fire before Jeld to crawl along the ceiling of the exarch’s chamber and cascade from the high windows like some black waterfall.
“They are monstrous, be it in oblivion, apathy, or intent,” the exarch said from across the fire.
Jeld nodded. “I wish I could give them all black eyes.”
The exarch raised an eyebrow. “Broken noses, you mean?”
“Close enough. The bruising did nearly reach his eye. I wonder… when they waged war to defend the values of the Idols, was it a lie then? Or have they just changed?”
“What does your heart tell you?”
Jeld looked for answers in the fire dancing between them at the center of the exarch’s chamber. “I think they lost their way. It’s easy for the warm and full-bellied to forget.”
“I think you are wise. Yes, it’s in our nature to fight for more, but it takes an extraordinary person to fight for less.”
“It’s true,” Jeld said. “Already I sometimes find myself growing too comfortable, taking things for granted.”
“Already?”
Jeld silently cursed himself for forgetting his role. “At so young an age, I mean. Hilltop masks problems of survival and freedom with struggles of wardrobe and palate. I promise, I will not let myself be spoiled so.”
The exarch smiled hungrily. “I have no doubt you’ll do great with—“
An agonized scream echoed up the stairwell into the chamber. The crashing and shouting of men at arms erupted in its wake.
Jeld jumped to his feet. “We’ve got to get you out of here!”
The exarch stood and pulled a dagger from his robe. “I think not. There’s no way out.”
Jeld turned as another terrible cry echoed up the stairs. His other sense reeled beneath an onslaught of horror pouring from those below, but there was something else amidst the sensation… a sinister chill, only it seemed to come from—
He spun as a glimmer of steel flashed toward him. Jeld jumped back but it was too late. He cried out as the exarch’s dagger bit into his side. The dagger came away glistening red as his own momentum pulled him free of it. Staggering back, Jeld scrambled aside to put the fire between him and the exarch.
“I’m sorry, but they can’t know we have infiltrated the palace,” the exarch said, stalking around the fire. “It puts the others at risk. We must give our lives to the light, else the crown force the truth from us.”
Jeld reached his hand into his robe on his injured side, wincing in pain and staggering aside. Seizing the moment, the exarch dashed around the fire and lashed out with his dagger. Catching the exarch’s wrist, Jeld darted inside his guard and slammed into him.
The exarch sucked in a sharp breath, his dagger tumbling to the ground with a clatter barely heard over the melee below. Falling to his knees, his eyes landed on a bloody blade protruding from Jeld’s robe and he collapsed to the ground, motionless.
Not sparing the exarch another glance, Jeld pulled his robe off and sawed a strip from it, hastily tying a bandage atop his blood-soaked tunic. He groaned as he cinched the knot, the room spinning and seeming to fall into the distance. Terrible screams, still louder than before, set the maniacal scene with such perfection that it could only be a nightmare.
Anchoring his gaze upon a flickering torch to steady the spinning pandemonium, an idea struck Jeld. He threw what remained of his robe into the fire and traded his still-wet blade for a length of rope from his bottomless bag. Jeld ripped the flattened bag free, drew it back into some semblance of a bag, and stuffed it into his pants lest it be looted. Staggering, he started toward the torch with the rope in hand.
Not halfway across the room Jeld’s knees buckled and he spilled onto the cold stone floor. He dragged himself across the floor and clawed his way up the wall, throwing the torch aside and threading his rope through its ring. The clink of armored footsteps sounded from the stairs as he set desperately to binding his hands overhead. The steps grew louder. He cinched a final knot with the last of his strength and went limp just as knights armored in the king’s colors spilled into the room. Somewhere in Jeld’s lingering consciousness he audited his character. Prisoner. Defeated. Injured. Bleeding. Slipping away. Slipping away. Slipping away. A humorless laugh escaped his lips. His final role, a dead man pretending to die.
“Another rober here!” one of the knights yelled. “He’s… dead.”
“Dagger right in his blazin’ heart,” another said.
The shadows deepened and Jeld’s eyes fell shut, his body sagging further along the wall.
“Killed himself?”
“Blazin’ fanatics.”
“Another here!”
“A prisoner? He alive?”
“Breathing. Barely. He’s bleeding bad.”
“Don’t just stand there. See to his wounds and get him outside! He may know something.”
Jeld felt strong hands upon him, a sense of floating, and then nothing.