Chapter 39
“This way.” I guide us down the residence hall steps, into the central atrium, and straight for the stairs where I saw the fleck of red.
Black dragon shield. As we descend farther, I scan for anything that might even suggest a black dragon shield, trusting Lucan to keep an eye out for others who might have followed us—or inquisitors. I suspect we’re hunting for a place we’re not supposed to be.
The stairway ends in a room lined with enormous wooden casks on either side that are twice my height in diameter.
I ignored this room after a brief search on the first day because it seemed like a remnant of a bygone era.
Alcohol is an extreme luxury. It’s not necessary for survival, so very little resources are allocated to it.
Most production is private and funded by the super wealthy.
There would never be enough produced in a single year to fill even one of these casks.
Maybe long ago, when Vinguard had more fertile land around the Upper City, but not now.
So why are they still here? It must mean something.
“What are we looking for?” Lucan asks, keeping his voice low.
“A black dragon, and a shield.” I walk down the rows of massive casks, studying the markings on the ends. There’s nothing remotely resembling a dragon or a shield. They’re all stamped with the marks of vineyards and vintners long gone.
He follows my lead, also scanning the casks. “I don’t see either.”
“Could we be in the wrong spot?”
“I—” I’m silenced as I spot a small label I overlooked. The name has almost completely flaked off: Shield Vintages. The name is painted in a delicate, flowing script on a field of black-and-white flowers.
I cross to get a closer look.
“Shield Vintages,” Lucan reads aloud as he joins me. “But I don’t see a black dragon.”
“It’s not obvious,” I agree, a smile curling my lips. Callon knew I’d find it. He knew because he knows just how much I learned from Mum about the earth. “There is no ‘black’ dragon. Copper, green, purple, yellow, silver—no black.”
“There’s no dragon at all here.” Lucan squints, as if trying to figure out what’s making me so confident.
“No. But there is this.” I press my finger into one of the painted flowers: dragon’s breath done in black ink. “Black Dragon… Shield.”
“It seems like a stretch.”
“Unless you have a better idea?” I give it a knock, and it’s hollow, just as I suspected. I start searching for an opening or seam somewhere on the sides of the cask, thinking of the hidden door in the basement.
Lucan shifts to cover me as I search, his gaze trained on the stairs. “Maybe—”
“Ah-ha.” I find what I’m looking for—a vertical cut through the curved planks, not visible from the front.
There’s another to the left of it. It’s a tight squeeze between the two casks, so I assume the door pushes in, and I’m proved right.
It’s the same rush as whenever I managed to find a new door on the wall. A heady burst of hope.
Lucan’s eyes widen. He squeezes in beside me. “Do we go inside?”
“I didn’t come this far to back down now.”
“And here you want to call yourself a coward.” His breath is warm on my neck, sending shivers down my spine.
For a second, I very nearly lean into him.
To surrender, selfishly, to the safety he unknowingly offers.
No starvation, no Tribunal, no dragons—only his warm hands and kind eyes and reassuring words.
“Isola?” Lucan’s tone shifts to concern.
“Sorry,” I murmur, duck my head, and step through the secret door, still far too aware of him as he follows me inside.
The interior of the cask is large enough to fit three people comfortably. There’s no back to it. Instead, it’s flush against the wall, with an opening carved through the stone. The inquisitors’ ability to create secret passages for themselves continues to impress me.
Light streams in through the gap. We share a look and slowly make our way toward the end, leaning against the strip of stone wall on either side of the opening, backs pressed into the curve of the cask, making ourselves as small as possible as we peer into the bright room beyond.
It’s a well-appointed kitchen. Pots and pans hang from hooks over darkened stoves. It’s spotless and completely vacant. Unsurprising, since it hasn’t seen much use for days now. My stomach grumbles and burns at the thought.
I get Lucan’s attention and point to a far corner, mouthing, Over there.
He leans a bit more to follow where I’m pointing—a door that looks very much like it’d be a larder. He returns to the safety of cover, locking eyes with me. We both share a wordless exchange I’ve only ever experienced with Saipha before. Without a sound, we know exactly what we’re going to do.
With a nod in unison, we move, keeping ourselves low while darting through the empty kitchen. Lucan is faster and opens the door. Luckily, it’s not locked. Like two little rats, we scurry inside.
The aroma of food hits me harder than the blow of one of the curates’ mallets during the vicar’s training in the months before the Tribunal. I stare in awe at the stocked larder. My stomach rumbles again, and a bit of saliva escapes from the corner of my mouth.
There’s dense barley bread in flat loaves, salted pork, dehydrated fruits and mushrooms, wheels of hardened cheese, even fresh kale and root vegetables… It’s all here and more. Food that we never saw, even from the start, as supplicants.
