19. Basten
Chapter 19
Basten
D awn rises beyond the white limestone windowsills of Hekkelveld Castle as I stride down the hall after leaving the man I once called “master” broken and bleeding on his bedroom floor.
The locket with Sabine’s portrait is clutched so tightly in my fist my knuckles are white. I shove it into my pocket, where it clinks against a coin.
I pause, taking out the Golath dime that Rian gave me when I became First Sword. For a moment, I run the pad of my thumb over it, thinking of happier times.
But then, someone shouts.
Within, oh, two seconds…the entire castle is in chaos.
Bodyguards thunder down hallways in a search for me, but it’s almost laughably easy to avoid them. I hear their footsteps from halfway across the castle as they crash up stairs and race down hallways with swords drawn, ready to separate my head from my shoulders.
But they’ll have to catch me first.
As a set of four guards descend from Wisdom Tower, where they ransacked my room, I pull back into a spare guest bedroom. They tromp by me like clattering tin cans in their armor. Once they’ve passed, I slip out in the opposite direction to the senior servants’ quarters on the fifth floor.
When I rap my knuckles against the last door on the left, I hear the sheets rustling inside as someone groggily flails his hand against the slumbering person beside him.
A male voice says, “ If you get it, my radiant jewel, I’ll bury my face between your knees for a full hour tonight. ”
“ Oh, please ,” a woman’s voice groans, “ I’d be bored after five minutes .”
After a long-suffering sigh and the rustle of a dressing gown, the door is swept open, and a surprised face takes in the bloody mess that is me .
Ferra’s face is scrubbed of makeup, and for once, her long hair is her natural ash-brown shade. I’ve grown so used to seeing her use her godkiss to give herself lilac locks or electric coral lips that I blink hard, startled by how young she really is.
I tip my head carefully, all too aware that massive blood loss from a head wound won’t end well. “Lady Ferra.”
Her initial surprise quickly gives way to feminine annoyance as she folds her silk-clad arms across her chest, her nails flashing like talons as she drums them against her upper arms.
“Wolf Bowborn? What are you doing here? All I need, the second man within a minute to prove he’s utterly useless without a woman.” She sighs as she looks over her shoulder at the lump on the other side of her bed.
Folke has the sharp instincts of a soldier, but after our night in the burned-out house, he apparently also gained the thirst of a drunk. The smells of booze and sex roll off him, but at least it’s only Ferra’s scent on his cock, and not some stranger’s from the brothel.
“Folke, I believe this dolt is here for you.” Ferra tosses a pillow onto the lump, and Folke grumbles from an impending hangover.
“Actually—” I snatch a satin scarf that’s drooped over a nearby chair and use it to mop up the blood streaking down the right side of my face, “—I might need you, too, Ferra.”
Outside, the Valor Bell begins clanging a relentless alarm. I wince. “It’s, ah, urgent.”
“Oh, you stupid man.” She puffs out a blast of air. “What have you done?”
“Probably best if you don’t know.”
The alarm bell makes Folke shoot upright with both hands clamped against his ears. “Gods in hell, it feels like that bell is clattering inside my skull!”
Guards’ boots sound one floor below, headed for the stairs, and I clench my jaw and push into Ferra’s room, ripping the sheet off Folke’s half-naked body. “Up. Now. I need to be out of this castle yesterday .”
His hands fall away from his ears, and when he sees the look on my face that says I’m serious, he miraculously sobers up. Suddenly sharp, he swings his feet onto the floor. “Ferra, close the door.”
She doesn’t hesitate, and shoves a chairback under the knob for good measure.
“Get dressed, my jewel.” Folke throws her a gown from her wardrobe, then finds his shirt hanging over the bedrail and tugs it over his head. Footsteps clatter up the nearby stairs loud enough for him to grimace.
“I guess there’s no going out that way,” he murmurs.
He throws open the single window, looks down, then pulls a coil of rope out from under the bed. One end is already secured in a bowline knot to the nearest of the bed’s heavy oak legs.
“You had an escape system at the ready in Ferra’s room?” I ask.
He snorts as he shoves me toward the window. “I’ve spent enough time in the Sin Streets to know that these regal hallways are just as deadly—and no woman of mine is going to be a sitting duck.”
Ferra scoffs as her fingers fly to put the dress over her shoulders. “I am no one’s duck.”
