Chapter 11
For the first time in years, Ezer dreamt of something new.
She was standing in a dark and icy labyrinth, a depthless place with frost-covered walls of black stone. Tunnels lined the walls all around her, gaping mouths of shadow that looked the same, no matter which direction she turned.
Ezer shivered, her breath forming in thick white clouds.
‘Hello?’ she whispered.
Only the echo of her own voice answered back.
She looked down, and realized she held a flaming torch in one hand.
And in the other, a black sword.
It was a short blade, with wings for a guard.
And though Ezer knew nothing of swordplay …
it was comfortable in her grasp. It was covered in strange, angular markings.
Symbols she’d never seen before, for they were not quite runes.
She felt that they were something other.
She ran her bare fingertips across one, surprised when a shiver ran through her body.
It was not from the cold, but from the feeling that she was skimming her hands across the gravestone of a loved one she had not seen for centuries.
Familiar.
But not enough to spark any sort of memory.
The air was bitter cold, tearing through her cape despite the lovely flame-shaped runes that had been stitched into the fabric.
‘This isn’t real,’ Ezer told herself. ‘I can wake up from my dreams any time I like.’
And yet, try as she might …
She couldn’t.
‘Nightmare, then,’ she muttered.
She angled her torch, searching for a way out. Strange, that she could not see without the firelight. That the darkness here was so deep, it stole even the small magic she had in her scarred eye.
The same damned tunnels were all around her, carved out of black rock and the ice itself.
She could not keep track of them, so identical that—
‘Ezer. This way.’
The voice of the wind had come from just behind her again.
She spun.
And found herself on the threshold of another tunnel.
The darkness inside was full of doors.
Endlessly, they stretched on, lining the frozen, rounded walls. There was a groove to her right, filled with sticky black oil. Instinctively, she dipped her torch into it.
The groove blazed to life, snaking far into the tunnel until it illuminated the whole place with a soft orange glow that bounded off the frosty walls.
The doors were all ancient, dark as pitch, though a slight golden shimmer sparkled in each one. Like the darkness was webbed through with glittering veins.
They had no handles, no windows, no sign of what lay in waiting beyond.
But there were worn plaques on the stone walls beside each door, and the inscriptions had been carved in that same strange, angular language as on her sword.
At the end of the tunnel, the path forked two ways.
Ezer took a right and found herself at the threshold of another tunnel, identical to the last. Twist after twist, turn after turn, each passage was the same.
The deeper she went into the labyrinth, the worse the cold became, until she could scarcely move her fingertips for the ice now coating her veins. Even her torch protested, but she continued to dip it into oil-filled groove after groove, grateful for the path the fire made through the maze.
She came to another fork.
The tunnel on the left was undisturbed – and so thick with a curtain of ice-crusted cobwebs she would have had to sweep them aside to pass through.
She turned to the right instead, and found the frost had formed so thickly on the floor that it looked like snow.
And … it had been disturbed.
It was not footprints that marked it, but rather a thick, sweeping line, like the fringes of a long cape.
Ezer’s hand dropped to her sword.
Some part of her sensed that in this dream, in this labyrinth …
She knew how to wield it.
She knew how to kill with it in a thousand ways.
She had just knelt to run her fingertips across the marking, when the air behind her shifted.
The hair on the back of her neck prickled, and suddenly she could feel the weight of eyes upon her back.
As if she were not alone in here, after all.
There was nowhere to go, nothing to do but force herself to turn and face whatever was watching her from the darkness.
Her hand on her blade, Ezer stood.
She could have sworn she saw a shadow slip around the corner.
‘Who … who’s there?’ she whispered. ‘Show yourself!’
Perhaps it was only her mind playing tricks on her. Only the fear coming to life.
But then the ground kicked up, and with a whoosh, a sudden gust of wind soared down the tunnel.
And her torch went out.
Ezer woke with a jolt to the smell of burning wood, her body warm and …
Was that snoring?
The dream faded like candle smoke. She yawned, opened her eyes in full …
And promptly sat upright so fast her head spun.
She was in the middle of a large room, the walls and ceilings made of white stones with ornately carved wooden beams. A wall of windows to her right – the source of the soft light spilling into the room – was covered by sheer white curtains from floor to ceiling.
Lovely, with delicate golden stitched runes that swirled across the fabric.
