Chapter 17
17
K ANTHE SNIFFED AND rolled his eyes.
I thought I reeked of the swamp.
He shifted farther across the top of the school, trying to get upwind of the great shaggy bullock, but the cloud of flies hovering around the phlegmonous, farting beast buzzed after him.
Its caretaker—Bastan, the old swamper’s son—seemed oblivious, shifting within the muck of it all, checking the wagon’s leather traces and breeches. The young man kept his gaze away from the bundled cage atop the wagon. Having reached the ninth tier, the bullock was nearly done. It only had a few paces to go to complete its trek.
The plan was simple enough. The bullock would haul the wagon between the twin pyres atop the school, then the cart would be unhitched and left there. More kindling would be shoveled between its wheels and lit with torches. Then the wagon and wooden pen would be set aflame, briefly joining the two fires into one.
To Kanthe, it struck him as far easier to simply back the wagon into one of the two pyres and be done with it. But apparently both the hieromonks and alchymists believed their honor would be tarnished if their fire missed out on this opportunity to exact divine retribution atop the Cloistery.
So, this was the solution worked out.
He huffed his irritation.
Let’s get on with it already.
On the far side of the pyres, the highmayor stood atop a stone dais and finished some grand speech. Thankfully the roar of the flames muffled the worst of his pontification. From all the Glory be s and Blessed He s and She s, Goren wanted his son properly mourned, but just as ardently, he clearly wished to polish his own image before the scholarly elite and the Vyrllian Guard gathered here. For those outside the school, it was a rare opportunity to stand atop the ninth tier. Even the century of knights had to remain one level below, encircling the summit.
The winds shifted, and the smoke of the pyres washed over Kanthe. He choked on the cloying mix of bitter alchymies and sweet incense. Coughing, he retreated back into the stench of the bullock. A fat fly took the opportunity to gouge a chunk from his arm. He slapped it away.
When will this be over?
As if summoned by his thought, a tall set of doors opened behind the highmayor, where the black towers of the alchymists ground against the white spires of the hieromonks. Two figures appeared and hurried forth, though the pair quickly parted in opposite directions.
Kanthe recognized Frell, who set about circling the pyres toward him. The other was a woman with a crown of white braids dressed in a stately robe with a black-and-white stole over her shoulders. She headed toward the raised dais, where the highmayor stood with his arms lifted to the sky, preparing to once again extol the gods. The woman—who had to be Frell’s old teacher, the Prioress Ghyle—stepped to Goren’s side and whispered in his ear. The highmayor’s arms sagged, like the sinking wings of a deflating wyndship.
Closer at hand, Anskar shoved toward Kanthe—or rather toward the wagon, brushing past the prince. “’Bout sarding time,” the vy-knight grumbled over to him. “Thought that fartbag would never stop blowing. Gimme a hand unwrapping the cage. Bastards will want to watch the beastie writhe and burn before their eyes. Then maybe we can get away from here.”
Gods be, I hope so.
Kanthe turned to follow, but the prioress spoke to the gathering, drawing his eye. “Thank you all for joining us here.” Her voice easily carried to Kanthe, though she did not have to holler and bellow like the highmayor. “It is with great regret that we must delay this Eventoll sacrifice.”
Murmurs of surprise rose around the smoking pyres. Voices were raised. Goren stalked over to her, looking ready to grab her, but a stern look rebuffed him.
Goren still insisted on being heard. “It is the king’s order! His Majesty’s sworn word under his personal seal. You cannot refuse it.”
Anskar groaned. “The god-blighted bastard is right. Let me see what this is about.”
The vy-knight stalked away, his crimson face glowering darkly.
Anskar was replaced by another. Frell had reached this side of the pyre. He rushed to Kanthe’s side, grabbed his arm, and drew him closer to the wagon. “We have a problem. One that requires a prince to resolve.”
Kanthe pulled his arm free and pointed toward the far dais. “I’m supposing it has something to do with that.”
“It does. We must stop this sacrifice. If the bat is burned atop the school, all will fall to ruin.”
Kanthe cast a skeptical eye. “To ruin? The Cloistery has stood here for nearly as long as Kepenhill. Who would dare attack this place?”
