CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The boy found the package in a dark passageway. Earlier explorations during his first four months working at the palace had revealed a sprawling network of such passageways in the underbelly of the palace—most allowed servants to scuttle about invisibly to do their work, but some seemed as though no one had disturbed their dust for decades. Lost in his thoughts, the young servant had taken a wrong turn or two, and now found himself dreadfully lost.

Most of the brown paper wrapping of the package had been torn to shreds. Even from afar, it smelled rancid, and at first he thought it might have contained some spoiled meat. But as he approached, he saw the remains of some greenish carcass within, entrails spilling out, glassy, yellow eyes oozing black pus. Scrawled on the side of the package was the sender’s address, accompanied by a little note and a scribble that vaguely resembled the letter N:

He bit down on his knuckle to keep from retching.

A trail of black pus led away from the package. Taking his lightstone out, the boy followed it, his heart thudding in his chest. He came to a dead end but traced his fingers along the wall and found a crack. Just like in the stories, he thought. A whispered, “Ovrire,” and the panel opened with a rusty groan that echoed against stone.

A spiral stairwell descended into gloom, glistening with mildew and slime. With another charm, he summoned a ball of light that cast the walls in a sickly green glow. Water dripped from the ceiling, splashing onto his skin as he slipped into the opening.

When the boy reached the bottom, nose wrinkled and a damp chill settling into his bones, he let out a little gasp of awe.

Mere feet away, behind a pedestal with a little bowl atop it, a great stone archway rose out of the gloom. Beyond the archway stood the most magnificent fountain he had ever seen. Three massive butterflies hewn from black stone spiraled around a gold scepter plunging out of piles and piles of precious metals and jewels. The butterflies’ glorious wings were encrusted with even more jewels—diamonds and emeralds and sapphires and still others he didn’t have names for. Dark, glimmering liquid spewed from the crown of the scepter, cascading down the butterflies’ slender little legs in dark rivulets.

The boy rubbed his hands together in delight. He would be rich! All he needed was a knife, perhaps, and then he could take all the gemstones he could carry in one go and sell them. He mapped out the calculations in his head. He had two pockets in his trousers and one on his tunic. He could stuff jewels into his shoes, too, and maybe even some in his mouth.

He sprang toward the archway, salivating at the fantasies flying through his mind. He would eat caviar until he stank of it. He would burn all of his itchy tunics, even the one with the silver embroidery that the servants wore for special occasions. And above all, he would never wash another dish again. But just when he was inches away from crossing beneath the arch, footsteps echoed down the stairs. Heart pounding, he squeezed himself into a crevice in the wall, clutching his lightstone to his chest. Should I attack them? he wondered, scanning the chamber for some sort of weapon. He had his lightstone, but not much else. What if they take the gems?

Not moments later, a figure cloaked in black emerged out of the shadows, features hidden beneath a hood. From long sleeves crept ten bone-white fingers, thin and gnarled like spider legs.

Death, the boy thought, his desire for the gems evaporating faster than steam in a desert. He bit down on his tongue to keep from whimpering and tried to quell the quaking of his body. That must be Death.

Death proceeded to dip a finger into the bowl atop the pedestal, tracing three lines with a horizontal slash onto its white forehead. The mark flared briefly as Death crossed under the archway and into the chamber beyond.

Despite his fear, the boy craned his neck to watch.

A tarnished bronze chalice was mounted on another pedestal beside the fountain. Death tipped it into the fountain’s stream. After the chalice filled, Death drew the rim to its lips and drank, long and deep.

Some invisible energy crawled over the boy’s skin, electrifying his senses. Ghostly whispers breezed his ears, caressing him, chanting songs in languages so ancient they didn’t even sound human. Death lurched onto its knees, bracing itself against the floor. A dribble of glistening saliva fell from its chin and spattered beside those hideous skeletal hands.

His lightstone slipped from his sweaty fingers and clattered onto the floor.

Death turned to him.

When Death stood, swaying almost drunkenly, the boy began to pray. Wet warmth spread down his trousers as Death approached. His legs gave out beneath him, leaving him to lie at Death’s feet in a weeping pile. Eyes squeezed shut, he felt those horrid white fingers slither across his scalp like snakes and latch onto his hair, yanking him up into the air as if he weighed nothing.

Something forced his eyes open. Prayers still spewed from his lips when he saw Death’s face. Death’s beautiful, womanly face, her silky hair and cold eyes.

The boy finally began to scream.

The last thing he knew as Death smiled at him, sharp and silver, was a red-hot pain across his throat—and then darkness.