Sir Callie and the Dragon's Roost, page 22
“But it can be. Not everyone is like that. Sometimes people are nice just to be nice, without any ulterior motive.”
“Nice isn’t the same as good, Callie.”
I chew my lip. He’s right. Nice and good are two very different things, even if they look the same on the outside. And I don’t know if I can even tell the difference anymore. I wish people really were like they are in the ballads—good and bad, and obvious which is which, who is who. The knights in the stories never waste paragraphs having to work it out and getting it wrong. Kings and knights are good; dragons and witches are bad.
But that’s not true.
That’s not real.
And I feel like I missed a whole curriculum of lessons in how to tell the difference between the two.
But I can only go by what I know—what little that is—and what I know is that we need to find out what is wriggling around in Edwyn’s head and get it into the light.
“Then we’ll do it, just us,” I tell him. “Lucky you’re friends with the best sneaker in the whole of Wyndebrel. We’ll be in and out, and Alis’ll never even know!”
I don’t mention how we’re not sure we’ll even be able to make the pool work on our own, or how Alis told us several times that she can see everything from here to Helston. If we’re caught, we’ll beg forgiveness and claim ignorance. We could even tell the truth. She did say we were welcome in Pioden anytime. It’s not like she could easily do away with us.
It’s fine.
It’ll be…fine.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
We go quickly before our courage gives out. It feels discomfortingly familiar, slipping through the trees and praying we won’t be caught, and I have to tell myself in no uncertain terms that this is different. It isn’t Helston. Even if we’re caught—even if we get in trouble—we’ll be okay. Even if we don’t know Alis, she isn’t Queen Ewella. She’ll listen. She won’t lock us up underground to prove a point.
She isn’t Peran.
And we aren’t doing anything wrong.
Beside me, the battle inside Edwyn rages. He keeps it in the best he can, jaw clenched, expression set in fierce determination, but the effort is visible and I’m scared he’s gonna lose the fight before we even get there.
By the time we reach Pioden, he’s sweating and shaking like there’s a fever rushing through his body.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
Three letters have never held so many lies.
As Kensa promised, now that we know where Pioden is, the illusion breaks on the horizon; the vast stone formation looms up out of the moors, surrounded by swooping magpies. But granite stays granite, even as we stop before what is supposed to be Alis’s castle, and I kick myself with a curse. I didn’t pay enough attention to the tune Kensa whistled. Not that it would do me any good. My whistling is even worse than my magical abilities.
I run my fingers over the rough stone, searching desperately for any kind of dip or bump that might indicate a mechanism. Which is just about as useful as searching for a particular grain of sand on a beach.
Then, from behind me, a clear, high note sounds—smooth as silk and twice as beautiful. I gape at Edwyn, the tune from his lips curling effortlessly like he’s spent his whole life at rehearsal, and the door in the rock opens up in response.
“How’d you do that, Mr. ‘I Don’t Do Magic’?”
But Edwyn just gives a rough shrug. “Come on. If Princess Alis doesn’t already know we’re here, she will soon.”
I follow quickly as Edwyn steps inside. “And you’re okay with that?”
“At this point, there is no choice.” Even our whispered voices echo through the witch’s castle, every footfall as loud as a bell.
Sneaking was definitely easier in Helston.
Without Alis as our guide, the journey up and up and up feels endless. Not even exaggeratedly endless, but literally. I consider my endurance confidently above average. I know how to pace myself and I know how to get the best out of my muscles, but by the time my legs start burning in complaint and I glance backward to see how far we’ve come, my heart drops. It looks like we’ve barely made it halfway, and the thought of doing this whole climb again makes my bones ache.
Edwyn is struggling, too, leaning on the curved banister to hoist himself up each stair, but anyone could see the mess this is making of his leg.
I open my mouth to call it quits. This was a bad idea. We should do it the proper way and ask permission, except suddenly the topmost landing is in sight.
It wasn’t there before.
I swear it wasn’t.
Suspicion sparks through my blood, but I’m not about to reject this gift, no matter where it comes from.
With my final burst of strength, I bound up the rest of the flight and pull Edwyn up after me, and we collapse together, panting, just inches away from Alis’s pool.
It feels like a miracle.
Edwyn crawls to the edge of the water first, breathing hard. I shuffle to stay close beside him. I don’t know if this will work, or what will happen if it does, but whatever Edwyn is searching for is being fiercely guarded. No one should head into battle alone.
A finger hesitates over the mirror-still surface, then retreats.
“I…don’t know what I’ll see,” says Edwyn. “I don’t know how to find what I’m looking for, and I don’t know what else is there.”
“D’you want me to wait outside for you?”
“No. Don’t leave. Just…don’t tell, okay? Not Elowen or Willow. Or anyone. I can’t do this unless you promise.”
“I promise.” I mean it too. Edwyn’s business is his own, and even though I don’t get why he’d want to keep secrets from Willow and Elowen, that’s not my call to make. I offer my hand to him, palm up. “I’m here.”
The calluses on Edwyn’s hand are rough as he locks his fingers through mine.
He takes a deep, steadying breath and leans forward to touch one finger to the water’s surface.
