Chapter 6 - Calliope

A day passes after my attempt to escape is foiled. It is the longest day I’ve ever experienced.

When night falls, I’m almost grateful for the change, even as the darkness seems to swoop down to meet the windows, boxing me in. I’ve been staring at the same four walls for what feels like hours now, waiting for the monotonous chime of bells that signals the changing of the guards. They’ve kept me locked in here all day, only letting silent, hunched servants in twice to bring food I can barely stomach. Bread and meat and bread—is that all dragons eat? My boredom gnaws at me with almost as much insistence as the chains do.

When the bells toll, their echoing like a harkening of death, I know what’s coming. I decide I’ll take my chances.

I rise from the edge of the narrow bed, the mattress creaking softly under my weight. My gaze flits to the door, where a faint light slips beneath the threshold. Shadows pass, then fade.

There—another change. I’ve memorized their movements now, counted the intervals, learned the rhythm. The guard shifts, however precise, always leave a small gap. A few minutes, no more. A flaw in the great Dragon King’s fortress, his impenetrable wall of dominion.

If I’m to be caged, I’m better off knowing my prison.

My bare feet are silent on the cold stone floor as I approach the door, ears straining for the faintest sound. The lock’s been left undone, an investment in my supposed cooperation.

The king thinks he’s already cowed me into submission. He’s wrong.

I slip out, heart pounding in the stillness of the corridor. My entire body is cold with anxiety. The hall is dim, bathed only in the ghostly blue of moonlight spilling through narrow, arched windows. Shadows pool in every corner, merging into a heavy darkness that makes the space seem both vast and suffocating.

I hold my breath, waiting—listening—for any sign that I’ve been spotted.

But there’s nothing. The hush is absolute. I have timed my flight perfectly.

I start moving, every step careful and measured, and head east, searching for a staircase that might lead me down from the tower. When I find it, I descend in silence. The castle’s corridors seem to stretch on endlessly, twisting and turning, thick with forks and intersections, false doors and narrow, dark passages. It’s beautiful, in a cold, austere fashion I have never known: walls of gray stone lined with tapestries woven in dark hues, chandeliers hanging like cages of iron and glass from impossibly high ceilings. The enchanted flames which illuminate these halls have extinguished themselves. It must be two or three in the morning.

The whole place feels more like a mausoleum than a palace. The farther I go, the more the chill seeps into my bones. I feel somehow like I’m being consumed by the spirit of this place, eaten alive by its sickness.

I hesitate at a junction, glancing down one identical hallway after another. I need to be methodical, but I also need to be quick. If I get caught again…

Arvoren would kill me. He’ll quash me, destroy me, if I continue to test him. I know he needs me, but he doesn’t need me so badly that he’ll keep tolerating my impetuousness. No king would allow much more disrespect than I’ve already shown.

If I’m not incredibly careful, I risk death. And I have promises to keep.

I shake the thought away and keep moving. Eventually, I spot what I’ve been looking for—a narrow staircase winding upward. Have I really crossed the length of the entire castle? The library should be in the West Wing—I overheard a guard mention his post nearby.

The steps spiral up and up, and by the time I reach the top, my legs ache. I pause, leaning against the cool wall, and then take a deep breath, pressing on.

The air changes as I approach the end of the corridor. It grows heavier, laced with the scent of old parchment and something faintly sweet and musky, like dust motes drifting through sunbeams in my grandmother’s cottage. I push open the heavy double doors and step into the library.

The sight of it takes my breath away.

Even unlit, the enormous chamber is staggeringly beautiful. Rows upon rows of towering shelves stretch into the distance, laden with tomes bound in every shade of leather imaginable. Iron ladders rise up to reach the higher levels, disappearing into shadowed alcoves and hidden nooks. The ceiling above is vaulted, its arches etched with faded frescoes that seem to ripple under the shifting glow of moonlight through the high windows.

I walk slowly down the nearest aisle, fingers trailing lightly along the spines of the books. Some are brittle and crumbling, others smooth and cool to the touch.

It’s a labyrinth of knowledge and secrets, a place that seems to echo with voices of the past. Yet, there’s an emptiness here, too, a sense of abandonment. As if all these books, all these words, have been left to wither and decay in silence. Nobody uses this place. Certainly, I think, the king has abandoned it. Perhaps it was the passion of his forebearers, his parents. Perhaps he considers their efforts to have been foolish.

I round a corner, pausing as I catch sight of something. A soft glow of light flickers from the far end of a corridor.

Candlelight.

Perhaps there are scholars here, after all. If that’s the case, I’ll be caught.

But, then, perhaps if I was just to look …

I approach cautiously, keeping close to the shelves, but curiosity propels me forward.

The source of the light reveals itself as I turn the corner: a lone figure seated in a plush armchair, his back to me. He’s reading, settled at a table, framed against an ornate bay window that stretches ten feet high toward the ceiling. Beyond the intricate glass, the city of Millrath is aglow with tiny spots of golden light. Forges, torches, inns, fires. All laid out like a thousand stars.

The stranger has a thick tome balanced on his lap. He doesn’t seem to notice me at first. I wonder whether I can sneak away. Then, as if sensing my gaze with an eerie prescience, he looks up.

The man smiles when our eyes meet. He’s young, perhaps around my age, with the fair complexion and light hair typical of those from the North. His eyes are a light, unsettling shade of blue, bright with a glimmer of curiosity.

Immediately, there’s a charisma about him. He’s disarming. But I also feel, somehow, as if I am being stared right through as our eyes meet, like he’s splitting my skin.

