Chapter Four
Once Mr. Perov left, I scavenged the room for anything I might use as a weapon.
Not that I am a fighter—I’ve little chance of fending anyone off.
But being unarmed makes me feel even more powerless.
Of course I found little of use, save for two spare iron candlestick holders by the hearth.
One I strip of its candle and hide under my pillow while leaving the other on the nightstand next to my bed, which is furnished with a pitcher of water and a small basin for washing.
Outside, the sun sinks below the window’s frame, the sky a melted orange. Minutes later, an attendant comes to my room, delivering my bag.
I don’t bother unpacking, flattening my back against the bed to stare up at the ceiling, my heart still fighting to calm its stuttering from the climb—only to pick up speed once more at the sound of a knock.
It is the last person I expect.
Sofya Kosarev wears her same courtly attire, though hidden beneath a fine pewter cloak. She doesn’t wait for me to move aside, instead wandering past me with a swish of her skirts. I glance out the door before shutting it, noting the lack of guards.
“My father allowed you to visit?” I ask, incredulous.
“I have my own pull with the guards.” Her pale gaze roams the room, perhaps taking stock of my living conditions for the next thirty days.
I suppose it makes sense that some guards might still answer to her. She was royalty herself—she probably lived in the fortress for years alongside her brother.
She pauses by the window, clasping her hands. I notice then the bags underneath her eyes, the deep lines between her brows. Even her complexion seems paler than it should be. I wonder just how much of a toll King Rurik’s death took on her.
I cross to the bed, sitting on the edge. “Why come to me?”
“Either your father is the reason my brother is dead,” she says, “or you and your friends are. I wanted to look you in the eyes myself.”
“And?” I hedge.
“And my instinct tells me both are true,” she says, her gaze dipping to my fidgeting hands. “You had more of a role than you are letting on.”
I still my clammy fingers, forcing down the bile inching up my throat. She is more right than she could know. But I say, “The only one who wanted Rurik dead was my father. Can’t you see through him? Just look at the power he’s amassed because of it.”
At that, she sighs. “That is true. I can’t say I approve of his rule, either.
My niece,” she continues, referring to Aesir, “well, she wasn’t like this as a girl.
She was a ray of sunshine—always happy, always kind, if a bit na?ve.
When I think back, her behavior changed around the time your father started spending more time here. Now she refuses to speak to even me.”
“Because he groomed her to accept his hand, to be compliant to his desires,” I say. He said as much himself when I overheard him and Illian speaking at that brothel.
“I also find it strange that she had him crowned as her superior. None of it sits right with me. Is there any evidence you can provide for your stepmother’s murder? Anything at all.”
“Evidence? Not likely. Her body would have decomposed long ago,” I say, my breath tight. “Or whatever was left of it after she was thrown from so high up the mountain.” Perhaps her bones are still there, shattered amid the rocks and buried beneath the snow. The thought churns my stomach.
“Did no one question her disappearance?”
“My father claimed it was suicide. That she jumped from that very window. There was no one to speak for her, and her only remaining family was in Miridran. And no way now to prove she was thrown out—save that I saw it happen.”
Again her gaze turns to the window, where a few flakes of snow drift past. I hadn’t even realized it was snowing.
She shakes her head. “Maybe you are telling the truth, or perhaps it is more complex still. Until I know the whole of it, though, I will do what I can to protect you and your friends. I don’t believe in tampering with evidence.”
“Please,” I say. “Is there any way I can see them?”
Her lips tip into a ghost of a smile. “This used to be my room, you know. When I was a girl.” She paces to the tapestry next to the hearth and pulls it back to reveal a door.
A secret passageway. “Does my father know about this?”
She shrugs. “It wouldn’t matter. He has the tower guarded.
You won’t be able to escape. You will, however, be able to visit your friends, both of whom are two floors below; this leads to the parlor that connects their rooms. I was told this tower used to be a lookout—the oldest one in the fortress.
There used to be a route to the outside, though it has long since been boarded up. ”
She wriggles the door’s handle, and it pops open with a creak.
She bends, then pulls out a lantern that must have been hidden just inside.
“I must warn you, however,” she says, shoving the lantern into my hands, “I doubt anyone’s used it in decades.
There are spiders and perhaps other creatures.
I also wouldn’t use it during the day, when you’re more likely to get caught.
I can’t imagine your father wouldn’t seal it up if he finds you using it. ”
“Thank you,” I tell her, kneeling by the fireplace. I pull the candlestick out of the lantern and light it while she paces to the door.
“I don’t know what Maksim is planning, keeping you here like this, but I imagine he won’t make the next thirty days pleasant for you.
If I could offer more protection, I would.
If you need me, ask Silas. He will be stationed at your doors in the evening.
He has been loyal to me for several years now. ”
With that, Sofya departs.
She is correct about the passageway. I have to take the spare candlestick from the nightstand to brush away the clouds of cobwebs on my trek down the small, wooden stairwell.
It’s a steep decline, too, which makes it all the more frightening, and it’s darker than the tunnels on Anell ever were.
No shine from mosaics, no bars of light from beneath a doorway.
The stairs end before another door like the one hidden behind my tapestry. Tentatively, I grip the handle and push. It groans open to another wall of fabric, which I part—
“I swear to the Fates I will remove your head!” says a wide-eyed Sundar, brandishing a…bedpost? I’m pretty sure it’s a bedpost, and his stance tells me he’s a second from swinging it at me when Copelan snags it from his grip.
