Chapter 23 #2
“Tell me,” I say slyly, “just how many times have you and the prince of Anfalen happened upon each other entirely by chance over the last several days?”
“We have…exchanged pleasantries on a few occasions.”
The tone of her answer speaks volumes. I cover a smile behind my hand.
I ought to be jealous. Perhaps I even am a little; one doesn’t like to learn the fellows who have come expressly to make eyes at oneself are instead making eyes at another.
That being said, am I really so selfish as to begrudge Philippa a splendid match, particularly when I myself have no intention of claiming any of them?
I take a seat at the table and accept the meal she sets before me.
I would like to ask Philippa to join me, but she has made it very clear from the earliest days of our acquaintance that ladies-in-waiting do not dine with the princess, even if the princess would prefer it.
Sometimes these courtly protocols are all a bit much.
“Well,” I say, “I do wish you the very best in all your future kitchen-fetching adventures. May they involve many more chance encounters with handsome princes.”
Philippa steps back from the table, her expression solemn. “Princess,” she says, “you do not suppose that I would interfere in something so sacred as a championship trial, do you?”
She looks so offended by the notion, I can’t help but reassure her. “Of course not! Dear Philippa, you have been nothing but a support through all of this. All I’m saying is that…well, it’s not as though I can marry more than one of them, now can I?”
Her lips thin. Without another word, she turns away and goes to straighten the chair I’d knocked over while attempting to reach the ceiling panel.
She looks around, as though trying to discover something, then finally turns her stare my way once more.
“And what exactly were you doing when I entered the room?”
I take a bite of roasted pigeon, chewing thoughtfully. What’s the use of keeping secrets? She’s already helped me sneak out once. “I have to go out again tonight,” I say. “To meet…someone.”
“A champion?”
“Yes.”
“The same champion as last night?”
“Maybe.” I duck my head, knowing it’s already too late to hide my blush. Using my fork to steer a few fire-blistered tomatoes around the edge of my plate, I say as casually as I can manage, “If I’m going to make this rendezvous, I’ll need a…boost.”
Philippa frowns. Then she tilts her head back, studying the ceiling.
I see the moment she spies the grate. Her frown eases away, and her lips part in a simple “Ah!” She turns to me again, folding her arms. “I won’t have you getting lost in the shafts.
You’ll take a spool of yarn with you to mark your way.
I’ll fasten it in here and make certain it does not pull loose. ”
I hadn’t thought of that. To be sure, I’d not thought of much beyond simply getting up there to begin with. Trust Philippa to pay attention to the details. “Thank you,” I say, sincerely.
She nods. Then: “Did you give your colors to Lord Elis to wear at tomorrow’s trial?”
A little taken aback by the question, I look up sharply. “Why…yes, actually.”
“But you’re not meeting Lord Elis tonight, are you?”
Slowly, I shake my head.
“So it is Prince Valtar,” Philippa declares with a triumphant gleam in her eye.
I lift my chin. “And how do you know I’m not meeting Prince Warrick?”
I’m rewarded for my cheek with a distinct flood of color up my lady’s neck. She goes very prim, moving across the room to her mending chair by the fire. “Well,” she says, with great elegance, “I suppose you might well be.”
The air shaft is, as one might expect, dark, stuffy, hot, punctuated with occasional blasts of cold air whistling down from the world above.
But, after the initial embarrassment of my hips sticking at the opening, and Philippa and I both working to twist my body into just the right contortion to make it through into the space above, I find it roomy enough.
There’s no light save that which eeks through the periodic gratings, but my dark-adapted vision can manage.
I didn’t bother telling Philippa how I came up with the notion of using the air shafts to begin with.
Something tells me she would not be willing to give Valtar the benefit of the doubt if she suspected he’d snuck into my chamber in the middle of the night.
It is rather suspicious behavior, and I probably ought to be more concerned about it myself.
It was easier when I could simply dismiss the moment as a nightmare, but now…
Well, no matter. I cannot deny the usefulness of these air vents.
I crawl along, a little awkwardly in my skirts.
Philippa helped me change into something light and practical for this little expedition, but I can’t help thinking trousers would be far more comfortable.
