“They are your warband.” A woman followed him into view: white-haired now but the same one who had lectured him when he was a child. “Sworn to fight at your side all their lives, even unto death. By dismissing them, you shame them forever. And this is the third warband that you have sent away. You cannot go on this way. A prince must—”
He turned on her. “A prince must not hate, didn’t you teach me that? And I hate them. I always hate them, so they have to go.”
“But you—”
“Go.”
The woman sighed and left. Alone, the prince gave the box a fearful look and covered his face with shaking hands. Then he faded into the air.
I walked toward the table and the room melted around me, columns sliding into streams of pale light that pooled across the floor.
Now do you understand? The voice hummed through my head without touching my ears. It was almost a woman’s voice, though with a bell-like quality that was not quite human, and I knew instinctively that it was the Kindly Ones.
A heart full of hatred and fear for his fate, desperate to live—he was always anything but pure. So he came to us and swore he’d pay any price if we’d continue to protect Arcadia from invaders and stop him from ending up in the darkness alone. The voice was on the verge of gentle laughter, like a mother speaking to her witless but endearing child. And now he’s never alone, for all Arcadia is hidden with him in the darkness, where no invader will ever find it.
All the room had melted away now; I stood atop a glassy puddle of light, surrounded by absolute darkness, with the table and box before me.
As within, so without.
And I knew that the shifting, paradoxical splendor of the house was nothing compared to the paradox of the box. All Arcadia was locked inside the house and all the house was locked inside that box, along with the Children of Typhon—and the last prince, who had once been so terrified he would be trapped alone with them.
But what was within the box-inside-the-house, the one that Ignifex had said was forbidden?
“If I open the box,” I whispered, “will that release us?”
You’re not the one who can open it.
“Shade.”
Yes. But not yet.
“What is he waiting for? His birthday?”
Laughter rippled through the air, the same laughter I had heard in the garden with the sparrow.
He and your husband are bound as opposites. So long as one has power, the other is helpless. But whatever one loses, the other gains. Summon the Children of Typhon and use them to rend your husband until his power is broken. Once the prince has gathered back all he has lost, he will be able to open the box. When the box is opened, all Arcadia will go free. The Sundering will end, and the Children of Typhon will be trapped inside the box, never to ravage your people again.
All I had to do was fulfill my vow to my sister. It was good news. I didn’t want it. I didn’t want to believe it—but Ignifex had told me that the Kindly Ones loved to tell the truth once it was too late to save anyone. And now, with my oath to Astraia still bitter on my tongue, it was much too late.
“What happens to Shade?” I asked. “Will he be locked in the box too, the way he feared?”
Your husband will pay that price.
Like Pandora. There was always a sacrifice; I had known that all my life.
I didn’t know if it was grief or rage that made my voice shake as I asked, “Is that what I learnt in the flames?”
Mostly.
I remembered the garden and the sparrow. When it told me to look in the pool for a way to save us, it hadn’t seemed to mean I must betray the one I loved.
That bird cannot help you. It lives in his garden. It eats of his crumbs. Do you suppose it can save you?
I hadn’t even considered that possibility, but now I wondered—
It was kind to you, said the Kindly Ones. What do you think that means?
It was exactly the same intonation as a mother saying, Darling, if you touch the stove, you get burned.
And I knew the answer as simply as breathing. There was something wrong with the sparrow. There had to be. Because it had offered me hope, and when had there ever been any hope for me that didn’t twist into despair? My chance at love had broken Astraia’s heart. My visit home had become a vow to kill Ignifex.
And now I was more indignant over my own sorrow than over the suffering of Shade and Astraia and Damocles, the eight dead wives and Elspeth’s brother and all Arcadia for nine hundred years. With such a selfish heart, what right did I have to expect any hope?
What will you do now?
The voice spoke from all around me, in my ears and in my lungs and thrumming through my bones. And I knew what I had to do.
I struggled to speak, but my tongue felt dull and heavy; only a soft moan came out. The darkness wavered around me.
“Yes,” I ground out, and it felt like speaking from under a mountain. “I’ll . . . do it.”
. . . And I realized that I had awoken, and I was staring up into Astraia’s eyes as I lay with my head cradled in her lap.
“What will you do?” asked Astraia, and she sounded almost gentle.
My throat felt raw as I said, “What I must.”
22
The hallway looked just as I remembered it: the gaudy moldings, the murals of writhing figures. My footsteps echoed as I walked forward; I glanced back nervously, but Ignifex did not appear.
It was barely dawn. He was probably still in his room, surrounded by candles. I remembered the way he huddled into my arms, sheltering from the darkness.
You swore to Astraia. For the sake of Arcadia.
I forced myself forward. He was the enemy. I had to stop him.
The door too was the same: small, wooden, and filled with unimaginable horror. I laid my hand on the doorknob. Did it tremble beneath my touch?
What if the ring did not allow me to control the Children of Typhon after all?
You would deserve it. For what you’re planning. Ignifex had given me the ring in love and trust, and I was using it to destroy him.
You promised, I reminded myself, and before I could hesitate any longer, I pulled the door wide open.
Emptiness clawed at my eyes. I tried to speak, but my lips would not move. From far away in the deeps, I thought I heard the echoes of a song.
Children of Typhon, I thought, but my tongue wouldn’t move. I sucked in a breath, clenching my fists, and then was finally able to force the words out: “Children . . . of Typhon . . . bring me Shade.”
There was a noise like the skitter of a million little clawed feet, like the burbling of water; then the darkness parted and Shade tumbled forward. I barely caught him, staggered backward under his weight, then lowered him to the ground.