9. Rune
NINE
RUNE
Two days after they take Caleah, I sit on the floor of a servants’ bathroom. The ones up here are far nicer than the ones on the bottom levels. There are dark sage tiles, a row of well-maintained toilets, and even an elongated mirror. I’m between two toilets now, arms tucked around my legs, knees pulled to my chest. I haven’t puked in several minutes, but I still can’t find the motivation to get up.
A deep-toned buzz sounds from the ceiling. It’s the start of a new hour, and I officially can’t procrastinate any longer. Vale will be waiting for me, and if I don’t go now, he might leave before I arrive. Or worse, I’ll be late returning to Viana’s quarters, and I’ll have the bruises to show for it.
My gut lurches and I curl over the toilet again. There’s nothing in my stomach—it was mostly empty when I got here—but I retch until the pain fades. Then I crawl from the floor and fix myself in front of the mirror. I leave, still frail and hideous, but at least without the bit of vomit on my collar.
The service stairwell is empty as I jog down to level fourteen. I haven’t been here since my first promotion, and I strangely thought it might be comforting to return. Familiar, if nothing else.
Instead, the heinous smells are worse than I remember. Heavy body odor and old laundry that’s been sitting too long and thick dirt that will likely never be cleaned. It’s darker too, lit by a flickering off-yellow, rather than the illuminating white of upper floors.
I walk past dozens of yellowed doors, reciting the message I’d sent to Vale: fourteen feet, nineteen hands, twenty-one long. That’s the twenty-first door on the fourteenth floor at seven in the evening. When I reach my selected door, I use my sliver of mirror to check that I haven’t been followed. Once I’m sure I’m alone, I slip into the closet.
The tiny room is filled with broken cleaning buckets, ripped coveralls, and a mismatched collection of brooms. Today, it also contains Vale. The light from the hallway dances over his brown skin, until I pull the door shut, subduing us both in darkness.
“Is it true?” he demands. His voice is a harsh, trembling whisper. I’d sent a message to meet here, but I couldn’t convey more than the place and time. I couldn’t tell him about Caleah or her capture or the uncertainty of her future. Still, I’m not surprised he knows. News travels fast, even to the bowels of the Tower.
“Yes,” I say. I rest my hip against the nearest shelf to keep myself from shaking. There’s something in here that’s molding, emitting a hideously sweet stench. I steady my breaths, staring in the general direction of Vale. “I’m so sorry. I was watching out for Caleah, but I swear there was no warning. Prince Malek…maybe Prince Harrick…they framed her. I know that doesn’t make sense?—”
I break off mid-sentence. If I speak another word, I’m going to cry. I had one job as Saskia’s handmaiden, and that was to keep Caleah from getting caught. One job, and I failed almost immediately.
“It’s not your fault,” Vale says. His voice is smooth and gentle, comforting even through his lie. After a lengthy pause, he asks, “Where is she now?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. My tongue feels like it’s doubling in size, making every breath labored. “She might be in the prison. But I don’t know where that is. Somewhere in the military section, maybe?”
Vale doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and I finally realize he’s not going to.
“I’ve been made Lady Viana’s handmaiden,” I say to fill the quiet. The words bring an unsettling twitch to my stomach.
Vale swears under his breath.
“Caleah didn’t last five days up there,” I whisper. “She’s the best of us, Vale. If she didn’t make it, I won’t either.”
The words are bitter against my tongue, but they’re the truth. I press my palm to my chest and count my racing heartbeats. I’ve always known this mission could get me killed, but I hoped it wouldn’t. And I certainly hoped I’d at least survive the Earthquake Season.
“We need to run,” I say desperately. “Forget stealing magic or dismantling the crown. At the start of the season, let’s just go. Once things settle, we’ll come back and finish the mission. Get revenge. Steal magic. Whatever else we want. But for now, we just need to survive.”
I need to survive.
Vale is silent for a long moment. My pulse grows heavier against my palm, more erratic. Like it knows it’s running out of time.
“We aren’t giving up, Rune,” Vale says. His voice is hard, harsher than I’ve ever heard it. “I know you’re scared, but you can’t back down. We’ll lose everything. ”
“We don’t have anything,” I bite back. “We have nothing , Vale. That’s the whole point. All we have are our lives. And I’d like to leave before I lose that too.”
