Wystwood

73. Keys for the locks

A number of fae had gathered around Lark and his father, drawn like moths to the evening's latest spectacle. Both men were dressed as grand nobility, though their expressions were nothing short of animalistic.

"You are no son of mine," hissed the man.

"Choosing not to live my life in chains did not drain your blood from my veins," Lark said.

"And is this why you have come?" said the man. "To taunt me? To try and bring more ridicule to the Vulpent name than you have already wrought?"

Lark gave no reply, and his father's eyes gleamed brighter than his golden adornments.

"Whatever madness has driven you here, you shall find no sympathy from me," he warned.

A Hound approached them, hooded eyes fixed hungrily on Lark. "Shall I have him removed, Lord Renard?"

"How did you get in here?" demanded Renard, ignoring the Hound.

"I walked in," said Lark, speaking boldly despite their growing audience. "We do not all forget family quite so easily as yourself."

"You gave up your family's name the day you left our house!" screamed Renard, the stem of his goblet finally snapping between his fingers. "You have no right to be here. And no right to wear the Vulpent crest."

"You make me ashamed to be bearing it." Thin strands of hair were stuck down Lark's temples and his chest was heaving.

Renard surged forwards, the tip of his nose against Lark's, spittle flying from his bared teeth.

"You are a lowly bastard of a boy who can do no better than play strings for copper coins," he snarled. "I bear no greater shame than you."

A hand clutched Ada's elbow and she gasped, turning to see Diane standing beside her. Around her wrist was a circle of keys, which jangled as she tugged Ada through the crowd drifting towards the banquet table. Ada stretched onto her toes, trying to catch Lark's eye, but the fae were all too tall.

"Come," whispered Diane, pulling her along. "It is the perfect moment. Nobody will be watching us."

They wove through the final dregs of fae, striding away from the window and into the creases of curtain that moonlight could not reach. In the corner, an edge of fabric gave way beneath Diane's hand, and they slipped from the ballroom with scarcely a ripple.

There were no wide windows beyond the curtain. Moonlight fell through barred slits in the stone walls, gathering on the floor like pools of mercury, and the echo of voices had become muted and dull. A grand staircase rose before them, although the landing above was drenched in darkness.

Ada squinted into the shadows, counting several large doorways leading out from the main chamber. Some were cut across with shafts of metal, while others had no doors at all, their moulding layered high with dust. Opposite the staircase was a stone arch, carved around with strange faces, their eyes wide and weeping, their mouths twisted into silent shrieks.

"That way," said Ada, a shiver of certainty running down her spine.

Diane did not argue, and together they hurried towards the arch. Words had been engraved between the faces, deep enough to read despite the shadows. As above, so below. The phrase had haunted Ada throughout Wysthaven, and here they were again, cruel and mocking and out of reach.

Diane had not paused, already descending into a second chamber, which was only a number of paces wide. The walls bore racks of unlit torches, though when Diane removed one from its sconce there came the hiss of striking flint. The torch flickered alight, burning as bright as sage-fires from their clever mechanism.