“How are we supposed to do that?”
Ebon shrugged and whispered, “When you do not know what to do, do what you know.”
Then he leapt out from behind the barrel, waving his hands in the air and screaming wordlessly.
Kalem was a half-second behind him, shouting incoherent gibberish. Isra spun at once, eyes flashing as she struck with magic. Ebon only just dove out of the way in time. A barrel splintered where he had been standing. She turned to Kalem next, but he got behind one of the basement’s stone pillars. Its edge shattered under Isra’s spell.
“Thrice-damned little goldshitters!” roared Isra. “Can you not leave well enough alone?”
“I do not know that anything is well enough as it is,” Ebon called out from his hiding place. “You have left too many corpses for that.”
“I have left corpses?” Isra gave a horrible laugh as she stalked forwards. “How many corpses did the goldbags leave upon the Seat? And who among you faced the King’s justice?”
She was far too close now, and Kalem jumped up to run. But she seized him with her power and hoisted him into the air. His eyes bugged out in terror—but she did not kill him. Instead her smile turned cruel, and power reverberated in her voice.
“Kill your goldshitting friend,” she hissed.
She dropped him. At once, Kalem turned, his eyes glazed, and stumped towards Ebon’s hiding place. Ebon was forced to run through one storeroom and into the next. A spell from Isra shattered the wall where his head had been just a moment ago.
“Kalem!” he cried. “Kalem, stop! You can resist her!”
Isra’s voice was cruel. “You know nothing of the power of mindwyrd. Now the two of you may reenact the war your kin wage across Underrealm even now.”
As if to prove her words, Kalem reached for a hammer that lay on a nearby barrel. His eyes glowed, and in his hands it twisted to a spiked orb of wood and metal. He flung this at Ebon as hard as he could, and then did the same with a metal spike. Ebon ducked behind a pillar. He grimaced at the sound of Kalem’s footsteps just around the side.
“Kalem, forgive me.”
He stepped out and seized Kalem’s arm, even as the boy reached for Ebon with glowing eyes. He dragged Kalem in by the wrist, clenched his other hand, and drove the fist into the boy’s chin. Kalem collapsed like a sack of beans, out cold before he struck the stone floor.
Before the vault, Isra snarled. “Do you think that will save you? It only means I will have you kill yoursel—”
Mako appeared behind her, silent as a shadow. He held his dagger high, and in his eyes was a killing light. He stepped towards her. But Ebon saw him, and his eyes widened. Isra saw it, and she turned at the last second. The dagger, which should have severed her spine, struck her shoulder instead, and she cried out in pain.
Ebon ran forwards to help, for Isra’s eyes glowed as she looked up at the bodyguard. She lifted a hand—but nothing happened. For a heartbeat that image froze itself into Ebon’s mind: Isra striking with magic, and Mako standing there unaffected.
Mako grinned as he reached down, seizing the front of her robes and dragging her up. Again he raised the dagger, already slick with her blood.
But then, in his mind’s eye, Ebon saw Matami. He saw the ruined eye and the severed fingers. He saw old Cratchett, and Oren and Vali and poor, poor Credell, all of them the same—lifeless eyes staring at nothing. And he saw Cyrus, the old dean’s flesh turning to stone beneath Ebon’s fingers before he plunged screaming into the Great Bay.
“No!” he cried, and shoved Mako with all of his might.
The bodyguard hardly stumbled. His eyes flashed, and he struck Ebon a backhanded blow that sent him crashing to the ground.
But it was just long enough of a pause for Isra to recover. She seized a barrel and cast it through the air. It struck Mako hard, sending him flying into the next room. Ebon lay there, half-stunned, as Isra scrambled to her feet and dove into the vault. Hardly looking at what she was doing, she fell to her knees and scraped at the floor with both hands. She rose again with two armfuls of artifacts and broke into a run for the door.
“No,” Ebon gasped. He struggled to stand, unable to manage it by the time she reached him. At the last moment he lunged, scrabbling to seize her arm, her robes, anything to hold her back. He missed her robes, but his fingers closed around a fine chain of silver, and as she ran it snapped off in his hand.
