Chapter 15

Try.

Try.

Try.

I internally chant the word every time my chisel cleaves into the stone with the force of my savage determination, chipping off chunks that collect in the small hole I’ve dug into the wall.

My hair is still wet from spending most of the day trying to scramble out of The Bowl—getting fleeting sips of sunlight every time the clouds broke—my guts sore from violent bursts of vomiting between my failed attempts.

The tapestry is a heavy weight upon my back, the air thick and musty and drawn through my gritted teeth, residue of my exertion dripping down my temples.

The blisters on my palms have long since popped, sweat and dust and bits of stone aggravating the tender, weepy flesh of the deep cut in my palm as I stab.

Try.

Try.

Try.

My hand slips.

A blaze of sting sears my knuckles as I grate them across the ravaged stone. Hissing, I whip my hand back and shake it out, the chisel thumping into my lap. I shuffle around and lean against the wall.

Using my sleeve to wipe my face, I give the tapestry a shove with my leg, allowing fresh air to waft into the tight space with a rush of golden light from my lantern sitting just beyond the hole. Drawing deep, relieved breaths, my gaze coasts across the back of it. Across the swirling lines of pale thread and jagged black stitches that look angry enough to transcend the material.

I frown.

The woven threads bear no resemblance to the image on the front.

I untangle my bunched limbs and cleave free of the tight space, a litter of stone shards scattering onto the ground with my chisel as I ease past the heavy weave.

Standing in the dim, dusty hallway, I lift my lantern and study the tapestry mounted with a rod of wood, the ends strung with a single length of rope hooked over a nail. I set my lantern aside, grab the bottom border, and walk backward, lifting it away from the wall before I flip the thing, eyes widening when it thumps back into place with the back matter facing forward.

I stumble a step, hand whipping up to slap my mouth.

A volcano almost erupts off the magnificent piece of art, but it’s not lava spewing from the crater. It’s a storm of steam dashed through with cracks of lightning. It’s a swarm of beasts prowling down the craggy slope, their fur gray and pallid, stumpy maws locked in ferocious snarls that bare their ivory sabers.

Vruk.

I swallow the swell of bile burning the back of my throat as my gaze rips from the tapestry and drifts to the one just right of it. I dart forward and grab it by the hem, flipping it.

Release a little sob.

I scour the brutal scene of Vruks shredding across the weave—muzzles splashed red, bits of their savage kills scattered about.

Severed hands, arms, heads …

At the center, a woman with black eyes and hair the color of fire is stretched over a boulder, her fiercely beautiful face caught in a twist of anguish.

I gasp at her extended canines. The tapered tips of her ears.

Unseelie.

Her gaze is lifeless, her broken body at the mercy of the haunched beast feasting on her abdomen. Its paw rests on her chest, an extended talon punched through the spot where her heart would lie, blood leaching from the wound.

I’m struck by the mental vision of Rhordyn walking amongst the Irilak, his ears sharpening. Canines lengthening. Then his unseeing eyes while I burn beneath the feel of a phantom kiss pressed against my forehead.

Don’t cry …

My knees threaten to crumble, an ache surging in my chest that buckles my spine.

With a shuddered breath, I shuffle to the right in uneven steps, doing what little I can to brace my heart before gently flipping another tapestry.

The shape of Arrin is woven upon an otherwise black background, and within the borders of the lost territory is a mound of bloodied roses. Most are red, but some are the haunting hue of the roses that sprout from my shoulder, threaded with a sparkly string that glimmers in the firelight.

Standing atop the mound is a man dressed in a green cape; Arrin’s colors.

I can tell he’s Unseelie by the points of his pierced ears and the harsh cut of his beautiful face. By the opaline blood dripping from his extended canines.

A broad-shouldered silhouette dwarfs him from behind, his menacing presence making the hairs on my arms lift.

My fingers twitch to reach forward and rub away the blackness so I can see his face.

His eyes.

My gaze drops to the tapered tip of a sable talon protruding from the Unseelie’s chest. Blood has seeped through his green cloak, as though the man behind him just stabbed him through the heart.

