Chapter 47
47
I ’d needed this. Forward motion. Doing something to investigate Farris. The question was, as Archer and I waited outside the hub of Cimmerians trying to talk ourselves into committing to the plan, why did he? This was reckless on a good day. Especially because if I touched anything new, I’d use magic. And if that happened, they would all know. That’s why I’d put gloves on. But it was dangerous all the same.
“You’re sure it’s down here?” he asked for the fourth time.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were having second thoughts. We can go back if you want to?”
I hoped like hell he didn’t. I hoped beyond hope that somewhere down in these catacombs was the answer I needed. Be it a few broken souls, or a door I could use after I found them.
“I’m not going back, Fingers.” He shook his hands beside him. “Just preparing mentally.”
“The only thing you have to do to prepare to become a Cimmerian is have no brain activity at all. No thoughts. Just don’t speak. Keep your chin down and fade into the background. The robe fits well enough.”
He nodded, sticking his head out from around the wall to peek down the underground tunnel again. “Remember the signal. If you get overwhelmed, we leave. No questions asked. And don’t touch anything. There are women Cimmerians, but not many. Farris finds them weak. Maybe hunch when you walk, hide your… form.”
“Archer?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve got it. The only thing to do is commit.”
“Right. Okay. It’s just, I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about you.”
“Hey,” I grabbed his arm. “Stick ’em with the pointy end, right? I’ll be fine. I don’t think we should talk beyond this point though, so listen. If we were up on the streets, we would need to go about half a block down this way in distance. Then there should be a turn to go right and then another two blocks or so, and there’s something there. A room, a door. Something. Every night I’ve checked on him, he inevitably lands somewhere around here. And the only reason I know is because we’re directly under Prospector’s Pointe, now.”
Archer took a deep breath, sliding his mask into place. “Don’t fall behind. Let’s go.”
The sight of him so close, in full Cimmerian garb rattled me for a second. My mind knew it was him, but something irrational still hated the way he’d stood so close. We pressed on through the dank, winding catacombs, the stench of mold and decay clinging to the air, thick and suffocating. The weight of the coarse robes tugged heavily at my shoulders.
Archer and I moved in silence. Our steps were swallowed by the damp earth beneath us and the soft drip of water echoing through the vast, empty spaces. He followed the directions perfectly, never straying. His shoulder brushed against mine and I was grateful for the small, steadying presence in the dark. As we rounded a bend, a group of Cimmerians loomed before us, their black robes billowing in the draft. My breath hitched. A single heartbeat stretched into eternity. But they merely nodded, greeting us as if we belonged because you’d have to be half mad to come down here by choice.
I swallowed, grateful to be so completely covered, as flashbacks of my welcome to Wisteria threatened to choke me. Archer nudged me. Subtle, but enough to ease the pressing panic. We did our best to blend, trying to mimic the purposeful stride of the other Cimmerians.
I kept my head down. Archer walked with the air of someone born to this world of shadows, his shoulders high, gait firm. Everything he needed to be to make me question whether he was the man that brought me down here. He was a perfect performer.
The bowels of the city swallowed us whole as we moved deeper, but ahead torches flickered from wrought iron sconces and clusters of Cimmerians drifted through the tunnels like wraiths, their murmured conversations barely breaking the silence. I strained to catch anything. Some clue, some whispered fragment of knowledge that might betray the king’s whereabouts or the prince’s plans, but the Cimmerians were well-versed in keeping their secrets close.
The tunnels shifted. Rough-hewn stone gave way to smooth, polished walls, no longer the grim underbelly of the city but something far grander. Artwork now lined the walls; grotesque scenes of battle and horror in every one. Our footsteps were muted by plush carpets, the luxury a jarring contrast to the grime we’d left behind.
And yet, it was a sign. The prince’s taste for finery was unmistakable and honestly welcome. Now we just needed to ditch the group around us. I kept my eyes down, ignoring the creepy marble statues of terrifying beasts that stared from alcoves. Their blank, unblinking eyes tracked our every step.