Ebon fell to the floor hard, grunting from the impact. But as he rolled over, he looked into his hand to see Kekhit’s amulet, glinting up at him as though giving him a secretive wink. Isra reached the basement’s far end, stepped through the door, and vanished up the stairs.
Mako had recovered, though his clothes were torn and ripped, and there was an ugly gash on his forehead. He made for the staircase, but he stopped for just a moment, looming over Ebon with a sneer twisting his lips. “You are a greater fool than I realized,” he growled. “She will kill again. When she does, remember that those deaths are upon your head.”
Then he turned and was gone.
Ebon groaned as he gained his feet. He stumbled over to Kalem, who was shaking his head as he lay on the floor. Ebon reached down a hand for the boy, pulling him up. Kalem blinked as he looked around.
“What happened? Where is Isra?”
“She caught you in her mindwyrd,” said Ebon. “And now she has escaped with many artifacts. Come. We must try to catch her, if we can.”
They ran up the stairs together, taking the steps two at a time, and then burst into the entry hall—and there they stopped. Mako was nowhere to be seen; but Isra stood just inside the front door. Over one shoulder she held a satchel, clanking with what were surely the artifacts. Her other arm circled Erin’s neck. The poor boy’s eyes were wide and frightened, and his legs shook so badly he looked as though he might topple at any moment.
“Erin, stay calm,” said Ebon. “You will be all right.”
“You make idle promises, goldshitter,” Isra hissed. “You cannot promise the boy will emerge unscathed when you cannot even protect yourself.”
Her eyes lit with magelight. Ebon braced himself, and Kalem raised his hands as though to ward off the spell. But then there was a loud SNAP upon the air, and Ebon heard a faltering step behind him. He turned to see Theren halfway up the staircase, leaning heavily on the bannister, her eyes glowing brighter than the moons. Her hand swung forth, trying to blast Isra. But Isra countered the spell with a strangled cry.
“Why do you throw your lot in with these pampered wretches?” she said. “They are the reason folk like you and I suffer.”
Theren only glared. “The only thing I suffer from at present is the grating, hideous sound of your voice.”
She blasted Isra with a spell that sent the girl staggering back. But she kept her grip on Erin’s neck, and the boy yelped as he was dragged. With a frustrated shout, Isra fled through the front door and threw it shut behind her. Theren leapt down the final few steps, and Ebon made ready to run through the front door alongside her. But Theren stumbled when she reached the floor and fell to all fours on the ground.
“Theren!” cried Kalem, kneeling at her side.
Ebon reached down to help her up. Theren tried to wave him off, but it was a weak gesture. “I am still dazed,” she mumbled, shaking her head as if to clear it, and then wincing as though that had worsened the pain. “Blast that man of yours, Ebon. He strikes like a mule’s back hoof.”
For a moment Ebon was torn. Theren could not chase Isra, that seemed certain. And without Theren, he and Kalem had no chance against her. But if they let her go … his mind filled with the sight of Erin, and the boy’s terrified cries as he was dragged away.
Erin. Sky above, the poor boy.
They all started in surprise at the click of the front door’s latch. It swung open, whisper quiet. Standing in the frame with a look of wonder was Instructor Dasko.
WE ARE DOOMED, THOUGHT EBON.
How could he explain this? What possi
ble excuse could there be? The vault was breached, all of the guards were dead, and Isra was nowhere to be found, nowhere to have the blame laid rightly on her head.
And Erin. Poor Erin.
Dasko’s brow furrowed. “Ebon. What in all the world are you doing here?”
“I …” Ebon’s throat was bone-dry, and he swallowed before trying again. “I … I guessed that the artifacts were here,” he stammered. No, that was wrong, wrong, wrong. “We knew the attack at the Academy was a distraction so that the murderer could steal the artifacts unimpeded. The guards were dead when we arrived. It was Isra from the very beginning—ever since Credell.”
“Isra?” Dasko blinked. “The mentalism student? How?” But quickly he shook his head. “No matter. We can sort this out. I will help you, if I can, but you must come with me now. Xain and some other of the faculty are on their way here, along with many constables, and all of this can be laid before them.”
