Chapter 7
Morning sunlight spilled through the window, a sharp reminder of the poor sleep I’d gotten last night.
Seraphim rolled out her map across the inn table, weighing the edges down with bottles of wine.
I glanced over it, trying and failing to read the strange shorthand scribbles the woman had riddled the parchment with.
“Here.” Seraphim tapped the main road, a few miles from the outpost.
Percy leaned forward, hat tipping low over his eyes. “What’s there?”
Eleos leaned on the back of my chair. “Serifos’ dungeons: where those who deserve execution are left to languish.”
Percy whistled. “Sounds like it’ll have high security.”
“I’d imagine.”
Seraphim uncorked a bottle and poured herself a glass. “There’s a dangerous chthonic being held there. I want to recruit him.”
Leaning back in my chair, I gazed out the window. The sun had barely risen, and she was already drinking?
Percy chuckled nervously. “You know what they say—one violent chthonic is enough.”
“Come, Percy.” Seraphim tutted. “Two is always better than one. Not every leg of this journey can be solved by bribes and sweet smiles. Should danger come, we’ll need someone to protect the three of you.” She paused to drink. “Unless you do remember your father’s lessons?”
Percy hastily looked away. “Alright, fine. Two chthonics.”
“Forgive me,” Eleos said gingerly. “But you’re the only chthonic I trust.”
Seraphim flashed him a smile, which did little to reassure him. Folding his arms atop my chair, he cast me a skeptical look.
Dropping my boots onto the floor, I leaned forward. “I thought you were going to share the whole plan.”
Tapping the map, Seraphim drew a line between Serifos and Cynthus.
“After we have the full team, the rest is simple. We travel, keeping a low profile until we arrive in Cynthus. The lords there are very strict about preventing entry into Duath Nun—they guard their borders like hawks, and we won’t slip by without permission. ”
I nodded. “You want me to convince them to let us through?”
“We’ll need a story. A good one.” Seraphim paused. “Luckily, it’ll take a while to get where we’re going. Think you can come up with a plan by then?”
I nodded, already considering a few possibilities. A royal decree from the king, perhaps? It wouldn’t be a complete lie—and tales with a nugget of truth were easiest to spin.
“But let’s stay focused on today.” Seraphim brushed a strand of fiery hair from her face. “Serifos’ dungeons are tightly guarded. How would our newest recruit suggest getting in and out?”
“Forge a transfer,” I said. “Stage ourselves as guards intending to move him. Get in, get out, prisoner in tow.”
“Who are we impersonating?”
“Someone that one of us resembles.” I tapped my chin, trying to think of a lord in the military. Ainwir had avoided them.
Percy rubbed the back of his neck. “I. . . have an idea”
Seraphim snorted into her wine, and Eleos’ eyes lit up. “Ah.”
“A relative?” I guessed. “Perfect. You can impersonate them. May I?” I gestured to Seraphim’s journal.
Opening the book to a blank page, Seraphim slid it across the table. Grabbing a quill, I jotted down a list of everything she’d need. Dyes, scrolls, disguises.
Pausing, I glanced up. A mind-reading psyche could make a useful sentry, searching the guards for growing suspicions. Seraphim could stay outside with the caravan, in case we needed rescue.
“Come with me.” I tore my page out and beckoned to Percy. “Tell me what this officer looks like.”
“Not like me,” Percy replied, looking to Seraphim for approval.
“We leave tomorrow,” she ordered. “Be quick.”
Pressing my back against the door, I pushed it open. Percy walked past me, much less of an eyesore than when we’d first met, though he couldn’t look more like an eccentric traveling minstrel.
A shirt embroidered with multiple bright colors lay open to his belt, and a matching patchwork of colors ringed his waist and trailed down to his knees. Puffed sleeves swept past my face as he bowed in gratitude.
The outpost bustled with activity, none of it hostile. Guards undoubtedly pursued us, but word had not reached this hamlet yet. The sun rose in a cloudless sky, drying the puddles from an overnight rainfall.
“So,” I said, walking alongside him. “How did a bard get caught up with all this?”
“Didn’t Eleos say?” Percy adjusted his hat. “I was in the cell beside them.”
“You never said what for.”
He flushed. “Bards, we. . . don’t always have a lot of coin. I came up short when paying for an inn and then got into an altercation with the bartender.”
“You fist fought a bartender?”
“He started it.” Percy cleared his throat. “Seraphim learned I had magic and asked me to join. She paid well.”
I tapped the torn page against my wrist, remembering the night we’d met. The wailing. Some horrible banshee scream had driven the crowd and guards away, clearing their path.
