Ravenous (12 page)

LAST NIGHT, I DREAMED OF FIRE AND HORSES SCREAMING. I CAN'T TELL IF
the horses were supposed to be the ones I set loose or Dalen's disapproval running rampant, but his silence troubles me. Did I go too far? I didn't think anything was too far for Hans, but I'm second-guessing myself. Guilt still gnaws at me. That and a nearby owl kept me up half the night.

Dalen lost his home because of me. Discovering how untrue I am to old friends must have been disturbing to say the least.

When sunlight finally filters through the barn windows, I give up on sleep and opt for breakfast instead. I chew on a morsel of cheese on the verge of going bad—even with the food I took from the camp, we can't afford to waste a single scrap—and consider the map. The hollow image of
the Belladomans crawling hopefully out of their homes at the Bryrians' arrival flashes in front of my eyes and turns my stomach again.

At first glance the map looks like any other map of Belladoma and the surrounding area. The forest on both sides is clearly marked, as are the paths and roads through the mountains, including a long, winding one leading off into the distance to other lands. The city itself is set out in particular detail, each road and shop carefully noted. Here and there are odd markings that ring with familiarity in the back of my brain, but what they are refuses to surface.

One is shaped like a triangle, point up, with an extra line on the inside. Another is the same, but with the point facing the bottom of the map. And still two others are like them, but without the extra lines.

Why do these odd things seem familiar? And why can't I remember what they mean?

Frustrated, I set the map down, careful not to damage the delicate thing. It's sturdier than it looks, but the crumbling, aged edges make me nervous. I leave it in Dalen's pack, poking out the top so Dalen will see it when he wakes.

I once heard centaurs love puzzles. I'm counting on that being true. With any luck, he'll have it figured out by the time I get back.

Absentmindedly, I clutch the locket around my neck. There's something I need to do. However much I hate the idea, I must return to the palace. This time to the dungeons.

Ever since I found my mother's locket, I haven't been able to shake the feeling that some hint of where my parents went might remain in the city. I can't fathom what brought them to this awful place, but I owe it to myself and Hans to find out.

Even though discovering this necklace in Ensel's room doesn't bode well, maybe the wish I refuse to let myself harbor will come true. It's a fragile and foolish thought, but what if—
what if
—my parents are still there, chained in the dungeons? I could free them. I might be able to reunite my entire family.

If I could find them, they could help me save Hans. They always knew how to make things better, to solve problems in ways I just couldn't see. Their loss has left a hole in my chest, invisible to the eye but painful nonetheless.

One way or the other, I must know. Returning to the castle is the only way to do that.

I gather up my cloak and satchel and, with a wistful glance back at Dalen's silent stall, leave the barn. Perhaps a little distance will make him more forgiving than he was last night.

A gray haze hangs over the streets of Belladoma, a lingering reminder of last night's rain. No sun, no rainbows
shine through to this dreary place. The tide in my brain rises with every step I take into the city, panic threatening to drown me on dry land. I duck my head and hurry into the tunnels that will take me to the castle. After the rain yesterday, the tunnel is even wetter and more foul smelling, and I shiver as I close the hidden door behind me. I've made a point of not getting near the cliff. I don't know if I can handle glimpsing the Sonzeeki lurking in the waters below.

It's the black, beating heart of the city, one that threatens to burst from its own chest and drown everyone who lives in the vicinity.

The moon waxes near to full; the beast will rise soon. The thought of those slimy black tentacles wrapping around my waist barrels into me and I hold a hand out to the slick wall to steady myself.

I have every intention of being long gone before that happens. Cornucopia in hand.

Once the passage lets me out in the underbelly of the palace, I pause to get my bearings—and throw on the serving girl's uniform I snagged the last time and kept in my pack—and search out the dungeons. The entrance is in one of the towers. Ensel used to keep a guardhouse there, but who knows if the mercenaries bother. Do they have prisoners? Are Ensel's prisoners still in the dungeons, left to rot like the evil king's remains?

I shiver. I'll soon find out.

All the while, the awful, gnawing itch crawls over my skin, telling me I need to get out, escape before it's too late. I swallow down the fear. With Ensel I knew what to expect,
but now every step takes me farther into the unknown.

I keep to the shadows and avoid all other people. I wait patiently in an alcove hidden behind a moldering tapestry near the dungeon's tower entrance, just to see who comes by and how often.

I prefer to take action, but even I know patience is a virtue if I want to succeed.

Only a handful of guards are posted in the dungeon tower, and most of them are playing cards. A couple of girls have gone back and forth to wait on them, bringing ale and food, while they get more and more drunk and gamble away their spoils.

I won't be able to get by them easily, and I'm not equipped to fight that many.

My hands tremble as I pull a vial of green liquid from my pocket. It glimmers when the meager light catches it. I don't relish the notion of using magic. According to the papers I took from Ensel's hidden room, each potion has a purpose. It was Ensel's stash of magic, part of the trade-off for helping the wizard with his plans against Bryre.

Green is for invisibility. Red to see in the dark. Blue to breathe underwater. Yellow to move without making a sound. White to send the drinker directly to sleep. I might be able to use the yellow one, too—and it's also in my pocket—but I have no idea whether these even work, let alone what sort of combustible interactions they might have if used together. I shudder.