There was no time to break away from the group because beyond the next set of doors, we entered an anti-chamber full of robed men. Some huddled together in the middle, some scattered throughout the cavernous room. All terrifying.
Archer and I exchanged a glance from behind our masks. We were in the belly of the beast now. Every instinct screamed at me to turn back, to flee before we were discovered. But we pressed through the room, shoulder to shoulder, driven by desperation and a reckless need for answers.
Slowly backing away from the others so as not to be suspicious, I tilted my head toward the door in the back of the room. We needed to find a way to get in there. But before we could even try, the screaming began.
The sound. Pure, unadulterated agony sent chills racing down my spine. It was a sound I knew all too well, a sound that had haunted my dreams for longer than I cared to remember. Beside me, Archer’s back straightened, his posture going rigid with sudden, terrible understanding.
He knew that voice. I think we both did.
Archer stepped forward, his movements measured and deliberate, a predator stalking its prey. I followed close behind. We approached the huddle of Cimmerians in the center of the room. They stood in a tight cluster.
Gods, if Archer did something reckless right now, there was no way we were getting out of this alive. Another guard entered the room. He strode towards the huddle of Cimmerians, his presence commanding, authoritative. At his approach, the robed figures stepped back, parting like a dark sea to reveal the battered, broken form of our Tuck.
He lay curled on his side, his face a mess of blood and bruises, one eye swollen shut. His chest heaved with each labored breath, his hands clutching at his ribs as if trying to hold himself together.
“Tell me what you were doing in the Maw or I’ll start by ripping fingernails and end by ripping skin.”
That voice. I’d heard it before as well. He’d been the one to torture me. To break me.
“Fuck off,” Tuck managed, spitting toward the Cimmerian.
The Cimmerian’s boot connected with Tuck’s already battered ribs with a sickening crunch. Tuck cried out. He curled in on himself, his breath coming in short, pained gasps. I found myself matching them. Reliving that pain, yet completely frozen in shock at the scene. The guard crouched down. He grabbed a fistful of Tuck’s hair and wrenched his head back at a cruel angle. Still, I could not breathe.
“You’ve got spirit, I’ll give you that,” the Cimmerian hissed, his voice like gravel. “But spirit won’t save you here. Nothing will. Not unless you start talking.”
He leaned in closer. “Let’s start with the woman. The one that escaped. The one that killed at least three of my brothers. She used the same tunnel we found you hiding in. Where is she?”
My heart did not beat. Every inch of my body fell numb. They were still searching for me. And Tuck knew almost everything.
His good eye fluttered open, defiance burning bright despite the pain etched into every line of his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he rasped, his words slurred by his split and swollen lips.
The Cimmerian snarled, slamming Tuck’s head against the floor. A wave of dizziness threatened to pull me under. But I couldn’t look away, couldn’t tear my gaze from the horrific scene unfolding before me.
Archer pressed himself into my side. An anchor. A reminder of who we were meant to be in this moment. The masks we wore. The stage we stood on. But still, I could hardly think beyond the man.
The Cimmerians took turns torturing Tuck, their movements precise and methodical, a sickening dance of cruelty and pain. One used his blade, the edges jagged and rusted, tracing thin lines of crimson across his exposed abdomen. Another brought a set of pliers, clamping them around Tuck’s fingernails and twisting, wrenching, until the nails tore free with a nauseating, wet pop.
Tuck writhed on the cold stone floor, his body convulsing in agony. His screams echoed off the walls, raw and primal, a sound that would haunt my nightmares for years to come. I stood frozen, my breath trapped in my lungs, my heart a leaden weight in my chest. Every fiber of my being screamed at me to move, to act, to do something to stop this. But I was paralyzed, rooted to the spot by a terror so profound it taxed my soul.
“Where is she?” the guard yelled.
