18. Lope
18
Lope
God of darkness, god of the world below,
Heed the prayer of your nameless daughter.
Look upon her with your blank eyes.
Soften the cold stone of your heart.
Answer her pleas with your still mouth.
I scarcely slept after my argument with Ofelia. I had tossed and turned, wishing I could pull my words back, that I could give her something beautiful instead.
She deserved beautiful things.
Yet the only peace offering I had for her was a single line of poetry.
I fled the bedroom quickly in the morning and spent most of the day in the library. I combed through Sagesse’s journal, comparing her rituals to speak to each god. They followed the same pattern as any my prayers: a candle, a whisper, and something to sacrifice. In the entry for the Shadow King, the author had simply written, He is eager to speak with me. I cannot tell if there is truth in what he says or what he promises.
The first few times, I lit the candle, I said a prayer, I burned something—a rose from His Majesty’s garden, a lock of my hair, an orange, which the tiny flame consumed with a greed that could only be supernatural—but this yielded nothing. My head ached from the attempts and my focus, and I turned my attention blearily toward the endless shelves and the dust motes drifting in the sunbeams.
Sunlight.
It didn’t make for an inviting space for the king of Shadows. This king of the beasts that had defined my life, that had left me scarred, that had killed my friend. All there was to know about Shadows was this: they craved the dark, and they craved the air in our lungs.
Then that was what I would give this god.
One by one, I closed and latched each of the tall shutters letting light seep in from the garden. Only the barest gleam shone through the cracks of the shutters, and the light of my candle glowed confident and strong on the table I’d turned into a workbench.
I sat down in front of the candle, drawing the guidebook closer to me.
Scribbled in the margins of an entry, I found another note from Sagesse: It seems the god of Shadows prefers there to be mirrors nearby when I speak to him.
I patted myself down, as if I’d somehow be carrying a hand mirror for Ofelia to adjust her hair in. Instead, I fished everything out of my coat—a handkerchief, my journal, a stub of a pencil, and Eglantine’s dagger. With a smile, I unsheathed it, watching the blade reflect the light and the pale silver of my eyes.
“I hope this’ll do,” I murmured. I placed the blade against a stack of books so that the candlelight glinted against it like a golden beam.
Then, if he was ruler of the Shadows, if he wanted my breath as they did...
When the Shadows took our breaths, they stole our lives, our stories from our bodies. I could not hand those over. But there was a way I could give him a part of myself. A bit of my heart, of my mind, my words upon a page.
From my journal I chose a poem about a summer night, one spent with Ofelia instead of on that wall. When I looked at the moon that night, it hadn’t frightened me; it hadn’t reminded me of my duty, of what the darkness brought. It had reminded me of a pearl, floating upon dark water.
It had been so very beautiful, so magical, that I had dared to share my very first poem with her.
My voice had trembled as I kept my eyes upon the page. My heart had beat so fast it ached, as if it were so frightened it wanted to flee from my ribs altogether. I hated and doubted each word of mine. And then, when I finished, when I finally had the courage to look up into Ofelia’s marvelous eyes, I found joy there. Pride. She beamed brighter than the moonlight.
You’re truly a poet , she had said. And then, even sweeter, Could you read another one?
In the present I rolled the poem into a scroll. Now it was a gift not for a girl but a god.
My voice was a reverent whisper: “King of Shadows. God of darkness and the Underworld.”
I pictured him, far beneath my feet, far beneath this palace, in the depths of the earth. A wicked, monstrous god. That was the one from whom I sought aid.
I had never claimed to be wise. When I wasn’t following the orders of another, I listened only to my heart. And it was a foolish, impetuous thing.
“I call upon you, most humbly and most desperately,” I continued. “I do not know if you will accept the prayer of a girl of common birth. From one who is favored by no god.” I licked my lips, feeling the strangest sort of stage fright. “I do not ask for your favor. It is only the truth that I seek. Please... please answer me.”
