18
Gwen,” Braithe said. The two of them had finished breakfast, although it might have been made of straw for all Braithe could taste of it.
Their trays were picked up by silent servants who avoided meeting their eyes and followed their half-blood overseer like obedient sheep.
Restlessly, Braithe wandered the hall, averting her eyes from the hideous bits of Faolin’s artwork, drawn back again and again to the forbidden workroom.
Gwen, apparently having nothing else to do, trailed after her.
Braithe finally stopped outside the workroom entrance, her hands on her hips as she stared at it. “Tell me about the block, Gwen.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I’m curious.”
“I don’t know much. I watched him put it up, after that other girl—after he got rid of her.”
“Got rid of her?” Braithe gazed at Gwen’s haggard face, wanting to know, yet dreading the answer. “What does that mean?”
Gwen’s lips trembled. “He beat her pretty badly,” she said. Her voice broke, and she pressed a hand to her throat. “Too badly. Someone came and took her away. Had to carry her. She couldn’t walk.”
Braithe suppressed a shudder. “Who came?”
“A fae man. Not a delegate, but someone who did things for Faolin.”
“You do not know his name?”
Gwen chewed her lower lip, thinking. “Seth? Simon?”
“Skye?” Braithe said.
“That’s it! Skye. How did you know?”
“I have met him. A nasty sort. It is not a surprise that he worked for Faolin.”
“No.” Gwen leaned against the wall, as if remembering tired her. She said, “He asked Faolin once if he could have me.”
“Have you? What does that mean?”
“I never found out. Faolin laughed at him and said something—I can’t remember—something about Skye finding his own pet, or toy, something like that.”
Braithe grimaced, sickened by all of it. It was hard to believe such hateful creatures walked the earth. She brushed her hands over her eyes in an effort to shed the image Gwen had given her. She would have to ponder that another time. This moment required action.
She turned back to the workroom, where the sun struggled to penetrate the grime on the window. “Tell me about the block, Gwen. How did he set it?”
“He muttered some magic words, I guess, and worked his fingers the way he does.”
“You have never tried it?”
“Tried it?”
“Tried to go in. Through the block.”
Gwen’s already-pale face grew ashen, and she pushed herself away from the wall.
“Oh, no, Braithe, no! He said if I did, it would hurt worse than what he did to me when I first came.” She gave a shudder that shook her whole body.
“That was awful. Terrible. I couldn’t bear it. I don’t want to talk about it!”
“I’m sorry,” Braithe said. “I just—I wondered what would happen.”
Gwen said, her voice hoarse with fear, “I think it might kill you, Braithe.”
“But he said I would only wish to die.”
“Have you ever wished to die? It’s the worst thing in the world, to suffer so much you would rather be dead.”
Braithe mulled this for a moment. She had never wished to die, not even with grief for Arthur.
She had never suffered the way Gwen had, but even so she couldn’t imagine surrendering, not to Faolin, not to anyone.
She gazed into the blocked workroom with its dead herbs and dusty tools, and she thought of Faolin’s sneer, his threats, his insults.
A little fire of rebellion rose in her heart, and she breathed into it, exciting the flame.
She would not wait here like a lamb for the slaughtering knife. She was a Temple maiden.
“Braithe, don’t,” Gwen whispered. “Please don’t. There’s nothing in there you could want.”
“But there is, Gwen. There’s a window.”
Gwen gasped. “A window! Braithe, even if you could get to it, and through it, where would you go? The fae rule this city. He would have you back in an instant.”
Braithe shut her ears to Gwen’s objections.
She turned away from the workroom, feeling the hours passing, time relentlessly ticking by, eating up the day.
As the sun rose higher, so did her determination not to wait passively for the torment Faolin had promised.
She had to do something. She would do something, no matter how much it hurt.
No matter if it meant her death. Living here, in the constant expectation of pain, with no control over her life… That would be worse than death.
She paced, just as she had seen Morgana do when she was searching for answers.
She walked to the privy, then back down the corridor to the chamber she had slept in, on into the kitchen.
