by Gary Meehan
“There has to be some way,” Afreyda continued. “A ladder or trapdoor or something.”
“Why?”
“I do not know.” Afreyda pointed at the flagpole. “The witches have to come up here and change the flags. They will get dirty.”
“Flag cleaners? Your plan relies on flag cleaners? Is that even a thing?”
Afreyda tugged one of the ropes stretching off the flags. It was taut, like a giant fiddle string. She eyed the path of its descent, down to an irregular-shaped courtyard that seemed awfully far away, where it was tied to a pole.
“We couldn’t cut enough off to get to the bottom,” said Damon.
“Why cut it?” said Afreyda. “It is already going to the bottom. And eastward.”
Where they needed to be. That didn’t stop apprehension gripping Damon. “But . . .”
Afreyda jumped up and ripped one of the flags down. She tore it into two and offered one of the halves to Damon. He reluctantly accepted it.
“I don’t think you’re taking my ‘but’ seriously.”
“We will slide down,” said Afreyda, twisting her half of the flag into a cord.
“Yeah, I got that,” said Damon. “You done this before?”
“No. That is why you are going first.”
Damon didn’t think he had the moral superiority to argue. He sat on the wall surrounding the tower and swung his legs over the edge. The wind whipped up in intensity, trying to push him over. He felt a little dizzy. He clenched his fists. The pressure on his abused fingers sharpened his senses.
Leaning forward, he looped his twisted flag over the rope. “Are you sure about this?” he asked Afreyda.
“What is the worst that could happen?”
“I fall and shatter every bone in my body,” said Damon.
“Do not be so pessimistic.”
“You asked what was the worst that could happen!”
There was a commotion below. Witches on the balcony. One fired a crossbow. The bolt smacked into the wall a few inches below Damon’s feet. The witch’s compatriot raised his own weapon. Damon couldn’t let him take advantage of the first’s sighter. He dropped off the roof.
The jolt as the looped flag halted his descent wrenched his shoulders half out of his sockets. He dangled there, vulnerable, like a carcass in a butcher’s shop. The gold light of the setting sun flashed on a crossbow bolt as it whizzed past his head. Come on, he urged gravity.
Damon started to pick up speed. Flags batted him as he zipped past them. “Not quick enough” became “dangerously fast” without staying anywhere near long enough in “pleasantly brisk.” Friction was scraping up loose strands of hemp, sand, and was that smoke? The flag split, unraveled a fraction. Severed fibers fluttered in the breeze. Hold together a few more seconds.
The courtyard raced toward him, but before that there was another building to zip over. His legs weren’t going to clear its roof. Damon pulled them up at the last second before the crenellations would have smashed into his shins. He whizzed past, reached the courtyard. The flag split. The world lurched. Flagstones slammed into his back like a giant fist. But he had made it.
Damon lay there, staring at the sky, waiting for the throbbing to subside. No sharper pain. Nothing broken. Still, a few minutes’ more rest wouldn’t hurt. A chance to catch his breath, gather his thoughts—
A figure flashed above his head. Afreyda dropped from the rope and rolled across the courtyard, absorbing the force of the impact. She lay still, curled up. Too still. Blood was creeping across the back of her gown.
Damon crawled over to her. “Are you all right?”
“Just give me . . . give me . . .”
“We have to get moving,” said Damon. “It won’t take the witches long to get over here.”
He helped Afreyda up. Anguish had replaced her earlier exuberance. “Have you got any more of that . . . ?”
“Yes,” said Damon. “And no. Second dose so soon’ll blow your head off.”
He tried to get his bearings. There seemed to be no way out of the courtyard, no way back into the palace. They were going to have to break a window. No, wait. An expected corner wasn’t there—there was an alleyway leading off. He led Afreyda to it. The world went dark as something clammy smacked into Damon. He peeled fabric from his face. It was a flag. Afreyda gave him a knowing look.
They slalomed around the drying laundry. There was a door at the end of the alley. It was unlocked. Damon eased it open and peered up and down the gloomy corridor beyond. Deserted. Probably not for long.
