by Beth Alvarez
Frowning, he leaned against the door again and turned his ear to the hall. Farther down the walkway, he caught the sound of someone coughing. Someone moving, too. The same person? He doubted the castle's dungeons would be so empty.
Deciding it best to begin planning, Tahl wet his lips and gave a soft, two-note whistle that ended like a question. Here? the signal asked. Something simple, something the guards wouldn't likely recognize that his crew undoubtedly would.
Silence filled the air.
He whistled again. This time, a soft clank and a scrape at the far end of the hall answered his call.
“Nobody's coming to help you, spook boy,” a guard shouted.
Tahl craned his neck to see the guard station at the far end of the corridor. The other sounds in the prison had grown quiet. Did that mean the others had escaped? He worried his lip as he tried to put together the possibilities of what could have happened after that poisoned arrow sent him toppling off the wagon's roof.
Maybe the others had escaped with the cargo after all. Maybe they'd made it to the queen and Oria had protected them from the Elite. But that didn't explain why he was in prison and they weren't—unless their misgivings had been right all along.
Had it been a trap? One meant to snare him and nobody else? His stomach twisted with the thought of Oria turning his own recruits against him, bribing them to follow him into the job and then leave him to the Elite. Ugly as the possibility was, it could have happened. He'd left the queen with his team when he'd gone to investigate the first band of wagons. That would have offered enough time for them to plan.
Tahl rubbed his shoulder, the one the arrow had struck. It ached more than the rest of him, but from what he knew of magic-based healing, that was to be expected. Pain lingered after the wounds were gone. He stared down at the smooth stone floor of the hallway.
He'd only just begun to search his thoughts for options when voices rose at the guard station. They were just low enough that he couldn't make them out, but he lounged against the bars and turned that way, just the same. No matter what, Tahl wouldn't let them see him nervous. He'd only just started thinking, and there were some tools they could never take from him.
As if in response to the thought, his senses prickled. Tahl straightened as a pair of guards left the station and started down the hall with someone between them. Another prisoner? No—a mage, that was the tingle in his awareness. Tahl's eyebrows climbed as the pair of men stopped before his cell with Colbin between them. The guards looked to the mage, expectant.
A look of consternation and then resignation drifted across Colbin's face. “It's him.” His shoulders slumped with the admission. He hadn't wanted to give Tahl up? Interesting.
“You're positive?” one of the guards asked.
The mage hesitated, then gave a single nod. “I—yes. I'd recognize him anywhere after he threatened me in the library.”
Satisfied, the guards motioned Colbin back toward the front of the dungeon.
“Good to see you too,” Tahl said sarcastically.
His one-time friend gave him a single, anguished look before he allowed the guards to escort him back out as quickly as they'd seen him in.
Tahl held back his sigh of frustration until he was sure they wouldn't hear. So they hadn't been positive of his identity when they arrested him. Or had they only needed confirmation before they could see him to the gallows? He thought of the scar that encircled Bahar Eseri's neck and raised a hand to touch his own throat. Clearly, there was a way to survive. It would have been nice to have learned how.
Disheartened, he trudged to the pile of straw and lowered himself to sit. Though his senses had itched when Colbin came close, Tahl was too drained to grasp power now. He'd wait, rest as long as he dared, and hope a solution came to him whenever he'd recovered enough to wield his minuscule power again. It had done something the night before, the fire in lanterns eager to answer his call, the powder under his fingers igniting easier than anything he'd ever touched.
Maybe, just maybe, that feeble power would be enough now.
Sleep came fitfully, far from the deep, peaceful slumber Tahl hoped for. Every time someone stirred in the dungeon, the sound woke him. He'd grown used to every sound being a threat. In a place like this, that seemed the truth. The guards hadn't come to bother him again—as far as he could tell, he was at the very end of the row—but every time footfalls or the rattle of armor reached his ears, he expected them to appear.
