Beneath the Citadel

by Destiny Soria

  She lunged across the table to grab one of Ansel’s hands. She didn’t know what she was doing. She didn’t know if it could possibly work. She just knew she had to try. The tangle and whorl of her uncle’s memories felt familiar to her now. As soon as she touched him, she could see the shimmering lengths of them, a thousand tiny strands, all flowing downward. Experimentally, she twined a bunch of them around her hand and pulled. They jerked free from the force that summoned them downward. Solan hadn’t been expecting that.

  She allowed herself a tiny smile and kept working. She couldn’t just return them to her uncle for Solan to take again, so she let them coil up her arm. Once she started the process, the rest of the gleaming threads followed. The natural state of memories was to be connected, intertwined. That made it easier for her. Solan was still trying to take hold. She could feel his efforts reverberating through the strands, but she had the better connection.

  Movement to her left caught her eye, and she remembered Crispin. He was still barely conscious, on his knees, head bowed, fingers still digging into the tabletop. Vesper watched him for a couple of seconds, then cursed. She reached out with her free hand to grab his. Instantly his own memories lit up around him, clearer and brighter than Ansel’s. They flowed downward with less speed, probably because Solan was focusing his efforts on the chancellor now. Vesper wasn’t sure if she could stand the split focus, but she took a deep breath and tried anyway.

  Crispin’s memories were less eager to her touch. She had to wind several different threads around her fingers before they finally reversed their direction, snaking up her wrist and arm. Her uncle’s memories had crept all the way to her chest now, and soon Crispin’s were lacing through, weaving an intricate pattern. Vesper had never held so much of another person before. Her focus was starting to fray. Her heart was hammering in her ears. She could feel the executioner, somewhere far below, begin to pull again, this time from her.

  She couldn’t keep her own memories in place while holding the threads of Ansel’s and Crispin’s on the surface. Her past was siphoning away, and while she scrambled to close herself off from Solan, the threads surrounding her began to unravel. She was going to lose everything.

  She didn’t know what else to do. She cut the strands connecting her to Ansel and Crispin. Immediately they both fell limp, and all their memories became hers.

  Her mind was a prism of light, blinding and fractured. There were two other lifetimes tangled inside her. She remembered the smell of the farm on a summer morning—manure and hay and pungent green grass. That was her uncle’s. She remembered the raking claws of hunger in her stomach and the haunting sight of her sister’s eyes, dark and sunken in her skeletal face. That was Crispin’s.

  She felt a sharp tug, frighteningly strong. In a panic, she tugged back as hard as she could. Instantly the prism flashed with new light, somehow blinding and black at the same time. She remembered weeping in the darkness of a cavern, feeling the true weight of what it meant to be forgotten.

  That was Solan’s.

  She realized, dimly, that when she pulled back her own memories, some of Solan’s consciousness must have come with them. They were just shreds, fragments of threads that no longer gleamed.

  A pearl-white alchemical solution, glittering in a crystal glass. Utter failure or eternal life—there was only one way to know.

  A quicksilver dream of the council’s demise. Of the chancellor’s death. One gun, one bullet. So simple.

  Blood turned to agony and the Blacksmith’s daughter overhead, coaxing that agony deeper, deeper.

  Then she was underground, in a bizarre sanctuary of civilization. The rest of the caverns felt far away and fading, and the world above hadn’t felt real for a long time. Was that her own mind playing tricks, or was there something in the air down here? Finally, because she couldn’t think of any other options, she moved to sit gingerly in one of the armchairs.

  But that was one of Cassa’s memories that she had borrowed, not Solan’s. The threads in her mind were a tangled, thorny core, expanding slowly, threatening to choke out every other part of her being. She searched desperately for a memory that was her own—the smell of her mother’s perfume or the day she’d realized she was a rook or the night she’d met Cassa for the first time. They were so thin and strained, she thought they might snap.

  You can’t hold on forever, came the voice in her head. She recognized it from memories that weren’t her own, but this wasn’t a memory. Solan was speaking to her. I’ll get what I want eventually.

