Beneath the Citadel

by Destiny Soria

  Once she reached the crypts, she followed the carved arrows on the walls, thinking about how much easier this journey had been with her friends at her back. When she reached the fork in the path where the arrows ended, she hesitated. The chancellor had talked as if the path to the right led to another maze of tunnels. She thought about the other prisoner he’d mentioned who’d gotten lost and wasted away in the dark. She had a generally high opinion of her own instincts, but she wasn’t sure that extended to finding her way through an underground labyrinth alone. And even if she did manage to make it out, what if Vesper decided to tell the chancellor everything after all and he sent a squad of guards to wait for her at the exit?

  There wasn’t time to risk either scenario. If they didn’t manage to bloodbond Solan soon, either the chancellor or the council’s diviners would discover the plot, and all would be lost anyway. She went left.

  The great archway rose before her, the elegant scrolls of the elder seers’ ancient language lending it an air of mystery. The pitiful lantern light barely cut into the gloom beyond, and she fought an instinctual fear that wormed its way through her gut. With a deep breath, she pressed forward and wound her way through the rock formations to the shore of the lake. It was even vaster than she remembered. There was no sign that anything had changed since the last time she was here, except this time there weren’t any angry guards in pursuit. She assumed that someone had come down to find the three guards and that they weren’t wandering mindlessly around in the dark—assuming they were even alive. She hadn’t thought to ask Solan exactly what he’d done to them.

  There was also no sign of the boat.

  Cassa stared at the empty shore for a long time, pondering her own lack of foresight. Of course there was no boat; they had rowed it to the other side. That was not the sort of thing a halfway intelligent person would forget. She didn’t even have a rook to blame for it.

  Down here she had no measure of time, but she knew she was running out of it. Vesper wasn’t the only one who had been inside her head. If Gaz saw anything about their plan in her memories, then he would no doubt go straight to the council to sell the information. Even if Vesper kept her mouth shut, her friends were still exposed, and the Blacksmith was still at risk. She had to find them before the citadel guards did.

  Without letting herself think too hard about her continual bad decision-making, she knelt down and untied her boots. She slipped out of them and stood in her socks. The cool dampness of the ground permeated even through the wool. She couldn’t remember exactly how long it had taken them to row across the lake. She hadn’t been paying much attention at the time.

  She was a fairly strong swimmer, although she had no idea how long she could go. Alys would be aghast at the number of uncertainties she was ignoring, but Cassa couldn’t think of another option. She waded knee-deep into the water. It was so cold that she almost reconsidered, but she pushed forward. Soon her feet had left the ground. She struggled to find a good rhythm, keeping the pace easy and steady. Her clothes dragged slightly, but not enough to make her want to pull them off. She did not intend to arrive at Solan’s chamber in only her undergarments.

  She had no way of keeping track of the time. All she could do was focus on her breathing and her strokes. It wasn’t so bad at first. She grew accustomed to the temperature quickly, and the water was much fresher and cleaner than the murky river where she’d learned to swim. Once she’d left behind the last vestiges of the lantern’s light, her enthusiasm began to wane.

  The darkness felt like an oppressive weight. She lost all sense of direction. For all she knew she was swimming in circles. The thought was chased by a gnawing desperation that made her lose her rhythm. She floundered for a few seconds, choking on a mouthful of water. She gasped in a few ragged breaths, kicking her legs so hard to tread water that they felt weak. Her hands grasped uselessly, as if there were something to grab onto, as if there were anything out here to save her.

  She realized with creeping horror that she didn’t know which direction she’d been swimming. There was no forward or back. There was only blackness. The dark was so enveloping that she wondered briefly if she’d already died. She couldn’t tell the difference between when her eyes were open and when they were closed. She was completely untethered. Completely lost. Completely alone.

  Something brushed against her thigh.

  She tried to scream but only succeeded in sucking in more water. She paddled wildly, driven only by instinctual panic. She couldn’t tell how far she’d swum when she finally had to stop to catch her breath. Her limbs and lungs ached so badly that she couldn’t even tread water. She floated on her back to regain some strength, trying to stay perfectly still. She kept her eyes tightly closed, like a child afraid of the monsters beneath the bed.

