Torsten listened as the priest untied something, waiting patiently. Then a damp cloth draped over his palm.
“Sorry, though I sleep like a corpse, I tend to sweat like a dog,” Father Morningweg said. “There’s still a bit of blood on it from that raid too. I call it good luck. Anyway, Wren the Holy blessed this worthless strip of cloth when I was confirmed into the House of Iam. He wanted me to serve as his second in the Yarrington Cathedral of Iam, to groom me. The young fool that I was wanted to help people and went off to Winter’s yigging Thumb instead.”
“I…” Torsten swallowed. “I can’t accept this.” He pushed it back toward Morningweg’s chest.
“Please. You should wear something anyway. It helps with the itch from the burns. Hopefully, it serves you better than it did me.” He took Torsten’s hand and wrapped the cloth around it. “Farewell, Slayer of Redstar.”
Torsten was left speechless as Morningweg stumbled off toward the exit of the cell.
“About time,” Curry said as he unlocked the gate to let him out, then quickly relocked it.
“Oh, shog off,” Father Morningweg said.
“By Iam, you still smell like a grave,” Curry groaned.
“Well then, it’s a good thing I’m off to a funeral. Now, do you plan to take my arm and lead me, or to stand around smelling my breath all night?”
Their verbal spat continued until they were out of earshot. Torsten found himself standing at the bars, listening all the way. In all his life, he’d never met a priest with such a mouth on him.
He carried the blindfold back to his spot against the wall and sat down. Then he stretched it out in front of him, running his thumb along the bumpy weave, feeling where the bloodstain had left it rigid. He brought it slowly toward his nose and took a whiff, regretting it immediately. Apparently, the stink of alcohol was carried through sweat.
“Blessed by Wren the Holy,” Torsten said to himself, then laughed meekly. “If only he were here right now to help guide us all.”
He placed the blindfold down and tried to relax. Now that he was alone again, he realized how hungry he was, and thirsty. If Valin wanted to break him, he expected that he wouldn’t be fed until he was on the precipice of death. Shieldsmen training prepared him for such things when Uriah had him climb Mount Lister in the dead of winter with nothing but the shirt on his back.
And now that he was alone again, he was left with the same question. What do I do now? He had no idea how to escape on his own, especially now that all Valin’s men knew to look out for him. He wished he hadn’t told Abigail to run as far as she could. He wished, against every fiber of his being, that the thief Whitney Fierstown had been locked up with him.
Torsten opened his mouth to call out his name, just in case, but stopped before he did. Instead, he scratched the sudden itch burning under his right eye. As he felt the grooves in his seared skin, he gave in.
“Let’s see,” he said. He scooped up Father Morningweg’s blindfold again. Torsten’s head was far larger, as it often was with most men, so it was a tight fit once he got it tied. The front had folded over during the struggle. He shoved his finger beneath to straighten it over his cheekbones.
“Still…” Torsten lost his train of thought as his head turned, and he saw the vacillating glow of a torch outside his cell. And another, smaller one down through a tunnel. A tunnel that had form, arched with a keystone running down the center.
A tunnel, that somehow, Torsten could now see.
XXXIV
THE THIEF
“Hello!” Whitney shouted. A bit of hay blew by him, fresh out of the stable by the smell of it.
He spun. Celeste and Loutis shone on the horizon, down a dirt trail lined by familiar, wood and thatched hovels. He turned again and saw the Twilight Manor, bright with activity. The usual drunks of Troborough stood around. He spotted Hamm through the window, yammering on to the guests about something. Alless dodged a pair of groping hands on her way to serve a table. She was pretty as ever, fair skin and her hair pulled into two braids.
Whitney turned back toward the brighter of Pantego’s moons. The things he would do for a proper drink, but he felt compelled in the other direction. He couldn’t help it. He stumbled through the town square like he was sleepwalking. The blind priest of Troborough’s face tracked him from amidst the churches ruins—Torsten once again.
“Torsten,” Whitney said, snapping to. He ran up to him and said, “Torsten, what’s going on?”
The hulking mass of muscle aimed his useless eyes over Whitney’s head, silently turning toward the trail. Before Whitney knew it, he was walking back along, compelled once more.
Branches rattled. Mrs. Dodson shooed some troublemaking children off her property. They ran by, laughing and pushing one another.
