“Lazarus,” Carroll repeated. “You know the tunnels better than anyone, and you won’t be missed until morning. You have to take Niya and go.”
Christian cursed quietly. If anyone had ever told him that he would develop a hard core of obedience to a topside boy who couldn’t even shave properly, he would have laughed. But the obedience was there. He didn’t want to let Carroll down, and even more, he shuddered at the thought of Niya alone in the tunnels. When they had conceived the plan, she had protested that she could handle herself, that there was no need for an escort, she had lived in the Gut all her life . . . but Christian had argued her down. The Creche might run only twenty or thirty feet below the Gut’s surface, but the distance was infinite. Niya would not make it through alone.
“I’m going,” Carroll said, straightening from the bed. “I’ll try to take as many of them as I can with me. Give it a few minutes, and you should have a straight shot to the Queen’s chamber.”
Niya nodded, lifting the fur-wrapped bundle from the bed. The baby had begun to make vaguely fussy noises, but as soon as Niya tucked her against one shoulder, she quieted.
“What of the second guard?” Christian asked suddenly. “The one meant to be on the chamber when you’re gone?”
“I forgot to find a replacement. Surely the terrifying Mace doesn’t need a backup.”
Christian smiled unwillingly, surprised as ever by the strange mixture of innocence and deception that lurked behind Carroll’s baby face. Christian had been in the Keep for only eight months, but he sometimes felt that his tenure as a Queen’s Guard had been much longer, that lifetimes had passed since that long-ago day when he had stood staring at the rain. Even Maura’s death had fallen away, so quickly that it bothered him; a good man, he felt sure, would have grieved longer. But whenever he thought of Maura now, he could not see her face, only the glaring room full of mirrors, the huddle of children.
“This is mad,” he told Carroll. “Mad to the bone.”
“I don’t dispute it,” Carroll replied, the ghost of a smile on his face. “But it’s a greater madness to keep the girl here.”
He held out a hand, and Christian clasped it without thinking.
“See her safe, Lazarus. Niya, luck to you.”
And then he was gone, leaving Christian and Niya staring at each other. The Princess was asleep now, breathing in little snuffles and sighs. It was past midnight, and the Queen’s Wing was silent around them.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way, Christian thought. I wasn’t meant to be involved, not really. He looked to Niya, but Niya wasn’t looking at him; she was staring down at the Princess, her expression a mixture of love and awe. Niya was built to be a true believer, but Christian didn’t have it in him. He didn’t care about True Queens, or destiny. People mattered more than magic, and Christian was only in this business to protect the two of them, Niya and Carroll. Perhaps the child as well.
You have changed, Christian, his mind whispered, and Christian jerked in surprise, for the voice was not his own, but Maura’s. He had changed, for certain; the question was how much. A racket rose outside: Carroll moving up the corridor, shouting orders, calling for guards to join him. Then there was silence.
“It’s time,” Christian told Niya, when a few minutes had gone by. “Let’s go.”
They crept down the corridor. All was quiet and still, save for the flicker and occasional snap of torches. When they reached the Queen’s door, Christian knocked and, hearing nothing within, lifted the latch. Keeping Niya behind him, he moved inside cautiously, certain that he would see Elston there, or Cae, or, worst of all, the witch.
But he saw no one. Carroll had taken the Queen’s regular guards with him, as promised, and the chamber was empty, save for the old woman who slumbered endlessly on the bed.
“It’s safe,” Christian told Niya, and stepped back from the doorway, giving her room to enter . . . then they both froze as a voice rang out down the corridor.
“You, maid! What are you doing in the Queen’s chamber?”
Ever after, in Christian’s memory, that few seconds stretched forever. Niya looked down the corridor, her eyes widening . . . and then she leapt through the doorway and slammed the door behind her. Without thinking, Christian reached out and shot the two thick steel bolts, one at his knee and the other at his head. Shouts echoed outside, running footsteps.
“They saw me,” Niya told him. “Cae and Coryn, and they will fetch more.”
Christian didn’t know what to say. He felt the wreck of everything in this sudden turn of the world. But Niya didn’t expect an answer. She was staring down at the baby now, her gaze calculating and—Christian would have sworn to it—resigned.
“They saw me, Mace,” she remarked slowly, as though thinking things out. “But they didn’t see you.”
“What—” Christian began, and then, seeing her meaning: “No.”
“It’s you, Lazarus. It has to be. They’ve seen me with the baby. Even if I made it out, I could never come back. You have to take her, get her away.”
“No. I can’t.”
“The bolts will keep them out, but not forever,” Niya went on, as though he had not spoken. “One of us has to stay here, hold them off. If I do it, you may have time.”
“No,” Christian replied, but his stomach had already dropped at the grim certainty in her eyes. “You have to get out of here. They’ll take you, torture you—”
“I have been tortured before,” Niya countered. “They saw my face, don’t you understand? One of us must be able to come back here, to have a place in the Keep. When the time comes for Kelsea to take the throne, the Guard must know where she is.”
