by T L Greylock
The hedge was thinnest at the ground, so Eska dropped to her stomach and, after shoving the walking stick through, wormed her way to the other side. Branches snagged at the braids in her hair and pulled at her clothes and when she stood up, her sleeves and waistcoat were streaked with dirt. Eska tucked one particularly loosened strand of hair back into its braid, then, taking up her walking stick, strode across the charred Carrier training ground. There were fresh patches of ash and burned wood.
The statues on the other side gleamed white in the moonlight. Eska kept close to the hedge lining the wide lane, trying to stay in the shadows. When she reached the door, she found it unguarded but locked. Plucking the thin folded leather case from her pocket, Eska knelt, selected a pair of lock picks, and went to work.
Lock picking was not a skill she had mastered. After all, she wasn’t a thief and it had hardly been part of her formal education. Nor did she have time to practice.
She broke two picks before she gave up and began to search for an alternative entry. She found it by looking up.
The second story terrace was draped with vines. None were conveniently long enough to climb from the ground, but the outstretched, pontificating arm of a tall statue was at the right height.
“I seem to be making a habit of climbing on statues.”
Eska clambered up onto the statue’s square base, tucked her walking stick through a belt loop, and reached up to take hold of the top of the statue’s greave. It was a scramble at first, but as she reached the warrior’s thighs, his armored skirt and well-defined leg muscles created sufficient handholds until she reached the relative safety of his chest. There, one arm held across his torso helped create a wide base for Eska to stand on and catch her breath. She eyed the outstretched arm, then inched her way up to the warrior’s shoulder and crouched there for a moment.
“That’s a long way.”
It was the harrow root talking, and it was a challenge, not a warning.
Indeed, the distance between the statue’s gesturing fingers and the vines clinging to the wall was not insignificant.
But she was invincible.
Eska stood slowly, found her balance on the marble muscles, and then ran. One, two, three steps—she leaped.
And crashed against the wall with enough force to knock the breath from her. Her hands clutched at the vines. One tore under her weight. Her left knee protested the collision. But she didn’t fall.
Setting her feet against the wall and taking as deep a breath as her lungs could manage, Eska began to climb. When she reached the top, she had enough presence of mind to peer over the terrace’s railing before vaulting it. She smiled at what the moonlight showed her. A set of glass double doors had been left open. Whatever room they led to was dark, so Eska pulled herself over the railing, her mind racing to locate herself on her—admittedly imperfect—mental map of the Varadome.
She had a vague notion that the Archduke had given his close friend and confidant a tower somewhere between the dome, which housed the Spectacle Hall, multiple ballrooms, an indoor pool large enough hold mock naval battles, and an exotic animal garden, and the private palace. In other words, nowhere near her.
Undaunted, Eska moved from terrace to roof to hidden courtyard, working her way between the towers. When she saw guards, she ducked into stairwells or behind statues. Either an unknown deity was watching over her journey, or the harrow root made her every move perfect—either way, she remained undetected as she traversed the extensive government wing of the Varadome.
The dome itself presented an obstacle. The smooth surface made passage other than by the walkway just above ground level impossible. It ran around the entire dome and, given its proximity to the primary entrance to the Varadome, was more heavily patrolled.
But like everything about the Varadome, it was made to be beautiful, and beauty required alcoves and statues, fountains and walls of flowers—plenty of opportunities for concealment.
Eska raised her face to the star-filled sky above her. The air seemed clearer, the stars brighter, the spaces between darker. Eska filled her lungs, felt the winds of the earth swirl inside her, felt the power of storms surge around her. Smiling, she knew she could fly if she wanted, to the moon, even beyond.
Traversing the walkway around the northern side of the massive dome without being seen was like a dance, and Eska executed every step, every turn, every pause with perfection. She might as well have been invisible.
She was breathless with exhilaration by the time she reached the twin towers on the western side. She closed her eyes and pictured the interior of the Varadome once more. Eska had never entered the private palace, but she knew the halls and towers leading to it. There were three towers, not counting the tall ones she had just passed, between her and the Archduke’s sanctum, three smaller towers that might house Sylvain de Ulyssey. One of the three was dedicated to servants, who were kept close but carefully out of the way of the private palace. That would be, Eska determined, the one with the most lights in the windows, leaving two, one to the north and one to the south.
Eska chose the southern tower, dark but for the ground level windows, and connected on her level to the main vein of the structure by a narrow, arched bridge, which led to a small doorway. Eska reached for her lock picks as she approached the door, then threw herself to the shadows as she heard footsteps on the other side.
Pressing herself against the white stone, Eska held her breath as the door opened, flung so hastily by a sprinting young man, hardly more than a boy, that it did not close completely behind him. The boy raced over the bridge, a leather case swinging from his back—a messenger, using the rooftops rather than the busy corridors below.
Eska ducked inside the door and stepped into a darkened stairwell. She climbed a short distance up, emerging into an entrance chamber sprouting three doors and lit by two lanterns casting long shadows. Tapestries hung from the walls, old, but finely wrought. One depicted mythical creatures fighting against unrealistically naked heroes. A second featured three maidens cavorting around a fountain. The third showed a man driving a chariot—a flying chariot, no less—across a sunbeam-strewn sky. And all three had identical tawny-colored mountain cats woven into the scenery. Each spouted gouts of fire from long-toothed jaws.
