Red Palace (18 page)

“Well clearly not enough,” he says, letting out
a hollow little laugh. “Fine, if you say I will make a good ruler, then I will. Now I know that… Now this has been resolved, I can put all my efforts into becoming the king Aegunlund needs.”

“I think that’s for the best,” I say.

“Still, it isn’t safe for you here—”

“Don’t worry, I won’t stay. I… shouldn’t stay.” Again, I forget that this isn’t real. My bottom lip trembles as I force
back tears. “I’ll take Anta and go south.”

“You still want to see the
Haedalands?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Very well. This is goodbye then.”

“I guess it is.”

Cas holds out his hand towards me in the formal way, but I push it aside and pull him close to me instead. At first he is rigid, but then he sinks into my embrace. I’ve taken him off guard, and I’m glad of it; it gave him no time to resist.

“Maybe one day we can meet, sometime in the future when all this madness has ended and we can sit by the sea and it will be like those campfires in the Waerg Woods.”

“I would like that,” he says.

And then he is gone. My arms are empty and I am left in nothingness.

Complete nothingness. Fear grips my heart as though in a vice. Where am I?

After a few moments of utter panic, I calm myself long enough to recognise my surroundings. The pitch black expanse. The nothingness. The death of the king. That wracking sob warbles out into the empty space. My eyes see as much open as they do shut, and my breath comes out in ragged gasps as I try to control the dread seeping over my skin.

“You’re dying, aren’t y
ou?” I shout.

He falters, sucks in
a breath, and then the crying continues.

“That’s what this is all about.
You’re dying, and because you’re afraid, you’re taking it out on Aegunlund. You’ve orchestrated the laboratory in the Red Palace so that you can make your diamonds, and you have pulled me into your little scheme because you are desperate for the craft-born to reignite the powers in the castle. And all this time you have ruined your own land and polluted the air in order to create an Ember Stone. But you failed. You can’t make an Ember Stone at all.”

The crying stops.
He lets out a succession of quick breaths.

“You are the most pathetic man I have ever
known, and I have met many a wastrel in The Fallen Oak. What did Aegunlund do to you? Does it deserve the way you have treated it? Does it? Do the people deserve such a weak man for a king? You should step down and let Casimir take over, a fair and just man.”

“Bah! He is weaker than I!”

“Only someone who cannot see beyond skin would say such a thing. Have you ever taken the time to stop and get to know your son? Well, have you? I think not. You did not see the fearless way he fought in the Waerg Woods. He was frightened at first, but only idiots have no fear. Real strength comes from being afraid and doing it anyway. The opposite of what you are doing right now. I have seen Cas look death straight in the face without flinching. I have seen him embrace his death. Not like his father, a sobbing, quivering mess—”

“You don’t know!” he booms. “You don’t know how I’ve lived, how I’ve suffered.”

“Oh spare me. I do know. I have come close to death several times during my journey here, and, yes, I have flinched, I have fought, and I have almost failed more than once, but I never gave up, and I would never, ever, take another life in order to live longer. You have taken hundreds of lives to try and prolong yours. You have killed your own people to do it. You are a small man, a despot king, a man to be laughed at. I will kill you myself.”

I step forward in the dark with my hands in front of my face.
It is useless. The nothingness is so thick that I cannot see even an inch in front of my face. If I am to find the king I must use light. The only way I can do that is by conjuring fire. I gulp at the thought. That means releasing more rage.

“You’ll have to find me first,” the
king growls.

“I am more powerful than you can imagine,” I say. “And I will find you.”

I stumble forward, holding out my hand palm up
. Despite my brave words, my fingers tremble. I’m not sure what I am more afraid of: summoning fire, or fighting the king. I shake my head and begin to let the anger burn within me. This is only a vision. It isn’t real. I can use fire here, I’ve done it before. I must force my powers to my will. This is the only way I will learn.

“You silly girl—”

“No, not girl,” I say. I have to stop and double over. The burning sensation ripping through my body causes real, physical pain. I let out a groan as I straighten my back and allow the fire to spring into action, glowing orange-red in the dark room, “craft-born.” I force myself to stand upright, strong and tall.