I dash to the next tapestry, flipping it—like turning the pages of a book I can’t gobble down fast enough.

This scene is similar, but the black silhouette is gone, the green-cloaked man atop the mountain of roses now folded in a lifeless lump. The border is no longer black, but a beautiful, ghastly illusion that makes it appear as though numerous bloody swords are threaded through the weft, pointed toward Arrin, each wielded by snarling Unseelie.

War.

Someone murdered the High Master of Arrin, and the entire continent went to war over the unclaimed land …

My heart hammers so hard I can hear it rushing in my ears.

I flip the next tapestry.

Silvery dunes are overlooked by a riot of angry, swollen clouds riddled with luminescent forks. Gathered people—no, Unseelie—are stalled mid stride, weapons dropping from their hands as they run from bolts of lightning powering down from bulbous, gray clouds.

There’s wild fear in their inky eyes that weep bloody tears, mouths agape, jagged lines of silver scribbled across their skin, swallowing some of them whole.

I feel the image take root inside my chest. Weigh me down.

Reaching out, I trace the forks of lightning, some innate part of me knowing that these hidden tapestries are ancient threads of history. That I’m peeking through the folds of time at the decimation of the Unseelie.

Given what I know of their history, I should be looking upon these weaves feeling lightened …

Instead, a deep sadness overwhelms me.

Frowning, my gaze drifts to the right, and I find my hands shaking when I reach down and grip the hem of the next tapestry. This one is large, harder to flip, and my shoulder muscles ache as I wrestle it over.

I drop the drape against the wall in a puff of dust that makes me cough. I bat at the swirl of it, squinting through the haze.

My eyes widen, and cold dread seeps through my veins, chilling me to the bone.

A lone hill graces the center of the tapestry, littered with hundreds of wildflowers stitched in the boldest colors.

I’ve seen a likeness of this image before, back at Castle Noir. Hung before the hidden passageway that led to my secret nook where I’d watch the monthly Tribunal. A tapestry I’ve looked at many times, heart swelling with a curious sadness I could never understand. A sadness I feel now nipping the backs of my eyes as I study the perfect stitches. The way the flowers tilt their faces toward the light. The shape of the petals, like a flurry of tiny flames.

And I just know …

Both tapestries were woven by the same pair of hands.

* * *

Night sits upon the shoulders of the palace like a weight, choking the life out of it, giving it a lonely, cold aura despite the muggy air. Even so, I’m not surprised to find Old Hattie in her room off the lobby, sitting on a stool before her loom—her long, silver braid coiled on the floor.

Tucked behind a half-open door, I barely feel the tired ache of my eyes while I watch her weave, huddled within an orb of lantern light. Her fingers move with grace and speed, like the missing two have never been there.

I hunger over every twist and knot, bright threads woven and pulled as taut as her hunched shoulders. She uses the warp stick to tighten the line, and my gaze drifts to the half-finished masterpiece.

A nest of flowers surrounds what appears to be the makings of a pale face, the vibrant pops of color so achingly familiar a lump rises in my throat.

Wildflowers.

She makes a small grunting sound that shatters the sleepy silence, and her hand lifts from the threads. She doesn’t turn from her task as she crooks her finger—a quiet request for me to approach.

A chill scurries up my spine.

I’m sure most people don’t sense me coming and going, dashing through the halls and slipping through rooms. Melding with the shadows.

Not unless I want them to.

Clearing my throat, I tuck my hair behind my ears, checking the dark, empty foyer through the doorway to my right before I ease forward. Old Hattie edges along the wooden stool, setting her lantern on the floor and patting the empty space.

I draw a shuddering breath, then sit.

She collects my blistered, bloody hands and holds them tight, her skin so fine and papery it makes my breath hitch.

They don’t even feel real.

Frowning, I look into her pale eyes, noting the sheen of tears glazing them as she tightens her grip, cradling my visible hurts. But there’s something about her sorrowful gaze that makes me think she sees the pain beneath my skin, too.

“I’m fine,” I lie.

