Roses (27 page)

“You should fear me.”

“I do not. I stare straight into the eyes of death. If I die, then I die honorably.”

“There is no such thing as an honorable death.”

The general could feel the hilt of his sword growing slippery in his grasp.

“I will make you a deal,” said the dark man. “If you call off your army, if you demand that the State bring peace between Magics and
humans, then I will let you go. You are an infamous general and I know that they will listen to you.”

“I thought that you had won this battle! You lie, and I have no desire to make deals with the likes of you! I would rather die.”

“You will not die.”

“I do not care! Come and fight me, you demon thing! Come and fight me, you beast!”

The man raised his hand and he smiled.

“Beast?” he said. “I am not the beast.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-N
INE

The Thaw

O
ne afternoon, Beauty entered the library and Beast was not there. She wondered if she should call him, but if he was busy then she did not wish to disturb him. He often came a little late and she did not like to think herself so spoiled that she could not wait.

She walked over to their table and touched the book they were currently reading that sat on top of a pile with a ribbon through it, marking their place. They had paused on a cliffhanger and she could not wait to read the next section. She was sorely temped to begin now, but she liked to see the look on Beast’s face when the plots unraveled themselves, so she forced herself to wait.

Instead, she began strolling through the bookshelves, mentally noting other volumes that she would like to read. She had asked Beast once if he thought that they would be able to read all the books in the library, and he had replied that he supposed they could if they were here for eternity, which had not been the answer she desired.

She passed deeper into the library, running her fingers along the spines, and it was as she moved between two cases that she noticed the
chest of maps lodged in one corner. She remembered how one day Beast had shown her drawings of the whole realm and she wished to look at them again. She wondered if she could copy one onto a piece of parchment. She could write competently now, but she had not yet tried to draw.

Opening the dusty chest, she began hunting through the scrolls. It was only when she caught sight of an unrolled piece that she realized these were not the maps. She frowned, picking up the parchment that had caught her eye, and tried to read what it said. There was writing scrawled all over it in thick calligraphy and she remembered the scrolls that the preacher used to carry around with him in Imwane. Her fingers trembled as she tried to make out the swirling words.

The gods did build the hills for those,
That does good deeds for one they chose.

She gasped and rocked back onto her heels, clutching the parchment tightly and humming along the Hilland tune in her mind as she read the words:

They shelter with old spells and might,
For one who comes to them to fight.

They know not what that thing might be,
It comes to keep their people free.

Beauty frowned, for the words were different from the verses that she knew. She read them quickly, her mind swimming with the tune of the song.

It shall lead the Magic to task,
And wage war with a silver grasp.

Deaths shall rein and family ties
Will be broken by one with violet eyes.

Then the writing stopped. She turned it over, but the ink was faded and she could make out nothing. Her heart thudding, she scrambled through the other scrolls in the chest, wondering what she had happened upon.

Violet eyes . . . silver grasp . . . war
.

Suddenly, she heard the doors of the library opening and the tap of Beast’s claws against the floor.

“Beauty?”

She threw the parchment back into the chest and slammed it shut before hurrying through the bookshelves.

“Forgive me, I lost track of time,” said Beast when she appeared. “Is something wrong?” he added, noticing her flushed cheeks.

“No, nothing at all.”

She was surprised to find that it saddened her to have to lie to him, but she knew that he would not be happy to hear about the chest of scripture. They must both have their secrets.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

She picked up their book, settled herself in a chair, and began to read aloud.

The next day, before she went to the stables, Beauty asked the outlines to take her to the library. Once there, she weaved between the bookcases to see if Beast were present, and when she was satisfied that she was alone, she retraced her steps from the day before.

But the chest was gone.

Thinking she might be mistaken, Beauty tried another section, but still she found nothing.

“Where is it?” she asked the air, but received no answer.

She wondered if the outlines had hidden it from her. Or Beast.

Violet eyes . . . silver grasp . . . war
.

The words ran through her mind, but she dismissed them.

I am here for eternity
, she told herself grimly.
Those words mean nothing to me.

She left the library and went down to the stables, hoping to ride away her worries. Champ was pleased to see her and they went clattering out of the courtyard and into the grounds of the castle at a gallop. As usual, they raced through snowy meadows, jumped over fences, and thundered across lush green grass. Beauty was beginning to shake off the eeriness of what she had read when Champ abruptly skidded to a halt.

Clinging to his mane to stay astride, she whipped her head around, wondering what had spooked him. Before them she saw the deep, smoky moat and on the other side of its bank was a high stone wall.

She slid from Champ’s back and waded through the snow to the edge of the moat. Its bank was steep and the dark, misty water in its depths swirled and gushed strangely. She quickly stepped back.

“Beast!”

He was there before she had finished speaking, a dark figure crouching in the snow.

Champ tensed and his ears flattened.

“Steady, boy,” said Beauty, moving to his side. She patted his neck to reassure him and whispered soothing words.