I will not let the fire control me
.

Somewhere in the distance there is a whimper and the scuttling of feet. The
king has seen my fire, which means that he cannot be far. I draw my arm back and fling the burning flame away from me, searching for the cowardly man. The fire burns bright and travels far, but there is nothing to be seen, no corners, no corridors, just a vast expanse of nothingness.

Where is he?

My gut twists with pent up rage. It’s like bathing in hatred. I hate fire. I hate what it makes me feel.

I wish I could sweep the room in a systematic fashion, but without walls or corners, there’s little I can do. I just keep moving forwards, throwing fireballs
in all directions. They travel but never hit a surface. The king’s fear seems impossible to navigate because it is nothingness.

“There has to be something,” I mumble to myself.
A trickle of sweat works its way down my temple. “No one can imagine nothingness. There has to be something, a trail, a pathway, something that he’s added to this world.”

I stare down at my feet
. Perhaps the floor is the only clue in this world. After all, the king has invented the ground I’m walking on.

“Footprints!”
I say.

Layers of dust have coated the expanse of
the floor, and within the dust, there are the unmistakeable signs of boot prints. The king has left a trail of his attempted escape.

I slow my steps, placing my feet quietly onto the dust. I
wrestle with the fire ball in my hand, controlling it takes all my concentration, but I manage to force it down to a candle flame. My control is improving, but the effort is draining. At least I’m doing it. Allerton was right to teach me the final element.

But still, the thought of killing with fire makes my throat close. There is something primitive about this element. I hurry on, wanting nothing more than to find the king and
leave.

The silence becomes a suffocating blanket that highlights the sound of my own body. My breath becomes a
hurricane; my heart is a beaten drum. I think for certain that the king can hear me approach. I imagine him crouched, waiting. Like a hunting cat engulfed in shadows.

I concentrate on my senses. There
is no sound. He must either be still or moving very slowly. There is no sight of him. He is cloaked in the shadows of his world. But there is a smell. It’s a very faint scent, one of musk, dried sweat and something else… like the tang of metal. It could be the smell of his chainmail or armour. Or his fear.

He’s close.

My shoulder blades dampen with sweat as I think of how I will defeat the king. I could never take him in battle. He might be a pathetic sobbing mess, but he is still stronger than me in combat. I will need to use my craft-born powers.

I could consume him in fire, but the thought of watching a man die in the flames turns my stomach.

I could throw him against the wall with wind. A vision of his broken body hitting the wall with a sickening crunch causes my flame to die down to a mere flicker.

You cannot kill.

I’ve had more than one opportunity to kill a foe, and every time I have found another way. What if my doubts are correct? What if I cannot take a life? Back in Halts-Walden I couldn’t even hunt.

Is there another way to break this fear? The
king is afraid of dying, it makes sense to kill him and force him to face his fear. And it’s not real. I must repeat this mantra. The Nix has constructed this reality. He has done it to test me, to weaken me. The only way I can break through is to remain strong and do what I must.

I must kill him.

I must.

There’s a scrape and my head snaps in the direction of the sound. I enlarge the fireball in my palm and lift it into the air
until it hangs suspended above my head. It’s then he comes running out of the shadows, his chainmail chinking, his face contorted, his mouth gaping open, a battle cry escaping from his lips, his sword held high above his head.

I stagger back
, tripping on my feet and tumbling to the floor. In that instant I am a little girl again. I am the pathetic little Mae who believes she is more daring than she really is; who demands adventure and then balks at danger. In a split second the sword is coming down on me, giving me one fleeting moment to roll from its path.

I jum
p to my feet, my pulse pounding; every single muscle tensed, ready to run.

But I can’t.

I need to break this cycle.

As the
king lunges for me again, I call on wind to throw him back.

His steps falter as the wind pushes him back. I blow a gale
, forcing him to push through the wind. He leans forward with his hair blowing back, his eyes are pale fierce spheres locked on mine and determined.