Christian cast around the room, as though he would find an alternative solution on the Queen’s dresser, or perhaps leaning on the bedposts. He would fight a man and kill him without trouble, but this? Surely there must be a better way. But nothing came to him, only the echo of Niya’s logic, impervious and inarguable. Barty had given Carroll the map, but it was still sealed. None of them knew the way. Outside the door, Christian heard the scrabbling of a blade against the wood, the muffled sound of men arguing. Whoever went must come back, but now Niya could not. Carroll was gone. He was the only one left.
Niya held out the baby, cradled in her arms, and after a long moment spent desperately seeking a way out, Christian took her.
“I don’t know anything about little ones,” he told Niya, hating the plaintive note in his own voice.
“Change nappies,” Niya told him, without sympathy. “Give bottles. Learn.”
“Christian.”
They both jumped, and Niya let out a short bark of surprise. The baby murmured in sleepy confusion but did not wake. Christian looked around wildly, then bit his lip to keep from crying out.
Queen Arla was sitting up in bed, staring directly at him.
“Christian.”
Her voice was nothing like the deep, imperious voice that Christian had heard so many times before the poisoning. Now it was harsh, high and raucous like a crow’s, or the sharpening of metal.
“Christian, of the Creche. Mace, of the Queen’s Guard. Come here.”
But Christian did not move. He could not. His nerves told him that he was in the room with a ghost.
“Come here!” the Queen rasped.
Against his will, Christian felt his legs begin to move, as though he were a puppet. The door shook behind him as someone—Elston, likely, with his huge shoulders—tried to knock it down. But the tough oak held.
“Majesty,” Christian muttered, kneeling down beside the bed. “Are you—”
“Be quiet,” the Queen commanded, and Christian felt his tongue still. Her green eyes stared into his, unmanning him. “My time is short, and so is yours.”
She reached out and touched the baby’s forehead. Niya made a small sound of protest, but Christ
ian could not begin to stop the Queen, not even if she intended violence. The fracas outside was forgotten; everything was forgotten. At the Queen’s touch, the baby made a soft sound but still did not wake.
“My grandchild,” the Queen murmured. “I have seen her, hidden and chosen. But I will never know her.”
Now she reached beneath the furs, pulling the sapphire free from the girl’s clothing, and placed her own sapphire beside it. Beneath the surface of each, Christian saw something move . . . and then it was gone. A trick of the light.
“I felt it,” the Queen said, her voice wondering. “They call to each other, you know. I can feel them . . . so powerful, but they cannot fight the witch, not alone. She works on me, and in the end I will break . . . unless I act.”
Withdrawing her hand from the baby, the Queen reached up behind her neck, as women did when they meant to fuss with their hair. But a moment later, she had lifted the thin silver chain, drawing it over her head. The sapphire came with it, tumbling down, and Christian realized that the jewel was actually glowing now, such a bright and clear blue that he could see the shadow of the Queen’s hands against the coverlet.
“Are you loyal, Christian of the Queen’s Guard?” she asked.
“Yes,” Christian replied, not knowing in that moment whether he was answering truthfully or not. The baby in his arms seemed suddenly heavy, much heavier than she had before. The glow of the sapphire held him hypnotized.
“Then I have a task for you,” the Queen replied. “Only a small task, perhaps, but kingdoms have turned on less.”
She leaned forward, her arms so thin now that they seemed withered sticks against the bedclothes, and dropped the chain over Christian’s head. The sapphire tumbled down his shoulder, but Christian caught it before it could hit the baby and wake her up. Without thinking, he tucked the jewel beneath his shirt.
“The witch must not have it,” the Queen continued. “I give it to you, in trust for the child. Take her, hide her. The darkness is coming, but perhaps she will live through it. Go.”
Christian blinked, wondering whether he was going mad . . . but the racket outside the door was real enough. He looked down at the Queen again, but she had already fallen back to the pillows, her eyes closed. Her chest rose and fell, contracting in the deep, regular breathing they had all grown used to in the past months. The scene was so familiar that Christian might almost have been able to convince himself that none of it had happened at all . . . but for the hard contours of the Queen’s sapphire, lying against his chest.
Something heavy thudded against the door, and a moment later, the blow repeated, with a crunch of wood. They had found a ram.
“Go,” Niya told him, pulling one arm behind her head . . . stretching, Christian realized. Readying herself. He straightened, and his eyes went automatically to the hidden panel behind the Queen’s nightstand. He had explored the length and breadth of the Queen’s Wing now, and this was the best egress point, the closest to the great staircase. He wasn’t even sure that anyone else in the Guard knew about it. If he acted quickly, they might still get away clean.
“Come with me,” he said. “Come with me, you can hide.”
“No,” Niya replied, slipping a blade from her sleeve. She turned to him, her eyes grave, and Christian suddenly remembered who she was: Blue Horizon to the core.
“They will find the panel, Mace. It won’t take them long. You won’t make it out of here, not unless I slow them down. Go, now. Keep her safe, or you will find my ghost behind you with a knife.”
Christian didn’t move. Another blow landed, splintering the door, but still he hesitated, staring at the iron woman before him, the maid with the heart of a Guard.
“Go!” Niya shouted.
