Red Palace (13 page)

Sasha gasps as there is a scrape of stone against stone.
Above the lettering, a small oblong box appears. Inside the box are twelve letters, each corresponding with
En Crypt Saran
. When I touch them, I find that they slide along the edges of the box, meaning I can rearrange them.

T R A N S P A R E N C Y

I hold my breath. In the first instant, nothing moves. There is no sound. My heart sinks. And then, like smoke filtering from the air, the stone dissipates into glass.

“It was an illusion,” Sasha says with a sigh.

“Or coloured glass,” I point out.

She shakes her head. “An illusion, it had to be. That means the craft was involved. No one has looked through this window since the last craft-born died.”

Mentioning the craft brings weight down on my shoulders. This is a monumental moment. We have beaten the code, and now we will discover the greatest secret in the Red Palace.

Sasha leans forward
. “Wow, how far down does this thing go?”

The scene from the window takes my breath away. Right in the centre of the castle, somewhere between the first and second floor, is a cylindrical room that tunnels down, down into the bowels of the palace. Around the wall of the room is a set of stairs spiralling into the darkness below. And in the centre grows a tall, metal structure, reaching up almost to the window, brass coloured and covered in strange levers and arms. I recognise it at once as a Beardsley invention.

The spiral staircase has intermittent platforms at different levels. Each platform juts out towards the metal structure. They could be areas used to maintain the equipment. Places to stand and work.

“Look, this part of the glass is magnified.” Sasha points to a thicker portion at the bottom of the window.
“You can see all the way down.”

I mo
ve closer to the window and gaze through the magnified portion. I’ve never known glass like this before. Sometimes a hunter would stay in the Fallen Oak in Halts-Walden with fancy spectacles that could see further than the eye. I never got the chance to look through them so I can’t say if Beardsley’s is better or worse, but the effect is so startling that I can make out even the smallest details down at the bottom of the room.

It appears that the metal structure sits atop a furnace, which is unused for the moment. Around the room is a circular bench covered in beakers and glasses. There are what seem to be tiny pieces of glass coveri
ng the surface of the bench, sparkling bright.

“It looks like a laboratory,” I say. “But the king already has a laboratory in the West Wing of the castle. Why would he want another?”

“To perform secret experiments I bet,” Sasha replies.

I step back away from the glass. The metal structure is
curious, I can’t imagine what it does or how it works. I notice a pipe running along the edge of the spiral staircase. When I examine the magnified portion once more, it seems as though the mouth of the pipe opens out onto the bench around the room. Whatever this structure makes, it comes out at the bottom.

“Do you know how far this room goes down? Is it lower than the cellar?” Sasha asks.

“I think it must be. I think it might go as far as the crypts.” I shudder slightly as I say the word. I’ve never ventured into the crypts below the castle because I’ve never wanted to.

“I guess there’s only one way to find out,” Sasha says.

*

The tunnels are a maze between the regular rooms of the castle, and, without the familiar tapestries and ornaments to follow, it’s easy to lose your bearings. After taking more than one wrong turn, we decide to head back to the queen’s room and work our way down to the crypts from there. As we walk, I find my thoughts drifting to my last vision with Cas. I used to wonder what it would be like to kiss Cas when we were travelling through the Waerg Woods. Now I know.

I can still taste him.

Like the sweet pastries in Halts-Walden.

But it wasn’t real.

I miss his presence. I miss waking to the sunrise, and seeing him sat by the fire keeping watch, his chin on his fist and his eyes hooded over. More than anything, I miss his counsel. It took me too long to warm up to him, but once I did, I enjoyed talking to him. We would share our problems. He didn’t always know what to do, but he always comforted me.

What we shared in the Waerg Woods can never be replicated. I will never go through that experience with anyone else. No one else will ever know. Not even Sasha.

I pull a deep breath in through my nose and attempt to quell the stirring of emotions deep beneath the surface.

“You should practice fire as we walk,” Sasha says. “If it comes down to a fight—”

“I know, I know. It’s the Nix’s greatest fear.”

“What’s blocking you?” she asks.

