Damsel Knight (27 page)

Boone crouches warily, and gestures at Alice's feet. "Are you hurt all over?"

The girl's feet are swollen, the soles raw wounds. Boone isn't sure how she can stand on them, let alone walk.

Alice shrugs. "It's from our journey here. The scrubbing isn't helping them heal, but it made the infection go away at least. Here. Look. Do you recognise it?"

Boone looks, finding it difficult to tear her eyes away from that raw flesh. She'd known Alice was having a tough time walking, but she didn't think she'd hurt herself that badly. She hadn't complained once.

She blinks. Then blinks again to make sure she's not seeing things. "It's the palace."

"Yes," Alice says brightly, pulling the front of the palace open. "Every bit of it." She tugs the two halves, and they split apart again. Inside is a cross section of rooms. Each one tiny to show as much detail as possible. Here and there dolls as small as fingernails are positioned around the carefully detailed furniture.

Boone leans in close. The doll in the feasting hall wears a little crown. It seems to be looking at the pictures on the wall, too tiny for her to make out.

"Did my father send those men who fought with your father?"

Boone startles at the question. She turns her head to look at Alice with wide eyes. "Yes." The words come out as barely a whisper.

Alice shuffles her hands over the roof, coming away with a thick piece of glass set in a metal ring. She hands it to her. "I'm sorry."

Boone pretends to analyse the object long after she identifies it as a magnifying glass. She holds it up to look at the little doll King's handsome features.

"What Gelert did. Why don't you hate him for that?"

Boone continues to take in the tiny details of the room. She doesn't look around. "He's family. The only one I have left from back then. You can't help but love family, even when you want to hate them."

"That's true," Alice says quietly.

The magnifying glass catches one of the pictures on the wall. From what she can tell it's exactly the same as from the room. Only...she could have sworn that one had been painted out.

An idea blooms inside her, white hot and brilliant. "Alice. When was this made?"

"Before I was born. My father had it made for my mother."

Boone swings the magnifying glass back to the beginning. The figure of the woman is there. Her face obscured with white the same as in the actual room. Some are still painted out, but maybe not all of them.

She moves the glass to the other end of the pictures. The last dozen or so paintings are missing. They hadn't been painted yet. Disappointment crashes through her when she can't find the painting of her father. Either he was still among the barbarians outside the circle, or he hadn't won the King's favour yet.

There's still one thing she wants to check.

The man stands beside the head druid, boys lined up in front of them. She's hoping whatever he did to merit his face being painted over hasn't happened yet. A face will make asking questions about him much easier. And if she finds him, maybe he'll be able to tell her what's going on in those pictures. Why the head druid stays the same and the boys change. Why the page boy was lying in the cellars with his throat slit when she doesn't recall seeing him at any stage of the battle.

What she doesn't expect is to know the face. Mr Moore. Neven's father.

Chapter 28

She's staring at the door.

It's a big door. Solid. The bar is at eye level. It looks heavy. She'd need to put all her weight behind it to lift it off. She could use a stool for leverage.

The wood of the door creaks.

The shed is too small for him. And it's too far from the house, hidden away back here. She'd told father. She'd told him a hundred times. It's not fair.

"I'm sorry Boone."

Cold hands grab her arms, digging in like bony claws. Her mother drags her away from the door. Away from her best friend. Her only friend.

"Your father told you to stay away from it Bonnie!" She shakes her hard. "Why don't you ever listen? Don't you understand how dangerous this is?"

Boone/Bonnie hits her mother with all her strength. She's sobbing so violently she can barely force the words out. "I hate you! I hate you! Father never would've locked him up if you didn't ask him to. This is your fault!"

"This is the right thing."

"This is for your own good!" Her mother hunches over slightly, but the pain in her eyes seems less to do with the punch, and more to do with the words. "This is all for you. Everything I’ve done. I did it for you.”

She doesn’t believe her. The dresses. The needlework. The constant instructions of how to stand, when to speak, who she’s allowed to look at. Her father doesn’t try and force her to be something she’s not.

Her mother’s grip is tight on her arm. Too tight. Her fingers stretch and curl around her wrist like snakes. No, not snakes. Dark green with small blue leaves the shape of ivy. A plant. Her garden with its shed drifts away.

“You can’t be involved in this. It’s for your own good.”

She’s lying on the ground. A girl with pretty black ringlets looks down at her. Alice. By the time the name comes to her, the girl is gone.

Boone shivers. It’s not because of the cool marble under her back, though she thinks she’s been lying here long enough for that to cause more discomfort than it’s doing. It’s her left arm. Something is coiled around it, moving greedily along her skin to cover more of her. Everywhere it touches turns cold. Not the dead numbness of her right arm, but like someone is injecting ice directly into her veins.

