Thread: ~Clash~

Princesses were not supposed to be abroad in the catacombs. Certainly not at this hour of the evening, and even more certainly not unescorted. But the same sparsity of ladies-in-waiting that marked Mireio's decline in status also afforded her the freedom to engage in mad errands such as this. It had been almost two months ago that she found the clue, a note scribbled in the margin of one of the books her tutor had left to her in his last illness. It was cryptic, just a few words about power locked in the tunnels, and she had tried to forget it. She wasn't a foolhardy girl by nature, and there were enough old magics and dangers still abroad in the world without awakening one that slept. She would find another way out of her difficulties. That resolution lasted until the escalating raids fired tensions at court--she knew about the raids, sheltered as she was supposed to be, because she had long since stopped waiting for other people to tell her things. The word revolt had even been floated in hushed tones, and her younger brother's partisans were growing in influence. More and more comments had been dropped that the princess, at eighteen, was past ready for marriage. And then there had been the incident the other night... She steered her thoughts firmly away from that, and back onto the curving tunnel walls that flickered and shifted in the flame of her torch. For several weeks now she had been creeping down on those nights that she could get away, exploring the branching tunnels and slowly learning that labyrinth. She had entered here only occasionally as a child, and then only the upper level, where members of the royal family were laid to rest in eternal silent communion with their ancestors. In these deeper catacombs, most of the little niches and side rooms were empty, though occasionally a door with a funerary inscription barred her way. She always turned back at those, because Bevis' notes had been clear. It wasn't a grave. It was a lonely exploration, no company but the occasional rat, and every now and then a grinning skull resting in some shoulder-height alcove along the wall. In the beginning she had thought she couldn't stand it, but by now it weighed on her only abstractly, a bleak awareness in the back of her mind that she was here because the alternative was worse. She no longer felt guilty from the weight of buried ancestors overhead, though she still whispered a prayer every time she passed through to resume her quest below them. Bevis had done a thorough job of teaching her history, enough to know that many of those revered dead had lived bloody enough lives in their day. Surely they would understand her need. That grim recollection, never far from her thoughts in the tunnels, vanished in an instant as she turned one final corner and her torch lit up the door. She knew at once that it was the one she was looking for. It was smaller than she'd expected for a treasure room a grown man would have to stoop slightly to enter. But it was sturdy, with a powerful-looking lock that she failed to notice was not rusted over with disuse. Most of all, she recognized it by the circle of dense formal calligraphy that spelled out the interdict. It swirled around the holy signs in the middle and spilled out to the very edges of the door, painted on in gold leaf for sunlight and purity. Something unholy was locked within, something that the daylight world had cast out forever. Despite herself, she stopped where she was for long seconds, unable to continue. She had come here accepting the danger--looking for it, in fact--but the moment of sacrilege still gave her pause. She thought of her mother, of her earliest memories of the kingdom, of her younger half-brother who now reached for the throne with increasing confidence. Then she took a deep breath, and strode forward to the door. There was a key hanging by it, understandable given the labyrinth she had learned to find this place. Obscurity was its best protection from outsiders. She didn't stop to think as long as she should have about that, because she had to push forward before her nerve failed. Setting the torch in a bracket by the door, she took down the heavy black iron key, fitted it to the lock and turned. The clank of metal seemed shockingly loud, and her heart was still racing after the echo had faded. With one last silent prayer--was she still entitled to those?--she laid her hands flat against the door and pushed it firmly inward. She would be silhouetted in the doorway when it opened, standing slim and straight in her dark dress, the flame catching the reddish-blond of her braided hair. The gown was a mourning color, serving as both a flimsy excuse if she were caught down here, and more practically not showing the dust as badly. But it was plain and severe, and only the silver filigree of the circlet on her head, one more gleam in the firelight halo, indicated she was of royal blood. She paused on the threshold and narrowed her eyes, trying to see into the darkened room.