Page 19 of Vale of Dreams

Red-tinged moonlight streams into the corridor, and shadows gather above me in the ribbed arches. Portraits of Fey royalty hang on the walls, and in the ghostly torchlight, they almost seem alive, making my heart stutter. Candlelight from chandeliers dances over a painting of King Auberon in a golden crown, wielding a sword at twilight. But there are more paintings of a man I don’t recognize. He almost looks like Talan, but with blond hair and a platinum crown. He stands at the prow of a ship. In another image, he’s leading men into battle on a horse. A third image depicts him on a throne, his silver-eyed gaze leveled sternly at the viewer, almost smirking.

Beneath one of the portraits are the words Prince Lothyr.

Vaguely, I remember learning about him, the golden prince who drowned two centuries ago, fighting for the king in a civil war.

There’s only one painting of Talan here. He’s sitting by a table, holding a goblet of wine, his lips curled in a wry smile. Nothing heroic, but as I glance at the dark look in his eyes, a hot shiver skims over my skin.

Distant music floats through the hall, and I move deeper inside, investigating my surroundings and making sure no one is nearby. As I pass a mirror, I check my reflection, and I’m startled to see the dark sheen of my steely eyes. My cheeks have gone bright pink in the cold, and I turn my head, examining the glamour. My pointed Fey ears protrude a little from my dark hair, just the way they should. I curl my lips to see sharpened canines. Perfect.

If anyone sees me here, I’ll pretend to be a guest at the fortress. From what I learned at Avalon Tower, dozens of noble families are invited to Auberon’s castle every week.

Already, I’m growing impatient for the moth’s return.

I only have Mordred’s word that it will guide me, but of course, he could be lying. What if the moth serves some other purpose? For a moment, I wonder if I should make my own way in the fortress to look for Raphael myself before I lose my chance .

But just as that thought enters my head, the moth zooms back. It circles around my head three times, and I hurry after it.

Its pace is erratic, moving twenty feet in a flash, then slowing to a crawl. It never moves too far from me, giving me time to catch up. Occasionally, it hovers in midair for a long while, seemingly waiting for something. Every time it pauses, I slip into the shadows to wait. Whenever the silver moth moves again, I do, too. I pass windows overlooking courtyards and push through doors into the biting air, taking vine-covered bridges between towers under the starlit sky. From one of them, I look out over the kingdom of Brocéliande to see the vast expanse of distant, flickering lights beyond the castle walls.

As I move through the castle halls, up and down stairs, beneath flickering candles in chandeliers, I never meet any living soul. I suspect Mordred must be orchestrating my journey through the emptiest parts of the castle, making sure that no one sees me. Maybe he never actually found Raphael, and he’s still searching for him.

The castle is byzantine, with stairwells that zig and zag between buildings, and it feels like I’ve been walking for hours in a labyrinthine path. If I didn’t have the moth with me, I’d be utterly fucked when it comes time to get back.

The moth leads me outside to a narrow set of stairs between buildings. The icy wind whips over me, and I hug myself, teeth chattering in the cold. As I walk down the stairs, the shadows seem to grow thicker, the stone rougher. At last, the moth flutters up to a heavy oak door.

I pull the door open into a dark corridor, but this one looks different than the rest. Gone are the portraits, the banners and sigils, the coats of arms, the chandeliers. Instead, my way is lit by flickering torches fixed to the walls, and the ceiling is lower, only a few feet above my head. Cobwebs and moss cling to it, and it smells musty and dank.

I cough, my asthma irritated by the damp moldiness, but I follow the moth down a flight of twisting, turning stairs. Excitement ripples through my chest. Clearly, I’m going to the dungeons.

Near the bottom of the stairs, something shifts in the shadows, and I freeze at the unmistakable sound of a throat clearing just ahead of me.

The moth dances to and fro around me in frantic warning, but I can’t make out who’s standing there. My hand moves to the hilt of the dagger at my hip. The moth flutters back into the shadows of the stairwell, disappearing from sight. Quietly, I sneak farther down the stairs, peering out from behind the doorframe at a long corridor of cells. In the distance, chains rattle. Roughly thirty feet ahead, I see a guard with a spear in front of a metal-studded door.

His armor looks rusted in places, his helmet askew. I wonder what he did to get stationed down here in the worst part of the castle, where the air smells like the bottom of a rock.

He doesn’t see me yet, hiding in the darkness of the stairwell. Even from here, I can tell he won’t be easy to take down with my little knife. He’s large, armored, and has the strength of a full Fey. A sword hangs at his waist, and his weapons have a much longer reach than my blade.

I’ll have to use another approach. I shift the belt with my sheathed knife, hiding the weapon behind me, then stumble into the corridor, one hand leaning against a stone wall as if for support.

“Who goes there?” he barks, gripping his spear.

“It’s me. I’m here,” I say in Fey, slurring my words like a drunk. “I was looking for my room but…this isn’t it.”

He eyes me suspiciously. He’s not a fool. To get lost and get all the way down here would take a ridiculous lapse of judgment. “Who are you?”

“I’m me!” I laugh stupidly, then let my smile fall. “I’m a musician, obviously. Did you not hear the concert? It was amashing…” Slurring my words, I take another step toward him, pointing my finger at him. “You should have come to hear it. Next time, you must come. I insist.”

I’m desperate to get a look inside the cells, to search for Raphael, but I have to take care of this soldier first.

His tense posture relaxes. As alert as he is, the sight of a small woman in an evening gown is a welcome distraction. Still, he shifts his spear. “That’s far enough. This isn’t your room. Go back up the stairs.”

I notice the silver moth fluttering behind him now and keep my eyes on it. “They really loved the music we played. There’s this one song that they asked for again and again. ‘Fly into His Face.’ You know it?”

He frowns. “That’s a weird name for a?—”

The moth zips down, straight into his face, and he swats at it, stumbling back. I leap forward, dodging the tip of his spear, and touch his bare cheek. My powers unfurl, and I slide into his mind.

Cadoc, that’s his name, and he can’t wait for his shift to end. They’ve been sticking him here ever since the morning he was late to His Majesty’s procession. But he won’t complain. He needs this job desperately. He’ll be here, watching this one special prisoner, until he’s done his penance. His life is miserable, anyway, so he might as well be down here.

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