“Shut your quackery, my jewel,” he argues as he spins her around to do up the buttons on her gown’s back. “We can argue when we’re twenty miles from here, alive and eating plum cakes. Now, quick. You first, Wolf. Then Ferra. I’ll follow up behind.”
I grip the rope and throw one leg out the window. I have to fold myself into a knot to fit through the narrow wooden frame, but I manage, and then scale down Wisdom Tower, bracing my feet against the limestone bricks.
Ferra descends next, complaining loudly as she fumbles down the rope until she’s close enough that I can hoist her the rest of the way to the ground.
Folke crashes down the last six feet, still reeking of booze, but quickly recovers. He tosses his tangled hair off his face as he scans the oleander shrubs clustered around the headstones of the Reliquary Garden. “Where to now, you troublesome bastard?”
I jerk my chin toward Mercy Tower. “The stables.”
The three of us make our way among the marble mausoleums of Astagnon’s fallen kings. I listen keenly for the guards’ movements and instruct Folke and Ferra when to pause and when to run. We reach a low stone wall that runs along the side of the stables and drop into a crouch.
“We need to draw the guards away from the stables,” I say quietly.
“Drama? That’s my specialty.” Ferra’s violet eyes practically glow as she taps one long fingernail against my chest. “I have an idea. Come with me, boys.”
A row of tombstones stretches the length of the Reliquary Garden, lined up like dominoes waiting to fall. Without a word, Ferra presses her shoulder against the first stone. As it teeters, I begin to understand.
“Ferra, you aren’t going to—” I start.
“Not on my own, I’m not. Help me!”
Folke and I join her and lean hard against the tombstone. The heavy granite stone totters slightly before finally crashing over onto the next one. Like a row of children’s blocks, the headstones knock one another over all the way from the front gate to the castle wall.
Each tombstone crashes down with a ground-shaking thud that I feel down to my marrow.
Ferra claps excitedly. “That should do it!”
The stable guards shout at the sound and run to investigate.
Once the stable door is clear, the three of us make our way in a crouch along the stone wall, then duck inside. The cool, clean smell of straw replaces the stench of sweat and blood that clings to me.
I plunge my hand into my pocket to reassure myself of the locket with Sabine’s portrait. My chest softens as my fingers glide over the smooth gold surface. All I want in this cursed world is to open it to see her perfect face again, but I have to wait .
It’s torture.
It’s a thrill.
Is this even actually happening? Are my dreams going to become real? The idea that I might hold Sabine Darrow in my arms fills me with such breathtaking awe that I have to clear my throat.
Ferra glances back at me, concern etched in her eyes. “Basten? Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” My voice comes out rough, so I clear my throat and try again, my gaze scanning the horse names chalked on each stall door. “It’s this one.”
Folke and Ferra fall in step behind me as I unlatch Myst’s stall door.
“Easy there, girl.” Even though time is of the essence, my voice drops to a low murmur as I slowly run a hand along Myst’s neck, fingers brushing over the spots rubbed raw by the carriage harness. Anger surges through me, hot and bitter, that a creature as powerful—and as stubborn—was ever reduced to pulling Rian’s carriage.
“You remember me, right?” I murmur. “The poor bastard you tried to trample? We’re getting out of this place to find Sabine.”
She tosses her head, eyes wide as if to say, You finally came to your senses!
The Valor Bell continues to clang the alarm as my ears pick up the creaking wheels of army wagons rolling in with extra soldiers from Old Coros.
I quickly saddle Myst, working fast now that we’re about to have company, but as I slide one foot in a stirrup to mount, she rears up. Prances her feet. Tosses her head.
I hold up my hands. “Whoa. Easy, girl. What is it? ”
Satisfied she has my attention, she jerks her muzzle toward the far end of the stable.
A chill creeps over the back of my neck. There, in the shadows of what was once a tack room, rests the iron cage that houses Tòrr.
My stomach tightens.
“Crazy mare…” But I rub my hand over my chin, thinking. Half a dozen heavy locks are fixed to a chain spanning the cage door’s handles. The iron material blocks my sense of smell, but I can hear steady breathing inside.
“Wolf?” Folke pitches a hay biscuit at my head. “Time to go .”
Ignoring him, I take a slow step toward the cage.
“Wolf?” Ferra hisses. “What are you looking at? Wait. No . Have you lost your mind?” This time, she’s the one who throws a hay biscuit.
