“I won’t fail you, or him,” I say to her, and as she leads her battalion away, I pull my hood up over my head to hide me away, and I slink down the long carved staircase to the sea.
The entrance isn’t hard to find. A thick wooden door, locked with a heavy bar and three padlocks.
“Fools,” Osven utters in my mind. “Sending a girl to do the work of a thief.”
“A girl is as good as anyone,” I mutter to him as I work the first lock with the pick Quenson gave me. Beneath the wooden boardwalk, waves crash. My hands are steady holding his gift. I would never dream of dropping it. To lose this pick would be to lose my master’s trust.
The lock clicks open and I pull it off and toss it into the waves. Two more to go. The second one is just as easy. I discard it, same as the first. The third takes longer. I have to force it, and when it finally clicks, a thick green liquid oozes from the hole and seeps over my gloves. Right away, the leather starts to smoke and burn. I grab the lock and fling it away and pull off my gloves and toss them to the boardwalk.
“Oh, very impressive indeed,” the ghostly Sorcerer says, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
“Osven,” I whisper to him as I slide the bar from the door, “I swear if you say another word, I’ll toss this bracelet onto those gloves and enjoy watching it get eaten away.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” he hisses. “What would your master say?”
“I’d tell him how insolent you were being, and he’d agree with my decision,” I reply as I slink into the dark, damp passage. I pause and think. Leaving my gloves behind is foolish. Leave no evidence, Master told me. There’s magic that could be used to track me, to see things I’ve seen while wearing them. But I can’t carry them when they’re covered in acid. I glance at Osven’s apparition. Master hasn’t had time to give me much training in order to tap into the ghost’s powers, but he did tell me this. I can command him. Whatever I tell him to do, he must obey.
“Osven,” I say cautiously. “You know a way to restore those, don’t you? Answer me.”
“Yes,” he replies reluctantly.
“Show me,” I say.
It doesn’t take long at all for me to pick up his knowledge, to draw it through me and use it as my own. I move my hands the way he knows how to; I speak words that are foreign to me. The rush of it feels like it’ll lift me up off the ground. The power. The ecstasy. I watch the acid crackle away. Watch the gloves restore themselves. Then I call them back to me and my insides tingle with the most delicious feeling as they drift through the air and back into my hands.
The thrill is so intense that I have to lean back against the carved stone to catch my breath. My eyelids are heavy with pleasure. I can’t help but smile as I pull my repaired gloves back over my fingers. My eyes slide to Osven, who seems quite a bit dimmer after my efforts.
“You oughtn’t take it from me,” he says through a pout. “I don’t have much to begin with. Those fools, they nearly stripped me completely.”
“What happens if I do, and use you all up?” I ask. He stays silent. “Answer me, Osven.”
“Then you’ll lose me until I can come back again.”
“Where will you go?”
“The Void.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know, girl. I haven’t been yet, have I?” his scowl is implied. I hate his tone. If he was solid, I’d punch him for daring to take that tone with me. I’m supposed to be his superior.
“If you continue to speak to me that way, you’ll find out, Osven,” I sneer.
“You’re wasting time, Celli,” he says sternly, but I sense a hint of fear in him anyway.
“Don’t say another word unless you’re spoken to,” I command, taking a page from Quenson’s book.
Osven’s right about wasting time, though, I know. I close the door and bar it behind me, then start up the slick steps toward the catacombs. Two hundred steps at least, before I reach the first passage. I know the way. I’m guided by a strange magic. I can feel the anticipation of it. The muffled sounds of battle in the distance rumble through the stone. I get a thrill every time I pass by a guard unseen, and there are several, but not as many as usual. Just like my Master anticipated, a lot of the guards have gone to join the battle. Why should they need to stay here, to guard a bunch of spell-slept criminals? Still, there are enough guards that it would have been a problem if I didn’t have my cloak. Every time I pass one, I thank Sybel for her gift. Right, left, left, right. Twelve. Twelve. Look for twelve. Eight. Ten. Twelve.