I touched the poem to the flame, which erupted, climbing up my arm and blazing into the air around me in a white blur. I yelled and staggered back, gasping as I desperately pried the coat off myself—but the fire was gone. The blue velvet bore no charring, not even the smell of ash. I stood there panting in shock, until I saw it.
The flame of the candle had gone black. It flicked back and forth, casting a sprawling, crooked silhouette upon the long table—like a man, stretched out and spiderlike. I covered my mouth. The creature bent its head, adorned with three thornlike spikes.
“What is your name?”
Its voice was like wind whistling through trees, like nails upon glass, like an ancient door slowly opening. My hand clutched my heart.
“I am Lope de la Rosa,” I said. “I—I am from no household; I have no title—”
The figure’s shoulders rose with a wheezing laugh. “Such things do not matter.”
There was no malice in his voice, no irony. But what he said shocked me. And he—he was a god . He knew better than anyone. Better than a king.
Titles meant nothing.
“Is—is it not so that the gods blessed certain families?” I asked.
“I hear little from the world above. But I know the gods. They choose their playthings on a whim, set them in motion, and are back to their own devices.”
Playthings of the gods. A chill ran through me. What else could he mean but humanity?
“Then,” I said, “King Léo, fourteenth of his name—was he not blessed by the gods?”
The flame shook back and forth as he let out a sharp, cold laugh. “No gift comes freely, and certainly not from them . Léo is indebted to me .”
My eyes widened. I leaned closer, gripping the table. “He entered a contract with you?”
“His tale intrigued me. His ambitions intrigued me.” The projection upon the table fluttered its long fingers, making the flame sway left and right. “I find humans and their desires so fascinating. Is that why you have called upon me? Is there something you long for, Lope de la Rosa?”
Images flickered in my head like turning the pages of a beautiful book. Ocean waves, a shore I did not know, a grove of trees blooming pink, a cabin by a peaceful lake, Ofelia’s lips parting in a radiant smile. The two of us, resting beneath the shade of a tree. A world without danger.
I shook my head, casting them away. “No, that is not why I have asked for your help. Your—your contract with the king. What were its terms?”
The creature took a deep, rattling breath. “He asked to live forever.”
Just like the stories had said—but not quite. It was no blessing from the gods above. The king had made a bargain with the god of Shadows to buy his immortality.
“What price did he pay?” I asked. I knew the gods; I knew that they dealt in exchanges. I could not even pray to them without an offering. Léo must have given something, something , to the king of Shadows.
A fist rapped against the library doors, jolting me out of my thoughts. One door handle jiggled, then the next. I swept up the dagger and tucked it into the pocket of my coat.
“Lope!” Ofelia called—as if she had leapt right out of my daydreams. “Lope, you won’t believe what I just saw!”
With the ring of keys in hand, I staggered through the semidarkness to the library doors, hastily trying to and finally succeeding in unlocking them. Ofelia drew back the door, and bright light poured into the library, banishing my carefully cultivated darkness. I whirled back—but the candle had burned down to a lump of wax, and all that remained of the flame was a ribbon of smoke.
I swore under my breath and darted over to the table. I reached for my tinderbox with shaky hands and struck the flint again and again—
“Lope, what on earth are you doing?”
I dropped the tools and pointed to the candle. “I just spoke to the king of Shadows.”
Not my most elegant words. But in the aftermath of the impossible, I felt like a child again, eager to express what had just occurred.
The color drained from her face. “What?! Lope, you couldn’t possibly—you wouldn’t attempt such a thing; you’re too smart—”
“I did.” I stepped through the darkness of the library into the beam of light coming from the corridor and swept her hands in mine. “I lit the candle, and I made a sacrifice—”
“Why?”
“I needed to know. I needed to ask about the king—”
She pressed a finger to my lips, her eyebrows furrowed. Then, she slowly moved her hands to cradle the sides of my face. “Come to my chambers,” she said. “We must speak alone.”