As I break contact, it all vanishes.
She has secrets. That much is clear. And she’s afraid of something. In the strange bursts, I saw—no, I felt—the presence of a large crowd. She knows more about the gray-clad fire starters than she admits. She’s the one training them.
If I touch her arm and ask her directly, I’ll know for sure. She won’t be able to hide her reaction from me. But if I confront her, what happens next? I should have brought Glenquartz. He, at least, would have a weapon. I swallow hard.
“I will begin the inquiry with my guards tomorrow morning.” She smiles to reassure me, but it prickles my senses as false.
I suppress a shudder and turn it into a solemn nod. “Of course. Thank you.”
She departs, and I can’t help but hang on the fact that she said “my guards.” A group of militants like the one that set the fires would have to take orders from someone. From her.
I leave the range and return to the palace, mind racing.
I think about it well into the night, and slowly—ever so slowly—a few pieces start fitting together.
At Agatha’s house, Spell said that she and her daughter had lived in the cellar. And at Med Ward after the fires, Marcher said that secrets don’t stay buried for long.
If I had a legion of Royal guards training and planning to set fires, where could they go where no one would stumble upon them?
I remember my very first night here in the palace, when I spent the night in the dungeon. I thought I could sense the breathing of the city, like a heartbeat. But what if that wasn’t a sensation from my new magical abilities? What if it was real—the real sounds of a group of Royal guards hiding out and planning underneath the palace?
If Belrosa buried the truth, maybe that’s where I’ll find it.
* * *
The dungeon is as dark and unpleasant as I remember, and I even pay a special curtsy to my old cell as I pass by. As I explore the dark tunnels, I rub my eyes, blinking away blurry shadows. It only takes a half hour before the cold and fatigue are creeping through my bones. As I round a corner, I hear footsteps: a single person, impatient, walking quickly. Then I see the light.
I move quickly, slipping inside an empty cell. The light bobs closer, rounding the curve. The wall is cold against my neck, and I fight the shiver crawling up my spine. I crouch down.
The light grows brighter and brighter. Then it flares. A pulse of energy: the man’s aura as he passes. It’s rigid and stern. He’s definitely a guard. I reenter the tunnel. His uniform is red, not gray.
I put a gentle hand over my tattoo. Two choices: con my way into getting his key, or take it. A struggle could alert other guards in the area.
“You there, Guard!” I do my best to sound regal.
He spins around, startled. His heels click together to stand at attention.
I suppress a grin with a stern frown. “Do you know who I am?”
He is young, and he reminds me of a softer, younger version of Glenquartz. I remember seeing him during one of my tours of the palace. We were introduced. Kael Rajesh.
Kael’s hand quivers at his side, as he decides whether or not to go for the single shot pistol at his hip or the musket from his shoulder.
I turn my shoulder toward him to show him the crown tattoo. “I am the Nameless queen.” Saying it sends heat through my bones, energizes me. Strong.
Kael’s fear bridges the gap between us like a static shock. I try to sense more of his aura, but when his hand twitches near the sheathed bayonet, that’s enough.
I walk toward him slowly, talking to distract him.
“I’ve gotten myself lost,” I say. “I figured the stairs would bring me to a food cellar.”
Kael tenses as I halve the distance between us. Now I’m three steps away.
“You’re not supposed to be down here.” Kael’s aura spikes with fear like crystallizing ice.
“I’m not? But I’m queen. Can’t I go anywhere?” My fingers grow cold.
He focuses on my actions, his aura slowing down, like motes of dust suspended in sunlight. The sensation of frost crawls over my skin as his aura cools with suspicion. His hand grips the bayonet handle. He opens his mouth to speak. Now.
I close the gap, striking his throat so he can’t call for help. The heat of his skin is like embers. He chokes and drops his lantern. I crouch and catch it an inch above the ground as he sputters for breath.
Kael twists forward, slamming his knee into my body, and there goes the lantern. With a crack of glass, oil spills onto the floor and flames jump to life on the stones. The fire is barely at our ankles, but I scramble away from the heat, striking at Kael’s knee.
I hit his other knee, bringing him down to my level. He throws a wide punch, and I raise my arm to block it. As soon as I feel the hit, I trap his hand under my arm. Got you.
I twist his body away from me and grab his shoulder. Gaining leverage, I slam him into the wall. He meets the stones face-first and crumples to the ground. I pull him away from the steady flames as the lantern oil burns.
There’s an unpleasant dark red outline of rock on Kael’s forehead. I check for a pulse. Still alive, but unconscious.
I flip open his jacket and find the small key fitted through the cloth loop. I rip the key free. I don’t know when he’ll wake, but I don’t want him running off and telling anyone.
And, down the tunnel: a perfectly good cell waiting for an occupant.
Five minutes later, Kael lies on the floor of the cell. Before closing the door, I take Kael’s coat. I can’t hide my hair this time, but from a distance I might pass as a Royal guard.
Oil settles into the cracks between stones, and the last traces of fire lick up in a grid pattern. With a sidelong glance at the broken lantern, I rip off part of Kael’s shirtsleeve. I use it to soak up what remains of the lantern’s oil from the cracked glass well. I stow the foul-smelling cloth in my boot.
I envision my map. Most of the dungeon’s tunnels interlock like a maze, and I’ve covered a lot of area so far.
I walk carefully. A low rushing sound fills the air, like the steady roll of a drum. At first, I think it’s the drainage pipes. Soon enough, I recognize it as the sound of heavy feet. As I round a curve, a door comes into view. A thin smudge of light stretches from beneath it, and I hear another pulse of voices.
This is where General Belrosa’s militant guards are training.
The door is twelve steps ahead. My boots grind the grime and dirt. The hairs on my arms rise.
Six steps, and I can hear the voices behind the door. Synchronized shouts and stomping feet.