Читать книгу The Empty Throne - Cayla Kluver - Страница 14

Chapter Six

JUST THE SCARS

By the time I reached the marble bridge spanning the River Kappa, my energy was dwindling. I couldn’t track down Sandrovich tonight. It was cold and dark, and I had no idea where the man lived or worked. I needed information. This was too important an undertaking to rush into blindly.

I paused in the middle of the bridge, leaning on the white rail and listening to the water below, for there was only yawning blackness when I looked down. How should I proceed? Reconnaissance, tomorrow, on the south side to see if I could locate the collector. But what about tonight?

The obvious answer was the Fae-mily Home, but I didn’t want to risk an encounter with Fi, not in light of what I’d done. My gut roiled with remorse, and I didn’t want the kindly Faerie to read the guilt on my face or hear the resulting strain in my voice. But I also didn’t want to roam the streets. I contemplated my options, my head throbbing with the effort to concentrate. I could sleep in an alley, rent a room in an inn with the money I’d stolen, or perhaps find a bed in a human shelter.

At the sound of footsteps, I jerked my head around, my hand clutching the long knife at my hip. Though the couple approaching from the north looked innocuous enough, leaning close together, I couldn’t help but question their intentions. I backed away, then ran across the rest of the bridge, needing to get off the street, if for no other reason than to spare my rapidly fraying nerves.

A sign for an inn, advertising its lodgings and public bathing options, caught my eye, and I could see the light of a large hearth fire in its common room through the front window. Despite the hour, people were up, talking and drinking, enough average folk among them that I wouldn’t look out of place if I entered. Because of my hair-dyeing ploy, and the nice clothing provided by Fi, my fear of staying in a better establishment had diminished; and I had plenty of funds, thanks to Tom, Frat, and the Constabulary I had just robbed. I could afford to rent a room for the night—maybe even allow myself the luxury of a bath—and start anew in the morning.

Before I could change my mind, I pushed the door of the establishment open and darted inside. Laughter and the warmth of the fire washed over me, assuring me I’d made the right decision. A number of guests were gathered around a table playing a game of cards, their spirits high, more than a few empty glasses among the filled ones that stood at hand. A moment later, a serving girl wandered out of the back, her red hair lighter than mine had naturally been and curling wildly in defiance of management.

“Room for the night?” she asked, coming over to me.

I nodded, but before I could form a request for food or drink, she took note of my appearance. “And perhaps a bath?”

I apparently looked less put-together than I felt.

“Yes, please,” I murmured, trying to subdue the blush rising in my cheeks.

“Bath first,” she declared, hands on her hips. “Follow me.”

The girl led me through a swinging door and down a hallway off of which opened several private bathing rooms. She ushered me into one that was vacant, then shut the door behind us while I took stock of the area. A wooden washtub dominated the center of the floor, and a bench with folded towels sat against one wall, a water-spotted mirror hanging above it. Nothing exuded luxury, but it was nonetheless clean and inviting, and that was all I required.

“You can undress and hang your clothes here,” the girl told me, motioning to hooks set into the wall beside the door. “I’ll be back with buckets of hot water.”

I sighed. “Thank you. This will be lovely.”

She left, and I struggled out of the clothes Fi had given me. While the garments themselves were in good shape, the day’s activities had left me dirty and stinking of sweat. I heard the door open as I finished removing my tunic and, with a twinge of modesty, turned to keep my back to the serving girl.

Thud, the buckets hit the floor, followed by a half gasp, half shriek. Alarmed and confused, I shot a look over my shoulder, and my heart seemed to drop into my stomach. The serving girl’s gaze was riveted on my back. Hot water sloshed across my feet, and I hopped sideways, smacking my legs against the bench that held the stack of towels. Turning, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and for one dizzy, mind-blurring moment, I thought I might scream, too.

Thick, rope-like scars crawled down my otherwise smooth back, from the tops of my shoulder blades to just above my waist. My wings had been attached by bone and muscle and skin, like any extremity, and where my body had frantically tried to repair itself, it had created a pair of raised dark red scars that spider-webbed into whiteness at the edges.