“You’re a muse,” I said. “I never understood how your magic works.”
“That’s because it’s so different between us all. Some use painting as a medium, and some dance. I play music, but it’s not my medium. And I doubt you’d guess what form it takes.”
“You’re right. I’m not the artistic type.” I walked sideways, studying him intently. “You know what they say: only those who lived extraordinary lives receive the gift of magic. So what’s your story?”
I asked the question with an inquisitive smile, but quickly regretted my levity. Percy’s face paled, and his cheerful expression vanished.
He was touched by the Empty. Any who were discovered to be tainted faced death, for fear they’d spread the void.
Percy answered quietly. “I sang requiems for funerals. Not a conventional career for a minstrel. Maybe that’s why.”
I could tell he was lying. The words came out quickly, and his mouth twitched. But I did not know him well enough to press. Nothing drove someone away quicker than digging into wounds that had yet to heal.
“Let me see that page of yours,” Percy asked.
Handing it to him, I watched as he leaned against a quiet wall and scribbled away. When he returned the page, a surprisingly detailed sketch of a man decorated the corner.
The older man’s portrait bore a resemblance to Percy, albeit with far more hair. This would be easy enough to replicate. Looking up, I examined his features.
“Is this your father?” I asked.
“How could you tell?”
“He looks just like you.”
“Oh, don’t say that.” Percy frowned. “Yes. He’s my father.”
Glancing down at the officer’s portrait, my mind wandered. Lords’ sons always inherited their land and titles. How had this one become a wandering bard who brawled with bartenders?
“Why not dye your hair?” I blurted out.
“We’ll have to. Pops has black hair.”
“No, not for the disguise. For yourself.”
“Why not?” He seemed surprised by the question. “I. . . I like it this way.”
“Oh.” I wasn’t sure what to say to that. Pushing open the door to a small fabric shop, I scanned the shelves.
Master Ainwir had taught me how to fill a basket with everything you’d need for a job without arousing suspicion. If I ever saw him again, I’d thank him for the lessons.
And then slit his throat.
* * *
Leaning against the inn’s stone wall, I slid onto the soft grass and sifted through the contents of my bag. Everything I needed to stitch together a noble’s dress and an officer’s cloak was here. Now we just needed a live body to strip a uniform from.
Something told me that was a task Seraphim would happily take care of.
The inn door swung open, and the woman in question emerged, bottle in hand. Dirt crusted her boots, and tears riddled her coat, but her confident stride commanded authority nonetheless.
“Drink?” She held out a glass.
“Thanks.” I accepted, crossing my legs and balancing the glass on my knee.
“You agreed to help.” Seraphim sat beside me, setting the bottle on the ground. “But I never asked you to join the team.”
“I assumed they were one and the same.”
“Not necessarily. We’ll need to have each other’s backs if we’re to forge into the unknown.”
I chuckled, sipping the wine. “I’ll join.”
Seraphim grinned, pouring herself a glass.
A couple walked by, laughing. The lights were still on in the tavern across the street. Shadows passed the windows. Dancing. Drinking.
It certainly didn’t seem like the world was ending. All my life, the Empty had simply been an obstacle to avoid. Everyone else thought the same. To city folk, it might as well not exist.
Seraphim gazed wistfully at the night sky. “Can you imagine a time when there were still miles and miles of sprawling country? Where lords fought over land?”
The world was a straight line: a populated road connected the cities. I couldn’t imagine anything different.
“There are no remnants of the battlefields,” Seraphim continued. “Everywhere victory was claimed, the Empty appeared in the wake of the bloodshed and swept them away.”
Shifting to face her, I tried to read her to no avail. “What’s your story?”
“I’m surprised you didn’t recognize my name.” Seraphim tugged on her braid. “The Cynthus royal family is famed for their locks, after all.”
I choked on my wine. The lord of Cynthus had cast his daughter out decades ago—since her exile, none had seen her nor spoken of her.
“No wonder I couldn’t place your face,” I said. “I assumed you’d died ages ago.”
“Most have forgotten me.” She picked idly at her coat. “But you understand how invisibility is an asset.”
“Your father went to great lengths to keep the scandal obscured. What did you do?”
“That is a story for another time.” Seraphim’s eyes flashed. “For now, I’ll tell you where I disappeared to.” She leaned in, anticipating my curiosity.
“Duath nun?”
“Dammit.” She frowned. “You were supposed to humor me.”
“How else would you have found the supposed Source?” I gestured with my glass, sloshing some wine. “How did you get past the border?”
“My brother helped me. He’ll be our man on the inside when we get there.”
“Lord Phaedrus himself?” I asked. “This’ll be easier than I thought.”