Chapter 27
27
P RATIK KEPT NEXT to Frell, holding his blade high.
Together, they ran up the last turn in the spiral stairs that rose out of the bowels of the Dresh’ri lair. A trail of bodies sprawled across the steps behind them. Some dead, some moaning. Pratik took no pride in his swordsmanship. So far, the Dresh’ri had come at him unarmed. Down here, in a domain ruled by terror and alchymy, the scholars had no need to carry weapons.
Still, the Dresh’ri had cast their lives at Pratik’s feet. He understood their sacrifice; it rang clear with every strident strike of the gongs echoing through the cavernous space. Before Pratik and Frell could escape the chamber below, Zeng ri Perrin had fled away and roused the alarm. The other Dresh’ri had sought to delay them, laying their lives down, trying to hold them until the palace guards could sweep down here.
Even a few servitors had struck at them with brooms and mops, only to die just as surely or be driven back. Thankfully, the majority of the baseborn, which vastly outnumbered their masters down here, hung back, adhering to the assigned duties of their respective castes. It was one of the rare times Pratik appreciated his culture’s regimented structure and the mantra drilled into him as a boy.
Each to his own place, each to his own honor.
To stray from that course brought shame to one’s family and clan.
Pratik was long past such conceits. It was what made it all too easy to subdue one of the Dresh’ri, truss him up, steal his outer garb. In a city where one’s clothes marked one’s caste, none had questioned him.
He had also armed himself.
And it was providence that I did.
Earlier, after hearing the details of Zeng ri Perrin’s interrogation of Frell, Pratik grew apprehensive, especially with the Dresh’ri leeching blood from his friend. He had decided to disguise himself and learn what more he could. He also kept close watch on the rooms of Frell and Kanthe and luckily spotted the cadre of Dresh’ri heading up there. One had carried a smoking brazier on a chain, and another pair had handheld bellows.
Suspicious at such strangeness, he had trailed them and watched Frell be subdued and carried off. Fearing the worst, Pratik had followed them, keeping his distance until they reached that accursed chamber. It was easy to slip inside and keep his head down. The hardest part was not to gasp in shock at the mutilated sight of the Venin.
As he spied upon the proceedings, he had hoped they would release Frell, that Pratik would never have to reveal his subterfuge, an act punishable by death if exposed. One did not pretend to be a member of another caste, especially a higher one.
Unfortunately, Prya—the god of fate, after whom Pratik was named—was not so cooperative.
“Where now?” Frell asked as they reached the librarie’s main chamber. He had to yell to be heard above the echoing gongs. “Do you know another way out of here?”
Pratik shook his head. “I’ve never set foot down here before.”
Frell lifted an arm and pointed between towering shelves. He hugged a crumple of pages to his chest. “Then out the way we came in.”
Pratik nodded and headed away. The alchymist teetered on his feet, still addled by the lingering effects of the soporifics that had subdued him. Pratik did his best to steady Frell with his free hand.
In a lull between gong strikes, Pratik heard the scuff of leather sandals on stone behind him. He spun around, brandishing his sword. A servant in a byor-ga rushed up from the spiral stairs behind them. A jangle of beads marked her caste as a maid. She froze at the sight of them. Then without a word, she dashed to the side, simply trying to escape.
Like all of us.
With his heart pounding, Pratik led Frell onward. The spread of shelves had gone far darker. Only a few lanterns remained lit, and even those were far off. The space looked hastily abandoned. In the distance, a few servitors hid along from their path, crouched low with their lanterns covered, leaking only glowing glimmers.
Otherwise, only the bats stirred above, sweeping the shadows overhead.
Pratik kept a wary watch, while trying to increase their pace. They had no lamps themselves, so their path grew hard to discern. Pratik followed the row of shelves that radiated outward from that central stair. He prayed they were headed toward the lift that led to the gardens.
Frell leaned closer to be heard, giving voice to Pratik’s own concern. “Where are the rest of the Dresh’ri?”
Pratik frowned. The attacks had indeed stopped.
Then the answer came from ahead of them.
Down the stretch of shelves, fiery light flowed into the cavern. It looked like a dam had burst, flooding the space with flames. As Pratik’s eyes adjusted to the sudden flare, individual lanterns and torches could be discerned. They spread rapidly in either direction.
Pratik knew who had arrived to block their way. “The imperial guard,” he warned, and drew them to a stop.
Orders and commands snapped sharply, echoing all around. Deep-throated barks pierced the darkness, accompanied by a rattle of heavy chains. Pratik pictured the massive war dogs of the citadel, dreadful beasts with spiked collars who had been corrupted by alchymies to a fearsome savagery. Only their handlers, bridle-bound to their charges as pups, could control them. It sounded like a full battalion had swept down here.
The spread of lanterns and torches marched inexorably toward them. Howls and barks spread outward, flanking wide.
“What do we do?” Frell asked.
Before he could answer, a new sound intruded. It came from behind them, rising from the well of the spiral stair. Chanting… accompanied by a frisson of bridle-humming. The power sizzled through the darkness.