Ebon felt the blood drain from his face. Over Kalem’s head, Theren met his eyes. Xain. Xain, whose son had just been dragged into the streets as Isra’s hostage. And constables, who would arrive to find three students in a destroyed home, with every inhabitant murdered.
Suddenly Dasko’s eyes narrowed. Ebon looked down to follow his gaze. There in his hand was Kekhit’s amulet. He almost dropped it in shock, for he had forgotten he held it.
Dasko stepped back, magelight springing into his eyes. Magic rippled along his limbs, increasing their size, and his skin hardened.
“Where did you get that?” he said, his voice deep and menacing.
“No!” cried Ebon. “I took it from Isra when we fought her. I did not take it from the vault!”
“Drop it,” said Dasko in a bestial snarl.
Theren caught Ebon’s eye again. She jerked her head. Ebon frowned. Then he caught a frantic motion at the bottom of his vision. Behind Kalem’s back, Theren held out her hand.
Ebon swallowed and dropped the amulet into Theren’s palm.
“Stop!” cried Dasko, leaping towards them.
“Be still,” said Theren.
Dasko froze where he stood.
Theren stepped forwards, licking her lips. “You arrived to find the house empty, but you saw Isra running away through the streets, with Erin in tow. No one was here in the house when you investigated. You never saw us. That is what you will tell Xain and the constables when they arrive. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Dasko, his voice utterly flat.
“Darkness below, what are you doing?” Kalem tried to drag the amulet from Theren’s grasp, but she withheld it from him.
“The only thing we can, Kalem.” But despite the determined glint in Theren’s eye, Ebon could hear the quiver in her voice. “You know we would be blamed for all of this.”
“We would not!” cried Kalem. He wrung his hands, pacing. “We could explain. They would believe us. They would have to believe us.”
Theren gritted her teeth. “The only one who has to believe us is Dasko. And that is because I hold this.” She lifted the amulet.
Kalem turned on Ebon. “You cannot agree. You cannot think this is the right course.”
“The right course, Kalem? There is no right course now. This is the only way forwards that does not end in our torture and death.”
They heard shouts from outside, followed by the sound of many boots tramping in the street. Theren blanched.
“We must go,” she said. “Out the back door. Run!”
“No,” said Kalem. “We must stay.”
Theren seized one of his arms, and Ebon took the other. Theren looked over her shoulder. “Leave now, Dasko,” she said. “Tell them what I told you, and forget you saw us here.”
Dasko nodded. “The house was empty. There was no one here. I saw Isra fleeing through the streets …”
They did not wait to hear more, but pulled Kalem out the back door and into the alley beyond. They ran, boots pounding in the mud and snow, churning tracks behind them.
But they were not out of earshot before Ebon heard Xain’s keening, anguished wail behind them.
Erin. Sky above. Poor Erin.
They did not stop running.
EBON SAT OUT ON THE Academy grounds.
It was some days later—days that had passed like a fog while he hardly noticed. Now he had found a private bench buried in some rosebushes, and there he sat, alone. The students and faculty were in the dining hall, eating a mournful supper.
Theren had hidden the amulet somewhere safe—exactly where, Ebon did not know, and did not care to find out.
He had heard nothing from Mako.
The Academy was in an uproar. Half its faculty were on the hunt for Isra and Erin, as were the constables, and the Mystics, and the High King’s guard. Yet the many hundreds of searchers had turned up nothing.
Ebon guessed they were gone. Isra had taken her ill-gotten gains from the Seat and now fled across Underrealm with Erin in tow, to bargain with if ever she was caught.
And it was his fault. At least in part. He knew Isra was mostly to blame for all that had transpired. Yet he had insisted on investigating, and had taken them into Xain’s home without help. Mayhap Isra would have escaped with the artifacts, but she almost certainly would not have found Erin.
He buried his face in his hands, rubbing at his eyes. He had hardly slept since that day, for he kept seeing Erin’s terrified face. Too, he saw the rage in Mako’s eyes, and the unbridled hatred in Isra’s. They plagued him worse than Cyrus’ death ever had.
