“Has your brother not already paid a high enough price for his bargain?” Eshtamon’s voice rumbled through the night like thunder.
“What do you mean?” Corran asked, stunned.
“He begged Doharmu for his brothers’ safety. His willingness to sacrifice himself if necessary was clear.”
“Gods, no!” Rigan murmured. “Oh, Kell, what did you do?”
Corran’s jaw set, and he glared at the Elder God. “What of our offer?” He would deal with the rest later, if they survived.
“An interesting bargain.” Flickering candlelight hid the newcomer’s features, but the voice made Corran imagine a gaunt old man with a wily gaze.
The figure appeared to come to a decision. “I accept your plea, and promise you vengeance. In exchange, I become the guardian of your souls.” The words felt like ice in Corran’s blood. “You will be my champions, and I your patron.”
Eshtamon moved closer, but although he passed by the candle, it did not illuminate his face. The old god laid a hand on Corran’s head. Corran gasped as power flowed through him, setting every cell on fire.
“You are my warrior. I cannot make you immortal, but I can bolster you against death. I give you great strength and unflagging stamina. But heed me well, Corran Valmonde. I cannot keep your soul. Eventually, all souls move on. What you do with the gifts I give to you may well cost your soul its final rest and redemption.”
Eshtamon lifted his hand from Corran’s head, and he fell forward onto his hands and knees, trembling as if touched by lightning. He turned to see Eshtamon stepping to Rigan, who faced the dark god, looking pale but resolute.
“Rigan Valmonde,” Eshtamon said as he laid his hand on Rigan’s head. “You are my champion mage. I will add to your own power, that you might grow in your magic and become a mighty sorcerer. But beware. Magic always has a price, and even with my gift, it is possible for you to draw too deeply and destroy yourself. If that should happen, your soul will not find its way to the Golden Shores, but will wander the shadowed places for eternity.”
Eshtamon stepped back from them, onto the freshly turned grave dirt. “I will come to you again, my champions. I cannot assure victory, but with my gifts, I give you the means to win your vengeance. You have paid a dear price. Use your gifts with care.” With that, the Elder God vanished, and the candle in the bowl flickered out, leaving them alone in the night.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
CORRAN HALF-DRAGGED, HALF-CARRIED Rigan to their workshop. His brother was barely conscious, murmuring in his delirium, his skin cold and his breathing shallow. Corran focused on putting one foot ahead of the other, all the way back. Back. Not ‘home.’ It can never be home without Kell.
A haze of smoke hung in the air. It was past curfew, but Corran could hear shouts in the distance as Wrighton turned out to fight the blaze. He knew that should have mattered more to him. But right now, all I care about is getting Rigan back safely.
With a sigh of relief, Corran turned the key in the door. The shutters were still closed tightly, but he moved with long practice in the dark, guiding Rigan to one of the empty tables.
Normally, the tables would have been full. But Kell’s last cartload of bodies was still lost somewhere in Wrighton, and so the workshop was empty. It scared Corran that Rigan said nothing on the long walk back from the cemetery, and that he had allowed Corran to heft him onto the table like a sack of grain. ‘Scared’ wasn’t the right word; ‘panicked’ was closer to the truth.
This will have all been for nothing if I lose both of them on the same night, Corran thought, too terrified to feel his own exhaustion. He lit a lantern, and brought out the bottle of whiskey. After a moment’s hesitation, he went upstairs.
The last time I came up here, Kell was still alive. He pushed the thought out of his mind and found dried meat and cheese for both of them. The embers in the fireplace had grown cold.
At the back of the hearth, an iron cauldron of vegetable stew was still warm. Kell made that for dinner, before he left to do his rounds. Gods! Was it just a few candlemarks ago? It feels like another lifetime.
Corran blinked to clear his vision and swallowed hard, then grabbed some bread to go with the meal. He returned to the workroom and found himself at a loss.
“I don’t know what to do.” Healing a soul-damaged witch had not been covered in his apprenticeship.
