by Rachel Aaron
For a moment Sted just stood there, staring, and then he started to raise his sword to defend. But this time he was too slow. Josef was already on top of him, swinging the Heart with all his rage. The black blade hit Sted in the side with the weight of a mountain. There was a great iron gong, and Sted flew backward, slamming into the front wall of the warehouse with a crash that cracked the wooden supports.
Panting from the force of the blow and keeping one eye on Sted’s slumped body, Josef limped over to Nico. He’d seen plenty of violence in his time, but she was still hard to look at. An enormous wound ran down her chest, as though Sted had been trying to gut her. Still, he told himself, this was Nico. She was about as killable as a rock wall.
Josef knelt down to check her breathing. Sure enough, he could feel it, a faint breeze on his fingers, and he let out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. She was alive. He let himself savor the realization before forcing it down again, turning to face Sted’s twitching body. She was alive, and it was his job now to make sure she stayed that way.
Across the warehouse, Sted groaned and retched, coughing up a streak of bright blood. He stared at it in shock before turning his hateful glare on Josef. Keeping a hand to his side, he stood slowly, pushing himself up by painful inches.
“I’m impressed,” he gasped, spitting out another mouthful of blood as he got to his feet at last. “You broke a rib. How long has it been since someone did that? Not for years now.” He bared his bloody teeth at Josef. “You’ll pay for that.”
“If we’re paying blood for blood,” Josef said, “I think you owe us far more.”
Sted grabbed his sword again. “What does it take to kill you?” he grumbled. “This time I’ll cut off your cursed head!”
His threat turned into a scream as he began to charge. Instinctively, Josef turned to jump out of the way, but the Heart would not move. For one panicked moment, he stared at the blade. Then he quieted, and understood. Josef planted his feet firmly, in the position shield troops call Bracing the Mountain, and held the Heart in front of him, broad side out, like a shield. There, firm as bedrock, he met Sted’s charge.
The swords clashed in a scream of twisting metal and flashing sparks. Sted was snarling, his sword red as fresh blood, pushing with all his strength. The blood rage crashed into Josef, but the swordsman did not break his stance, and he did not move an inch.
Realizing his assault was useless, Sted began to swing wildly, using his superior height and reach to try and get around Josef’s iron guard. But everywhere Sted swung, the Heart was there. The great black sword and the man carrying it moved together, flicking from one position to the next with a speed unlike anything they’d shown earlier. Sted struck harder and harder, faster and faster, but Josef and the Heart met him blow for blow, each block flowing seamlessly into the next, and try as he might, Sted could not break the sword’s wall.
Finally, desperately, Sted lashed out with his entire body, throwing all his weight into his attack. This time, when the jagged sword met the Heart’s dented surface, the glowing blade snapped. It broke with a squeal of metal that made Josef’s ears ache, and Sted stumbled back. He held up his sword, now just a foot of toothy metal above the absurdly large hilt, and stared at it like a bewildered child. Then, with a cry of despair, hatred, and utter, devouring rage, he threw himself at Josef.
It was a wild charge. Sted thundered toward him, flailing with the broken sword as though it were still whole, running with his whole body to crush Josef beneath his weight.
It was then, in the madness, that Josef struck. He turned the Heart deftly in his hand, sliding the enormous blade around to meet Sted’s flailing arm. He didn’t look at the man’s bared teeth or his twitching muscles. He didn’t look at his own footwork, or how Sted was poised to crush him without the Heart as a barrier. Instead, he focused on the image the Heart had shown him, of the mountain’s peak cutting the clouds. He held it in his mind until the picture was burned into his vision, until the need to cut, the way of cutting, not as a sword cuts, but as a mountain cuts, was all he could feel. Only then did he swing his sword, his sword truly, for the first time, catching Sted in the left arm, just above his elbow.
The black, blunt blade of the Heart met Sted’s impenetrable skin, met and sliced it clean. The Heart cut straight through the flesh, through the bone, with no more resistance than a razor through spider webs. Then it met the air again, and Sted was falling, his arm cut clean off.
