Between (25 page)

His face blanched white, the scars livid slashes across his cheeks. He took a step toward her, then stopped. Held up a hand for silence. “Hush. Someone is coming.” He drew his sword and crossed to the door, silent and quick as a cat.

Vivian’s eyes followed the naked sword blade, resolving to guard her tongue in the future. She was in way over her head here without eliciting any extra and personalized hatred from a dangerous, sword-carrying Warlord.

“I don’t hear anything,” she said, after a few interminable breaths of waiting.

“Shh.”

It was not reassuring that footsteps in the hallway put him on instant high alert, but she didn’t dare to ask him what or whom he feared.

Then she heard muffled voices. The door swung open. One of the guards stood at full attention in the entrance and announced, “Prince Landon, My Lady.”

A man entered and stood blinking at her. Gray hair hung over his shoulders, clean but untended. His face was deeply lined and far too pale, as though he never saw the sun. His tunic, a dull bruised color that might once have been purple, was torn and tattered, the pale flesh of his belly visible through a hole the size of her fist. His feet were bare, and black with dirt. He bowed and smiled, but the smile was grief and loss, laid over an unbearable weariness that cut her to the heart.

As if he didn’t wish to presume, he stayed close to the door. “Good evening, My Lady. I’ve come to take you down to the feast.” He nodded at the Warlord. “Lord Zee.”

“You’re—the Prince?” Vivian struggled with her voice, unsteady despite her best attempts.

“Appearances are deceiving,” the Warlord said. “You would be wise to note that, My Lady.” He bowed to the ragged man at the door, a deep bow, made with evident respect, and made his exit.

Vivian’s eyes followed him. The Prince coughed, gently, drawing her attention back. “Shall we go, then?” He held out his hand.

“I would prefer not to.”

“That makes two of us. However, I fear we have been summoned. Refusing is not an option.”

Vivian opened her mouth to make a caustic remark, then shut it. This man was so obviously in pain. She didn’t want to add to it. “But you’re the Prince,” she said finally.

“And you are—” His eyes ran over her again. She’d underestimated him. The gaze was intelligent and sharp, and she knew he was absorbing the color of her eyes, the marks on her shoulders. A spasm of pain crossed his face. “I’m not sure what you are, My Lady. You look rather like
her
in that gown, and yet not like
her
at all.”

His was not an evil face—many of the lines were those of kindness—but a chill went over her at what she saw in his eyes in that moment. Death. She’d seen it in the Warlord’s eyes, too, but despite his aura of violence, the Warlord would think twice about killing a woman. This man, if he felt it warranted, would not hesitate.

She took a step back and away from him. Nervous, her hands smoothed over the hips of the black gown, and her right encountered something unexpected: a hard object, long and narrow, trapped between the fabric and her skin.

Holding his eyes, hoping he wouldn’t notice, she explored the object with her hand. “If I were to ask you what you mean by
her
, you will tell me you can’t talk about it, right?”

She found a pocket, set seamlessly into the fabric. Her fingers curled around what she found there.

“I ask you straight out—are you a sorceress, My Lady?”

“Why do you people keep asking me that? I have no magical powers and I certainly don’t plan to hurt anybody.”

“Then why have you dressed as one?”

Vivian stared at him. “I found the gown—it was in the closet.”

“You found it. Just like that.”

Her hand clenched around the thing in her pocket, familiar and comforting, fitting perfectly into her palm. “The Warlord was just asking the same questions. I give you the same answer. I found the dress. I like it. It fits.”

“It fits, yes.” He sighed. “You have the look of magic about you, but not like her. Perhaps the difference is an absence of evil. We will hope.”

He squared his shoulders, apparently having come to a decision, and held out a hand. “Shall we go? The Queen is not tolerant of tardiness.”

Vivian breathed a sigh of relief. She was inclined to like this prince and had enough enemies already. But when she took the hand he held out to her, she saw something that stopped her cold. Circling the fourth finger of his left hand was a fine gold band set with tiny bloodred stones.

“What the hell are you doing with my mother’s ring?”

His face went white to the lips, his eyes stricken.

She advanced on him, shouting. “You bastard! What have you done with her?”

“I? Nothing—”

He’d totally fooled her with that beaten-down act. She had the stiletto out, the blade flicked open, before he could finish the sentence. “Don’t lie to me! She’s here somewhere. You know where she is. Tell me now or I’ll—”

“You’ll what?”

He had drawn his sword. No longer a ragged, beaten lunatic. His face was alight, every line of his body awake and at the ready. “Put the knife away before one of us gets hurt, and listen to me.”

“You’re a liar, and I will not listen to a word you say.”

“You will.” His voice was pitched low and intense. “You will listen now, and stop this idiocy before the guards come in here.”

He advanced and she retreated. Her only option was to throw the knife, too small to be of any defense against a sword. If she was lucky and killed him, she’d have the guards to contend with. And if she killed him she’d never find out what he’d done with her mother.

And then Poe abandoned her. She’d been aware of him in her peripheral vision, watching from the sidelines. With a little squawk, he waddled across the room and stood in front of the Prince, facing her, flippers spread in a defensive posture.

“The last thing in the world I want is to hurt your mother,” the Prince said. “The ring is mine. Think. Hers would never fit my hand.”

“You could have resized it.”

“Please—I beg you not to make this mistake.”

Vivian looked from him to the penguin, who had managed to get a disapproving look onto his face. “You’re threatening me with a sword.”

“I thought I was protecting myself.” The Prince took a step back, sheathed the sword, and held both hands up in a gesture of peace. “No world exists in which I could harm Isobel’s child. Do with me what you will, but I beg you—give me time to explain.”

“I’m listening.” Her hands were shaking. Every breath hurt.