Still, despite the brutality inflicted upon him, Tuck remained defiant, unwavering in his silence. He clenched his jaw against the screams that threatened to tear from his throat, his one good eye blazed with a fierce, unyielding loyalty. Even as his blood pooled on the cold stone beneath him, even as his body shuddered with each fresh wave of agony, he held fast to the secret, guarding it with the last shreds of his strength and will. Guarding me. And I could not go to him. I couldn’t crumble to my knees and thank the man I barely knew. I couldn’t tell him he wasn’t alone. Or that he was brave. Or kind. Or the purest of men. I could do nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Archer’s fingers dug into my arm. Slowly, inch by painstaking inch, he pulled me backwards, towards the unwatched door. The one that might lead to answers, to some clue that could justify the horrific price Tuck was paying.
We moved like ghosts, sliding through the shadows, hardly daring to breathe, afraid to draw attention to ourselves. The Cimmerians’ focus remained locked on Tuck. Their cruel laughter and taunts mingled with his ragged, panting breaths, a macabre symphony that filled the chamber.
At last, we reached the door, our backs pressed against the aged wood. With a final, furtive glance at the grisly scene, Archer’s hand closed around the handle. He turned it, slowly, carefully, the soft click of the latch almost lost beneath the din of torture.
He cracked the door open far enough for us to slip inside unnoticed. The moment I could tell the room was empty, I fell to my knees. The mask slipped from my face, clattering beside me. I barely noticed. I was consumed by the horror, by the gut-wrenching guilt that threatened to tear me apart. They ripped and tore and broke him, piece by agonizing piece, and we’d just fucking walked away.
Archer’s hands were on me then, gripping my shoulders, trying to pull me back from the brink. “Don’t you do this,” he ordered. “Don’t you break. Not now. Not here.” His words, full of their own emotion, cut through the haze of my anguish like a blade. “Tuck’s sacrifice will be for nothing if we get caught now. We have to focus. We have to find whatever we can and get out of here. For his sake, as much as ours.”
I nodded, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat. Archer was right. Falling apart now would only put us in more danger. He helped me to my feet, his grip strong and steady. Together, we turned to face the room, our eyes scanning the shadowed space for any clue, any scrap of information.
The room was dimly lit, the air thick with the musty scent of old parchment and leather. I took a staggering breath, forcing myself to shut out the sounds seeping in from the antechamber. This was undoubtedly Farris’s office. The walls were covered in deep, velvet drapes, to muffle the sound or camouflage the stone walls beneath, I wasn’t sure, but it made one thing very obvious. It’d be so easy to light this place on fire. And if need be, I wouldn’t give it a second thought. The stone would stop the flames, but not before everything within burned to ash.
A massive desk dominated the center of the office. The chair behind it was equally grand, its high back and armrests upholstered in the color of midnight. Despite the grandeur, there was a noticeable lack of things I’d expected to find. No towering bookshelves lined the walls. No maps or charts were spread out across the desk. For the most part, the space was… empty.
“I’ll check the desk,” Archer said. “You see if you can get into that cabinet.”
I nodded, moving towards the large wooden cabinet that stood against the far wall. The doors were firmly shut, likely locked, but I had to try. I gave a firm tug on the handles. As expected, the doors didn’t budge. But I could have sworn the damn thing moved. Archer was already rifling through the desk drawers, his movements quick and efficient, born of years of practice. We didn’t have time for me to fiddle with a lock or make any wrong guesses here, but I was confident.
Bracing myself, I shoved against the side of the cabinet with all my strength. At first, there was no give, the heavy wood unyielding beneath my hands. But I whipped the gloves off and leaned into it, putting my whole weight behind the effort, I felt it shift again. Just slightly. Just enough to send a thrill of hope sparking through my veins.
I pushed harder, my muscles straining. The cabinet groaned in protest, its bulk scraping against the floor. And then, with a soft, whispering rustle, the heavy velvet curtain beside it rippled. Moved. As if disturbed by a breath of wind where none should be.