The enormous man collapsed on the floor, clutching the space where his arm had been. Josef spun around, taking up his guard again, but he didn’t need to. Sted was curled in a fetal position, clutching his broken sword with the only arm he had left while blood poured out of his wound onto the floor. Josef lowered his guard, resting the Heart’s tip on the floor, and Sted’s head whipped around to face him, his eyes burning with pure, horrible hatred.
“No,” he panted. “We’re not finished.” He forced himself up with his one remaining arm and grabbed the top of his broken sword, clutching the pieces together against his chest. “It’s not over.”
“No,” Josef answered. “It is. You are defeated, Berek Sted.”
Sted laughed, a horrible, wheezing sound. “You, you couldn’t defeat me in a hundred years,” he muttered. “You were lucky, that’s all. My sword broke. There’s no way you could have defeated me otherwise.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it,” Josef said. “Get out or bleed to death on the floor, your choice.” He swung the Heart over his shoulder and started toward Nico. “I’m finished with you.”
“I decide when we’re finished!” Sted roared. “Your name, swordsman of the Heart of War. Tell me your name!”
Josef stopped, looking back over his shoulder with a cold, dull glare. “Josef Liechten.”
Sted pushed himself to his knees. “See you soon, then, Josef Liechten.”
He gave Josef a final, bloody grin, and then said something Josef heard but could not understand. Suddenly, the light twisted around Sted, and a cut opened in the air. It was as though someone had taken a knife to the fabric of the world and cut a hole to another place, somewhere dark and lined with black stones. Sted fell backward, letting the tear in the world devour him, and then he was gone. No sound, no smoke—he simply was not there anymore.
Josef stared for a full minute at the bloody place where the swordsman had been. Even his cut-off arm was still on the ground, but the man was gone. He would have stared longer, but the Heart was heavy in his hand, pulling him toward Nico. Taking the hint, Josef decided to just ask Eli about it later, and he walked over to where Nico had fallen.
He had expected her to be sitting up by now. Nico’s ability to heal herself was something he took as a truth of the world. Yet Nico had not moved from where he’d left her, and even in the dark, he could see a darker stain on the floor around her. Fear began to grow inside him, and his walk turned into a run.
The first thing he checked was her breath again, which, though faint, was still there. His relief at that vanished when he looked at her chest. The wound from Sted’s sword was still open and bleeding. For some reason, her healing didn’t seem to be kicking in. He looked around frantically, searching for anything to use as a bandage to stop the bleeding when he felt something grasp his wrist.
He looked down to see Nico’s hand clutching his. Her eyes were open, dark and pleading as they looked at him, and her lips moved in a whisper he couldn’t understand.
“Say it again,” he said, leaning so that his ear was against her lips.
“My coat,” she whispered. “Find my coat.”
Josef nodded and glanced around. Her coat was piled on the floor not far from where she lay, and Josef grabbed it. He handed it to her, but the moment the black cloth touched her hand, it began to move on its own. The coat flowed around Nico’s body, wrapping itself across her like a cocoon, binding her wound and stanching the bleeding. In the space of a breath, she was completely bound, and Nico gave a long, reliev
ed sigh.
“It protects me,” she whispered, looking at Josef again. “Just like Slorn said.”
Josef clutched her shoulders. “Nico, what’s happening?”
The girl looked away. “I’ll tell you”—she breathed— “later.”
And then she was out, and the coat slithered over her head, wrapping her completely, leaving Josef alone and confused.
“Powers,” he muttered. This was getting worse and worse. Nico was a bundle, he had no idea what was going on, and he had completely missed his part of old Monpress’s plan, which, if the growing sounds of chaos outside were any indication, was going very badly.
