The ceilings,she tells me one night.
We’re again sitting by the glass wall, bathed in moonlight. She’s snuck me a piece of crumbly sweet bread. I meant to make it last but devoured every bit of it immediately.
“Ceilings?” I ask her.
They are false,she tells me.
My heart begins to race. “False ceilings.”
She nods.Palace carved from mountain. Ceilings false. Keep rooms heated.
I try to tamp down my excitement. “Heated rooms.”
Gulla nods again. She spells out her next word:Vents.
I turn to stare at the doors that have held me captive in this hall for so many weeks. My eyes slide to the time-glass beside them, to the grates above the time-glass that I’ve never thought much about before.
Gulla gives a silent laugh.
I make the sign forthank you. I hug her, sudden and tight.
She looks at me knowingly when I pull back and slips off to make her rounds with the other children.
I don’t wait. I climb up the chain that leads to my cage and leap across to one of the swinging platforms. From there it’s a few quick steps along the wire to the aerial silks hanging near the doors. The time-glass is designed with branching metal to look almost like a tree, the twenty-four veins that mark each hour encased in glass to trap whatever magic the Iljaria set within it long ago.
The metal branches protrude from the wall, each one nearly as wide as my foot. I leap from the silks without thinking, scrabbling for purchase and cutting my hand on one of the branches, which is sharper than I expected. But I ignore the pulse of pain as I take one of the filched hairpins from my belt and work on loosening the screws that hold the vents in place. The vents are an elaborate filigree of metalwork.
And they are large enough to climb inside, with room to spare.
My heart pounds as I slip into the upper vent, the metal freezing against my arms and legs. I pull the vent cover over the opening again, slipping my hand through the filigree to tighten the screw enough tokeep the cover from clattering to the floor while I’m up here. Then I crawl forward, afraid that darkness will utterly consume me, but it doesn’t.
The vent shaft opens up into a rocky domed space, rough wooden planks creating the ceiling for the room below me. Irregular knots in the wood allow chinks of light to shine through. I crouch there, shaking. A whole world has opened suddenly before me.Finally.I could cry, but I don’t.
I take a deep breath.
I explore my new world.
Chapter Four
Year4200, Month of the Red God
Daeros—the plains
There are more Daerosian camps after that first one. Vil has to show the peace banner every few days, and soon there is more red on it than white. I hate looking at it. Blood turns my stomach.
The daylight grows steadily shorter, but we can’t afford to decrease our traveling time to match, so we ride an hour and then two in the early dark. We aren’t as tired, though, our bodies hardened by the travel, and Saga decides to add another element to my royal education: dancing lessons.
I have danced some, of course, in the eighteen months I spent with them in the palace, but I am severely lacking in the years of formal training an actual Skaandan princess would have had. Since the Bronze God’s feast day, Vil is the one who has been keeping his distance, and I suspect Saga has had enough of it. When she explains her plan, though, Vil doesn’t take much persuading.
He teaches me the steps, solemn and steady, one hand on my shoulder and the other on my waist, the points of his fingers grazing my hip and sending heat through my veins. His eyes never leave mine.
We spin and sway under the stars, to the music of crickets and the rhythm of Saga’s carving knife, while Indridi mends our clothes and Pala and Leifur keep a sharp watch beyond the circle of our fire. Everytime Saga declares our practice is over, Vil releases me and strides off to his tent, glancing back as if daring me to follow. I never do.
One evening, when we’ve been at this for a few weeks, Vil pulls me into the dance as usual. Saga sings as she carves, and Indridi sews, never lifting her head.
Tomorrow our road turns north, toward Tenebris.
Toward Kallias and everything I want to forget.