“You may have little tricks up your sleeve,” he says, “but you do not have the same passion to live. I will
not
face my end. I have not worked all this time to die at the hand of some Haedaland peasant girl.”

I keep the wind on him, battering him with my powers, but he pulls himself to his feet, staggering towards me, st
ill with his sword held high. I can feel the gift diminishing from me, drawn out by mental drain. I’ve dipped into them too much too fast. As my powers weaken, the king grows stronger, coming ever forwards. He is right about one thing, he is determined to live. He has his fingernails plunged deep into the flesh of life and he refuses to let go; the tenacious grip of pure fear.

I drop the wind and snuff out the fire, running back into the shadows away from him
, my body cold, clammy, trembling. My hands shake as I try to stay composed.

Now we cannot see each other at all.

I hear the king swing his sword, grunting with each stroke. I decide to use this opportunity to keep away from him and let him tire himself out. I need to recharge my powers.

“You won’t
escape me, peasant girl,” he growls. “I will find you and I will cut you in half. I will not be defeated.”

His
voice is surprisingly close, prompting me to step back just in time. His sword swipes towards my arm, catching me with a shallow slice. The king realises this and comes closer, forcing me to turn and run away.

“I can hear you running,” he says.
“You little coward. You have a lot of big talk for a silly little girl from the Haedalands.”

This is it. I need to use my powers. This time I
manage to block out the full extent of the rage, but still find the fire come to me with ease. The fireball explodes from my hands. “I’m from Halts-Walden!” The release is incredible, like a rush of adrenaline I have never experienced before. It both exhilarates and frightens me in equal measure. I find that the pain of the anger and hatred has gone. It’s such a relief that I laugh. This is how it should be. This is how my powers should work. Fire is now as easy as summoning wind. Why did I have such trouble?

The fire hits him squarely on the shoulder, causing the
king to drop his sword. He panics, swatting himself with his other hand, trying to stop the fire from spreading. There is a sickening scent of burning flesh in the air, but I have not ejected enough to kill him.

While he is distracted, I bend down and retrieve his sword, leaving him unarmed.

As the fire goes out, I say, “And I am not a girl. I’m the craft-born, you should remember that.”

There is a great roar, and before I can move away, the heavy beast of a man throws himself on top of me. His hands grip my wrist, attempting to wrestle the sword from me, but I hold it tight, pointing it upwards, somewhere near to where I imagine the
king is.

I try to use wind to throw him from me, but the frantic nature of wrestling seizes me with a paralysing fear. I find myself scratching at his eyes with my free hand, while attempting to yank the sword
from his grip.

We roll along the floor. A fist hits me on the side of my face, loosening a tooth and causing me to bite my tongue.
Blood gushes into my mouth, metallic and warm.

I manage to knee him in the crotch and attempt to wriggle out from underneath him. He grabs at my thighs but I kick his chest, he lets out a cry and I scramble to my feet.

I prepare myself to invoke another fire ball, but the king is faster. With a great cry I feel his weight thrown at me again, but this time I have a tiny opportunity to angle the sword towards his chest. I grip the hilt with both hands and hold it fast as the king impales himself on his own sword. The deadly steel finds the weak spot between his armour, sliding up and under his ribs. All the way to his heart. With a sick feeling in my stomach, I push it that last inch, feeling the resistance of his flesh, and when I am certain that I have landed a fatal blow, I stagger back, with my hand over my mouth.

Through the darkness comes light, and it is not light I have created myself, it is a piercing light filling the nothingness.
It shows the blood on my hands. It reveals the king falling to his knees with his eyes wide open in shock. I watch as the fear consumes him. I see the terror in those eyes.

My father’s
books told the history of the kings, but that spoke even more about war. I’ve heard soldiers called heroes. Men fight for glory, but there is no glory in taking a life, only a sick feeling that churns at your stomach. In that instance you are terrified of your own power. You are aware of what we all have inside of us—the ability to kill. No matter how good you are or how sensitive, you can kill. I discover that in the moment the king falls onto his back with his unfocussed eyes staring up at me, still terrified.