When he lifted his face from his hands, he found that he was no longer alone.
There stood Xain, framed in the arch of a hedge and blocking the rest of the grounds from view. That arch was Ebon’s only escape, as he was keenly aware. His mind flashed back to last year, when Cyrus had found him in the gardens just like this. Cyrus had struck him, battering him with mindmagic until Ebon thought his body would break. Now his hands balled to fists at his side. Another dean who hated him. And now, mayhap, another attack.
But no glow came to Xain’s eyes. And when he lifted a hand, it was not to strike with magic. Instead he threw a piece of cloth upon the ground. The white snow made the cloth stand out in stark relief: it was dark grey, and made of a fine silk that only a wealthy merchant could afford. A shredded cuff from Mako’s shirt, ripped free when Isra had flung the barrel at him.
“I know you had something to do with this,” said Xain, his voice laced with poisoned steel. “I cannot prove it yet. But I will. And when I do, I will end you and all of your kin. I will scour the name of Drayden from Underrealm, and when I am done, only tomes of history will remember you: a footnote scrawled in blood, scorned and spat upon by all who read it.”
This was not Cyrus’ white-hot rage, nor the blind hatred of Isra. This was something worse, and Ebon found himself more frightened by it than he had ever been before.
Then Xain turned and walked away, vanishing into the citadel.
ISRA CINCHED THE GAG TIGHTER and then checked the rope binding the boy to the wall. He winced with each tug on the cloth. She ignored it. He was a goldshitter like the rest of them. Let him suffer. Let him suffer the way his father and the rest of them had made everyone suffer.
She raised her cowl and left the room.
The stone hallways stank and made her skin prickle with nerves, and she hated them. She briskly pushed through the stench to the tunnel that led out. This was far too perilous, and she would never have taken the risk. But she must see her patron. Another outcast, like Isra herself. And the only woman who could help, now that the goldshitter Ebon had spoiled her plan.
Soon she stood before an inn. The doorman must have been warned of her arrival, for he gave no second glance despite her shabby clothes. Not Academy clothing—no, she had rid herself of that at the first opportunity. Now she had a plain cloak of brown, and nondescript clothes like any peasant. It let her go unnoticed, and it felt like a return to her roots besides.
But that brought
thoughts of Astrea. She shuddered, bowing as she blinked back tears.
Poor Astrea. All alone now.
Not for long. Not if her patron had any help to offer—and she would.
Stairs at the back of the inn’s common room led upstairs to rooms for rent. But Isra’s patron would not be staying there. Instead Isra turned left, where a storeroom door stood slightly ajar. Inside, there was a carpet in the room’s center. This she lifted, revealing a trapdoor that she opened with a flick of her wrist and a flash of magelight in her eyes. Shallow stone steps descended into the ground—but not into darkness, for the way was well-lit by many torches. Down she went, into the earth’s bowels, another blast of magic swinging the trapdoor shut behind her.
A narrow corridor led to her patron’s room, a guard barring the door. A mammoth man, his fists as big as her head. He had never beheld her with anything but a scowl. His skin, dark as night, only made his glaring eyes stand out the more.
“I must see her,” said Isra.
The guard’s nostrils flared. But from within the room came a voice. “Let her in.”
A ham-sized fist reached out and opened the door. Isra slipped inside, and it closed again behind her.
The room was nothing impressive—certainly far poorer than what her patron was used to. For her patron had once been a goldshitter, just like those who Isra hated. Those who had brought this war. But her patron had been cast out, and had learned what Isra had known her whole life: that the true evil in the world was not Drayden, not Yerrin, but all of them at once, and more besides. It was the merchants, the nobility, those who held themselves above their fellows by virtue of coin or a throne.
“I have heard no small amount of whispers.” Her patron did not sound angry. If anything, she sounded amused. “It seems plans have gone … most awry, since last we spoke. You are lucky you came to me when you did. I have business I must attend to in Feldemar, and I leave upon the morrow.”
Isra nearly growled. “I lost the amulet, but gained many more artifacts during my escape.”
The Academy Journals Volume One_A Book of Underrealm Page 52