His breaths are ragged through the darkness. He takes a step back, jostling a shelf as he leans against it. As the moments stretch, I press my hands over my eyes to keep from crying. I keep hoping he’ll say he understands, that he’ll readjust to get us out sooner than planned, but he doesn’t.
“I’m scared,” I admit after an eternity of silence. “I don’t want to die.”
“You’re not going to die,” he says. “You’re going to do what’s needed to survive. Find escape routes. Find information. Find Caleah. See if you can figure out where she is.”
“And what will you do?” I snap. I hardly recognize the ferocity of my tone.
“The rest,” he says simply. I have no idea what that means, whether it’s a lot or nothing at all. It certainly feels like I’m expected to do everything by myself.
Still, I feel the fight drain out of me. I’m too tired to question him. Right now, I only want to return to my room and sleep for the next three days.
A buzzer sounds from the ceiling. Another change of the hour. It feels impossible that we've been here for so long.
“I have to go,” I move to the door, pausing with my hand on the knob. “Hopefully I’ll survive to our next meeting.”
It’s a low blow, but I don’t feel guilty for saying it. Vale doesn’t respond before I slip out of the room, shutting it behind me. I tell myself he didn’t know what to say, even when I worry he didn’t care to say anything at all.
On the night of the Flood Season Celebration, I polish shoes in Viana’s quarters. As I do, she stands on a round platform, surrounded by a handful of unfamiliar servants. Everyone here has their place, their task, and no one speaks. We’ve been silent, with only the sound of tapping makeup brushes and fastening metal buttons, for over an hour. Viana remains motionless through it all. She’s a perfect doll, staring at herself in the elongated mirror, practicing her smiles.
By the time I finish with the third and final pair of shoes, an older servant makes her final hair adjustment. Viana eases off the platform and inspects herself in the mirror. She alternates between grinning and frowning, adjusting her dark curls and touching the edges of her black lipstick. Her green dress, a long-sleeved gown with a high neckline and raindrop-shaped gems, is impeccable. Viana can’t find a loose thread to tug, but she looks anyway, twisting this way and that in the mirror.
“You look lovely, my lady,” the older servant says. “Like a queen.”
“Do not speak,” Viana snaps. She glares at the woman, and without looking at me, snatches a pair of emerald heels from my lap. “Your opinion means nothing.”
“Yes, my lady,” the servant says. She smiles placidly, as if Viana’s words don’t touch her. I wonder if her insides are secretly boiling as she smiles, or if she’s lived this life so long she’s finally numb to it.
The remaining servants step back against the wall of Viana’s quarters. Her bedroom is as lavish, if not more so, than what I expected. Like Saskia, she has green velvet curtains and a matching bedspread and an over-fluffed rug. Much of Viana’s decor is in the shape of Harrick’s crown, and I’ve realized her feelings for him blur between admiration and obsession.
To be fair, she’ll likely be his wife. Clearly her tactics are working.
I move to my feet, returning the shoe polish to a service basket in the corner. Along the walls, there are multiple paintings of previous Savoan queens and glorious landscapes of places I doubt exist. If they do, they’re from the Architect’s memories of the Old World. They certainly aren’t from within our ruined kingdom.
We stand silently as Viana practices more laughs and smiles and sultry stares. When the overhead siren buzzes, a warning that the party will soon begin, Viana slips into her heels.
“I do look like a queen,” she says, grinning at herself. Her smile drops as she turns to me. “Let’s go, wench. It’s time to claim my crown.”
The royal courtyard is unlike anything I imagined. It’s almost frightening, the way we stand in a room without walls, looking down at all of Savoa. A thousand feet below, and far into the distance, the Wilds beckon. Lush forests and grazing beasts of all sizes, and in the distance, sharp-peaked mountains clawing for the sky.
I keep near the courtyard’s center, away from the thin iron fence and the drop beyond it. A magicked ceiling floats overhead, and I glance at it often, doubting it’s strong enough to protect from the coming downpour. I’m less than two feet from Viana, hands clasped in front of my waist. She has barely acknowledged me since we exited the lift, and I’ve never felt greater relief.
