Rylan sat high up on the winding stairs of the clock tower. The hood of his coat was up. A small cloth sack, large enough to hold the chalice Raef wanted, hung from his belt. His dragonskin mask covered the lower half of his face. The clock’s pendulum and gears clanked overhead, loud but lulling.
He sat beside an embrasure that let bells ring out over the city. Through the vertical slats, Lux cast pillars of golden light on the opposite wall. He had a good view of the quadrata, where people milled, out for early evening strolls or on their way home from work. He was looking for a tall man with a rugged frame and closely shorn hair.
The sky darkened to slate blue. When the bright sun touched the horizon, dull colors splashed against the sky’s broad canvas, there and gone in a flash. That the cant was both feeble and quick was an omen, but Rylan wasn’t sure how to interpret it.
It’s good, he decided. The murder I’m about to commit will have no witnesses.
One final burst of green reminded him of Vedron, another good omen, he reckoned.
When the bells began to toll, marking the official end of the cant, Rylan plugged his ears, then pulled out the cloth package Raef had given him, unwrapped it, and stared at the red cube of crainh. It had been years since his anger over Beckett’s execution had burned so brightly. He thought he’d put it behind him, but the moment Raef had uttered Kellen’s name, his long-buried rage had resurfaced, brighter and hotter than ever.
He saw Skala die all over again. Beckett screamed as the bronze bathed him in flames. Kellen watched impassively, as if Beckett’s death meant nothing to him.
Vedron keened in a grove of elm trees outside the city.
“There was nothing you could do,” Rylan said, peering out through the embrasure. “You would have died along with her.”
Two people walking side by side entered the plaza. Even in the dim light of the cant, Rylan recognized Kellen. He was bony and much taller than the archivist next to him. He’d aged. He had a limp. He no longer wore the armor of an inquisitor or his brightsteel badge, but otherwise he looked much the same as he had that day in the forest. Tall. Hair shorn tight to his skull. Chest out, staring straight ahead as if he owned the quadrata.
In the smallest of mercies, time had made the day that followed Skala’s death seem like a dream. Beckett and Rylan were taken to Andalingr, paraded before a magistrate, and sentenced to burn. Only Beckett’s sudden revelation of Rylan’s heritage had saved Rylan’s life, but it made the memory worse. Rylan had felt, sometimes still felt, that he should have died beside Beckett.
He raised his left hand and stared at the scarred nub where his pinky had been. He felt the pain of losing it all over again. Kellen had cut it off himself, and seemed to enjoy it.
Kellen and the archivist, Ezraela, entered the library.
Rylan stared at the crainh, feeling like he could ignite it with thought alone. You don’t have to do this, he told himself. Raef can do it. He likes doing this sort of thing.
But the very thought of turning his back on Uncle Beckett again made him feel small and cowardly.
“Justice will be done,” he told himself, as if it could bring Uncle Beckett back.
He wrapped the crainh in its cloth, stuffed it into his coat, and took the stairs up to the third-floor landing. He listened at the door and heard voices from the other side—one booming, the other subdued. The voices grew louder then softened somewhat. Rylan turned the handle, swung the door open while pressing the handle upward to prevent the hinges groaning. Ten paces ahead on the right, lamplight spilled into the hall from the doorway to Kellen’s research room. Rylan padded over the scratched marble floor, passed doors with brass plaques and the musty smell of books.
He pressed against a closed door and peered into the room. Kellen was holding a two-handled bronze chalice in his white-gloved hands. Verdigris coated most of it, but bronze shone through on the well-worn places: the handles, the embossed designs along the base, the lettering around the bowl.
Why are you so important? Rylan wondered. But it was a fleeting thought.
“Ancient,” Kellen said.
“Yes.” Ezraela was a mousy woman with a high forehead and rosy cheeks. “It predates the empire by at least five centuries.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t tackled it already,” Kellen said.
“Yes, well”—Ezraela seemed suddenly uncomfortable—“it was private years ago, and since then . . . it hit too close to home is all.”
Rylan had no idea what she was talking about, but he didn’t care. He just wanted this over and done with. He crouched, unwrapped the crainh, and set it on the floor. Then he took out the vial of activator it and pulled the stopper.
He paused, thirteen all over again, listening to the scritch-scratch of the magistrate’s pen, then Kellen’s deep voice petitioning the fat magistrate for Beckett and Rylan to be put to the fire.
