Authors: Karyn Henley
“Sooner happens to be to your advantage,” said Benasin.
“Dear brother, I must look to the future. For Stalia’s sake.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Melaia could see Trevin and Dwin exchanging sharp words. She wished she had not left the knife in her pack at the temple. Everyone else had a dagger.
“You deceive yourself, Dandreij,” said Benasin. “You’re not providing for your daughter; you’re exacting revenge.”
Melaia bit her lip. Stalia. Daughter of the Firstborn. Of course. She was entangled in this too.
“You call it revenge,” said Lord Rejius. “I call it justice. You thought you could take refuge in Camrithia, but Camrithia will soon be mine, and then where will you run? You know that wherever you go, I’ll find you. Whatever you value will become mine.” He pointed a single taloned finger. A thin bolt of thunderlight hissed out.
Melaia ducked as the bolt struck Benasin’s right arm. With a sharp cry he stumbled back into her. She steadied him.
Trevin started toward them, then halted. Dwin grabbed the harp and carried it into the shadowed alcove.
Benasin cradled his wounded arm. “Revenge will eat you alive, Dandreij. Steal your human soul. Turn you into an animal. It’s a trap. But you still have time to free yourself.”
“Time?” Lord Rejius laughed. “What is time to an immortal? I have all eternity.”
“Don’t count on it,” said Benasin. “When the Tree is restored—”
“A dream, brother. A delusion. Once I have the third harp, my eternity is secured, and I shall be free.”
“You’ll be bound,” said Benasin. “Bound forever. Vengeance is a demanding slave driver, and you, Dandreij, are the slave. By your own choice, no less.”
“And whose choice was it to abduct my daughter, to send her to an early death?”
“I’ve tried to explain—”
“So have I. Everything I do is for Stalia.”
“Everything you do is for you.”
“Your self-righteousness sickens me.” Lord Rejius raised both arms. They shriveled and twisted sideways as black feathers emerged from his skin.
Benasin nudged Melaia toward the door. “Get out!” His own arms began to transform.
Lord Rejius’s face contorted, more bird now than man.
“Out!” Benasin shoved Melaia, not with an arm, but with a wing. She ran.
The cry of the hawkman followed her down the stairs as he screeched, “Dwin! Take the girl!”
“I’m already after her,” called Trevin.
Melaia stumbled down the stairs, retraced the torchlit corridor at a run, dodged servants, and headed for the entryway. But Caepio and his actors were milling around the door to the great hall, preparing to enter. Melaia groaned, knowing they would hail her if they saw her. Yet she couldn’t turn back, for Trevin’s footsteps echoed behind her.
Slipping into the shadows behind the marble columns, Melaia wove her way to the front doors, then dashed to the portal guard. “Lord Rejius needs help in the aerie!” she told him. “Quick!”
As the guard trotted toward the east corridor, she shoved a door open and made the same claim to the two outer guards, who were already gaping at the
aerie window. A succession of screeches and squawks ripped the air. The guards rushed inside, and Melaia ran down the steps into the courtyard.
The few people in the yard, including the stableboy, stood like statues, gazing toward the aerie. Melaia grabbed the stableboy’s arm. “I need help!”
He stared at her, wide-eyed. “If it’s about the aerie, lady, I’ll not get mixed up in it.”
“Ho there!” a gate guard called out.
Melaia shrank behind the stableboy as the guard ran toward the palace, sword in hand. Trevin stood at the top of the steps, scanning the yard. Dwin shot out from the doors behind him.
“Am I needed?” asked the guard.
“We’re looking for a lady,” said Dwin. “A priestess.”
The stableboy shifted.
“Don’t,” whispered Melaia, edging back behind him.
But Trevin had already spotted her. His gaze held hers for a moment. Then he turned to the guard and called, “Check the temple.”
Melaia ducked into the stable. “What is he doing?” she murmured. Did he intend to take her himself? She glanced out the door, fully expecting to see Trevin loping toward the stables.
Instead, she saw Dwin hit him on the arm. “I can’t believe a girl outran you,” he griped.
“Maybe she didn’t,” Trevin shouted, shoving Dwin. “Maybe she’s still inside.” They both barged back through the bronze doors.
Melaia leaned against the wall and tried to catch her breath. The courtyard fell eerily quiet. No squawks. No yelling. Nothing. She wondered if it was too late to help Benasin. Livia was the only person she could think of who might be able to help, but getting to Livia seemed out of the question with the courtyard being watched and the temple being searched.
