Chapter 15
The moment she fell asleep, the strange, new labyrinth was waiting.
‘Not again,’ Ezer said, her breath forming before her in a thick cloud.
She’d never dreamt of this space before arriving in the north.
She found herself standing in the same entry spot, the sword in one hand, a torch in the other, the circular mouths of tunnels, all around.
The shadowed figure was here somewhere in the winding darkness.
The wind whistled. Here it was like it lived and thrived, and she swore it whispered her name.
‘Ezer.’
This time, it came from the tunnel to her left.
‘If you’re to say my name so constantly,’ Ezer whispered, ‘at least give me an indication as to why. And what you’re leading me towards.’
It was icy cold as it whistled past her tangled hair again, pushing her towards the tunnel to the left. A beckoning, if there ever was one.
She dipped her torch into the oil-lined ridge on the wall, expecting a living shadow, a monster, to be waiting for her at the farthest end.
But there were only doors.
Countless doors, just like the last tunnel. They each held the same ancient plaques beside them. The same strange symbols.
She paused to touch one, reaching out her hand.
But the wind suddenly whistled again, kicking up the folds of her cloak as if it were insistent that she keep on walking.
‘Fine,’ Ezer said.
She continued past frozen cobwebs that hung from the rafters. She used the sword to carve them aside. They tinkled as they fell to the icy tunnel floor, a sad little melody.
This place – her dreams – felt alive.
Every detail, important.
She followed the wind until the tunnel ended.
She’d come face to face with an enormous black door.
It was old, an ancient thing made of iron, but it had no markings. No plaque.
Ezer set her torch on the empty sconce beside it and tried the handle.
She didn’t expect it to be unlocked. But when she put her weight on it …
It clicked open.
There stood a different world entirely on the other side.
A house.
No, a tiny little cottage, and she stood right at its threshold.
Moonlight glimmered through a small cracked window across from her, sending a spear of silver light inside. Dust motes danced through the air as she took in every detail.
The walls were stone, the wood floors were worn and covered in a thick layer of grime. Whoever had lived here hadn’t been inside in quite some time.
There was a small bed at one end of the room, the quilt hand-stitched. Northern ice lilies for the pattern, she noted, like some of the ones she’d seen inside the Eagle’s Nest.
Beside the bed was a small table made of knotted wood, a candlestand with the candle long since melted away. On the other side was a small kitchen, a basin and a few cracked dishes, shaped from clay.
She tried to peer out of the window, but it was too filthy, and despite using her sleeve to try and clean it … the glass remained opaque, only allowing the moonlight to slip through.
She crossed to the hearth and breathed in the scent of woodsmoke that still lingered.
‘What is this place?’ Ezer asked softly.
The wind slid past her, tugging at the ends of her cloak until she came to a trunk at the foot of the bed. It was not unlike the one she had in her dormitory. An old wooden one of lovely make, with golden detailing across its edges.
The latch was broken, hanging by one rusted screw.
She glanced back over her shoulder, feeling as if she were being watched. She’d left the cottage door ajar, afraid she’d somehow wind up locked inside.
But there was just the tunnel, still glowing a cool blue, no monster waiting to trap her.
So Ezer knelt and opened the chest. She found a small bundle of cloth inside.
The fabric was stained, thick beneath her fingertips as she slowly unwrapped it.
Inside was a large black key.
A skeleton key, the brass detailing worn from time. It sat there, nestled in the bottom of the trunk like a treasure indeed. A tarnished chain hung around its top, the clasp open as if it were begging to be put on.
‘And what do you open?’ Ezer whispered to the key.
She thought of the darkness beyond this strange, forgotten room.
The doors she could never open, because they needed a key.
With trembling hands, she lifted the chain, holding the clasp as if to secure it around her neck.
But just before she did …
She thought she heard something shift in the hallway behind her.
The wind suddenly whistled past her ears, angry and cold.
And the door behind her slammed shut.
She woke to the sound of her own gasp, drenched in sweat.
‘Gods,’ Ezer hissed and sat up inside her bed in the Tower of Dhysis.
Her dreams were getting stranger, wilder, since arriving here.
Strange that Zey wasn’t sound asleep beside her. The Eagleminder was usually the first thing she saw when she sat up.
But her bed was empty.
‘Breakfast?’
Izill had arrived, her voice barely a whisper.
Ezer yawned as she dressed in a fresh set of black clothing she found carefully folded inside her trunk.
‘If we’re to do this every day,’ Izill said with a smile as she joined her by the hearth, ‘we might as well get to know one another. I’ll go first.’