“Your mother and I exchanged rings, long, long ago. Please. If you can save her, I will do anything in my power to help you. But if we are to do that, first we must go to the feast. And the guards must not hear any of this.”

He glanced at the door and then back at Vivian.

Trust nobody.

And yet she found herself wanting to tell him everything. Maybe he could help her find Jehenna. Maybe he would know something about the key. Hell, Poe had sided with him.

Caution prevailed. Not now. Not yet.

She closed the knife and dropped it into her pocket. “All right,” she said. “Let’s go.”

The Prince nodded and offered her his arm. She took it.

“Shoes.”

“What?”

He glanced pointedly at her feet. “You’ll need shoes.”

“Oh, shit.” Esme had never returned with the sensible shoes. Which meant the only thing available to her was a
ridiculous pair of high-heeled sandals concocted out of velvet and lace. They lay on the floor where she had discarded them.

“Can’t I go barefoot?”

“No, My Lady.”

“But you—”

“It’s not possible.”

“But I can’t walk in those.” Her voice came out plaintive and fragile, and she felt herself on the verge of tears. Over a pair of freaking shoes.

“I’ll help you.”

Nothing else for it, then. Plopping down on the floor, gown and all, she picked up the instruments of torture and shoved them onto her feet.

“What of your bird? Will he stay here?”

“Don’t ask me. He apparently does whatever he pleases.” Poe looked at her, all innocence, and then hopped ahead of them to the door.

Swallowing all of the questions still clamoring to be asked, Vivian reached up her hand to allow the Prince to pull her to her feet, then wobbled beside him out into the corridor, Poe following at their heels.

T
he corridor wound around and around, ever downward, making walking in the high-heeled slippers a progressively more precarious and painful problem. Prince Landon had reverted to his ragged, shambling persona, apparently lost in his own thoughts. At intervals they passed servants headed in the opposite direction—a page, a girl carrying bedding, a couple of swaggering guards. All looked at Vivian askance, keeping a distance. Not one of them acknowledged the Prince.

Vivian let Landon lead her and tried to focus on one step after the other—
don’t trip, don’t stumble, don’t limp, don’t pay too much attention to the voices in your head.
The voices were so loud and distracting that the sound of wailing had gone on for some time before she registered it. She slowed her steps, listening, and turned her head to look back over her shoulder. Nothing but the empty corridor curving upward and out of sight.

The Prince tugged her forward. “We’re late, My Lady. There is nothing we can do.”

“What is it?”

The wail escalated into a high, wrenching shriek. Vivian twisted away from Landon’s restraining hand and turned back. She kicked off the slippers, gathered up her skirt, and
broke into a run. Isobel cried like that sometimes, when she was restrained and begging for knives.

She followed the sound down a passage that branched off the main corridor and then into a hallway narrower and colder. Stone floor, stone walls. No attempt here to create any warmth or comfort with tapestries or carpets.

Another curve, and then another, and Vivian almost crashed into a girl struggling in the grip of two of the castle guards. Her gown was torn and hung in shreds over one shoulder, revealing one naked breast. A livid red swelling disfigured her left cheek, beginning to turn black and purple around the edges. Strands of hair plastered across a face streaked with tears.

“Esme!”

“My Lady, help me! Please help me, don’t let them—”

Without missing a step or changing expression, one of the guards lifted his arm and landed a backhanded blow. Esme’s head jerked sideways. She went limp, hanging like a rag doll between their hands. Bright blood dribbled from her broken lip and down over her chin. The guards kept moving, dragging her along with her feet trailing useless on the floor.

“Let her go!” Vivian shouted, standing in their way.

One of the guards shoved her aside and they strode on, dragging their senseless burden between them.

Vivian turned to the Prince, standing just behind her. “Do something! Tell them to let her go.”

“They answer to the Chancellor,” he said. “There is nothing I can do.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“That’s stupid. You’re the Prince! They have to listen to you.”

He shook his head, not meeting her eyes.

“But this is outrageous—we have to stop them—”

The Prince gripped her upper arms and shook her a little, speaking in a low, urgent voice. “I cannot save her. You cannot save her. If you betray yourself, you will help no one. Do you understand?” The guards vanished out of sight with their unconscious prisoner. “Come,” Landon said, his voice
gentle now. The lines of pain in his face had deepened. “We must go at once.”

He held out the slippers, and because there was nothing else she could think of to do in the moment, Vivian put them on and walked with him. “What will happen to her?”

“They will take her to the dungeons.”

“But it’s my fault—”

“Hush now—we must make a grand entrance.”

They were approaching a circular staircase, wide enough for ten to walk easily abreast. Poe stood waiting at the top. Relief at the sight of his now-familiar form vanished as she spied the sea of courtiers below, all eyes turned upward to stare. A whole new cause of anxiety, all of those eyes. Landon’s hand was steady on her arm, and he guided her forward without hesitation.

A footman in white satin breeches, pointy-toed golden slippers, and a green doublet announced in a loud voice: “His Highly Eminent Landon, Royal Highness, Heir Apparent of Surmise, and the Lady Vivian.”

Four trumpets played a fanfare, nearly deafening in intensity, followed by little gasps and flutters of applause from the guests.

For the time it took to make it down the stairs, Vivian’s entire focus was on one step after another, making sure that she didn’t fall off the ridiculous shoes and make a spectacle of herself tumbling down in front of everybody.

Once at the bottom, she breathed a sigh of relief and looked around. The room gleamed with light from a hundred chandeliers. High above, the cathedral ceiling depicted dragons, maidens, and warriors in brilliant hues. Courtiers moved into their places at rows of tables set with golden platters and crystal goblets. One larger table at the far end of the room, elevated on a dais, remained empty.