Late Eclipses
Page 83
“I don’t understand,” said Manuel.
“You don’t need to,” said Connor. “Where’s Rayseline?”
“I don’t know. She said she was coming here.”
I straightened, turning to face him. “What did she say, exactly?”
“That she was going to see her parents. To get to the root of things.”
“The root of things?” I stared. Connor had gone milk-pale. “Oh, oak and ash. Come on!” I ran back out the door, almost stumbling as my feet hit the cobblestone path, and charged straight through the other gate. Connor was close at my heels, and Manuel wasn’t far behind.
Every child in Faerie learns the sacred symbols of our world. It’s the fae equivalent of Sunday school, packed with useless knowledge and bits of history that humans take for fairy tales. We’re taught to swear by the sacred woods, by Titania’s rose, and Maeve’s tree, and by the root and the branch—Oberon and his children. Oberon is the root of Faerie. By that same archaic, undeniable interpretation, Sylvester is the root of Shadowed Hills.
The gate led to a terraced hall, laid out like the walkway of a Spanish villa. Arches branched off to the left and right, but I kept running, following the curve of the main hall. Connor was gasping. He was close to the end of his endurance, but we couldn’t afford the risk of slowing down.
Manuel shouted, “Wait! Where are you going?”
“To Sylvester!” We were chasing blind again, but there was no other option. These were the Duke’s private apartments; Connor and Manuel didn’t know them any better than I did. Quieter, I muttered, “Come on, come on. We need the Duke.” If Shadowed Hills had ever been my friend—if a hollow hill could have friends . . .
A door opened to the left. I spun and dove through it, moving so fast I nearly fell before I’d finished taking in the scene in front of me.
The walls were adobe with deep insets every five feet filled with plumed gray-and-purple ferns, turning the room into an indoor garden. Wicker chairs irregularly placed around the floor created an effective barrier to swift movement; trying to run through them would mean tripping over them. Sylvester sat in one of those chairs, hands tucked between his knees, talking earnestly to Raysel. Raysel reclined in her own chair, nodding in time with his words, looking every inch the dutiful daughter.
Raysel wasn’t the real problem. That honor was reserved for the woman standing between them, honeygold hair falling over her shoulders in careful disarray, holding a tray out toward Sylvester. He smiled, murmuring something, and reached for a cup.
“No!” I shouted, and charged forward, shoving chairs out of the way.
“Toby?” Sylvester’s head lifted. “What are you doing here?” He sounded surprised and delighted at the same time, joy clearing the exhaustion from his voice. Raysel snarled soundlessly, the action going unseen behind his back. I didn’t miss it. I was never turning my back on her again.
Nerium’s expression was more frightening than Raysel’s. The amiable servitude slid out of her eyes like a knife sliding out of a sheath, leaving her expressionless and cold. Standing her ground, she flung the tray toward me. It didn’t fly well, but it did fly, spraying liquid in all directions.
“Hey!” I yelped, dodging. I was too slow: a goblet caught me on the shoulder, splashing my jacket and the side of my neck in viscous green. The liquid burned when it touched my skin. Behind me, I heard Connor bark in pained surprise. I didn’t stop. There wasn’t time.
“What is the meaning of this?” shouted Sylvester. I looked up. He was facing Raysel, his back toward the door, and Oleander was between them with a knife in her hand. The blade glistened in the light. She still wore a Hob’s face, but she wasn’t making any attempt to look like anyone but herself. The masks were coming off.
“Sylvester, get back!” Manuel flashed past me, still running. “Manuel!”
He heard me. I know he heard me, and I know he knew his former compatriots well enough to know what would happen if he didn’t stop. He didn’t even pause. He just kept running.
I was ten feet away and gaining speed when Manuel shoved Sylvester aside; his expression was frighteningly like the one his sister wore when she threw herself at death to save my life. Oleander lunged forward, burying her knife between Manuel’s ribs. He fell, taking the knife with him, and she found herself staring down the blade of Sylvester’s sword.
“Explain yourself,” he snarled.
She turned and ran.
Sylvester looked toward his daughter. She stared back at him, golden eyes wide and frightened. Rayseline was no innocent, but she’d been used, just like Manuel. The only difference was that she’d known what she was getting into.
“Raysel—” I began.
She whirled and ran after Oleander, moving with desperate speed. Sylvester watched her go, sword still naked in his hand. “Rayseline?” he repeated, like he’d never heard the name before.
I pushed past Sylvester and dropped to my knees, trying to roll Manuel onto his back. He was heavier than he looked—most teenage boys are—but I managed to hook my hands under his shoulders and flip him over. “Manuel?”
His eyes were open and glazed; he wasn’t looking at me. “Yes?”
“Are you all right?” It was a stupid question: the answer was sticking out of his chest. There wasn’t much blood. The knife formed an almost perfect seal against his skin, keeping his life locked inside. My own skin was burning from the liquid that splashed me, but I ignored the pain. Manuel’s danger was a lot more immediate.
“I’m fine.” He smiled. His eyes were getting more and more distant. “I’m really, really good.”
“Toby, is he—” began Sylvester.
“Get help!” I snapped, resting Manuel’s head on my knee. “Don’t talk. We’re going to get Jin, and it’s going to be okay. Just breathe until she gets here.” Connor came puffing up behind Sylvester, one hand clapped over his left shoulder. The fabric of his shirt was wet there; he’d clearly taken the brunt of Oleander’s attack.
Manuel closed his eyes. “Was that the Duke?” he asked.
Sylvester was still standing there, seemingly rooted in the spot. “Yeah,” I said.
“Is he hurt?” Manuel’s voice was fading.
“He’s fine. You saved him.” I looked back down, biting my lip as I saw how pale he’d become. “We’re gonna get you some help. You’ll be fine.”