A squat, bandy-legged man with a weathered face stepped from a stall as horses bobbed their heads over the rails and eyed Melaia. “Agues and ailments, lady, you spooked too?” The man ran his fingers through his dirt brown hair,
which stuck out like an unweeded garden. “All that racket. I was just calming the horses.”
She stared at him, panting, wondering if she should run.
He grabbed a rag and wiped his callous hands. “I’m Armsman Pymbric. Or just Pym, if it suits you. And you’re?”
She took a cautious step toward him. “Melaia. Livia told me about you.”
“You know Livia?”
Melaia nodded. “She’s at the temple, but the guards are there looking for me.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Are you involved in the ruckus?”
“It’s Lord Rejius. He attacked my friend Benasin in the aerie, and I ran.”
“Benasin? I traveled in with him today. Just saw to his mount. He’s in the aerie, you say?” Pym peered out into the courtyard.
“He’s wounded. I have to go back and see if I can help him. And the harp is up there.”
Pym shook his head. “I generally stay as far as I can from the quarrels of other men—and twice as far from the quarrels of angels.”
“Not angels. Immortals.”
“Danger, they are, either one.” Pym fingered the hilt of a dagger that hung at his side. “But if it’s Benasin in trouble …”
Melaia peeked out the stable door. Lord Rejius strutted along the top of the palace steps, directing the search. A guard headed to the stables, and she shrank into the shadows. “Is there another way out?”
Pym motioned for her to follow. They slipped past the stalls to the north side of the stables, where a door opened into a smaller courtyard. Keeping to the shadows, they crossed the yard and ducked into the palace through the servants’ entrance.
“We’d best act like we know where we’re going,” whispered Pym. “Do you know the way?”
“East tower.” Melaia strode ahead. “Front of the palace.” She hoped she
was going the right direction. All the hallways looked the same. Then she heard voices and flattened her back to the wall.
Trevin and Dwin emerged from a stairwell ahead and trudged the opposite direction. “We can’t just leave him up there,” said Trevin. “He may still be alive.”
“He’ll be dead by the time the guards come to take his body,” said Dwin. “I can’t believe the lady outran you. You should have let me take the chase. You’re as slow as a hobbled mule.” Their bickering faded with their footsteps.
Melaia dashed to the stairs and headed up with Pym right behind her. She edged into the aerie, which was deathly silent. One lamp burned low. All the draks were gone. The harp was gone. But Benasin lay in one corner, burned and bleeding. Melaia could see his spirit bordering his body.
“He
is
alive!” She ran to him and knelt. “We can carry him to the stables. Then when it’s clear, the temple.”
“How, lady?” asked Pym. “We can hardly move unnoticed as it is, much less bearing a wounded man.”
She slipped her arms under Benasin and strained to lift him to his feet. Pym added his support, but they only succeeded in dragging him a short distance.
“Pym. Mellie. Leave me,” Benasin groaned. “Let me lie.” They laid him down.
Melaia watched his spirit in its death struggle. “I thought you were immortal,” she said.
Benasin’s eyes were closed, but the corner of his mouth twitched up. “Immortal. Yes.”
“What do you need?” asked Melaia. “How can I help?”
He made no answer as he struggled to breathe.
She couldn’t see him clearly through her tears. As she pulled his cloak around him the way she had done for the Erielyon, his spirit pooled around her wrists, not with the aloof vibration of a stranger’s spirit, but with the intimate
embrace of a friend. She began to hum a song of comfort, her throat so swollen she could hardly keep the tune.
Hoofbeats sounded in the courtyard, and Pym peered out the window. “Talonmasters. They’re malevolents. If I may say so, lady, we’d best not be caught up here.”
Benasin’s hand abruptly grabbed Melaia’s wrist. She gasped and jerked back, but his hand was a metal-cold shackle as his spirit rose and swirled around her like a mist, breathing.
The book. Get it
.
“Dreia’s book?” She blinked back tears. With her free hand she searched Benasin for a journey bag, a pouch, but Lord Rejius had taken everything. Even his staff. “It’s gone,” she whispered. She stroked his hair away from his bloody, sweat-beaded forehead. His spirit would return, wouldn’t it? He wasn’t supposed to die.
Get the book
, his spirit breathed.
Open—
“Live, Benasin,” she pleaded. “Live. Then you can get the book.” His grip was uncomfortably tight, but when she tried prying his hand from her wrist, it only tightened.
