The Wildkin’s Curse (40 page)

Priscilla opened her door cautiously and looked out into the shadowy corridor. All was still and quiet. She hefted the heavy pack higher on her shoulder, then crept out, closing the door behind her.

She had borrowed some of Merry's clothes and crammed Zed's pack with everything she thought might be useful. On an impulse she had caught up her red parasol as she passed it, unable to bear leaving all of her beautiful new things behind.

Hurrying down the corridor, she heard bells begin to peal out and wondered, with a spurt of panic, what had happened. She quickened her steps, looking down the steps into the quiet hall below.

Suddenly someone stepped out of the shadows, barring her way. Priscilla gave a little cry and started back.

‘And where do you think you're going, my pretty?' a high-pitched voice asked.

‘Zakary!' Priscilla cried. ‘How you scared me!'

‘Tsk, tsk, this is very suspicious, isn't it? Sneaking down a corridor, dressed in boy's clothes, with a travelling pack on your back. Making a bolt for it, are we?'

‘I'm . . . I'm playing a game,' Priscilla said, trying to get past him.

‘I think you're a little old for games,' he said, in a hateful, purring way. ‘I saw you slip away from the feast and thought you might be up to something. What's going on? Where is your dear, dear brother, and what does he plan to do now that he's disposed of the king?'

‘I have no idea what you're talking about,' she said, staring at Zakary blankly, a dreadful coldness stealing through her.

He gripped hold of her arm. ‘Can't you hear the bells? The king is dead. Your loving brother pushed him off the dais and cracked open his head. Now the crown is up for grabs, and I'll be damned if I let that fat old cow get her hands on it. I know Zed must have some plan up his sleeve, and I fancy that you may just be the one to help me find out what it is.'

Priscilla began to struggle, and he gripped her tightly, forcing her towards the stairwell, hurting her wrists.

Priscilla jerked herself free and hit him as hard as she could over the head with her parasol. He grabbed it from her and snapped it over his knee, saying, ‘Now, now, temper, temper. Most unladylike! When we are married, my sweet, I shall have to teach you some manners.'

‘As if I'd ever marry you!' Priscilla trod as hard as she could on the long, pointed toe of his high-heeled red shoe. To her immense pleasure, he tripped, stumbled and lurched forward, tried to save himself but failed, and pitched head-first down the stairs. Over and over he fell, head over heels, bouncing and banging at every step. He landed, winded and shaken, at the very base of the stairs.

‘Really, Zakary darling, I always thought those shoes of yours were far too ridiculous,' she said sweetly. ‘I really must suggest you try some nice sensible boots.'

Then she turned and ran as fast as she could towards the other stairway, which led down to the postern gate and freedom.

Rozalina was curled up in one corner of her glass room, choking with tears, the leather muzzle making it hard to breathe. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and stared desperately down at the courtyard, trying to understand what was happening. Soldiers were fighting against the darting shapes of escaped wildkin, while courtiers scrabbled to get away. Lady Vernisha sat at the high table, ordering platters heaped high with food to be brought to her. The starkin crown teetered precariously on top of her wig, the diamond glinting bright shards of light, while the pug dog on her lap barked hysterically at a swarm of peskies swooping about the courtyard. Every now and again Lady Vernisha swatted one away with her fan. Rozalina could see no sign of Lord Zedrin, or Palila, or anyone who might help her.

A door creaked open. ‘We tried and we failed,' a voice said in a tone of utmost despair. ‘All those years, working in the shadows, with nothing to show for it.'

Rozalina scrambled to her feet, jerking desperately at the leather muzzle. She could not free herself and so ran towards the voice, her hands held out imploringly.

Palila stood in the open doorway, the key still in her hand. Her wrinkled face was wet with tears. ‘He killed Horace. He killed my poor old bird.'

Rozalina whimpered behind the muzzle, and tried again to wrench it from her head.

‘I thought if I told him about the boy . . . if I proved my loyalty, he would leave us be. I should've known better; he likes to hurt, he likes to kill.' Palila sank down to the floor, keening softly, hiding her face. Rozalina knelt before her, reaching for her hands. Once Palila's hands had been strong and gentle, but Ambrozius had wound cords around each finger and twisted cruelly till the fingers were almost severed. Now Palila could barely hold a quill, or crush herbs in her pestle, or knot her sash. Very gently Rozalina lifted those bent, scarred hands towards the leather muzzle, imploring her with her eyes, with her strangled voice, to set her free.

The old woman fumbled at the buckle of the muzzle, and at last managed to unfasten it and lift it away from Rozalina's face. ‘My poor girl, I'm so sorry. I should have realised he never meant for you to live.'

Rozalina gasped for breath, then flung the leather muzzle as far from her as she could. ‘We need to get away from here!'

‘It's no use,' Palila replied wearily. ‘That old toad of a woman has declared herself queen. They will kill you if you try to escape.'

‘There must be a way!'

Palila shook her head. ‘There are soldiers everywhere downstairs, they guard the door. I had to argue to make them let me in, and they've said I'm only allowed a minute. I thought I would rather die here with you than wait to hear the explosion.'

Rozalina stared at her. ‘Explosion?'

‘They have filled the cellar below the tower with tanks of fusillier fuel. He plans to blow the tower up at sunset . . .'

‘Ambrozius?'

Palila nodded. In slow, halting sentences she told Rozalina how Merry had climbed the cliff to her cave that morning, and how she had sent Horace to the astronomer with a note. With every word, Rozalina grew stiffer and colder. She pulled her hands away from Palila's trembling grasp.

