Red Palace (9 page)

“No, Casimir, I am not pleased. I’m not angry, but you must turn around and move back to the window. Do it now, darling.”

My heartbeat quickens and I place a hand over my chest. Where is Lyndon? Why has he told Casimir to do this? He may only be four years old, but there is something worldly about him. I fear it is to do with how much time he spends with the king. The man is a bad influence.

Casimir takes small steps towards the window and my heartbeat begins to calm. When he
is safe I will run to him and scoop him up and smell his hair again. The absence of him in my arms makes me ache in the bottom of my stomach, an ache that longs for another baby. That ache will go ignored. I will never bring another child into the world, not when the father of that child is the king. If I’d known then what I know now…

With a jolt
, I realise that the dark head of my second child waits for Casimir at the window. Lyndon stands, oddly tall for a four year old, waiting for his brother.

“Lyndon, move away from the window and let Casimir
back into the castle,” I shout through the bars of my own window. They are easily wide enough to let a small child like Casimir through.

My muscles begin to clench. Lyndon has a smile on his face that lifts the hairs on the back of my arm.
I send a prayer up to the Gods.

“Lyndon, h
elp your brother back into the palace. Lyndon, do this or Mummy will be cross.” I back away from the window, ready to sprint to the other side of the castle. If anything happens it will be too late. It is too far to dash across. “Guards! Guards! Help my son.” I know it is useless to call for the guards. There are so few of them now. “Finan! Help us, Finan!”

Lyndon reaches his small chubby arms through the bars of the window.
Casimir is crying now. He realises what he’s done and he is afraid. My heart twists at the sound of his voice. It is too much. I have to go to him.

I turn and run through the room, turning in the direction of the
crying. On the way I stop and stare out of the window. I don’t have as good a view as in my room, but here I can see Lyndon’s arms moving towards Casimir.

“That’s it, help your brother,” I call out in my most soothing voice.

I’m about to move away in order to continue across to the boys, when I notice Lyndon’s hands. They are not open as though to take Casimir’s hand in his, they are flat, as though he intends to push him.

“Lyndon!”
I scream. “No!”

The scream that leaves my body ripples through the castle like a strong gale. I collapse in on myself, my knees buckling beneath me. With one hand, I grasp uselessly onto the bar of the window, as though I can still reach out to him. I will never smell his hair again. I will never feel him in my arms again.
I will always see him, falling, falling…

Small footsteps tip tap along the castle stones. A tall child appears around the corner of the wall.

“Why are you sad, Mummy? I will be king now. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? Daddy says so.”

I wake
in a pool of sweat. Thank the Gods, it was just a dream. Still, I think I will check on the boys.

As I plan to
leave my bed, I become aware of someone else in the room.

“Casimir?”
I say. My voice is a whisper.

“No, Mother, it’s your second choice.”

My breath freezes in my throat. “Lyndon, my darling boy—”

“Save it,” he says, in an ice cold voice. Lyndon has never been an affectionate child. There has always been a
sense of disconnection in the way he interacts with the world, but this new tone is different. It frightens me. “I know what you think of me. I know that I am not your favourite. I don’t think you even like me. Daddy liked me. Casimir hated me. Maybe it was because I stabbed the whining boy with a sword, who knows.”

My voice trembles. “What do you mean… hated?”

Lyndon tosses two heads onto the bed as casually as if they were bread rolls. My second scream of the night rips from my body as though someone has reached down my throat and dragged it out. Without a second thought, I swat them off the bed and crawl up until my knees are under my chin. My son and my husband. My son. Dear Casimir. My Cas. And I swatted him away like a bug.

He died a violent death.

The pain is too much. I am broken.

“I’m going to be king,” Lyndon says.
“As soon as I’ve got you out of the way.” He lifts a bloodied knife and the moonlight catches the blade. A manic grin reflects in the steel.

I suck in air as I wake, with tears running down my face. It was the worst one of all. I
was
the queen in that vision. There was nothing I could do to change it. I felt so helpless. I had felt the pain of a mother whose son had killed his sibling. I saw her entire world crumble in one, awful moment.

My throat burns with
held back sobs. I rub tears away with my sleeve. The poor woman. Of all the fears I have experienced, hers is by far the most disturbing.

I lift my head and try to compose my thoughts. The Nix taunted me before this vision, taunted my ability to decipher his riddles. Well I know this
one; I knew it immediately, like I knew myself. It was evil. Pure evil. But still, my mind is in a spin. None of these visions make any sense. Am I supposed to take something from each one? There is only one thing that connects them all, and that is fear. Ellen is afraid of her father finding out her secret, Cas is afraid of his brother, Beardsley is afraid of his inventions, and the queen is afraid of her youngest son. But out of all the visions I have walked through there is one that stands out. The vision in the Waerg Woods where the Nix replayed a memory, but showed me Cas’s side instead. Why would the Nix show me that?