I dodge it, wetting my lips as I straighten. Slowly, I quote Rian: “When going to war, it’s wise to take one’s most powerful weapon.”
Ferra throws her hand toward one of the stable’s high windows. “It’s daylight! You open that cage, and Tòrr could snuff us out like ants under a magnifying glass!”
My heart kicks up with a warning. She isn’t wrong.
“Myst will manage him.” I smooth my hand over her leather saddle. “I’ve seen her calm his temper a hundred times. She wants Sabine back as much as I do, and she’ll make sure Tòrr cooperates. Besides, how else will I get Sabine away from King Rachillon? Or my memories back from Iyre? I need a weapon.”
“It’s a big fucking gamble to think you can tame a monoceros, my friend,” Folke croaks.
More footsteps cross through the Reliquary Garden. I’m out of time. I have only a second of hesitation before I set my shoulder beneath the wooden beam to hoist it up. Groaning under its weight, I free it from the braces and toss it to the ground.
“I suddenly find myself a gambling man.” I grab the first padlock, rattling it slightly. “Folke?”
“Wait. You want me to free the monster?”
“You can pick locks like you’re godkissed.”
Folke balks, rattling off curses, but I can see the spark in his eyes that draws him to the challenge. Finally, he waves me out of the way. “I need some space. And…this.”
He plucks the knife from my hip holster with a pickpocket’s grace. As I retreat to give him room, he sets the blade’s point into the keyhole. Gnawing on the inside of his cheek, he angles the blade until the lock springs free.
“Ha! See that? We mere mortals can work miracles, too.”
Ferra throws glances toward the end of the barn, keeping a lookout, while Folke picks the second lock.
“It’s almost too easy,” he scoffs.
He swiftly picks the third and the fourth locks. The fifth gives him some trouble, but he smacks the hilt of my knife against the side, and it springs free.
Only one left.
I focus all my senses on the ground, feeling for the vibrations of footsteps headed our way. From the growing rumble, it seems as though at least twenty soldiers are headed for the stable.
“Folke, hurry,” I mutter.
“And…you’re welcome!” Folke stands back triumphantly with the final lock in hand, bowing like an actor before an adoring audience.
“Congratulations,” I say flatly. “ Now move aside.” I immediately begin unraveling the chain from between the door handles, though Folke rests a hand on mine.
He asks quietly, “Are you truly sure about this, old friend?”
A muscle jumps in my jaw. Am I? Setting free an ancient fae creature with the power to level an entire city is not a move to take lightly. I’ve heard the servants recount the tale of Sabine triumphantly riding the beast in Duren’s arena, though there’s only a blank in my mind where that memory should be.
Rian and Kendan both believed that because she discovered its name, anyone could harness its power. But they’re naive.
I’m not Sabine Darrow.
I can’t speak to Tòrr.
Hell, I can’t even speak to Myst to tell Tòrr to get his preening ass in gear. For all I know, the second I throw open his iron door, Tòrr will roast me like a sausage.
Sweat trickles down my face, but I tighten my fist on the door handle.
“Stand back.”
It’s all the warning I give before throwing open the monoceros cage. Folke raises his hand as though to shelter himself. At first, nothing emerges from the darkness inside, but then, my eyes switch to night vision, and I see a burst of steam. A cool fog rolls out of the monoceros cage, winding around my ankles.
Folke jumps back, touching his breastbone in prayer to the gods he doesn’t believe in. “Shall I start digging our graves now, or later?”
Hoofbeats paw at the cage’s iron floor.
Another burst of steam shoots out of the box.
A shriek like twisting metal pierces the shadows.
Myst, quiet until now, stamps her foot as if to say, Stop being dramatic!
One final, smaller burst of steam puffs out, and then Tòrr ducks his head to emerge from the iron cage.
I retreat a step, muscles tense and at the ready, before realizing Folke still holds my hunting knife. I snatch it out of his hand. But as Tòrr steps into the stable to raise his head to its full height, his solarium horn nearly brushing the ceiling, I dare to lower the blade.
Ten seconds in, and I haven’t been smote. Yet .
That has to be a good sign, right?
Wrong.
Tòrr stomps up to me and plants an iron hoof directly on my boot.
“Ow! Fuck !” I slide my foot out and cradle it as I hop on my good leg. That’s at least one broken toe.
Wincing, I turn to Myst and motion to Tòrr with the knife hilt. “You better convince this asshole that I’m on his side! This was your idea!”
