Page 11 of Veiled Flames (Destiny of Dragons #1)

Seven

Rosomon

T he moment I land on the rocks below Olifer’s room, I see a flaw in my plan.

If I’d stayed inside the castle, I may have found a route that would take me out of the grounds through the servants’ quarters.

Now I’m stuck in the outer courtyards, surrounded by high walls.

But my decision has been made. I can’t give up now.

The gates to the castle are well-secured this time of night.

During daylight, I can always enter through the gates—sometimes even without getting marched straight to Nurse—but going out is another matter.

Every time I return, it sparks arguments between the guards, as each lays blame on the others as to which one of them let me exit.

What they don’t understand is that none of them ever lets me exit.

Escape is easy in the daylight. I time my exits to follow alongside a farmer’s or merchant’s cart, or even better, during the chaos when a shepherd or swineherd leads their animals toward the royal slaughterhouse.

It’s somewhat more difficult to pass unnoticed when I’m on horseback, but as long as I make my escape while the gates are raised and the moat bridge is down, the guards can do little to stop me.

Sky Stallion and I can easily outrun all the guards’ mounts.

But based on the moon’s angle and near silver color—not yet showing the deeper pinks and purples that will signal the impending dawn—deliveries won’t start for at least an hour.

I can’t wait that long.

Scaling the walls isn’t an option. My hands are raw and aching from the climb down from the window, and the walls surrounding the grounds are not only high, but smooth and well-guarded. There must be another way.

A memory fills me with hope, and I turn toward the chapel.

When I had but nine years, I discovered a subterranean passage, leading away from the crypts.

I didn’t traverse it far, there were too many rats for my taste, and the shadow of a much bigger creature made me retreat.

But I’m older now. Braver. More desperate.

That passage must lead somewhere.

The thought of going into the crypts at night gives me pause, but I don’t believe in specters. And even if they exist, the souls buried in those crypts are my ancestors. Surely, they would do me no harm.

King Vyktor definitely means me harm, so I’ll take my chances with the spirits.

The heavy chapel door groans on its hinges.

Touching the forehead of Othrix carved into the door, I pause for a moment, praying that no souls are nearby. A mouse scurries through a beam of moonlight on the chapel floor, but that small creature seems to be the only one disturbed by my entry.

High above the main altar, moonlight shines through the symbol of Othrix depicted there in stained glass.

Beams of golden light encircle our god’s watchful face, and wings spread out to the sides.

The moon is shining directly behind the symbol, brightening the rays of sunlight around His fierce but benevolent face.

Taking that as an omen, I pause to genuflect.

I’m not certain I even believe in Othrix any more than I believe in specters, but I can use all the help I can get. If Othrix exists, I want Him on my side.

The door leading to the crypt is locked, but I’ve seen where the klericks store their keys. Under the shrine to those lost to the Darkness, I find the correct one. It’s forged from silver, and a skull is carved on the key’s bow, inlaid with pieces of oyster shell that flicker in the moonlight.

I open the door and then pause again. There are no lights in the crypt, and no chance of moonlight down there.

Returning to the sanctuary, I quickly retrieve several candles, a lighting stick and a small container of striking powder.

Then I return the key to its hiding place.

Let the klericks think the door was accidentally left unlocked.

Using the lighting stick and a few specks of powder, I light the largest candle and stash the rest in a side pouch of my stolen breeches. Then I start down the narrow stone stairway, closing the door behind me.

The descent is long and winding, so it’s difficult to perceive how far the crypt lies below the chapel.

And even more difficult to keep my sense of direction.

This is by design, I expect, but it’s not my first time down these stairs.

In the crypts, I’ll be farther under the castle grounds than all but the highest turret rises above.

When I reach the bottom, the effigies to the dead come to life in the flickering light of my candle, and I fight against an impending tremble.

A gust blows out my light, casting me into utter darkness.

For a moment, the tremble wins my battle of wills against it, but I calm myself and consider my options. Feeling around me, I set down the large pillar candle, dig out a smaller one, and then use the lighting stick, praying I won’t spark all the powder at once and cause an explosion.

