Breadcrumbs
Even the murals whisper deceit. The phrase repeated over and over, relentless as the tub’s dripping faucet. Like the ornery handle above, no matter how hard she wrenched, neither the water nor words ceased. Naokah scrubbed the mud from her skin, taking care to look anywhere but up.
With a face like a sea snake and red, membranous wings, the spout was unnerving. Worse, its toothy jaws reminded her of the butterfly woman’s yawn. Despite Brielle being drawn to the murals that seemed to wrap every inch of the citadel not already covered in bees, Naokah hadn’t particularly liked them. And now, after reading what could’ve been her sister’s last words, she feared them. What if her nightmare was more than exhaustion?
The water went from tepid to ice cold, and Naokah sprang up, shivering. Brown rivulets trickled her knees. Light seeped through the stained-glass turret, splashing the lavatory in a spectrum of shapes. The sun was out, so the storm must’ve cleared. If she hurried, she could use the veranda.
She was fishing for the stopper’s chain, wrinkling her nose at the murky water, when something slimy seized her hand. She shrieked and yanked back. But its hold was firm, tugging her down. She twisted back and forth, currents of brown slapping her calves. Its cruel grip only clamped tighter, dragging her towards the spout.
A bee crawled from the faucet.
Followed by another.
And another.
Droning rumbled from the pipes, the tiles, as a colony of bees surged from the spout. Naokah shut her eyes. This couldn’t be real. Only a nightmare. A hallucination. Her hand went numb as icy fingers dug into her wrist and wrenched her into the tempest. Bees prickled her forearms. Buzzed up her neck. Crawled into her ears, her nostrils.
She thrust out a leg, finding purchase on the tub’s lip, and wrested with all her might.
It released. She flung back, head cracking against tiles. Shards of pain exploded behind her eyes, and she crumpled into the waves. The gurgle of the stopper lifting was the last thing she heard before Croi Croga, fifteen years back, lapped over her.
Naokah wallowed in a muddy pit. Sharp rocks tore at her fingers and scraped her knees. She tried to climb out. Tried. The walls were too steep, the mud too slick. Still, something cruel stalked the shadows. She had to keep moving. She grabbed a fistful of roots, dug her toes into the damp soil, and started ascending. Smoke burned her eyes, the stink of death plugged her nose, and her throat was raw from screaming. But the worst part of all? Lenita had abandoned her.
“Naokah.” A whisper.
Her eyes fluttered. Had Lenita finally come?
“Naokah,” said the voice, closer. Warm hands on her shoulders.
She jolted up, mind spinning, and nearly head-butted a wide-eyed Clisten. She was still in the tub, grit that didn’t drain biting into her heels. The bees and creature were gone. Her hands shot to her chest and met soft plush. She sagged. He’d had the decency to cover her with a towel.
“Are you all right?” His brow lifted.
Was she? What the razing had that thing been? “I…why…how are you here?”
“I heard your screams from my chambers.” His long hair, interwoven with braids, gleamed copper and gold in the lavatory’s dim light and swished over his shoulder when he bobbed his head. “Got here fast as I could.” He averted his gaze out of respect. He was fully dressed, but Naokah was not.
“Thank you.” Any misgivings she’d had about him with Brielle earlier melted away as color rose in his bronzed cheeks.
Eyes still downcast, he stood. “May I…assist you?”
“Please.”
She tucked the towel under her arms, and Clisten pulled her up. The room began whirling, and he placed his arm behind her back.
“Shall I escort you to the healer?”
“No.” She winced as she grazed the tender lump on the back of her skull. “I’m fine. Just hungry.”
“Me too.” He paused. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to wait until you’ve changed?”
“Yes,” she said quickly, then added, “thank you…again.”
He bowed and turned around to face the lavatory so she could change.
She staggered into her chambers, leaning against the wall. Up until now, she’d blamed all the uncanniness on her lack of sleep, her exhaustion. Her mind playing tricks on her. But if that were the case, why did her wrist throb now? Whatever that thing was, it had tried to drown her and would’ve succeeded were it not for Clisten. The ghost girl, the shadowed stalker, the feigned bee attacks, the murmuring murals? They were linked. Even the healer admitted something was off.
Naokah and Matri had been wrong about Tati.
Horribly wrong.
She wasn’t lying about witches. Someone within these creepy walls wasn’t just a staff member. They had access to dark, dangerous power and knew Naokah’s true purpose for being here. They’d poisoned Kjell, taken her sister and, if she didn’t hurry up and figure out who it was, she’d be next.
Naokah sucked in a shaky breath, and scooped up a scamall set, the same faded yellow of dying cloudcane. She wasn’t taking any chances. She’d be quick.
“May I ask what caused your…accident?” Clisten asked, back still turned.
Thankfully.