“A wanderer in the night,” he greets, inclining his head as if our encounter is ordinary. “And here I thought I was the only one who couldn’t sleep in this dreary place.”

I blink, surprised by the easy warmth of his tone.

“I—didn’t mean to intrude,” I stammer, feeling suddenly foolish. “I was just … exploring.”

“You’re braver than most he takes prisoner.” He tilts his head inquiringly. “You’re the new ‘bride?’ The staff aren’t supposed to let slip, but they talk.”

I hesitate, still considering running, but something about his demeanor draws me in. Perhaps it is that he, too, is a human. I can tell by his slight build, the narrowness of his features, the tenor of his voice. He shares my accent, the voice of my home region, though there’s something slightly off about it, almost rehearsed. Perhaps he’s from a wealthy family. I can tell already we’re from the same chilly lands far from here.

It would be stupid to trust him, but I’m desperate for a friend, so I approach, studying him as I sit. He’s well-dressed, his clothing tailored and neat, yet there’s a slight disarray to him, a looseness in his posture, a gleam in his eye that speaks of restlessness.

“Linus,” he says, inclining his head. “Linus Caddell. Of Fort Caddell.”

Ah. That explains his inexplicable presence here. Suddenly, it all makes sense.

No human would ever be allowed to wander these hallowed halls freely. I certainly never will be, I’m sure of it. But he is a young lord—perhaps the first heir—of House Caddell, the only noble house in all of Kaldoria headed by humans. He is one in a million. Most others of our species live and die with nothing. Everyone I’ve ever known has.

Both of us have, by some impossible trick of fate, been plucked from the misery of our species’ fate in this land and allowed to be here, at this moment. And our positions are equally precarious.

Immediately, I know it, as if I’ve been struck by lightning. We are not friends; we’re not allies.

Desperate creatures have no loyalty. We both know this.

“Calliope,” I reply cautiously. “Of Essenborn.”

He tilts his head, studying me with an almost unnerving intensity. “Essenborn. It’s rubble now. They found no survivors.”

“I know,” I tell him as blandly as I can manage, even as my chest throbs with grief. “I was there.”

“I’m sorry you went through that,” he says lightly, though there’s something unreadable in his gaze. Solidarity? No. Not quite. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. And I’m sorry for the position you’ve been placed in. I’m no courtier—I’m here on diplomatic work. Your presence away from your chambers is a secret safe with me.”

There’s a subtle edge to his words, a hint of bitterness buried beneath the politeness. Of course he is no courtier. Does he take me for a fool?

I shift in my seat, watching him closely. “You live in Millrath?”

He laughs softly. “I’m a diplomat."

I narrow my eyes, a prickle of suspicion rising. “You know as well as I do that peace talks are useless. Why are you really here?”

His gaze out the window beside us. The view is breathtaking, Millrath sprawled beyond the shimmering water like a sea of darkened spires, the faint glimmer of forge-fires dotting the horizon, where the mountains stretch for miles, where I know I will never again cross.

“I suppose you could say I’m in a similar position as you, Lady Calliope. I’m just trying to make the most of my time here while I have it; I seek to represent in family's interests.”

But before I can ask what he means, he turns back to me. His eyes soften.

“It’s not so bad, though, is it? Being a guest in this fine castle? Books to read, rooms to wander. Better than rotting away in a cell, I’d say. Every other human that has ever stayed in this place has stayed as a slave.”

My gaze hardens. “I’m not a guest. I’m a prisoner.”

“Of course,” he murmurs. He drops his voice to almost a whisper. “Whether you ever win the prize of his kindness, it’s what you will always be. I hope you know that.”

His words linger in the air, heavy with meaning I can’t quite grasp. There’s a peculiar stillness to him now, a gravity that belies his earlier lightness. It’s like staring at the surface of a lake and seeing only your reflection.

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask quietly, leaning forward. “As if I don’t already know.”

Linus’s eyebrow twitches. He closes his book, sliding it up onto the table in my direction, then leans close.

“I am no friend of the dynasty,” he murmurs, voice soft as the sound of a snake slithering. “But I can be a friend of yours, should you ever need one.”

I have no idea what to say to that. He unsettles me severely—I want him out of my space. But I am also desperate for him to keep talking. I have no idea why. Perhaps loneliness has already gotten to me. Perhaps I am going mad.

Slowly, I incline my head, barely a twitch. I almost think I’ve imagined it, but he nods back, then stands, straightening his long, dark coat.

He’s everything Arvoren isn’t. Lean, slight, with narrow, sly features and the silence of a spy.

Somehow, I suspect he’s just as dangerous. They hold themselves the same, somehow.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, truly,” he says. “But I should go before we draw too much attention.”

I nod once more. “I hope things work out in your city.”

He knows as well as I do that they won’t. But we’re both telling white lies tonight.

Nonetheless, Linus dips his head in a small bow, turning to leave. But just before he steps away, he pauses, looking back over his shoulder.

“Take care,” he says softly. “Trust no one here.”

And then, with a flicker of candlelight, he’s gone, leaving me alone in the vast, empty silence of the library.

Soon, first light will rise over the castle, and I will have to find another shift change during which I can sneak back into my quarters. Soon, my nightmare continues. Soon, I will have to leave this place where I am suspended in time away from my fear like a fossil in amber.

I peer down at the book Linus Caddell left me. In embossed golden letters, the cover reads, Winning Impossible Battles in the Game of War: A Military History of Kaldoria.

Of course. All along, it was for me.

I take the book, and on silent feet, I sneak back through the darkness to my prison.