The Crimson Crown, page 22
Another chattering group of courtiers sails down the corridor. Roland watches them, muttering to himself.
“Fine,” he grunts. “But don’t get used to this. I’m not your personal escort.”
“Just this once,” I promise, sincerely hoping it’s true. If the Bloodstones are in the crypt, I won’t need Roland to take me anywhere else. Surely even a few stones will be enough to both get Rhea and mend the Veil.
Roland grumbles, unconvinced, and removes a ring of keys from his belt. They’re all different sizes and metals—some brass, and others silver or gold. A few even appear whittled from what is suspiciously similar to bone, and I shudder, thinking of Mathilde and her string of teeth. Roland selects a slender wrought-iron key and then jams it into the wall. To my astonishment, the wood sucks the key inside itself. An instant later, a small door materializes. It’s shoulder-height, exactly like the one I’d found behind the apple tree at the pageant.
“That’s how you’ve been getting around.”
Roland bows with a flourish. “Aye. Now, are you coming or not?”
He replaces the ring of keys on his belt and opens the door. With a last check over my shoulder, I follow him, praying to every Spirit listening that these are my last hours in the palace.
* * *
—
I expect Roland’s door to lead into a maze of halls—cobweb-covered stone and rotting staircases, like the passages Blodwyn uses. Instead, there’s…nothing. Even when Roland fishes a lantern from some invisible corner, all I see is darkness beyond the orange glow of its flame. I’m certain that there’s a floor only because I can feel it beneath my feet. And I sense walls on either side of us, but there aren’t any forks or turns. It’s like the tunnel is carving itself through the palace, unfurling with every step we take.
“Where are we?” I ask, bewildered. “There aren’t any halls or stairs or…”
Roland laughs, long and echoing in the depthless void. “You witches aren’t the only ones with power. Dwarves have our own magic, thank you very much. We don’t need halls or stairs. A Dwarf can navigate or operate anything crafted by their own.”
I flinch at his tone, one that suggests I should have known such information already. I probably should have. As witchlings, we’d learned about our own history and magic, but never anyone else’s. It was as if our stories were the only ones that mattered. But of course there were others, Roland’s among them. And not just the story of his magic but his whole life and history. I suddenly feel incredibly selfish for never having shown an interest.
“Have you always lived at the palace?” I ask now.
“I came from farther north.” He gestures in what I assume is that direction. “But that was some fifty years ago. My mine specialized in the mirrors. Enchanted ones. I’m sure you’re familiar with them.”
Too familiar. I shiver at the memory of Mother’s mirror. I haven’t seen her silver-eyed raven again, but I wonder if it’s haunting the gardens, spying. “A little.”
“Aye—hard to come by now, I gather. Used to be, there was a whole hall of mirrors here in the palace,” Roland goes on. “Before the edict, witches would use them for the Crown. Suppose they all were shattered—destroyed in the fire.”
I’m not as sad about that prospect as I likely should be. A hall of mirrors, especially witch’s mirrors, is the last place I’d want to visit.
“Ah, here we are.” Roland stops and detaches the ring of keys from his belt. He sticks one into the stone wall and another door appears. “Right this way.”
The crypt must be located in the deepest part of the palace, for the darkness here is thick and tangible, laced with the distinctive staleness of death. The glow of Roland’s lantern spills over rows of coffins. Glass coffins. It’s an unsettling custom, to house the dead with the living, letting their bodies rot and decay beneath our feet. We witches do not believe in burying our dead. Instead, we return them to the coven fire, freeing their souls to join with the Spirits. That’s another reason the raids are so horrific. If our dead aren’t burned in the flames of a Ceremony of Blood and Ashes, our spirits are trapped between our bones for eternity.
Roland rubs a window on one of the grime-covered coffins, revealing a glimpse of hollowed eye sockets and tufts of white hair beneath the glass.
“This is the older section,” he determines.