Heart pounding, I abandoned the cabinet and turned my attention to the curtain. It moved easily, sliding back to reveal a hidden alcove, cleverly concealed behind the heavy fabric. I gasped, my eyes widening as I took in the sight before me. The small space was filled with a chaotic array of papers and maps tacked haphazardly to the rough stone walls. Faded parchment covered in scrawled notes and hasty sketches formed a dizzying patchwork, layer upon layer of secrets.
But it was the map at the center of the wall that drew my attention, its surface a riot of colors and symbols. It was a detailed rendering of the city. Every street and alley were meticulously charted, every building and landmark carefully marked. And scattered across its surface, like a constellation of mysteries, were dozens of small, brightly colored pins.
“Archer,” I breathed, my voice barely above a whisper. “Come look at this.”
He was at my side in an instant, his own search momentarily forgotten.
“Do you think this is where he’s searched for the king?” Archer asked, his finger hovering over a cluster of red pins near the city’s eastern edge. “All these markers… we knew he’d been systematically combing the city, but this is so intricate. Specific. Does this mean he really doesn’t know where the king is?”
I lifted the frayed edge of one of the papers tacked to the wall with the letters L-O-T-S scrawled across the top. “I don’t think this map has anything to do with his father. I think it’s where he’s been hunting for…” I didn’t dare say Thorne’s real name aloud, “the Lord of the Salt.”
“No, look,” Archer said, pointing. “The blue pins have dates. The red don’t. I think it’s both. This one marks Tilly’s orphanage and the date it was raided. All the blue are recent.”
“What do you think the gold are?” I asked, tracing my fingers over the map.
Archer stepped back, studying for a while, cocking his head to the side. “I’m pretty sure he’s marking where he’s captured magic users. And look at this.” He produced a book from the pocket of his Cimmerian robes. “This was in his desk. The title’s so worn, you can’t see it. But open the first page.”
I took it from him, fanning the pages as he continued to study the map. I pulled the book closer, squinting. “Scientific Exploration of Power Transference?”
“What do you think it means?”
“It means Farris isn’t helping the gods. Just like Alastor said.” I held the book open to a specific page with several notes in the margin. “He’s harboring the power and has no idea how to transfer it or use it.”
“Then what the fuck is the point of taking it, other than erasure?”
“Looks to me like he wants to use it, but doesn’t know how.” I gasped, stepping backward until I collided with the other wall. “That’s why the gods aren’t smiting him or whatever. They want what he’s harboring and I don’t think any of them know how to get it.”
Archer and I stared at each other in stunned silence. Farris wasn’t just hunting magic users to eradicate them, to stamp out the power. His motives were far more insidious, far more dangerous. He was stockpiling power, amassing it like a dragon hoarding gold. He wanted to harness that power for himself, to bend it to his own twisted will. And as of now, the gods were letting him think he had control.
I wanted to celebrate figuring out one piece of the puzzle, but I couldn’t. Not when the cost had been paid for with Tuck’s blood.
Archer’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Paesha, move.”
The panic in his tone sent me rushing forward, but only far enough for him to reach out and spin me, forcing me to take in the other map. The one opposite of us, and completely foreign.
“What is this place?”
Archer guided me forward so we could lean in. I traced the faint silvery lines of threads marking the mountains and forest wondering why he’d hidden this away. Why was it important? Secret?
“This looks a little familiar but I’ve never seen these before. This silver pattern is so strange. And look at this red dot,” he said.
But before I could run my fingers over it, the commotion from outside of the main room grew. Leaving everything behind, we rushed out of the alcove. Archer shoved the cabinet back while I grabbed my gloves and the masks we’d left on the floor. He plowed into me, slamming my back against the wall a fraction of a second before the door swung open, concealing both of us.
I carefully slid Archer’s mask into his hand, holding my breath as Farris Wendale walked in with a horde of guards behind him and the only thing saving us was a door that would be shut at any moment.