  Something slid along her back. Whatever it was, it was smooth and unhurried. And it was long.

  Her eyes were still squeezed shut. A sob burst from her chest. She didn’t know what else to do but roll over and keep swimming. She didn’t let herself stop, even though her body ached and she hadn’t gotten a decent breath in what felt like forever. Occasionally she dipped below the surface, stretching her foot down, begging for it to strike solid ground. It never did. The lake could have been ten feet deep or one hundred; there was no way to know. All she knew for sure was that she wasn’t near enough to land to have any hope of surviving this.

  She’d heard once that drowning was one of the most painful ways to die. She wondered if maybe whatever was stalking her would kill her first. She wondered if anyone would ever find her body. She wondered if maybe the Slain God was real and if dying without death rites really meant she was doomed to an eternity of reliving all her worst mistakes, all her most painful memories. She wondered if a long time ago, a seer had dreamed of her death here in the darkness, and if it was scribbled somewhere in a book among all the other trivial, useless prophecies. Maybe she was never meant to accomplish anything after all.

  She was dipping more and more frequently below the surface, not always on purpose. She was barely kicking anymore, and her strokes were weak and uneven. She kept reaching forward, even though there was nothing to reach for.

  Until she opened her eyes and saw light.

  THIRTY

  VESPER

  Vesper had never been summoned before the council before. She knew each of the councilors, some better than others, depending on how long they had held their position, but she had never been escorted into the Judgment Hall by armed guards. She had never stood breathless beneath the intricate ceiling mosaic of the elder seers. She had never pressed her fingertips into her thighs to keep from fidgeting while the collective scrutiny of Eldra’s highest power pinned her to the spot. High Chancellor Dane was in the center of the four councilors, all seated behind the long table atop the dais. Overhead, three ghost globes dangled from the ceiling on thin chains. Instead of the usual netting, they were encased in delicately wrought silver whorls, like gemstones hanging from a necklace.

  Everything, from the marble floors to the mahogany table to the silver fixtures, was polished and gleaming. The rest of the citadel might be slowly falling into ruin, but the Judgment Hall was pristine.

  None of the councilors were in their ceremonial robes, which Vesper took to be a good sign. Maybe the informality meant she wasn’t in any trouble. Although, if the guards just behind her were any indication, that was a vain hope. In the past couple of hours, she had foiled their best sentient, stolen one guard’s memories, and befuddled another guard enough that he wouldn’t remember her or the escaped prisoner sprinting past him in the dungeons. She’d known that helping Cassa escape would eventually end in her standing here, but she didn’t have a choice. Solan had to be stopped, and even as precarious as her loyalty was, Cassa was still their best chance. Vesper just hoped she could figure a way out of her current predicament. If the council learned she was a rook, the minute or two of memories she’d stolen from the guard was a death sentence in itself.
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  “Do you know why you’re here, Vesper?” her uncle asked, not unkindly. His thin, gnarled hands were clasped on the tabletop. In his gray jacket and simple blue cravat, he was the least impressive of the bunch.

  Vesper shook her head. She didn’t trust her voice not to waver. She’d always thought Ansel’s gentle dignity was the same as quiet authority, but seeing him now in the middle of the councilors, each of them finely dressed and emanating confidence and control, she wondered if she was wrong. For almost a year now, she had been helping her uncle in his efforts to dispose of Solan—and she knew he had been working on this long before he brought her into the scheme. Even with the power of his position, he had spent all that time in the shadows, hiding from his own councilors. For the first time, it occurred to Vesper that maybe her uncle wasn’t cut out for his position. Maybe he wasn’t cunning or cutthroat enough to keep the council in hand. Maybe he was a sheep among wolves.

  Ansel started to speak again but fell into a coughing fit. On the far left, the youngest of the councilors rolled her eyes and leaned forward.