Eska smiled. The mountain cat was the old symbol of the de Ulyssey family, replaced after the fall of the Alescuan dynasty by the less bloodthirsty, more civilized—and far less interesting, as far as Eska was concerned—oak tree.
Eska waited a moment, listening for signs of life from behind the doors. The messenger boy had, after all, come from somewhere and would no doubt return. When she had stood in silence for longer than she could tolerate, Eska tucked the walking stick under her arm, removed one of the lanterns from its iron hook on the wall, and approached the middle door.
As she pulled the leather case from her pocket once more, Eska rested her free hand on the door. To her complete surprise, it swung open quietly.
“Really, Sylvain.” Eska clapped a hand over her mouth and forced down the giggle rising in her chest. Retrieving the lantern from the floor, she crossed the threshold.
The chamber was part study, part smoking lounge, part boudoir. The putrid smell of de Ulyssey’s favorite leaf clung to everything and Eska grimaced as she shut the door behind her. A desk sat close to one wall and, judging by the pristine emptiness of the writing surface, was clearly the least-used thing in the room. Though perhaps that distinction belonged to the built-in bookshelves hovering rather forlornly behind it. Opposite the desk and without a doubt the centerpiece of the room, a silk sling the length of a bed and lined with peacock feathers hung down from the ceiling. It was piled high with plush cushions.
“Really, Sylvain,” Eska repeated—for entirely different reasons. She did laugh, then, not in condemnation of whatever fantasies had inspired the feathers and the cushions and the swinging bed, but at the thought of how best she could slip an innocent reference to peacock feathers into her next
conversation with him.
Still smiling merrily, Eska began her search. It didn’t matter that she didn’t have the slightest clue what she might be searching for.
Though she didn’t harbor much hope for it, she started with the desk. A quick riffling through the twin drawers revealed nothing more than discarded scraps of paper, a letter opener, a set of very fine quills (Albus would approve), ink, and a book with more than a few page corners turned down. Eska flipped through the book, an account of early de Ulyssey family history, causing a single sheet of paper folded in half to fall free. Eska opened it eagerly, only to discover it was a very poor attempt at poetry.
“Really, Sylvain.” Eska read further. “Comparing her skin to that of a snake is not advisable. Thank all the dead librarians you saw the error of your ways and gave this up.” Eska slipped the paper back inside the book and returned it to the drawer, then turned her attention to the large trunk positioned under the nearest window.
She was expecting clothes. Perhaps more peacock feathers.
She was not expecting the trunk to be empty but for a single object—a box of smooth ivory and shining gold.
***
She had, Eska realized, now seen and held three of six Alescuan reliquaries.
This was followed closely by the realization that if the pattern held true, she was also holding a third Godforged.
The puzzle was obvious on this one. The top of the box, as ornately decorated with gold flowers and coiling snakes and luscious fruits as the other sides, was cut into small squares forming a grid. Eska brushed a finger along the lid, the slight give in the surface confirming her suspicion. There was a code built into the squares. When the correct squares were pressed in the correct order, the lock inside would release and the reliquary would open. What Eska did not wish to discover was whether the box would destroy the mechanism inside and lock itself forever if she guessed incorrectly.
Eska mulled over that thought for a moment, aware that she was likely running out of time. She had, she decided, two options. Attempt to open the box immediately, which would, if she succeeded, allow her to remove the contents of the reliquary, replace it in the trunk, and slip out of the Varadome. By the time Sylvain de Ulyssey discovered what was missing, if, indeed, he had even successfully opened the reliquary and knew what he possessed, she would be long gone and beyond suspicion.
The alternative was to take the reliquary with her. While that solution would limit the time she was exposed to discovery, it would also likely result in Sylvain knowing he had been robbed immediately. And if she was caught sneaking out of the Varadome with it, even she might have difficulty talking herself out of trouble.
As Eska stared at the chamber’s empty hearth, debating her options, a third came to her.
It was a child born from the harrow root. Eska de Caraval would not normally consider it an option to use an iron poker to smash open a priceless artifact just to retrieve what might or might not be inside.
And yet that is exactly what she did.
Without hesitation, Eska got to her feet and strode over to the hearth. Seizing the poker with both hands, she brought it down on the reliquary. Chunks of gold skittered across the floor as the ivory splintered and shattered, revealing a silk interior, just like its siblings. Dropping the poker, Eska went to her knees and prodded at the wreckage.
No disc of bronze. Nothing.
She didn’t have time for disappointment. Sweeping the pieces of the reliquary together as best she could, Eska gathered them into her cupped hands and poured them back into the bottom of the trunk. She had no illusions about the mess. The only thing that mattered then was not being seen.
Eska fled from the room on swift feet, returning the lantern to its hook as she went. All was quiet as she slipped back into the stairwell, but she had gone only two steps down when voices from below froze her in place. One hand went to the cane in her belt.