Frell nodded to the cage in the wagon and what was hidden inside. “That creature’s brethren. They gather into a storm as we speak.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
“The story is a long one, too long for now. Suffice it to say, it ties to the young woman whom your father wanted taken back to Highmount.”
Kanthe gave a shake of his head, struggling to make sense of it all. “The one who survived the poison and regained her sight?”
“The same.” Frell glanced back as more shouting rose from beyond the fires—then back to Kanthe. From the set of his lips, the alchymist struggled with how to convince his young pupil. With a sigh, he settled on an argument. “Prince Kanthe, a fortnight ago you pressed me with a story of Graylin sy Moor, the Forsworn Knight. You used that tale to sway me from taking my fears to your father.”
Kanthe squinted. “What of it?”
“I believe that girl is the very babe that Graylin sy Moor sought to protect by breaking his oath. Maybe the knight’s own child.” Frell stared hard at him. “Or maybe your half-sister.”
Kanthe scoffed at such a proposition. “That’s impossible.”
“Perhaps I could be wrong about her, but I’m certain about the danger. Her life—all our lives—will be forfeited if this sacrifice commences.”
Kanthe took the alchymist’s wrist. “Frell, you’re more of a father to me than my own blood. So, I want to believe you, but what you ask? You want me to break the king’s sworn oath. After my father has only just begun to trust me again, to put his faith in me. Do I look like some hero out of bygone stories?”
Frell smiled. “I won’t burden you with such a fate. It usually ends badly for such heroes.”
“Then you know I can’t do what you ask.”
Frell sagged and gave a shake of his head. Kanthe stared at the man who had mentored him throughout his years, who too often had held him when he was a first- or secondyear—a heartsick young prince who needed comfort. He read the disappointment in the man’s face, which wounded him far more than any fiery admonishment by his father.
I’m sorry…
Kanthe turned away and headed toward the back of the wagon.
Frell followed, refusing to give up—on this cause and on him. “Prince Kanthe, the prioress is only securing us a little time. Only you can dissuade the others.”
Kanthe reached the rear of the wagon and faced his mentor. “Frell, you again think too highly of me. The highmayor, the Council of Eight, even Anskar, none of them will heed the word of the Dark Trifle. The drunken Tallywag. A mere Prince in the Cupboard.”
Kanthe turned, hiked his bow higher on his back, and leaped into the rear of the wagon. Only then did he face the disappointment of his friend with a smile. “But they dare not shoot me in the back.”
He rushed to the front of the wagon, scooting past the wrapped cage.
Frell clambered up after him. “What do you—”
“You there!” Kanthe called down as he reached the cart’s seat.
Bastan dropped a curry brush in surprise and swung around at the bullock’s side. He stared up at the prince in the wagon.
Kanthe circled an arm around his head. “Turn this cart around.”
Frell joined him. “What are you doing?”
“They can’t burn a sacrifice that’s not here.” Kanthe tried again with the young man, pointing down the tiers. “Turn that big beast of yours. Gramblebuck, you called him. We’re heading back to the swamps.”
Kanthe pictured breaking the cage open and letting the wounded creature escape back into the watery bower of its home.
Bastan simply gaped up at him.
Kanthe leaned over to Frell. “See. I can’t even convince a swamper’s son to listen to me.”
Frell called over the cart seat, “Young man! Your sister Nyx is in danger!”
Kanthe glanced hard to the alchymist. His sister?
Bastan looked equally baffled but drew nearer. “What about Nyx?”
“She may have survived the bat’s poison, but she won’t live until the dawn bell if we don’t escape and free the creature here.”
Kanthe’s mind spun to catch up. Again with that girl. He remembered Frell’s speculation on her past, about her possible shared lineage with a certain prince. Is she everyone’s blasted sister?
Bastan considered the alchymist’s words, then turned swiftly, snatched the bullock’s lead, and dragged its nose away from the pyres and toward the steps leading down. Kanthe grabbed the back of the cart seat to keep his feet as the wagon lurched on its iron-shod wheels.
The commotion began to turn heads. While most eyes were still on the fiery discussions on the far side of the pyre, those closest glanced over shoulders to stare at the wagon. A few of those faces were stained crimson. Hands lowered to swords. Crossbows were swung off of backs.
“Move that shaggy arse faster,” Kanthe hissed below.
