Chapter Thirty-Five Simran #2
She told Ophelia everything about Adder, and her growing suspicion that Adder was the Beast, or something similar to it. Ophelia’s tears finally fell, but her expression was resolute.
“Of course we’ll go to the archives,” said Ophelia. “There’s no question now.” She gripped Simran’s hand. “Thank you,” she said. “All I’ve wanted for many years is to know that the Beast is safe. This is the first hope I’ve had in a long, long time.”
The streets were growing steadily emptier.
In the midst of it, the cunning folk arrived: Ella, whom Simran had last seen over Mary’s body in a molly-house in another life, and Oliver, who offered her a relieved smile and a hug when he saw her.
They’d come at Hari’s request, and went to him directly, a circle of cunning folk and witches in the corner of the room.
Simran stayed at the front window. She could see blue lights in distant windows: candles set in funnels of iris-blue glass.
“The lights are the people of London telling the Eternal Prince they’re his allies,” murmured Vina, moving in close to stare out the window with her.
Vina was warm. Simran wanted to lean into her.
She heard a thump behind her. She turned and saw that Cora had dumped a pile of clothing on the table.
“What we wear as librarians is close to what the archivists wear,” said Cora. “It may pass, if no one looks too closely.”
“They won’t be shocked to see a knight in the Tower,” said Edmund. He’d exiled himself to the corner of the room, as far from Sarah (who was still threatening to hex his balls) as possible, where he was sitting cross-armed and mulish. “Vina. You still have armor?”
Vina shook her head.
“You do,” said Galath evenly. “Your own, left in the mountains after your capture. I kept it safe. Carried it from the witch’s tor to London, where the librarians preserved it among their collection.”
One of the librarians gestured at an apprentice in response. The girl ran off, and returned with her arms full of metal, her legs wobbling from the weight.
It was the fae-wrought armor Tristesse had garbed Vina in. Simran remembered it perfectly—its silvery color, its lightness and its silence, the way it had looked and felt when Vina had undressed her and pushed her back to the bed…
Her body flashed fever-hot. She ducked her head, hoping her blush wasn’t visible.
Vina was looking at the armor worshipfully. She raised her head, meeting Galath’s eyes.
“Why?” she asked.
“I knew you’d both return,” Galath said.
The look he gave Vina was even, unreadable to those who didn’t know him—but Simran did know him.
She’d known him for lifetimes. There was a softening to his jaw; a lightness in his eyes, as if the heart Elayne had seen in that chattering, sweet boy she’d saved was finally rising back to the surface, breaking the carapace of ice that had held it.
He loves her, Simran realized. It rushed over her then, the absurd and precious truth that Galath was finally not alone. Somehow, Hari and Vina had done for him what the witch had never been capable of, and made him whole.
Her Galath, Elayne’s Galath, finally knew love and family. He knew it with her only family: Hari, her brother of choice, the only person she’d let stay close; and Vina, her Vina.
It was miserable, how joyous she felt for them—and how deserted she felt, with the rift of a lifetime and all her loneliness between them.
As the hours passed, silence fell like a blanket across London. There was a cry, in the distance: the clamorous call of a dozen horses; their braying, and the sound of glorious trumpets, announcing the coming of the Eternal Prince. He was crossing into London. He was coming to take his throne.
“Let’s get going,” said Edmund. His face was pale, jaw determined.
They stepped outside. In librarian’s robes, the weight of them warm on her skin, Simran took a breath and looked out at the streets around them. It was time.
They traveled by barge to the Tower. Edmund arranged it.
Whatever he’d done since her death, he’d definitely risen in the Queen’s esteem and in her ranks.
Helmed and garbed as one of the Queen’s knights, he was a known face, and he told them he wouldn’t be questioned.
“I may not guard you anymore,” he said, with a sidelong look at Simran, “but I’m still a knight.
The Yeoman Warders won’t refuse me if I’m on the Queen’s business. ”
It was the rest of them that Simran was worried about. They’d dressed themselves as much like archivists as they could, but she felt like they were about as convincing as a faux death on the Theatre Royal’s stage.
Do not notice us, she thought. She drew on her magic, using the silvery surface of the Thames as her mirror. Avert your eyes. We are not worth your attention.
Warders on the walls spied the barge approaching and winched the gate open.
They passed under the shadow of the Traitor’s Gate.