My breath coming fast and shallow, I sank heavily down on the bench, toppling a few of the folded towels onto the floor, where they immediately soaked up water. I carried a secret on my body. A secret thrust upon me by three strikes of a halberd. I could still feel the imposing shadows of the hunters like a shiver down my spine. People might look at me and see a beautiful young woman, but what lay beneath was ugly and revolting, a mutilation that would drive them away—if I needed any proof, the girl appeared ready to pass out. Who would want to be near the hideous proof of such brutalization? Not me, but I had no choice in the matter. If I did, I would run far and fast.

Then the worst prospect of all bubbled to the surface of my mind. Had my troubled fourteen-year-old cousin Illumina watched this happen to me? Left me bleeding, only to willingly relive the memory of it later? Relish it even, happily drawing pictures of my agony? Trembling, I gagged. No, no, no, it’s not possible. But something inside me disagreed, a part of me I had been trying to ignore, a part of me that not only believed she was capable of such a thing, but that she had done it.

The serving girl’s mouth was flapping soundlessly, her face going from deathly white to blazing red, but I could find no words to comfort her. Wanting to disappear, I threw on my tunic and cloak and rushed from the room and out of the inn, dragging my pack along with me.

The cold of the night air hit me like a slap on the face, and I realized there were tears on my cheeks, beginning to freeze. But I didn’t take the time to wipe them away. I was still running, running, running, desperate to outrun what I had become.

I knew where I was going, though my conscious mind insisted good sense would return to me; that I would change my decision; that I didn’t have to worry or bemoan my weakness because Anya, the principled niece of the Queen, would rear her head before the end. But the Queen’s niece only served to lend her expertise to the question of concealment as she pushed through the door of The River’s End. I pulled up my hood, unable to dispel my fear of discovery by Tom Matlock or some other Constabulary. I could not afford to be stopped now, not when I so desperately needed to lose myself.

The man seated at the table near the vestibule looked up at my approach.

“Back for another go?” he asked, his gold canine tooth the star attraction in his crooked grin.

I swallowed hard, willing my voice to come out evenly, needing to prove I was in control of what I was doing.

“More or less. I need to talk to whoever handles your, ah, inventory.”

“More you use, less you feel.” Robb snapped his ever-present deck of cards, then stood and walked to the cellar door through which lay the cloister of depravity that I craved. He muttered to a larger chap who appeared to be standing guard, and I shifted restlessly, tapping my foot and glancing over my shoulder. I was about to snipe at the men to hurry when they parted company, and I was waved over by the big fellow. I joined him, surveying the gruesome tattoos blanketing his forearms—scenes of beheadings, nooses, and weapons linked together with chains—and something inside said I should flee while I still could. But I stayed in place, seeking an alternate kind of escape.

The man examined me, presumably taking in my age, gender, rough appearance, and slight build.

“Follow me,” he gruffly instructed, apparently satisfied I represented no threat, chewing on the stub of a cigar that bounced around with every word he spoke.

I stayed on his heels while he wove his way through the pub’s patrons and into a dimly lit hallway at the rear of the establishment. He untied a ring of keys from his belt, then inserted one into a door the same color as the stone walls. I might have thought it clever camouflage if not for the unending drabness of this entire place. We stepped inside, and he produced a rusty, leaky old lighter from a trouser pocket. After a good half-dozen attempts, the contraption sparked to life, and he used it to ignite a flame on an oil lamp that rested on a block jutting forth from the wall.

The room in which we stood was cold and damp, for the pub’s heat did not stretch this far. Its floor was dirt, giving it a musty smell, and it was so small, I could have spat from one side to the other. The man from whom I hoped to purchase a supply of Cysur closed the door behind us, and goose bumps appeared on my arms. What if I was now locked inside? I checked the room for another egress, but there was none. This was an aboveground cellar.

“What you want?” the man asked, moving to stand behind a desk that took up half the floor.