“It’s only Vasalie,” he says, tossing it onto the bed.
Sundar blinks and shakes his head. “Vasalie, what are you…How—”
“You’re the one in danger of head removal,” I say, setting down the lantern and candlestick to swipe the remaining cobwebs from my hair and clothes.
“Half the Brisendali court probably believes you were the one to murder Rurik. How could you put yourself in danger like this? Someone could try to assassinate you! Not to mention, we have no idea why my father would allow this. He probably thinks he can torture you into a false confession—”
“Which is why my presence might help,” Copelan inserts. “I agree this was a risk, and that one”—he looks pointedly at Sundar—“should have left. But at least I can speak before the Syndicate as to your treatment while you’re here.”
But I can’t let it go. “If something happens to either of you, it will be my fault. I can’t be the reason—”
Sundar grips my shoulders. “I intend to keep my word, Vasalie. That last day, Anton knew that you would be a target. That your father would come after you. If he found out I abandoned you here with Maksim, he’d find a way to break the curse just to murder me. Your safety was a priority for him.”
His priorities were backward, I want to say. Maybe I died killing Illian, but it was only to rectify my mistakes. That he thinks I deserve protection at all makes me want to weep. And yet…
“He wouldn’t want you in danger, either,” I plead, my voice breaking. “Sundar, you are a prince. You cannot risk yourself for the likes of me. You know who really dragged that blade across Rurik’s neck.”
Maybe Queen Sadira was willing to overlook that, but—
“Vasalie,” he says, softly this time. “This is not a choice I made on a whim. My first loyalty is to my nation, which is why I came to speak on my mother’s behalf.
But my loyalty to Anton comes a close second.
I owe him more than you realize. And besides, he’s like a brother to me.
His worries, his cares…they are my own.”
That takes me aback. Very rarely have I seen Sundar like this, his smile withdrawn, tucked behind something somber, insistent. I knew he looked up to Anton, but I didn’t know it ran this deep.
“Sofya showed me the passageway,” I say with a sigh. “She was suspicious of my father before we came. She might be the only ally we have, though I don’t think there’s much she can do.”
“Another pair of eyes watching your father is never a bad thing,” Sundar says. “Especially considering she’s a part of the council.”
Copelan moves past me, peering into the passageway. “The stairwell leads to your room?”
“It does,” I say.
“At least we can get to you,” Sundar says. “In case anything happens.”
“Is there any way out of the tower?” Copelan asks.
“That’s the bad news,” I say, a wave of dizziness causing me to lean my weight against the doorpost. “The only exit has long since been boarded up. I’m guessing my father will keep us locked in here.”
Sundar runs his hands along the stone wall, tipping back paintings and the smaller tapestries hanging around. “Perhaps we can find another way out, then. We’ll need an escape when the thirty days draw to a close.”
“I’ll examine the passage,” Copelan says, grabbing a candlestick and lighting it. “You should get some rest, Vasalie. You look like you can hardly stand.”
I hate that he’s right.
After bidding them good night, I wind up the stairwell once more, the pressure on my knees threatening to topple me by the time I reach my room. I peel off my clothes layer by layer, sliding into the simple chemise I brought.
I wonder what Anton is doing right now. He must feel so alone, secluded as he is.
He thinks that no one cares for him, that no one is on his side.
I should have demanded to see him. To say goodbye, at the very least. My hand curls around his pendant, and I grip it a moment, as if I could somehow reach him through it, before finally easing it off and placing it on the nightstand.
The bed is piled with quilts. I opt not to draw the curtains despite the moonlight reflecting off the snow, and pace to the basin beside the bed.
The water is cold when I pour it out, but I splash it over my face to cleanse it.
When I finish, water beads down the planes of my cheeks, and I reach for the small hand towel hanging next to the mirror.
A face, ghostly pale, flashes across its surface.
Black curls.
A slice of jaw.
Cruel lips, twisted in a smile—
I stumble backward and grasp for the bedpost—only for my hand to slip right through it, as if this, too, is a reflection. My hip slams against the bed frame, a shock of pain rippling through my lower back. A groan slips through my teeth, and then I glance back to the mirror again—
He’s gone.
I stay there, panting, my hand wrapped around the now-solid bedpost, forcing the breath back into my chest.
I am hallucinating—again.
Yet it seemed so real.
And I died, came back from death…
No. He hasn’t returned. He is a mere aberration of my imagination, a phantom sequestered in the broken cavities of my mind. And one does not see the dead; ghosts are a thing of myth from before Mercy’s time. Souls are now bound to the Lair of Morta.
Even so, the chill that skates across my skin is so cold it burns, my pulse a hammer against my skull. I won’t be able to sleep for a long time yet.
While the journey was taxing, I long to return to our time on the merchant’s ship.
At night, Copelan mostly stayed in his cabin and read while Sundar and I tried to best each other in chess, despite the game board missing several pieces; he, the sneak that he is, stole it from a neighboring cabin.
We’d stay up for hours when neither of us could sleep, and for the first time in a while, I hadn’t felt alone.
Shivering from my head to my toes, I peel back the covers and slide between the sheets.
It takes too many minutes for my heart to slow. I lie there, listening to the rhythmic shifting of branches outside, the occasional punctuation of an icicle dropping. The timber creaking within the tower itself.
The pressure in the room thins.
Then the fire goes out, as if doused by a pail of water, and I know I am not alone.