Despite that announcent, we’re still not done queuing. The queue snakes around the area that would normally be the entrance hall, not ending until it reaches the row of pews furthest from the altar. I can see that another altar-like structure has been set up in the middle of the aisle. That must be where the High Princess is lying, though I can’t make out the body from this angle.
A respectful silence has settled over the queue. It’s eerie, this many people making this little noise. It makes it easy to hear the sound of footsteps on stone, and the occasional shuffle or cough. Easy to get lost in contemplation of how many people are here for the sake of a woman they’ve never t, who seem to be genuinely moved by her passing.
I’m not sure if I am. I can acknowledge that it’s a tragedy, but it’s not one that really affects personally. If it wasn’t for Edward’s plans… I expect I would have co here with Elsie, if she’d asked , but I probably wouldn’t have co of my own accord. Except for the historical value of the mont, but that’s probably not enough to justify spending this long just waiting.
That thought makes feel vaguely anxious about all the work I’m not doing. I focus on my breathing; it feels appropriate, sohow, even though I’m not remotely close to a Malaina episode. Just sothing about the noise and the atmosphere feels ditative.
It’s probably about fifteen minutes from the entrance to the front of the queue. There’s another priest there, who ushers people forward in groups of about a dozen. At this angle I can only see the High Princess’s feet, which are bare and clean and cold-looking. I wonder whether she was barefoot when she died, or whether this was a choice by the people who prepared the body. I imagine won don’t give birth wearing shoes, but I’ve never been at a birth to tell.
We don’t have offerings, but we kneel at the corpse’s feet and clasp our hands in prayer. I silently pray that the High Princess is walking under a starlit sky now, and that her daughter grows up safe and happy. More because it feels like what I should do than out of genuine religious sentint. I wonder what the others are thinking, what their prayers say.
It feels like less than a minute before the priest gently asks us to move on. So people are reluctant to do so, but our group rises obediently and walks slowly along. I can finally see the princess’s body properly. She looks as if she fell out of a story: calm, peaceful, beautiful. She’s wearing a relatively plain white dress as might be worn by a bride, though I’m sure her own wedding dress was far more extravagant.
She doesn’t quite feel human. This isn’t a mourning of the woman she was, really, it’s a mourning of what she symbolised. Beauty, peace, the future. That feels like another tragedy.
I glance around at the others. Edward and I are walking side by side, just behind Sylvia and Francesca. I can’t read either of the other won well enough to guess what they might be thinking, but I can at least tell Edward is lost in contemplation.
It isn’t too long before we reach the other end of the Abbey, and the steps leading up to the altar and throne. We kneel again, and I take another chance to study my companions. Edward is still deep in thought, and Sylvia seems to be either genuinely devout or putting on a good performance. But there’s a fervour in Francesca’s eyes that I haven’t seen before. I follow her gaze to see it fixed on the altar. There’s a longing there, but I don’t understand what for. All I can do is make a note of another mystery about her.
Not many people go straight on to explore the rest of the Abbey, so after only a few paces we’re almost alone.
“Well,” says Francesca. “Where to now?”
“I’d like to – “ says Edward, and then stops. I think I can guess what he wanted to say. Many of his ancestors are buried in one of the crypts near here. And ntioning that in front of his mother, a forr Blackthorn who likely doesn’t hold much love for the family as a whole any more, would be insensitive at best.
“The Martyr’s Tomb?” I suggest quickly. “That’s one of the most sacred sites, and definitely sothing you should see if you’re interested in this country’s history.”
The others agree, I think mostly to smooth over the awkward mont. Edward works out the quickest way there, and Francesca asks to tell her about this martyr.
“High Princess Elizabeth was the daughter and heir of Isabella the Pious,” I begin as we walk. “The assassins ca for her at her mother’s funeral.”
I sketch the story for her. It’s not a long one, but then nor is the walk to the Martyr’s Tomb. The stone corridor is quiet, almost eerily so. We’ve gone from being surrounded by fellow mourners to being completely alone.
I’m just telling Francesca about the tunnels that connect the Abbey and the palace that’s now the Academy, and explaining that that’s how the assassins entered, when Sylvia suddenly stops walking in front of .
“Secret tunnels, did you say?” she asks.
I rember that this is about where the tunnel Elsie and I once used to leave the Abbey without having to brave a horde of protestors has its entrance. And that Edward’s mother is a sensitive. She must be able to see –
She hums softly to herself, studying sothing the rest of us have no way to perceive. Slowly, she traces her hands over the wall. It takes her longer than it did the priest who showed us the way, but then he must have already known how to activate it whereas she’s working it out from scratch.
The patch of wall dissolves into nothingness to reveal the darkness of the tunnel entrance.
Francesca stares at it with open wonder, then takes a cautious step into the tunnel mouth. “Where does it lead?”
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“There’s a whole network of tunnels under there. Could be anywhere.”
“Can we explore?” she asks eagerly.
I glance at Edward. Edward glances at .
“We probably shouldn’t,” I say. “It would be very easy to get lost down there. And I don’t think we were supposed to open the tunnel in the first place.” I try to keep my tone mild, avoid reproaching Sylvia too much. But I’m a little afraid that her doing that will attract attention, and that that could lead to people finding out Edward Blackthorn and his mother are here together.
Francesca sighs. “Yeah. You’re probably right.” She steps out of the tunnel mouth, so that she’s standing right in front of . “A pity.”
And, without warning, she slaps in the face.
I’m caught completely off guard. I stagger back, my face stinging in pain, and before I have the chance to do anything more than stare at her in shock, she’s produced a vial of sothing from her pocket and tipped its contents into my wide-open mouth.