I rub my clammy palms against my clothes. “It’s hard to describe how I feel. Worn out, is the easiest way to say it. I’m worn out with the idea of being angry. I don’t want to tap into that emotion anymore. It doesn’t feel safe or right, somehow.”

“Well, of all our emotions, anger is
probably the most dangerous. It is a destructive and unpleasant, I suppose. I can certainly understand why you might think of it like that. Why don’t you try praying to Endwyn? Fire doesn’t always have to be destructive. It can be creative too. It’s a fuel. It’s energy. You just need to learn how to redirect that energy in a positive way.” She shrugs, as though it’s the easiest thing in the world.

I let out a laugh. “I’ve never really prayed before, but I suppose it can’t hurt.”

“Think of it as meditation, or deep focus. Think strongly of fire, of the God of fire, and the creative aspect of it.”

I follow Sasha’s direction, and all through the castle, as we cross the ballroom, tread the stone slabs of the basement, pass Beardsley’s office where
Cas sleeps, I focus of Endwyn. I’ve never seen an effigy. I don’t know what He or It or even She looks like, I picture a huge bonfire, stretching up to the sky. But every time, that bonfire becomes the funeral pyre for my father, and every time it is as though the God of fire is laughing down at me.

Finally, we come to a narrow passageway. On the lintel read the words:

Silence for the lost.

As I step beneath the stone passageway
a chill creeps down my spine.

We walk into the dark. I light a torch on the wall and carry it aloft as we move down the steep, stone steps towards the crypt. I cringe each time my footsteps echo through the hall.
Silence for the lost
. Lost. It implies they might come back one day, that we have simply misplaced them.

“This feels like a dangerous place for a soul to be,” Sasha says. “Do you think I’ll end up trapped in a sarcophagus or something?”

“I hope not,” I reply. “This is why we burn our dead in Halts-Walden. The thought of my body ending up down here in the dark depths…”

Sasha nods. “I know what you mean.”

Down and down we go. I’m shaking so badly I have to grasp the torch with both my hands to steady it. Up ahead I see the door to the crypt. It is another brass door with the same loops designed by Beardsley. I hang the torch on a sconce as I pull the king’s journal and flip to the back pages. It takes some effort to move the rings, but eventually I hear the
click
of the lock and the door swings open with a creak. We both stand there, neither wanting to move forward. I swallow, my mouth and throat dry.

Retrieving the torch from the sconce, I move forward into the crypt.
It’s a long room, with the walls covered in strange box-like shelves containing marble coffins. I find it an odd way to store the dead, as though they have been neatly folded away into drawers.

At small alcoves between these shelves there are candles fitted to the walls. As we pass each of them, I light the candle, filling the room with a little bit of light with each step. But as the flames dance, it creates more shadows, and more movement, which in turn sends shivers down my spine.

In the distance there is the scuttling sound of a rat—at least I hope it is a rat—moving through the room.

“This laboratory had better be worth it,” Sasha says.

“If we can figure out how to kill the Nix, it will be,” I add.

After lighting three more candles, the shelves come to an end, and instead we see lines of sarcophagi positioned on the ground by the walls. These coffins are chiselled from marble, higher than our waists, and on top of each one is a depiction of the inhabitant at rest, with their arms softly crossed over, holding their favourite weapon, or
, for the women, clutching their favourite jewellery.

“Here lies Catherine
Xeniathus, wife of Andrei the Second, Queen, Mother, Wife, Sister. May Celine grant her eternal flight,” I read from one of the marble coffins. “I read about her in one of Father’s books. She had her own brother hanged for treason because she thought him a threat to the throne. Andrei the Second was an idiot, apparently. She did most of the ruling.” Her features are captured in the marble; strong, high cheekbones and a large nose. I look for a resemblance to Cas—she is his ancestor after all—but I find none.

“These people are prominent members of the royal families of old,” Sasha says. There is a trac
e of excitement in her voice as the words rush out, breathy and fast. “There may be kings here, too.”

We walk a little further along the still room. At the end of the room is a dead end, blocked off by the last wall.
“Ethelbert and his wife. They married for love and then he went insane and cut off his wife’s finger with a dagger.”

Sasha raises her eyebrows at me. “Do you know everything about the royal family?”