How many sections are there? The line of White stretches back thousands of years, and it seems all their royal dead are entombed here. Roland’s lantern carves a dim path as we shuffle through the aisles. Pillars carved to look like trees climb into the murky expanse of the ceiling, which must be high because even the slightest sound echoes. Water drips in the distance, and every surface is slick and silty. Shadows undulate outside the safety of Roland’s light, the darkness seeming to slink and creep, pooling around my ankles as we walk. I keep looking over my shoulder, unable to shake the prickling sensation of being observed. That feeling starts again—something nudging the inner side of my left ribs. I tamp it down.
Finally, we reach an area where the bodies are less decomposed. Through the gauzy fabric of their shrouds, I can make out the gleam of jewels on bony fingers and the delicate embroidery stitched into fine gowns. All this wealth, left to rot.
“Even the dead here are richer than we are,” I mutter.
“Aye,” Roland agrees. “Welcome to the White Palace.”
He brings his light closer to the engraving on a casket.
Queen Islabet, it reads.
The former king’s wife, if my mortal history serves. Unlike the other corpses here, the dead queen’s body is positioned beneath the glass with her palms turned up, a pose that mimics that of the false goddess. The queen’s natural eyes—or what’s left of them—are sewn shut, and a jeweled Eye of Meira is fixed to her forehead. Even the decaying corpses uphold the Order’s lies.
I move on to the next coffin. This one is larger and more elaborate. The crowned apple sigil is engraved in the glass.
King Reginald.
This is the man who levied the edict against the covens. The man responsible for countless burnings and deaths. Worse than that, for extinguishing our way of life. Rage simmers inside me. He likely died in his bed, surrounded by his family. Such an end was too good for him—too clean. A deep, primal urge stirs—that delicious sense of control I felt in the menagerie. I want to drag out the dead king’s bones and grind them to dust. I want to summon his spirit and make him watch as I tear his realm down, piece by piece. I want to—
“Mistress Witch.” Roland’s voice jolts me out of my imaginings. “Look. The sword.”
He dips his lantern lower, illuminating the weapon resting on the dead king’s chest. Only the top of its pommel is visible beneath a gilded blanket. If the Bloodstone is there, I can have Rhea with me again—perhaps even tonight. We can return to Stonehaven. It will be like the last seven years never happened. We could even stop the war. My pulse kicks up.
“Help me with the lid.”
Roland sets his lantern down. It takes both of us to pry open the coffin, releasing a cloud of stale, death-scented air. My stomach roils.
“By the Mines.” Roland coughs, covering his mouth. “Can’t believe they leave weapons down here. Waste of proper craftsmanship is what it is. All that good metal just…”
He continues complaining about the White Kings’ disrespect of Dwarvian work, but I’m not listening. My hands tremble as I reach for the blanket. The gold fabric is stiff and cool as I pull it back. The sword is massive, its blade stretching all the way to the dead king’s knees. Jewels glimmer on the pommel—tiny rubies cut to represent the crowned-apple sigil. The gleaming steel blade is etched with an Illumination:
TO BURN A WITCH IS TO FREE A SOUL
I hardly register the spark of anger that ignites at seeing those words, my focus pinned to the place where the sword’s blade meets the pommel. There’s a setting—a large oval, exactly the shape of the Bloodstone in Millicent’s portrait at Stonehaven.
Except nothing is there.
“No,” I whisper, touching the empty space as if the stone might appear. It doesn’t. “No!”
“Damn.” Roland scrubs the back of his neck. “They must have removed the stone before they buried the king.”
Which means the Bloodstone could be anywhere.
“Don’t lose hope just yet.” Roland indicates the next coffin. “Check the princes’ coffins. The king commissioned swords for them as well.”
That’s right. I hurry over to where the first prince—Prince Arthur—is laid out inside the glass. His sewn-shut eyes stare at me as we heave open the lid and I yank the blanket back. The prince’s sword is just as ostentatious as the dead king’s, studded with jewels and forged of fine steel. And just like King Reginald’s weapon, the Bloodstone has been pried out.