Silently, I draw out my pick again. I slip it into the keyhole without a sound, until I hear the click. My hand rests on the latch and I pause and listen. Rhythmic breathing. Sleeping men. Some snoring. I push the door open slowly, slip in, and close it behind me. There are four cots here. Four sleeping criminals. Dub is the farthest from the door, in the right corner. I slip past the other cots and stand over him, watching him sleep.
The potion my master gave me will wake him with four drops. I pluck it from my belt pouch unscrew the cap and look down at Dub. He isn’t so intimidating this way. Sound asleep. His eye patch is gone. Probably taken by guards before they brought him in there. I lean over him, curious, and push his eyelid open. What’s behind it isn’t as grisly as I thought it would be. Just an empty space. There isn’t even a scar on his eyelids. I pull my hand away and wipe it on my vest. Then, just because I can, I search him and come up with a few gold, a tiny blade the guards apparently missed in a secret pocket of his vest, and a tattered folded up piece of parchment. I open it up. It’s a drawing of a woman. She’s dressed in chain mail, and her hood shades her eyes, but they’re still piercing as they look at me from the page. She’s formidable. I can tell just by that look. A fighter. A good one. I fold up the parchment, shove my spoils into my vest, and drip the drops into Dub’s open mouth.
Nothing happens at first, then after a moment of waiting, he licks his lips and swallows and sits up. He gets his bearings quicker than I would have expected.
“You have the other potions?” he asks me without a hint of a greeting. I nod.
“Good,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “How’s it looking up there?”
“Like war,” I say.
“Right. We have work to do,” he says and pushes himself up from the cot a little stiffly. “These three were part of the plan, so you can wake them. Then we’ll work our way through the rest of the cells, explaining as we go. Instant allies. I’ll wake that one,” he says, pointing to the cot across from him. “He’s jumpy.”
We wake the four and move on to the next. Most are willing to come with us and fight. The ones who aren’t we let go anyway. Some of them look like they’re interested in stopping us, but think better of it when they see our numbers. Pretty soon, we don’t have to sneak around. We outnumber the guards. We overpower the Mages.
“Twenty-six,” Dub mutters over and over as he searches doors frantically. Finally, he finds the number he was searching for.
“Go on ahead,” he says to the group. Three of the men from his room look him over a little suspiciously. “You remember where the arms lock was, right? We’ll wake this level and meet you there.”
I look from the group to Dub, unsure. Splitting up wasn’t part of the plan. Something is off.
“Decide quick,” Dub says to me as he unlocks the door with a key from the ring he took off a fallen guard.
I look from the backs of the men I don’t know to Dub. I hate him. He’s awful. But I know him. I don’t know them.
“Master said…” I whisper, confused.
“He told you we were supposed to work together, right?” he says to me.
“Yes, but that was before…” I look at the others again. The last of them disappears around the corner.
“Get inside. You can change your mind later,” he says, and pulls me in and shuts the door. This room only has two prisoners: a woman asleep on a single cot, and a giant hulk of a man lying across three cots shoved together. I recognize t
he woman right away, even before Dub wakes her. She’s the one in the drawing.
Something shifts in him as he crouches at her side. He becomes gentler. Tender, even. He strokes her cheek with his thumb. Brushes the hair away from her temple.
“Stone,” he whispers. “I’m here.”
He drips the potion into her mouth and her eyes flutter open. She gets her bearings, shoves herself to her feet, and punches Dub hard.
“I deserved that,” he says as he rubs his chin and opens his mouth to test his jaw. “You always could throw a punch, woman. Ow.”
“Damn right you deserved that,” she growls, and I think she’s going to punch him again when she lunges at him, but this time she throws her arms around him and starts kissing him in the same spot she just punched him. “How long has it been?” she whispers passionately.
“Three months, two days. I had to gain their trust.”
“Did you get it?” she asks him.
“Did I get it?” he huffs in disbelief, and she whoops and kisses him again.
“Get Muster, Celli,” Dub murmurs in between Stone’s kisses and tosses his head toward the sleeping giant.
Still confused by the greeting between Dub and Stone, I cross to the larger man and drip the potion into his mouth. Nothing happens at first, so I use a few more drops. The huge man blinks sleepily, rolls over, and goes back to snoring.
