A meeting with Marcus, first thing. Of course. He steeled himself. Stay calm. This meeting has been planned for weeks. But as he made his way to the receiving room, he couldn't quiet his concerns. No word from Kai. The man could be lying low. He could have left the city, as Harth had suggested.
Or he could be rotting in a Tribunal dungeon. He could be dead.
Stop it, he ordered himself. Whipping yourself into a frenzy won't help. So he didn't report—it could mean anything.
But that was wrong. It proved one thing with certainty: that not everything had gone according to plan.
He reached the marble receiving room, fairly glowing in the morning sun. Isaic had loved this room, growing up. Angelica had told him that the first time he'd seen it, he'd asked if it was Heaven.
Today, the long table seated Bishops Marcus and Shephatiah, as well as two underlings with deacon's chains that Isaic didn't recognize. Three Preservers stood guard along the back wall. Suddenly Isaic realized his fondness for the room had declined. It's supposed to be my receiving room, he thought acidly, not his.
Shephatiah gave his customary gaping grin. One of the abbots rose out of respect for Isaic, until Marcus's withering glare drained the strength from his knees.
"Four documents," Marcus said by way of greeting. "Everything is in order; they require only your signature."
"Good morning to you as well," Isaic returned, icily. He took a seat. Marcus had already placed a pen and inkwell.
"The appointment of Luther Tarson as chief tax collector," Marcus said, sliding across a piece of paper. Isaic had never met the man. He signed.
"A declaration that apples gathered from beyond the immediate Keswick province shall be subject to a two percent tax levy if sold within city limits." Isaic signed.
"A missive temporarily suspending the Blackboots' authority in matters of gambling." Isaic arched a brow, and Marcus indulged him. "A number of Cariott's men have been caught cheating at cards, then abusing their positions to silence those who accuse them. The whole thing is a beastly practice that ought to be outlawed, but at a minimum, this will ensure the Order of Judgment receives proper time to investigate."
You really want the Church bogged down in this kind of minutiae? Isaic didn't bother voicing the concern. He shrugged and signed. Marcus produced the last document.
"A confession," he said tonelessly, "of your effort to undermine the Tribunal's interrogation of several local witches." He slid the paper over, his eyes reading every tic of Isaic's expression. "It acknowledges the severity of the crime, and renounces your claim to the throne as a result."
Isaic's heart leapt into his throat. His eyes darted over the paper, taking in snippets of accusations sharp as broken glass.
I, Isaic Gregor—
—knowingly and willingly—
—consorted with witches—
—disavow my birthright—
He shoved the sheet away, scraped backward in his chair as if he'd discovered a live scorpion. "What is this? When my father hears―"
"Your father is dead. I've been watching you very closely, Isaic, and I will say this: you almost had me fooled. If you sign this it will go easier for you, but either way, you are done. Another will rule."
Dead. The word threatened to knock him from his chair. How? When? How long? His gaze flashed from Marcus's raptor gaze to Shephatiah's thin smile. They knew. They all knew, this whole time, they—
A deeper concern seized him. "Who told you this?" He flashed back to the faces in the shed: Kai, Harth, Cort.
Harad.
His blood ran cold. Sweet Akir, how could I have thought I could trust him?
Marcus tapped the paper. "Sign. You may yet escape this with your life."
—undermined the will of God—
—throw myself at the mercy of—
"No!" Isaic said, incredulous. "That's . . . no!"
Shephatiah tisked. Shook his head. "I told you," he murmured.
"You prefer a public execution?" Marcus said. "Your blood running in the streets?"
"That's . . ." Isaic shot to his feet. "This is treason!"
Marcus stood. "Harad, you are relieved of your oath, as the Teachings describe. Step away, and be absolved."
Harad blinked as if waking from a dream. He looked at Isaic, then back to Marcus.
Traitor, Isaic thought, but the man's name leaked from his lips, a dying plea out of a nightmare.
Harad didn't move. "I've been with him since he was a child," he said, as if correcting a simple misunderstanding.
"It is well. You are absolved."
"I took an oath."