He shook his head to clear it.
He tipped the vial until the clear, syrupy liquid was bulging at its lip.
“Tell Merida it happened quickly, won’t you?”
With the sun of his life about to set, Beckett had been worried not over his own fate, but that of his beloved, a woman he constantly bickered with but whom everyone knew he loved dearly.
When Rylan had been allowed to return to Thicket, he’d told the story to Aunt Merida just as Beckett had asked. She hadn’t shed a tear. She hardly seemed to feel anything, as if she’d known and had already done her grieving. Only later, when she thought Rylan was sleeping, had he heard her muffled cries.
Rylan had been powerless then. Now, with a tilt of his hand, he could end Kellen’s life. He could make his uncle’s killer pay. He forced himself to remember how the flames from the bronze dragon wavered in his vision, forced himself to relive Beckett’s screams. But no matter how hard he tried, those bitter memories were replaced by Beckett’s heartfelt smile, his final request.
Rylan wiped his tears on his sleeve and put the stopper back into the vial. He wrapped the crainh in the cloth and stuffed it back inside his coat. He felt Vedron, hiding in the elm grove. She was relieved. She’d suffered as well, but she rarely thought of revenge, and didn’t like it when Rylan slipped into one of his dark moods.
Thank you, Rylan said. He knew she’d been at least partly responsible for the memory of Beckett’s parting words resurfacing.
The feelings of warmth he shared with her were cut suddenly short. A week after Beckett’s death, days before Rylan had been taken to Glaeyand and given over to Marstan, Rylan had returned to the forest and completed his bond with Vedron. Since then, he’d developed an acute sense of when he or Vedron were being watched. It was a discomfort of sorts, a tickling at the base of his skull.
He peered into the dimness of a large room at the end of the hallway. It was filled with stacks of books and scrolls. He watched for long moments but saw no one.
“In my office,” Ezraela said in the nearby room.
“I can get it,” Kellen replied.
“I’ll join you.” While Rylan made himself small against the door, the two of them stepped into the hall. “I bought a crumb cake for us to share.”
Kellen’s cheery reply was completely at odds with the vision of the monster Rylan had in his head. “I left a little room for dessert . . .”
Their footsteps slowly receded. When they turned right at a gap in the stacks, and the clay lamp they’d taken dimmed, Rylan stepped into the research room. On the desk, lying in a velvet-lined case, was the chalice.
Rylan picked it up. It was ancient, and its inscription had a certain elegance, but beyond that, it looked simple. Common, even.
He ran his fingertips over the script, wondering if it held some ancient secret. Then he stuffed the chalice into the sack hanging from his belt. He was heading for the door when he heard the sound of breaking glass and a woman’s high-pitched scream. He ducked into the hall as another scream was cut short. There was a scuffle, a heavy grunt, and a long groan that swelled into an angry holler.
Rylan’s first instinct was to run—it was no business of his—yet he found himself padding toward the commotion.
He peeked down the aisle Kellen and Ezraela had taken and around the shelves. Ezraela lay writhing in a doorway. Blood was gushing from her throat, pooling on the marble tiles below her head. The lamp was near her elbow, still lit, its glass shroud broken and scattered over the floor.
Kellen was wrestling with someone in a black habit. Though old, Kellen was a burly man, thick and heavy. The other man was considerably shorter and frailer looking than Kellen, but he was somehow managing to lower the stiletto he was holding toward Kellen’s chest. He had black strips of cloth over his eyes like the zealot group the Chosen wear.
“Tell me where the chalice is,” the man in black rasped, “and I’ll give you a quick death.”
It suddenly occurred to Rylan that this was the Hissing Man. He was a legend even in the Holt. He was the leader of the Chosen and a ruthless enemy, particularly to the Kin, whom the Chosen had long ago declared as lesser than those born of the blood of the empire. Raef had said the Chosen wanted the chalice. That the Hissing Man himself had come to retrieve it spoke of the artifact’s importance. The chalice hanging from Rylan’s belt felt suddenly heavy.
The Hissing Man slashed Kellen’s forearm. Kellen growled and snatched the Hissing Man’s wrist. The Hissing Man shoved Kellen against the door jamb. Kellen grimaced, twisted the Hissing Man’s hand; the stiletto clattered across the floor, into the pool of blood.