Just like before, ripples flicker across the pool, faster and faster until it breaks into an image.
And that’s where the similarities end.
Where the scene Alis showed us was high in the sky, a dragon’s point of view, watching from an impersonal distance, this time we fall all the way down into the deepest depths of Edwyn’s mind.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Defend yourself.”
Edwyn doesn’t move. He cannot move. Cannot breathe. Cannot even think beyond the buzzing in his head as Father closes the slim gap between them. There is no room. No air. No chance. And all the magic has retreated from his fingertips, scared away the moment it was caught. Willow said it was safe to tell. Willow promised. Elowen told him no, but Edwyn didn’t listen. He made himself believe it would be okay, that it didn’t matter what Father said about Willow behind closed doors, that he would be different with his own son. That he would understand. That he would be…proud.
The red-stoned ring rips into his temple.
There isn’t space to fall.
“If your precious magic is worth anything, prove it. Defend yourself!”
Blood slicks across his tongue.
He can’t. It isn’t. It never was. Willow was wrong. Father is right. Father is always right. Magic is worthless. Untrustworthy. An abomination.
So is anyone who entertains it.
Repent.
It’s Elowen’s fault. Willow’s fault. Stay away from them and maybe he stands a chance of being normal. Stay close to Father. Do what he says. Everything he says. Do it before he gives the command. Do more. Do the most. Do everything and maybe—maybe—Father will stop looking at him like that.
That look…with every glance, Edwyn’s whole body contracts. He hates it. Hates himself the way Father hates him. Understands why he does. Elowen doesn’t speak to him. Willow stays away. That’s fine. It’s their fault— No, it’s his fault. It’s all his fault. He should’ve been smarter, stronger, should’ve resisted the temptation like he was supposed to. No one else falls. No one else is as weak as he is. Mind, body, and spirit.
But Edwyn knows he can do better. He can be better. He just has to prove it.
Work harder. Fight harder. Don’t cry. Don’t complain. This is his fault. It’s for his own good. He knows that. Accepts that. It’ll be worth it.
Worth it.
Mother doesn’t look at him anymore. He’s glad. Sometimes he wishes Father would stop looking at him too, but there are rare moments when he does something right and he needs Father to see those, to keep count, to know that Edwyn is doing his best even if his best isn’t good enough. But Father is never looking in the good moments, only the bad ones, and he keeps meticulous score on Edwyn’s skin.
It’s Adan’s fault.
Not Adan’s fault—his fault—but Adan is Father’s eyes when Father is busy in council meetings, with Their Majesties, and all the important work a chancellor should be focused on instead of his worthless son. Adan takes note and pleasure in every misstep, like he has a personal vendetta against Edwyn.
Edwyn isn’t sure what he did to warrant such a grudge, because Adan doesn’t know his secret. No one outside the family does. Father would rather die than let anyone become aware of what his son is. Father doesn’t know that Willow knows. Edwyn has nightmares about Father finding out. He doesn’t know who his father would kill first—him or Willow.
That’s not true.
He does know. All too well.
Adan hits him.
A full-length steel sword against his small wooden one.
A weighted staff in the side.
A fist in the face.
He tastes blood and sawdust and dirt.
He deserves this. He should be stronger, faster, better.
He gets up earlier and goes to bed later. Meals are precious minutes that could be better spent. He works through the pain in his stomach and the dizziness in his head. He works until his body betrays him and he accepts the punishment for failing without complaint.
It reflects poorly on Father when Edwyn embarrasses himself.
He is the chancellor’s son. Held to the highest standards with the best resources.
It is no one’s fault but his own that they aren’t enough.
“I don’t know why he bothers with you,” says Adan.
Edwyn doesn’t know either.
Some days—most days—he’s sure it would be easier if they just put him out of his misery. Some days, he thinks about doing it himself. Just walking across the bridge to let the dragons take him. Some days—every day—the thought of the Witch Queen of Dumoor is less frightening than waking up to another day in Helston.
One day, Elowen finds her way back to him.
Late at night, in the safety of darkness.
“Willow misses you, you know.”
“Go away,” he snarls. “Leave me alone.”
She doesn’t.
He tries everything he can to push her away. He is cruel to her, but still she won’t leave, and he isn’t strong enough to keep fighting. If she wants to be foolish, that’s her choice.
She has become stronger, smarter. He doesn’t stand a chance against her. She only comes after midnight, and she doesn’t speak until she’s painted a ward around his door. He doesn’t know what use that would be if it ever came down to it, and every night he goes through the plan for what he’ll do if tonight’s the night they’re caught.
“He misses you, you know,” says Elowen, pressing soft magic into the muscle of the leg that was never quite right after the day Father discovered Edwyn’s magic. “Willow. You should talk to him.”
He knows she’s lying. Willow doesn’t miss him. Willow has probably forgotten he exists. As it should be. They were never supposed to be friends in the first place. Elowen only visits out of duty. The same familial obligation that protects him from being cast out of the Chancellor’s Chambers. He supposes he should be grateful but he doesn’t have the energy.
