CHAPTER 30 #2
Kair Toren was only an hour away, but it might as well have been across the ocean.
This space felt like its own world, sacred and terrifying.
Being in it filled me with a vague dread.
I had a distinct feeling that it was better not to look at it too closely, because I might find something I couldn’t deal with.
“Do you need to rest?” Everard asked.
“No.” My legs still hurt like hell, despite the huge dose of bitter powder I’d taken before I left, but it didn’t matter. I needed to get this done.
We came to a fork. In front of us three stone gateways led deeper into the cave, on the left, on the right, and straight ahead. The passageways on the right and straight ahead were lit by lanterns.
Our guide stopped. Everard turned left and I walked with him.
The stone arch defining the left passage was so old, it had been worn nearly smooth. The darkness within it shivered like a living thing. Something was watching us from that deep gloom. I couldn’t see it or hear it, but I felt someone there.
We approached the archway. Everard held out a silver noma.
A man congealed from the darkness. He was wrapped in a tattered cloak, dark haired, with dark brown skin, and when the light of the lantern caught his face, his eyes were completely white and opaque, like the silver coin he’d just taken.
The man held out a rope. The other end of it disappeared into his garments. Everard took the rope with his left hand and offered me his right.
None of this was in the books. We were going to the Shears’ Larder, the hidden cave within the morgue where Solentine stashed bodies he wanted to keep on ice, but the text never described how to actually reach it.
I put my hand into Everard’s. His warm fingers closed around mine. It felt like someone had tied a lifeline to my waist in the middle of a storm.
The man turned without a word and disappeared into the passageway. Everard followed him and I let him lead me into the underground night. It wasn’t just dark, it was pitch-black, the gloom so thick, I couldn’t see anything in front of my face.
We kept going. There was no sense of progress or direction. It felt like we were walking in circles. The air was freezing now. I shivered within my cloak.
Ahead an eerie greenish glow fought through the darkness.
We passed through a narrow doorway into a cavern.
It must’ve been a meeting hall or some sort of formal chamber in its previous life—the walls still bore hints of carved reliefs and here and there columns jutted from the ground, holding up the arched ceiling.
But the war between man and nature was long over and nature had clearly won.
The human presence was a distant echo. Fungi had claimed the chamber.
Huge, shaped like corals, they climbed up the walls and filled the floor, glowing with green.
Around them grum mushrooms sprouted, the same type that now grew in our cellar back home, keeping our food from spoiling.
Between the fungi, a dozen stone slabs rose like altars. Most were empty, but the three in the front each held something.
The blind guide led us to the nearest slab and stepped aside, revealing an unmistakably human shape under a shroud of pale cloth. A corpse.
I let go of Everard, marched to the slab, and pulled back the fabric. The Butcher’s body rested on the stone, his clothes splattered with blood. He looked exactly as I remembered. Everard was right. He didn’t have a face anymore.
The blind guide withdrew, back into the darkness of the passageway.
I stared at the Butcher. Here he was, dead. Dead as a doornail. Permanently unalived.
Everard pulled out a dagger and pressed it into my hand. I almost jumped.
He nodded at the corpse. “Stab him.”
I gripped the dagger.
“Do you need help, Maggie?”
Hell no. I raised the dagger and drove it into the Butcher’s stomach. The corpse didn’t move. It didn’t even bleed. The knife just went in like I had stabbed a piece of meat.
Everard’s voice was almost wistful. “He is dead. I wish he wasn’t dead, so I could kill him, but he is a corpse.
In this world, Maggie, dead is dead. I know of only one exception.
I watched you come back to life. The wound on your neck knitted itself closed and then the blood on your throat evaporated. It was as if it never happened.”
The Butcher hadn’t regenerated. His wounds were still there, his blood was still there.
Everard reached into his clothes, pulled out a dark cloth, and held it out to me.
I yanked the dagger out of the body, took the cloth, and wiped the blade.
“Better?” Everard asked.
I nodded.
“I will bring you here every day if need be. You can hit him, you can spit on him, you can stab him. Whatever you want to do to reassure yourself that he is gone. We will do this however long you want, until you get tired of it. Until the sight of his corpse is just a boring fact.”
I cleared my throat. “No need. I’ve gotten what I came for.”
“Good. Let’s go home.”
PLANTER 27
My lady!”