I step back, raking my hands through my hair. “This can’t be happening.”
Desperate, I wheel around in search of the final glass coffin—my one remaining chance. I stop short. There is another casket, but it’s carved of stone.
“That’s odd,” Roland comments, approaching it. “Royals always insist upon glass.”
“Are you sure it’s the prince?”
He lifts his lantern, light striking against the inscription on the lid: Prince Tiergan.
“Why would they put him in there?” I ask.
“No idea.” Roland rubs his chin. “But now that I think of it, there was some strangeness surrounding the prince’s death. Rumors and such.”
The air in the crypt seems to grow colder.
“Rumors about what?”
“Madness, if I recall,” he replies, darkly. “Aye. They found him running around the palace, screaming that something was chasing him.”
Chasing? A long, low sound echoes in the distance.
Pull yourself together, I chide myself. It’s just a story the mortals made up. And it doesn’t matter why they buried the prince in stone—not if he has what I need. Rolling my shoulders back, I brace myself against the coffin’s lid.
“Sure you want to do that?” Roland asks, dubious.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid.”
He makes a face but reluctantly sets down his lantern and joins me. The stone lid is ten times heavier than the lids of the glass coffins. My muscles burn after just a few seconds of pushing. Even Roland grunts with the effort. Finally, stone grinds as the lid slides open an inch. Then another and another, until—
The smell hits, pungent and horrible and wrong. Years ago, Nettle killed a rat and hid it in Mother’s room at Stonehaven. The smell thickened for days before she discovered it. This stench is a thousand times worse than that, and a hundred thousand times worse than the fetid reek of the other bodies. I turn away from the casket, gagging. Roland curses and coughs.
“What is that?” I croak, covering my nose and mouth.
“Nothing I want to know about.” Roland backs away.
But I have to know. Holding my breath, I peer over the edge of the casket, then immediately wish that I hadn’t. Where the other royals are still somewhat recognizable, the prince’s remains could best be described as a black, stinking sludge. It’s as though he…melted, leaving nothing but a tarlike substance congealed at the bottom of the casket. There’s absolutely nothing left of him, not even the flash of a jewel. What could have done something like this?
As if in answer, an unmistakable moan sounds from deep within the crypt, followed by a clicking, like claws against stone. The temperature drops even lower.
The place behind my left ribs vibrates. “We need to leave. Now.”
Roland’s face pales in the lantern light. “Aye.”
Without bothering to close up the prince’s coffin, we sprint to the nearest wall. Roland fumbles his keys from his belt. The clicking sound is louder now. Closer. That feeling behind my ribs intensifies.
“Hurry,” I urge Roland.
“What do you think I’m doing? Having a nap?” Metal jangles as he attempts to jam a key into the wall. Nothing happens.
“Why isn’t it working?”
“I don’t know,” he snaps, jabbing the key at the stone. It only scrapes and scratches the surface, leaving frantic white streaks. “You’re a witch, can’t you do something?”
No. I can’t. And I have no desire to delve into why at the moment. “Come on. Just run!”
My breath puffs in front of my face as we tear through the crypt, stumbling over loose bricks and colliding with caskets. Relief floods me when the outline of the main doors emerges from the gloom. I urge my clumsy feet faster, throwing myself against the handles as soon as they’re within reach.
They stick.
A high note of panic builds in my ears. I thrust my shoulder against the door again and again, but it refuses to budge. “It won’t open!”
The clicking of claws is even closer, and slower. Like whatever is chasing us has decided to take its time. Toy with us, like Nettle and her mice. The place behind my left ribs throbs, pressure straining beneath my skin, like whatever is there wants to break free. We need to get out of here. I clench my fists against the triangles stamped into my palms. If anyone can help us now, it’s my sister.
Please, Rhea, I beg. We need you.
“Together,” Roland says, positioning himself beside me. “One, two, three.”
