Chapter 19
The walls of Beranek manor had begun to close in on her like a tomb. Ksenia escaped into the crisp night with her hair still wet against her neck, but even the open air couldn’t quiet the whispers that followed her through Rothaven’s empty streets.
By the time she reached the entrance to the Vein, she was arguing with voices only she could hear. The underground tunnels stretched, and she drifted forward aimlessly, struggling to keep her attention on the path before her.
Eyes seemed to blink at her from rock crevices and cave mouths, always in her periphery. Jagged stone walls bore faces that seemed to turn and watch her pass, but when she faced them, they appeared ordinary. Just a trick of the light, she told herself.
She lurched deeper into the dark maw, her heart pounding in her temples. Ahead of her, the walls pulsed in, like they were breathing. Like they were swallowing.
She stumbled, catching herself against the stone.
The jagged shale sliced through her leather gloves, cutting into her palm—a solid, unmoving barrier. The pain was sharp before settling into a warm buzz.
“Listen to me—we’ve done enough for the Bound Eye.”
She whipped around, searching for—her voice…?
She stumbled into the street, the crowd flowing past her, oblivious.
“Dad always said we’re stronger together.” The barest whisper of Danika’s voice flooded her ear.
The whisper doubled back around her. She stared vacantly in front of her while strangers grimaced and gave her a wider berth.
It was a product of her hallucinations; Danika was alive and well in Hearth.
The king had no reason to dispose of her; she was the last bondsmith.
Danika was useful to the king.
Danika—
Her focus homed in on a figure, slumped face down in an alleyway, flaxen hair matted with blood. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. But she drifted forward anyway.
She stumbled to a stop and crouched before the body.
Her hand shook as she took hold of the figure’s slender shoulder, clearing away their stringy, tangled hair.
Blood had leeched from Ksenia’s face, her lips gray and numb.
She turned the body over—
And revealed a sack of rotted produce. Nothing human at all.
Tears of relief sprang to her traitorous eyes, blurring her surroundings into a wash of black, brown, and gray. Worn bounty posters of bondsmiths papered the wall. The lanterns swung overhead, leering in and out of her vision.
She rose from her haunches and heard a familiar, haunting tune.
A bondsmith lullaby, sung out in the open.
An old tune that smithing parents would sing to their children, teaching them to keep time with their hammer swings.
It cut through the street noise—clear and achingly familiar. Ksenia’s feet turned her in the direction of the siren song.
The woman’s voice was pure and clear, and she found herself on a corner, watching a street performer dance and sing. Her dress was clean but worn, mended carefully with mismatched fabric.
Her tune brought Ksenia back to a fond memory.
Her mother’s slender hands on hers. Guiding her grip on a hammer too heavy for her small hands. The lullaby setting a rhythm, striking on the verse and resting on the pause.
A body slammed into her, and the air punched out of Ksenia’s lungs.
“Someone stop him, please! He stole my money!” screamed the street performer.
Ksenia’s head swam as she pushed herself upright. The street twisted and turned upside down as her vision cleared to find a man sprinting off with an old apron full of jingling coins.
The woman sobbed.
Try as she might, Ksenia was no help in her condition, and she desperately needed to make a kill. But she needed her wits about her to make the right kill.
Her vision swam, colors swirling before fading to black.
Ksenia gasped awake, and a searing pain lanced through her skull.
Her cheek was sticky, and she groggily lifted her head off a grimy, wooden surface.
She looked about herself: mismatched chairs and tables, a mug of dark and sour-smelling ale half drunk in front of her, and a one-eyed bartender.
She had somehow led herself back to the Crooked Lantern.
She caught sight of a few patrons in the room and quickly realized that, had it not been for Marta, she might have been robbed or worse by now. She had no sense of time in the Vein, but the clientele was vibrant in the tavern still.
At a square table that was pockmarked with gouges sat a man with beady black eyes trained on the tavern door—waiting for someone.
His thinning black hair was pulled into a braid at his nape.
Ksenia’s focus narrowed on the apple bobbing in his throat as he took a hearty pull of his drink.
Dark ale leaked out of the corner of his mouth and splashed down onto his portly midsection.
He had several scratched gold rings on each hand, and one pierced through his brow.
The front door opened, and his gaze darkened.
A woman in clean but shabby clothes picked her way through the bustling tavern and seated herself at the square table.
Her voice quavered. “I—need more time.”