The Venin…
Pratik searched for them. The mutilated chorus must have collected itself after Pratik’s attack, climbing from their lair, likely commanded by Zeng ri Perrin. While a single bridle-singer might not be gifted enough to fully enslave a man, when combined and working in harmony, such a chorus could immobilize, trap its prey in a web of song.
At least long enough for us to be captured or killed.
Unfortunately, Pratik and Frell were not the only ones to hear the infernal chorus.
The noise sent the nesting bats into a panicked maelstrom of wings and screeches. The horde descended in a thrashing storm. Tiny bodies dove down, slamming into shelves, striking Pratik and Frell. Tiny claws tore at their clothing, at skin, and tangled in their hair.
The two of them dropped low, slapping and swatting to keep themselves from the worst as the singing grew louder. Pratik pictured the Venin closing upon them through the darkness, a cabal sculpted into vile effigies of the tiny creatures that assaulted them.
Pratik ripped a bat from his cowl.
Maybe they’re even controlling these beasts, like some despoiled version of the Shadow Queen they worship.
But that was not the only threat.
Swords began to beat on shields. Savage barking echoed to either side. The glow of lanterns and torches grew brighter with every breath.
“What do we do?” Frell asked again.
Pratik answered with the hard truth. “I don’t know.”
K ANTHE FOLLOWED THEIR escort of guards, whose surcoats shone with the Klashean Arms. Another pair trailed behind them.
He gasped to keep up, trying to catch his breath, but not because he was winded. Terror kept him moving, numbing his legs from the exertion. Instead, he tugged at the heavy drape of cloth over his face. Each inhalation sucked the fabric to his lips, trying to suffocate him.
Rami pulled his hand down. “Don’t. Baseborn never try to remove their headgear.”
Kanthe cursed and let his arm drop.
Before they had left Rami’s chambers, Symon had ordered Kanthe to pull a set of byor-ga robes over his own clothes. Similarly, Rami had shed his loose robe with no hint of modesty and cloaked his nakedness in the same habiliment. Both Symon and Chaaen Loryn were already clothed, so they only needed to don headgear to hide their features.
The disguised group swept through the vastness of the citadel. Few gave them more than a second glance. Then again, most of the hallways had already emptied out. With the gongs clanging, the entire palace had seemingly retreated to their respective strongholds.
“Where are we going?” Kanthe finally asked.
“If you can’t speak Klashean,” Symon warned softly, “best keep silent or you’ll draw suspicion.”
Kanthe stared around at the empty corridor. “From whom?”
By now, they had reached a section of the palace that looked abandoned long ago. Untrampled dust covered the floor, cobwebs draped from the rafters. Even the dark lanterns hanging on rusty hooks looked as if they’d not been used in ages.
Kanthe remembered a similar dereliction out in the city.
Apparently, that corrupting rot has crept into the palace.
Rami’s feet slowed. Though his face was covered, his head swiveled back and forth. He was clearly taking it all in. He even stumbled a step, as if caught off guard by it all. Kanthe suspected Rami was not aware such places existed inside the sprawling edifice. Then again, the citadel was spread across a hundred towers and a quarter as many levels. As prince of the realm, Rami was likely directed away from such spaces.
They continued in silence, wending down gloomy passageways and up dark staircases. Vermin scattered from the glow of their single lantern.
By now, Kanthe was thoroughly lost.
Maybe Rami, too.
Finally, a door burst open ahead of them. Though it was near to midnight, with the winter sun hovering low, the brightness still stung.
“This way,” Symon said, hurrying with their escorts.
Kanthe followed. Once through the doorway, he found himself standing at the bottom of a vast, shadowy well. He shaded his eyes against the glare of the sky far overhead. Windowless walls rose tens of stories to a roofless opening. The stone floor lay cracked and overgrown with thistles and scraggly bushes.
In the center, a small wyndship hovered at the height of his waist. It was tethered in place at four corners, anchored by spikes. Four flashburn forges, two to a side, smoked and steamed, straining those ropes. A few men in light armor patrolled around the craft, testing its lines.
Kanthe gaped at the sight of the ship. He had never seen one in person, only schematics in nautical texts back at Kepenhill.
“A wingketch,” he whispered.
It was a unique Klashean design, smaller than a swyftship, but twice that of a hunterskiff. Its draft-iron keel swept into a prominent prow, creating a frozen wave of metal and wood. Curved windows, as tall as Kanthe, flanked each side, looking like the large eyes of an owl. Adding to that image were a pair of folded sailcloth wings, which gave the craft its name. Presently, the sails were reefed and tucked against the hull’s flanks.
Such vessels were said to be miraculously agile in the air, but their main purpose was far simpler. Kanthe stared up the throat of the well to the open sky. A wingketch’s role was similar to that of sailrafts, which were used to evacuate larger ships in case of emergencies. Only rather than diving downward to safety, wingketches were meant for quick escapes, to blast their passengers skyward and away from any danger below.
Like now…
Symon pointed toward a dropped door on the starboard side. “Everyone aboard.”
Kanthe drew alongside the man. “What about Frell and Pratik?”
Symon grimaced, stared at the moon overhead, then shook his head. “We can give them until the next bell. No more. Then we must begone.”