Nothing for it, he thought, standing up. He had to find Eli. If anyone could tell him what was wrong with Nico and get them out, it was the thief. Mission firmly in mind, Josef set to work. Using a length of fine table linen from one of the shattered crates, he wiped Sted’s blood off the Heart and tied it across his back. After settling the sword in place, he took a deep breath, bracing for the rush of exhaustion that always followed. But even when his hand let go of the hilt, he felt the same. Tired, beaten up, but no worse than he had when he was still holding the blade. On his back, the sword settled smugly into place, and Josef arched his eyebrows. Whatever had happened in that black place, it had done more than just bring him closer to his sword. Their partnership had changed; he was sure of it, though understanding the exact extent of the changes would have to wait until he had more time.
Next, because he knew he’d never hear the end of it if he forgot, he grabbed the Fenzetti blade from the corner where it had landed and hefted it on his shoulders. Finally, he gently lifted the black bundle that was Nico and held her against his chest. Going slowly so he wouldn’t jostle her too much, Josef walked to the door of the warehouse, which, miraculously, was whole and untouched. He opened it with a swift kick that took it off its hinges and stepped into the night. Clutching Nico carefully, he ran across the one remaining bridge over the now inexplicably glowing river. Soft, cold rain splattered on his shoulders, and he could hear people far away yelling, but the streets he could see were dark and empty. Ordinarily, this would have put him on his guard, but Josef was in too much of a hurry to worry about threats he couldn’t see. Instead, he picked up the pace, moving toward the citadel, Eli’s most likely location.
He only hoped the thief was alive to get them out of this.
CHAPTER
22
Gin ran through the silent, rain-soaked streets of Gaol with Miranda crouched low on his back. The city cowered around them, crushed under the duke’s will. It made Miranda ill just passing by, but she ignored it as best she could. Her duty right now was to get her rings back, then she could help Monpress put the duke in his place… assuming he even intended to carry out his end of things.
She looked back over her shoulder at the river, and Gin growled. “Don’t even think about it,” he said, picking up the pace. “We’ve got our plan and we’re sticking to it. If we start second-guessing things now, we won’t save the town or your spirits.”
Miranda nodded and let him run. Hern’s tower was on the northern edge of the city, an ornate stone spire surrounded by wealthy houses. Or at least that’s how it had looked that afternoon. What met them now as they came to a stop at the end of the charming little street leading up to Hern’s private domain was not an elegant tower but an enormous spike of rough stone. Gin slid to a stop and Miranda jumped off for a better look. Hern’s tower looked like a boulder had fallen on it. Miranda walked up and put a hand against the stone and then snatched it away again with a grimace.
“It’s Hern’s stone spirit,” she said, shaking her hand where the stone had bitten it. “He’s wrapped it around the tower like a shell to shield himself and his other spirits from the Enslavement.”
“He has a spirit powerful enough to stand up to the duke?” Gin snorted.
“Normally I’d say no,” Miranda said. “But he’s got the same advantage we have right now, namely that the duke is stomping on his own spirits, which leaves the Enslavement too thinly spread to press down much on Spiritualist servants.”
Gin crouched down, nosing the spot where the rough stone met the cobbled street. “Does it go all the way down?”
“It would have to,” Miranda said, tapping the stone with her fingers. “I hate to say break it, but I don’t see any other way we’re getting in. Of course”—she opened her spirit a fraction, putting a warning edge of power into her voice—“I’m not feeling particularly charitable toward spirits who willingly help Hern stamp out mine.”
The stone shuddered, and high above them in the tower, something made a low grinding noise. A second later, the smooth rock face in front of them cracked, and a gap just wide enough for Miranda to slip through opened up.
Miranda and Gin exchanged a look, and the ghosthound sat down firmly.
“No,” he said. “That might as well have ‘trap’ written out in glowing letters. You’re not going in. Especially not without me.”
Miranda put her hands on her hips. “Who was it who just said we’re sticking to our plan?”
“That plan didn’t include you facing Hern alone on his own turf,” Gin growled. “You might as well hand him the knife to stab in your back.”
Miranda glanced at the opening. Inside was pitch blackness, but for the first time since that moment by the river, she could feel the wisps of her spirits through their connection again. Very faint, but there, and that made her decision for her.