After the unusual experiences of the past several days, Tahl's normally accurate internal clock had grown muddled. He thought it had been close to twelve hours since Colbin's visit when footsteps finally came down the hall between cells, but he wasn't certain. Tahl pushed himself to his feet and braced for a fight, but all that happened was a balding old man in coarse clothing dropped a wooden trencher on the floor, kicked it underneath the door, and leaned forward to reach between the bars and deposit bread and a wooden cup atop it.
Tahl stared at the offering with a sense of befuddlement until the man left. He'd never even looked Tahl's way.
A white spot decorated the bread's crust. Tahl considered it for longer than was necessary before he trudged over for a closer inspection. Against all odds, it seemed unlikely his captors might try to poison him. Orrad would demand a public execution. It would be a spectacle, maybe even rival a festival day. He was no good to them dead. With that in mind, he crouched beside the trencher and picked up the bread. He'd thought it was mold and was surprised to find flour instead. The yeasty bread was still soft and after days without a decent meal, its fresh scent made his stomach growl. The cup held water, which he sniffed and frowned at before deciding poison was still unlikely.
He sat back on his heels and ate.
Some hours later, he'd found his way back to the pile of straw and had just dozed off when voices snapped him out of his uneasy, half-dreaming state. Unsure whether or not he should meet them at the cell door again, he settled for sitting at the edge of the straw and staring past the bars. When the guards came into view, though, he flew to his feet and dashed to the front of the cell.
“Tahl,” Nia cried when she saw him. She flung herself against the bars and reached in, her fingertips groping for his touch.
He put himself in her arms and reached through to hug her as close as he could manage. Then he stepped back, cradled her face in his hands, and lowered himself to one knee so they were closer to eye level. “What are you doing here?”
Tears brimmed on her eyelashes and she touched his hands. “You're alive.”
A hint of guilt surged in his chest. “Not for long.” The guards shifted uneasily at the comment, but neither tried to correct him.
“What happened? Why are you in here? I thought—” She leaned back, her eyes skimming his frame. Her attention lingered on the hole in the shoulder of his shirt like she knew what it was, then her expression grew more guarded. “Where were you?”
Something had changed in her voice, as if to cue something should change in his, too. Recognizing it for the sibling act they often put on, he followed suit. Though part of him wanted to throttle her for coming to see him and doubtlessly putting herself in harm's way, he admitted it was the best way to relay information to the rest of the guild.
“I made a mistake,” he said, shifting his hands on her face until she looked him dead in the eye. “I trusted somebody I shouldn't have.”
“And now what? You're going to leave me?” Nia grasped his wrist and a tear escaped to roll down her cheek. She could act, but from how fat those tears were, he took the sense they were real. Fear for him shone in her eyes.
Tahl wasn't sure how to respond. He had a million instructions to give her, but the guards were right there. How much could he reveal without incriminating her? He needed her to escape, to get back to the guild. To keep the guild alive. “I have to take responsibility for what I've done. Now I need you to be responsible, too.”
She shook her head. “What are you talking about
? You can't just let them—they'll kill you!”
Frustrated, he made her hold still. “I can't change that now. You can. You're not part of this. Don't become part of this. Do you understand me? Stay out of it.”
Nia lunged forward to wrap her arms around his neck in another hug. Sighing, Tahl surrendered to it. Behind her, the guards looked away, made uncomfortable by the sentimental display.
“I need you to go home,” Tahl continued, his voice calm and level. “I need you to take care of the family. Do what I couldn't do, don't make the same mistakes I did. Keep your nose clean and remind the boys who's in charge now that I'm gone.”
She squeezed him harder. “Don't say that.”
He didn't know what else to say. “There's money in a box back home. It'll pay the rent this month, but not much else. I'm sorry. I can't do anything else.”
“Time's up,” one of the guards said, his voice gruff.
Nia didn't want to let go.
“Go on,” Tahl whispered. “Fly home, Sparrow. Everyone needs you.”
“They need you,” she protested.
He pushed her back. “Go.”
