Page 13 of Each Their Own Devil

“No,” she replied.

“Neither have I, and I’ve explored almost every inch of this palace,” Garm chimed in. His tail thwacked Aleja’s thigh hard enough to sting.

“It doesn’t surprise me,” Taddeas told them. “The Otherlanders haven’t had much reason to use this area for hundreds of years. In the last war, it housed prisoners that were too important to be kept in the camps.”

“Excellent,” said Garm, loud enough to cover the involuntary hitch in Aleja’s breath.

“I doubt Val is going to tell me anything he hasn’t already told you,” she said.

“He asked for you specifically. If Nic comes down here first, we might lose any opportunity of Val opening up.”

Aleja hesitated for a moment, then had to take a few running steps to catch up. “I can’t help but notice that you didn’t bring this up until we were away from the other Dark Saints,” she said pointedly.

Taddeas stopped abruptly, and she nearly collided with his chest as he turned to face her. “What Orla and Bonnie said earlier was right. We weren’t there to watch our friends and lovers get slaughtered like cattle by an enemy that hates us. I understand why they’re so hesitant to believe that, just this once, the Messenger might actually be right about something.”

“Orla did say Val might be trying to use me,” Aleja replied. “Couldn’t his asking for me confirm that? Is this a minor act of mutiny, High General?” Her tone carried no venom, only curiosity.

“Not at all. Nicolas knows exactly what I think. But he’s the Knowing One, and the Dark Saints are already fractured over this. Remember, half of us were missing when you first arrived at the Hiding Place. It’s his job to keep us together, and I doubtit’s easy for him—especially when it comes to you. I don’t know how I would react if Jack were in that room with us.”

“What do you mean by that?” Aleja asked, recalling that Taddeas had sent his husband to the Green Country of the fey when whispers of war reached the Hiding Place.

“Come on, Al. You’re both his wife and his High General in waiting. He has to push back on your ideas just as much as he does everyone else’s. And, well?—”

“Say it, Taddeas.”

“Your friendship with Violet is a complication. I’m not going to pretend I understand Violet’s motivations, but if she really is working against us…”

“Then she’ll end up in this prison, in a cell next to Val.” Aleja’s voice hardened. “I’m tired of being betrayed, Taddeas. As far as I’m concerned, she’s one of the enemies now.”

Taddeas’s nod was so subtle that Aleja almost missed it in the murky red shadows. “Understood, soldier.”

As they walked, the paintings gradually disappeared, leaving only peeling wallpaper adorned with a faded pattern of swirling fig leaves. Even the sconces became more sparsely placed, plunging them into stretches of darkness, as if they were traversing outer space and passing the light of distant stars. At first, the hallway sloped gently downward, but now Aleja had to shift her weight to her heels to keep from feeling like she might tumble forward.

It took fifteen minutes for Aleja to realize that a hallway this impossibly long shouldn’t exist in the palace, and another five before they reached a heavy door. Like the massive wooden slabs leading to the throne room, this door was carved—tiny, contorted figures writhing in pain under the shadow of a winged devil.

“There’s no lock,” she said, leaning closer to inspect the carvings.

“This door is warded,” Taddeas explained. “It will only open for two people—the Knowing One and his High General. I suppose you count as well. If anyone else tries to enter or leave without one of us, that carving gives a rather optimistic depiction of what will happen to them.”

“Pleasant,” Aleja muttered.

“It’s an effective deterrent.” Taddeas pressed his palm against the only smooth stretch of the door. A hum of energy rippled through Aleja as the door parted down the center, splitting like a tree cleaved by a lightning strike.

Garm trotted in first, and Aleja followed. The door closed behind them, knitting itself back together.

While the rest of the palace usually smelled of wood polish, incense smoke, and the comforting mustiness of an old museum, this space reeked of rotting cabbage. With the intensity of her Dark Saint senses, Aleja nearly gagged, forcing herself to swallow the bile rising in her throat. “Gods, that smell is a war crime alone.”

Even Garm gave an uncomfortable hiccup.

“Believe me, I’ve complained,” Taddeas said. “Strangely enough, it gets better around Val. I wouldn’t dare say it in front of the others, but I swear, it’s like the Astraelis exude pleasantness. No wonder humans equate them with angels.”

“You don’t hate him,” Aleja said, carefully choosing her words.

“I’m not sure how I feel,” Taddeas muttered. “But I understand complicated relationships with your parents. I came out as gay in the early eighties, remember? Let’s just say it took a while for them to accept that I was never going to fill their house with grandchildren. Maybe you’ll understand for yourself once you speak to him.”

It was only a few more steps to a stark cell shielded by a shimmering ward. Inside, an enormously tall man in a wingedmask, missing several lower feathers, sat atop the only chair. Across from him was a cot with tightly tucked sheets that either had never been slept in or had been meticulously made. A half-empty tray of food rested near the edge of the ward.

Val’s bandaged arm was clean, but Aleja couldn’t look at the stump where his hand had been without recalling the sickening plop it had made as it fell into the bloody mud. Again, she swallowed hard against the acid rising in her throat. When a low growl escaped Garm’s throat, she shot him a sharp glance. It was at this sound that Val finally looked up, his winged mask nearly immobile—a stark contrast to the way it usually seemed to mold itself to his face.

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