Whether it’s our combined strength or my sister’s intervention, the handle gives and we stumble into the light of the palace, scrambling to slam the door behind us. A deep, disappointed moan leaks through the paneled wood, one that resonates in my very bones.
“What was that?” I gasp between frantic breaths.
“I don’t know.” Roland pats himself, as if to make sure he’s still in one piece. “I’ve never seen anything like that. It’s like it was…from another world.”
Or from beyond the Veil, a voice in my mind whispers, followed swiftly by Mother’s: You could have brought something out.
Fear oozes down my spine.
“What did you say the prince claimed before he died?” I ask Roland. “He was being chased?”
“Aye.” He confirms. “But no one knew by what.”
I might know. Because I’m starting to believe the same thing is chasing me. And, as the feeling behind my left ribs settles, I think I know why.
It’s not Malum.
I repeat the words in my mind like a spell, like saying it enough times will make it true, as I pace the balcony in the dead of night. After what happened in the crypt, sleep was all but impossible. When I did manage to slip into a fitful doze, my dreams were filled with curling shadows and images of the dead prince’s sludge-like remains. Every pop of the fire sounded like the click of claws against stone. Every sigh of the wind like the low moan of whatever creature had been stalking us. Eventually, the very walls of the chamber became too suffocating to endure and I snuck outside in the hope that the cold night air would clear my head.
It hasn’t. No matter how much I try to explain away the shadows and the noises and that awful sensation behind my left ribs, my mind keeps circling back to Mother’s words on the night of my failed Ascension:
It could have touched you.
It—Malum. I’ve been denying it this whole time, but was she right? When I reached for Rhea, had Malum winnowed beneath my skin and wound itself between my bones? I picture it, like a vine of midnight flower intertwined with my ribs, burrowing deeper with every breath.
Like summons like. Mother’s lessons come back to me. Dark intents reap dark rewards.
I may not have intended to summon Malum, but I did reach beyond the Veil. Is this the price I’m paying for meddling? I press my hand to my side, against the spot where I first felt the tremble of something that didn’t belong. Something stirred by shadows and whatever was following me in the crypt—even the king himself, a man whose dark heart might well have been carved from Malum. Is the force inside me calling to him? Is it drawing more Malum from beyond the Veil, sending it to haunt me? Claim me?
Wind gusts over the balcony, its chill needling under my thin shift. Another crow calls, settling on the lip of a fountain. It’s swiftly joined by a second, then a third. They keep coming, winging out of the shadows, beady black eyes shining like polished stones in the moonlight.
“Seven,” I whisper. Just like before my Ascension.
A secret, mystery, or curse.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles. Had they known? I wonder wildly. Did the birds’ connection to Malum alert them to what I would do? Or, a far more ominous question slithers through my mind: Is there something about me that has always attracted them? Is that why Malum latched on to me in the first place?
Like summons like, that horrible voice taunts.
Perhaps it’s right. There’s a darkness in my soul—a wrongness—that invited Malum. That’s why no one from Stonehaven tried to find me after I left, not even Eden. Perhaps that’s even why Jacquetta never came for me in the woods after the raid. She sensed the fatal flaw that marked me as different. Other. Beneath the rustle of leaves, I swear I can hear the prowling of an invisible beast. Spots of light dance amid the shadows in the distance, like eyes.
“Enough,” I mutter to myself.
I throw my arms wide, scattering the birds, who caw at me and soar off into the night. Even if Malum has touched me, once I pull Rhea back, we’ll devise a way to fix the Veil, and then that sinister force will be banished, its dark hooks removed from me forever. I just have to locate the Bloodstones—and quickly. Roland promised to look for clues as to where the stones might have been taken after they were pried out from the royal swords. If he doesn’t find anything, I will, even if it means scouring every book in that Spirits-forsaken library.
I turn back to the door, leaving the crows and their ominous message behind. Rhea never felt that there was anything wrong with me. And there isn’t. Soon, everything will be as it was before the raid.