Mission accomplished, I carefully re-stash my supplies. Moving forward, I shield the flame from more gusts. The shade cast by my hand obscures my path, but the candle stays lit.

The tomb of Armand the Conquer, the largest and most prominent effigy in the crypt, sends a shiver down my spine. The likeness of my ancient ancestor is both gloomy and ferocious, but I see a faint hint of my father in the cut of his jaw.

Armand lived when Othrix created the veil to protect the Light from the Darkness.

Our history sings his praises, but on a high library shelf I discovered a historical record from the Kingdom of Nathia.

That tome held a very different account of Armand’s conquests, which left a good third of Nathia in our kingdom’s hands, leaving Nathia with largely infertile lands. Thousands of Nathians perished.

I pick up my pace, wanting to get out of the crypts as quickly as possible, but I pause in front of my mother’s small effigy.

Her carved likeness is unrecognizable, and I wonder which is closer to the real woman, this statue or the painting in the castle gallery.

Neither matches anything stored in my memory.

Standing in front of her remains, I silently ask my mother for help.

Asking for the Queen’s help is foolhardy at best. Even if she could hear, even if her specter could act, Mother’s spirit would likely race to alert the guards.

Someday I’ll find an ally, someone to be on my side. Nurse does care for me, as do my brothers, but all three are decidedly on the same side as my father. And my father is sending me to my death.

I cross through the rest of the crypt without incident, only the rats and mice as company. If there are specters, none pay me notice.

Why expect attention from them? These specters are related to my father.

Leading away from the crypt, the tunnel becomes smaller and smaller, the walls closing in on either side of me. At times I need to bend forward, and it seems much tighter than when I was last here.

The tunnel opens into another channel. I’ve gone farther than I did the last time, and this passage has a small river running down its center. A promising sign, although the water smells foul.

Letting my gut choose, I head the way I believe is closest to north, fighting to ignore my sudden spike of distrust in my sense of direction.

Khotor lies to the south, so my chances seem better heading through Achotia toward Verax.

I’ve made many turns to get to this point, but I’m traveling the same way as the small river’s current, which seems wise.

While the bulk of the passage seems naturally formed, perhaps by water, the ledge I’m using is built of stone and brick. As I walk along, it becomes narrow in places, forcing me to bend and yield to the curve of the walls. I step carefully, not wanting to fall into the foul-smelling water.

Startled by a rat, I nearly drop my candle but recover as the rodent dives into the water to swim. Lowering my light, I realize the water is teaming with rats, and I become doubly determined not to fall in.

I’ve traveled many furlongs, perhaps half a league, when a cave-like space opens up to my side.

I sense movement in a corner. “Who’s there?”

A rat scurries across the open space, and I choose to believe the rodent was all I saw. A rat is bad enough, but as I shine my candle around, there is clear evidence of human activity in this space, whether or not anyone is here at this moment.

I lack the time to care about who could be using this passageway—or why.

Ahead, I spot a small vessel, barely more than a raft. I’m terrified by the idea of traveling on the foul, rat-infested water, dependent on an unreliable craft. But this ledge is becoming increasingly difficult to traverse. I’ve already had to leap over several gaps.

A torch hangs off a long pole at the front of the raft.

Standing on the ledge, I lean out to light the torch with my flame and then stash the extinguished candle into a pouch on my breeches.

These pouches are proving very practical, and I wonder why women’s garments don’t have such handy places for storage.

Then, I realize that Nurse’s apron has pouches.

As do the maids’. It seems only the clothing of noble women lacks practicalities.

Just like the world hobbles us with impractical shoes and tight corsets, our clothing doesn’t allow us to carry anything that would help us survive without the assistance of men.

Bracing myself, I step carefully onto the raft. It tips treacherously back and forth, but once I find my balance, I pick up a long pole I hope I can use to propel the craft.

For the second time tonight, I’m stealing someone’s property—this time from a stranger who might depend on this raft. I have little choice. My scraped fingers are now stiff from the cold, but I manage to untie the rope holding the raft’s back end.