These visions are needlessly confusing. If the Nix wanted to kill me, it could have jumped out from behind a corner and squirted me with its serum. The Gods know that last time I almost finished the job myself. Yet so far it has remained hidden. It is tormenting my mind instead of my body. That i
s why I must seek it out myself—before I lose my mind.

As I pick myself up and continue on my task,
I can’t help but wonder if the king is secretly plotting to secure Lyndon on the throne. If he is, that would mean murdering his own son, and he would have to do it before Cas married Ellen. The king still believes that Ellen is the craft-born and his plan is for the future queen of Aegunlund to be the craft-born. Perhaps that would explain why Beardsley is filled with regret. Maybe the king has conspired with Beardsley to kill Cas.

Surely he couldn
’t do that. I won’t believe it. But I can believe that it is a dangerous time to be the king’s least favourite son
and
the heir to the throne. When I break the curse I must warn Cas, or the queen, that I suspect foul play. I feel sick at the thought of Cas being in such danger. The sight of him murdered… it was too much.

E
very muscle in my body shakes from fear and weakness. I need to find food before I hunt the Nix. I’m dehydrated and my stomach growls angrily. Keeping my back to the wall and silently moving my feet, I tread softly through the castle. The kitchen is on the level above.

The ki
tchens are eerily silent. I’m used to the cook being there to shoo me away from her stew, or rap me on the knuckles with her wooden spoon when I try to steal a pastry. My heart twists to see her slumped over the long table, her arms hanging down loosely. At least the spoon is still in her fingers. I help her onto a chair, and then do the same for the staff. At least then they won’t hurt themselves when they wake.

I swallow.
If
they wake.

For the first time since the curse began
, I find myself considering the fact that I might lose. After all, the odds are stacked against me. I am just one girl who cannot use her powers to their full potential, or fight well with a sword. I cannot see anything consistent within the visions for me to be able to fight through them. What will happen to all the innocent people locked away in Beardsley’s room? Will they just die? Will the Red Palace remain under the curse for years to come? Aegunlund will be plunged into chaos without the security of the royal family. I might hate the king and all that he stands for, but to have no one on the throne would be worse. Who knows what kind of fighting might break out, or what kind of tyrant might claim the throne?

My burden seems
to increase a little at a time, bit by bit, until my back doubles over with the weight. I have a choice—I can shoulder this burden, lift my head up and keep going, or I can buckle under it. I’m not prepared to buckle under. I refuse to see innocent people suffer. Allerton was right about many things.

The kitchen is not cobwebbed like the rest of the castle. There is an undeniable stillness, and when I knock a pan to the floor, the clatter causes my muscles to tense up and my heart
to pound. I reach down, replace the pan back onto the table, and continue into the larder.

While I’ve never been allowed into the larder, I know this is where the cook stores supplies for the castle, and I know that this is the most likely place to find food. My mouth waters at the sight of fresh bread and cooked meat. I hurry back into the kitchen in search of a
knapsack. I settle on an apron, which I can tie up and loop over my back. On my way back to the larder I spot a punnet of fresh strawberries and pop one into my mouth. The juices are delicious.

After a meal of bread, ham and cheese, and after I’ve filled the apron with slices of cooked meat, bread and fruit
, I loop the straps over my shoulders and under my armpits, securing the food on my back. I gather a few extra supplies, like matches and candles. I lift up the sword and practice a swing. With my stomach full and my thirst quenched—I sipped on wine from the larder which both warms my blood and pulses courage through my veins—I am ready. This time, I know I can defeat the Nix. It’s time to hunt.

As I stalk the corridors of the Red Palace
I think of the times Father took me hunting. I was always a bad hunter. Too impatient, I would startle the prey by hurrying towards them with my bow and arrow stretched. More often than not, I released the arrow too quickly, alerting rabbits and deer to my presence, while missing them by an arm’s length.

Father said it was because my heart wasn’t in it. When we practiced with bottles in the
woods, I hit the target dead on. But when it came to taking a life, I always missed. He thought that my heart ruled my head, forcing me to make a mistake and spare the animal’s life. After that, I let Father hunt and I cooked instead, nursing my wounded pride. I always considered it a weakness, and indeed, I tried to keep Cas from noticing my reluctance to take a life. It was only when Sasha brought it out into the open that I was forced to acknowledge it.

I cannot let that weakness resurface when I face the Nix.

As I’ve travelled the length of the East Wing, logic tells me that the Nix must be hiding somewhere in the West Wing. I set off in that direction, gripping the hilt of my sword. This time I can’t miss my mark. I don’t have anyone here to help me, not even Allerton. I can’t hesitate. I can’t scuff my heels against the stone floor, or drop a bread roll. I must stay alert. I must be ready. My skin tingles with anticipation, and my recent meal gurgles in my stomach. What if I don’t have the heart for it?

I focus myself by thin
king of Anta in my vision. This one felt different. It felt as though Anta saw me, really saw
me
. I could be wrong, of course. It could be the Nix trying to mess with me. That’s how it works after all. It wears you down until you can’t fight anymore, can’t
think
anymore. It was a warning. It had to be. If I close my eyes I can feel the warm blood dripping through my fingers. He is in danger, and when Anta is in danger I run to him without hesitation. This is no different. Only this time, I have a curse in my way.

