Page 36 of King of Flames and Shadows

A shiver runs through me as I slip through the darkened corridors, the chill of the stone seeping into my bones. Shadows dance beyond the ever-flickering magical torchlight, and I linger close to the walls, every one of my senses on high alert. Each footstep is a gamble, each creak of the floorboards a possible betrayal of my continued disobedience. But the servants’ wing is quiet, save for the distant hum of wind beyond the windows.

No guards. No watchers.

Perfect.

Holding my breath, I turn a corner and press against the wall, waiting. The library looms at the end of the hall, a towering expanse of double doors cast in iron. I wait for a count of five heartbeats, listening, searching for any sign of movement.

Nothing.

One deep breath, then I move quickly, unlatching the door with practiced ease. It swings open, and I slip inside, letting it click shut behind me.

The library is just as staggeringly vast and beautiful as it was before, its walls lined with tomes that seem to hold the weight of their centuries of history. A thick silence blankets the room, broken only by the rustle of my cloak and the muffled howl of the perpetual wind outside.

The dim glow of the sconces casts long, jagged shadows over the rows of books, their hard-edged shadows sharp as knives. This room—this place, this refuge—is where I can pretend, if only for a moment, that I am not Arvoren’s prisoner.

“Calliope.”

The voice, soft and familiar, pulls me from my thoughts. I glance around, but I don’t see him. No footsteps, no rustle of clothing. Yet he’s here, I know it.

“Linus,” I whisper back, keeping my voice low. “Where are you?”

A faint laugh echoes in the silence, and then a shadow shifts near one of the alcoves. He steps forward, his lean form emerging from the darkness as if conjured from the very shadows themselves. Linus has the appearance of a man who has always been able to blend into the background like that—a skill that’s kept him alive, no doubt, in a place like this city.

I wonder whether he is the youngest son of the Caddell family. I wonder what upbringing raised a man such as he is, so cold and perfectly controlled.

I wonder whether, if I was to find out, I’d even want to know.

He’s dressed plainly, in the dark, unassuming garb of a scholar or scribe. His narrow, somewhat underfed face is sharp, all angles and edges, but his eyes … his eyes burn with a strange, almost manic light.

“I almost thought you wouldn’t come,” he murmurs, relief in his voice. He moves closer, glancing over his shoulder as if expecting someone to burst through the door right after me at any moment. “Things have become … complicated.”

“Complicated?” I let out a soft, derisive laugh. “How so? Even more than they were? Intruders in the castle, the king’s violent rage, talk of rebellion in court—trust me, Linus, I know the noose is tightening around him, and if they kill him, he’ll stop at nothing to take me with him. You don’t have to tell me about ‘complicated.’”

Linus makes an odd noise. I cannot tell for the life of me whether it’s amusement or sympathy. Perhaps both.

“Come,” he tells me. “Let’s make sure we aren’t overheard.”

He leads me deep into the library, through the twisted tunnels of books upon books, up an obscured spiraling staircase leading high into the rafters. At the top, an overhanging nook is crammed with what I can best tell are draconic fiction books. Children’s books. Who read these? Were these the tales of Arvoren’s childhood? I yearn to know, to understand.

Linus settles on the floor in the tiny, cramped space in the dust. He has an odd familiarity here, as if he frequents this odd hideaway. Hesitantly, I sit opposite him, our knees almost touching. We’re like children here ourselves, hiding from our betters, sneaking around in the night.

“My people in the city,” Linus starts without wasting time, “are planning on killing the king.”

I suspected as much—still, hearing him come out and say it so directly catches me off guard.

“Oh,” I find myself saying, for lack of anything else appropriate. “I see.”

He nods contemplatively, as if I’ve said something of note on the subject. “The military are now hunting us. As I’m sure you can imagine, keeping my part in the plot a secret so I may continue to affiliate with the nobility of Millrath hasn’t been easy.”

I can’t hold in my question: “Why all this? Your house is an enemy of his, I understand that. But the other houses surely wish him dead, too, and stand to lose far less than you in this.If you’re discovered, he’ll burn Fort Caddell to the ground. He’ll wipe you and your people out of existence.”

It’s true, and we both know it. House Caddell has always been the weakest of the seven High Houses of Kaldoria; the poorest, smallest, and most militarily disadvantaged, to say nothing of their lack of draconic warriors and workers.

Linus hums in the back of his throat. He peers at me in the gloom, and I feel peeled apart, as if he is dissecting me, pulling truths from me without my acquiescence.

“I have my own reasons for wanting the Dragon King dead,” he says eventually. “You know as well as I do the terror and violence one endures as a human in this land.”

I narrow my eyes. It isn’t an answer to my question, and Linus knows it.

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