Her ears swing forward. She looks between Tòrr and me, then nips him on the neck.
He snorts defensively.
I put some weight on my boot, relieved that he only shattered one bone instead of my entire foot. “Ferra.” I bend my fingers to motion her forward. “I won’t get a mile traveling with a monoceros. Can you alter his appearance to pass for a regular horse?”
“Oh, let me consult my guide to my power…I don’t know! I’ve never worked on an animal before. Especially not a fae one.”
I glance toward the stable door. “Will you try? ”
She mutters under her breath as she plucks anxiously at the ruffles of her gown, tiptoeing close enough to cautiously run her fingers along Tòrr’s neck. When he doesn’t immediately sink his teeth into her shoulder, she takes a steadying breath.
“I’d better not lose any toes, Wolf. And even if this works, I have no idea if he’ll maintain his fae powers in the glamour.” She works cautiously, knitting her fingers through Tòrr’s mane so that the metallic strands come away a dull, coarse black.
She delicately puffs air into each of his eyes, and when he blinks, his red-tinged irises fade to a walnut brown.
For the final task, she runs her palms over every plane of Tòrr’s body as though wiping away dust, and when she stands back to admire her handiwork, he’s shrunk at least a foot in height.
He’s still the biggest damn horse I’ve ever seen—but at least he looks like a horse .
I give a low whistle. “I see why the Valveres pay you so much.”
As she wipes her hands in satisfaction, she slides me a sidelong look. “I don’t expect a thousand gold coins from you, Wolf Bowborn. Bringing Lady Sabine back will be payment enough.”
The locket with Sabine’s portrait burns a hole in my pocket. I will , I vow to any gods listening. I’ll bring her back or die trying.
Folke squeezes my wrist guard as he gives me a knowing look. “Go get your woman. Your memories, too. We’ll keep the guards off your back.”
“Thanks, old man.”
Folke smacks me fondly on the side of the head .
They each roll back one of the stable doors, letting in a burst of sunlight. A beam falls at my feet, illuminating the dust dancing in the air, and I have a second of doubt.
But then Myst nuzzles my shoulder, and I touch the outside of my pocket over the locket. I step on a mounting block and swing a leg over Myst.
“Okay, crazy mare. You tried to tell me what I needed to do, and I didn’t listen. I’m listening now. I can get us to the border. I need you to manage that fae beast so he doesn’t burn the entire kingdom in our wake.”
Myst’s head swings toward Tòrr as though giving him a stern look.
Tòrr stands tall in the center of the stable, swishing his black tail in impatience. He stomps one hoof. Even glamoured to look like a regular horse, he still has the arrogance of a fae.
“And you, Tòrr.” I point a finger at his nose. “I’ll make you a deal. No saddle. No bit. Not so much as a lead rope on your proud neck. But if you bolt into the woods and burn a couple of villages for fun, I’ll hunt you to the end of the earth. Got that?”
I’m no idiot—I know I’m only talking to myself. Trying to convince myself that I have any control over either of these crazy horses is a fool’s errand.
So when Tòrr pins his dark eyes on me and purposefully drags the tip of his front hoof through the straw dust on the floor, my jaw drops.
He moves his hoof forward, then down, then draws a circle.
O-U-T.
The letters are written in the dust, clear as day. I stare, gobsmacked, and he stamps a hoof to rattle me out of my stupor.
“Sure,” I mutter, running a hand down my face. “Sure. So, you can write. Good to know.”
He snorts a burst of steam in my face.
I signal Myst with my heel, and she pivots to face the exit. Tòrr falls into line with us, and I whisper a prayer that these two horses won’t be the death of me before I can reach Sabine.
“Let’s get our girl.”
I kick Myst into a gallop. Her muscles fire beneath me, propelling us forward, with Tòrr striding along at our side. We burst out of the stables to the surprised shouts of soldiers, but by the time they nock their arrows, we’ve already thundered across the courtyard.
Once we clear the castle gate, I look back over my shoulder, a preternatural sense picking up something from the furthest corner of my vision.
Over the square mass of the wall, I can just make out the top of Honor Tower.
In the uppermost window, Rian braces himself against the sill, gazing down at me with an inscrutable expression.
To him, I must look tiny as an ant, but I can see the cold glint of his eyes even from this distance, sharp as the edge of a blade.