“No,” I say, “Only as much as I learned from these five books on history that Father had. He traded them for wood once and taught me to read. He said I needed to better myself. We read those same five books over and over again. Look, Gregor the First.” I gaze down upon Gregor’s face. “He was ugly. And fat. Look at the size of him!”

Sasha giggles. “Mae, you can’t.”

“You’re right, this is serious,” I reply. Seeing the coffins of the royals has sent me giddy, in a strange, morbid way. “He is fat, though. Imagine being married to that lump. He beat every one of his five wives, and they all died in suspicious circumstances. This is for all the women you tortured, you great horrible old bastard.” In a moment of madness I kick the edge of the coffin, tripping myself and falling backwards, landing on the hilt of the dead man’s sword. To my surprise, the sword depresses into the coffin and there is a scraping sound, followed by heat at my ankles.

“Mae, watch out!” Sasha cries.

A jet of flames burst from underneath the sarcophagus. I leap over them, but the cuff of my trousers is on fire. I let out a scream and beat at my clothes until the fire goes out.

“What in the Gods…” I mutter.

Sasha comes over to me. “The burn is minimal. You should be fine. It will be uncomfortable for a while.”

“Uncomfortable,” I repeat. “A straw mattress is uncomfortable, this is something else. Where in the name of Celine did those flames come from?”

Sasha kneels down on the stone floor. “There’s some sort of pipe attached to the bottom of the coff
in. When you leant on the sword it seemed to trigger the flames. There must be a mechanism inside that triggered the reaction. Do you think this could be a clue? I mean, we know that the laboratory is down here somewhere, but there isn’t a visible door. It has to be hidden.”

“
And the trigger to opening the door has been disguised as part of the tombs,” I say. “Yes, that makes sense. It must be booby trapped.”

“Be very careful, Mae. We don’t know what else is down here.”

I nod, and make my way around the room, lifting my torch into each nook and cranny, being especially careful not to touch anything, especially not the marble coffins. The pipe and the fire has Beardsley written all over it. What else has he modified in the palace? Spikes coming out of the floor? Moving walls? Whatever he has done, he has hidden it well. There are no obvious changes in stone patterns or bricks. The walls are normal. But there is one thing that catches my eye. Above the sarcophagi there are words chiselled into the wall. At first I thought it had been an epitaph, but now I realise it is the only poem written on the wall instead of the actual coffins.

I read it aloud.

Here lie
leaders of men,

Kings of the Realm,

They gave their lives to protect,

To serve,

To honour.

Watch over them, Gods,

Celine of air,

Ren of water,

Endw
yn of fire,

Fenn
of soil.

May the light guide you through.

“There’s nothing unusual about that,” Sasha notes. “It’s a tribute to the kings.”

“But the fire came from Gregor’s tomb. Fire is in the poem.”

“Yes, but it was a trap. I don’t see how they could create a weapon out of air, water or soil,” she replies.

“I don’t know, Beardsley is very inventive.
I’m sure he would find a way.” I read the poem again in my mind, searching for clues. Beardsley seems to like putting a fail-safe in his creations, a hint in case he or whoever else needs the code forgets it. “The Gods are in a particular order. I think we need to press on the sarcophagi in the order of the Gods.”

“But how do we know which king relates to which God? I would never have picked Gregor as relating to fire.”

“No, it makes sense. There was a fire in Cyne during his reign. It destroyed most of the market square and hundreds died.
That’s
why he’s fire. See, the king, or any future king, will know the history of his ancestors. He will be able to figure out the clues on the walls,” I say.

“You wouldn’t think anything of it unless you were looking for it,” Sasha says. “And it’s disrespectful to kick the coffins of the dead.” She shoots me a narrow-eyed look. “
Which means it’s unlikely anyone would accidentally come across the room. Who would come down here anyway? Except for members of the Royal family.”

“We need to figure out which king goes with which God, and then activate the levers. Gregor is fire, and he comes third. We need air first. Do you remember any abnormal storms? High winds that made history?”

“History lessons aren’t much of a high priority in the Borgan camp. We’re too busy hunting for food and staying alive.”

