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Still, I don’t move until I hear the familiar thud of footsteps approaching the corner I’m hiding behind. Resting behind. Whatever. I tug my cloak free of the brambles at my heels, then spin around the edge of the building, just to prove I’m not actually hiding.
And there’s Princess Elanerill, King Grathgore’s granddaughter. I freeze as my mind spins and panic pulls my throat tight. The man in red, the man she just married, stands beside her with one arm resting protectively on her shoulder. They’re both wearing dark cloaks, but the brilliant shimmer of Elanerill’s wedding dress still scatters light across the grass at her feet, and for a heartbeat that’s all I can see. The bride and groom, the prince and princess of two divided kingdoms. In the bushes. Right in front of me.
I suck in a breath and realize that of course they’re not alone. Arryn is behind them, whispering to an older woman who’s nodding intently. And beside Arryn, standing with his back stiff and his head tilted toward the ballroom windows, his achingly perfect features glowing in candlelight that’s escaped from the celebration to stream through the windows, is Phaedron.
I rip my gaze away from Phaedron like I’ve been slapped. Arryn raises her hand and waves me over. I obey, stumbling a little on the uneven ground, or perhaps under the weight of the royal couple’s gaze.
“How long do we have?” Arryn whispers as I approach.
The man in red, the prince, frowns. “Aloserin said he’ll try to give us at least an hour,” he replies.
“And then their coach will be delayed,” the older woman adds, with a gleam in her eye that makes me think she’s quite pleased with whatever mischief is going to delay a coach. There’s a buzzing sort of vibration in the air when she speaks, the sense of magical potential that I associate with a magician who’s holding a great deal of unshaped power.
Arryn frowns. “That’s still not much time,” she says.
“Well, let’s get going,” the older woman announces, and again there’s a twist to her voice, like she’s been waiting for this for a very long time.
The prince nods. He takes Princess Elanerill’s hand and begins to walk through the garden as if they’re walking down the aisle of the ballroom. I stare after them, blinking as my mind tries to make sense of how exactly I ended up in this situation. Arryn and the older woman follow the royal couple, and it’s only when I see Phaedron turn toward me that I realize we’re actually leaving.
Phaedron. He falls into step next to me, silent as stone as I wiggle my way out of the bushes and follow the strange party. I clench my hands into fists under my cloak and lock my jaw to keep any of the fear and rage inside my chest from leaking out through my lips as we take a strange, circuitous path through the silent city.
Why in the stars are the prince and princess here on their wedding night? And what in the nine hells am I going to need to do? I try to pull ahead, to get away from Phaedron and closer to the woman who must be a magician. Magic pulses off of her with every step, bleeding out through the air. Stars, she won’t be able to hold onto that much magic for long.
Our path leads away from the heart of the city and toward larger, quieter estates set farther back from the road. Walls and lanterns spring up, then grow increasingly ornate, and the bursts of whispers rippling through the group fall silent.
Of course, the prince and princess stop in front of the largest and creepiest gate. This twisted metal gate is wide open, yawning into a garden that appears to be filled with nothing but ominous shadows. I swallow hard as Arryn turns to the prince.
“They’re all at the wedding?” she whispers. “You’re sure?” There’s a catch to her voice that makes me think of the flutter of a bird’s wing.
The prince nods. “We saw them all just before we left,” he answers. “Both of Aloserin’s parents, plus their servant, and every magician in the court except for Lythienne. Aloserin promised to keep them occupied.” The prince’s expression shifts into something that looks almost like a smile. “I think he’s going to announce his engagement. That should create quite a stir.”
Arryn pulls in a breath, then smooths down the front of her dark tunic like she’s trying to prepare herself for a ball. Or a battle. The prince reaches into his cloak and pulls out something small and metallic that gleams with a dull blue shine in the strange light. It looks like a key.
“Let’s be quick,” he says.
As if I needed any incentive not to linger. We duck through the gate and wind our way through a garden that seems designed to intimidate, with looming hedges and strange, angular sculptures, all leading up to a building that looks more like a massive mausoleum than a place for people to actually live. One of the windows along the front is boarded up, which does nothing to detract from the general funeral vibe, and the doors look like they’re made of actual marble.
The prince climbs the stairs two at a time, and the rest of us follow. I cringe at the sound of so many footsteps on stone; it seems to echo across the entire garden, this thundering rush of intruders. The prince slides the key into a tiny notch beside the door. There’s a moment when nothing happens, and the entire Lands Below seems to be holding its breath, and then the massive marble slab swings silently inward, revealing a gloomy hallway lined with a dark red carpet that I really wish did not so closely resemble blood.
The magician hurries inside, followed by Princess Elanerill. I pull up my cloak and hold my breath as I step over the threshold, which is a silly superstition, but I do it anyway. Then Phaedron joins us, his illusion arm crossed over his waist, and finally, the prince pulls the marble door closed behind us. It makes a solid, final sort of slamming sound as it closes, and the last of the light from the glowsoft orbs vanishes.
I feel the pulse of magic before I see it, a little flicker of energy in the hallway, and then a flame bursts into life in the center of Arryn’s outstretched hand. In the flickering illumination of her own magic, she looks almost like a different person. If it weren’t for her dark skin, I could almost believe she belongs down here.
“Third door on the left,” the prince whispers. “Let’s go.”
The third door on the left is made of plain wood and tucked into the wall, the kind of door that probably leads to a storage closet or something equally glamorous. It’s clearly meant to be overlooked, to blend into the surroundings and become invisible.
It’s also the only door I’ve seen inside the house that has a lock. The prince pushes it, but of course, it doesn’t open. A strange, cold, metallic scent rises from the door’s wooden planks, something that reminds me of water at the bottom of a forgotten well, or other things that should not be disturbed.
I pull my cloak tight around my shoulders, trying to hide the shiver that rocks my body. The old woman steps forward and presses her palm against the wood. A flare of magic races across my body, bright and hot, and then the door swings open, leaving a burned smell in the air.
There’s a narrow stone stairway on the other side of the door. It’s dank and cold, of course, but it’s also filled with a strange magical residue that sets my teeth on edge. It feels almost like the churning chaos of the portal Phaedron opened at the foot of my bed, if such a thing could be placed in chains or locked away.
I shake my head as I step through the door, trying to dismiss what has to be an utterly ridiculous thought. Arryn leads the way, with the flame in her palm held high, and the old magician follows. We creep down the staircase and pass a series of doors that look disturbingly like dungeon cells. The sound of our footsteps rings and echoes, growing stronger and stronger as the floor slopes lower into the ground.
There’s another, larger door at the end of the subterranean hallway, and of course, this one also doesn’t yield to the prince’s shove. The old woman places both her hands against the wood. This time, I almost hear the magic sizzle as she pushes it into the lock. Energy pulses around me, throbbing in time to my heartbeat; the woman’s face twists into a silent growl. The magic holding this door closed is thick and oily. It’s been there for ages and it doesn’t want to yield.
The woman makes a sound, a sort of low growl, and the door finally swings open. For a moment, no one moves. The woman leans forward, bracing her hands against her thighs; her deep, gasping breath fills the hallway. Then she stands, brushes her hands together, and grins at us.
