Chapter 41
Elva
There’s a spider on the ceiling above my head. I watch it scuttle about directionless for a while before it disappears through a small crack in the corner.
I’m lying on my back in my bunk, trying not to think about the empty bed beneath me. I hear the soft jangle of keys at the end of the hall and stifle a sigh. Matron has taken to performing nightly room checks to make sure all the serfs are accounted for.
Unsurprisingly, the attempt on the emperor’s life sent the Golden Palace into uproar.
Although when I managed to sneak into Hal’s chambers later that night, he himself seemed far more concerned about my injuries than his own brush with death.
I assured him that the scratches on my face were the work of the rather irritable cat down in the stables, and declined the vial of painkiller he offered, knowing that I deserved to feel the stinging remnants of Ingra’s fury.
In the days that followed there were no balls, banquets or gatherings of any kind.
Courtiers took to walking the hallways in pairs, shooting distrustful glances at any passing serfs, Marina among them.
Her hostility towards me has reached new heights, since she feels certain that, as both a serf and a spy, I must have known about the assassination.
She’s right, of course, but with Ingra claiming to having acted alone there’s little Marina can do to prove otherwise.
Yet nobody could explain the sudden darkness that descended moments before the bolt was fired.
There were even whispers of spirits and omens and divine intervention.
When it became apparent that no other explanation was going to present itself, Cole – in his own words – humbly admitted to having extinguished every flame in the room after catching sight of a suspicious figure high up in the gallery.
Naturally, he was showered with praise, and Ember granted him lands and a title.
Nobody seemed to recall Lord Cole staggering drunkenly into the ballroom an hour after he promised to escort Elaith.
Still, at least his taking the credit prevented any further investigation into the matter. The only person who knows what truly happened that night is Ingra. Now she’s shivering in a damp cell awaiting execution, and it’s all my fault.
I snap my eyes shut and breathe deeply as Matron pokes her head round the door. I wait until she’s gone, then wedge my fist in my mouth, and scream.
I never meant for this to happen. I didn’t save Hal to sacrifice Ingra. That was not supposed to be the price of his life. I only intended to stop her. At least the others, having quickly realized something had gone wrong, dispersed before anyone could catch them.
Last night Pip made the mistake of asking Matron whether he could take some food to the dungeons for Ingra.
I can still hear his whimpering sobs all the way from the Pit.
I roll on to my side and clamp my hands over my ears to block them out.
Self-loathing wraps itself round me and won’t let go.
Ingra’s voice echoes in my head, her words as sharp as knives.
I don’t know who you are any more.
In truth, neither do I.
Am I the serf, slipping unnoticed through a world that is not her own? The spy, tangled up in lies and deception? The lover with her golden roses? The little girl afraid of her own shadow? Or the Mage, who used her magic to betray her friend?
I sit bolt upright in bed and hug my knees to my chest.
I have to talk to Ingra. I want to tell her everything. I want to tell her I’m sorry. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
The passageway is narrow and lined with ugly golden gargoyles. I keep to the shadows, my pockets bulging with food I swiped from the kitchens.
Half a dozen guards stand stationed outside the entrance to the dungeons, the gold pommels of their longswords gleaming in the light of a single flickering lantern.
Ever since the mysterious break-out in which King Balen freed a number of prisoners, Hal has doubled down on the already stringent security measures.
There’s a collective groan of irritation as the candle is snuffed, smothered by an obedient ribbon of shadow. Before any of the guards can so much as strike a match, I dart past them into the darkness beyond.
Like everything in this place, even the dungeons are hewn from solid gold. They sit right above the mine, where many of the strongest serfs are sent to work – tall, strapping boys like Seth and Ty, breaking their backs mining the empire’s principal source of wealth.
I pick my way carefully down the steep steps, pausing on each floor to peer into cells.
It’s cold. A little damp, too. Silent and eerie and still.
I shed my cloak of shadows, having no need for it any more.
My heart thuds violently as I spiral deeper and deeper into the darkened cavern, not stopping until I reach what appears to be the bottom level.
The air is thicker down here. It smells like death and decay, unbearably strong thanks to my unparalleled senses. Resisting the urge to plug my nose, I force myself onward.
Some cells are empty, doors ajar. Some contain a handful of occupants, their skin tinged grey, their eyes dull. I scan their faces, searching for my friend.
