Chapter 17
Ispring barefoot up the stairs. There are no torches to light the way; rather, little floating will-o’-the-wisps drift around me as I run. The towering windows are open to the cascades of water, and droplets fleck my skin.
I sweep past images of otters, kelpies, eels, water goblins, and mermaids that glow under the shifting lights. The air here smells fresh, like water lilies, and a beautiful blue tone radiates beneath the ivory stone’s surface.
Close to the top, I pass Rion’s room, which is marked with the white stag. My breath catches as I think of that beautiful face from my nightmares. The last thing I need is for him to open that door and accuse me of treason.
But immediately after his room, the shadows grow thicker, and there are no more sigils. The will-o’-the-wisps disappear, like even they are afraid to climb this high. Now, the only light illuminating the stairwell is from the moons and stars.
From a narrow, open window, a thin blade of silver light streaks across a wooden door reinforced with metal nails. It’s completely out of place here, a heavy door blocking a curving stairwell. There wasn’t anything like this in the Gloaming Tower.
I listen for footfalls or voices and hear nothing. From the arrow-slit window, the breeze rushes into the stairs, kissing my skin.
I press my ear against the wood and am greeted by silence. Carefully, I try depressing the latch. It’s locked, of course.
My pulse quickens, and I crouch to slide my hairpin into the keyhole. I use my dagger to keep tension on the lock. My pin scrapes against metal inside, and I hold my breath as I work. Again, I pause to listen for footfalls.
When I don’t hear anything, I shift the pin again, feeling around inside the mechanism until I can slide it in deeper.
Softly, a click breaks the silence, and the door unlatches, opening just an inch.
I let out a long, slow breath and pull the door open on a shadowed stairwell.
After four more steps, I get to the top, where moonlight spills through a large, gothic window onto a second door.
This one bears a sigil, but it’s covered in a thick layer of dust. Beneath the dust is an image of a swan wearing a golden crown and chain around its throat.
The bird carries a rose in its mouth, blood dripping from the red petals.
The image stirs an old, uneasy recognition in me. I can’t quite put my finger on where I’ve seen it before.
Bending, I pick this new lock, trying not to cough as I inhale the dust. The door unlatches, revealing a circular room. Starlight streams through leaded windows onto utter chaos—bedclothes tossed on the floor, plates and glasses smashed and in disarray. A breeze howls through the shattered window.
Apart from cobwebs, the hearth lies empty.
Quietly, I creep around the room. On one of the walls, I find scratch marks etched in the stones, like a prisoner marking the passage of time.
Faded tapestries line the other walls, one of them with the same heraldic emblem of the swan and the rose.
I stare at it as recognition starts to bloom in my thoughts.
It’s the Lancastrian sigil from the War of the Roses—the symbol of Henry VI, the mad king in the fifteenth century.
This isn’t his room, of course. He was mortal, murdered in the Tower of London by a rival king, his throne stolen from him. My Crown is in my heart, not on my head...
Carved on one of the walls is the text KING EMRYS, FALSELY IMPRISONED.
Could this really be Emrys’s room? Only magic would preserve this for so long. He was one of the early kings in the old days of Avalon, before the fall.
Vaguely, I remembered that Avalon lay in ruin during his reign, that he was a mad king, too.
Emrys sent his army to terrorize his own people.
When someone killed one of his soldiers, he dispatched his military to slaughter everyone in their village.
The massacres only stopped when Queen Morgan took over.
No one ever knew what happened to him. By the old, dried blood on the pillowcase, I can guess.
It’s just like Cador said—the mortal history of kings mirrors our own, centuries later.
I start to hunt through the room for any signs of the grail. I find a scrap of parchment and fragments of text.
A wroth king, abandoned by reason…then stood the realm in great jeopardy a long while…kingdoms shall be in great poverty, misery and wretchedness…the white rose of Queen Morgan shall restore…
It reads like a list of charges against Emrys, perhaps.
Nothing to do with the grail, as far as I can tell.
I keep searching until I find a faint image carved in one of the windowpanes, as if etched with a diamond. There—a little chalice, like a grail. And words beneath it say:
A rose to grace the castle door, two princes’ heads shorn to the bone—
Two fallen crowns beneath the floor—dark secrets brood in silent stone
I stare at the words.
Slowly, something Jasper said dawns on me. He was insulting how terrible I looked, and he said, Might as well dig up the two princely corpses from Aether Tower…
The echoes of the Tower’s history ring even louder now. Just like Cadoc said, London’s heart is a mimicry of this place.
Hundreds of years ago, in London’s old castle, two princes’ bodies were found stuffed under a stairwell, little victims of the Wars of the Roses.
Wind rushes through a broken window, and a dark chill ripples around the room, sliding over my skin. I feel as if I’ve woken the old king’s vengeful ghost, and I don’t want to spend another minute in here. Nor do I need to.
I know exactly where I need to go.
Of course, I should go to bed now. It’s late, and I’ve found my clue.
And yet, I can see Vero’s pale face in my thoughts. I can practically hear her wheezing. I won’t sleep tonight until I know more.
I turn, heading out the door to the stairwell. I close both doors behind me, listening as the locks click shut again.
I hurry down the stairs and out the door into the fog around the tower’s base.
Pulling my cloak tight, I rush across the courtyard to the bone-white tower in the center, my bare feet padding over cold cobbles.
At the base of the Aether Tower, ivy twines around the white stone. I climb a set of stairs to a large oak door. I half expect it to be locked, but I’m able to push through it into a spiral stairwell. Inside, torches light the pale walls.
A door nestles at the bottom of the stairs—and just like I expected, it’s marked with the white rose of Queen Morgan.
A rose to grace the castle door…
I listen for the sound of footfalls, and when I hear nothing, I pull open the door, revealing a small, narrow set of stairs. At the bottom is a chamber no larger than the cart that brought me here, and within it lie two small skulls in the dirt.
Two princes’ heads shorn to the bone…
My pulse picks up. I don’t know who they are, exactly, but I can only guess they stood too close to a crown someone else claimed.
I know the path to the throne lies stained with blood.
I take down a torch and quietly creep toward the skulls. In the gloom, I find a carving marking the granite walls: Truth grows among the violets and thorny roses. Once, we devoured our kings…
Cryptic, confusing, and I have no idea what it means. The garden, perhaps?
I close the door to the stairwell and listen for footfalls. This time, I hear them.
And they’re close.
I close my eyes and inhale. If I’m caught, I want to seem relaxed.
Just as I’m pulling open the door out of the tower, a deep voice says my name from behind.
I turn to see Lord Cador rounding the corner, his burgundy hair draped over a midnight cloak. My heart slams against my ribs, but I flash him a smile like I’m delighted to see him.
“Ah! Alis. What brings you to the Aether Tower tonight?”
Casually, I shrug. “Too excited to sleep. I’m just so in love with this place. It’s like you said—it was built at a time of primal power. Maybe one of us can bring back the golden days of the Fey. I just hope I can help restore that glory.”
He smiles at me. “I believe you can. I feel it.”
I open my eyes wide. “You can really feel the ancient Fey magic here, the primal powers. I was going to pay a little visit to the Rhiannon Garden before sleep. I hope to see the grail someday.”
He glances to the side, then leans down to whisper, “We have truly powerful relics here. They were lost for a thousand years, but we found them again in our time of need. But if you want to get your hands on that ancient power, Baroness, I suggest doing everything in your power to win the trials. Only someone with divine strength can grasp a relic.”
I swallow hard. “And if I don’t have magic?”
He shrugs. “Then surviving is the best you can hope for. Count it a blessing if you leave here alive.”