Smiling gently, she shakes her head.

I break eye contact and squeeze my lids shut, feeling her fingers coast across the burn mark on the inside of my wrist. She makes a soft humming sound, then eases both my hands toward the tapestry.

Realizing her intentions, I try to pull back. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I say, but her grip only tightens before she twists spools of color around my fingers, guiding me to make the weaves.

I resign to her whim, awkward at first—uncertain—but there’s confidence in Hattie’s silent instruction. In the way she manipulates my hands so that together, we move almost as fast as she does on her own.

My hammering heart slows, worries melting, mind fixating on the twist of thread as she guides me through her craft.

Many minutes slip by, and I wonder over the spool of time Hattie’s spent on the weaves she’s made. Over the stories she’s told in her own abstract way.

Perhaps, like me, she spins circles to escape the noise in her own head.

She uses her warp stick to tighten another line, giving the flowers a little more shape, and I look at her.

Hands stilling, her powdery gaze strikes me.

“I’ve seen these flowers before,” I whisper, and a line forms between her brows. “On the wall at Castle Noir.”

Her hand comes up to cover her mouth, and a whimper slips out, features crumbling as tears spill.

Shit.

Perhaps I’ve made a terrible mistake. Poured salt in old wounds that haven’t healed.

I reach for her hand—

The clock above the mantle chimes, and Hattie jumps, her wild gaze whipping to the door. Then her hands are moving fast: elbow resting on her flattened palm, the other pointed to the ceiling. She flips the supporting hand and stretches the fingers on that reaching one, making it look like branches waving in the wind. She moves again, making a V shape with her fingers, the tip of her middle finger touching her upper cheek before pointing the same gesture forward, grunting at me.

I shake my head. “I-I don’t know, Hattie. I’m so sorry …”

A groan drones out of her, and she pushes her lantern at my chest, stealing nervous peeks at the clock. Then she’s fisting my shirt, lugging me to my feet with a strength that belies her frail stature. She shoves me toward the door so hard I stumble back, catching myself before I fall flat on my ass.

My mind whirs; heart hammers.

“Fwee!”

Her rasped voice shakes me to the bone.

She can talk … she just can’t do it properly.

She makes the second hand gesture again, waving her stretched hand. “Fwee!”

“I— I don’t …”

“Fwee!”

Fwee … Fwee …

Tree.

“You … want me to go to the tree?”

She nods so fast I fear her head might topple off her bony shoulders.

The sun’s probably about to rise, and I’ve only ever visited the tree at night …

My grip tightens on the lantern spilling harrowing shadows across her face now lit with a spark of hope.

Beautiful, chest-breaking hope.

I offer her a soft smile and nod.

* * *

Pushing free of the shadowy jungle, the world opens for me like drapes drawn to the warm kiss of morning.

Loose hair and shirt dancing with the tousling sea breeze, I step closer to the tree clinging to the edge of the cliff like a gnarled hand, the budding sun casting the ocean in bronze ripples, heating my skin and enriching my senses.

Despite the warmth spreading through my veins, blooming beads of luster and making my fingers tingle, a deep melancholy washes over me like the rising tide …

Last time I was here, he found me.

Held me.

Comforted me.

Then I screamed at him and told him terrible things—cold echoes that chill me to the bone.

Arms wrapped around my middle, I step close enough to the cliff that I can see down to the stony shore below; to the weather-worn dinghy I noticed when Cainon led me to the abandoned Unseelie burrow.

I let my gaze coast across the ocean to the small island sitting in the bay, and my heart skips a beat.

Another.

There, littering the simple mound, is a dappled blaze of color.

Red, orange, pink, purple, yellow—

Wildflowers. Thousands of them swaying with the breeze, their vibrant petals bared to the rising sun. Clumped together in places, scattered in others, cushioned by lush green grass so bright and bold it reminds me of the grounds at Castle Noir.

My knees give way, and I crumple, pressing my palms upon my heaving chest as a restless energy squirms to life and pumps through my veins …

There’s something out there; something Hattie wants me to see.