Magic is tricky. There will be a price. Ensel's papers neglected to say what.

Which is why despite my curiosity, I cannot bring myself to drink it. Would it make my body invisible, but leave my clothes wandering around for all to see? How long does the effect last? An hour? Two? Forever? It is too dangerous and I have too little information. But I do have a plan. If I'm not ready to risk making myself invisible, I can test it on something else.

I unroll the cloak I also swiped from the laundry room and slowly sprinkle the green draught over it. The effect is immediate. Where the liquid touches, the dark cloth shimmers and fades, and the effect spreads over the entire cloak. I swallow my gasp, then run my hand beneath the cloak to test it out. When my hand touches the underside, it disappears too, revealing only the cold stone floor beneath.

I grin, then choke it back. I shouldn't take any enjoyment from something created by the wizard or hoarded by Ensel.

But still, it is kind of incredible.

I throw it over my head. The hood is enormous, made for a grown man, and it swallows up my face. I tiptoe down the hallway toward the tower. A thousand horrid thoughts stomp through my brain. What if this doesn't work? What if they see through the cloak? What if the potion wears off the second I step into the tower, or before I come back up?

I ball my hands into fists inside the cloak, clutching it tighter around my face. I just barely see out of it. I'll have to be careful not to bump into anyone or knock anything over as I approach. That would give me away in a heartbeat.

The voices of the men in the guard tower grow louder
and more belligerent as I approach. They appear to be fighting over the latest hand played.

“Check his sleeves! Hold him down!”

Several of the mercenaries stand over one man, looking as though they're seriously considering throwing him out the window. While I'm grateful for the distraction, I pity the fool who tried to cheat them. I hug the wall and take the stairs down two at a time. At the bottom, I grab a torch from the wall and light it.

I run through each corridor, peering into every cell and hoping for a familiar face. Most are empty. But a few hollow eyes peer back as I pass. Not one is familiar. My footsteps, quiet as they are, echo softly, and the prisoners can tell someone is in the hall from my torch, even if they can't see me. But the planes and angles of Mama and Papa's features don't appear in any of the cells. A handful of hopeless strangers is all that remains.

I enter what appears to be an older section of the dungeon. The walls are crumbling, yet shot through with unforgiving steel bars. One would think it would flood, but none of the myriad hidden passages snaking through the castle connects to the dungeons. The builders of this fortress must have been careful not to leave any potential escape routes for prisoners. Only the streets, forests, and fields beyond bear the brunt of the floods. Even so, it's dank and dark, and in some places water pools on the gray stone floor. They can't keep all the water out, I suppose.

The air down here is stifling from the poor ventilation, and I pull back the hood of my cloak. Sweat beads on my
forehead, though whether it is from humidity or nerves, I can't tell.

Given how empty this section appears, I'm startled when I turn the corner and find an old man, sitting up in his cell and staring directly at me.

I can't tell who is more surprised, but we remain there in silence for several moments before I muster my voice. Yet the prisoner speaks first.

“Are you a ghost? You look just like her,” he murmurs in a voice like sandpaper, and with those few words, he pierces my heart. With the cloak, all he can see is my face. It should terrify him, but instead he seems to recognize me.

I manage to squeak out, “Who?” My mind races, not yet daring to hope.

He gazes intently at my face, and my skin crawls. Some prisoners may deserve to be locked up; I ought to be careful.

“A woman who was a prisoner too once—I don't know how long ago. Time”—the man shrugs, strongly resembling a rag being wrung out—“means nothing here.”

I shiver, then brush my hair back from my face.

“Who was the woman?”

The man's sunken, shadowed eyes gaze at me with curiosity. “The man in the cell with her called her Mia, but I knew her real name.”

Mia. That was my mother's name, short for something longer.

“What was her real name? How did you know?”

He smiles sadly, and the decayed state of his mouth makes me grateful I haven't eaten much today. “Euphemia.
I knew her back when she lived in Belladoma.”

Mind reeling, I stumble back to grip the far wall. That's my mother's full name, but it can't be her. She's from Bryre.

Isn't she?

The old man steps closer to the bars, wrapping gnarled, thin fingers around the rusted poles. “Are you her daughter? The resemblance is uncanny.”

“My mother was from Bryre. She's never been to Belladoma.” Except she has—the locket I found in Ensel's chambers is proof enough. But I can't believe she was here before. Somehow she and Papa must have run afoul of that horrid man.

“But that only confirms it. When her stepbrother Ensel became king, Euphemia fled Belladoma. She'd already married a commoner and was living in the woods outside the city, disgracing herself in her family's eyes. Ensel had the rest of the royal family thrown off the cliff so no one could challenge his right to rule. If she'd stayed behind, she would've followed the rest of them to the depths.”

A chill works its way up my spine, like a jagged fingernail taking its time to scrape over skin.

The man sees my discomfort, and compassion lights his eyes. “Euphemia vanished after Ensel took power. But then she was brought back with her husband, Bartholomew. Ensel hadn't forgotten what his stepsister had done. I'm afraid they met their fate.”