Less chance of detecting her lie. She couldn’t reveal the truth. Not after her uproar at the dining table this morning. If rumors of her madness reached the Keeper, she’d get kicked off the isle, and then who’d find Lenita? Naokah slipped on her shirt.
“Haven’t slept well. I must’ve dozed off, had a nightmare.”
“A bad one, I take it?”
“The worst.” If only it was simple as a nightmare. She pulled up her trousers, cinching the waist. “I’m ready.”
Clisten twisted around and gave her an appreciative smile. “You look lovely.”
“And you’re a liar, but a kind liar. Thank you.”
He shook his head and extended his arm. “The belvedere?”
“Sure. If you don’t mind taking the veranda?”
* * *
The clouds were wispy streaks, matching the tendrils of fog snaking the topiaries and bee sculptures. Rain dripped from the trellis, needling Naokah’s thin scamall top, but wet foliage and earth sweetened the air, and it had cooled to almost comfortable. She breathed in the roses from above, trying to embrace the calm.
She’d only managed to pry the first few pages of the journal apart and, though she’d have rather stayed and read every word Lenita scrawled, what if that thing returned? She desperately wanted to tell someone, anyone, but who could be trusted at this point? She couldn’t risk getting tossed off the isle for being mad. Somehow, someway, Naokah had to muster the intestinal fortitude to face the razing thing, for it was the key to finding Lenita. She would, but later.
Right now, she was headed to exactly where she needed to be. The others would be talking about Samara’s strange behavior at the ranch. Maybe they knew what happened. Besides, she’d already ripped a corner off the journal’s page and didn’t want to chance losing a single clue. Tonight, she’d steal a knife from the great hall to loosen the remaining pages. Why hadn’t the journal turned up when they conducted their inquest? More disconcerting, what if they hadn’t found the journal because it wasn’t there to find? It was stuck in the vent. The girl in white floated through her mind. Had she brought the journal to her, a breadcrumb perhaps? But then, what did she want? Nothing in this world was ever free.
“Care to talk?” Clisten patted her hand on his arm. He was resplendent in his turquoise shirt and fitted vest, gold-embossed leather braces attaching to his navy trousers. She envied his composure, and more, his ease.
“Just tired.” She pretended to yawn, and then really yawned. Would she ever be able to wiggle her toes beneath those velvet blankets and sleep? She had to find a way to deal with the butterfly woman, the tub creature. Or there’d be more than exhaustion fuzzing her brain.
He cocked an auburn brow. “Could be. Or maybe you’d feel better if you talked about that nightmare?”
“It’s silly.”
“It’s not silly if it causes you pain.” His eyes met hers, big, warm, genuine.
She lifted a noncommittal shoulder. He waited for a response as they wove around a topiary, but she honestly didn’t know where to start. One of the sculptures shifted, and Clisten stopped her, throat bobbing. Boards squeaked, and then a crop of red hair emerged from the gray.
Naokah loosed a breath. “Mila. You headed to the belvedere too?”
The thin woman shot a cursory peep at Naokah’s companion and jerked a nod.
“Care to accompany us?” Clisten offered his other arm.
Mila chewed her lip. Dark circles burrowed beneath her eyes. Clearly she hadn’t gotten any sleep either. Was she seeing things too? A possible ally, then?
“I….” Clisten cleared his throat, cheeks reddening. “I haven’t yet apologized for what the Polers did to you at the ball. It was cruel and childish, and I should’ve stopped them. I was a coward not to, and I’m truly, deeply very sorry.”
Mila rubbed the back of her neck, looking first to Naokah, warily moving to Clisten. She answered by accepting his hand. The line of Clisten’s shoulders relaxed, and Naokah decided right then and there: she liked him. If Naokah could have mastered an apology like that, pure and sincere, Lenita might have already forgiven her. Maybe she still would.
Clisten attempted small talk with Mila, but she was a woman of few words. The silence between the three stretched on awkwardly, so Naokah answered Clisten’s question. If she opened up, perhaps Mila would be inclined to share what had kept her up at night too.
“That nightmare? Stems back to when I was a kid. Crogans can be superstitious, and like most farmers, my patri left a fat border between his cloudcane rows and the Razing. Most adults stay away from the trench for obvious reasons. But kids, to test their bravery, dare one another to see who can get the closest without peeing their pants.”
“And you took that dare?” Clisten asked.
“Foolishly, yes. One night, my sister convinced me that since it was the full moon, I’d be safe from getting attacked by a crith. All I had to do was toss a stick into the chasm.”
He led them around a column. “What’s a crith?”
“A wicked Midworld creature,” Mila answered for her, startling them both. “Lurks in the Razing. If you get too close to its home, it’ll yank you into its grave and climb out as you.” Clisten gave her a bewildered look. “It gets worse. Crith means ‘goosebumps’ in Midese. Whenever your skin prickles, it means one is near, trying to scratch its way in.”
