Page 42 of The Darkening (The Darkening)

Dalca.

I tamp down the fury that rises in me. He flies with an easy grace, like a creature born to the sky. He’s untouchable, freedom incarnate.

I dream of yanking on a string tied to his foot and snapping him out of the sky. No creature is born to the sky; even birds are born grounded. And like all birds, he too must land.

As if echoing my thoughts, Dalca begins to descend. He seems to come straight at us—the apprentices around me collectively hold their breath, even the men—and then he swerves to the right and drops down, through the open air above the hedge-walled gardens of the palace.

While they’re all watching him, I slip away.

I should’ve asked the other apprentice how long the meeting lasts. I can’t risk Casvian beating me back to the Ven. I’ll search an hour, no more.

I go deeper into the palace, and the walls soon become more art than wall. From doors to arched window frames, every piece of wood is carved with scenes of endless forests or pools of water fed by great waterfalls, showing a world unbound by the Storm. Occasional skylights cast dim, dust-speckled slants of light; each step I take is either into light or into darkness.

There’s an old bedtime story I only half remember, where the palace was called the House of a Thousand Doors. It was a story about the Great King’s soul wandering ghostlike through the palace, opening doors and meeting the souls of the Regias of the past and future.

I don’t meet any ghosts, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there.The carved faces on the walls watch me as they no doubt watched thousands before me. The weight of history is a stifling presence, as if even the air is careful with how it moves.

How small my problems must appear to the spirit of the palace. How many girls like me has it seen? How many daughters terrified of losing their fathers?

I wonder how long I’ll have to wander through the palace; how many ghosts will I meet before I find the right door? More than half my time is gone, and I’ve made no headway at all. Maybe this is a mistake—maybe I need to have the patience to earn Cas and Dalca’s trust. But I have a feeling time isn’t on my side. At any moment, Dalca could choose to end Pa’s life.

I turn a corner, and there he is—not a ghost, but haunting me all the same.

Dalca walks with his hands folded behind his back, cloak billowing behind him. His gaze is fixed upon the floor, expression grim. I guess the meeting didn’t go well.

He moves with purpose toward a wall carved with a depiction of a grand feast in a woodland clearing. All the carved figures are fixated upon either each other or the food—except for one woman, who gazes out at us, a poma held loosely in one hand.

Dalca presses the poma. The edge of a door pops out, and Dalca wrests it open. He steps inside, and the door begins to swing shut behind him.

It can’t be this easy.

I dash toward the closing door, footsteps as quiet as possible, and catch the edge of the door with my fingertips. Behind is a long hallway, brightly lit with golden ikonlight. The edge of Dalca’s cloak disappears around the far corner.

I take a deep breath and go in. The hallway curves to the right and opens out into a small white-stone atrium. There are four doors, but one swings shut as I near.

I tiptoe close and press my ear to the door.

“Hello, Papa.” Dalca’s voice. “Let me help you sit up.”

The sound of rustling. A grunt. I’m stuck onpapa.Surely he can’t be talking to Zanam Zinde; everyone knows his father died when the old Regia was assassinated. The rumors must’ve been wrong; after all, rumors say Pa’s dead, too.

Neither Pa nor Amma ever spoke of the Regia’s consort. Most people don’t. He wasn’t a significant man. But I suppose even insignificant men are fathers.

What happened to him, that he’s locked up in this secret corner of the palace?

“I found him. He knows the secret, Papa. We just have to get it out of him... I think I can save Mother. Oh, don’t cry, it’ll be all right. I’ll make it all right.”

There’s silence. I press closer, crushing my ear against the door, ignoring the sweetness in his voice and how it makes something in me twinge. He’s talking about Pa—about getting Pa’s work from him.

A lock clicks from the next door over, and I jump back. A woman in a white apron bustles out, carrying a pile of linens. She stops when she sees me.

“Who are you, dearie?”

“I’m Casvian Haveli’s apprentice.” The words come from me as smooth as if I’d practiced them. “He sent me to find Dalca.”

She glances at the first door to the left. “Well, the prince is meeting someone. I daresay he won’t want to be disturbed. Why don’t you wait for him?”

She nods at the hallway I’ve just come down.