Then the Hissing Man grabbed Kellen’s robe and lifted Kellen off the floor, roared and threw him down. Kellen landed awkwardly on Ezraela’s corpse.
As the Hissing Man reached for his stiletto on the floor, Rylan told himself to leave. It was none of his business, but instead of backing away, he found himself moving closer, putting his hand on his dagger.
Kellen scrabbled across the floor, grabbed the burning oil lamp, and flung it at the Hissing Man. The Hissing Man batted it away. It shattered against the corner of a bookshelf. Flaming oil splattered on the Hissing Man’s trousers and cloak, then spread along the aisle, creeping up the book spines.
Flames climbing up his black robe, the Hissing Man grabbed Kellen again by the throat and raised his bloody stiletto.
“Stop!” Rylan shouted.
The Hissing Man turned toward Rylan. The gauze over his eyes made him like a dead man brought back to life. Kellen struggled, choked, but couldn’t escape.
Rylan flipped his dagger through the air. It bounced off the Hissing Man’s deformed shoulder as he drove his stiletto into Kellen’s midsection.
The fight seemed to leave Kellen all at once. He clutched his gut and groaned, “Why?”
The Hissing Man pulled out the stiletto and batted out the flames licking his left leg. Then he turned toward Rylan. Behind his bandages, his eyes glowed like hot coals.
Rylan felt suddenly cold. He began to fear for his life. The Hissing Man must be using umbra, like one of the Church’s shepherds. Rylan was a lot bigger than him, but Rylan knew he couldn’t have lifted Kellen from the floor like that.
As the Hissing Man stood, Rylan reached into his belt pouch and drew out the lucerta he’d harvested from Vedron weeks ago. Fingers shaking, he placed the scale on his tongue. The taste of burning pine and purified copper made his mouth water. Like holding one’s breath underwater, resisting a spell took constant effort and grew painful over time, but slowly, the fear in him eased and he was able to think clearly again.
As the Hissing Man stalked toward him, Rylan became acutely aware of Vedron in her elm grove. She’d sensed his fear and had risen to her clawed feet.
No! he ordered her. Stay where you are.
She roared and took flight from the grove. He felt her wings beat the air as she flew toward Ancris.
Black smoke began to fill the room. The Hissing Man, close now, reached for Rylan’s mask. Rylan shoved him away and sprinted toward the clock tower. Over the crackle of flames, he heard the Hissing Man’s uneven footfalls pounding after him. Even with his deformity, the Hissing Man was gaining on him.
Rylan barreled past the research room and burst through the door to the clock tower. He tried to slam it closed behind him, but the Hissing Man heaved a shoulder into it, shoved a hand through the opening, and grabbed Rylan’s sleeve. Rylan jabbed the fingers of his other hand into the Hissing Man’s throat. The Hissing Man coughed and fell back half a step.
Rylan shoved the door closed and leaned his weight against it, but the Hissing Man bashed the door with his full weight, sending Rylan slamming against the railing behind him.
As the door crashed open, Rylan climbed onto the iron railing and leapt toward the bell ropes, grabbed an armful of them, and clung fiercely. The bells clanged cacophonously. The Hissing Man stared at Rylan over the railing. The ropes sizzled between his arms, burned his palms and fingers. Rylan held on as long as he could, then dropped to the stone floor and rolled to blunt the impact. He got up and sprinted toward the service door.
He pulled the door open; bells clanged madly again. He glance up, and saw the Hissing Man sliding down along the ropes.
Rylan slammed the door behind him and sprinted toward the quadrata. He heard the door open behind him. He heard a whistling through the air. Felt something twist around his ankles.
He fell hard on the stone quadrata, turned over and saw the stone weights and leather cords of a bola wrapped around his ankles. He sat up, untangled them, jumped to his feet, and the Hissing Man crashed into him.
They tumbled to the ground. The Hissing Man threw Rylan over on his back and grabbed his throat with both hands. Rylan fought for breath. His ears rang. He felt like his head was going to burst.
“Release him!” a man’s voice bellowed. “Lay on the ground, hands behind your head! Now!”
Rylan felt the pressure on his throat ease. The Hissing Man glanced up. Rylan twisted to look, too.
Faedryn’s wicked smile, it was Creed and Lorelei.