Thread of Gold

Ch. 10: life and death

Three Years Ago...

The iron key burned a hole in Ryne's pocket.

The key felt strange at first, but he was used to its weight now, settling on him like a blanket. He found himself clutching the key, as if it could connect him to his father. His father, who was dead. Even now, four months after the funeral, Ryne couldn't believe it.

He felt like a ghost himself, drifting between glittering balls and meetings with advisors and dinners held for foreign diplomats. When Ryne couldn't sleep at night, he wandered around the corridor, touching vases and tables just to reassure himself that he was alive.

Often, Ryne ended up in the Portrait Gallery.

He had never spent much time there, growing up. He preferred riding outdoors with Tristan and Isaac to studying mouldering old tapestries, and Ryne had only looked at the family portraits once, just to remember the exact shape of his grandfather's smile. No. He had never given much thought to the Portrait Gallery — or the door at the end.

But that was just it, Ryne thought: you never knew how much you wanted something until you were told that you couldn't have it. And now, he wanted to know what lay beyond that door.

Some things are better left alone, John had warned him.

But what was better left alone?

Ryne tried to ignore it, at first. He stretched out on the carpet as Camille read poetry, and he bothered Tristan in the laboratory. He practiced sword fighting with Isaac. Hell, he even agreed to play dolls with Penny — a task that would have severely embarrassed him if anyone had caught them. But nothing could take his mind off the mysterious room.

Isaac told him he was being stupid.

"It's just a room," Isaac said, exasperated. "It's probably just used for storage." He lunged at him with a sword. "Unfashionable carpets and such."

He dodged. "Then why wouldn't my father want me to go inside?"

"Maybe it's dusty."

"Dusty?"

"You have allergies." Isaac shrugged, swiping at his feet. "We can't have our king dying of dust asphyxiation."

Ryne jumped over the sword. "That's not a thing."

"But it could be." Isaac gave an exaggerated poke with the sword. "And we could never admit it to anyone. We'd have to falsify your tombstone and claim that you died bravely fighting a fearsome pirate to save a maiden's honour."

Ryne often worried that Isaac had an overactive imagination.

Still, Ryne avoided opening the room for many months; it wasn't until a hot summer's evening that everything changed.

He had been wandering around the Portrait Gallery when he heard something. A noise emanating from the room. It started quiet and then grew louder, filling the corridor with an odd sort of hissing noise. Ryne. Ryne.

He froze.

Surely not. Ryne shook his head. He was imagining things; he hadn't been sleeping well lately, and Tristan had claimed that the veal stew they had for supper was awfully dodgy. Maybe he had food poisoning.

Then he heard it again.

Ryne. Ryne.

His hand went to his pocket. The key felt hot, almost as if he had been holding it over a fire. He drew the key out. The iron glittered in the moonlight, its silvery teeth chattering as his hands shook.