She has to get away.

The cold pulls firmly at her mind, pulling her under again. A sudden clear vision appears to her. Julius in that black pool between life and death. Other souls whispering, struggling toward him to cling and drag him further into the depths.

Panic bubbles to the surface of her mind. She clings to it. The feeling is white hot amid the cold, but it won’t last long. The bubbles cause ripples, that quickly become thoughts. One thought in particular.

What would Neven do?

Boone tenses her muscles, glad when some along her right side twitch in response. Just that movement exhausts her, but she can’t stop yet. Concentrating as hard as her muddled mind allows, she rocks to her left, toward the plant.

Getting onto her side is the most difficult thing she’s ever done. Her body brushes against the creeping vine, and it reaches out eagerly. It wraps around her other arm like it’s greeting an old friend, reaching into the sling to embrace as much of it as possible.

Then it twitches. The whole thing spasms wildly, drawing away so fast there’s pain.

She doesn’t let it escape. Her dead arm grabs hold of it so hard she hears something crack. It whips violently back and forth, slamming against her face and body. If it could make noise it’d be screaming.

A crash. Dirt spreads over the floor from the broken plant pot, disappearing moments later as the scrubbing spell cleans it up. Her limbs move groggily but sure as she wraps her legs around the plant stem, trapping it.

Her dead hand’s grip increases until she can feel the tension in the parts of her body with feeling. Her jaw tenses around the numb patch on her cheek. The parts of her neck and chest still her own tense in sympathy.

The vines fall limp, the blue leaves folding in on themselves as if trying to hide. The green takes on a grey tone.

Her arm is absorbing the plant’s energy, she realises with faint revulsion. Much like it tried to do to her. Except, her arm is stronger, more vicious. The plant is nothing more than a sedative. Not like her arm. Her arm keeps taking.

Pushing herself backward in horror, she tries to order her hand to let go. Her fingers twitch, but stay clamped shut. Part of her wants to leave them like that. To let them absorb every bit of energy. There’s a sharpness to her mind that wasn’t there before, not since the last time she’d used her arm like this.

She hadn’t noticed. Somewhere along the way she’d become worse than the lost ones. At least they don’t mean to hurt others. They follow an instinct, and don’t have the memories to tell them why they shouldn’t. She has memories. Yet here she is, following dark instincts, like the lost ones, like Gelert that day.

Using her good hand, she pries the numb fingers from the plant. The whole thing shatters into a dozen withered pieces. Too late.

Shakily she gets to her feet. Her dead arm helps her.

The chamber is a soft dark, the kind that comes shortly before the sun decides to declare day. Her legs tremble. She must have been here for hours.

Where’s Alice?

Remembering the girl’s face hovering over hers, and her desperate apologies, she’s not sure she wants to know. Checking her sword is still strapped to her back, she walks past the dead plants and out of the chambers.

The palace is quiet.

It’s a deathly silence she associates with tombs, but not as friendly. Until the lost ones she’s never had cause to be afraid of the dead. Who would be? The ancestors are prayed to, often, and look out for the living.

The way her footsteps barely make a noise in the marble palace feels like something to be afraid of.

Halfway down the stairs leading to the ground floor she’s proven right. Soldiers are strewn like puppets around the vast entrance hall. For a moment they look dead, slack faces pale, and bodies sprawled as if they’d had their strings cut. Then one of them breathes.

Boone lets out a breath of her own. Neven may be right. People might be complicated, but she doesn’t want to believe that Alice has a side to her so dark she’d be prepared to kill.

Her shoe raps against a fallen cup. It rolls in a slow circle, giving her a glimpse of the tea leaves at the bottom. They’re blue.

What is Alice thinking? How can this be the right thing? How can she go from a girl playing with dolls one night, to poisoning men before the sun’s even come up?

Setting her jaw, she marches to the palace doors and pulls them open. Outside is chaos.

Makeshift soldiers run back and forth in the pale light, gathering weapons as they go. The air stinks of smoke, and amid it all a horn screams, quick and shrill. The barbarians are back.

***

Boone makes her way through the chaos uncertainly. Alice did something. She knows that. But she couldn’t have anything to do with this, could she? The barbarians are the enemy, and a princess wouldn’t side with savages.

Men line the walls, armed with what looks like every bow and arrow the palace has, but they aren’t aiming them. They look nervous, alert, but not fearful. Of course they don’t. They’re assigned to the walls. The only people in danger are the ones who step outside.

Except, they don’t know what Boone knows.

She grabs a soldier she half recognises as he runs past. “Where’s Julius?”