I ignor
e Sasha and think. “Ethelbert sent ships towards the Southern Archipelagos once. High winds caused a huge tidal wave to wipe out the entire fleet. But that could be water as well as air. Or I think there may have been tales of a hurricane coming from the Sverne mountains and destroying villages in the North when Alfred the Third ruled.”

“Choose carefully,” Sasha warns.

I stand between the two coffins in thought. “It has to be Alfred.”

“Are you sure? You said it was rumours.”

“Yes. That’s the beauty of it. I think the king would like that people outside his family would be unsure of the real truth. I think he would choose Alfred.” With my palms sweating, I move over to the coffin. I swallow and move my hand gently towards the marble.

“Get ready to run,” Sasha calls.

My muscles are wound tight. My nerves are jangling. My hand hovers over the hilt of the marble sword resting on the chest of the chiselled statue. Alfred died young, and his effigy is thin, delicate almost.
I lower my hand until there is barely a hair’s breadth between my skin and the cold surface of the coffin. The burn on my ankle is sore enough to send me a warning, but I must brave myself against the nerves, and believe in myself, just like Avery told me to. I take a deep breath and press down, ready to dart back if anything comes towards me.

The marble grinds together as the hilt depresses. I brace myself for the unexpected, perhaps an axe swinging above my head, or pressurised air jetted towards me, but in
stead there is silence, and the brightening of light behind me.

“Mae, look!”

I move back from Alfred’s coffin and turn to face Sasha. She grins and points down to the ground beneath her feet. Around the stone flag glows a beam of light, highlighting the cracks between the stones.

“Let the light guide you,” she says. “It worked! You chose correctly.”

As I exhale through my teeth I’m momentarily stunned. I hadn’t, until that moment, thought it would actually work.

“You need water next,” Sasha says. “Didn’t you say Ethelbert lost a fleet of ships?”

“Yes, but I’m not sure if it’s in the same theme. The others were disasters that happened in and around Cyne. This was part of military action.”

“It was still a natural disaster though,” she points out. “
It was a tidal wave.”

“But there was also a great flood. It came in off the Sea of Solitude and flooded inland as far as Cyne. Thousands died, but I don’t remember the king.” I walk up and down between the
sarcophagi. “It wasn’t Gregor, Ethelbert or Alfred the Third. It might have been Andrei or maybe… yes, maybe it was Alfred the Second. No, I think that’s right.”

“Are you sure?” Sasha says.

“I think I remember now. Alfred the Second’s son was killed because he was visiting whores near the coast.”

“Where in all of Aegunl
und did your father acquire these history books?”

“Oh, it didn’t say that. It said he ‘frequented a tavern for gambling and sport’ but I’m not stupid.” I stride over to the coffin and lift my hand to depress the hilt of the sword. Beads of sweat break on my forehead, and I imagine myself lost in a t
idal wave, drowned beneath the palace. No, I must believe. I press down on the hilt with less hesitation than before. This must be correct.

The glow behind me indicates that I am. I turn to see a grinning Sasha.

“And now, Gregor,” she says.

“Yes,” I reply, but I take a moment to check through the facts in my mind. I have to be certain.

The third stone lights up when I press the hilt. There is now only one stone between us and the far wall. If I guess the next king correctly, we will make it into the secret laboratory.

“Soil, Mae. Has there been some rift in the ground, or a landslide?” Sasha asks.

I think back to the five books in my father’s hut. “There was a snow slide on the Benothian ranges. That was during the North and South divide, when Aldrych the First ruled. But then there was also a quake that split the ground near the Haedalands when Andrei ruled. I remember it now. Father said that his grandparents were born in the Haedalands not far from where the quake occurred.”

“Well it must be the quake,” Sasha says. “It’s soil. The snow slide is frozen water. Everyone knows that.”

I chew on my bottom lip. “But Aldrych is our current king’s father. It would make sense to end the puzzle there. Snow isn’t the same as soil, though. It can’t be. It has to be Andrei.”

“Mae,” Sasha says. “Do you t
hink Beardsley has rigged all the coffins? There are more than a dozen down here. What if you get it wrong?”

“I have to take the chance.”

“So which king are you going with?”