  You’ll have to get in line, she shot back. And then she drew into herself every bead of focus and every ounce of strength she possessed, and she took that tangled, thorny core, and she forced it to expand with obliterating speed, until it had filled every corner of her, until there wasn’t room for anything else—even Solan.

  For the length of a heartbeat, Vesper knew what it was to not exist. To be unmade. To forget.

  Then she threaded herself through the memories, finding the cracks and filling the creases, and slowly, slowly, she untangled the knot. She returned Crispin’s memories first, because his were the easiest to distinguish, utterly foreign as they were. Separating her uncle’s took a bit more care. Many of them had been traded back and forth so often that the telltale gleam had almost worn off, as if even the memories weren’t sure whom they belonged to anymore.

  Only when she’d finished, only when Crispin and her uncle were beginning to stir and she felt reasonably certain that Solan wouldn’t have the energy to try again for a little while at least—only then did she let herself fall unconscious.

  FORTY-ONE

  EVANDER

  Even after all the time he’d spent underground the past few days, Evander still hated the dark. Somehow being surrounded by his sister and friends didn’t make it any better. They were so close, but in the cloaking shadows they might as well be miles away. Newt was sitting against the wall opposite Evander, one knee hugged to his chest, the other leg outstretched. His foot was inches from Evander’s ankle. He didn’t seem to notice, but Evander couldn’t stop thinking about how vast a distance those few inches felt. They hadn’t touched since those agonizing minutes in Solan’s chamber. Evander couldn’t escape the image of Newt shaking, crying, looking like some part of his soul was being ripped away. In that moment, seeing Newt in so much pain, Evander was sure he would have done anything Solan wanted. Anything.

  It scared him a little, to realize that. And it scared him to know that whatever Solan had taken from Newt, he hadn’t given it back. The change was subtle and indefinable, but Evander could see it, could feel it. He didn’t think there was anything he could do about it. He didn’t even know how to broach the subject—assuming they had a chance to talk before their imminent execution.

  He hadn’t looked in Cassa’s direction in almost half an hour. The tension in the small space was palpable and suffocating. When Solan had told them why she was gone, why she had left them behind, Evander had believed him. He knew Cassa too well. He’d always known that even when he would have given up anything for her, she wouldn’t do the same for him. For them.

  An untapped fury welled inside him. Evander didn’t often move past mild exasperation. During his relationship with Cassa, he’d edged into full-blown annoyance a few times, because that was inevitable, but he’d never been angry at her before. She was foolhardy, but she’d never taken risks at their expense. He’d never once considered that maybe they would have been better off without her. Now he couldn’t get that thought out of his head. It was a wicked, barbed thing, tangled as it was with the image of Newt. Shaking. Crying. Pieces of him being ripped away.

  Alys nudged his shoulder with her own, and Evander blinked out of his reverie. She was watching him, her head tilted to the side, though he knew she couldn’t see him any better than he could see her.

  “How’s your head?” Her voice barely audible, as if there were any chance of privacy in their cramped quarters.

  “Still
fine.” It was the truth, mostly. He had a glaring headache, but his chest and ribs had taken the brunt of the damage. He didn’t think anything was broken. There would definitely be bruises, but those were the least of his problems.

  Alys shifted, and she seemed about to say something else. A shadow passing over the grate forestalled her. A key jolted in the lock, and the door swung open. Evander squinted up at the guard silhouetted in the doorway. He had his pistol drawn at his side, finger poised on the trigger.

  “You,” he said, gesturing toward Evander with his gun hand, which wasn’t a particularly pleasant way to be summoned. “Come on.”

  Evander eyed the gun and didn’t move.

  “If it’s all the same to you,” he said, “I’d rather not climb all those stairs just to die at the top. Much less effort for everyone if you shoot me right here.”