I’m beginning to lose hope when someone clears their throat startlingly close to me. ‘You did the right thing, you know.’
I whirl round.
The voice belongs to a boy sitting cross-legged on the floor of his cell. His skin is sallow and his eyes are a murky shade of yellow, like a cat’s. Yet what captures my attention are the manacles round his wrists. They’re clear, made of glass. No, not glass.
Crystal.
My knees buckle. This boy … He’s a Mage. Just like me.
‘Salvos, Elva.’
I turn rigid. My name. He knows my name.
And he greeted me in Obsidian.
‘Who are you?’ I whisper back.
The boy smiles. ‘I wanted to thank you for your intervention.’
‘W-what intervention?’
‘With the Castellion boy. You saved his life the other night, yes?’
I nod once, hardly daring to breathe.
‘You did the right thing,’ he says again. ‘I wasn’t ready for him quite yet.’
I frown, trying to make sense of his words. He might be speaking my native tongue, but I can tell it’s not his. I detect an accent. Soft, yet guttural. Neptan, perhaps?
Fear skitters down my spine. Nepta was an isle once home to Magi gifted in necromancy.
So this boy is a Death Mage. Yet why are my instincts screaming at me, telling me that he’s something …
more? Something different, something ancient, despite him appearing not much older than I am.
I can sense it – that strange, haunting otherness.
It chills me to the bone, as if I were looking into the eyes of Death itself.
The Mage jerks his head. ‘She’s over there. Your friend. Hurry, now. Dawn is fast approaching, and daylight chases away little shadows like you.’
I begin to retreat, not stopping until his smiling face is out of sight. My whole body is trembling so violently I feel nauseated.
At the end of the passageway I find a small, poky cell, barely bigger than the Pit.
A single prisoner sits with her back against the wall, absent-mindedly tracing shapes in the layer of grime coating the ground.
Her hair is matted. It’s strange to see it hanging limply round her shoulders rather than woven into a thick braid down her spine.
Vicious red lines score her cheeks. I dig my nails into my palms and swallow hard.
‘Ingra,’ I whisper.
She jerks away from the sound of my voice as though it were the crack of a whip, her dark eyes straining through the gloom. Of course – I can see her, but she can’t see me.
I crouch and wrap my hands round the bars. ‘It’s Elva.’
‘What are you doing here?’ Ingra snarls.
I deserve every scrap of her ire and more, yet the venom lacing her tone still causes me to wince. ‘I … I came to talk to you,’ I stutter.
‘I don’t talk to traitors.’
Grimacing, I try again. ‘Ingra, please –’
‘Go away.’
I take a deep breath, wrinkling my nose at the fetid air. I wasn’t exactly expecting a warm welcome, but I need her to listen to me. I have to make her understand.
‘I’m sorry,’ I murmur. ‘For what I did.’
‘Tal frakhas,’ Ingra snaps in Veridian.
I know that one. She likes to mutter it behind Matron’s back.
Tal frakhas.
Eat shit.
I hesitate, then sit down opposite her. She makes an impatient sound and lets her head tip back against the wall. A vein pulses in her neck.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask gently.
She makes no response.
I notice two of her fingers are swollen, both bent at odd angles. My heart sinks. ‘Did they hurt you?’
Again, nothing.
I reach into my pockets for the stolen food – bread, cheese, ripe plums, treacle tart. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘How about I ask the questions?’ Ingra growls through clenched teeth.
I nod, forgetting she can’t see me, then quickly add, ‘Of course.’
‘I thought I must’ve dreamed it at first,’ she murmurs quietly. ‘But if I had, I wouldn’t be here, would I?’
‘Dreamed what?’
‘The darkness,’ she says. ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’
I steel myself, then answer, ‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘It’s a … long story.’
‘Then you’d better start telling it.’
So I do. I tell her about waking up in the Earth Cleaver’s chambers, the terror that consumed me for weeks, about learning how to use my magic instead of repressing it.
As I talk, Ingra’s hard expression turns to one of astonishment, even wonder.
‘You can see in the dark?’
‘I can,’ I tell her. ‘I can see you right now, clear as anything. In fact, all my senses have been heightened.’
She leans closer. ‘What else can you do?’
‘Mine seems to be a defensive gift,’ I explain. ‘It’s like my shadows anticipate danger. They hide me. Protect me.’