“Muster!” Stone breaks away from her embrace with Dub just long enough to bark.
“Maybe I need to use more,” I say.
“Nah, he’s lazy,” Dub chuckles. “Just give him a shove.”
My heart races as I do what Dub suggests and nudge the man’s enormous shoulder.
“Wake up,” I say, “it’s time to fight.”
“Fight!” Muster leaps from the cots, sending them scattering. He looks at Dub and Stone, and then at me, panting. “Where?”
“Up in the city,” I reply. “The Dusk has released you.”
“Ducks? Fighting?” Muster scratches his head and yawns. “Where’s my club?”
“Dusk,” I say. “They’ve freed you so you can fight for them.”
“What are they payin’?” he asks me.
“Freedom,” I say.
“Well, I got that already, now, don’t I?” he smirks.
“That’s only one option,” Dub says quietly. With Stone still close in his arms, he crosses to us and keeps his voice low. “Fight for them, or get ourselves out of here. Start fresh. Hywilkin, maybe.”
“Home?” Muster says.
“What are you talking about, Dub?” I feel my nostrils flare with anger. My lips press into a tight line. I glare at him. “We’re supposed to go fight. My master—”
“Master?” Stone asks, her brow raised all the way up under her fringe of brown bangs. She looks from me to Dub. Dub doesn’t say anything. He looks at Muster and jerks his head toward the door, and Muster goes to stand in front of it.
“She’s blood bound,” Dub says to Stone after Muster is in position. “Sorc got her. But she’s a fair brawler, and just a kid. We could pay to have someone wash it out of her.”
“What?” I whisper. My ears are pounding with blood. Panic starts to rise again in my chest, constricting me. He’s talking about Quenson. About me. He wants to take me from my master. Sever our bond. Break us. I spin on my heel. Toward the door. The door Muster is blocking. I don’t care. I won’t let them take me from him. I’ll fight. I do. I launch myself at the giant. Punch his stony chest. Claw at him. Kick him. He just stands there. Eventually, he lifts me up by my collar until my feet lift off the floor. I swing a punch and he stretches his arm out until he’s too far for me to reach with my fist, but I don’t care. I still fight. Still struggle.
“You sure?” Muster says to Dub. “I could just crush her. Might be easier.”
“No, you can’t crush her, Muster,” Dub says. “Save the crushing for the enemy. She’s just a kid.”
“I’m for it,” Stone says. “Hywilkin.”
“No!” I scream. “You can’t! Master!” I can’t breathe. My throat is closing. My vision is clouding. I fight. I kick. I punch. His name pulses over and over in my blood. Screaming for him. Aching for him. Quenson Quenson. “Quenson,” I screech in desperation.
“Someone’ll hear, Dub,” Stone says.
“Knock her out,” Dub says, and everything goes black.
Chapter Forty-Seven: Sparks and Pebbles
Tib
All around the circle, they kneel against their will. They bow their heads to the dark prince. They lower their weapons.
“Stop this,” Margy says beside me. “I see how false you are. You’re nothing to me. An abomination of Necromancy. My brother is dead.”
Her voice echoes beneath the canopy of vines and flowers. It pulses with hope and reassurance. Some of those who bowed stand up. The Elite. The General. The fairies and their golems.
“Think, Sister,” Eron urges. “Think of what we could accomplish. Two heirs. Two suitors. Side by side. We could rule Brindelier. We could rule all of it. The Dusk is strong, but so is the Dawn. Your side has gained that which the Dusk could not, but look at our power, sister. See the might of the Dusk. We cannot even be stopped by death itself.” Like Margy’s and Quenson’s voices before, Eron’s echoes through the cliffs and out over the city. It pulses with power. I feel its sway. This is my fault, I think. My fault for not stopping them from getting Errie. My heart pounds hard against my chest.
Eron holds his empty hand before his eyes and looks at it like it’s the most amazing thing he’s ever seen. Then he looks at Margy imploringly.
“We had dreams together, you and I. Dreams of places and adventures bigger than Cerion. Imaginings. Musings. We could delve into them as we always wanted to. You and me, Margy. Sister.”