He blinks at her, then his eyes go wide. “I don’t know Sir. But Sir Angus is on top of the wall if you’ll be wanting to speak to him.”

Giving the man a rough nod, she moves in that direction. Angus. Why did it have to be Angus?

She runs, wishing she had time to rush to the armoury first to pick up the mail and shield they’d pieced together for her. The boiled leather is sturdy, but the thought of seeing Angus makes her want several more layers of protection. Facing an army without chain-mail feels safer than facing Angus in only her leather vest and cotton shirt.

"Where's Julius?" She asks as soon as she reaches him.

He frowns down at her, looking even more displeased to see her as she does seeing him. "Calming down your dragon. The barbarians sent some of their men to soak the beast in ice water. The monster burned our scouts seeking its revenge."

Boone swallows. Scouts tend to be young. Some no older than seven.

"Whatever happens, keep the barbarians away from the walls."

Angus scoffs. "The palace walls will keep them out."

Boone decides not to bring up the fact that not long ago it had been Julius saying that to Angus, in order to keep him inside the palace walls. He wouldn't find the irony amusing. "Just trust me Angus. Keep them away from the walls."

He watches her carefully. "Is this one of your tricks?"

Her heart drums hard in anger. She clenches her fists, both of them. "I've never tricked you." It's mostly the truth. "You're the one who betrayed my trust. Trying to kill me, when all I've done is my duty. Isn't it time you give me the benefit of the doubt?"

He looks for a moment like he might start yelling. Then he turns to the barbarians edging closer, their bronze shields high to block arrows. There are more than last time, and she gets the feeling she hasn't seen their true numbers yet.. "They won't touch the wall. But do this duty of yours and get to that dragon. Whatever power you have over that beast - we need it."

She sprints away. She'd have preferred to hear the promise from Julius, but there isn't enough time.

Running along the top of the wall, she weaves around the men with bows and arrows. No catapults here. Taking pot-shots at the countryside to amuse the troops is one thing, firing catapults into a city another. With that one function gone, catapults if they existed, fell out of use on the palace walls.

Without them her path is clear.

Seeing a familiar face, she grabs his arm and pulls him along beside her.

Ness stumbles, then seeing her hurries to catch up. "This had better be important."

She doesn't answer. Her eyes stay focused on the inside of the wall. She hopes it's not important. She hopes she's wrong.

He runs beside her as the wall empties of people. His face is lined with worry. She thinks of telling him it's not that. It's not Neven she's worried about. It's just a question that's been spiralling through her head ever since Alice did what she did.

All this time they've been thinking they're safe. The barbarians can't get through the wall. No one can. Except, apparently the wall can be broken from the inside.

That's not a problem. Keep the enemy out and the wall won't break.

Except for that question drilling through her skull. What if they're already inside?

Most of the wall is free of troops. Hopefully Angus will trust her enough to spread his few soldiers out to watch for approaching barbarians. If there's someone inside the palace ready to break the spell on the wall, then the barbarians at the front are nothing more than a distraction. There will be others waiting to climb over like the outer wall. That's what she'd do.

Between breaths she explains her thoughts to Ness, leaving out Alice's suspicious behaviour.

His jaw tenses, but some of the worry leaves his eyes. Not breaking stride, he points at the building up ahead.

The barracks. Of course. It's the building closest to the wall. Not as close as the slums, but enough to ferry troops over with a simple bridge. In a time of battle like now, it'll be less watched than the few stone steps leading down from the wall.

When they come in line with the building she sees another reason. The barracks covers a large piece of the wall from view. And slight noises drift up from the dark space between building and wall. Some kind of high pitched whine.

Boone backs up as far as the wall will let her, then jumps down onto the roof of the barracks. She manages an awkward roll with the sword strapped to her back, and is on her feet the moment Ness lands beside her.

It's an ungraceful landing. He crumples over his leg, swearing. A bang sound from the gap below covers most of the words.

Boone crouches next to him, placing a hand firmly over his mouth. There's no need. He freezes in the silence that follows the noise, eyes wide. Catching her gaze, he shakes his head slightly, pleading with her for it not to be true.

Boone shrugs her good shoulder, trying to squash the emotions down. It's no good. They rear up again, like wild horses refusing to be tamed this time.

They both know that sound.

Boone gets to her feet. She has to go closer. She could be wrong. Please let her be wrong.

Ness grabs her leg firmly, extending his other hand toward her when she turns around. Of course he wouldn't let himself be left behind. The bighead probably even thinks he's being useful.

She heaves him to his feet. It's easier than she'd thought it would be. She might still be less than five feet tall, but these past weeks have been kinder on her than they have on him.