The man finished his drink and set down the heavy pewter mug.
“I had the money—but someone stole it during my performance.”
Ksenia’s stomach churned as she stared at the mug before her and listened, the dark liquid swirling with iridescent oil droplets.
“After everything I’ve done for you, Rinna.” He rubbed the bridge of his bulbous nose with his thick fingers and sighed. “I can’t believe it’s come to this.”
Rinna.
The realization slammed into Ksenia like she had come up for air after nearly drowning.
Tomas’s wife. The Drazan sisters had become close with his family near Brannfels. She owed much of her skill to his lessons and patient temperament, still mentoring apprentices in secret even after it became dangerous.
And Rinna had sung to their infant daughter while they worked in the dead of night. The same lullaby that had drawn Ksenia across the street before she blacked out.
She needed help, and Ksenia had been useless.
“I said I could protect your girl, but now I’m not so sure you can afford my help.” The man patted his stomach and made to leave. His motion skidded the table forward, and the woman scrambled in front of him, grabbing onto his vest.
“Please—please, I can! I just need more time! I’ll pay you double tomorrow.”
“I’ve heard that before.” He loomed over her with a crooked smile.
The woman wilted, pleading as he strode out of the Crooked Lantern.
Ksenia’s palms slammed against the table and she launched herself upright, the back of her chair hitting the wall. Fingers splayed wide, braced against the wood like claws seeking purchase, every muscle coiled.
Do something about it then, Vornaya hissed.
The soles of her boots crunched in the dirt as she tailed the man who was now dragging Rinna along by her arm.
Rinna barely resisted as she shuffled forward through the alleyways, whimpering softly.
In the darkness, she spotted the slip of mismatched fabric disappearing around the corner of a decrepit building.
Ksenia was met with a dead end of crumbling brick walls and refuse. The pair had vanished.
Heat flooded her face, then drained just as quickly, leaving her hands clammy. She had to find Rinna now.
Her foot swiped through the rubbish, sending cans skittering. She shoved aside a crate, kicked at scraps of fabric.
Nothing.
She stepped closer to the brick wall, searching for a hidden entrance, a clue, anything. Her foot creaked upon something wooden and hollow.
Leaping back, she cleared more debris to reveal a cellar door set in the floor. She tugged on the iron handle, but the door held shut.
Latched from the inside. She jammed her hand into her pocket, unearthing a hooked awl she had nicked from Varka’s forge. It fit snugly in the edge of the door jamb and slotted around the latch.
She wriggled it until she heard the click of metal. A draft of damp air escaped the wooden door as she eased it open.
Beneath, a tunnel yawned into the darkness. Lanterns were hung haphazardly on the walls, and the flames flickered as Ksenia shut the door overhead.
Caromir vibrated with anticipation in her palm, settling into the marrow of her bones, eager for blood. She felt the frenzy as well, becoming more exhilarated with each step forward.
Water dripped steadily from the ceiling and a shuffle of feet sounded in the distance—a pained whimper.
At her sides were cramped but vacant jail cells. The dirt looked recently disturbed, as if someone had been forcibly dragged out.
The pressure in her ears and skull twinged in a familiar way.
She lost track of how many cells she’d passed before her pace quickened.
Rinna was chained to a chair in the middle of a room, her white knuckles gripped around the wooden edge. The air was thick with blood, settling on Ksenia’s tongue, and the cobbled floors were dark and wet with a drainage hole in the center.
Rinna’s breath came sharp and ragged, muffled by a cloth gagging her mouth. Her face shone with tears.
Her eyes brightened, brows drawn upward together, straining when she spotted Ksenia.
Suddenly, she darted her gaze toward the corner of the room.
It was enough warning, and Ksenia scrambled from the threshold.
The blade of a scimitar skimmed the floor with a low and discordant toll, throwing yellow and white sparks as it sliced upward before Ksenia. It emitted a sonorous hum that sank into her bones: hellbound.
She advanced in effort to face the threat and immediately regretted it.
Tenterhooks hung from the ceilings and walls, full of limbs and half-hacked torsos. Pools of blood gathered beneath each one, running toward the drain.
Ksenia retched onto the floor and wiped her mouth, glaring.
The portly man from the tavern ripped off his vest and threw it to the ground, rolling his shoulders. The scimitar was a couple of feet long with a mottled brown patina, and its cutting edge was serrated with chips. Rust had crept into the hilt with orange-brown streaks.