“Even knowing that, you still took the dare?”
“I was desperate to impress my big sister,” Naokah admitted. “She hated that I followed her around all the time, and I wanted to change that. Maybe even earn her respect. Besides, it’s just a spooky legend.” Mila hmphed in disagreement, but Naokah ignored her. “I got within a few feet of the Razing before falling into a pit. My sister left me for her friends, so I spent the entire night alone, trying to crawl out. I succeeded eventually, obviously.” She didn’t mention the cold fingers that had grabbed her ankles and dragged her into the pit in the first place. She’d once thought it was her imagination. Not so much anymore. “Perhaps that’s why I have trust issues.”
Clisten chuckled. “You and me both.” He nodded at a far alcove where a web of mottled colors wound up through the shadows. Railing. More stained glass, at that. “Might I suggest the lift?” His lips quirked at her bunched brow. “Found it earlier. Follow me.”
The trio walked as if headed to the conservatory but took a sharp left before the entrance. A large globe flanked by four sentries met them. The leader nodded and opened the glass door.
Naokah paused. “Not a fan of confined spaces.”
“Me neither,” chirped Mila.
“Says the two who signed up to be trapped on an isle?”
“We didn’t have a choice.” Mila had found her tongue and wasn’t afraid to use it.
He shot them a guilty grin, patiently waiting. Mila sighed but followed. And since Naokah was never one to shy away from competition, she stepped into the lift. The floor rebounded slightly, and so did her stomach.
“It’s attached to a pulley system, hence the bouncing. But a strong pulley system, fortified cables,” he added, noting her anxious teetering.
As the globe slid up, a halo of light, vines dotted with glowing purple flowers wreathed the shaft. Mila’s eyes grew wide with wonder, and Clisten beamed, proud of his discovery. Naokah tingled with airy weightlessness. Was this how birds felt in the sky?
She glanced up at the beautiful Poler. He reminded her of the starlings that used to pollinate their cloudcane. Colorful, carefree. As though he’d boarded the ship to Abelha for a mere adventure, to see what all the fuss was about. Not to compete. Probably how he found this lift in the first place. While the other envoys studied, he explored. He didn’t have to be here. Naokah didn’t begrudge him, though. His candor in a place of secrets was a welcome refreshment.
Gears clicked, released. The air thinned, Naokah’s ears popped, and more light spilled into the globe. The belvedere was within eyesight now. Yet, her stomach knotted. Clisten twisted, following her gaze. A collage of nude bodies and flowers wrapped the belvedere to the turrets.
“You don’t much care for the murals,” he stated rather than asked.
“Do you?”
“They certainly aren’t the creepiest things here.” He paused, and Naokah’s breathing hitched. Had he seen something strange too? She wanted to ask, perhaps compare notes, but what if he hadn’t? She’d be no closer to solving Lenita’s disappearance and she’d have risked exposing one of her many weaknesses. Not worth it. Clisten scratched his chin. “Funny. I think the Keeper initially painted the murals to lighten up the place.”
“I wouldn’t say she succeeded,” said Naokah. Maybe if she’d painted flowers or landscapes or something without eyes that constantly followed her.
He nodded.
“Why’d she stop? Run out of space?” Mila cracked.
“From what I’ve gathered, she stopped right around the time she returned from one of her goodwill missions in Okse ten years back. Whatever happened on that trip must’ve been bad. Really bad. She hasn’t picked up a brush since. Replaced it with a pipe. I’ve heard Abelha’s your biggest customer for cloudcane pulp.”
“Think Raptoria has them beat.”
“Awww, yes. So that’s how those greedy tycoons manage to sleep at night.” He smirked, and she grinned right back.
A Poler criticizing another Poler? How surreal. The lift shuddered to a stop. Immediately, Naokah felt eyes on her. She craned her neck to the spired donjon. A gargoyle carved in the likeness of a bull with wings hunched over the stained glass. With the storm gone, the sun out, an oily blanket of humidity clung to her skin. Still, she shivered.
“Thought gargoyles were supposed to face out to guard the citadel from threats?” Mila asked.
“True,” Naokah said, “but more often than not, I’d wager it’s the outside that needs protection from within.”
Brielle and Laerte sat at a bar beneath an overhang of gardenias that shielded them from the sun’s glare. Both had a drink, but neither smiled. Dazarin was still missing, surprisingly. She could see the nonchalant sea god skipping the tour, but booze? Never.
“What’s wrong?” Naokah asked, pulling out a stool beside Brielle.
“Captain Avice,” Laerte and Brielle answered in unison.
“Care to elaborate?”
“She’s not stupid,” said Brielle, nodding at the eave behind Naokah. “Questioning us when our tongues are loosed.”
“About the poisoning?”