"And your oath is fulfilled." Marcus snapped and gestured. The three Preservers fanned out around the table to close in from either side.
Harad looked confused. "Still," he finally said.
Then he grabbed Isaic and hurled him backward into the hallway.
Isaic shouted, raised a hand to defend himself—but the man was too fast, his strength unmatchable. Isaic hit the floor and slid into the wall, sending a sharp shout of pain up his arm. His mind churned, trying to understand what had happened.
As Marcus's first Preserver tried to dart through in pursuit, Harad slammed a forearm into his face. A spray of blood hit the wall. The Preserver reeled, vanishing back into the marble room.
Isaic scrambled to his feet. "Run," Harad said.
Isaic ran.
Marcus's pet Justicar, Galen Wick, emerged from the corner at the end of the hall. As he gave chase Isaic darted down another passage, toward the dining hall, but again a Justicar blocked him.
Behind, toward the receiving room, he heard a sharp cry and a muffled thud. Harad was down.
He whirled and shoved through the nearest door as the Justicars launched toward him.
The kitchens. "Your Highness!" someone shouted—Old Mabel, the head chef, preparing lunch. He surged past her as the Justicars flew in behind him, snarling.
"What are you doing?" she screamed. "What are you doing to him?"
Another door and he burst into the dining hall, where his brother was finishing a late breakfast. "Jan!" he shouted, and the man dropped his fork, eyes wide.
"Isaic!" he said. "Are you―?"
The Justicars came in behind him. One of Marcus's Preservers erupted through the main doors, bloodied and limping, but standing. Isaic started for the door to the gardens, but another Justicar burst from that one, blocking the last exit. He pulled up short, stumbled backward, put a hand to the wall as his world shattered around him.
Jan stood, his breath short, taking in the scene. "What is this?" he demanded, mortified. "What's going on?"
Marcus entered the room, glaring.
"God damn it," Jan said, finally understanding. He turned back to his brother, earnest anguish burning in his eyes. "Why didn't you just sign the confession?"
30
i. Iggy
The city splayed out beneath him in a tangle of vivid colors and patterns. He could zero in on anything he noticed, transforming it instantly from a vague movement to a perfectly detailed image. As his shadow passed over them, rats dove for cover and pigeons darted under eaves. He was the bringer of death, and they all knew it.
That's not why I'm here, he told himself again. He had already indulged in the hunt once, plunging from the sky to spear a green-brown sunfish out of the river. It was the single greatest thrill he'd ever experienced, and he longed to do it again.
Not. Why. I'm. Here. He wrenched his sight from the fleeing prey beneath him and forced himself to look wide. He summoned an image of Harth: the precise shade of his hair, the grey-white tunic he'd been wearing, even the shape of his boots. He could pick it all out from up here. Hel, he could tell the ants apart from up here.
He took the city in long, looping passes, soaring along each street with meticulous attention before moving on to the next. He has to be here. Somewhere.
No he doesn't. He might've left the second he heard we were captured. Yes, that was a
risk. But if it were true, it was all over. Harth was their only chance.
It took hours to finish searching the city. When he did, he looped back to the start and began again.
There.
It was late afternoon, the city's shadows growing long, when he finally noticed a flash of grey-white. He flicked his focus to it instantly, zeroed in like the sharpening image of a telescope. The disheveled brown hair, the hunted eyes. Yes. It was him.
He banked hard and dropped into a nearby alley: a sharp descent, nearly a freefall, with a hard break mere feet above the stones. Perfectly controlled. He fluttered to a landing, the stones alien and unwelcoming to his talons. Ugh. Hate it here. I should return to the crags, or even the roofs. The ground was not made for him, nor he for it. He spread his wings, eager to take back to the sky, before he wrestled himself back to the plan.
He didn't bother to look around first. He had already seen the entire alley from the sky; that's why he had chosen it. Instead, he closed his eyes and laid his body on the stones, seeking release.
Enough now. Enough. Return.
The Pulse enveloped him. He became everything—the sky, the tall-walkers, the wind, the weeds, the vermin. All of it one, all of it unified.