When she wearied of this, she stood below the kitchen window, gazing up into the summer sky.
The sun flashed on the garden wall, reminding her of the sparkle of the courtine that surrounded Camulod.
It blinded her for a moment, and she had to blink away dark spots.
When they cleared, she had a sudden thought, and she hurried back to the workroom to stare at the window, wondering.
She could see past the years of grime to the gate that led to the street.
The gate that was locked by a cantrip, the exact same cantrip Faolin used on the front door.
Was he too indolent to create others? Or was there some other reason? And if he used the same cantrip on the door and the gate…
How much magic did she really possess?
The midsummer warmth enveloped Idhri when he stepped outside. The buildings reflected the sun in shimmering waves, making the air thick and sluggish. His braid stuck to the back of his neck, and the heat of the flagstones burned through the soles of his sandals.
As he and Priestess Morgana turned into the boulevard to begin their search, a rush of homesickness for the cool waters of Ilyn swelled in Idhri’s breast. He longed for all of this to be at an end.
He would be glad to return to rowing with Master Hugh.
They would often tie up in the shade of the willows, where the green branches grazed the blue water.
They would prop their feet on the edges of the boat while they ate the wonderful lunches Emma prepared.
He couldn’t believe he had ever thought that life was boring.
He scolded himself for his weakness and reminded himself of how frightened Braithe must be. He matched his strides to Priestess Morgana’s long ones and told himself the heat didn’t matter. He would not rest until Braithe was safely returned to them.
Their plan was, of necessity, a simple one.
Councillor Emerlyn had told them the big houses like the one they had seen in the reflective pool were built in an irregular ring above more modest neighborhoods.
Priestess Morgana and he would start at the city’s northernmost point and work their way widdershins around the city.
It could be a short search, with early results, or a long, hot, frustrating one.
The fae who had taken Braithe had to be a delegate, Morgana had said, which meant he was required to be in the council chamber this morning, but the councillor had been unable to say how long he would be there.
“I will draw it out as best I can,” she had promised.
“If the members are as contentious as they usually are, I might be able to keep them until the middle of the afternoon.”
Hoping this was true, Morgana and Idhri prowled the narrow streets that branched up from the boulevards.
They peered past the mostly empty houses and colorless parks to the walled houses above.
Occasionally they paused to drink from one of the fountains.
They passed the communal kitchens, where the food for the inhabitants of the city was prepared.
It was the only place they saw other people, human servants coming and going between the ovens and the larders, half-blood overseers calling orders.
A steady stream of brown-garbed servants left the kitchens with laden trays.
Another returned with empty ones. Idhri marveled at how many of them there were.
Surely there were far fewer fae in the White City than humans, perhaps even than half-bloods, yet no one seemed to question their authority.
He supposed the fae, with their dark magic, had ways of punishing anyone who rebelled.
He wondered if they ever worried about an uprising.
Perhaps not. He had heard the horsemaster at Camulod speak of horses with broken spirits who could barely work.
The horsemaster had condemned owners who abused animals to the point of utter submission.
Perhaps that was what had happened here, over the years.
He would like to ask the priestess for her thoughts, but this was not the time.
They saw so many of the walled houses that they began to blur together in Idhri’s mind, although there was some variety in their construction.
Some garden gates were made of iron bars, polished to a high gloss.
Others were of wood, painted gray or white or beige.
The walls were different heights, although all were made of the usual pale stone.
The houses behind the walls were different shapes.
Some were hidden by their walls, while others loomed over them, glazed windows glinting in the sun like angry eyes.
When Priestess Morgana approached the first house, Idhri expected her to try to speak to someone within.
Instead, she went in through the unlocked gate.
She stood as close as she could to the house, while Idhri hung back, looking around to see if they were being observed.
They were not, as far as he could tell. The house and the garden were empty and silent.
Perhaps no one lived there, and that was why the gate wasn’t locked.
Morgana bent her head, as if listening, her hand on her sigil. When she shook her head and led the way back through the gate, Idhri asked what she had been doing.