  “One of our prisoners escaped today.” Delia Vicaro was dressed in violet satin overlaid with black lace. She wore her dark hair in serpentine braids, with a thin string of pearls inset like a crown. Her pretty face was perpetually drawn in an expression of boredom, though her eyes were sharp. “I don’t suppose you know anything about that.”

  Vesper shook her head again. Her stomach was sinking under the weight of Delia’s stare. People who possessed any of the Slain God’s gifts were forbidden from serving on the council. It was a means of balancing power that Vesper had always found ironic, given the last century of rebellion. Still, she could have sworn that Delia was reading everything in her face.

  “The guard on duty seems to have wandered away from the interrogation room, and now he claims that he doesn’t remember ever receiving the order.” Grantham Barwick flicked a speck from his sleeve, his golden cuff links flashing. Under the ghost globes, his perfectly coiffed blond hair had taken on a ghastly bluish hue. Her uncle had let slip once that it was a wig. She wondered if the rest of the councilors knew and were content to let him preen. Despite his faint air of ridiculousness, Vesper had still always been wary of him. He wasn’t as artful as his peers perhaps, but what he lacked in subtlety he made up for in relentless ambition.

  “With all due respect, Councilor,” said Vesper, struggling to keep her voice even, “I don’t think I can be held responsible for someone else’s dereliction of duty.”

  Delia let out a little sound that may have been a laugh. Grantham scowled. He opened his mouth but was forestalled by his fellow councilor on the other side of the chancellor.

  “We are also informed by one of our sentients that the prisoner had a peculiar lack of memory of the past couple of days, as if she’d been in contact with a rook before her interrogation.” Tempest Adara was the only councilor that Vesper didn’t actively avoid on a day-to-day basis. She had a kind face, with dark freckles and heavy laugh lines around her eyes and mouth. Unlike many members of nobility, she had done nothing to hide the encroaching gray in her short black hair. She’d held her seat since before Vesper was born—a feat of endurance that none of the current councilors could boast. She also cared more about her duty to the city than about amassing wealth and prestige like her counterparts.

  “I don’t know anything about that.” Vesper dared a glance at her uncle. He was watching her with a vague frown. He would have no memory of any of their plans. He’d given her everything—even the earliest memories that birthed his determination to kill Solan. It was possible that at this moment Ansel Dane had no qualms about the executioner who lurked beneath the citadel. It was also possible that he believed his only niece was a traitor.

  “Do you know anything about why that same sentient was unable to read any of your memories, during your little chat yesterday?” Delia asked.

  “Perhaps he’s not very good at his job.”

  Delia definitely laughed this time.

  “Oh, I’m sure Crispin will love to hear that.”

  “Vesper, this is serious,” Tempest said, though her irritated glare was aimed at Delia. “We have good reason to believe that you helped Cassandra Valera escape our custody today.”

  Did they know she was a rook? Had her uncle, unaware of what was at stake, told them her secret?

  “Why would I do that?” She hoped her shock sounded genuine. She’d always considered herself a decent liar, but her life had never been on the line before.

  “We know she’s your friend. Did you really think something like that would escape our notice?” Roth Andras’s somber voice surprised her. He was the quietest of the councilors, hiding behind a stony stare and a thick mustache. The only thing she knew about him was that his predecessor had died of a sudden heart attack—at age thirty.

  “That was—” Vesper’s voice caught in her throat, and she took a deep breath. “That was years ago. I didn’t know she was a rebel then. I haven’t spoken to her since I found out the truth.”

  “She’s not a rebel.” Tempest traced a slow circle on the table with her fingertip. “She is the daughter of rebels. The war is over. Now she’s just a criminal.”

  Vesper wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say to that, so she just nodded.

  “Surely you can understand the position we’re in,” said Ansel with a hint of pleading. “You know I’ve always had the utmost trust in you, but your behavior over the past several days has been . . . suspicious, to say the least.”

  Suspicious wasn’t even the half of it. She was holding years’ worth of plotting inside her—most of it not hers—and was standing face-to-face with her coconspirator, who didn’t even know that’s who he was.