“Edward – “ I choke out, but it’s an effort to form the words, because it feels like my mouth and lips and tongue aren’t obeying any more. I can’t feel the inside of my mouth with my tongue. I can’t feel the loose strand of hair that was brushing against my face. And by the ti I fully register what’s happening, I can’t feel anything at all.
Stars. No.
Francesca is already advancing on Edward – at least I can still see – another vial clutched in her hand. He backs away, reaching for sothing on his finger – the ergency ring his father gave him, it has to be – if he presses it –
Sylvia steps towards , pulling sothing from her pocket. I can’t quite make out what it is at first, and can’t even turn my head to look, but as she presses it to my neck I realise it’s a knife. “By all ans, summon your father,” she says. “Just don’t expect there to be much left of Tallulah by the ti he gets here.”
Stars. Stars stars stars… this can’t be happening. It doesn’t feel real.
I feel the beginnings of a Malaina episode and instinctively begin reciting to myself: Charles First-King. Edwin the Just.
I’m dimly aware of Edward hesitating for a mont as he sees the threat to . And that hesitation is all Francesca needs to knock him to the ground and force the second vial into his mouth.
Well, so part of thinks, so much for that hope. Now there’s nothing we can do.
Edward kicks feebly and then falls still. I can only assu that he was fed the sa liquid that I was, and that he’s still alive and just immobile in the sa way I am.
Sylvia says a couple of quick sentences in Sirgalese. I used to speak the language fairly well, but I haven’t practiced it in months and my mind isn’t exactly focused on language comprehension right now. All I can pick out is we should… and …before soone cos. Given the open tunnel, that’s enough to work out her aning, and sure enough the two won drag Edward and into the mouth of the tunnel.
A few seconds later, the wall seals itself behind us, leaving complete darkness. Between that and the lack of feeling in my entire body, I feel as if I only exist in a void. As if the world and I are completely separate.
Simon the Drunkard. Thomas the Defender. Eleanor the Bold.
I’ve never been more trapped, more powerless. There’s sothing almost freeing about that. I wonder why I should bother to fight the Malaina episode, when it can hardly make things worse.
If it’s a choice between that and death –
Then you choose death.
I don’t know what the alternative is.
I hear another couple of sentences in Sirgalese, which I can’t parse at all, and then a blindingly white light appears in the air above . After a second I realise it’s in Francesca’s hand, that I’m lying on the ground with her standing over , and that it’s a light-spell. She’s a magician.
She bends down and – I think – it’s so strange not being able to feel what she’s doing – takes in her arms and lifts up. The light is too close to my eyes now, and I can’t blink or look away. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “Please, trust enough to believe I wouldn’t do this without a good reason.”
If I was capable of it, I would have laughed in her face. It does make wonder, though: why are they doing this? As part of a plot against Lord Blackthorn, is the only thing that cos to mind. But we were literally in their house a few days ago. They’ve already had better opportunities than this. There must be sothing I’m missing.
It feels like my mind has split into several pieces. There’s the part that’s internally screaming and panicking and on the edge of a Malaina episode, and then sohow another part of is managing to consider things rationally. Maybe that’s the mad calm of being so close to a Malaina episode.
Timothy the Peacemaker. Maria the Seafarer.
If I give into Malaina, then maybe we could escape. But Sylvia has Edward, and she has a knife. If I give into Malaina, then Edward could die. So I have to fight it.
And I know that as long as I believe there’s no other way out, I’ll lose that fight. I have to work out what’s going on, find so way out of this.
Francesca is walking forward, carrying , I think. My head is angled such that I can just about see the forms of Edward and Sylvia ahead of us. Sylvia seems to be leading the way. She must have known about the tunnels before, I realise. Maybe there’s a specific exit she’s making for, and they have accomplices waiting for them there.
What can I do? I try to morise the route we’re taking, but without being able to so much as turn my head it’s hopeless. I have no ability to move or communicate. All I have is my mind – and my magic. But magic is useless unless I can cast it, and with no ability to use incantations or gestures that’s not happening.
Unless. Gestures and incantations aren’t really necessary to the magic, are they? It’s possible, at least in theory, to cast without needing them. It’s just that that takes such a level of deep, intuitive understanding of magic that only the best of magicians can ever accomplish it.
It would be utterly impossible for soone who’s only been a magician for a few months.
Sylvia suddenly snaps out a word, which I recognise after a mont as the Sirgalese for Stop!
Francesca obediently stops, and the two have a hurried conversation. All I can work out is that we’re nearly there, but there’s so sort of obstacle that shouldn’t be there. I assu this obstacle is good for us.
After a few seconds’ discussion, Francesca sets down on the ground and takes a couple of careful steps forward. She crouches down in front of what seems like an unremarkable section of tunnel and begins moving her hands, with utmost caution, according to Sylvia’s commands. After a mont, the light winks out and we return to complete darkness.
It must be sothing magical, I realise. A ward of so kind. Which is why Sylvia is the only person who can see it, because she’s a sensitive. And yet she can’t do anything about it directly, and is reliant on the sightless magician to sohow subvert or bypass the ward.
I can’t tell what’s going on, so I return to the idea that occurred to . Because it might be utterly impossible. But my magic, my anomaly, can do the utterly impossible.
All right, I think. You have quite the ego, and you like a challenge. How’s this for a challenge? Let cast magic without speaking or moving, and find a way to do that that gets Edward and I out of here alive.
I feel it almost at once, the sudden utter calm of my mind as the growing Malaina episode is suppressed by a far more powerful force. And so mad part of – that might not be at all – relishes the impossible challenge I’ve set myself.
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