  Newt made a startled noise and kicked his shin, although Evander couldn’t tell if it was by accident or not. At the same time, Alys elbowed him in the ribs, which hurt worse than she’d probably intended. He felt a little guilty for rattling them, but he couldn’t help it. To take any of this seriously was to admit he was afraid. He knew Cassa would be amused, but he wasn’t about to look to her for camaraderie.

  The guard was still staring at him, definitely not amused. His trigger finger was twitching. Evander let out a sigh and stood up, his vision lurching momentarily with the sudden movement. His head was pounding, but his ribs actually hurt less when he was standing. The guard stepped aside to let him through the doorway and slammed it shut behind him. Panic bubbled in Evander’s chest as he realized he might have just seen the three of them for the last time. He started to turn, trying to think of something—anything—to say, but the guard grabbed his arm and yanked him down the corridor. It was the same man who had taken his coins. Evander could feel the silver that was securely buttoned in his jacket pocket. He curled his fingers, tugging experimentally on the coins.

  The guard’s hand flew to his pocket, his expression flickering between confusion and alarm. Evander had the thought that now was his chance to run, but of course there was nowhere to go. And there was the small matter of the gun. The guard caught on, and he grabbed the front of Evander’s shirt and pushed him against the wall—thankfully with much less force than the captain had.

  “Try that foreign magic again, and I will kill you now.” He tapped the barrel of the gun against Evander’s collarbone.

  A laugh escaped Evander before he could stop it. More alarm and confusion on the guard’s face. His death threats probably didn’t get that reaction very often.

  “Sorry,” Evander said. “I was just imagining my sister’s face if she heard you call bloodbonding magic.”

  The guard frowned but didn’t reply. He grabbed Evander’s arm and propelled him toward the stairs. Another guard waited for them at the top, lounging against the wall and picking his cuticles.

  “What took so long?” he complained.

  The first guard said nothing, just gave Evander a little shove. The three of them walked in silence through the Central Keep. Evander tried to find a clock, but there weren’t any in the dim hallways they passed through. He thought they must be somewhere around the fourth bell. Time underground felt more like a hazy notion than a steady stream though. He couldn’t be sure.

  He recognized the route they were taking, the faded blue carpet, the series of tapestries depicting infallible prophecies. He lost count at twenty-seven, but he didn’t think all fifty were represented. Would someone someday stitch a new tapestry if Solan’s prophecy came to pass? These were the same halls he’d walked a few days ago. They were headed to the Judgment Hall.

  The four councilors were seated when he entered through the grand double doors. Their hands were folded, expressions blank. The doors creaked shut behind him. The last time he’d been here, he’d had two silver coins in hand. He’d known exactly where he stood. He’d known the council was corrupt and the chancellor was a powermonger, and he’d never once imagined the truth of the executioner who lurked in the caverns beneath their feet.

  The last time he’d been here, everything had made sense.

  “Evander Sera,” said one of the councilors, a woman with a broad, open face and curly hair shot through with gray. Her voice was low and oddly soothing. She had to be Tempest Adara, the oldest member of the council aside from the chancellor himself. There was a lit candle in front of her, casting her features in a warm, flickering glow so different from the ghost globes ensconced in silver that were suspended overhead.

  “Where’s the chancellor?” Evander asked, aware that he was interrupting what would probably be a very well-rehearsed summary of his crimes.

  The councilors exchanged glances among themselves. It occurred to Evander that this was only the second time he’d seen them face-to-face, these people he’d been working against for so long. They had always been a vague, collective enemy. More a personification of hundreds of years of secrecy and corruption than four living, breathing human beings.

  “Only a majority vote of the council is necessary to pass judgment,” said one of the men, as if that were any sort of answer. He had a head of thick blond hair that looked entirely fake, and there were crumbs stuck to the front of his ceremonial robe. Presumably Grantham Barwick. Junior or Senior—Evander couldn’t remember. Some Barwick or another had held a seat on the council since before the rebellion.

  Councilor Adara opened her mouth to continue the recitation of his crimes, but Evander forestalled her again.

  “Did you kill the chancellor?”