She and Saskia are seated in transparent chairs, legs crossed and shoulders poised. There’s a collection of desserts on the table between them, all delivered by me and Saskia’s new handmaiden. Between bites of cake, the two ladies whisper and snicker, openly gossiping about their competitors.
As they taunt the other ladies, I let my eyes wander the space. There is so much to look at that it’s hard to focus on any one thing. Hired commoners serve exotic food from two rows of white stone tables. There are platters of sizzling meat and tiered displays of colorful fruit; bowls of leafy vegetables and too many nightwater pitchers to count; an entire table of chocolates and cakes and raindrop-shaped pastries.
Additional tables line the right hand side of the courtyard, but these carry white stone trinkets. I’ve heard whispers that they’ll all turn red with the rain. I hate that I’m excited to watch. I hate that I love this at all, that I’m savoring the excess and wishing it was mine.
Beyond the crowd, high-backed chairs line a raised stage. Four are black and intricate, covered in metal carvings of animals, most unrecognizable to me. The final is much more throne than chair, standing tall above the others. And where the smaller ones are black metal, this one is yellowed bone. I study the fingers and skulls and femurs, the way they’ve been twisted, forced into place, splintering like dried wood. It brings me back to that day, the one I’ve tried desperately to forget.
The cold touch of my father’s skin. His eyes, wide and empty.
The man in a wolf mask, red like my father’s spilled blood.
And his emotionless children, their blank stares, bored posture.
Is this not enough? I wanted to yell. Does this not appease you?
Now, I stare at that throne of shattered skeletons and wonder if my father is somewhere in its design.
“Thank you for joining us for the Flood Season Celebration!”
I startle, realizing a woman has entered the stage. A stunning elite with soft curves and an elaborate dress. Her mask is as lush as her build, covered in dainty gemstones and thick tulle. She smiles so wide it must hurt and lifts her arms to the crowd. Like called animals, the partiers surge toward the stage.
“You are in for an absolute night to remember,” she continues. “Not only will you be treated to delicious food, complimentary nightwater, and enough dancing that you’ll want to kick off those heels…you will also be the first to learn of the crowned siblings’ betrothals!”
Several people hoot and squeal, and multiple men lift their chalices over their heads. Viana and Saskia disappear into the crowd, wedging themselves forward until I can no longer see them. Normally I’d be a foot behind Viana, but she ordered I keep my distance tonight and only come when requested.
That’s more than fine by me.
Saskia’s new servant shifts beside me, eyes darting my way. I ignore her. I haven’t spoken to her once, and I’m not going to start now. It’s not worth the risk.
“Let the party begin!” the elite woman calls. “Please, ladies and gentlemen, kneel for your leaders!”
I lower to my knee, keeping my head low but my eyes watchful.
The courtyard’s metal door opens, revealing first two high guards and then the Architect himself. He strides forward, drawing immediate silence. I shrink into myself, angling behind Saskia’s new servant. Every cell in my body revolts at the sight of this man, this unflinching killer. He’s smaller than he is in my memories. Average height and build, almost dwarfed between his guards. It should make him less terrifying, but it doesn’t.
There’s something lethal in the way he carries himself. Shoulders thrown back, chest out, arms readied at his sides. He is a hunter, always ready for the kill. No, not ready. Eager .
His guards maintain a clear path as they lead him toward the stage. At the door, two more guards appear with Queen Elaria. I force my attention to her, not letting myself spiral into panic. The Architect has taken too much already—I can’t give him my sanity too.
The queen wears a pale scarlet dress and heavy makeup with her braided hair twisted through her crown of shattered stone. Prince Harrick is next, wearing a red suit. I’m too distracted by his face to notice much beyond that. His near-black eyes have haunted my dreams for several nights, but I’ve worked hard to forget him during the day. He could have killed me in that hallway, and instead he’d returned me to my quarters. He’d sent a new mask and shoes to my room. I’d even ended up with an extra biscuit at breakfast, though I can’t prove that was him.
I stood before him without a mask, and I’m still here to tell the tale.
Not that anyone would believe it.
A small part—or maybe a major part—of me was entranced by him in the days that followed. I’d been thinking of him, wondering if perhaps he was good. If perhaps there was more to know about this crowned family than I had assumed.
