Chapter Twenty #2
With enough evidence that Eliaz is no longer in the vicinity, I slide from the window seat and head for the fourth floor – where I suspect the bedchambers of the king to be, away from prying eyes and just private enough to be left undisturbed.
Unsurprisingly, the halls are empty if not only for the distant sounds of guards in the foyer, their voices like whispers in my ear warning me not to venture any further than my floor.
I am much too determined to give into the paranoia and quit while I’m ahead. All my time in Umbra has done is plunge me further into darkness, and I intend to claw my way out from the depths.
I find the stairs that lead upwards to the next floor and do not even bother attempting to be quiet as I climb each step, unbothered by the creaking of wood that accompanies my recklessness.
The second floor is identical to the one I just ascended from, only dustier. The tiny dust particles catch in my lungs, causing me to cough for clean air.
I continue upwards, passing the third floor, not giving the corridor a second glance as I trudge on to my desired destination.
I stop dead on the last step as I turn to the direction of the corridor and come face to face with a door. It is a grand thing, a hunk of oak carved with a depiction of a tree, the irony of it does not pass me by. However, dusted with glittering gold, it is evident this not just an ordinary tree.
No, lying on each layer of branches a name, and beside each name, a corresponding silhouette.
It is a family tree. Garron, Della, Eliaz and Calliope. The Daegon’s.
I let my fingers trace the grooves of the wood, feeling the names like they might tell me something new if I took them in using another one of my senses.
My nails catch when I reach the base of the tree’s trunk, a line on a dipping branch that holds no name, accompanied by a silhouette of a child.
A baby. The tragedy of it makes me retract my hand to my side.
Suddenly aware that Eliaz might return at any moment, I push past any sadness or confusion and grab the tarnished doorhandle.
I make a silent plea to Orlaith that it is not locked, another key I’d need to find.
But as I push downwards, I hear the clicking of the latch retreating and the door opens with my arm.
The fourth floor is not dusty. It is not dark, or damp or uncared for.
It is a beautiful step back in time. Much like the library, the fourth floor is tended to with careful deliberation, its walls a vibrant green, the floor carpeted with a blue like the depths of the Silver Sea.
It is like the world has been let into this part of Daegon Manor, bringing all its light in with it.
There is no wall to my left. Just one long panel of glass runs down the corridor, a clear view of the horizon seeping all its warmth and light onto the floor, the wall and me. It is wonderful.
Despite it being a considerably long corridor, there are only four doors lining the grassy green wall.
The first door leads to a tiny study, the door left open just enough for me to spot the neat piles of books on the desk through the sliver.
No room for a bed though. The second is closed but has Calli’s name shining in a placard in its centre.
Judging by the drawings on the white paint, this is a childhood room of hers. But with Calli, there is still the possibility that those sketches are recent, as she does not seem the type to suppress any childlike tendencies that shine through her approach to adulthood. If she’s not there already.
Neighbouring Calli’s, is a room with a large four-poster bed in its heart, unmade as if slept in and disregarded with hurry.
A woman’s nightdress lies sheer and white as a ghost on an armchair in the corner, a man’s pair of slippers by the foot of the bed.
A tray of coffee lies untouched on the bedside table, the liquid long dried up in the cups.
A staleness hits me from the doorway, as though the air in the room has been stagnant and undisturbed for many, many years – its stench rotten and suffocating in the air.
This room belonged to Garron and Della Daegon. I know this not because of the nightdress or the slippers, but because Eliaz does not drink coffee, but his mother or father might have.
I close the door behind me before I move on for some reason, even though that is not how I found it. Maybe feel the need to preserve it from the passing of time, or I cannot bear the intrusion of looking at it further. But I pull it closed until I hear the latch click.
The last door. It must be his – it has to be.
I stand a foot away, staring at the wood, suddenly overwhelmed by the thought that I should turn around and return to the floors that are not actively lived in.
To leave here without any further violation of anyone’s privacy and go visit Lillienne, or actually embark on the walk I had told Calli I’d be going on.
But in doing so, I could miss out on the information I need to move forward, to fully understand my new reluctant ally, to know for a fact that he can be trusted in our alliance. I shake my head, exhaling deeply, and roll my shoulders loose of the tension building there.
Smoke rushes into my senses. Hot and dry and infuriating. I pull the handle downwards, light flooding into the room in a torrent as the door opens inwards.
Into the bedchambers of the king.