Lily did. The image was eerily persuasive: an entire flotilla of ships, all of them heading toward an unknown horizon where the sun was just beginning to rise. This vision didn’t feel like Lily’s; rather, it was as though someone else was dreaming inside her head. Did any of them know what was on the other side of that horizon? No, Lily felt certain they had no idea. They would probably end up sinking in the middle of the ocean. Did she really want to face everything that the accountant threatened for that?
Tear. Dorian. Jonathan.
The door clanged open again. The accountant had returned, and he stood over her, smiling broadly, his hands tucked behind his back.
“Well, Lily, what’s it to be?”
She looked up at him, sweat misting her brow, her guts sick with anticipation. But the words came out strong and clear, not her own words, and Lily suddenly felt as though there was another woman inside her, someone trying to hold her together, to get her through.
“Fuck it. Let’s go.”
C
HAPTER
13
S
EPTEMBER
F
IRST
FAUSTUS: Come, I think hell’s a fable.
MEPHISTOPHELES: Ay, think so still, until experience change thy mind.
—Doctor Faustus, CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE (pre-Crossing Angl.)
WHEN KELSEA BROKE free this time, Mace was with her. Both of his arms were locked around her waist, dragging her back, and Kelsea saw that she’d been heading toward the great double doors at the far end of her audience chamber.
“Was I going somewhere?”
“God knows, Lady.”
I was. But where?
The answer came: her mother’s face, beautiful and thoughtless. Mace released her and she gestured toward the door. “Come on, Lazarus. Let’s go down to the portrait gallery.”
“Now?”
“Now. Just you and me.”
Pen’s face stiffened, but at a nod from Mace, he faded back toward the hallway. Kelsea couldn’t afford to worry about Pen’s feelings now; she checked her watch and found that it was past one in the morning. She was running out of time.
By unspoken consent, they did not take Mace’s tunnel this time. Instead, Kelsea marched out her front door, down the long hallway that fronted the Queen’s Wing, and into the Keep proper. They had run out of extra rooms long ago, and now even the corridors were lined with people, most of whom seemed to be wide awake. The smell of unwashed bodies was dreadful. As Kelsea went by, they bowed, murmured, reached to touch the hem of her dress, and she nodded in acknowledgment, barely seeing them, secure in the knowledge that if anyone tried anything, she could end him in an instant. An old woman blessed Kelsea as she went by, and Kelsea glimpsed an ancient rosary wrapped around her gnarled fingers. The Holy Father would scream if he knew that one of those was still knocking around; no one in the Arvath wanted sinners to be able to tell their own grace. Seeing the milky cataract that covered one of the woman’s eyes, Kelsea reached out and grasped her hand before moving on. The flesh there felt bone-dry, like scales, and Kelsea was relieved to let go.
“May Great God protect and keep you, Majesty,” the woman rasped behind her, and Kelsea felt something turn over inside her. Did they not know that she was going to die today? How could they not know that? She quickened her steps, determined to reach the portrait gallery before Lily took her again. She could feel Lily’s need now, Lily’s pain, eating into the edges of her mind, trying to drag her back, and for a moment she resented Lily, wondered why she couldn’t pile her sorrows on someone else.
“Has there been word of Father Tyler?” she asked Mace.
“No. All I could find out is that he and a brother priest vanished from the Arvath several days ago, and the Holy Father is livid. He’s offering a thousand pounds for Father Tyler, alive.”
Kelsea halted for a moment, leaning against the wall. “If he hurts Father Tyler, I’ll kill him, Lazarus.”
“You won’t need to, Lady. I’ll kill him.”
“I thought you didn’t like priests.”
“Why am I here, Lady? You no longer need protection. I could drop you in the middle of the Dry Lands and you’d likely walk out unscathed. These people are no danger to you. Why have you brought me along?”
“We started out together.” They rounded a corner and began to descend a new staircase, this one smaller than the Main Stair and circular where the Main was square. People had crowded onto both the top and the bottom of the staircase, but they scrambled out of the way as Kelsea approached.
“You started off with all of us.”
“No. That morning with the hawk, you remember? That’s when I first knew I was the Queen, and it was just you and me.”
Mace glanced sharply at her. “What are you planning, Lady?”
“What do you mean?”
“I know you. You scheme.”
Kelsea veiled her thoughts, willing them out of her face. “When the sun comes up, I mean to go down to the bridge and try to parlay.”
“The terms were nonnegotiable.”
“Nothing is nonnegotiable, Lazarus, not if I have something she wants.”
“She wants this city and all of its goods in plunder.”
“True, it may not work. But I have to try. I’ll take only four guards with me, including yourself and Pen. Choose the other two.”
“Perhaps not Pen.”
She halted, turning to face him. They were near the bottom of the staircase now, only a few turns to go, and Kelsea lowered her voice, mindful of the people who were undoubtedly below. “Something to say, Lazarus?”
“Come now, Lady. A besotted man makes a poor close guard.”
“Pen’s not besotted.”
The corners of Mace’s mouth twitched.
“What?”
“For a woman with remarkably clear vision in most areas, Lady, you are stone-blind in others.”
“My private life is not your business.”
“But Pen’s professional life is, and just because I’ll tolerate some things in the safety of the Queen’s Wing doesn’t mean I’ll tolerate them elsewhere.”
“Fine. It’s up to you whether he comes or not.” But Kelsea winced at the thought of Pen’s reaction to being left behind. Was Mace right? Was Pen in love with her? It seemed impossible. Pen had his woman, and although Kelsea had her occasional possessive moments, the woman served a purpose, allowed Kelsea to feel as though she was doing no harm. She didn’t want Pen invested in their arrangement. She wanted it to be private, something that never needed to be dragged into the light of day. She wished Mace had not said anything.
No point in fretting over it, she reminded herself. Everything ends in a few hours.
The portrait gallery was full of people, at least several families sleeping on the stone floor. But a few sharp bellows from Mace did the trick; parents scrambled to their feet, grabbed their children, and were gone. Kelsea shut the door at the far end of the gallery, and then it was just the two of them again, Mace and Kelsea, the way it had been at the beginning.
Kelsea went to stare at her mother’s portrait. If her mother had been standing before her, Kelsea would have grabbed her by the throat, torn her hair out by the roots until she screamed for mercy. But how much of their current nightmare was really her mother’s fault? Kelsea thought longingly of those early days in the Keep, days when blame had been clear-cut.
“Why did she give me away, Lazarus?”
“To protect you.”
“Bullshit! Look at her! That’s not the face of an altruist. Sending me away for fostering was utterly out of character. Did she hate me?”