Moments later, they were standing in the castle crypt.
Mia ached to press her cheek into her mother’s tomb. In the dim light she saw the elegant plum tree carved into the cold gray stone, the little bird on its lonely perch, peering up at the moon. Good-bye, Mother. It seemed she would never get the chance to say a proper farewell—not three years ago, and not today.
“Why are we in the crypt?” Quin said, uneasy.
“You’ll see.”
She had never known exhaustion like this. Her body was an empty vessel, subject to the whims of a force greater than her own. The prince was light-headed, too, she could tell. She circled an arm around his waist and together they staggered shakily along the passageway feeding out of the crypt.
“The path is unforgiving,” she said, echoing her father. “Watch your step.”
She was grateful for her strong legs and hips as they lumbered forward on four legs. They stumbled onto the precipice outside the castle, the bitter wind whisking Mia’s hair into a fine cherry mousse, the moon a glowing stone in the sky.
And there it was, a shimmering beacon twenty feet above them on the cliff side.
The laghdú.
The carriage that had once carted princes and princesses across the quarry, now empty, bobbing on a long, taut cable—the very cable that connected Kaer Killian with the village far below.
Run, little rose. Run fast and free.
Had her father known?
She didn’t have time to wonder. She helped the prince up the bluff and packed him into the carriage in his shreds of bloody shirt.
“Mia?” Quin’s voice was uncertain. “What exactly are we about to do?”
“You have to trust me.”
A bold proposition, considering how the wedding gown tangled around her ankles, nearly catapulting her into the abyss. This pretty trifle would be the death of her—she had tripped on it for the last time. She dug her fingers into the train and ripped it out, tossing it onto the rocks in a wad of grimy silk.
Something skittered out of the cloth.
It was small and stout, teetering precariously on the edge of the yawning chasm. She scrambled forward and scooped the something off the rock.
It was her mother’s journal, the little ruby wren fitted into the lock.
Who had put it there? Her father? Angelyne? She hadn’t felt anyone slip the book into her train. But then, the train was practically its own sentient being, and she’d been reasonably preoccupied with other things, including but not limited to: botched marriage, attempted assassination, dark magic, et cetera.
Perhaps the real question was not who, but why. The journal was a useless brick of blank pages and nostalgia. She pinched the wren’s wings, twisting the lock. A breeze fluttered the pages, and a glimmer of black ink caught her eye.
Mia’s heart unfolded.
Most of the pages were still blank, but the first one no longer was. Her mouth went chalk dry as her fingers traced the inscription in her mother’s elegant script: Should this book become lost, the writer humbly requests that she who finds it make all reasonable efforts to return it to its rightful home.
Should the finder of this book become lost, the writer humbly suggests that she consider a journey in the same direction.
The path to safe haven will reveal itself to she who seeks it.
All you seek will be revealed.
W. M.
Under the words, in a smudged cluster of curves and coils, was a map.
Mia didn’t have time to question it. Shouts clamored through the tunnels. The guards were plowing toward them, all fealty and righteous fury. Were the Hunters with them? If so, Mia’s breaths were numbered.
She tucked the book back into the balled-up train for an added layer of protection and stuffed the bundle beside the prince. Then she hoisted herself into the carriage.
Quin’s face was flushed. “Might I suggest this is a momentously bad idea?”
“Do you have a better one?” She ran her hands over the inside of the carriage, looking for a sharp blade. With no one at the crankshaft, she’d have to cut the rope that held the carriage to the cable, launching them into free fall down the copper wire. Bridalaghdú: fall of the bride.
“What are you looking for?”
“I need a knife.”
He blanched. “A knife?”
“I’m not going to stab you, Quin. I just saved your life, remember?”
He stared at her for a long moment. Too long. The tunnels were preparing to belch out a lethal mix of guards and assassins; she could feel it in her blood.
Quin extracted a leather scabbard from his boot and unsheathed a thin silver blade. He held it out to her. Now it was Mia’s turn to blanch.
“Do I want to know why you brought a sheath knife to our wedding?”
His smile was rueful. “Always wise to carry a weapon in times of unimaginable duress.”
Perhaps the prince was not what he seemed. Perhaps he did have secrets.
Mia took the knife and held it high, silver moonlight glinting off the blade. She stared at herself in the reflection. A demon in oyster silk stared back.
And yet, in spite of everything—even as she stood amidst the charred cinders of her life—she felt freer than she had in ages. Powerful.
Run, little rose. Run fast and free.
“Where are we going, Mia? Where is there to hide?”
She didn’t answer. In one swift motion, she hacked the cord cleaving them to the black rock. The rope snapped and the carriage heaved, free from its bindings after so many years.
Together, they flew.
Part Two
Bone
Chapter 13
How to Escape Successfully in Eight Simple Steps
Survive five-hundred-foot drop* in a potentially fatal machine.
After renegotiating relationship with solid ground, ransack laghdú hut for provisions. Find nothing but moth-eaten smocks and trousers.
Don moth-eaten smocks and trousers and tailor them with available materials. “Available materials” being: a ball of moldy twine.
Forge makeshift satchel out of bloody wedding gown.
Pack sheath knife in satchel.
Do not waste time wondering why your betrothed had a sheath knife in his boot.
Steal through Killian Village without attracting attention.
Consult mysteriously appearing map and make for the fork in the river.
Chapter 14
A Brief and Bloody End
MIA AND QUIN’S DEATH-DEFYING plummet had bought them limited time. Other than free fall by laghdú, there was only one way in or out of the Kaer: the steep road hewn from the east-facing mountainside. Mia’s feet were still struggling to find purchase when she spotted the throng of guards darkening the eastern road.
“They’ll be in the village within the hour,” Quin said. “My father’s men are fast.”
“Then we’ll be faster.”
She was still in a state of shock, but at least her flavor of shock was mobilizing. They slipped quickly through the back alleys of Killian Village, darting between huts and lean-tos. The houses were mostly still, cocooned in the night quiet, but the taverns and brothels were simmering with debauchery. As they hurried by one such structure, a man stumbled down the front steps and vomited a stream of bile onto the ground, narrowly missing the prince’s boots.
“Lovely,” Quin muttered.
Having not spent much time in the village, Mia was surprised how ramshackle it was. She had expected crisp, clean cottages like the ones in Ilwysion; instead she saw shabby huts and thatched hovels, muck shoveled into brown heaps on the streets and attended by swarms of flies. The people were thinner than she remembered, their clothes ragged and their faces smudged with soot and dirt. She counted at least five rats scurrying across the cobblestones.
“Glas Ddir has not prospered under my father’s reign,” Quin said as they leaned against a blacksmith’s forge to catch their breath. “Bronwynis encouraged free trade and commerce to flourish. But after my aunt was murdered and my father seized the throne, our fine kingdom has watched its imports vanish and its exports turn to ash.”
Mia arched an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t care for politicking.”