“You don’t need to,” said Connor. “Where’s Rayseline?”
“I don’t know. She said she was coming here.”
I straightened, turning to face him. “What did she say, exactly?”
“That she was going to see her parents. To get to the root of things.”
“The root of things?” I stared. Connor had gone milk-pale. “Oh, oak and ash. Come on!” I ran back out the door, almost stumbling as my feet hit the cobblestone path, and charged straight through the other gate. Connor was close at my heels, and Manuel wasn’t far behind.
Every child in Faerie learns the sacred symbols of our world. It’s the fae equivalent of Sunday school, packed with useless knowledge and bits of history that humans take for fairy tales. We’re taught to swear by the sacred woods, by Titania’s rose, and Maeve’s tree, and by the root and the branch—Oberon and his children. Oberon is the root of Faerie. By that same archaic, undeniable interpretation, Sylvester is the root of Shadowed Hills.
The gate led to a terraced hall, laid out like the walkway of a Spanish villa. Arches branched off to the left and right, but I kept running, following the curve of the main hall. Connor was gasping. He was close to the end of his endurance, but we couldn’t afford the risk of slowing down.
Manuel shouted, “Wait! Where are you going?”
“To Sylvester!” We were chasing blind again, but there was no other option. These were the Duke’s private apartments; Connor and Manuel didn’t know them any better than I did. Quieter, I muttered, “Come on, come on. We need the Duke.” If Shadowed Hills had ever been my friend—if a hollow hill could have friends . . .
A door opened to the left. I spun and dove through it, moving so fast I nearly fell before I’d finished taking in the scene in front of me.
The walls were adobe with deep insets every five feet filled with plumed gray-and-purple ferns, turning the room into an indoor garden. Wicker chairs irregularly placed around the floor created an effective barrier to swift movement; trying to run through them would mean tripping over them. Sylvester sat in one of those chairs, hands tucked between his knees, talking earnestly to Raysel. Raysel reclined in her own chair, nodding in time with his words, looking every inch the dutiful daughter.
Raysel wasn’t the real problem. That honor was reserved for the woman standing between them, honeygold hair falling over her shoulders in careful disarray, holding a tray out toward Sylvester. He smiled, murmuring something, and reached for a cup.
“No!” I shouted, and charged forward, shoving chairs out of the way.
“Toby?” Sylvester’s head lifted. “What are you doing here?” He sounded surprised and delighted at the same time, joy clearing the exhaustion from his voice. Raysel snarled soundlessly, the action going unseen behind his back. I didn’t miss it. I was never turning my back on her again.
Nerium’s expression was more frightening than Raysel’s. The amiable servitude slid out of her eyes like a knife sliding out of a sheath, leaving her expressionless and cold. Standing her ground, she flung the tray toward me. It didn’t fly well, but it did fly, spraying liquid in all directions.
“Hey!” I yelped, dodging. I was too slow: a goblet caught me on the shoulder, splashing my jacket and the side of my neck in viscous green. The liquid burned when it touched my skin. Behind me, I heard Connor bark in pained surprise. I didn’t stop. There wasn’t time.
“What is the meaning of this?” shouted Sylvester. I looked up. He was facing Raysel, his back toward the door, and Oleander was between them with a knife in her hand. The blade glistened in the light. She still wore a Hob’s face, but she wasn’t making any attempt to look like anyone but herself. The masks were coming off.
“Sylvester, get back!” Manuel flashed past me, still running. “Manuel!”
He heard me. I know he heard me, and I know he knew his former compatriots well enough to know what would happen if he didn’t stop. He didn’t even pause. He just kept running.
I was ten feet away and gaining speed when Manuel shoved Sylvester aside; his expression was frighteningly like the one his sister wore when she threw herself at death to save my life. Oleander lunged forward, burying her knife between Manuel’s ribs. He fell, taking the knife with him, and she found herself staring down the blade of Sylvester’s sword.
“Explain yourself,” he snarled.
She turned and ran.
Sylvester looked toward his daughter. She stared back at him, golden eyes wide and frightened. Rayseline was no innocent, but she’d been used, just like Manuel. The only difference was that she’d known what she was getting into.
“Raysel—” I began.
She whirled and ran after Oleander, moving with desperate speed. Sylvester watched her go, sword still naked in his hand. “Rayseline?” he repeated, like he’d never heard the name before.
I pushed past Sylvester and dropped to my knees, trying to roll Manuel onto his back. He was heavier than he looked—most teenage boys are—but I managed to hook my hands under his shoulders and flip him over. “Manuel?”
His eyes were open and glazed; he wasn’t looking at me. “Yes?”
“Are you all right?” It was a stupid question: the answer was sticking out of his chest. There wasn’t much blood. The knife formed an almost perfect seal against his skin, keeping his life locked inside. My own skin was burning from the liquid that splashed me, but I ignored the pain. Manuel’s danger was a lot more immediate.
“I’m fine.” He smiled. His eyes were getting more and more distant. “I’m really, really good.”
“Toby, is he—” began Sylvester.
“Get help!” I snapped, resting Manuel’s head on my knee. “Don’t talk. We’re going to get Jin, and it’s going to be okay. Just breathe until she gets here.” Connor came puffing up behind Sylvester, one hand clapped over his left shoulder. The fabric of his shirt was wet there; he’d clearly taken the brunt of Oleander’s attack.
Manuel closed his eyes. “Was that the Duke?” he asked.
Sylvester was still standing there, seemingly rooted in the spot. “Yeah,” I said.
“Is he hurt?” Manuel’s voice was fading.
“He’s fine. You saved him.” I looked back down, biting my lip as I saw how pale he’d become. “We’re gonna get you some help. You’ll be fine.”