  A satisfyingly awkward silence. None of the council members looked at each other this time. Maybe when Cassa couldn’t do the deed, the councilors had done it themselves. There had to be a reason that Chancellor Dane had kept his plans for Solan a secret from them.

  “The chancellor no longer presides over this council,” said the other man, Roth Andras. His black hair was slicked back, and he sported an impressive mustache.

  “A coup?”

  “Nothing so dramatic.” Delia Vicaro, the fourth councilor, wore a crown of tiny pink rosebuds in her dark hair. She looked like she might be wearing a ball gown under her robes. Probably she had been called away from some fete or another. “He has served the city well, but he’s a very old man, ready to retire from the burdens of public life.”

  Evander wondered if he was really dead. And if so, what did that mean for his parents? He couldn’t bring himself to ask, in case the council didn’t know about them already. Besides, it wasn’t as if they would tell him the truth. The council’s unwavering dedication to their version of events, even when they knew he would be dead before he could tell anyone the truth, was impressive. Maybe the councilors over the years had preserved their power for so long not through wiles but rather simple diligence.

  Once again Councilor Adara tried to continue his sentencing, and once again Evander interrupted her.

  “We know all about your pet executioner,” he said. “Not a very pleasant fellow, as it turns out.”

  Adara’s annoyance was in danger of leaking past her careful, impassive mask. Evander didn’t need coins to make a nuisance of himself.

  “It might interest you to know,” he went on, “that he now has a bloodbond with mirasma. Soon he’ll no longer need your elixir, which means he’ll no longer need any of you.”

  He’d hoped to unsettle them with that information, but if the councilors were surprised, they didn’t show it.

  “Your concern for our safety is touching,” said Councilor Vicaro, her pouting pink lips thinning into a smirk. “But we have the matter well in hand.”

  “If you had the matter in hand, he wouldn’t be divesting innocent people of their entire consciousness on a whim,” Evander shot back. Then, seeing the councilors’ expressions, he added, “Or maybe you don’t care about the damage as long as your precious prophecies keep coming.”

  He knew his words had finally struck a nerve. Vicaro scowled at him. Barwick
harrumphed and became suddenly engrossed in dusting the crumbs from his robes. Andras and Adara both dropped their gazes.

  “Solan Tavish can be made to see reason,” Councilor Adara said, her words painstakingly precise. She picked up a stick of black wax in front of her and held it over the candle’s flame. “Unfortunately, as you’ve proved time and time again, you and your friends cannot.”

  Evander stared at the softening wax, mesmerized as she rotated it slowly. He couldn’t help but think of his mother melting the wax they used to seal bottles of medicine. He couldn’t help but think of home, and how he was never going to see it again. Would his parents be executed too? Were they even still alive? He had to blink himself free of the thought.

  “Yes, we’re a real danger to the city,” he said. “Unlike the monster your predecessors created who’s been devouring memories at his leisure.”

  The sarcasm took more out of him than usual. He was very tired now. The manacles felt so much heavier than they had a minute ago. Distantly he registered the chiming of the midnight bell.

  Councilor Adara didn’t rise to his remark. She only dribbled a small pool of wax onto the paper in front of her. Maybe she’d decided not to waste any more time with a recitation of his crimes. There had to be a lot of them piled up by now.

  “It is the duty of this council to sentence you once more to death, to be served without the customary rites.” Adara stamped the wax with the seal of the citadel. It felt more final than it had during his first sentencing.

  Councilor Barwick gestured to the guards, betraying his eagerness for the proceedings to be complete. As they took Evander’s arms to lead him away, Councilor Adara looked up from his sealed fate. Her eyes were sharp despite the wrinkled age in her papery brown skin. She considered him for a few seconds, and then right as his escorts turned him toward the door, she spoke.

  “Do you believe in the Slain God, Evander?”

  He looked over his shoulder at her, taking a moment to wonder what she was really asking. Her fellow councilors were eyeing her warily. The room was quiet except for the creaking of the guards’ leather holsters as they shifted their weight uncomfortably beside him. And his own uneven breaths. His own thudding heart.