“If I had known your animal were here then I would not have answered your call,” Beast growled. “It is cruel to subject him to me.”

“I would not have called you but . . .” She pointed to the moat and the wall and he started in surprise. “What is it?” she asked.

“It must be the boundary of the castle.”

“I have never come across it before.”

“Nor have I.”

They were silent for a moment, looking at it.

“Does it go on?” he asked.

“I do not know.”

Grabbing a chunk of Champ’s mane, Beauty led them along the length of the moat. The stallion quivered and skirted a little to have Beast so close behind him, but he otherwise behaved himself.

“It continues,” she confirmed.

“The castle has never had borders before,” muttered Beast.

“Is this good or bad?”

“I do not know.”

Beauty sighed.

“For once I wish that you would tell me something,” she said. She stared into his human, hazel eyes and he looked away.

“I am surprised at your animal,” he said. “To stay so close to me he must be a brave creature.”

As if he knew that he was being discussed, Champ nudged her with his nose, knocking her over face-first in the snow. She scrambled back to her feet, her cloak covered in white flakes, and laughed. The high peal echoed across the grounds, bouncing through the stillness, and the icicles that hung on a tree beside them shivered and fell. They hit the earth and shattered, melting to water.

Beauty gasped and Champ shied away.

“What happened?” she asked.

Beast watched her closely.

“I do not know,” he replied.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY

The Ball

T
he season shifted to winter, but the snow at the castle continued to thaw. Beauty noticed it disappearing as she rode Champ each day. It was gradual, but eventually whole fields that had once been covered were clear and she no longer had to wear a cloak when she stepped outside.

Without the miles and miles of limitless fields to gallop across, Beauty was forced to circle Champ around the grounds several times, following the boundary of the deep, misty moat. Even then, he was never worn out. Once, she tested him and rode and rode until evening, but still, he was not even out of breath.

Meanwhile, with Beast’s guidance, she was steadily working her way through sections of the library. After reading about the Western Realm, Beauty was anxious to learn more and she asked for book after book that described its hot, rocky landscape until she had almost exhausted the archives.

“See, I knew that he would die at the end—did I not tell you so?” she said, snapping a volume shut one evening.

They were in the dining room and Beauty had insisted on finishing the book that they had been reading that afternoon, as she could not bear to wait until tomorrow to know what would happen.

“You did, yes,” said Beast. “But it was a foregone conclusion.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He loved her. If he did not die saving her then his love would be fake.”

“I suppose.”

Beauty pointed at a dish of roasted potatoes and a selection jumped onto her plate.

“Soon I will have been here four whole seasons,” she said, keeping her voice light and her eyes down.

Beast was sitting before the fire and he shifted.

“Do you miss your family?”

“I miss my father.”

She had dreamt of Owaine recently. She had seen him walking about the village, rubbing his tired eyes and looking often to the forest over his shoulder.

“We should do something to mark the occasion,” said Beast.

“I do not think it necessary.”

There was silence.

“What was the best birthday that you ever had?” Beast tried again.

“I never had one, and besides, this is not a birthday. I do not know when my birthday is. I lost count of my age a long time ago.”

She remembered Eli’s ball at Sago and the dresses and the dancing.

“What is it?” asked Beast, seeing the change in her expression.

“Nothing, I . . . I just remembered a birthday party I went to a long time ago. It was a ball in Sago. It was beautiful.”

“Then we shall have a ball.”

“We cannot.”

“Why? We have a ballroom—”

“I know, I have seen it, but . . .”

“Yes?”

Beauty wanted to tell him that she did not wish to celebrate the anniversary of her imprisonment here. She wanted to tell him that every night she prayed that she would be free of this place. She wanted to tell him that she always hoped that one day she would leave. But she did not want to hurt him.

“All right,” she said at last. “We shall have a ball.”

Lately the outline in Beauty’s room had been taking more and more liberty with her wardrobe. At first Beauty had insisted on wearing plain dresses in plain colors, but she had gradually relaxed her ways, and now she spent most of her time in comfortable but ornate gowns. With the prospect of a ball, however, the outline became carried away.

“No!” Beauty cried the evening of the event as it presented her with a pink, frilly thing. “I am not wearing anything as ridiculous as that!”

The pink, frilly thing was replaced by a glittering blue gown of silk, with a wide hoop and a plunging neckline.

“Absolutely not!”

Beauty was not looking forward to the ball. She was going along with it for Beast’s sake, but she hoped that it would be over soon.

“Yes, I suppose that looks all right,” she muttered as a blush-colored gown edged to her. It was strapless and the skirts were wide, but not restricting, while the ruffles were pretty without making her feel silly.

“This will do,” she said as the outline fastened it in place.

For the next half hour she argued with the outline about various hairstyles and extravagant jewels until finally she was ready to leave. She was walking out of the door when she suddenly stopped short.