Posey
I lean on the door and take several aching breaths as Aris’s muffled voice replies to Morgan’s incessant questions.
“I wanted you, and you didn’t want me.”
I close my eyes against the memory of his omission, but the words bounce through my skull, funneling deep into my gray matter, where hurt blooms into regret.
To make matters worse, knowing what I know now… I hear Aris say, “What can I do to please you, Morgan?” and it wrecks me more than anything I’ve ever felt or ever known. He sounds so defeated. So tired and broken, and it’s my fault.
But I can’t tell him the truth. It would hurt us both even further, and I don’t think I’m strong enough for that.
I slink away from the door, carefully gliding down the stone steps in the thin, slipper-like shoes that match my dress. The air feels unnervingly cold until I reach the kitchen again and round the island, telling myself I’m here to check on the fawn and not to burst into tears without anyone seeing me. I crouch to run my fingers through the deer’s short hair, remembering the baby girl needs a name. I flinch at a loud thud somewhere in the kitchen, followed by several clangs and echoes that reverberate throughout the space. The fawn twitches, but she doesn’t wake up. I rise and scan the items now resting on the island that weren’t there seconds ago. A huge bag of flour. A jar of yeast. A pitcher of warm water. I rest my hand on a massive wooden mixing bowl to stop it from rattling. That fire-warmed sensation blossoms around the room before settling like someone is standing at my side. I turn to her, the spirit, trying to imagine what she might have looked like and how old she was when she became trapped here, but she’s nothing but air.
“Bread?” I ask like she’ll suddenly speak and give me an answer. My fingers already ache from lack of use, lack of the copper ring that kept my alchemy at bay. It might be nice to mold and knead something even if it’s not the iron and silver I long for, and maybe she knows that.
I dab my wet cheeks with the back of my hands, glancing around the room, taking in the sleek kitchen–impeccably clean. Only a small bottle rests in the sink where I wash my hands. I suppose it's for the fawn, who’s sleeping so soundly she doesn’t stir as the water runs.
Wordlessly, I get to work. After twenty minutes of measuring, letting the yeast bloom in warm water and honey, and mixing, I begin the arduous but blissful task of kneading the bread. I love the ache in my shoulders and triceps. The slight pinch in my wrists. The feeling of doing something for me instead of wringing my sore fingers and flipping pages to keep my hands busy.
The female spirit comes and goes mostly to check on the fawn, and I realize she’s taken over the baby’s care. I watch a wet rag slide over the countertop nearby, collecting bits of flour, and smile to myself. “What do you think he’s going to do with the fawn? I doubt he can keep her. She won’t stay this little forever.”
“He’s lonely.”
I jump as the words skitter through my brain and down my spine. It’s not at all like the mind-link. It’s like she whispered directly against my ear, her voice soft and girlish, making me wonder if she was young when this, whatever it was, happened to her.
I continue kneading the dough long past the point I feel it’s ready to proof. I watch the spirit move things around. She tucks the fawn in over and over, adjusting the blankets and the oven, which is still on and blasting heat. It’s rather nice being here alone but not totally. I could get used to something like this.
The longer I spend here, the easier it is to determine when she’s nearby. She’s a warm presence–soft and cozy. She lifts my hair and brushes against my back when she passes, like she wants me to know she’s here so she doesn’t scare me, and I like that.
The male spirit, on the other hand, is more difficult to decipher.
I drop the dough in a bowl to rise and rinse my hands again, careful of the sleeping fawn, and feel the female presence rush out of the room, leaving a chill in her wake. I stand still for a moment, wondering where she went and why, then step into the hallway outside of the kitchen. It’s unlit, swamped in shadows, and that bitter chill makes the darkness feel a thousand times larger than the hallway itself. The stairs leading up to the dining room gleam in fractals of light spilling from beneath the doorway where Aris looked at me like I’d absolutely shredded his heart this summer, and my body rejects the idea of going anywhere near that door, so I don’t. I do exactly what he told me not to do and use my moment of total freedom from watchful eyes to peek into every single room on this floor of the castle. This level rests just below the main floor and seems to be carved into the cliffside. A few rooms on one side of the hallway have small angular windows letting in dusty moonlight, and Aris was right about these old rooms being used for storage now. The other, spider-like staircase is calling my name, however, and instead of traveling up, I walk down into the gloom, letting my hand drift along the wall, which grows damp and cold as the steps wind into the shadows.
Water drips on my head when I step into another hallway. I blink and narrow my eyes to squint into the darkness and several doors come into view. My exploration is brief–the first three rooms I find are old bedrooms, likely for servants. Beds made of wood lie in heaps, cracked and disintegrating with age.
I’m about to turn back to the staircase to check on the progress of my dough when my fingers begin to ache so violently I hiss out a breath and wring them out, and when I look up, I find the single door I’ve yet to open.
I probably shouldn’t.
I desperately want to.
The second my fingers curl around the doorknob, I feel it. Iron. That slippery, moldable feeling that settles in my bones and sends my senses into a frenzy. I turn the knob, careful not to use my powers to mold the metal inadvertently, and push the door open with effort, choking on thick, stale air and dust the second I take a breath.