You. Get it
.
Her hand throbbed. In an effort to reassure him, she nodded. “All right. I’ll get it. Just live.”
Pym touched her shoulder. “The draks will be coming back to roost.”
Promise … Open …
Benasin’s breath shuddered out.
“I promise,” said Melaia.
Benasin’s grip eased as his spirit broke away from his body.
“Benasin?” Melaia stared at the ribbon of spirit that streamed across the floor and disappeared. “No.” Her whisper became a moan. “How can he die?”
“I don’t know, lady, but I know how we can die. And it’ll be none too pleasant.” Pym paced to the door.
Melaia hesitated, Benasin’s hand loose around hers.
“Lady?” Pym was halfway out the door.
Melaia pulled away and dashed after Pym, fighting sobs.
M
elaia and Pym had taken only two steps into the temple when she was grabbed from the shadows and jerked into the incense-laden sanctuary. Before she could cry out, a hand clamped over her mouth. She fought back, wondering why Pym was helping drag her to the other side of the room.
“Hush! It’s me.” Livia shook her.
Melaia stilled just as Ordius stepped from a side room, peered down the torchlit corridor, then slipped back into his quarters.
“Bats and beetles!” Pym whispered. “He’s a pasty-pale grubworm.”
“I’ve been frantic for you,” whispered Livia, releasing Melaia. “Where’s the harp?”
“The king’s physician has it,” said Melaia.
Livia pinched the bridge of her nose.
“And Benasin’s been murdered,” said Pym.
Livia looked up in alarm. “Murdered?” Her eyes welled with tears. “Who’s next?”
“Can you help us get Benasin’s body back?” asked Melaia. “And the harp?”
Livia wiped her eyes. “You’re being hunted. We’d best try to save you.” She shoved Melaia’s journey pack at her, snatched up her own bag, and grabbed an oil lamp.
Shaken, Melaia followed Livia and Pym through a corridor and down stone stairs to a chilly chamber of catacombs. There they slipped past a row of vaults and wove around ancient burial masks and stone altars. Grotesque shadows leaped up at the reach of their lamp, danced across the walls, then
sank back into thick, dank darkness. A stone coffin came into view. The carved figure of a woman lay on top, heaped with dry brown flowers.
“Queen Tahn,” said Livia before Melaia could ask. Darkness swallowed the coffin as the lamplight moved on and found a waist-high door.
“The Door of the Dead,” said Pym. “Clever, Livia, to go the way of coffins.”
“Pray it’s unguarded.” Livia unbolted the door and edged it open. A rush of wind whistled in.
“Where are we going?” asked Melaia.
“The Durenwoods,” said Livia.
Melaia pulled back. “Can’t I return to Navia?”
“Navia isn’t safe,” said Livia. “You remember asking about raiders? After you left for the palace, I stepped out and wandered the marketplace, listening for news. You were right. Navia has been attacked.”
Melaia’s jaw dropped. “What about the temple? Our coffers hold very little, but raiders wouldn’t know that. I have to go back.”
“With raiders on the roads?” Pym drew his dagger and slipped out the door.
“Even if you made it to Navia, you’ve no guarantee that the city would be safe,” said Livia. “Redcliff certainly isn’t. Guards combed every corner of the temple in search of you. It took all my wits to throw them off track.”
Pym glanced back. “The way is clear, and there’s cloud cover.”
“You’re free to choose,” said Livia. “Come or not.” She held the lamp to the open door, and the wind snuffed the flame. Deep black enveloped them. The darkness outside was now lighter than the darkness within. Livia stepped out.
Melaia huffed. She couldn’t scrabble around in the catacombs without light. She tugged her cloak tight at her chin and followed Livia into the night, concluding that, while angels might not force their will upon humans, they certainly could make it hard to go against their wishes.
Following Pym’s bandy-legged gait, Melaia and Livia wove their way through the commoners’ burial grounds, then headed across the field toward
the dark line of the Durenwoods. Wind whipped their cloaks and misted them with fine rain.
Melaia’s steps were steady, but her thoughts stumbled along, ranging from Hanni and the girls in Navia to Hanni’s warnings about the Durenwoods. Were the sylvans, the earth-angels, truly waiting for a priestess to serve out Hanni’s time? Would that be so bad? It would be a good way to learn about angels, Melaia thought. But would they keep her there against her will? And what about her foolish promise to Benasin? Was that another debt to be paid now? Nothing was simple anymore. Nothing.