As if to counterpoint her order, one of the hinges splintered, giving way with a screech of metal. Christian’s paralysis broke then; he leapt to the head of the bed, shoving the nightstand aside, and tapped the tenth stone up. The hidden door opened, and Christian darted through, then shoved it closed. Even through the stone, he heard the crash behind him as the Queen’s door fell in. Working clumsily with the baby in his arms, he lit the torch Carroll had left, and then he was running, cradling the baby’s head against his shoulder, heading downward into the dark.
Chapter 35
THE DROWNED MAN
One might think that Arlen Thorne met no true resistance until the advent of the Glynn Queen, but this is not strictly true. Long before the Glynn coronation, Thorne was balked . . . only once, certainly, but in a matter so critical that it would eventually lead to his own downfall. In this respect, one might say that the first time paid for all.
—The Early History of the Tearling, as told by Merwinian
Are we ready?” the master asked, for perhaps the tenth time.
“Ready,” Brenna replied, stirring her brazier and staring into its contents. There was nothing yet, but of course there should not be. The palm told certainties; the brazier was for surprises. Brenna expected none of the latter, for the master had planned this to perfection. She only wished to ensure his success.
They had hidden themselves in a room on the third floor of the Drowned Man, a pub that sat just on top of the rise where the Keep Lawn ended. The room commanded a good view of the entire lawn, and it sat high enough that one could see all the way down to the stinking circle of the moat. The publican had been one of the master’s clients for years, and he asked no questions of them, not even when Brenna pushed back the hood of her cloak.
The rebels covered the Keep Lawn in all directions. Brenna sensed the master’s contempt; she no longer wormed into his head on purpose, as she had done when they were children, but his thoughts were not hidden from her either. Now he was thinking how foolish the rebels were, how ridiculously anxious to march toward death. But another part of him, a younger part, was wavering, wondering what it would be like to be part of something, united to the whole. The master would never be one of those believers down there, singing and dancing and celebrating, and a rogue part of his mind could not help wondering how it would feel.
“You are vacillating, master,” Brenna remarked, for this was one of her many functions: to keep the master on track. “It wastes energy. You will need all your focus tonight.”
The master nodded, turning away from the window. As always, Brenna was struck by his austere face: so cold, and yet so beloved. She had been only a child when she chose him, but even then, she had been drawn by that coldness, that resolve, which had shown itself to Brenna in a series of mental pictures, so detailed that they almost had taste and smell.
This is the one, she had thought, in her frozen child’s mind. This is the one who will get me out.
She looked back down at the brazier, stirring its gelatinous contents. The master had complained of the smell—like a sewage pipe in the Hollow, he said—but, as with so many things, he would complain once and then hold quiet. He needed her knowledge; it was part of their bargain. And the master had kept his end. They were out now, not only out of the stables but out of the Creche. The master had climbed high, and he had brought Brenna with him, every step of the way. Once the rabble on the lawn had been cleared away, the two of them would climb higher still.
Brenna stirred the brazier again, seeking movement beneath the surface. When it remained lifeless, she took a quick moment to look out the window. There were so many of them down there: emaciated scarecrows with threadbare cloaks and falling-apart shoes. How they had managed to drag themselves across the Almont in the depth of winter was anyone’s guess. They had come to speak to Elyssa, but Elyssa was now safely asleep in her bed; Brenna had made sure of it. Elyssa had given the master permission to handle everything.
And so she will, Brenna thought with satisfaction. Now, and ever after. They had not gotten hold of the heir’s sapphire, and that, combined with the disaster at the nobles’ club, should have spelled the wreck of all th
e master’s plans. But now, quite by accident, they had something much better. On the throne sat a pliable girl, one who could not be bothered to think of anything more complicated than which earrings went with which gown. Manipulating her was like playing with a doll. The Queen would give up her jewel within the month, and tonight they would have the jewel off the child as well. Those jewels were the master’s inheritance, and Brenna would be the one to procure them for him. With the sapphires in hand, the only obstacles standing in the master’s way would be the wretched tenants, the tattered remnants of the Blue Horizon . . . but now all of them were down there, packed tightly on the lawn. Brenna found herself staring at the scene below with a hunger so acute that it bordered on lust.
Any minute now. The master’s orders had been explicit; even the Keep Guards couldn’t fuck it up. Any minute—
Behind her, the bowl began to bubble: just one pop at first, then a series of tiny explosions. Reluctantly, Brenna turned back and leaned over the brazier, her eyes narrowing. Images formed beneath the surface, so scattered that at first they were meaningless: an archipelago of visions, one after another. The Queen’s face, reposed in her endless slumber. The Blue Horizon bitch, the cursed child in her arms. The Captain of Guard, his face drawn in horror, the night sky black behind him.
Why does it show me this now? Brenna wondered, annoyed. Why, when I have seen it all before?
But now the child moved, her face blending and duplicating, from one dark island to another . . . the guard, the maid, the Queen. And now a final dark island broke the surface: the hated face of the Seven of Swords, blending with the child, holding her close as they sank beneath the surface, vanishing without a ripple. Panic erupted inside Brenna, nearly rending her chest.
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