Bastan hauled harder on the lead.
As the wagon turned, another pair of faces watched from only steps away. Though the rain had stopped, Shrive Vythaas still stood under a canopy carried by the hulking form of his personal Gyn. The holy man’s eyes were slits. Yet, the Shrive raised no alarm. He could have easily sent the craggy-faced Gyn to stop them, to block them, to even drop the bullock with the strike of the Gyn’s stony fist. Instead, the Shrive simply stared.
How much had the bony bastard overheard?
The wagon finally got hauled full around, with the bullock’s nose pointed at the steps.
“Quick now!” Kanthe urged.
Bastan tugged the lead, trying to get Gramblebuck to head for the stairs, but the beast balked at the sight of the long flight back down.
Can’t blame the poor brute.
Still…
Kanthe waved to Bastan. “Whip ’im if you must! Get us moving!”
The swamper scowled, as if the prince had asked the man to beat his own mother. Instead, Bastan grabbed a firmer hold of the bridle and yanked, digging in his heels. The bullock did the same with his three-toed hooves.
Kanthe blew an exasperated breath at the stubborn standoff.
Bastan’s face purpled with frustration. “Git clomping, Gramble. Nyxie needs us.”
The girl’s name managed to get the beast to shift one leg, then another forward. The wagon lurched—but far too slowly. Kanthe looked back to the gathering atop the ninth tier. All eyes had swung their way. A cadre of Vyrllian Guards shoved toward them.
Kanthe cursed and worked his way toward the rear of the wagon. He needed to buy the others a few more breaths. As he sidestepped around the cage, a low hiss from the beast inside followed him.
“I’m trying to save your hairy arse,” he grumbled back at it.
Kanthe reached the back of the wagon and shifted to stand behind the wrapped cage. He braced his legs and waved his arms. Angry shouts erupted. The highmayor hollered, “Stop ’em already, you louts!”
The vy-knights pulled their swords.
Kanthe suddenly had doubts about the impenetrable shield of his princely standing. This was made all too clear with the sharp thwits of crossbow bolts. One skimmed his ear; another laid a fiery line across his left hip.
He ducked and scrambled back toward the front of the wagon. “Now or never,” he screamed. Everything was going too slow.
He passed Frell, who sheltered behind the cage—but the alchymist wasn’t hiding. Frell tugged at a knot in a rope. Another cord dangled loose beside the man.
What is he doing?
Frell then stood and ripped away the flap of leather that he had untied. The alchymist fell back as the bat slammed into the bars, gnashing and spitting poison. Frell herded Kanthe to the cart’s seat.
Kanthe spluttered, “Why did you do—?”
The bat screamed at them, its piercing cry like a wind in his face. Kanthe was not the only one to hear it. The wagon bolted forward, nearly throwing Frell and Kanthe back into the cage bars. The old bullock suddenly knew what was hidden atop the wagon and fled from it.
“Hang on!” Kanthe yelled as the beast thundered in a bellowing panic toward the steps. He hooked an arm around a plank of the cart seat.
Frell followed his example.
Over the humping back of the bullock, Kanthe watched Gramblebuck reach the top step and leap headlong. Bastan miraculously kept hold of the beast’s bridle and used it to swing onto the bullock’s back.
And not a moment too soon.
Gramblebuck crashed back to the steps, deftly landing on all four legs. The wagon followed, the rear end bucking high. It hung there for an impossible breath—then hit the steps with a teeth-shattering impact. A rope snapped behind them, and the cage bumped toward them with a savage hiss of the bat inside.
As they bounced and rattled toward the eighth tier below, more bolts pursued them. The iron quarrels ripped through the air and through the wooden pen. Several bolts must have struck the beast inside. The bat’s scream sharpened to a pitch that threatened to burst his ears. It certainly goaded the bullock to a faster clip.
Ahead, a group of knights in light armor stood clustered at the bottom of the stairs. More gathered from their stations around the eighth level, drawn by the noise. Kanthe lifted high enough to flag an arm at them.
“Get out of the way!” he bellowed.
Gramblebuck did the same with a frightened lowing.
The knights obeyed them both and scattered to either side. Sharper shouts rose behind the wagon. A glance back revealed the charge of crimson-faced figures down the stairs. The vy-knights leaped several steps at a time, led by Anskar, whose face had gone far redder.