He recognized where he was: the Sandstriders’ block. Not far from the tunnel. The witches hadn’t reclaimed this wing of the palace since the Sandstriders had left. Evidence of a hasty retreat was everywhere: spoiling food; wine souring to vinegar; tipped-over mattresses; stray boots; an abandoned ear, welded to a windowsill by a smear of dried blood, as if someone had set it aside, meaning to come back for it. Had its owner survived the witches’ bombardment? Had any of the Sandstriders?
Damon led Afreyda to the room where he hoped Edwyn’s tunnel started. The knife and spike he had used to pick the lock were still on the floor where he had abandoned them all those months ago. Damon slipped them into his boot and pushed the door open, revealing a bare chamber, chilly with disuse. Undisturbed dust lined the floor tiles like soft carpet. The witches hadn’t bothered to check here since he’d tried to escape the day of Gwyneth’s coronation. The fanatical mind made little allowance for curiosity.
“Where is this tunnel?” asked Afreyda.
Only one place it could be. “Fireplace.”
“Are you sure?”
“No ash in the grate. There’s never been a fire there.” He poked his head in and looked up the chimney. It was bricked up. Edwyn hadn’t been taking any chances.
Damon started to grope about. “There’ll be a lever or a switch or something that’ll open a secret door.”
“Where?”
“In a small haberdashery in Eastport. Where do you think it’ll bloody be? Start feeling for knobs.”
“You are asking the wrong girl.” Afreyda patted the wall, leaning against it for support. “How long since this tunnel was last used?”
“Don’t think it’s ever been used.”
“So it might not be here or it might be blocked up or there could be undead monsters waiting to feast on our brains!”
“Deep breaths,” said Damon.
Afreyda obeyed the command. “I feel funny.”
“I’m sure you do,” said Damon, continuing to push at bricks and pull on protrusions.
“I hear this strange stomping.”
The noise wasn’t a drug-induced hallucination—soldiers were coming. Damon’s search picked up pace until he was practically punching the chimney walls. It had to be here, it had to be. Because if it wasn’t, they would soon be dead.
“Stand back,” said Afreyda.
“What? Whoa!”
She yanked him away from the fireplace, closed her eyes and marched in. Her hand flicked out, caught something. There was a squeal as hidden gears bit into each other. Stone ground against stone. A slab of stone at the back of the chimney swung open, releasing a blast of dead air.
“How . . . ?”
“I guessed where I would want it if I was a fleeing king.”
The witches were almost on them, their boots an approaching storm. Afreyda squeezed through the gap, squealing as the wall scraped her back. She urged Damon through. He didn’t need urging. He forced himself through. They shoved the slab back in place—expelling the last sliver of light—just as the witches crashed into the room.
“Do you think . . . ?” Afreyda whispered.
Damon shushed her and listened. Nobody had seen them come in here, but they’d left footprints in the dust. The sound of the witches was muffled by the thick walls. Impossible to tell what they were doing. But then the unmistakable sound of retreat and silence. They were gone.
Damon and Afreyda let out simultaneou
s sighs of relief. “It is very dark in here.”
“That’s what that is.”
“Sarcasm will not help us find a way out.”
“You think? Hang on, I brought something for such an occasion.”
Damon unhitched the apothecary’s sack and rummaged around in it, trying to remember the shape of the flask he was looking for. Ah, that was it. He searched his tunic pockets. He found one glove but its twin was long lost. It’d do. He pulled it on and uncorked the flask. After a moment, an eerie white glow filled the tunnel.
“What is that?” asked Afreyda, her voice hushed.
“Essence of piss,” said Damon. “You think the empire is the only place with magical chemicals? I thought it’d be a bit suspicious if I asked the servant to bring back a torch from the apothecary.”
He held the flask up to illuminate a tunnel that gently sloped away. It was wide enough to accommodate him and Afreyda walking abreast; tall enough they wouldn’t have to duck. Thick wooden struts supported the ceiling at regular intervals, giving the appearance they were in the ribcage of a giant snake. Duckboards, now rotting and smeared green with mold, protected the floor from the water seeping through the mud and rock.
