Chapter Thirty-Six Vina #3
“—but I do have the gift of prophecy. I foresaw storms and floods and the end of times alike. You think I can’t tell you what the Eternal Prince will do, when he begins a new era?
Fools, fools all of you.” The scent of an incarnate filled the air.
The scent of minerals, stone, deep waters.
“He is her, and she is him,” crooned Mrs. Bell, who was Mother Shipton, who was an incarnate in the deep grip of her tale.
“They both know they must live, and reign, and die—but they fear their deaths. They are incarnates from tales of power and glory, and losing power is what frightens them most. The Queen bound the Eternal Prince so she could keep her power and her life. She bound us all so she could have more power still. He is her and she is him—so what will he do, hm? When he sees an archive of incarnate tomes bound prettily for him, full to the brim with power—when he can do more than rule, when he can shape the Isle as he likes—what will he do?” Mrs. Bell laughed again, wheezing.
“You don’t have to be a soothsayer to know. But I do know, my dears.”
Vina stared at her open-mouthed, dread pooling in her stomach.
“Fuck,” said Simran. “Oh fuck.”
They had to get back to the archives.
“Matthias,” said Edmund. “One last chance. Let them go.”
Matthias swallowed. He looked conflicted. But a moment passed, and he grasped his sword hilt more tightly, drawing it from its sheath. “Edmund,” he said. “Don’t make me do this.”
“You’re the one choosing this,” said Edmund, drawing his own sword, mirroring Matthias’s movement. “Not me.”
Their swords met in an ugly clang of metal against metal. Edmund stumbled back, righting himself as Matthias swung his sword in a cleaving arc. Edmund dived, barely avoiding it, then rose back to his feet and drove the sword back toward Matthias, who parried him with another harsh blow.
Vina started moving. Cuffed or not, she couldn’t allow this. She could stop them. She—
“Vina,” said Simran. “Don’t.”
“I have to try.”
“You can’t just throw yourself between their swords. Think.”
Vina did stop then, and she thought, but her mind gave her no answers. Her hands were clammy with sweat.
Simran was not looking at her. Simran was looking at the other incarnates, eyes fixed and unblinking. She jerked her head, an urging motion.
Edmund slammed Matthias forward with the weight of his sword—swung his sword again, and Matthias parried, then disarmed Edmund in a motion so smooth it was like poetry.
“Yield,” Matthias panted.
“No,” Edmund said, curling his hands into fists. “If you’re going to fight me to the bitter end for the damn Queen, then do it, Matthias. Go on. Do it.”
Matthias hesitated. Then he raised his sword.
A crash echoed through the room. Matthias collapsed to the ground.
Owain, standing over him still, lowered the remains of Mrs. Bell’s chair to the floor.
“Much easier fighting a knight than a giant, I can tell you that,” Owain said.
Mrs. Bell laughed again throatily.
“Yes, yes, very funny,” snapped Emmeline. “Now can we run? Please?”
“Be my guest,” said Edmund, gesturing at the door. He was pale, sweating—kneeling now by Matthias’s prone body. He’d removed Matthias’s gauntlet. Vina realized he was checking for a pulse.
“Is he alive?” Vina asked.
“He is.” Edmund’s face was tired. “I wish it hadn’t come to this. Come here, Vina. Witch. Let’s get you free and get the fuck out of here.”
He unlocked their cuffs. Simran turned and said, “Mrs. Bell. You’d best leave. The Palace keeps changing, and I can’t promise you’ll be safe.”
“Oh no,” said Mrs. Bell. “I think I shall remain here. No harm will come to me. Good luck, my dears. And remember, as long a monarch rules, you will be bound, and so shall we all,” said Mrs. Bell, with smug finality. “So it goes.”
The walls groaned alarmingly again, their surfaces shifting, new tapestries blooming over stone. Vina hesitated, and Simran grabbed her arm.
“We can’t worry about her,” said Simran, determined. “Let’s go.”
Edmund rose to his feet, grabbed his fallen sword, and sheathed it.
They strode out of the White Hall, down the corridors, seeking a swift exit.
The Palace was abandoned, empty. But the Palace was shifting around them constantly too. The stones were screaming—splintering out of place, rippling into mosaic tiles, then marble; soft carpet, then green earth.
A chandelier crashed to the ground in front of them, rotting into a swirl of carved fleur-de-lis brass.
Vina stumbled back. Simran stopped with her, grasping her arm, but Edmund was a few feet ahead of them.
He turned back, eyes widening—and cursed as a wall began to rise out of the ground between them.
“Vina!” He ran back toward them, and Vina lurched to her feet, rushing to grasp his hand.
Her hand slammed into a solid wall.
“Edmund!”
“I’m fine!” he yelled, voice muffled by stone. “I’ll find a way out! Keep going!”
Another rumble of stone. Edmund was gone, lost in the shifting corridors.
Vina closed her eyes for a brief moment, then straightened. She told herself he would be safer without them.
“We’ll have to go on without him,” said Vina. “Hold my hand, Simran. I’m not losing you too.”
“Absolutely.”
Simran clutched her hand tightly, and they ran.
They found themselves in the old banqueting hall. Behind the feasting table was a tapestry of the first Knight and Witch, caught forever in their dying embrace. They shoved open doors that should have led them to freedom.
The doors flung them out into a field. Vina clambered to her feet, helping Simran up.
“There was no field before,” Vina said. The ground was churned, arid—patches of green over blood-soaked earth. The wind was cold, howling.
“No,” Simran said grimly. “You said your Palace likes to change when you need something. But I think this is something it wants us to see, instead.”
Before them, facing one another with swords drawn, were the Eternal Prince and the Eternal Queen.