“Food might help,” Rigan replied. His voice was too quiet. “Rest. Not having to kill anyone for a while, or summon the dead, or sell our souls to an Elder God.”
Corran poured him a glass of water and another of whiskey. Rigan reached for the whiskey first, and knocked it back as his brother helped him sit, then lowered him back down.
“Eat.” Corran pulled off bite-sized pieces of bread and gave them to Rigan so that he did not have to sit up again. He broke off bits of cheese and meat as well. Rigan ate, then asked for water. His gaze slid toward the whiskey bottle, but he didn’t ask.
“You’re still pale, and you’re too cold.”
“I just need to rest.”
Maybe in the morning, I can get Parah to come. Her plant medicine can cure a lot. And I think she knows something of magic. Morning can’t be too far away by now. Gods! It feels as if we’ve lived days since sundown.
Corran watched his brother drift into an uneasy sleep. He ate his portion of the cheese and meat, and choked down the bread although his stomach was too tight with grief and worry to feel hunger. Even the slug of whiskey barely helped.
I’m exhausted, and Rigan looks worse. Is there a limit on how much magic someone can do in one day? He’s used a lot in just a few candlemarks. How do I fix it? And if I can’t fix it, how do I find Aiden before it’s too late?
Urgent knocking rattled the back door. Rigan tried to sit up, but Corran pushed him back. “I’ll get it.” He reached for a knife and kept it hidden behind his back as he went to the door.
“Corran! It’s Mir. Let me in.”
Corran opened the door and the blacksmith slipped inside. “There’s trouble, Corran.”
“Not tonight, Mir. I can’t.” Corran was blocking Mir’s view of the workshop and Rigan lying on the table. The questions Mir might ask were too dangerous and the answers too painful.
“Corran, the guards are blaming the fires and the deaths on the hunters. You’ve got to find Rigan and Kell and get out before we all hang.”
Corran stared at him. “Kell’s dead. The guards—”
“Oh, gods.” Mir looked stricken. “When?”
“Tonight. We just buried him.”
“I’m so sorry, Corran. But the guards are coming. You’ve got to get out of here.”
“And go where?”
“Below.” Corran and Mir turned to look at Rigan, who was rising to a sitting position by sheer strength of will. He looked awful, but a resolute gleam burned in his eyes and the set of his lips warned Corran not to challenge him. “I can get you to sanctuary.”
Mir looked from Rigan to Corran. “All right. Grab what you can carry and let’s move. The guards are likely headed here right now.”
Corran dashed up the stairs. He grabbed two rucksacks and stuffed them with clothes. On impulse, he reached for the dice and cards the three brothers had often played with in the evening, and a small carved wooden bird their father had made for Kell. He snatched the last of the dried meat, cheese, and bread, along with a full wineskin. Finally, he dug in a drawer for candles, and took two small lanterns from hooks on the wall. Flint and steel were always in his pocket. Noises below told him Rigan and Mir were gathering essential tools to carry on their trade.
Corran looked around at the only home he and Rigan had ever known. It’s just a house now, without Mama and Papa and Kell. Just a shell.
Pounding at the door to the front of the shop roused him.
“Corran, hurry!” Mir hissed.
Corran shouldered the packs and took the steps two at a time. Rigan was on his feet, and a slight shake of his head told Corr
an not to try to offer assistance, though he saw that Rigan had grabbed his staff as a walking stick. Mir carried a bag with the undertakers’ tools. Corran swirled his cloak around his shoulders and tossed Rigan’s cloak to him, grabbing his own staff and sword. Rigan had two long knives thrust through his belt.
“Let’s go!” Mir stood at the alley door. The guards were still pounding at the front, but it wouldn’t take them long to think to check the back.
“Someone’s betrayed us,” Corran said. Are they here to capture me, for being a hunter? Or to take Rigan as a witch? How were we found out? Were we sloppy in hiding ourselves, or is there a traitor among us?
“Follow me,” Rigan said, leading the way. They hurried as fast as they dared, and Rigan set the pace, moving far more quickly than Corran expected. Shouting carried on the night air as the guards finally broke down the shop door.