“No,” Margy squares her shoulders. “You’re not him. Don’t you dare take what he knew and use it that way.”
“I’m giving you a chance to see reason. We could easily destroy you, little girl,” he threatens. His eyes flash with malice. He takes a step closer. In his other hand, his sword leaves an inky trail of black in the air as it moves.
“You dare threaten the princess, the rightful heir of Cerion?” Kristan barks. He raises his sword, but looks unsure. I feel Eron’s power stretching over him. Keeping him back. The tendrils of his cloak and sword stretch closer to the general, winding around his arm, his blade. Wait, they’re saying. Wait just a moment longer. Kristan is powerless to fight the suggestion. His eyes go dark and blank.
My fingers tighten around the hilts of my daggers. All around us, everyone is poised. Even the fairies and their golems. Ready to charge. Holding their breaths. Unaware of the shadows snaking closer, winding around them. Unaware, or unable to do anything about it. I’m not sure. They don’t even bother coming closer to me. They know who I am. Instead, one of them stretches close to Mya, who stands guard on Margy’s other side.
“What good is it, to be the heir of a fallen city?” Eron huffs. “Cerion will die, Margary. It will fall like our weak father did, and nothing will remain but embers and dust.”
“My people are strong. Cerion will not fall,” Margy raises her chin, “and I will never stand beside you. Never.”
“I’m through with all this talking,” I mutter. I half expect her to stop me, but Margy doesn’t. Instead, she gives me a slight nod. Her permission is all I need. I throw my daggers, one, then the other. Knifethrower, I think to myself, focusing on my titles as I let go of the hilts. Slayer of Shadows.
One knife slices through the tendril that has crept to Mya. The shadows shrink away with a hiss. The other one severs one around the General’s wrist, but his other hand is held, and a third shadow covers his face.
“Guards!” Kristan barks. “Face center! Advance!”
They do as he commands. Turn to face us. March forward, advancing on Eron. As they approach, though, the shadows wind toward them. When they raise their weapons, they’re aimed directly at Margy. The
Elite and our fairy allies struggle to face the guards and protect the princess, but they’re held, too. The shadows are everywhere. Eron laughs. So do the Sorcerers poised outside of the vines.
“See the power of Dusk, sister?” he chuckles. “By the command of our shadows, they would end you now. Just a word is all it would take.”
“It isn’t too late, Nullen,” Quenson calls from outside of the vines. “Turn the offering over to us, and we shall leave you to your burning city and defeated princess.”
Across the platform, Master Gaethon pulls free of the shadows. He starts saying something in Mage-tongue. His words are sharp and quick. Light bursts from his fingertips, driving away the shadows.
“Get back to your stations,” he barks at the guards. Then he turns to Kristan, growling, “You weak-minded fool.” He snaps his fingers and the general collapses in a cloud of pink sleep.
“Irritable, Gaethon?” someone calls to us with a chuckle. The Sorcerer speaking isn’t one I’ve seen before. His skin is black with the Mark, but flecked with gold. Mentalist. “I imagine you would be. So many years trying to warn these fools of the impending inevitable. So much effort put into your wards and protections, and yet you never expected this, did you? How could you foresee your traitorous prince resurrected? Called to the ashes of his father, despite your ridiculous efforts? You could not have imagined such atrocities. The fallen king who you failed to keep safe. So much failure on your part. So much wasted breath. And the others of your party. Your so-called guild. The Paladin, the warriors, the Bard, the healer. How often did they disregard your advice? How much breath was wasted falling on their deaf ears?”
As he speaks, the shadows creep in again. They wind closer to Gaethon. His eyes darken with every word. I draw my knives. I fling them at the threat and sever them. Gaethon blinks, but before he can clear his head fully more shadows rush in.
“He’s right,” he spins to the Elite, seething. “You never bothered to listen.” He raises his hands to cast and Benen tackles him. Lisabella yelps in shock and dives at the both of them, trying to break up the scuffle between her husband and her brother. The shadows wind around all three of them as the chorus of Sorcerers outside laughs. It only takes the blink of an eye for them to get entangled, too. They stand and turn against Bryse and Donal, who back away unwilling to fight their companions.
Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3) Page 47