Laerte nodded. “Picking on Mids first, shocking. With Mila now.”
Mila? But she was just with them. Naokah glimpsed over her shoulder. Indeed. The captain must’ve grabbed her as soon as they left the lift. Though a little green, Mila seemed calm, a stark contrast to the severe sentry.
“He did ruin her gown,” said Brielle.
Naokah shook her head. “Don’t think she has it in her. She’s too tired to plot. Besides, the poisoning happened right after her dress fiasco. Rather close together for retaliation.”
“Then what’s your theory?” Brielle folded her arms.
Someone was defensive. “Don’t have one. But it’s not like Kjell made loads of friends with his rosy personality. Anyone could’ve done it. Staff included.”
Brielle guzzled her drink and clanked down her glass. White wine spritzed the air. She waved at the barkeep for another round. “Why would the staff want him dead? They aren’t competing for Keepership.”
“No,” said Clisten. “But they’d have to put up with him for the next fifty years, or however long he lived to serve. I’d say that gives them just as much motive, if not more. Enemies for a few months during this competition, or a nightmare boss for the rest of your life?”
“Exactly. Same goes for my sister. Her competition had already left the isle. It had to be a member of the staff,” Naokah said. “Did she question either of you yet?” Brielle shook her head, but Laerte nodded. “What did she ask?”
“Why?” Laerte grinned. “You worried?”
“A little. She makes me nervous. I wouldn’t mind having an idea of her line of questioning. Would’ve helped Mila. She’s innocent but look at her now. Might hurl.”
“Captain Avice is intimidating,” Laerte agreed. “She just asked where I was, what I was doing, who I was talking to before the prick started blowing chunks. Oh, she also asked if I had any words with him.”
“Did you?” asked Brielle.
He laughed bitterly. “Not like he has much to say to a Mid. We are beneath him, literally and figuratively. No wonder the sentry is asking the poor nations first. Upstanding guy, Kjell. Sure hope he recovers.” Laerte’s words dripped with disdain. Even though Naokah agreed, his hostility didn’t do him any favors. It gave him motive.
“Anyone find out what bee flew up Samara’s ass, cutting our tour short? I was looking forward to the vertical gardens.” Brielle stuck out her lower lip.
“Probably has something to do with Dazarin vanishing after orientation,” said Naokah. “Anyone see him yet?”
They shook their heads. Dazarin’s disappearance churned her stomach. She wanted to believe the captain wasn’t wasting time by questioning envoys, but Marguerite’s statement about the preternatural still haunted her. And now, she was all too aware of the bull-shaped gargoyle, glaring down at her as if she were the threat. Was it controlled by some witchcraft-practicing member of the staff too?
“Naokah.” Someone tugged on her sleeve. “Hello?”
She blinked. The envoys were studying her.
“The sentry is done with Mila. She called you,” said Clisten.
“Oh.” Naokah winced and wobbled past Mila, whose face was waxy. The sentry stood with her back to the envoys, eyes surveying the foliage. Fog had settled over the maze, obscuring the lines of green.
“You had some questions for me?”
“Yes.” The captain twisted around. “About your poisoned friend.”
“He’s not my friend. And shouldn’t you be more concerned about finding Dazarin? He’s been missing since we left for the tour.”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I think the two are related.” A vein bulged from her forehead as she leaned in, and her sweat soured the air. “Now, tell me about your whereabouts when Kjell was poisoned.”
“Where everyone else was, in the great hall. Eating, drinking, talking. Right before he collapsed, I was helping Mila avoid public humiliation after he spilled wine on her.”
“You think he did it on purpose?”
“Of course he did. He’s an ass. An insecure one at that.”
“Sounds like you don’t like him.”
“Doubt you’ll find anyone who does, aside from his Poler pals. I imagine he has more than a few enemies here. Now, someone who hates him enough to kill him? I don’t know.”
“So, you weren’t involved?”
“If history shows anything, Croi Croga doesn’t need help earning the Keepership. My sister didn’t need to kill anyone to win. I think you should be looking more…internally. Lenita went missing when all the envoys were gone. I wonder if that same person, on your staff, no doubt, is connected to all three situations.”
The captain hesitated. “We determined Lenita took off on her own.”
Took off on her own? Not Lenita. You’d have to kill her first – she clenched her jaw to swallow her blunder. Her sister was alive. “I can tell by the look on your face even you don’t believe that,” she said, fury flushing out fear. “Instead of wasting your time interviewing people who weren’t here when she disappeared and were with Samara when Dazarin went missing, maybe look at your staff.”
Cries rained through the air. Avice blanched.
Naokah twisted around, and adrenaline surged up her neck.
Beneath the adjacent tower, below the window, trailed a bloody rope. A large, striking man with an arm etched in ink hung from the end. Eyes bulging, neck purple, Dazarin was dead.