Corran heard a crash, then a short while later, an explosion. He glanced behind and saw the shop—their home—go up in flames. That was too close.
“Thanks,” Corran murmured to Mir.
“The others are at the new training site. How do we get them Below?”
Rigan veered into an alley, then down a ginnel so narrow he had to turn sideways and suck in his stomach to fit. He opened a grate at ground level just wide enough for them to wiggle through, and they came out in a musty cellar.
“Where’s this sparring room of yours?” Rigan might be going on nothing but willpower, but the set to his jaw told Corran that his brother had resolved to see this through.
“In the basement of the old bakery, up from the butcher shop. It’s only a few blocks away.
“There’s a way up from Below near there.” Rigan saw the hunter’s dubious expression and shrugged. “There are connections to Below just about everywhere in Wrighton, if you know where to look.”
“Hurry,” Corran urged. Mir had a shuttered lantern, and now he opened it enough for them to see. Corran let out a breath of relief, glad that Rigan did not have to summon the hand-fire he had used before, or that they did not have to reveal his brother’s secret just yet. I trust the hunters with my life. But can I trust them with Rigan’s life?
Rigan wound his way through a maze of cellars, passageways, and tunnels. How did he have time to explore all of this? Or is it the magic guiding him? Corran glanced at his brother, worried that any new expenditure of power would come at a dear cost.
“We’re here.”
Corran and Mir looked at Rigan.
“The old bakery should be just a short distance past that door.” Rigan leaned heavily on the staff, his eyes fever-bright. Corran knew better than to say anything. It’s been a long night, for both of us. And likely to get longer.
“I’d rather not get jumped by a bunch of nervous hunters,” Corran said to Mir. “I’m not up to another fight. You want to go first?” He could hear familiar voices talking in low tones. Mir gave the knock that was the hunters’ signal and the voices fell silent.
“It’s me, Mir,” he called quietly through the old door. “I’ve got Corran and his brother with me. For the gods’ sake, don’t attack.”
Despite the warning, Mir opened the door carefully, and held his lantern high so that there could be no mistaking his identity. When none of the hunters moved, Mir stepped through the doorway, followed by Corran and Rigan.
“What’s going on outside?” Calfon moved forward to shake Corran’s hand. He took in his injuries at a glance, and then frowned as he looked at Rigan.
“Nothing good,” Corran replied. “This is Rigan, my brother.”
Calfon, Trent, and Ross nodded in acknowledgement. “We can use reinforcements,” Calfon said to Rigan, who gave a weary nod. “Glad you made it,” he added, turning to Mir and Corran. “But you might have just come to the slaughter pen. We’ve been debating whether to wait and see what happens, or find a way out, beyond the city walls. The Mayor’s guards have less authority out there. They might not be able to track us.”
“I can hide you Below.”
They turned to look at Rigan.
“Going Below is as dangerous as walking into a guardhouse,” Calfon replied.
“Not if you know what you’re doing. Not if you have friends.”
Calfon regarded Rigan as if retaking his measure. “And you have friends Below?”
“Teachers. They can shelter us, or get us out,” Rigan replied.
Calfon’s gaze flicked to Corran, who nodded.
“He’s telling the truth.”
Calfon looked to Ross, Trent, and the others. “Anybody got a better idea?”
They shook their heads.
“All right,” Calfon replied, looking at Rigan. “Below it is. How do we get there?”
* * *
THEY TOOK ALL the weapons they could carry. Rigan was the only one not burdened with gear. Corran guessed that the others saw the same brittle resolve as he did and realized that Rigan already had all he could handle just staying on his feet.
Rigan led them through rat-infested basements, along reeking drains, and long-buried streets that had not seen the light of day in generations. How he knew where he was going, Corran hadn’t a clue, but his brother moved with the certainty of a dog on a hunt. The group moved through the ruins in silence, speaking only when necessary. In the stillness, the reality of their situation finally caught up with Corran.
Kell’s dead. The shop, the house—gone. The guards have to know I’m a hunter, or they wouldn’t have set the shop on fire. I’m a wanted criminal. And Rigan—he’ll burn if they find out what he is.