Izill was two years younger than Ezer – a fast talker, but gentle as a turtle dove. And despite her lack of magic, she knew anything and everything there was to know about the Citadel.
‘I spend most of my days in the library when I’m not in the kitchens,’ Izill said. ‘Or on duty for Head Servant, tending to odds and ends. But it’s not so bad. I’ve a goal to make it to every floor of the library – to read every tome – before I’m called to the Ehver above.’
‘But that’s impossible,’ Ezer said. ‘There’s far too many.’
Izill shrugged. ‘Not if I’m only reading the spines.’
Ezer laughed at that. Then she leaned closer and asked, ‘The laws the Sacred are to keep. How many are there?’
Izill’s smile fell. ‘A thousand. We make a vow when we come of age and show our magic – or lack thereof, in my case – that we will keep the laws until our death.’
‘What happens if you don’t?’ Ezer asked.
Izill frowned. ‘Penance.’
‘You mean the brands,’ Ezer said.
Izill nodded. ‘I suppose that’s one way to put it. They say the brands are kindest. A moment of pain to absolve a lifetime of punishment. Centuries ago, it was far more barbaric. The removal of fingers or toes, or tongues, even … depending on the severity of the law broken.’
‘Zey had one last night,’ Ezer said. ‘A brand.’
Izill pursed her lips. ‘She is one of the strong-willed ones. A good trait in a Sacred. But sometimes … well, that trait must be softened. Honed, at the very least.’ Izill shrugged.
‘Zey wants to be the best. Sometimes her methods lead to breaking a few laws here and there. The War Table is quick to catch her falling short. They cannot have the younger ones looking up to a Sacred who follows her own ways, instead of the Five. Too many mistakes … and one might think she’s lost her allegiance. ’
Ezer took a sip of steaming coffee. ‘And what if penance isn’t enough to keep a Sacred in line?’
Izill’s eyes softened. ‘That’s why we have Absolution. Although I should warn you … steer clear of Zey when the festivities begin. You think she’s bad now? Imagine her when she’s two goblets of winterwine deep.’
Not a comforting thought. And yet a small tremor of excitement went through her. She supposed the next Absolution was coming, sooner or later. Bit by bit, she was getting a chance to see beyond the veil of the Sacred. To uncover the mysteries so many in Lordach would never know the answers to.
‘But what about beyond all that?’ Ezer asked. ‘What if a Sacred refuses to obey?’
Izill frowned. ‘Well … there’s a tale they tell us all when we are younglings, to help us understand the value of keeping the gods’ laws. The story of Wrenwyn the Wrong.’
Ezer’s ears perked up and she paused, mid-bite of her brown-sugared oatmeal. Izill had forced her to pile on three heaping spoonfuls, clucking over her weight like a mother hen. ‘I’ve heard of Wrenwyn. It’s a favorite of mine.’
Izill raised her brows. ‘Where?’
Ezer nodded and said with a full mouth, ‘My uncle Ervos told it to me when I was a child.’
Izill frowned, either at the way she ate, or her knowledge of Wrenwyn.
Ervos had told her the tale as a birthday present, when they hadn’t the funds to buy something tangible. But Ezer knew better than most children just how valuable stories could be.
How they lasted longer than flowers or sweets or lovely little trinkets.
How they so often took on a life of their own.
‘Strange,’ Izill said. ‘It’s a tale they tell us all as younglings. One as old as the walls themselves. But … well, I suppose some parts of an old Sacred story may have made it into the Outside, after all these years.’
Ezer wiped her mouth with her sleeve.
‘Here.’ Izill pursed her lips and passed her a napkin. ‘Wrenwyn’s story is a strange and dark tale, my friend.’
Ervos had said the same thing. It was more of a story to scare young children into remembering to say their prayers and stay in the Five’s favor.
But the story hadn’t scared her at all.
It had fascinated her.
Ezer nodded and said over a mouthful of scrambled eggs, ‘A terrible fate she met in the end.’
Izill’s eyes lit up. ‘You do know it. Did you know her final resting place was somewhere near the Sawteeth?’
At that, Ezer laughed. ‘It’s only a story, Izill. Wrenwyn wasn’t real.’
Izill smiled. ‘Perhaps to an Unconsecrated, raised beyond these walls. Here, we believe it’s ancient truth. At least, the parts that matter.’
‘I guess we’ll never know,’ Ezer said. She considered the breakfast spread before them and decided on a piece of buttered toast next. ‘Tell me your version?’
‘Of course,’ Izill said. She leaned forward, eyes wide, like she’d been waiting for years to find a new set of ears to tell this specific tale.