Moonlight illuminates wooden crates stacked to the ceiling. A worktable coated in centuries of dust rests in the center of a circular room, tools scattered like whoever used this space last left and never returned.
Metal spices the air. I step inside without thinking, the door snapping shut on a phantom wind behind me, sealing me inside what I can only describe as the workstation of my dreams.
A small forge rests along the exterior wall–long dormant and cold to the touch–but just a brush of my fingertips gives me a glimpse of the metals once melted here. I greedily pick through the layers of dust, grabbing handfuls of iron ore. Another crate is full of non-ferrous metals, but I’m more careful with those. My fingertips burn when they brush against clumps of raw copper. Bricks of gold line the bottom of one crate, while another holds a wealth of silver, which I find especially interesting.
I’m in heaven. I lose track of time completely, moving from one crate to the other, then to the wall where a wealth of alchemy tools hang in perfectly organized suspension on little hooks and–
“Wow,” I whisper, carefully taking a heavy wooden box down from a shelf and resting it on the worktable. My fingers tingle as I pull a vial from its velvet-lined grave, holding the glass to the moonlight. A syrupy liquid slithers within, likely far, far past its prime, but I pop the cork anyway, which instantly crumbles in my hand.
Alchemy tonics. This one is… wild cherry pits, and… charcoal, and…. I take a step back to try to angle myself deeper in the moonlight to catch the color of the liquid, but the ground creaks painfully beneath me, then cracks.
My scream of alarm is swallowed by the sound of the floor giving way. The tonic drops from my hand, followed by the sound of glass shattering, and I have approximately one single second to reach for what remains of the floorboards before my body careens into thick shadows that will swallow me whole. My flailing hand grasps splintered wood for a second but then fails–and I fall for what seems like an eternity and then land with a thud that knocks the wind from my lungs.
“Oh…my…fucking…Goddess….” I gasp, trying to force my lungs to work, but the impact with what feels like stone has my body vibrating with pain. I gulp for air. Above me, a sliver of moonlight is the only view of the floor I just fell through, which is far above my head, and the floor is still crumbling. I manage to shield my face from the worst of the debris, but shards of wood pepper my legs and stomach for the several minutes it takes me to come back to my senses.
The sound of running water in the distance is the only noise other than my rapid heartbeat. I don’t move until I can feel the pain in my body, thankfully only a dull ache. I wiggle my toes, gently bend my knees to ensure I haven’t broken anything, then slowly sit up.
The air is sulfuric and heavy. I blink to clear my vision and look around. Darkness as black as pitch begins to form shapes and jagged angles while I debate what I quickly realize are limited options. I need to be able to see fully to get out of here. Aris is already going to kill me for disobeying him and exploring because what happened just now is exactly what he warned me about, so…
A sharp ache wanders up my spine. I take a greedy, dusty breath and open my eyes wide. A tingling sensation curls through my body, and my eyes glow.
My surroundings are… insane. This has to be an old part of the castle. Based on the carved stone, the outline of what I think might have been a grand hallway at one point, and shadows of doorways long crumbled to heaps of debris.
But as I start to move, my gown and slippers shredded, the landscape changes. Whatever building stood here before shifts to tunnels of stone and crystal. This is a cave.
I grip the wall to steady my shaking legs and keep moving, following the main path, trying to remember the layout of the castle above me. Shadows stretch for what feels like miles, and there’s nothing here, but… destruction. Something terrible happened here. That’s the only feeling lodged in my chest when the sound of dripping water fades, and is replaced by…
“Hello?” I croak, pausing at the entrance of an area so dark even my powers can’t cut through it. Cold winter air makes me shiver, but it’s fresh. Clean.
Whispers through the darkness reach me. A soft giggle. A guttural moan. Sounds of pleasure and pain, laughter and sorrow, mingled together in a rush. A breeze lifts my hair from my shoulders, and my fingers begin to ache anew.
I’m in the caves. Those ancient, sacred caves that run beneath Veiled Valley. The caves that call Shadowsyngers to what we’ve long called the ascension or the calling.
My throat bobs, but it’s impossible to swallow. The darkness begins to flicker. I gasp as I take a single, determined step, and the walls of the cave shine with gems.
And objects.
Weapons and the remains of a bloody, terrible battle. Bones jut out from the rocky walls. Skulls lie shattered at my feet.
“Come,” whispers a voice against my ear, firm but uncertain. It’s him, the male spirit. I feel his touch on my fingers and turn to him, his masculine, unshakable presence my only guide out of the darkness, and he knows exactly where he’s leading me because we walk through a slice of shadow into an ancient, narrow, cave that bleeds into what remains of a corridor, and then a door appears. It’s small and insignificant, and it groans against the act of a deadbolt sliding free after centuries of lack of use, and when it opens, I feel like I’m stepping back into the present, into the richness of the castle above.
The door closes behind me, and the spirit titters, checking me for injuries. My glowing eyes fade, and before me, nestled in the golden haze of sconces on either wall, a massive metal vault door stretches in every direction. Judging by the thundering footsteps on the spiral staircase just to my left…I shouldn’t be here, and I’m about to die… or want to.
A creeping, icy sensation sweeps through me. I hear a scream. An anguished, terrified howl that cuts me to the core.
It’s coming from the vault.
“What the fuck are you doing down here?”