A/N : Sorry for the delay. To be fair, I had my reasons. ie. My graduation ceremonies and dinner, my laptop had to be sent in for repairs ( where it turned out to be irreparable :( ), I moved to a different country, I left my hard-disk in my home country (!). I have it now, so that's ok. In the meanwhile, however, I took out my father's ancient PC and drafted up to a hypothetical chapter 20. So we good.
[INTERMISSION : Number One, Part II]
They entered the palace grounds without a hitch. A drawbridge lowered to greet them and the coach shuddered end to end as it transitioned over rickety wood and onto smooth cobblestone. Palm leaned over to look out the window and her jaw dropped slightly as she took in the view. The entire palace seemed to be gilded with silver and shimmery white patina of magic, and stood against a magnificent mountainous backdrop with snow-capped peaks. At the edge of her view a high tower reached into the sky, and birds fluttered around, weaving an intricate pattern of motions around its bulbous peak. If it weren't for the knowledge of the Tyrant inside it would've been like entering a fairy-tale.
A wall opened for them in the stone and the carriage was ushered into a dark, sloping passage, a single guardsman leading the way with only a small lamp for direction. The clop of the horses' hooves echoed noisily around them until they came to an underground village, though nothing like the villages Palm had seen. This one consisted of several multi-storied cement buildings lined up over artificial grass. The place was lighted by entirely by electric bulbs that hung off the side of every façade.
"This is your stop, girls," said their guide. He walked around back and unlatched the door for them. Palm climbed out with the other girls and lined up in front of a short, graying man. As they lined up, his sneer grew wider and wider until it threatened to split his face in half.
"Nice, nice, very nice," he muttered, strutting up and past the girls to inspect them, stroking their skirts. "Today, I'll be taking you, you and you. Aren't you young ladies lucky? The rest of you, that house in the corners is yours. Stay there until I call for you." He turned away with the three he had picked. The other girls made their way wordlessly to the house and settled in.
The inside of the house was just as drab as its exterior. At the very least, the house offered plenty of dark corners. Palm threw her weightless knapsack aside and dusted off the floorboards with her foot, creating a dust-free circle where she settled herself. She crossed her legs over lotus-style and placed a hand on each knee.
The first interruption came before she could even begin.
"You're awfully eager, Clairvoyant" came Zazan's voice from somewhere above her. She opened an eye to regard the heavy-breasted woman as she crouched down to Palm's eye level, forearms resting on her knees.
"I am," said Palm, "- so if you could please give me some space…"
"You know, we're not here to serve that little, ugly man alone. There are other ways to gather intel. Far less exhausting, and far more pleasurable."
Palm whipped her face around to glare at her. "I am not a whore, I am a rebel fighter."
"Why fight?" Zazan said, tilting her head with a strange look in her eyes. "For freedom? Justice for all? Sweetie, there's no such thing. Whether the rebels win or lose, you're just another girl and you'll never get either. Once the war is over you'll be tossed away like old rubbish into the streets. Do you know how this world treats veterans?"
"I'm not doing this for me," Palm spat, standing up abruptly, fists clenching at her sides. "Don't you understand how important this is to everybody? For all of us?!"
Zazan grabbed Palm's wrist in a death-grip before she could move away.
"Let go of me," Palm said. She hoped she sounded as threatening as she felt.
"Clairvoyant, you're young, and you deserve so much more than what those rebels have ever given you." Zazan's voice was sickeningly soft, and gentle.
"And you think I could get that here?" Palm asked, dampening her tone and loosening her fingers, allowing them to wiggle some. Zazan smiled, but her grip on Palm's wrist didn't cease. She kept her gaze on Palm's face.
"You could. Just stay with us and see."
"Thanks for the offer, but no."
The spell unleashed itself like a bullet and Zazan cried out sharply as it hit her full on the face. Palm didn't stick around to see the results. She hitched up her skirts with her now-free hand and bolted to the exit.
"You bitch!" came Zazan's voice, and it held none of the amity that it did a few moments ago.
Once outside she took cover behind the next building, but nobody came after her. She stood there huffing, breathless from the adrenaline rush. She pressed a sweaty hand over her right eye and surveyed the buildings. Only two were occupied, so she stole into the nearest one vacant, where she once again reclaimed the lotus position in front of a wall-sized mirror and closed her eyes. She took a deep breath and she soared.
