Chapter 25
I barely sleep a wink. I know I need to, but I’m too restless, my body practically vibrating between anxiety and outright terror all night.
At breakfast the next morning, Saipha and I are so quiet that when her knife scrapes across her plate, it hits us both like a scream.
We lock eyes. Swallow down dry biscuit. And return our focus to our plates.
What can we say? I think we both feel far from ready.
Especially after getting a taste of what the inquisitors might throw at us on our second night.
Immediately following breakfast, we’re herded into the central atrium.
The inquisitors gather in the front of the hall, underneath the wrought iron balcony where Vicar Darius is currently perched. He grips the railing, eyes gleaming.
“Greetings yet again, my dear supplicants. You have made it through five days of your three weeks here.” He projects his voice so everyone can hear with ease. “It is a delight to learn that none of you have shown signs of the curse, so far.”
So far. Saipha and I share a glance. My focus shifts to where Lucan has positioned himself over her shoulder. Our eyes meet. He arches a brow and asks with a look, Allies?
I shrug noncommittally.
He rolls his eyes.
“But we must be thorough. We must ensure the curse is wrung from the bones of the already dead yet still living. There can be no doubt that when you are gilded, you are free of the pull of Ethershade. To do this, we shall challenge you. Test your mettle and your love and loyalty for Vinguard. You will act in service to the Creed and its Mercy Knights during these tests. Not only will you learn more about our city, its history, and our glorious purpose, but each of you will have the opportunity to prove whether you have what it takes to stand among the illustrious ranks of the Mercy Knights, defenders of Vinguard.”
Whispers of excitement. Supplicants stand a little taller, Saipha especially. I’m sure they’re already imagining catching the eye of a knight who will want them to be their page the second they step out of here.
“Now, follow the inquisitors and heed the commands of the knights who keep us safe,” the vicar finishes.
The inquisitors encircle us like a tightening noose as we fall into place behind the prelate.
She opens one of the previously barred doors in the atrium and guides us to a stairway.
We spiral farther and farther down, and for a moment, I think we’ll hit the basement where Saipha and I were tortured with green dragon poison.
We descend even deeper, until the walls of the staircase give way, and a hazy underground metropolis shines up at us like stars through a labyrinth of bridges and catwalks suspended from the hollowed-out ceiling of this massive cave.
We’re at the top of the Undercrust.
“I always forget how big it is,” Saipha murmurs.
“Me, too.” Mum took me down here once, long ago.
She was doing some research on the Font when she was still an Earthwarden.
It’s impossible to see the Font from way up here.
The whole city of the Undercrust is built into stalactites that hang beneath upper Vinguard and on ledges that cling to the walls as they stretch out over a vast abyss.
Far, far below, somewhere in that golden haze of Etherlight, is the legendary Font.
The last wellspring of Etherlight in the world.
It’s the only thing that gives us a fighting chance.
Saipha pauses at the railing of the bridge we’re on, but only for a second. “It’s hard to think people prefer this.” Her eyes dart to Horowin and his group.
“You can’t hear the bells this far below,” I say. “There’s a peace to that.”
“True, but it feels like giving up. That’s the last of our land up there.”
Spoken like a true Mercy Knight.
We arrive at an intersection, then another, before heading up a ramp. I try to keep track of where we might be in relation to the city above, but it’s impossible to tell from down here. The prelate opens a metal gate at the far end with a heavy clank.
The next set of stairs is so dimly lit that we’re relying on the walls to keep us upright as we pass back into the bedrock that’s the foundation of the Upper City. I hear supplicants behind me trip. Cursing. But no one stops.
As we ascend, the stone wall feels somehow softer under my fingernails. I imagine them sinking into it for purchase. There is a ripple in the darkness, like a breeze that shouldn’t exist. No, not in the darkness—underneath my skin.
I shiver, and my head hums. Then my vision sharpens unnaturally for just a second before a door ahead opens and everything blinks back to normal.
I can feel Lucan’s eyes on me, but I don’t dare glance behind for fear I’ll draw an inquisitor’s attention. Nor do I rub my sternum, where my scar feels like it’s been lit on fire.
We end in a massive, dungeon-like room. There are multiple pathways that extend farther into darkness—almost all of them barred. To the right is a heavy door, the old wood fortified with iron bars. The ceiling is so low that the taller supplicants, like Lucan, must crouch. And the air…
The air is thick with decay.
Supplicants around me gag. One boy with wavy brown hair I saw a few times in the library sways, leans against a wall, and turns up his breakfast. The inquisitors grab his elbow unceremoniously and wrench him away, dragging him across the room.
