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“You should go now.” Jovack pulled Salas off the table.
Energy coursed through Salas, the ecstatic buzz from the anticipation of a challenge smoothing over any earlier trepidation he had been feeling. There were obviously more pressing concerns than Jovack’s odd behavior. He needed to find a place to conceal himself, and at present, otherwise the game would fail before it started. He would not be at fault for the fun ending early.
Salas allowed a spurt of frantic giggles to erupt through him as he almost-madly skipped away, throwing one last giddy glance to Jovack, who was staring after him with mirthless eyes, before rushing down a corridor. Barefoot as always.
He raced past statue after statue, glancing over through windows to see the far-off glimmer of lights at the palace entrance.
Chapter Three
Think, Salas, think. Where would be the best place to hide?
Salas had participated in treasure hunts before, and had, at one other time, been subjected to the role of the ‘treasure.’ At that time, fishermen and mollusc divers had spent weeks collecting oysters from the clutches of the nearby beaches—Salas had his fill of the shellfish for days.
When the moment had come for the game to commence, Salas had been hiding, his body powdered with white ash so his skin matched the paleness of the palace surroundings, and posing languorously among the infamous Susconian statues. An incandescent trail of pearls had been placed along the cracks of the marble floors to mark a path to him. When treasure hunters had approached, Salas had uncurled, showing that he was not, as it seemed, a statue or a decorative fixture. Then, with the path traced and a winner named, the champion had been allowed to keep their newfound pearls, as well as granted the task of pulling a string of pearls from Salas’ bottom. One would think such a clandestine event would be done in private, but instead, the champion had eased the string out of Salas right there in front of the court. Delighted, the hall had been thick with jeers, encouragement, and various instructions for the unknown man who’d had one hand wrapped in the white beads, and the other on Salas’ ass.
The memory was overstimulating, drawing up a scramble of emotions that Salas wasn’t sure how to place in their abundance. It was beyond his capability to decipher such a perplexing reaction. So, when those feelings were roused, he normally simply brushed them away as he would pesky mosquitos on a humid day and carried on. No second thoughts spared.Thiswas something he knew how to accomplish, and well.
What he did focus on was the memory of the circumstance. There had been a good amount ofplanningfor the treasure hunt: the placement of the path of pearls, a string of them oiled and pushed inside of him. There was no meticulousness present now. At least, as far as Salas was aware. Then again, perhaps his ignorance had been a premeditated decision by a faceless game-maker—his confusion a new source of mirth for everyone, save him.
Salas raced through the corridors on a chariot of memories that carried him down a familiar path. He moved quickly, as he worried he would not be properly hidden before he was found. He learned where his feet were taking him halfway through the journey. The garden room. No one would think to look there immediately. Plus, it was a pretty setting, with overgrown yellow elders pushing in through the windows.Residential, Jovack had said.
Thinking of the man dimmed Salas’ excitement momentarily. The strange urgency Jovack had displayed further weighed on Salas’ mind, leaving him more than a bit irritated that there was no one to provide answers to his questions. Everyone was socializing elsewhere. All but Salas. Was this Jovack’s idea of a joke? Had he sent Salas away to tease him?
Frowning, Salas still gave the foreign statesman the benefit of the doubt and pushed into his old room. It was deathly quiet inside, carrying none of the congenial energy that came with rooms well-resided in. It had probably been over a year since Salas had placed a single foot in it. It was neat, lightly decorated, and hauntingly still.
Salas walked over to the window, spotting a vivid red against the stone. A ruby-bright snake, as thick as a thumb, was making its way across the sill, coming in from the garden.
Salas smiled seeing it, moving to pet the creature that did not react to his touch.
“Why are you here?” Salas murmured to the garden snake. “Have you come to warn me of the poor choice in hiding-spot?”
The snake slithered out the window and vanished.
Salas went over to the bed, tracing his hands over the furniture, allowing recollections of the room to distract him from his doubts. He arranged himself carefully on the white sheets, spreading his skirt-wrap around him in a blooming flower-like fashion, attempting to look delicate and desirable for whomever would eventually stumble their way through the threshold, most likely drunk and breathless, to find him.
Minutes passed by.
Against his better judgment, Salas found himself constantly changing positions, mainly in an attempt to take weight off his rear, where the plug still dug in.
When his legs had gone numb, the sky was blackened and Salas was restless.
Since most of his other senses were useless for perception, he kept his ears trained on the faint sounds from the window. He couldn’t hear the hum of voices or lyres, but every once in a while, there was laughter thick enough to carry to him.
He sighed, fidgeting with the loose bracelets on his wrists and hoping for the time to pass swiftly. Perhaps he should have spoken to Eldron before—
Just then, Salas heard a shrill tone that carried clearly to him from some far, distant point. A scream. Laughter, perhaps? No, a scream.
Is this another game?
Salas sat completely motionless, concentrating on the disruption. The single scream grew into multiple awful cries. Salas had never heard anything like it before. High-pitched and nearly gurgly. The people were terrified of something. Why?
Salas shot up from the bed and raced to the window. With the layout of the architecture, he could just see a bit of the palace entrance, past a corner. Through arches, there was sporadic movement as people, as small as fingernails from this distance, raced about. A light flickered as a torch was either rearranged or tipped over. From here, he could not make sense of the shapes of any bodily gestures, but he understood that the people’s movements were distressed. The screaming continued, scattered but growing in volume as the party became overwhelmed by whatever horrors they were enduring.
Salas noticed swollen shadows that towered over the smaller human figures. There was something there. Beings larger than the company of the party—and the obvious cause of the terror—moved about in fitful, darting motions. Even from a great distance, Salas understood the power behind those movements. Each dart ended a scream. A cry for help cut in half.
Salas was stricken, the spirit of fear creating an icy grip on the self-government of his muscles. All he could do was stare out the window, breathing hard. The screams lessened as they were made, unnaturally, to stop.
What was happening? Why was no one stopping the shadows? His breath came faster and faster until he was choking on it. Only when he heard the roar of the Emperor—an epic cry that had commenced battles in earlier years—ceased as though blown out by wind, did he move.