The palace unfolded before her like an orchid.
A spotless, shining linoleum tiling unwrinkled and ironed itself into an endless hallway, lined up with behemoth pillars that supported an arched ceiling. The corridors coasted themselves at a tangent to the main hall, leading off to even more dark uncharted hallways. But the best thing about projection is that it's not limited to the constraints of human vision. The rest of the palace expanded around her focal point and she could admire it in its entirety, a security network of guards and ornate spells dappling an architectural pattern of stone, tile and metal.
She coursed the passageways weightlessly, her body and bones thrown off like an old coat. She paused once or twice to take her bearings and calibrated herself. North lay an extravagant banquet hall, to it's west, a kitchen and above it the royal suites. What she wanted was South, where all the formalities were kept; libraries, conference halls and rows and rows of annals and chronicles depicting the History of the Antz Kingdom. Somewhere in the mess of paper and files she would find the specifics the Royal Guards were using against the Rebels.
The walls rippled as she ghosted down corridors, past a conference hall where a long table occupied the centre of the carpeted room. A sliding door from there led to a smaller, more of a closet type room. Her ghost grinned.
Her intangible form couldn't directly interact with its contents so she had to make-do with browsing the shelves and ascertaining their contents before she allowed her body to pull her back like a magnet to its source.
She didn't waste any time. Gathering her skirt into her fist she quickly transmogrified the layers into a comfortable pair of trousers. Nothing too fancy.
The astral projection had taken a lot out of her but she was nowhere near hitting her reserves. She clenched a fist and felt the power still flowing strongly within her veins. A thin orb of light emerged on the tip of her finger and she studied herself in the mirror. The same face as always stared back at her, long nose, bony cheeks, framed by a mess of ebony hair. But it was like looking she was finally seeing herself for the first time. She felt different.
She stepped back, putting distance between herself and her reflection, and planned. A selection of spells splayed across her mind's eye like a deck of cards. She had the ability to hold several spells at once, that had never been a problem for her, but now it was a matter of quantity versus quality. She weighed the choices against each other, pondered over each before reaching an ultimatum.
She bit into her forefinger of her right hand, face unflinching as the teeth tore through skin. As the blood beaded out she traced her finger over her forearm, slick and warm. The spells took over and the blood stuck like sap to her skin.
Outside, Palm squinted her eyes against the harsh, white beams of the artificial lighting. The air smelt faintly of heat and salt and prickled inside her nose. Palm had a momentary vision of living the rest of her life here, suffocating, but she shook it off quickly. She would change the tides of the war and be welcomed back to the rebels like a new hero. And for once maybe Portal wouldn't hold back a proud smile.
A door opened. Palm quickly hid herself behind the wall, peering over its edge. It was Bizeff, adjusting his collar and striding off. Palm watched him stride along past the trucks, dully realizing that she hadn't even thought of a way out of this underground prison.
She watched as he went to a niche in the stone wall. He pressed a button and a panel opened sideways, revealing a dark stairwell. Palm grinned to herself. She was now certain the gods were on her side today.
After the pane once again closed behind Bizeff, she scampered over to the wall and pressed her hand against the rock. With a slow, grinding noise, the panel opened itself to her.
Palm said a little prayer, and stepped into the great arching gray-brown lattice of the stairs.
Moonlight filtered in through the blinds, shafts of silver that landed squarely on Palm's face, waking her up from dreams of a life of glory and recognition. She shifted, feeling an ache run down her back, the typical result when one sleeps upright slumped against a rickety wooden closet for support. She used her hands to maneuver herself into a less rigid position and rolled her shoulders to release some of the tension.
In the night, the room gained a green-blue lighting, offset by silhouettes of tables and shelves. Random bits of paper were strewn about the floor. On the central table, Palm's Displacement spell pulsed intermittently. Under the moonlight, the blood gleamed and the dying magic danced in the air above it.
Palm had to admit, the fact that the Royal guards monopolized the Kingdom's warfaring system had proven to be exceedingly beneficial for once. Where previously kingdom's army relied on motley of disjointed forces, now all information traveled along an axial route to a central authority. Easy to regulate, and easy to sabotage.