I examined his broad face, trying to determine what to say. Though I was a novice with respect to this type of transaction, he didn’t seem the sort to tolerantly guide me along. My mouth opened, but no words emerged. Somewhere—perhaps just in my head—a clock ticked, and my discomfort mounted. I wanted to leave, I needed to stay, I wanted to find a bathroom, I needed to sleep. In the end, I fidgeted, no more able to regulate my nerves than to regulate the clock. The man across from me apparently found this amusing, smiling grotesquely from around the remnants of his cigar.

Thankfully, Robb saved me from further embarrassment, coming through the door bearing a metal-banded wooden chest. He set it on top of the desk, then exited.

“Seat yourself,” the tattooed fellow muttered, pointing to a chair against the wall.

I nodded, sweat running down my back despite the chill in the air. My lack of experience was evident—people were less likely to prey upon someone who appeared self-assured, and I was failing miserably in the act.

The man shifted his attention to the double-locked chest, and made use of two other keys on his ring to open it, leaving me to drag the chair closer. I sat down across the desk from him, resolved to be more assertive to regain what footing I could. He eyed me with a miniscule smirk, letting me know he could see right through my facade, then placed three pouches on the surface between us.

“How do you take your pleasure?”

“I need to know my choices.”

“Figured as much.” He yanked open the first of the pouches and held it out to me, displaying the finely ground powder inside. In the dimness, it appeared black like gunpowder, but when I squinted, I realized it was green, darker even than seaweed swaying in deep water.

“It’s already cut, ready for snortin’,” he informed me.

I yanked my head back, shaking it quickly side to side. He pulled the ties closed and moved on to the next pouch, full of brownish, leaf-like flakes.

“Good if you prefer smoke, like in the den. Downside is it leaves a stink you can’t wash out. This lot you can also chop and wet to rub your gums. But it’ll stain your whole mouth same way the powder stains your nose. The green grin, some call it.”

“I don’t want evidence about me.” On that point, I could manage certitude.

“Your type usually don’t. This’ll be what you want. Evidence ain’t so obvious.”

He removed a vial from the last pouch and set it down to show me the emerald liquid it contained. The light from the oil lamp reflected merrily off the substance—except at its core, where it looked entrancingly cold.

“Won’t it stain, too?”

He laid down a thick-needled syringe. “Not for drinkin’, for shootin’. Needle comes with the package. Your arm will scar, nothin’ more.”

I clenched my teeth, and my breathing picked up. Could I take that needle and plunge it into my flesh? Capitalizing on my silence, the man added some instruction, pointing to my upper arm.

“Just tie somethin’ tight around here, and the vein in your elbow will pop. Not hard once you get the hang of it.”

“And it doesn’t show?”

“Just the scars.”

Scars.

“I already have those,” I said, and picked up the vial and syringe.

* * *

Chrior was as I had seen it last—a city illuminated by the twinkling of snow in the moonlight. I walked along, the crunch of ice crystals beneath my feet calming and rhythmic. With a smile, I gazed upward at the rings of catwalks that wrapped like a coiled ribbon higher and higher, every level lined with homes and businesses. Normally, the sky would be filled with the glinting of Faerie wings as the residents of Chrior zipped along their way, but shops had already closed for the night, and it was cold. Not too cold for me, though. I needed to be out here. I felt it strongly, though I couldn’t have said the reason.

I passed the hub of the city, aware now of the pulse of the Great Redwood, home of the royal Redwood Fae and the Queen’s Court—my home. I started jogging, aching for it, for the warmth of its heartwood, the love carvings adorning its bark, the elemental gifts like jewels decorating the Queen’s throne of twined roots at the base of its inner walls. I ran until my boots no longer met snow, splashing instead into a reserve of water.

I halted, leggings soaked to the knee from my unexpected encounter. Before me, the snow was melting into a shallow lake interspersed with floating ice. It was the middle of winter, cold enough to maintain a frost in full sun, let alone when the horizon had swallowed the light.