So much, and we can’t even bring back any to share with the rest of the supplicants whose stomachs are twisting in knots just as painful as mine.
There’s no way we could carry enough. And even if we could, it’d risk the other supplicants thinking we’ve “held out” like Benj accused us of and actually turning on us.
Or, worse, the inquisitors knowing we found their secret passage to the kitchen.
And who knows what they’d do to us then.
Still, I can’t stop a scowl that’s directed at the inquisitors who aren’t even here. How dare they do this to us. Rage, as hot as the vicar made me feel when I was helpless on the floor, flares in me. I’m so sick of feeling helpless, crushed beneath the authority of people I don’t even respect.
Lucan grabs my hand and leans in to whisper, “We can only take a little of each thing, so they won’t notice missing food, but eat what you can while you do.” He continues to read my mind.
I grab an empty burlap grain bag from a hook near the shelves and alternate between shoving fistfuls of dried mushrooms into the bag and into my mouth. Tying up the strings on the bag, I attach it to my hip. The snap of a carrot between my teeth is immeasurably satisfying.
“You cannot bring that,” Lucan whispers when he catches me staring at a massive chunk of honeycomb.
“I know.” Even as I say it, I’m contemplating if there’s some way I can. “I’ve only ever tasted honey once before. It was Saipha’s birthday present, and I feel like it’d really mean a lot to her if she could have it now—give her some strength.”
He catches my hand midair as I’m reaching for it. “It’ll mean a lot more to her to survive, or even excel in, the next challenge with more substantive food.”
“Absolutely.” I lower my hand, and he turns back to stuffing dried peas in his bag. When he’s not looking, I slice off a small piece of the comb and wrap it in a nearby waxed cloth. Sometimes it’s about feeding your soul as much as it is feeding your belly.
I run my index finger where honey has pooled on the edge of the tray under the comb and bring my finger to my lips.
The explosion of sweetness is almost enough to make my teeth ache.
I wonder if it’s here for the prelate. Imagining her lounging and eating honey on toast has me violently shoving slabs of salted pork in my bag—far more pragmatic.
Though I don’t miss the opportunity to filch a handful of berries, too.
I’ve never stolen anything in my life, and after years upon years of being the “good girl” and staying in line, there’s something immensely freeing about it. Especially here and now. And you thought you’d beat me, I want to tell the inquisitors.
The screeching of hinges as a door opens, followed swiftly by it snapping shut, has Lucan and me freezing mid-grab. It’s followed by footsteps, then voices.
“…downside of the kitchens being closed is we don’t get a hot meal, either,” a man says.
“No one is stopping you from cooking,” a woman responds. It’s not the prelate.
Lucan and I lock eyes. It’s impossible to tell what direction the voices are coming from, but they’re getting closer.
Lucan grabs my arm and tugs. We wedge ourselves between the wall and some barrels of potatoes.
He grabs a large, empty grain bag from the hook, and we kneel down as he throws it over us like a blanket. And not a second too soon.
The door creaks as it opens. Crouched low, I can see this section of the larder through the gap between the two barrels we’re hidden behind, but they’re still around the corner. My heart is racing in my chest.
“I’m a shit cook,” the man says, his footsteps growing closer. I hold my breath as Lucan keeps the sack in place. “Maybe you could?”
She snorts. “I’m no better a cook than you, and you know it.”
My breath catches as they turn the corner.
The inquisitors have their hoods lowered, and it’s surreal to see them as…
people. They’re not faceless, brutal shadows.
They’re as much flesh and blood as either of us.
I knew this, of course. But it’s so easy to forget when they’re the ones enforcing the rules in here with iron fists…
“The kitchens will open after their test tomorrow,” the woman says. “Eat then.”
“I certainly will. But I’m hungry now.” The man heads our way.
Lucan shifts, trying to press his large body farther back.
The man halts, eyes locked on the honeycomb.
Lucan looks my way, and I know I should feel guilty for what I did—especially if I get us caught…
But the rage I felt is still too fresh in my veins.
I’m hungry, and tired, and fed up with feeling scared, and I’m about to throw fists over my friend having a taste of honeycomb if I must.
“Didn’t we just get this, like, an hour ago?” the man says, leaning close to see my obvious cut corner of the honeycomb. “Who was here?”
“No one. Everyone else is getting ready for tomorrow.” The woman walks over to check it out.
My whole body tenses. My better sense screams to be quiet and wait. They’ll leave to investigate. But that other part of me is still ready to fight. If they—
Bells.
Frantic. High- and low-pitched. It’s the sound of fear in Vinguard.
They both sprint from the room, leaving their food behind.
Lucan and I wait, but only a second. The inquisitors are not coming back. Not with the bells ringing…
A dragon is attacking.