Palm had no way of knowing how long until dawn-break, but she figured she should get back to the bunker as soon as possible. She dreaded having to face Zazan, but she would have no way out if she didn't swallow her pride and apologize.
Before she opened the door, a thought came to her. She covered her eye with her right hand, and the dark space under the eyelid was filled with an image of Portal. He wasn't sleeping as she expected, but hunched over his desk. Candle-light illuminated his features, highlighting the worry lines in his forehead and the bags under his eyes. Palm felt guilty as easily as she felt smug. She removed her hand hastily, and focused on getting out.
Gingerly, she pushed open the door of the conference hall and stole across the arching hallways like a whisper amongst silence. Maintaining both the invisibility spell and the silencing spell was becoming more difficult with every step she took. The effort strained down to her bones so she released the latter, continuing on tip-toes.
She reached the junction of four halls. Three were guarded. She took the fourth. Another guarded junction later took her further north than she intended. She cursed internally.
A bell chimed in her head, and she swiftly looked behind her. A figure was approaching down the hallway. She ducked into the nearest doorway into a room filled with musky furniture, and crouched behind a couch, already drawing blood with her fingernails, praying the figure would pass.
It didn't.
The sound of footsteps followed her into the room. Clack, clack against the tiles. Unhurried, and deliberate. Then they came to a stop.
"When that prostitute told us there would be a rat in the palace, none of us took her seriously," came a man's voice. Palm's insides went cold.
"After all, who could escape the Puppeteer's En magic? To have made it this far undetected, you must truly be a powerful wizard. Why don't you give me the honor if seeing your face?"
When she didn't come out, he spoke again. "I don't suppose you find it odd that there are no guards stationed here."
Palm attempted to keep her breathing under control. Slowly. In. Hold. Out. Hold.
So that explained the guards, she was being herded like stupid sheep.
Palm made a last-ditch attempt at the two spells, but the blood was thick and her magic drained. The invisibility spell was barely holding itself together.
The footsteps resumed, coming closer with every clack.
Palm closed her eyes, prayed and flung herself out. Her vision caught sight of the cape-side of a tall, blonde man. She panicked and her magic shattered. He swiveled around, fingers moving in a flurry, and a spell hit her like a storm.
She's smacked by the sensations of weightlessness, drowning and being crushed all at once. Her shoulder and her hip suddenly jolted with pain as her body hit the floor. She hadn't even felt herself falling. Her cheek lay pressed against the cold tiles, and even that felt distant.
"Pitou, please take her. It's really unbecoming of a gentleman to manhandle a young lady."
Hands roughly grab her arm and yank her up so she was more or less on her feet, even though the room swam vertiginously around her. She clenched her eyes tight, closing them off to any more vertigo. In the vestiges of her panicking brain, she found she felt angry.
It angered her, having to rely on those coarse hands that pushed her out of the room for scrap amounts of balance, to have made it so far, to have lost her chance to prove herself. Mostly she felt angry because Portal would only remember her as a failure. It's the hot, dry anger inside her that keeps her from crying, because at least she can go down with a semblance of dignity.
She almost stumbles as she's forced to a halt.
"This is the wizard, my Lord," came a deep, feminine voice from somewhere beside her. "Is she to your liking?"
Palm doesn't hear a reply. She prays to her gods that that means no, and that means they can kill her. She's done her work. It's all up to Portal now. She waits for the edge of cold steel to make home in her gut.
Instead she's shoved roughly against stone-cold tiles. The spell abruptly lifts, sending a new wave of dizziness. She opened her eyes so her hands beneath her came into full focus and she could look up without sending pulses of nausea down her spine. What she saw made her want to throw up all over again.
"Congratulations," said the King. He held out a hand over her head. "You are about to become my ace card in this game."
She doesn't get the chance to scream.
Palm Siberia is the first wizard ever to be Taken. When she returns to camp, the rebels welcome her like a hero come home. They don't know of the anger that lurks like an itch under her skin, a stranger's blood flowing through her veins. They don't know of the presence of the King's will that whispers like a ghost in her ear as she greets them, with a smile too wide and footsteps too light. They don't know how loud she screams in her head when her friends fall before her like ants under the heel of her magic. They don't know that she hurt the whole time, for every day after that. They don't know. They don't know they don't know they don't know they don't know THEY DON'T KNOW.
they didn't know
So they labeled her a traitor.