But then he helped frame Caleah. I’ve replayed the rehearsal night a thousand times, and it only ever becomes clearer. Harrick played the honorable protector, while Malek played the cruel and heartless executor. It was their twisted display to show Harrick’s diplomatic leniency, fit for a king, and Malek’s unflinching brutality, perfect for a military lead.
I glare at him as he approaches the stage. His siblings trail after him, but I don’t look at them, not even Malek. He at least has the decency to be undoubtedly cruel.
The elite woman onstage invites us to rise. I barely get to my feet, half-wobbling, before Viana storms into view. She looks like she did on the day of the royal training. Her face is red, mouth pinched, and her barely-visible eyes are locked on me.
“What did you do to my shoes, wench?” she demands, almost barreling into me. She glances over her shoulder, as if to check that no one is watching, then presses closer. “Tell me.”
“What is wrong with your shoes?” I ask carefully. My voice rasps, so weak I want to cut out my vocal chords. I clear my throat, but my words come out even smaller, “Are they not?—”
“Do not lie to me,” she says.
She fists my collar, tightening it until it hurts to breathe. She looks behind her again, hand still on my coverall, and drags me toward the courtyard’s edge. Stopping in a nook between the iron fence and the stairwell door, Viana lines me against its stone wall. She presses her fist hard against my chest, and a pained gasp sucks from my lungs. Viana’s lips twitch at the sound.
“There’s nightwater on my shoes,” she says. “Did I not ask you to polish them?”
I don’t tell her the shoes were clean when she took them or that her breath reeks of nightwater or that half the court is drinking.
I only say: “You did ask me, my lady. I apologize.”
“That’s not good enough,” she says. Her long nails press against my throat. “Do you not understand what’s at stake? Do you not realize how important my appearance?—”
“Ah, here you are,” a deep voice says.
Viana’s hand vanishes from my neck, leaving my coverall bunched at the collar. I remain frozen against the wall, posture strained over the rough stone. I don’t let my attention move from Viana, even as she turns away from me.
“Good evening, Prince Harrick,” she says, her words airy and bright. “I was hoping we would connect tonight.”
“As was I,” he returns. He moves close enough that I can see his profile. There’s a light scruff along his jaw, and his crown is off-center. Where his mother’s is made of broken stone, Harrick’s crown is chaotic with roots and mirrors and teeth, bits and pieces of every sector.
“I’m sorry for disappearing,” Viana says. She laughs softly, and it sounds exactly like the one she practiced in the mirror. “I was having a bit of a wardrobe malfunction.”
“Well, you look radiant,” Harrick says. He’s flirting with her, and as much as I hate these two people, a pang of jealousy dips through my stomach. Nobody has ever spoken to me like that. Viana is red in the face again, not from rage this time, but infatuation.
Harrick offers his arm, and she takes it, breath hitching as their elbows link. A week ago, I would have been elated to see them like this. It would have meant we were right about Harrick’s betrothal, and we’d soon have access to the highest level of information. Now, I’m worried I’ll be dead before I learn any of it.
“Have you tried the roast?” Harrick asks.
“I’m afraid I haven’t,” Viana says. She’s beaming at him, leaning so hard against him they look molded together.
“Perhaps your handmaiden will find some for you,” he says. It’s the first time he acknowledges I’m here. Sparing me a brief glance, he adds, “She can leave it at the crowned table.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Viana says. Her voice is still breathy as she turns toward me. “Wench, fetch me the roast.”
And then they’re gone, rounded the corner, leaving me to creep from the shadows behind them. There’s an uneasy quell in my stomach, a strange feeling that, maybe, Harrick just tried to help me. Again.
I shake the thought as soon as it comes. If he wanted to help me, he could have peeled the vile woman off my throat. He could have thrown her from the party, from the Tower. He certainly wouldn’t be guiding her to the dance floor, holding her to his chest.
As I gather a plate of roasted boar, I find Harrick watching me. His lips are moving and Viana is giggling at whatever he says. They’re talking about me—they have to be. The attention, the kindness…Harrick must have given it to Caleah too. Maybe I’m not the first defenseless servant he’s rescued from Viana’s brutality.
This might all be a game, and I could very well be their next target.