“How long is this tunnel?” asked Afreyda.
“Few miles,” said Damon. “It looked quite direct on the plan. Quicker than going over ground. Do you know what the traffic’s like this time of day?”
They descended slowly, the only sounds their ragged breaths, the plink of dripping water and the squelch of mud underfoot. Damon tried not to stare at the ceiling, searching for telltale cracks. Two hundred years of construction work in the city above their heads could have easily weakened the tunnel so it would need only a small push to collapse.
They came to a door. “We’re there already?” said Afreyda.
Damon shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said.
“Maybe this king of yours had some doors he needed using up.”
“Ah, the third-century door glut. No one saw that coming.”
Afreyda gripped the door handle and took a deep breath. “If anything goes wrong . . .”
“Scream and run like hell,” said Damon. “I know the drill.”
Slowly as she could, Afreyda eased the door open. Or at least tried to. It stuck no sooner than it left the frame. She pulled harder. Ancient planks gave way. She lurched backward, smack into Damon. They tumbled to the ground, light fighting with the shadows as the torch fell from his grasp.
“Pity the door glut didn’t make it to the empire,” said Damon. “You could’ve got some practice in.”
He got to his feet. A constant plinking was coming from the space Afreyda had exposed, like the aftermath of a rainstorm. He crept forward. A draft raised goose pimples on his neck. A draft? Where was that coming from?
They emerged near the ceiling of a cavernous chamber. A forest of columns rose up from a gently rippling underground lake, calcified trees supporting an impenetrable sky. Stone walkways sprouted from the top of each trunk, branches intermingling among the heavens. Damon walked out on to one and peered down. Reflections from his glowing flask swam in the water far below. Condensation dripped on to his neck, making him shiver.
“What is this place?” asked Afreyda
“Cistern of Aldwynson the Drowned.”
“Who is he?”
“Who was he,” said Damon. “The ‘drowned’ appellation is kind of revealing. Your usual tale of stupidity treated as piety.” He looked around. “This place provides fresh water for the inner and middle cities. Should have realized we’d have to cross it.”
“How do we get out of here?”
“You’re the one with the insight into a fleeing king’s mind.”
“We follow the walkways with the railings?”
“Uh-huh,” said Damon. Safety was very important to Edwyn, albeit only his own.
They made their way along the labyrinthine path marked out for them. Stone occasionally crumbled underfoot and pattered down to the reservoir below, and when it did Damon would extend a foot and test the walkway ahead and wish he’d maneuvered Afreyda into taking the lead.
He could see their destination now: a door set into the far wall, the companion of the one Afreyda had struggled with. Damon began to formulate wind-ups, then jumped back as the door crashed open and soldiers spilled through.
Soldiers wearing the star-broken circle.
thirty
“Who goes there?” Willas shouted into the cavern.
“Ah, traditionalists, I see.”
Megan didn’t need to recognize the voice to identify the flippancy. She pushed her way through the soldiers, almost burning herself on one of their torches. Damon and Afreyda stepped out of the shadows and advanced along the stone walkways. Megan rushed forward and threw herself into Afreyda’s arms. Relief flooded through her, and gratitude, and a fear it might be nothing more than a dream.
“I thought . . . I was scared I’d . . .”
Afreyda’s tears wetted Megan’s cheek. “I do not want to let you go,” she said, “but you are really hurting me.”
Megan released her hold and took a step back. “Why? What is it?”
“Gwyneth,” said Damon. “Hello, by the way.”
Megan checked her hands. There was a hint of blood on her fingers. “What did she do to you?” Anger overtook her, followed by guilt. Gwyneth wouldn’t have harmed Afreyda if it hadn’t been for Megan. “I’ll kill her.”
“It could be worse,” said Afreyda. She looked to Willas. “You shouldn’t have let her come after me.”
“You think I could stop her?” said Willas. “It’s good to see you, captain.”
“And you.” Afreyda managed a smile. “Captain.”