Shadows of the Redwood’s branches stretched toward me across the water, and I stepped back. It was too dark for shadows, the hour too late for them to creep like this. Then an orange glow rose from between the shadowy tendrils, reflecting off the shallow pool. I felt the same glow against my skin, hot enough to make me sweat, bright enough to make me squint, and I raised my eyes to its source.

The Redwood was aflame, its bark screaming and popping, its limbs crackling as they neared collapse, a torch too immense for even a giant to wield. It loomed before me, frightening and yet awe inspiring.

Smoke coiled into the already blackened sky, obscuring any stars that might have emerged for their nighttime watch, and I wished I could hide, too. Tears streamed down my face, my horror too great to contain and my eyes stinging from the effuse. Where was Queen Ubiqua? My father, Davic, my best friend, Ione? I sloshed forward—the Redwood, ancient symbol of my people, was lost, along with anyone who was inside it.

The heat grew unbearable, and I was forced to stop again, but this time there was a figure in my view, a silhouette so slight she might have been another shadow. She stood close by the trunk, closer than should have been possible. She would die.

“Get away!” I shrieked above the roar of the flames. “You have to run!”

But the little girl shook her head.

“All this is mine.” Her soft voice was somehow more audible than my shouts. “My birthright. It may burn and fall, but I will never let it go.”

The flames engulfed Illumina despite my warning cries, and even though she was a Fire Fae, I doubted she could survive. Then the mighty tree collapsed into the cradle of freezing water at its base.

* * *

I awoke stiff and trembling, the spot where I lay damp enough to convince me the vision of the Redwood had been real. I staggered to my feet, blinking against the sun, and caught myself with an open palm on a rough wall. I was again in an alley; worse, I wasn’t sure how I’d gotten here, nor was I sure I cared. At least I’d been smart enough to conceal myself behind a heap of rubbish and had pulled my cloak over me like a Faerie Shroud—except instead of hiding my wings and disguising me as human, it had allowed me to pass for human waste.

I peered out at the crowded street, then rubbed a hand over my face. Where was I? I squinted, feeling as though my senses were muted by gauze bandages, and scanned the buildings for clues. The area was mostly residential, with small shops tucked here and there. Over the crest of a roof, I spotted a spire that was familiar. A bell hung between four pillars under the steeple, and it began to ring out the time. I closed my eyes and counted, forcing myself to concentrate despite the fogginess in my brain. Nine bells. The day was still young.

I stumbled out of the alley, almost tripping over my feet. Needing to think clearly despite sickening vertigo, I took several deep breaths. Maybe the Cysur was more potent in a syringe than in a smoke. I didn’t even know how much I’d taken. My memory of the night before was hazy at best—my only clear recollection was of the tattooed man in the pub measuring the drug for me and showing me how to inject it. What had I done with the rest of the supply? Feeling a twinge of panic, I slid my hand inside my pack and found a strangely shaped pouch—from its feel, I could tell it contained the vial and syringe for which I’d paid. Relief flooded me, followed by shame. Never again, I promised myself. Nature, I could have died. Never, never again. Though my promise was sincere, I didn’t take the next logical step—I didn’t get rid of the drug.

I looked around once more, and the reason the church spire was familiar came to me like a dead weight in my stomach. One of the buildings that formed the alley in which I’d slept was likewise familiar. It was the bathhouse I’d hidden beside last night—I was on the same street where I’d interrogated the guard. I must have retraced my path under the influence of the Green. I grimaced. This wasn’t the smartest place for me to be.

I yanked my hood up and made to walk away, quick and quiet, before anyone took note of me, but a swarm of people across the road drew my attention. The group was centered in front of the home I’d invaded a few short hours ago, mutterings rising and falling while they watched and waited...But for what? I’d expected the guard to report the incident, but why so much fuss? The circumstances might be unusual, disturbing even, but not worth the time of an investigation, especially when I was sure my victim couldn’t describe me. He hadn’t gotten a good look at me last night, and considerable time had passed since he’d been involved in my arrest.