The voices lasted only the span of a few words, but it was the sound of a pair of boots on the stone that sent Eska careening down the stairs. She had to reach the door on the second level first.
And she did. But not fast enough. As she fled into the moonlit night, a shout told her she had been spotted.
Eska raced over the bridge, her pursuer only steps behind. She turned left, toward the private palace, only because right would bring her back toward the dome and the horde of armed guards there. The voice called after her, demanding she stop, but Eska paid it no mind. For a moment she was back among the wild beeches and oaks behind the Lordican, horse hooves pounding behind her, a whip cracking the air—and then the harrow root squashed her fears and there was only the cool air in Eska’s lungs and the colder stars above.
The rooftops and terraces passed by in a blur and Eska’s feet remained sure, her legs strong—until she ran out of roof.
Eska skidded to a stop. The steps behind her slowed and halted. Her gaze darted right and left, searching for a way out.
She heard her pursuer take a deep breath, no doubt to proclaim her arrest. But the inhale hitched oddly and then there was only silence. She didn’t dare turn.
“Eska?”
She exhaled sharply on the wake of that voice saying her name. And then she turned to face Alexandre de Minos.
“Sascha.”
It was the harrow root that provided her composure, that kept her voice from trembling. But the squaring of her shoulders, the jutting of her jaw—that was all Eska.
Alexandre stared at her, his blue eyes hooded in confusion, the large rolled parchment clutched in his hand forgotten. “What are you doing here?” he managed.
“What does it look like?”
“You were in Lord de Ulyssey’s private chambers.”
“I was.”
“Why?” He became the Arch-Commander with that single word, pushing whatever conflicting emotions he might have been feeling beneath the confidence in his position.
“I was looking for something, Sascha.”
Alexandre’s gaze narrowed. “What have you taken?”
Eska laughed and heard the stars laugh with her. “Nothing.”
“This isn’t amusing, Eska. I have to arrest you.” The words came out reluctantly.
Eska’s laughter faded into cold anger. “Don’t try to walk the moral high ground with me, Sascha. You lied.”
He drew back ever so slightly.
“You promised me Manon Barca would be brought to justice. But you lied. She’s free as a songbird and playing a part in whatever schemes the Archduke is orchestrating. I saw her. I saw the training ground. Is that why you really came to Toridium? To collect her? How many Carriers have you collected for our beloved Arcturos?” Eska leaned close. “Tell me, Sascha, what have you been paid to forget that she tried to kill me and sink my ship? I hope it was worth the loss of your integrity and honor.”
She might have expected a hint of shame. She saw none. Only sadness.
“Eska,” he said quietly. “There is a lot we need to discuss.”
She shook her head. “No, there isn’t.”
“Please.” He took a step forward, his hand outstretched, his eyes fixed on hers.
Eska whipped the walking stick from her belt and freed the silver hawk handle, revealing a slender dagger. Alexandre didn’t flinch, but he halted his forward momentum and spread both hands in front of his torso, palms out.
“I’m leaving, Sascha.”
“How? There’s nowhere for you to go Eska. Not unless you put that in my heart.”
But he was wrong. Eska could fly.
Sheathing the dagger inside the cane, Eska turned on her heel and jumped.
Interlude 17
A letter from Eska de Caraval to Albus Courtenay, dated two years ago
My dear Albus,
You will be surprised, I think, to learn that I am writing to you from Vachon.
There. I have written it, so it must now be true. Strange that writing such seemingly inconsequential words can be an action that carries s
uch meaning—and that words can somehow be more true than the act of being in a place.
Sascha asked me to marry him, Albus. And I have said I will not.
Though asking why is as natural to you as breathing, it would not be in your nature to ask why in regards to this matter. But I am going to carry on as though you have set aside your tome, propped one hand on your chin, and gazed expectantly at me.
And yet I find I do not quite know where to begin. You see, Albus, the reason I gave Sascha is not the same reason I am going to give you. And that is what hurts most of all—knowing that I could not tell him the truth.
I told him that expectation weighed too heavily on me, that I needed to focus on my diplomatic career. I told him, and watched something break within those blue eyes, that the long-standing, much discussed in Arconian ballrooms, expectation that one day the families of de Caraval and de Minos would be united by our marriage had made the very idea of marriage grow stale on my tongue.
I know you think Sascha to be a man armored in self-control, aloof even. And he is, in part. You respect him for my sake, but you were never destined be to great friends. His blunt, military manner and your meandering mind are not compatible. But know that he is more than that, that I have seen all of him, and that in the moment of my refusal I saw something in him I had never seen before.
Grief, I suppose. Though it seems an inadequate word. I have seen him grieve before—when confronted with bodies of comrades felled in battle, or, hardest of all, innocent lives among the casualties. This was different. I didn’t give him the chance to change my mind. He could have. I know in that moment I was existing on a whisper of resolve.
So what, then, I hear you ask, was your true reason, Eska?
Alexandre de Minos is destined to be the next Arch-Commander of Arconia. He will not say it himself, but as much as any man or woman can be said to have a purpose, this is his. There is no rival among the other officers who can compete with his achievements and his strengths. And yet there was one obstacle that stood between him and that fate: me.