Bullock and wagon reached the eighth tier and struck it hard, showering fiery sparks from the ironclad wheels. Several spokes shattered away. Still, the cart continued clattering toward the next set of steps leading down.
The Vyrllian Guard gave pursuit, leaping like a flight of deer to the tier and chasing after them. Anskar sped ahead of the others, flanked by his two best men. He yelled something to the pair, the words lost in the rattling. Without slowing, the two dropped coils of ropes from their shoulders to their hands. They snapped their weighted ends and barbed hooks unhinged to form grappling irons.
Sard it all.
Kanthe swung around, judging the distance to the next stairs.
We can still make it.
Then the left rear wheel broke free. With a scatter of sparks, it bounced and rolled away, as if escaping on its own. Still, the wagon sped ahead, balanced on the remaining three wheels.
But for how long?
The bullock reached the edge of the tier and dashed down the next set of steps. The wagon followed, its rear end rocking wildly on the remaining wheel back there. More ropes snapped away from the cage—then the entire pen slid toward Kanthe and Frell. The bat howled at the bars, fangs snapping wildly.
Kanthe dropped to his bottom, braced his back against the cart seat behind him, and caught the cage with his legs, his feet balanced on ironwood bars. The pen’s weight still crushed toward him. Frell tried to help, grabbing for the cage.
“Don’t!” Kanthe gasped out, fearing his mentor would lose fingers, if not his entire hand. “I got this.”
He didn’t.
His muscles gave out, and the cage fell toward them both. One of his legs slipped between the bars and into the pen. The front of the cage smashed into them both, pinning them in place. The bat slathered poison over Kanthe’s upturned face. Claws tore through his breeches and into his thigh.
So this is how I die.
It was a far more dramatic end than he had ever imagined for himself.
Then the wagon bucked, and the cage lifted high—and it inexplicably flew away from his face, stripping his leg back out of the pen. As Kanthe watched, the cage sailed out the back of the wagon.
He rolled to his knees to try to comprehend this miracle.
At the top of the stairs, Anskar’s two men had anchored the ends of their ropes around statues to either side of the stairs. The ropes’ lengths stretched to the flying cage, where grappling irons had hooked into the pen’s bars. The snagged cage tilted sideways in midair and crashed to the steps, shattering open.
Anskar must have prepared for this. He rushed down the steps, swung a net, and tossed it high. The net spun through the air toward the remains of the cage and the prisoner inside. The bat thrashed to break free. Its wings cracked more bars; claws shredded scraps of leather. Finally, it managed to shove its head out, snapping everywhere, its belled ears flat to its skull. It fought to extract itself. Its neck stretched with a wail of despair, as if it were drowning in the wreckage.
Then the heavy net, knitted through with thorns, fell over all.
As the wagon continued down the stairs, Kanthe accepted the inevitable. He had failed. The bat strained toward him, desperation written in its every thrash. It was a futile battle. Once subdued, it would be dragged back to the fire and burned alive.
Kanthe faced his defeat, refusing to look away.
Still, I’ll not be the one to suffer for it.
Across the distance, the bat stared at him. The fear and misery in its red eyes was easy to read.
“What are you doing?” Frell asked.
Kanthe couldn’t answer as he shifted higher, one knee still braced under him. He lifted the bow already in his hand and notched an arrow. He pulled the gut string to his cheek. The arrow’s fletching tickled his ear as he took aim.
Better this.
He inhaled one deep breath, then released the bowstring.
The arrow shot up the steps.
And pierced clean through a fiery red eye.
N YX CRIED OUT as agony shattered into her skull. She slapped a palm to her left eye. The world suddenly went dark. She missed the next step and fell headlong down the last of the forbidden staircase.
Jace caught her before she struck the stone floor. “What happened?”
The burning pain spiked for another breath, then faded to an icy coldness. She lowered her hand, and her sight returned.
“I… I’m not sure,” she said.
But she was.
As she read the worry in Jace’s pinched face, a dark storm grew in the back of her mind. With every breath, it grew larger, stoked by fury.
She quailed before it.
Jace helped her to her feet. “Nyx, what’s wrong?”
She turned and stared upward, knowing the truth.
“We failed. They’re coming.”