  “I love this city.” Her voice shook a little. “I would never do anything to hurt it, and I would never betray your trust, Uncle.” That, at least, was entirely true.

  “Even so,” said Tempest, her finger still circling. “We’ve determined it’s best that you remain confined to your room until we can get to the bottom of Valera’s escape.” Until they could find her, read her memories, and then execute them both.

  Vesper wondered if they already knew where Cassa had gone. Surely they already had their diviners scanning the future, piecing together her destination. Depending on how much Gaz Ritter had seen, they might already know everything. That was exactly what her uncle had hoped to prevent. As long as the council’s attention was diverted from what was happening below the citadel, there was still a chance at success—assuming Cassa pulled through. Vesper had given her the only two memories that she thought might change her mind about Solan’s intentions, but even then she wasn’t sure they were enough. She knew how deeply Cassa hated the council. And even though that put Vesper in a difficult position, considering who her uncle was, she’d never been able to blame Cassa before. Ansel Dane, however indirectly, was responsible for the Valeras’ deaths. And the deaths of every other rebel who’d died in their final stand against the citadel.

  Vesper had hated him for it once, but she knew him better now. She knew why he’d made the decision he made and how much it tormented him, even after all this time. It didn’t bring any of those people back, but it did make it harder for Vesper to choose a side. And now there weren’t any sides to choose. There was just the executioner beneath the citadel waiting to exact his revenge. There was just the hope, however small, that the last of the firebrands could stop him.

  She blinked out of her thoughts when she realized that the guards were taking her by the arms, gently but firmly. She couldn’t let them lock her up. The next few hours were too pivotal to leave to chance. Breaking free from the guards was hardly an option—especially in full view of the council—so Vesper did the only thing she could. She started to cry.

  It wasn’t as hard to summon the tears as she expected, and once she got started, it was easy to escalate into sobbing. She hardly ever cried, and she definitely didn’t cry in front of people.
Both Tempest and Grantham appeared unsettled and slightly nervous. Roth was still glaring at her, his expression unyielding. Delia rolled her eyes again.

  Vesper let her shoulders shake and her breaths devolve into hiccuping gasps.

  “I—swear—I—didn’t—do—anything,” she sputtered between sobs.

  The entire exercise was the most humiliating thing she’d ever done in her life, but when her uncle stood up, his face stricken, she knew it was worth it.

  “I think it’s probably best if I escort my niece to her rooms,” he said, taking the dais stairs one painstaking step at a time.

  “If you’re sure you can make it that far,” Delia said sweetly.

  Grantham chuckled, and Tempest shot them both a glare. The chancellor ignored them both as he reached Vesper’s side and waved the guards away.

  “Come,” he told her softly, offering her his arm. “I think some hot tea will do you good.”

  Vesper nodded, still hiccuping wildly. There was something wrong in Ansel’s expression, a blankness in his usually canny eyes. Warm tenderness in place of stoicism. He reminded her of the Uncle Ansel she had known as a little girl, when he was just a councilor, when he would come for dinner with his wife and their son and the twins—younger than her but still worthy playmates. That Uncle Ansel was always laughing, always handing out presents and ruffling hair and complaining about how old he was getting, though he could keep up with his grandsons even at their rowdiest.

  But that had been a long time ago. The end of the rebellion had granted her uncle ascendancy, but there was always a cost for such power. The Ansel Dane she knew now was different. Everything was different.

  Once they left the Judgment Hall behind and were alone in the corridors, Vesper slipped her hand down to grasp Ansel’s. His grip was weak and clammy. Though over the past few days, his memories had become harder and harder to distinguish from her own, she still had no trouble finding the right thread inside of her. Without a word, she guided that thread back to him. It was a quicker process to give back memories than to take them. She always imagined that the memories somehow knew where they belonged, that they wanted to return. Her uncle blinked and stopped walking, but he said nothing while she unraveled the last of the memories he’d given her.