“I’m not— I was just—” Whatever else the supplicant was going to say is lost with the closing of a heavy door.
Don’t show weakness. The inquisitors know that a cursed is among us and are no doubt on edge. They will do whatever it takes to find who it is.
“I think I know where we are,” Saipha whispers. I glance in her direction. “Sundering pits.”
My jaw slackens slightly. It’d explain the stink, the strange in-between feeling of these rooms—not quite Upper City and not Undercrust—and the unnerving sensation I felt on the way here.
Slain dragons are taken to the sundering pits. According to the Creed, they can’t be left to rot aboveground because they might attract scavengers in the form of other dragons. Moreover, as they rot, the Creed says they release Ethershade, which could cause the scourge to break out within Vinguard.
The sundering pits break down the corpses of the dragons slain.
The belief is that when the carcass is disassembled, the Ethershade is less potent.
Less focused, less of a possibility to create harm to Vinguard or the Font with the thick crust of the earth protecting both above and below.
The dragons are broken down until the Ethershade is so minimal they can be left to rot in these passages that look right out of a nightmare.
Though Mum disagrees with all of this, of course.
“You will be assigned two to a room and given instructions by our knights,” the prelate says, her voice as sharp as a Mercy dagger.
All of us start looking around, sizing up who we might be paired with. I grip Saipha’s hand.
“Your performance will be scrutinized and judged. Remember that everything you are about to do is in service of Vinguard, the Creed, and those who lay down their lives upon the ramparts to keep us safe.”
No one dares say a word, every set of shoulders tight.
The prelate points to the heavy door the boy just went through. “Perform well. Do not give us a reason to take you through this door and administer a harsher test to ensure your heart has not been softened toward a dragon due to the curse.”
With no further warnings needed, the prelate begins to call out names, pairing people off with each other.
Horowin is paired with Rovin, another boy from the Undercrust. Cindel with Benj.
Nelly, the supplicant I saw fighting Cindel on the first night, with Daisy, whom I’ve only met in passing but I know is another Upper City supplicant.
The list goes on and more supplicants step forward, exchanging wide-eyed glances but with set, determined jaws.
As the prelate reads, Mercy Knights arrive, emerging from the halls in full regalia.
Saipha’s eyes widen, and her fingers tense around mine as she beholds them, like she hasn’t grown up seeing those dragon-blood capes and armor of leather dotted with silver plate that crackles with flames, sparks with lightning, or shimmers a nearly iridescent silver, depending on what sigils have been etched on the underside.
The knights guide the pairs down seemingly random hallways. The idea of no longer being in the care of inquisitors somehow feels more comforting.
“Isola Thaz,” the prelate calls.
I stand a little straighter and exhale a steadying breath, share one last look with Saipha, who dips her chin slightly, and move to the front of the pack.
Even though I can’t see the prelate’s eyes from underneath the shadow of her hood, I can feel her piercing stare.
The sensation of it prickles across my skin like the first frost of winter.
“Lucan Darius,” she calls next.
Lucan moves to my side with easy, confident strides.
His expression is calm, gaze detached, as though he’s a world away.
I never noticed how different his demeanor and expressions have become when we’ve been alone in the Tribunal.
This is the Lucan I’m most familiar with—the vicar’s adopted son, the unaffected, dutiful servant of the Creed.
Our eyes meet, and I quickly look away. Out of everyone, of course I would be paired with him.
The vicar’s hand is all over this match.
But…maybe it’s not the worst thing? Lucan’s proposal of an alliance with Saipha and me still dangles between us.
This could be a prime opportunity to test the mettle of his offer and formalize the obvious choice.
A knight steps forward and guides us away. Our walk down the corridor is far too long and incredibly claustrophobic, and I force myself to keep my breathing even. I imagine we’ve walked two or three city blocks when we finally arrive at a door.
The room we enter next feels even worse than the passage.
Before us is the head of a green dragon—one I recognize.
It’s the beast that attacked Vinguard the day Saipha and I snuck into the wall.
It’s festering with rot, scales barely clinging to the sludge that was once flesh and muscle.
Its neck has been unceremoniously hacked away.
Sinew and bone jut out at odd angles. I can’t prevent the shudder racing down my spine when I realize its eyes are now only empty, oozing red holes.
A trail of crusted blood connects the dragon to a colossal chute jutting out from high up on the wall.
Judging by the permanent stain at its opening, I assume it connects to the city—an easy way for Mercy Knights above to send pieces of dragon into the thick rock of the crust, away from both sky and Font.
“Your tools.” The Mercy Knight gestures unceremoniously to the wall at our left.
I stare at the wall and the tools that line it, stomach churning, knowing exactly what I’m about to be asked to do.