The Citadel, Ezer thought.
She was surrounded by rows of ornately carved wooden beds covered in plush white blankets – and sprawled bodies. All women, some as young as thirteen or fourteen. Others could have been twenty, like her. None were much older. Sacred didn’t last that long in times of war.
They were all asleep from the sound of snores and steady breathing.
Some wore grey, the color of Scribes.
Some wore white, with color-backed patches to depict their pillared god, while others had golden hoods. Eagleminders, like Kinlear.
They were all Sacred.
Ezer reached up to rub sleep from her eyes, then hissed through her teeth at the hellish pain that suddenly blossomed across her face.
Gods be damned.
She’d broken her nose, and with another terrible throb came a wave of memories as she pieced everything back into place.
The Aviary.
The raphon.
It was night when she’d survived the run-in with the beast, but now gentle morning light winked in through the long white curtains. Had she slept here one night or more?
A quick check revealed the ring on her thumb was still in place.
Someone had placed a heavy blanket over her, the fabric edged with plush velvet and embroidered ice lilies.
She pushed the blanket off, trying to keep quiet.
She winced as the young woman next to her snorted and rolled over, turning to face Ezer.
Ice filled her veins.
It was Zey.
The blonde Eagleminder from earlier, whose demonstration with the fledgling Ezer had utterly destroyed.
What in the name of the gods am I doing here?
She needed to find someone to explain to her why she was here, with the Sacred … instead of inside the Ravenminder’s tower alone with her birds.
She swung her legs over the side of her bed and noticed she had a trunk.
She nudged the lid open to find it had an outfit folded carefully inside.
A quick inspection revealed it was a pair of black leather trousers and a long-sleeved tunic, a heavy black velvet cloak – the clasp at the throat was a pair of dark wings – and a pair of black leather boots that looked to be just her size.
The fabric was lovely, the stitching of every piece of finer make than anything she’d ever held.
A doorway to her right creaked open, and a young woman in a brown servant’s cloak entered. Ezer caught a glimpse of the hall behind her – arched ceilings, a wide white stone hallway – before the door snapped shut.
‘Oh! You’re awake.’
Her voice was delicate, a gentle squeak of a thing that reminded Ezer of a little tavern mouse. Her eyes widened – bright blue, like Arawn’s – and she waved Ezer over. ‘Well, come on! Get dressed and join me by the fire before the rest of them wake. They’re not entirely pleased about this.’
She kicked off her boots, leaving them beside the door before she walked as silent as a doe to the enormous hearth with flames flickering merrily on the farthest side of the room.
A large worn leather couch sat across from it, with an old wooden table and chairs, and several bookshelves loaded with yellowed tomes.
Like a common area in a dormitory.
Slowly, Ezer stood. She had on her old tunic and trousers, but the brown servant’s cloak she’d borrowed inside the Eagles’ Nest was nowhere to be found. Which meant at some point, someone – gods only knew who – had carried her from the Aviary. Removed her cloak. And tucked her into a foreign bed.
Her stomach churned, for the last face she had seen was that of the prince.
Princes, she corrected herself, because it had been both Kinlear and Arawn, melding together into one.
With a sigh, she quickly changed into the new clothing, all too aware of how each piece, even the boots, was a perfect fit. She secured the dark cloak over her shoulders with the winged clasp, feeling for all the world like a specter in shadow-black.
A color that stood out, painfully, in a world of pristine, snow-white.
Silently, she tiptoed across the cold white marble floors, making her way past the others still sound asleep in their ornate beds.
‘Um. Good morning.’ Ezer kept her voice low as she approached the young woman, who sat with her head back and her eyes closed, as if she were finally gathering a moment of peace. She had soft brown hair braided in a band across her head and was not much larger in stature than Ezer.
She winked open an eye, as if she sensed the shadow of Ezer standing over her. ‘You’re blocking the fire.’
So Ezer sat down beside her.
The young woman lolled her head to the left, as if she couldn’t be bothered to sit up all the way. ‘The clothing fits as nicely as I’d hoped. But you, my friend… well, gods know I can’t lie. You look awful.’
‘I broke my nose,’ Ezer said.
A log split in half, sending a wave of sparks upwards into the hearth.
She didn’t mention the raphon.
‘I can see that.’