‘You betrayed him? Palila, they were here to rescue me! They put their lives at risk for me. How could you do such a thing?'

‘I wanted you to be queen,' Palila cried. ‘You have the Tongue of Flame, you could have swayed them all to your will!'

‘Do you think that is what I wanted? I only wanted to be free!' Rozalina hunched over the sickness in the pit of her stomach. ‘Now I understand.
Dark forces gnaw at the roots of the throne . . .
well, it seems I was right, and my tower shall be my grave.'

Palila wept heartbrokenly. Rozalina stood and pressed her hot face against the cold glass. Suddenly her eyes widened, her breath caught. A tall figure ran out from the base of the tower, a bright cloak about his shoulders, a sword in his hand. The light from the torches blazed on his golden head. Lady Vernisha scowled and waved a pheasant leg, and soldiers ran to engage him. Deftly he parried and struck, then leapt with extraordinary agility high into the air and somersaulted clear of a dozen swords that would have pierced him through. He landed lightly, then leapt again, the cloak flaring wide as he flew to catch hold of a flagpole and swing himself up, far above his attackers.

‘He comes!' Rozalina cried. ‘See, there he is! He has not abandoned me.' She turned and seized Palila's hands. ‘You need to go! Tell the guards that I am safely muzzled and secured. Go and find that poor young man and help him away from here.'

‘I don't want to leave you,' Palila sobbed.

‘If you don't leave now, you'll die in this tower of mine. I don't want that. You'll never have a chance to make amends for what you have done.'

‘But I'm afraid . . . he will know, he will stop me.'

‘You must try,' Rozalina said. ‘Have courage, Palila. Were you not the one who taught me that we only have one life and only one conscience?'

Palila took a deep breath and stood straighter, her misshapen hands clenched into fists. ‘I'll try. I wish . . .' Her voice broke.

‘I wish that we shall see each other again,' Rozalina said in a strong, sure voice.

The old woman hugged her close and then left her in that small room at the top of the crystal tower. Rozalina flung open the casement of her only window.
He will come
, she told herself,
and we shall fly free.

Merry sat on a plush-velvet chair and, with his one good hand, accepted the glass of wine that was offered to him. His broken arm was strapped neatly against his chest.

‘My dear Lord Merrik, if I had only known,' the astronomer said. ‘The pit is kept only for serfs and slaves, not for starkin lords. Please accept my apologies.'

Merry looked at the astronomer with a puzzled expression. ‘I'm sorry? I'm no lord.'

‘Have some roast boar,' Ambrozius said. ‘It's rather cold, I'm afraid, but still quite delicious.'

Merry obeyed. He felt quite faint from lack of food. He knew he had to be able to think clearly if he was to escape the astronomer.

He was in a wide, round room, filled with soft couches and chairs set on a deep blue carpet. The panther lay on one couch, blue eyes slitted sleepily, its white pelt showing faint spots and markings under the blaze of candles.

The curtains had been drawn back to show a vast view of the sea and sky. Merry was shocked to see how late it was. The sun was setting in the west, turning the clouds orange and rose and gold, and the sky was dark.

‘Now, let us get down to business,' Ambrozius said. ‘Really, it's no use pretending with me, Lord Merrik. I know exactly who you are and what you are doing here. I know that your grandmother was Princess Druzilla and that your grandfather was the bellringer of Levanna-On-The-Lake. Do you really think a starkin princess could be permitted to elope with a music teacher? Of course not! We had her brought back as soon as we could track her down.'

This surprised Merry out of his slack-jawed act. ‘You had her brought back? I thought . . .'

‘That she'd come back of her own free will? No, no. She was kidnapped from the ship. She came quietly, so her peasant husband would not be hurt. She even took off her wedding ring and laid it on the table so he would not suspect she had been taken against her will. Of course, if the king had known she had given birth to a baby, he would have made sure the brat was killed, but he did not know.'

‘So how did you find out?'

‘Palila, of course.' Ambrozius yawned. ‘Dear me. I thought you were meant to be bright. She had helped Princess Druzilla elope, but really that could not be permitted. So we brought them both back, and it was my job to make sure that Palila of the Birds would never betray us again. I was only a young man, new to the game, but I think I did my job well.'

Merry suddenly remembered where he had heard the name Palila of the Birds before. It was the name of the woman who had witnessed his grandparents' marriage. He just managed to stop himself from glancing to where his pack lay on a nearby chair, the box of bells protruding from the top. Ambrozius must have had it brought from the dungeon, along with his lute in its leather bag.

‘Of course once we knew a brat had been born, we had to hunt him down and kill him. Only your grandfather had disappeared. Who would expect him to hide himself in the role of a lowly bellringer? It was when we first heard the rumours of a boy who spoke prophecies that we began to realise who your father might be. Thanks to letters smuggled to Palila by the rebels, I was able to track him down and . . . well, you know what happened.'

‘You drowned him,' Merry said harshly.

‘I would have made sure that both you and your mother died that day too, but somehow she evaded me and disappeared too. A few years later, we heard of the boy being fostered at Estelliana Castle and again we wondered. We tried to kill you, just on the off chance, but somehow you always survived. Poison, rock falls, ‘hunting' accidents, nothing worked. And then, you seemed so ordinary. When no-one seemed to treat you any differently, we decided we must've been mistaken. So you can imagine how pleased we were when your cousin told us that you really were the son of the Hag.'