I keep the ball of yarn Philippa gave me firmly in hand, unwinding it as I progress.
And a good thing too! While for the most part I can peer through the gratings and follow the lower passages below me, it all looks unfamiliar from this angle.
The shafts themselves are a wild tangle of catacombs in which an unwary sojourner might become hopelessly lost.
Where do they all lead? I wonder. Obviously they must extend to the surface world at multiple points.
Is it possible to climb up those particular shafts?
Or are they too steep and too tight to serve as an escape route?
I ought to make a more thorough inspection of them, and vow silently that I will. But not tonight.
Tonight, I will have words with Valtar the Loomer. So help me!
This thought has no sooner crossed my mind than my outstretched hand comes into contact with…
nothing. I pause, my heart suddenly lodged tight in my throat.
There’s a great sense of emptiness before me.
Feeling around, I find a ledge and inch myself a little closer.
Though my vision can manage well enough in this dimness, I cannot see more than a few inches down into the plunging shaft before me.
It must go to a lower level; how much lower, I cannot guess.
I stretch out my arm, trying to feel across, but cannot find where this shaft continues on the other side.
I suppose it doesn’t make a difference—there’s no way for me to crawl, climb, scoot, or shimmy across this void. Nothing for it but to backtrack.
Cursing through clenched teeth, I make my way back to a previous grating and peer into the hall below me.
From this angle, I cannot see any sign of guards.
If I’ve kept track of my route correctly, I am now a good three turns and a long gallery away from my own chambers.
Last night, this part of the palace was unguarded. I suppose I’ll have to risk it.
Slotting my fingers into the grate, I twist, pull, and ease it up from its frame.
Bracing my arms, I put my head down and look around the hall below.
Still no sign of anyone. There’s nothing but a scintil light illuminating a lonely pair of stone chairs, one on each side of the hall.
Seating for pages-in-waiting, no doubt, but currently unoccupied.
Lowering myself to the floor is easier said than done, but I manage it in the end with just a slight sting to my ankles when I land.
I glare up at the opening. I’ll just have to hope one of these chairs will prove tall enough for me to use as a stepping stool when I’m on my way back.
But that’s a worry for future me. For now, I have a rendezvous to make.
My hand moves to the little sheath and knife strapped to my thigh.
It had taken some creativity to keep it hidden from Philippa.
I don’t doubt she would confiscate it in a heartbeat the moment she knows I have it on me.
I can’t very well fish it out from under my skirts on the mountaintop, so I hastily slip it off my leg and fasten the sheathe to my belt instead.
Then, fairly confident I know where I’m going, I set off at a trot for the pulley lifts.
In a matter of minutes, I’ve found them, stepped into the same box I used last night, and pulled the lever.
The door slides shut by some mechanism or magic I cannot fathom, and the box begins to rise.
I won’t deny the little flutter in my belly, not so much from the ascent as from the prospect of seeing Valtar again.
Am I eager? Or angry? Hard to say…possibly a combination of the two.
All I know is my palms are sweaty, my breath tight, and by the time the lift finally, finally creaks to a halt, and the door slides open once more, my knees are rather unsteady.
I stare out into the dark tunnel, breathing in the scent of fresh air.
Moonlight beckons me once again, but this time I don’t rush out to meet it.
Some instinct tells me it would pay to be cautious.
So I slip my knife from its sheath, step from the lift, and creep softly on the tips of my toes down the tunnel, taking care to peer into shadows as I go.
There is no one here; no sign of Valtar.
I peer out on the old stone platform bathed in moonglow. Empty.
Heaving a sigh of not quite relief, I step into the open air and walk to the middle of the platform.
Forest spreads before me, wild and dark and seemingly endless.
I let my gaze run over it, searching for any sign of a break.
Is that a glimpse of open country on my left, just at the horizon? Perhaps.
A prickling sensation ripples down my spine. I tense, thoughts yanked away from contemplation of the mountain to more immediate surroundings. Valtar. He’s here.
“Lovely evening for a moonlit stroll,” I say, pitching my voice high and bright.