Then he became Iggy again.
He opened his eyes to find himself chained to the ground like common prey, forced to move in two flat dimensions instead of all exhilarating three, his vision cramped and dim. How did I ever hunt like this? He tried to rise and the world spun. He reeled, dizzy, and put a hand to the wall.
It came back in pieces, like waking from a dream: he was a tall-walker.
No. He was human.
He hunted with a bow. He traveled in a pack. His pack was in danger. He was looking for help.
Harth.
The dizziness abated. He ran to the alley's mouth, casting about with his feeble eyes for the man he'd seen from the sky, but even the thin crowd here brought him to the brink of despair. These sehking eyes! How did he ever live like this?
He pushed into the street, casting about, fighting the frustration. Everything was so blurry! How could he ever—
There. Vanishing around the corner, flitting away like panicked prey. He gave chase—lumbering, oafish chase—and caught him, finally.
"Harth!" He took the man's shoulder.
Harth whirled, his hand dropping to the knife at his belt before recognition dawned.
"Blesséd sehk," he returned. "You—where have you been?"
"We were captured," Iggy said. "All of us. I escaped and tried to save the others, but they weren't there. I don't know where they are. I searched the whole prison. I think they―"
"Keep your voice down," Harth whispered. "For the love of winter, Iggy, there are more clerics here every day." He glanced up and down the street, then dropped his voice even further. "I have them. Come on."
The city was different, but the experience familiar: Harth darting up this alley and down that one, cutting through courtyards and plazas as Iggy fought to keep up. He tried to ask questions as they went, but Harth rebuffed all of them.
Finally they came to an abandoned market, rife with old, decaying stalls. Behind these waited a grate in the ground, partially open. "Here," Harth said. "It was Kai's suggestion."
A damp staircase took them into the city's grimy underbelly. The day's heat dropped away, replaced with a slick coolness that carried a complicated stench.
"The sewer?" Iggy accused.
Harth didn't turn around. "Beggars can't be choosers." He rounded the first bend to a door with a padlock on it, produced a key, and led him into a small storage room lit by chanterlight.
"Sweet Akir." Iggy's heart skipped a beat as he saw his friends.
"I was trying to find something for him," Harth said, leading him over to Angbar. "He's in really bad sh―" His eyes widened. "Sehk. Angbar!" Harth knelt and gingerly touched the young man's shoulder. He didn't respond.
"He's not breathing," Harth said. "Ah, sehk, he's not―!"
Iggy shoved Harth out of the way and knelt. "Angbar," he said. "Can you hear me? Angbar!" His friend's jaw jutted sideways at a distorted angle. Grotesque mockeries of arms hung from his shoulders. Blood oozed from his ravaged flesh.
No. Iggy tore open his herb pouch. Wurmroot and blackweed, nearly all he had left. "Don't you dare, Angbar." His voice alien, outside of himself. Cracking. "Don't you sehking dare, you hear me, don't you sehking dare, ah, God." The leaves crunching in his hands. A desperate plea to the earth. "I need mud," he said.
Harth stammered, blinking. "What?"
"Mud, I need—get me some sehking mud!"
Harth dashed through the door. Iggy spat into the leaves, mixed them with the loose collection of damp pebbles from the floor. It wasn't a paste. It wasn't anything.
He rubbed it on Angbar's head anyway, pleading.
"Here." Harth ran back in, his hands heavy with black sludge. Iggy grabbed it away from him without asking what it was. As long as it came from the earth, it didn't matter.
The wurmroot came alive. He felt it.
"M'sai, m'sai, here . . ." He worked the concoction into a thick paste, spread it over his friend's face and chest and ruined arms. "Please, Angbar. Ah, God." He harnessed the earth's vitality, strong as a river; it roared through the mixture he'd made, a promise of life—
—that Angbar's skin denied.
"No!" The Pulse was potent. But dead flesh wouldn't accept it.
Desperate, driven by instinct, he opened Angbar's mouth and smeared the stuff on his tongue. It seeped in through the soft flesh underneath, oozed down the back of his throat. Please, Iggy thought. Please.
