Page 109 of The Half King
Cerise shook her off and focused on Daerick. “Help me figure this out.”
“The archives,” he said, a flicker of hope in his gaze. “The chamber Father Padron didn’t want you to see. There has to be a reason he hid it. Now that you can”—he lowered his voice to a whisper—“use magic, you can open the wall and see what’s inside.”
“No!” Nina hissed. “It’s out of the question!”
Cerise whirled on her sister. “Nina, I’m not going anywhere. Not until every last moment is spent and there’s nothing left to try. So either go back to my suite or—”
“I won’t leave you.”
“Then help me.” Cerise nodded at Daerick. “Actually, helphim.”
Daerick raised a questioning eyebrow.
“There’s only one way inside the archives, and it’s through here.” Cerise hooked her thumb toward the sanctuary wall. “With all the priests distracted, no one will notice my energy, but they’ll hear it if I split the wall.” And that was assuming she had the skill to do it. “I need you to think of a reason to clear the sanctuary.”
Daerick nodded slowly. “I might have an idea.”
“And,” she added, “keep the priests out until I’m finished. Especially Father Padron. He’s been watching me since my Claiming Day. I can tell he knows there’s something different about me.”
Nina clutched the fabric over her heart so hard that her knuckles turned white. Even so, she nodded. “We’ll find a way to make it work.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to wait in my suite?” Cerise asked. Whatever had terrified Nina during the ceremony, it hadn’t let go. “Blue will protect you. Or if you want, you can take Father’s carriage someplace safe.”
“Oh, Cerise,” Nina said in an exasperated voice that skated the line between laughter and tears. “There’s nowhere I would feel safe if you weren’t with me.” She cradled her swollen belly and went quiet for a moment. “I won’t leave you, so don’t ask me to.”
There was a dark undercurrent in Nina’s tone that Cerise didn’t like. Something was happening inside her sister’s mind that she wasn’t privy to—something unsettling. She desperately wished she could read Nina’s face without falling into a trance.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” Cerise asked her sister.
“Yes.” Nina folded her arms, as stubborn as ever. “Be ready to do your job, because I’m ready to do mine.”
30
They enlisted the help of General Petros, who issued an evacuation order under the guise of inspecting the sanctuary for potentially harmful cracks he claimed to have seen in the ceiling during the ceremony. Cerise had worried that Father Padron would object, but oddly, he was still so shaken that he didn’t argue. He shuffled with the other priests to the dining hall for supper while Cerise took advantage of the empty prayer room.
With the Petros Blade strapped to her back, she stood in front of the massive stone wall and tried to recall where the seams had been when Father Padron moved it. She needed to visualize the act before releasing her energy, like Nero had taught her, but enough time had passed that she couldn’t remember the details. She checked over her shoulder. She was still alone, but Daerick and Nina wouldn’t be able to keep the priests away forever.
She would have to try.
Exhaling long and slow, she widened her stance and stared at the wall with a soft focus, thinking of the corridor on the other side. She let her energy flow and commanded the stone to part. The tang of copper coated her tongue. A charge raised chills of pleasure on her skin. And to her great surprise, the wall slid in half with a grinding rumble that she felt through the soles of her shoes. She grinned while waving away the dust. She had done it, and she didn’t feel the least bit tired. Nero would be proud of her…if not a bit jealous.
She strode into the corridor and illuminated the wall sconces with nothing more than a flick of her hand. It was strange to remember how awe-stricken she had felt during her last visit, when Father Padron had led her on his arm and told her not to worry about being “late to bloom.” At the time, she had considered herself more of a weed than a flower. She had never imagined that one day her strength would resemble a mighty oak tree with branches stretching toward the sun. She could still hardly believe it.
She hurried to the end of the corridor, where she crossed beneath the marble archway leading to the mausoleum. She remembered the corner walls that Father Padron had opened to access the archives. She parted the walls and squeezed through the slim gap, but she stopped short in surprise. The room was already lit. Someone had been in the archives. Her pulse thumped. Whoever had lit the torches had yet to extinguish them, which meant the person might still be down there.
She scanned the dusty floor for the partial boot print she had seen before. Instead of one partial heel, an entire trail of prints led to a far wall between two flickering sconces. She crouched down to study the boot prints. All of them looked identical. It would seem that one person had been coming and going from the hidden chamber—more than likely, it was Father Padron. If she was right, then she didn’t have to worry about him waiting for her on the other side of the wall.
If she was wrong…then she would run.
She parted the wall, and the marble slid apart to reveal a lighted hallway. Peeking down the corridor, she detected no movement or sound. As she crept slowly inside the hidden chamber, the scents of dust and damp blended with something else—there was energy in the air, clouds of it, along with the stench of a washroom privy. She covered her nose and continued to the end of the hallway, where she hugged the wall and glanced around the corner.
What she saw turned her stomach.
On the other side of a small, stony chamber, a man and a woman were half naked and bloodied, both of them spread flat against the wall and bound there by some invisible force of magic. The woman’s dull, matted head hung slack between her shoulders, hiding her face. Loose skin sagged from her bones, as if she had starved. Cerise couldn’t tell if the woman was dead or alive. Each outline of her ribs was visible, but her chest didn’t seem to be moving.
The man’s head hung low, too, but as Cerise crept closer, she noticed he was breathing. He must not have been hanging on the wall for very long, because his body was corded with the lean muscle of someone well-fed. But that was where his good fortune ended. His shirt was torn down the front, exposing a chest mutilated by hundreds of weeping boils that looked too unnatural to have been caused by anything but magic of the cruelest kind.
Is that what you think happens under my watch? Abuse? Murder?