He sees Willow sometimes, though not often. Their paths do not cross now that Edwyn is busy with training—that’s what Father calls it, “training,” though his lessons are incomparable to those of his peers—but sometimes he catches sight of the two princes on the other side of the training grounds, Prince Jowan teaching Willow how to spar.
Except it doesn’t look like teaching. They’re just playing. Like it’s just a game they can pick up and put down on a whim. And Edwyn hates them both for it. He tries not to watch, the knot of jealousy getting bigger and tighter around his heart until it’s all he can think about and Adan knocks him into the dirt for his inattention.
Willow’s fault.
It is all Willow’s fault.
And Edwyn will never forgive him.
The stables. Hazy with hay dust and horsehair in the midsummer afternoon. The memory sweet and sharp and good.
“Be gentle,” Prince Jowan murmurs. “Like this. Let me show you how.”
Edwyn’s face burns, but the correction isn’t angry. It isn’t even impatient. It is soft and calm, and he speaks the way he runs the brush along his mare’s flank.
“See? It’s not so hard.” The prince grins and holds out the brush. “Now you try.”
Edwyn takes the brush and tries because that is what was commanded. But it feels like a trick. His Highness has no reason to speak so kindly to him. Edwyn is certain Willow has told Prince Jowan everything. They are close as anything, as different as they are. Perhaps the crown prince is toying with him, luring him into a false sense of security before making him pay for the way he has treated Willow.
It doesn’t matter.
He cannot refuse a direct request. Prince Jowan could order him off the cliff and Edwyn would have to obey.
“Relax, Edwyn. Horses pick up on your emotions. I don’t want her spooked before we even ride out.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, Highness.”
Prince Jowan laughs, but it’s a quiet chuckle instead of the sharp bark usually directed his way. “Nothing to apologize for. Go slowly.”
He does his best, falling into the lull of the rhythm until it starts to feel natural. The bay mare relaxes and the tightness in his own chest loosens.
“That’s right. Good job.”
The unexpected approval catches Edwyn off guard and he smiles.
“Are you good to finish getting her ready? I’d like to see Willow before we ride out.”
“Yes, Highness.”
“Thanks.” Prince Jowan pauses one second longer to add, “I don’t know what happened between you and my brother, but I hope you two can fix things one day. I know he misses you terribly. If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know.”
Edwyn is quick to nod, face burning. Elowen might have reason to lie to him about Willow, but Prince Jowan doesn’t. Maybe it is true. Maybe Willow doesn’t hate him as much as he should. Maybe it would be possible, one day, to—
Not in Father’s world.
Just the entertainment of the hope feels illicit, and Edwyn’s fingers stutter around the brush.
Maybe in a few decades when Prince Jowan becomes King Jowan. But not now. Now, Father rules supreme.
He forces his focus back to the rhythm of the brush. This is a task he can accomplish. This is all he needs to think about right now. Everything else can be set aside for a few more minutes. The mare stands still for him as he saddles her, pulling the straps tight but not too tight and fitting the bridle to her sleek nose. She is so well looked after. So loved. There isn’t an ounce of wariness in her blood.
Lucky.
He is checking his work for the last time when a sound at the other end of the stables freezes his fingers. The horse’s ears flick back, confirming his fears. He wasn’t imagining it.
Edwyn scrabbles to make the calculations in his head. Everyone else is already in the courtyard, ready to ride out. No one else is supposed to be in here, but he counts two pairs of footsteps. Two pairs of footsteps he could pick out of a crowd.
And a voice that turns his blood cold.
Father’s.
“You must not act before the moment is right.”
It is midsummer—the hottest month of Wyndebrel—but Edwyn shivers, a thousand excuses cramming into his throat. He is allowed to be here. He was told to be here. He’s working for the prince. The future king. Whose authority tops Father’s. He’s not doing anything wrong, he’s—
As though any of that has ever mattered.
“If the opportunity does not present itself, do not act. Do I make myself clear?”
He’s angry. Or approaching angry.
“Of course I understand,” a second voice snaps—Adan. “I know how important this is. I know what is at stake.”
The prince’s horse tosses her head. He was holding her too tight. He hurt her. He’s sorry, but he needs her to be quiet. He needs her to understand. Just be good and silent and invisible and don’t exist until they’re gone.
Except they’re coming closer.
“When you return,” Father continues, “it is imperative the body is brought immediately inside and interred. I will ensure that Their Majesties understand that the magical attack rendered His Highness unrecognizable and his memory must be preserved in perfect form. Do you hear me? They must not see him.”
“And what about Nick and Jory?” Adan asks gruffly. “They’ll have seen the boy already. Chances are, they’ll have seen him fall. And with Nick being as close to His Majesty as he is…You really think he’s gonna keep his mouth shut?”
“You will ensure that Nicholas sees nothing,” Father snaps. “On my word, Adan, if you are caught, I will not stand by you. No one can know.”
Edwyn bites his tongue, straining to hear the exact distance between himself and the grown-ups, and praying that they’ll finish their conversation and leave before they come any closer. He doesn’t know what they’re talking about. He doesn’t want to know. Knowledge is dangerous and it’s none of his business and he just wants to finish his work and leave and—