Angbar gagged.
"Angbar!" Iggy shouted.
Angbar gagged again, then vomited inside his mouth. He started coughing, sputtering.
Iggy pushed him forward, letting the sick dribble down his chin. The flesh yielded. The paste did its work.
He would live.
He saved just enough wurmroot to treat Lyseira next.
Seth cradled the girl's head in his lap in the room's corner, his eyes haunted. "They had her in another room," he said as Iggy approached. "I was asleep."
"It's all right." Iggy knelt and felt for the earth's strength, sharing it with Lyseira by spreading the mud on her bruised face. She was still breathing, at least—badly hurt, yes, but alive.
Seth stared past him. Tremors flickered at his eyelids, the bridge of his nose. Inside, no doubt, a furnace roared. "I was asleep," he said again.
Lyseira's eyes fluttered open. "Iggy," she said.
"It's all right," he told her. "You're safe. We're all safe now."
"Iggy?" Helix said. "Is that you?"
"It's me." He turned to face his friend, and felt the world give way beneath him. His eyes. Oh, by Akir, his eyes—
He hurried over, but his herbs were spent. And there no wounds in Helix's empty eye sockets anyway. The flesh was smooth and clean, as if—
"You can't." Lyseira's voice came in a whimper. "He burned them out, and then he—he healed them. Like that. So that I wouldn't be able to . . ."
"Iggy," Helix breathed again. He raised a trembling hand, feeling for his friend. Iggy grasped it.
"I'm here," he said, the full weight of their failures settling onto his shoulders, crushing the breath from his lungs. He kept the fear from his voice by main strength alone. "Yeah, I'm here."
ii. Angbar
Lyseira healed the rest of his wounds: restored the muscle and bone to his pulped arms, repaired the torn ligaments of his jaw. Every bruise, every visible mark from his hours in Marcus's dungeon, she erased.
It was the marks she couldn't reach that could still kill him.
I'm out, he told himself. I'm out of there. A desperate attempt to console himself that had no chance of working.
He'd gotten out once before. It didn't stop them from dragging him back in.
Not this time. I'll never go back. He had spent hours in the throes of nightmares after his fi
rst visit to the torture chamber, in Tal'aden, but he'd lacked the courage then to make this promise. Now he didn't hesitate. Never. That will never happen again. So long as he could Ascend, he could end himself. He had waited too long, before; waited until the pain had made Ascension impossible. Now that he was free, he was still tempted to finish it while he could—just to be free of the horror he knew awaited him. The constant, chewing dread.
"What?" Helix said. His blind gaze searched the room, his hands groping at the air.
"No one said anything, Helix," Lyseira said gently. No one had said anything for a long time.
That was how he knew they were beaten. They had always argued, sometimes furiously. They'd even come to the edge of violence trying to sort out right from wrong.
But this . . .
This hollow silence, this despair so thick it swallowed everything—this was new. It was absolute. Inescapable.
And it was fine by him.
He was tired of pretending they could make a difference. Tired of constantly being betrayed and abandoned by Syntal. Tired of magic and living myths and talking stags. Tired of torture.
"Ugh!" Helix leapt to his feet, staring sightlessly at the floor. "The water!"
"There's no water, Helix," Lyseira said.
"It came up," he said. "It just . . . came up, from . . . from the . . ." He turned slowly, vaguely bobbing his head, before finally crouching to touch the dry floor. "No," he murmured. "No, I guess not."
Lyseira rose and felt his head. "He's not feverish," she reported as if someone had asked. "I don't know why he's hallucinating."
Angbar knew stories about people who had lost a hand, then continued to feel impressions from their phantom fingers—sometimes for years. The mind had trouble letting go. Maybe it's like that with him. But he didn't voice the thought. It really didn't matter.
The silence returned, fraught with implications of failure. We need to leave this city, Angbar wanted to say—but the stillness was too heavy for his tongue. Even Harth, who looked like he had a thousand things to say, couldn't find any words that mattered.
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