Damon indicated the soldiers. “What’s with the uniforms?” he asked. “You scared the hell out of us.”
“We borrowed them from some witches,” said Megan. “Thought it might give us an edge in the palace.” None of the Faithful had been prepared to don the star-broken circle: old fears died hard. Fortunately the Hilites didn’t share such superstitions. “Gwyneth’s still there, I take it?”
“There and panicking about your imminent arrival,” said Damon. “She’s even had her daughter brought back from Andaluvia. Mind you, asking the Sandstriders to continue to babysit would probably have been pushing it a bit.”
Leaving Afreyda in Willas’s care, Megan took Damon and led him down the walkway, deeper into the cavern until they were lit not by the warmth of the Hilite torches but the spectral light of Damon’s flask.
“Have you still got the formula?” she asked.
Damon pulled a tightly rolled parchment from his boot and handed it over. “Can we go now?” he asked.
Megan followed the direction of his finger, back the way they had come. It was the right thing to do, get away while she could, while everyone was safe. The right thing for her, but not for the Realm.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said.
“That’s never a good sign.”
“That witch captain. Sener,” said Megan. “Is he still alive? Is he in New Statham?”
“He was the one who took Afreyda and me prisoners,” said Damon. “Quite agreeable as captors go. Very rarely hit me.”
“How are things with him and Gwyneth?” asked Megan.
“I don’t think they’re going to be spending Saviors’ Day with each other.”
“And his supporters? How many are there in the city?”
“I have no idea,” said Damon. “He’s not dead yet, so ‘some’ obviously. What are you getting at?”
Footsteps behind them—Afreyda. “What is . . . ?”
Megan held up a silencing finger. “Would he move against Gwyneth?” she asked Damon.
“They are True,” said Afreyda. “They do not betray one another.”
“You’d be surprised,” muttered Damon.
“They’re more pragmatic than they let on,” said Megan. “They escaped from Trafford’s Hav
en, they fought for the Diannon Emperor, they abandoned Eastport, they held New Statham when they could have thrown every last man at us at the Arrowstorm Pass. They’re interested in staying alive.”
“Not as your prisoner,” said Afreyda.
“That’s not what I’m offering them.”
“Then what?” asked Damon.
“What the priests wouldn’t,” said Megan. “Freedom. The right to live in peace, practice their religion any damned way they please.”
“After what they’ve done?” said Damon.
“How do you know they would not come after Cate?” asked Afreyda.
“Because I’m only offering it to those witches who don’t believe she’s the Savior,” said Megan.
“And the rest?” asked Damon. “Gwyneth?” Megan gave him a meaningful look. “Oh, and I thought she was the cold-hearted one.”
“I need you to arrange a meeting between Sener and me.”
The blood drained from Damon’s face. “You don’t . . .”
“I need you to go back to the palace.”
“There’s no way in hell I’m going back there,” said Damon. “The witches’ll kill me on sight.”
“You know how to stop them seeing you.”
“No, Megan.” Damon pushed past them and headed for the tunnel. “I got you the formula, I got Afreyda out, and now I’m done. I’m done with risking my life on your whim. I’m walking away now like I should have done a long time ago.”
Megan looked to Afreyda, who shrugged. She dithered for a moment then ran after Damon. She caught up and grabbed his shoulder. He spun around, knocking her off.
“You come to make not entirely humorous threats against me if I don’t do what you want?”
“No,” said Megan. “I’ve come to offer you forgiveness for what happened to Eleanor if you do.”
The retort died on his lips. He stared at Megan, throat bobbing, hands clenching. Megan stared back, grief and anger and self-loathing mixing like poison in her veins.
“What makes you think I need forgiveness?” said Damon.
“The look on your face every time you hear her name,” said Megan. “I don’t know what you really did up in the mountains, why you did it, how willingly, and I’m not sure if I want to. But I do know what Eleanor would have wanted, what she fought for. Do you think she would have condemned hundreds of thousands of people to die if there was a chance she could prevent it? You always wanted to prove yourself worthy of her. Now’s your chance.”