The barge creaked; the water sloshed around them as the barge touched the steps.
Simran’s relief was short-lived. They’d passed the first hurdle.
Now they had to get through the Tower’s defenses to the White Tower itself, where the incarnate books were held.
Two high towers stood ahead of them. Beyond those stood the innermost ward, a defensive wall manned with warders.
A warder approached, nodding to Edmund. His eyes were narrowed.
“Sir knight,” he said. “Who summoned you?”
“Archivist Roland,” Edmund said. “He’s got questions about the missing witch. You going to let me pass?”
The warder hesitated. His gaze slid to the group at Edmund’s back: the witches and cunning folk; the librarians; Galath and Hari; and finally, Simran and Vina, standing next to one another. Despite all her magic, he saw Simran. Recognition flared in his eyes. He opened his mouth to yell.
Edmund punched him square in the jaw.
The warder keeled over, and Edmund shook his gloved hand out.
The ravens were watching them solemnly, darkly from the ramparts. They cawed in greeting. Peppermint flew down, unerringly landing on Simran’s shoulder.
“Get that bird to leave,” Cora said under her breath.
Simran stroked Peppermint’s glossy feathers, and got a sharp peck in return when no seeds were proffered. Peppermint’s beak had drawn blood. Simran rubbed her fingers together, soothing the sting. Her blood hummed.
They weren’t on the silver water anymore, and Simran didn’t want to rely on mirrors. It was time to return to the magic she loved best: the magic of body and blood.
They swept toward the innermost wall, where the best archers among the Yeoman Warders would be stationed. Oliver was the one who stepped forward. With a wink for Simran, he drew a paper lantern from within his sleeve.
“Lydia taught me this one,” he said, and murmured a blessing over the lantern.
The lantern unfolded, hovering in the air—then the paper opened, flared, transforming into a bird. She ignored the lump in her throat, the reflexive grief for Lydia. The bird swept over to her just as Peppermint had, and she touched her bloodied thumb to its beak.
“Let me,” said Hari. He added his blood alongside her own. “The strength of two witches is better than one. And I know your magic.” A faint smile. “It’s where mine came from.”
She poured her magic into that blood, and felt Hari’s weave in with her own. She did recognize his magic. It was like meeting an old friend.
“Go,” she said to the bird, and Oliver whistled.
The lantern bird flew up into the air. The lantern bird moved as fast as an arrow, shooting along the innermost wall, and the battlements at its zenith.
She closed her eyes, fixing her attention on the blood mark and the magic she’d poured into it.
Sleep, she urged. It’s time to sleep. I command you.
The bird brushed against warder after warder—each one slumping forward as it did so, caught by the snare of her and Hari’s spell. Her eyes snapped open.
“Quickly,” said Simran. “There are going to be more warders inside.”
“We will manage them,” said Galath. His eyes gleamed flatly.
No one had warned the guards at the White Tower that anything was amiss, but as Edmund stormed ahead of their group up the White Tower’s stairs, the warders quickly realized they were under attack. Simran saw one, then all four of them, draw their swords.
The witches moved together in a sweep to meet them, their voices joining in a chorus of curses.
It was quick—before the guards had a chance to do more than stride forward, fire exploded from the witches’ hands, flaring with a venomous hiss at the warders’ feet.
As one warder threw himself toward them through the flames, Tam murmured under his breath, magic sparking, and a twist of ill fortune made the warder’s legs go out from beneath him.
The man cried out in agony as the flames caught his leg.
A fellow warder took him by the armpits and dragged him back.
“Step back or burn,” Sarah said flatly. She was smiling, quite in her element. “And drop your weapons as you go. Thank you, dears.”
The warders reluctantly obeyed, flinching from the heat of the fire. Simran looked at the wooden boards of the stairs. The witches twisted the fire out of Simran’s path. There was a way forward.
They crossed the blistered, smoking boards of the stairs into the White Tower and slammed the heavy doors shut behind them. Edmund and Galath barred the door. “Put the fire out,” Simran said to Sarah. “Or we won’t be able to get out ourselves. Those stairs are wood all the way down.”
“Fine,” said Sarah. She clenched her hand, and the heat emanating through the door began to fade.
The group of cunning folk, witches, and librarians moved forward. Vina’s eyes met her own. There was hope in Vina’s eyes—a curve to her lips, fleeting and warm.