Somewhere in the
west of the castle comes a sound. It’s faint, but a
thud
followed by a scuttling noise. I freeze. My pulse quickens and I move back against the wall, lifting my sword, listening.

Silence.

After a few moments, I press on,
moving gingerly, catlike. I’m aware of my breaths and the slight film of sweat on my palms. I adjust my grip, taking care not to drop the sword. Never before has the tiny scrape of my shoes against stone sounded so loud.

Clickerickericker
-ick-ick.

The Nix! I spin
towards the noise, but am faced with nothing. I can no longer control my breaths, they become ragged and laboured with fear.

Ick-ick-click-click
.

As soon as I hear those sounds I am back in the Waerg Woods. The memory of the sickly coating of its serum on my arms and legs is real enough to cause me to check I am still unhindered.

Those terrible visions flood my mind: a servant to
Cas, unequal to him as he becomes king, melancholy and lonely as I attempt to take my own life. I had wanted desperately to leave that vision. I resolved to disappear from the Red Palace and travel down to the Haedalands to allow him to live his life with Ellen without my interference. Now, as I hunt the Nix, that’s all I can think about, how I still might become the woman in my fears.

No
. This is what the Nix wants me to contemplate. It knew all this time that I would never be able to stay with Allerton, and it knew that I would be alone. I am not strong. I am weak, and I let my own fears swallow me whole.

I lift my
sword and move forwards. The East Wing is long and winding, with many unused rooms to pass. But I head towards the library in the west, passing slumped guards and dusty tapestries. The light streams in from the narrow windows, picking out tiny specks of dust suspended in the air, and highlighting bright squares on the floor.

The
noise comes back, but this time I am ready for it.

“Your clic
king doesn’t scare me anymore, you overgrown slug!”

My voice echoes through the winding corridors of the castle.

Click-ick-icker-ricker-ick.

That scuttling sound never fails to make the hair stand up on the back of my neck.

I steel myself, lifting the sword aloft. As I walk towards the sound, I calm my breathing and think of wind. I must make sure my powers are at the surface if I am to fight.

Craft-born, you do not need to be scared,
it says.
That is not the purpose.

“Then
what is? Tell me what you want.”

A sick chuckle ripples through my mind. I want nothing more than to clamp my hands over my ear
s.

Telling you would achieve nothing,
craft-born. You will retrieve what I want regardless. You will have to
.

“Why?”

I step around another corner, expecting to see the sight of its enormous black, slithering body. There is nothing to see.

“Why?”

That laugh comes back and it makes me gag. I’ve never heard a laugh dripping in such malice. The evil almost seeps through my heart.

I cannot take this anymore. I have to finish it once and for all. When another turning becomes fruitless, I break into a sprint, running as fast as I can towards the
library.

“What are you going to do to Anta? If you harm my stag, or
Cas, I’ll kill you!”

More laughter.
This time it doesn’t sound as though it is in my head. It is coming from the right. I change direction and follow the sound. As I pass old paintings of the royal family, and dusty suits of armour, the sword weighs down my arms until the muscles ache.

“Come out and face me, you coward!” I scream.

All in good time, craft-born
, it taunts.

That’s when I realise that I’m being tricked. The Nix has planted the sound of its laughter in my mind, and while I’ve been chasing it through the hallways, the Nix has gone in a completely different direction. I swear under my breath and turn back. Where could it be?

I have to take a risk. If I cut through the library and run to the left, maybe I can cut the Nix off as it moves through the West Wing of the castle. It must be heading in the opposite direction to me. It might not work. For one thing, the Nix might have turned off along the way, but it is the only thing I can think of.

I grip the hilt of the sword and
enter the library through the great wooden doors. It is a large, tall room with a mezzanine floor and a balcony overlooking the stacks. Normally I love the sight of the library, it reminds me of Father teaching me to read, but now I am tensed, coiled like a snapped whip, my knuckles white and my throat dry. Yet I concentrate. As I stalk through the quiet library I think of wind. I focus on howling gales and twisted tornadoes. I imagine the doors on the opposite side of the library and the corridors beyond. I can send two gusts of wind coming from either side to trap the Nix somewhere along the hallway, giving me an advantage.

It takes much of my
attention to summon wind and run at the same time, and as I cross the room my mind slips into a dangerous wooziness that I have to pull back. With a shake of my head, I manage to keep myself together. One of the tornadoes rips ahead of me, churning the castle in its wake, shredding a tapestry as it travels.

I hurry along behind with my sword lifted.
There is no longer silence in the castle and the clicking noise of the Nix has ended. Out of the library, I take a right and follow my creation. There is little I can make out through the wind, but I keep my eyes on the lookout for a large black shape. Surely even the great Nix will be hurt by the searing strength of a tornado.