The guard laid a hand on Nia's shoulder and pulled her away. She clung to the bars until Tahl squeezed her hand. Then her fingers slipped off the metal and the guards steered her toward the entryway as a first strong, very real sob tore free of her throat.
Tahl gripped the bars and watched her go. It hadn't been enough time, not enough words, not enough instructions. He hadn't gotten to praise her, to reassure her she could take his place, that he trusted her to see the guild survived. His shoulders slumped. Something poked uncomfortably in the back of his shirt's high collar. Tahl's brow furrowed and he reached back to scratch it. Instead of the straw he expected, his fingertips found the shaped metal of a single lock pick.
A smirk twisted his features before he could catch it. Clever little sparrow. He hadn't even felt her slip it to him, distracted by her squeezes and the fat tears on the dark lashes that framed her childlike eyes.
She'd grown skilled at playing roles, at pretending to be innocent. No wonder the guards had agreed to let her see him. Who would have suspected a tearful child who just wanted to say goodbye to her brother?
The guards stopped at the far end of the hall. Only one continued onward to escort Nia from the dungeons. Tahl hid the pick in his hand as he brushed dust from his shoulder. If he'd had a dagger, he would have taken a chance and tried to get past the one armored man who remained. Unarmed as he was, it seemed wiser to wait until the man was distracted.
The chance didn't come. Moments after Nia and the other guard disappeared, the sound of many footfalls filled the prison. An uneasy shuffling and a number of moans followed, hinting that other prisoners retreated farther into their cells.
Tahl's eyes narrowed and he leaned closer to the bars.
A half-dozen men with the red tabards of the Elite draped over their armor marched down the walkway between the cells, their weapons in hand. Tahl wasn't surprised when they stopped at his cell door.
“The Ghost of Orrad,” the leader said, his face twisted with disgust.
“I seem to be quite popular today,” Tahl replied, tone dry.
The Elite were not amused. The dungeon guard scurried into view with a ring of keys.
Tahl raised his chin in defiance, though his stomach churned.
The leader lifted a pair of shackles as the door's lock clacked open. “Let's go.”
Chapter 17
Only two Elite grasped Tahl by the arms. The other two pairs walked in front of and behind him, creating a barrier between him and the rest of the palace. None of the utilitarian structure appeared familiar, but he doubted it ever would. The palace was as cold as he believed the emperor to be.
The lock pick remained hidden in Tahl's sleeve, waiting for him to slide it free. He had no doubt the single pick would be enough to undo the shackles on his wrists and ankles, but he doubted he could undo the locks without the Elite noticing. Especially not the one on the shackles that bound his feet and kept him from taking more than shuffling steps no more than six inches apart. After his acrobatic escape with the crown, Tahl admitted they'd been wise to chain him.
Even if he had managed to undo the shackles, he wasn't sure he could escape the Elite. He'd made a point of avoiding them after one gave him the scar that marred his face. Luck had been on his side that night. If it was on his side now, he wouldn't have been captured.
All lucky streaks come to an end. He tried to show no emotion as they escorted him down featureless halls and came to a stop outside a pair of doors no more interesting than the bare stone walls. One of the Elite leading the group pushed the doors open—both of them—and Tahl found himself squinting into the room beyond.
The throne room was nothing like he'd expected. Unlike the rest of the blocky palace with its squared-off floor plan, the throne room was circular. Seats ringed the outer walls, as if it were a stadium or a gladiator's ring instead of the emperor's lair. Then again, they do expect a show. Tahl allowed himself a soft snort. People—nobles—packed the stone benches. Their heads turned to follow Tahl, reminding him of vultures as the Elite led him inside.
In the center of the room, the throne stood on a dais so tall, it almost seemed like a pedestal. Arrogant, Tahl thought, and yet fitting. Atop the throne, Atoras sat, and on his brow was the crown.
Anger turned in Tahl's stomach, writhing with a coil of disappointment it took him a moment to recognize. The crown had been in his office. Either Oria had stolen it back, or his guild had betrayed him.
