62. Lilias
Lilias
VARITAN’S MAGIC
Another window shatters, adding the sound of breaking glass to the cacophony surrounding us.
The broken fragments of the window catch the light, shining like falling stars.
I stare at them, only dimly aware of the crush of bodies all around us, the screaming and the sobbing. Petrys drags me backward.
“What is this?” he shouts.
Someone starts to laugh. I spin around and see a beautiful woman in a burgundy dress gasping with laughter as tears stream down her face.
“What the fuck is happening?” Petrys demands.
I stare at the woman in red, then at the crowd pushing open the doors of the ballroom as crystals fall from the chandeliers.
And then, slowly, as my gut turns and my throat pulls tight, I turn toward the dais.
King Malrik’s son Jak stands at the edge of the raised platform, his face almost as pale as the marble columns behind him. He’s staring at the emptiness in front of the dais, the gaping hole that was once the ballroom dance floor.
The hole that just swallowed a woman.
As I stare into that inky darkness, I swear I see something else. That it’s not just darkness inside the hole in the world.
No, it’s moving.
Tiny, dark tendrils creep through the air, rising to dance before the dais, like the first fingers of smoke from a fire. Or the gentle, grasping curls of the pea vines, reaching out for the garden stakes.
“Don’t,” Petrys growls. “Don’t look at it.”
His fingers tighten around my arm, and I realize I was just about to move closer. I shiver; for a heartbeat, I feel like I’m about to be sick.
“It’s—” I stammer. My tongue feels heavy in my mouth. “It’s the weapon.”
Petrys mutters something low and thick under his breath. It sounds like a curse, or maybe a prayer. My shoulders brush the wall, and I realize he’s pulled me to the back of the room.
The door to the rest of the palace opens with a crash.
A gust of cool air rushes into the ballroom from the palace halls.
Someone shouts as they run through the door, vanishing down the hallway.
A man’s voice fills the room with harsh, booming laughter.
I know it’s Malrik even before I turn back to the dais and see him waving his arms at the group of musicians huddled against the far wall.
“Music!” Malrik shouts. “We must have music!”
By the time the first thin, wobbly notes begin to float through the air, most of the screaming has stopped. There’s still sobbing, and laughter, and the people still trapped in the ballroom stare at each other with wide, stunned eyes.
They don’t look so elegant anymore, my mind whispers.
Not now, covered with dust and fragments of plaster from the ceiling.
Still, when the sad attempt at music ends and Malrik calls for applause, most of them bring their hands together.
As if this was just another ball. As if their world wasn’t just torn apart.
Petrys tugs on my arm. We stumble against the wall, moving numbly toward the gardens as the crowd begins to applaud. I stare at the broken window, at the hundreds of cracks that just appeared along the walls. And I try not to think about the woman.
She was dressed like a servant when they brought her out.
Malrik’s son Jak recognized her, I think.
He jumped to his feet when they dragged her out, at least, but she didn’t look at him.
She didn’t look at anyone. The entire crowd stared at her, and she glared defiantly at the ceiling.
Malrik announced she was a criminal and she would pay for her crimes.
Petrys growled in my ear when the two soldiers holding the woman’s arms walked back to the dais, leaving her alone on the empty dance floor.
Malrik said something else about criminals and weapons, but I’d stopped listening.
My attention was fixed on the tall elf standing beside the king with his hands raised, his palms facing the crowd.
And then the room started to shake.
There were a few shouts of alarm, some panicked glances at the windows.
Dust shifted down from the ceiling, fine and light, like the first snowfall.
The shaking stopped, then started again, suddenly and more violently.
Great cracks appeared in the ballroom’s walls.
The first of the windows broke, shattering glass over the garden.
And then the floor split open with a massive, heavy crack, like some great door between worlds had just been slammed open.
For a moment, the woman’s mouth opened, a bright, dark circle of surprise. Her eyes widened, and her apron fluttered in the wind from some other world.
Then she fell.
It happened quickly, almost silently. One moment, she was standing before the dais, her bright eyes focused on the chandeliers as Malrik recited a list of crimes. The next, she was simply gone.
If she made a noise as she fell, I didn’t hear it. Perhaps she went silently. Or perhaps her cry was swallowed by the cacophony of screams that filled the ballroom.
“Yes, yes,” Malrik howls as the meager applause dies down. “Now you see the power that will make Vsenrog triumphant!”
Silence fills the room. Dust continues to sift down from the ceiling. I stare at the doors to the gardens as they creak open. The elegant, well-dressed lords and ladies standing next to those doors look far more focused on getting out of here than clapping for their king.
One of the musicians starts to play again. Malrik claps along, and a few people follow the king’s lead. The doors to the garden open even further, and the dust in the air swirls as people begin to pour out of the ballroom and into the night.
“Slowly,” Petrys whispers. “We don’t want to draw his attention.”
Malrik looks like a madman on the dais, clapping along to the music as he grins at Varitan. The elf folds his arms across his chest and steps back, until he’s standing behind Malrik’s son Jak, who is still staring at the hole in the ground. I wonder if that prince knows he’s crying.
The song ends, and Malrik cheers again. This time, more of the crowd joins him. There’s a strange, buzzing energy in the air as people cheer and clap, smile and slap each other on the back. I feel like I’m going to be sick.
“Dear citizens of Vsenrog,” Malrik announces, his voice rising over the scattered cheers. “Our next mission of reunification approaches!”
More cheering. Petrys pulls me closer to the door. I can smell the night air. We’re so close. Just a few more steps, and we can push our way through the crowd and into the gardens.
“Our dear neighbors in the Kingdom of Lisal,” Malrik continues. “They’ve suffered so long under the threats of the dragons. The elven kingdoms.”
Malrik shakes his head, like he’s feeling sorry for poor Lisal. My hands twist in my skirts. I’ve never heard of the dragons of the Iron Mountains threatening any human kingdom. Didn’t Blayne say humans attacked the dragons?
Dragons. Gods. My mouth goes dry as I stare at Malrik and, behind him, Varitan.
The dragons used magic to defeat them, Blayne told me over my awkward dinner of pre-cut meat. Somehow, that magic ripped a hole right in the middle of the Iron Mountains.
Varitan’s magic.
I’m suddenly, horribly certain Varitan was there when the human kingdom attacked the dragons. That Varitan’s magic tore a hole in the Iron Mountains during that war.
Hells, maybe Varitan was there when the elven kingdom was trapped underground in the first place. Elves live forever, don’t they?
And Varitan himself was trapped underground, wasn’t he? Zarek was there when Varitan walked out of the mountain’s dark heart. Because Malrik knew there was a weapon buried in those mountains, in what we all thought was going to be the Dragon Mine. A weapon with a name, and a cold, hard smile.
“We have the power to help Lisal,” Malrik announces, with a manic gleam in his eyes. “To protect our dear neighbors. To bring them into our arms, into the warm embrace of Vsenrog.”
“Fucking hells,” Petrys growls.
With that, he grabs my arm and pulls me toward the door. We cross the ballroom together, our heads down, our feet crunching on broken glass, as the room fills with thunderous applause.