We indebted ourselves to an Elder God for vengeance; and Eshtamon’s gifts came with dark warnings. What have we gotten ourselves into?
More to the point, can we get ourselves out?
“We’ve been walking a long time.” Calfon stopped and wiped his sleeve across his brow. “Do you really know where you’re going?”
“We’ve been in Below this whole time. It’s big. As big underneath as all the neighborhoods are above,” Rigan said.
“If this is Below, there’s no one home,” Ross ventured.
“We’re taking the back way,” Rigan replied. “Some of the people who live Below go Above as well. If the Mayor’s put a bounty on us, there’s no sense tempting fate.”
Corran hadn’t thought about that. The implication made him catch his breath. It’s never going to be the way it was. No matter how tonight ends, everything we knew is gone forever.
Rigan led them a bit farther, then stopped. “I need you to wait here.”
Calfon looked skeptical. “Why?”
“Because I want to make sure my teachers are all right with guests,” Rigan replied.
“And if they’re not?” There was a growl beneath Calfon’s tone; the hunter was clearly close to the breaking point.
“Then we go now. Take the passage beneath the walls and out of the city, tonight,” Rigan answered.
Rigan opened a door and moved forward, and Corran grabbed his arm. “Not alone.” Rigan was barely staying on his feet. He nodded, relenting.
“We’ll be back,” Corran told the others, though he could see clearly that being left behind did not sit well with Calfon.
Rigan’s lantern lit the way as they moved into the next room. “Something’s wrong.” He looked around at the too-quiet house. “Damian or Alton—one of the other witches—should have met us at the outer door.”
Corran doubted his gut could tighten further, as cold dread knotted in the pit of his stomach. He drew his sword, unsure what good it would be if magic had not sufficed to protect the witches.
Rigan moved from room to room with a familiarity that confirmed Corran’s suspicions as to his secret trips Below. One room, a small bedroom, bore evidence of a fight, with an overturned bed and a chest tipped on its side, contents strewn across the floor. Rigan turned a corner, and froze. Corran came up to stand next to him, and saw the bloody handprint on the whitewashed wall. Rigan leaned his staff against the wall a
nd drew his long knife, holding it in his left hand, leaving his right hand free for magic.
He’s not up to another fight, certainly not one involving magic. And what can I do, if the enemy is a witch?
Rigan moved forward cautiously, with his brother right behind him as they entered a large open room littered with bodies.
“Gods!” Rigan swore in a choked voice. The lantern’s light caught the red glint of blood on the floor. He rushed forward, while Corran remained a few steps behind, sword raised, watching Rigan’s back and keeping his eye on the door.
“What happened?” Rigan moaned as he moved from body to body. Corran dared to glance in his brother’s direction. He saw no movement from any of the downed witches, and the blood that pooled near his feet was dark and thick, a few candlemarks old.
Rigan looked up at Corran, his expression bereft. “They’re all dead.”
“Guards?”
Rigan closed his eyes, struggling to push his feelings aside. “I don’t think so. The wounds aren’t from swords. There are all kinds of injuries. Someone had to have pretty strong magic to do this, and to get inside the wards and this far into the house—it had to be someone they trusted.”
Corran watched his brother stagger to his feet and make a slow circle of the room, looking down at the faces of the dead. “People are missing,” Rigan said, more to himself than to Corran. “Damian. Alton. Aiden.”
“Elsewhere?” Corran asked, worried that any moment Rigan’s strength would fade and he would collapse.
“Not many places left to look,” Rigan replied, sounding heartsick. Together, he and Corran searched the back rooms, and found no one. They were heading toward the front when a sound made them both go still.
“This way,” Rigan whispered, leading them back to the bedroom with the overturned furniture. Swords raised, the brothers came around the upended bed from different sides, and found two people huddled behind it.
Aiden was sheltering a woman beneath his body, and he came up fast, blue light crackling around his hands, ready for a fight. Rigan remained motionless, giving his friend a chance to react.
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