The pair of Elite leading the group and the pair behind it knelt at the foot of the dais. The men holding Tahl's arms bowed their heads in reverence, but did not otherwise stir.
The emperor rose from his throne.
“Ah, the plague upon my city.” Atoras's voice was booming, powerful, deep enough to shake Tahl's bones. “So we meet, Ghost.”
Tahl met his eyes with a cool composure, though he very much wished to glare. “We met before, sire. The problem is, you were asleep.”
The emperor did not respond at first, though he raised his head and peered down his nose to give Tahl a long, appraising stare. “I know who you are.”
“A lot of people do.”
“Tahl Athiat Ashor. Son of Duke Achaean Ashor, sent to my city to become a mage. You failed.”
An intrigued murmur rolled through the spectators.
“That depends on what you think my goal was,” Tahl replied. From the way Atoras stared at him, he suspected the emperor thought he'd be surprised. How could he be? He already knew Colbin had identified him.
The corner of the emperor's mouth twitched. “Your treason runs deeper than Orrad knows. Tell me, did your father recognize you as marquess?”
Tahl lifted his chin. “My father disowned me.”
“Was that before or after you chose to make a mockery of me?” The emperor tilted his head, as if in thought. “I should hate to punish your father. He has been a good leader for the southern coast. And we are blood, after all. Distant relations, but blood, nonetheless.”
“Well,” Tahl said with a sneer, “I'm sure my father loathes me as much as you do.”
Atoras sank back in his throne, drumming his fingers on its arm. “You know the punishment for what you have done.” It was a statement, not a question.
“The usual punishment?” Tahl asked. “Or what you have in mind for me?”
A hint of amusement lit in the emperor's eyes, though it was fleeting. “You will hang.”
Unsurprising. Tahl had assumed as much, the moment he'd awoken to find himself in prison. “Like you hung Bahar Eseri? I think one scar is enough.”
Atoras did not react. Maybe he didn't know Lord Eseri had survived. Or else he hadn't cared. For a split second, Tahl considered that Lord Eseri's survival might have been intentional, then he discarded the idea. If they'd helped him survive and escape, why would Bahar Eseri join an organization that pitted itse
lf against the crown?
“Where is your guild?” the emperor demanded.
Tahl blinked before he managed to wipe all surprise from his expression. He didn't know? But he wore the crown. “Waiting for me.”
Atoras's lips peeled back in a sneer. “Then they can join you in the grave. Prepare the gallows.”
One of the Elite in front of Tahl pressed a fist over his heart.
Behind them, the doors banged open and broad beams of light spilled across the floor.
“Atoras,” a familiar voice cried.
The emperor stirred and sat straighter on his throne.
Oria hastened across the throne room. “You promised to wait for me!”
Atoras patted the air, as if the gesture would soothe her. “I am not a cat, who wishes to play with my prey.”
“You promised!” she protested. “How dare you? You don't even know what you've done! Do you know who this man is?” She thrust a finger in Tahl's direction and glowered up at the throne.
The emperor stared at her, unthreatened by her glare. “A nuisance.”
“He is mine!” The queen clenched her hand into a fist. “The chief of my spies, my window into the criminal world that plagues our city. And by bringing him before an audience, you unravel everything I've built.”
“He is a child,” Atoras replied dryly.
“A young man of noble blood who answers to the crown,” Oria fired back. “Not some common criminal. Had you only stopped to listen to me before all this—”
Again, Atoras spread his hands and made calming gestures. “Peace, woman! Brant's mercy.”
From the anger that twisted her face, she had no intention of settling. Tahl stared at her, his brow furrowed.
Oria drew a deep breath before she spoke again. “How is anyone to monitor the criminal activity in the city without being part of it? I've asked you to develop spy networks for years, and the moment I have one functioning, you tear it apart! How do you believe I found the weapons, Atoras? Without my network's information, we would have nothing!”
