights left me cold and empty, I resolved to forget him. I'd tried to distract myself with other boys for a while, but even the best of them were unremarkable to me. At night, Rune haunted my dreams. Attempting to forget him was as foolish as fighting to remember him. He was burned into my subconscious and that mark would never fade with time or trying.
He stood just below, looking dangerous in battered armor, with a sword slung over his back. His short black hair and warm brown skin were wet with something, blood or mud. One of his arms was clutching his ribcage. Everything from the angle of his jaw to the slope of his broad shoulders rang true to the image of him that I'd remembered. From this angle, I couldn't see his eyes, but I knew they were blue as far away mountain snow.
It was him. I was certain. I felt as though my own lightning had stabbed through my sternum. He was close. Near enough that if I shouted or waved or threw my book at him, he'd see me. He began to walk away. In a moment he'd disappear into the folds of the installment and I may never have the chance to see him again.
Oblivious to the stony Commander at my side, or the old man shouting after me that I'd dropped my pen, I let the Pull swallow me whole and carry me off to meet him.
C hapter 23: Penalty
In hindsight, I should have come up with a plan, but, hey, no one's perfect. Faced with a twisting stone staircase, I glided down as quickly as my legs could carry me. No sooner than I'd reached the bottom, a hand lashed out from behind me and clamped down on my arm. I yowled in pain and fright.
The metal-jawed Commander stared down at me with his fierce brown eyes. “Just a moment,” he said, and my entire body locked up, frozen where I stood.
I screamed on the inside, fighting with myself not to let it out. He was Commanding me to hold still. Only my head could move. Rune was right there. His back was to me, and a shadow draped over him as he walked away down the hallway. I could have called to him. He would come to help me, wouldn't he?
And then we'd both be e
xecuted.
Once, I'd been able to snap Commander Stakes' hold on me, but I couldn't do that here, even if I remembered how I'd done it in the first place. They'd know I was different. I'd be captured for sure. I was helpless as a bug pinned under glass, and it enraged me.
The Commander let his hand slip from my arm and walked around to face me, blocking my receding view of Rune.
“There's something strange about you,” he drawled, the sharp jigsaw metal in his jaw making his words sound different than the standard accent. “Haven't seen you before.”
I tried to stay in character. “And you’ve met every Historian in Cape Hill?”
“Perhaps I have. Does anyone know this girl?”
Rune was gone. I wondered if he would have answered. He'd ignored me to protect me before. A few soldiers glanced our way, but no one said anything.
“Let me go,” I hissed through clenched molars. It was like the massive room had shrunken in on me, tighter than my own skin. Nausea crept up in my stomach. I hated being held like this. It wasn't just the claustrophobia that upset me; it was the plain, cruel feeling of losing the control of my body to someone else. It was humiliating.
He flicked a single eyebrow upward. I was at his mercy. Silently, I cursed myself for leaving Dylan behind. I was so intent on getting here and getting out, I'd become a suicidal maniac. Chasing after Rune certainly hadn't helped.
“I do,” came Margrave Hest's authoritative voice, soft and grating all at once. “Release her, Junior Commander.”
The man seemed nonchalant about the whole thing. He held out my pen and dropped it, releasing his hold over me. Reflexively, I caught the pen before it could hit the floor.
Relieved, I rolled my shoulders back and rotated my neck. Circulation returned to warm my stiff limbs.
“Thank you for returning my pen to me, sir,” I said, attempting to drown him with the hatred pouring off of me.
Dragoon (War of the Princes Book 2) Page 13