“Keep watch, Gin,” she said, turning toward the tower. “If you hear anything strange coming from the keep, go and help Eli.”
Gin reached out and slapped his paw down on the hem of her skirt, pinning her to the pavement. “What part of ‘you’re not going in’ didn’t you understand?”
Miranda took a deep breath and turned to face the hound. This wasn’t a card she played often, but sometimes Gin was too protective for his own good.
“Gin,” she said stiffly. “They’re my spirits, just as you are. Let me go.”
It was an order, not a request, and Gin, despite not being a formally bound spirit, had to obey. Slowly, begrudgingly, he lifted his paw, and Miranda walked toward the cleft in the tower.
When she reached the entrance, she stopped and looked over her shoulder. “I’ll make it up to you, mutt,” she said. “Promise.”
“ If you ever come out of there,” Gin growled, looking away, “I will hold you to that.”
Miranda smiled, then turned and vanished into the cleft of stone. The rock face sealed instantly behind her.
Hern’s tower reminded Miranda more of a wealthy townhouse than a Spiritualist’s working office. The inside was all polished hardwood and stone hung with tasteful, expensive tapestries, oil paintings, and fine porcelain. Small oil lamps burned in the dark, giving just enough light to make the elegant hall feel claustrophobic. The lamps were lit in a line leading her toward the stairs, painting an obvious path to Hern. Any other turning was blocked with heavy doors Miranda didn’t bother trying. She was already in the trap; she might as well follow it through. In any case, her rings were upstairs. She could feel them strongly now, and they were pulling her toward the spiral stair to the tower’s high second floor.
When she reached the foot of the stairs, she spotted something that made her stop. Nestled in the space beneath the stairs was a small pump room. Buckets and clothes were stacked neatly, and below the pump was a large bucket of soapy water probably left by Hern’s cleaners, for Miranda couldn’t imagine the Spiritualist scrubbing his own floors. Still, it gave her an idea. She stepped sideways, scooping up the sturdy bucket by its wooden handle and holding it carefully behind her back as she began to climb the spiral stairs.
Though they might vary greatly in style according to the individual, all Spiritualist towers were built the same. The first floor was cut into multiple rooms for private living, while the second, connected by a wide spiral stair, was one open room that served as the Spiritualist’s
office, work floor, meeting room, and library. Hern’s tower was no exception. Miranda emerged from the spiral staircase at the center of an enormous room. Dozens of lamps hung from the pointed ceiling, and Miranda had to shield her eyes from the sudden brightness. Even so, it was immediately obvious that Hern’s taste for nice things didn’t stop at his professional space. This room was every bit as elaborate as the rooms below. Fine silk furniture clung to the rounded walls, arranged in little, inviting clusters perfect for confidences. The wooden floor was smothered in fine rugs and the walls were strewn with paintings, mostly cityscapes of Zarin and lovely lounging women wearing very little.
But what caught her attention the most wasn’t the glitz or the opulence, the fine statues or the heavy bookcases filled with leather volumes seemingly arranged by color rather than author or subject. Instead, her focus was instantly drawn to a wooden box sitting on a stone end table just in front of her. It was a simple thing, roughhewn wood and an iron latch with a heavy lock, but Miranda’s heart leaped to see it, or rather to feel what was trapped inside. In answer, something inside the box rattled, a beautiful, tinkling bell sound of gold on gold as her rings clattered together.
“Not another step, if you please,” a charming, hated voice sounded from somewhere on her left.
Miranda turned, slowly. There, lounging in a chair beside an opulent liquor cabinet, with a sifter of something golden dangling from his jeweled hands, was Hern himself. The arrangement was so contrived Miranda couldn’t help wondering how many setups he’d experimented with before settling on this one. He was dressed in a lounging jacket and soft silk pants, more like a gentleman enjoying an evening at home than a Spiritualist whose land was being Enslaved, and he met her glare with an indulgent smile.