I bolted straight up in bed just in time to see someone rush to me through the dark bedroom. Sushi saw them, too, and snapped her teeth.
The figure jerked back and hissed in Clover’s voice. “There is vermin on your bed!”
I hugged my guard vermin to keep her from attacking. Sushi growled but didn’t bite me, which was a win.
Behind Clover, Kaiden ran into the room, shut the door, barred it, and whipped around, illuminated by the moonlight streaming through the window. He was gripping a dagger.
“What’s going on?” I whispered.
“We’re under attack!” Clover whispered back. “His Grace told us to get in here, lock the door, and guard you.”
That explained the knife and little else.
I slipped off the bed and quietly opened the window. Prata’s moonlight was bright and silver, and every detail of the courtyard was clearly visible. On the right, a rope hung off the outer wall. I pressed against the side of the window. Clover and Kaiden crouched by the windowsill.
A group of dark figures emerged from our entrance tunnel. They had sent someone over the wall and that scout had opened the door for them.
One, two, three . . . Nine.
Who the hell were they?
Had the Conquerors discovered that Everard was here somehow? No, that couldn’t be right. Climbing over the wall and sneaking in wasn’t their style. They would’ve brought Wynand Bors, and he would’ve pounded on the door and bellowed loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood.
Was this Silveren’s Redeemers? It seemed like the kind of clandestine crap they would pull.
Was this Hreban retaliating for the Butcher?
Whoever they were, they’d found us.
The door below opened, and Everard walked into the open. He hadn’t bothered with a coif or a hood, and he was carrying a huge sword.
This wasn’t Reynald’s sword or Everard’s usual weapon.
The books had described Everard’s sword in excruciating detail.
The Emerald Blaze had a blade like a longsword, with a basket hilt like a rapier, and it was about forty-three inches long.
When Everard fought, speed and precision were most important, and protection was his weakness.
That hilt guarded his hand, because if he dropped his sword, the battle would be over for everyone.
The monstrosity in his hands right now was at least fifty-five inches long, with a guard that looked like something that should be growing on a longhorn bull’s head. He would have to swing it with two hands. That wasn’t how Everard fought.
The intruders spotted him and fanned out. Two of them, carrying short, brutal-looking spears, moved to the front.
Everard gripped his sword with both hands, leaned back on his left foot, and raised the weapon to his eye level, holding the massive blade parallel to the floor, pointing at his enemy. His wrists were crossed.
What the hell was going on? Was he going to take them all on by himself?
Behind Everard, the door thudded, and the Magnar brothers tore out, weapons in hand. Lute was half dressed—his tunic loose—and pale, gripping his sword. Will looked like he hadn’t even gone to bed.
Everard didn’t pay them any mind.
Gort burst out of the door.
The brothers flanked Everard, weapons ready.
“Harst!” Gort snarled.
Will and Lute backed away in unison, falling into a loose stance by the wine tree. Will caught the shaft of his axe with his left hand, while Lute rested his blade on his shoulder.
A battle command. All soldiers in Rellas drilled to instantly obey them, and that one meant hold position. Gort had been a kir, a sergeant, first in the King’s Army and then as a mercenary. When he barked an order, disobeying wasn’t an option. They wouldn’t move until Gort told them to.
One of the intruders stopped just like the brothers.
“Gort?” he asked, his voice uncertain.
Gort turned to him. “Tillmar?”
Tillmar backed away from the group and parked himself by the wall, his sword down.
“What the fuck are you doing?” one of the attackers snarled.
“I’m done,” Tillmar told him.
“The fuck you are!”
“Today,” Everard snapped.
The eight remaining intruders charged.
They came at Everard in a pack, like wolves trying to encircle a deer, the two spearmen in the lead.
The taller spearman lunged, aiming for Everard’s stomach.
The Sleepless Duke knocked the spear to the left with his arm and drove the point of his sword into the man’s face.
The second spearman thrust from the side, and Everard shoved the first intruder at him.
The second attacker stumbled, trying to avoid the body.
The point of his spear dipped. Everard smashed the flat of his sword against it.
The spear touched the ground. Everard stepped on it.
The spearman bent his knees, trying to wrench the weapon up, and Everard stabbed at his neck, lightning fast.
It happened so quick, less than two seconds, and then the two spearmen collapsed, while Everard was on his feet in a circle of attackers.