The door to the guard’s home swung open and two Constabularies strode out into a semicircular area their comrades had cleared of civilians. The first was broad-chested and walked with an intimidating side-to-side motion, his shoulders leading. Before he raised his silvering head, I recognized him as Constable Marcus Farrier, the man who had led the inquest into Evangeline’s suicide. Experience told me he was businesslike and callous, having professed in the middle of the Fae-mily Home that he gave not a care for my friend’s fate.

The second Constabulary was Farrier’s much younger partner, Officer Tom Matlock. My breath hitched and I sank onto a storefront bench, watching him peruse the curious who had gathered round, afraid his gray eyes would find me. Despite my altered appearance, he would recognize me if I was foolish enough to give him the opportunity. Even though he had twice before refused to arrest me, I doubted I would be granted leniency this time, especially with Constable Farrier at his side. Besides, I feared if Tom even looked into my eyes, he’d know where I’d been finding comfort of late. And I didn’t think I could bear it if the affection and respect he held for me turned into disdain.

Though common sense urged me to flee, my gaze remained fixed on Tom. He had pristine posture and was taller than Farrier by a few inches. Both of them wore the scarlet uniforms of the Governor’s men, though Farrier’s insignia and the hat he clutched under his arm were significant of his higher rank. A breeze picked up, and Tom’s dark hair flitted over his forehead. An urge to reach out and touch it, enjoy its softness, filled me, calling forth the memory of the kiss we had shared, how warm his body had been, how he’d moaned against my lips, how his hands had skimmed my waist, and the tingling sensation his touch had generated inside me.

I could easily have gotten lost in my thoughts, but a snippet of conversation stole my attention. Two women were ambling away from the scene, freely speculating about what might have occurred.

“You’ve seen the old crone what lives there. I saw her crying with my own eyes, I did. Right like she had a heart!”

“Even an old crone is bound to grieve over a murdered son. Especially one what cared for her.”

I was on my feet in an instant. Rushing forward, I grabbed the arm of the woman closer to me without considering how she might react. She swiveled toward me, eyes wild, looking ready to shout or scream. I released her at once, and her posture relaxed, perhaps because I was young enough to be her daughter.

“Did you say someone was killed in that house?” I demanded, sounding a bit like an interrogator.

The woman whose arm I had clutched nodded, her lips compressing into a thin line. “Why d’you think all those Scarlets are out in force? They take care of their own, they do.”

“Seems someone broke into the house and done in the son,” her companion added. “Don’t know how, don’t know why, but on my word, they’ll confirm it all before the day’s out.”

Vertigo revisited me, and I swayed on my feet. The women glanced at each other, then helped me to the bench. Having fulfilled their charitable duty, they hurried on their way, wiping their hands on their skirts as though I might be diseased.

Forcing my breathing to slow and deepen, I tried to ward off panic with reason. The women had to be wrong. News was always distorted before facts were released, and rumors spread faster than weeds. I hadn’t caused the guard serious injury. I had scared him, yes, but he was alive and talking when I left.

But that was before I’d sought out a needle. I racked my brain, trying to remember the rest of the night. What if I’d reentered the house under the influence of Cysur Naravni? What if I had hurt the man during the time I couldn’t remember? I vehemently shook my head. No, the idea was preposterous. And yet, the alley in which I’d awoken was in the guard’s neighborhood.

Another terrible thought entered my head. I had spitefully left the guard tied. What if he had struggled to free himself and tipped over the chair? Could the sash have tightened enough to choke him? Had his mother returned too late to give him aid?

The bell tolled the half hour, and I again looked across the street. A group of Constabularies had just emerged from the house carrying a stretcher upon which was strapped a black-covered form the approximate shape and size of the guard I’d attacked. Remorse hit me like a lightning strike—there was no longer a chance the women were wrong about the man’s fate. A wave of trembling rolled through me, and I stared at my hands. Was there blood on them?

Unable to bear the sight of the guard’s corpse being hauled out of the home, I bolted.