Whitney kept going until he reached a crude wooden fence. The gate was open, creaking in the light breeze. Through it and down a dirt path stood the home he’d grown up in. His cherry-faced mother stood in the lighted entry, waving him onward, wearing her infamous apron stained from various fruit pie fillings. His father stood behind her, arms crossed and wearing an expression equally cross.
Whitney stopped walking.
“What are you waiting for?” Kazimir’s unmistakable voice asked. Whitney nearly jumped out of his shoes he was so startled. He turned to the upyr who sat on the fence, staring at an apple, turning it over in his hand. I wasn’t eating it, never did. His eyes were like a coming storm, his hair silvery as a northern wolf’s.
“Oh, it’s just you Kazzy,” Whitney said, clutching his chest. “Couldn’t stay away from me, could you?”
Kazimir tested the apple with his front teeth, made a disgusted face, then tossed it over his shoulder. Just as he did, two children blew by Whitney, nearly knocking him over.
“Hey, watch i—” The words were stolen from him when he realized that it was his younger self who’d done it. But he wasn’t alone. Young Sora was with him, her ears still too big for her head. Her hair was a mottled mess from whatever troublesome adventure they’d gotten themselves into in the forest.
Young Whitney darted ahead, his mother and father waving him along. Sora stopped, picked up the apple, and searched behind her. But it was as if she saw straight through Kazimir and Whitney.
“C’mon!” Young Whitney shouted. “Pie’s gonna get cold.”
Sora stared up at Celeste as she let the apple roll off her fingertips. She didn’t seem happy and thoughtless like a child should be. Instead, her features, her posture… she seemed troubled, crushed under the weight of the world. Her gaze passed across Whitney’s and he reached out to her. For a moment he thought she noticed, then she took off to join Young Whitney.
Big Whitney hurried toward the fence to watch. Young Whitney raced into the house, but as Sora tried to follow, the door slammed in her face. The sight made Whitney’s heart sting.
“Sora…” he whispered.
She turned, tears in her eyes, then plopped down on the doorstep. There, she continued to stare at the night sky, eyes wet. Whitney fell to his knees, wanting to join her in crying.
“Why am I back here?” Whitney asked, voice shaking.
“Now that is a good question,” Kazimir replied.
“Is this Elsewhere?”
Kazimir hopped down from the fence. He bent down, picked a bunch of grass and sniffed it. Then he opened his palm and allowed it to be caught on the wind. “Does it matter?” he said.
“Well, then why are you here?” Whitney said, nearly shouting without meaning too.
“I closed my eyes for but a moment. Or perhaps I’ve made another mistake and earned the punishment of the Sanguine Lords. I’m done asking why.”
“Let me in!” Sora’s scream echoed. Whitney’s gaze snapped back up, only now she was no longer a child, and it was daytime. She was the Sora he knew now, more beautiful than the Queen of Glass herself.
Sora banged on the door to Whitney’s childhood home, only now it was overgrown with vines,
destitute. Her hands and arms were covered in fresh wounds, her blood staining the long grass which covered the front step.
“She’s locked out,” Kazimir said.
“I can see that!” Whitney snapped.
“You see nothing, fool.” The upyr’s strong grip found the back of Whitney’s head and forced him to stare. “Look closer. An entire childhood of wanting your family for her own, she’s still there, begging. Why don’t you let her in?”
“I did, I…” Whitney let out an exasperated sigh. “What the yig are you talking about?”
“I can feel it on her. Smell it. The struggle, like she’s neither here, nor there. Like me. She’s terrified.”
“She’s nothing like you.”
“She shouldn’t be, but she is.” Kazimir released Whitney’s head. Then, in a flash, he was by Sora’s side. She ignored him, continuing to pound on the door. He sniffed her neck, eyes rolling back into his head as if he’d taken a mouthful of manaroot. He licked his lips.
“You promised to stay away from her!” Whitney shouted. “You promised.” He jumped to his feet and ran toward them. As he did, darkness crept over the ruins of his home like tendrils, or the shadow of giant hands. He heard a woman’s laugh, and the sound chilled him to his core. He knew that laugh. He’d heard it from the demon claiming to be the Buried Goddess when he and Sora were both torn from Elsewhere and thrown to opposite sides of the world.
Kazimir looked to the sky, darkness turning his pale face and hair black. “You can’t have her,” he said.
“Kazimir!” Whitney screamed. The house seemed to grow more and more distant. He was exhausted. “Kazimir, you promised.”
Kazimir breathed in slowly through his nose, lower lip trembling with desire. “I may have conquered death…” He turned to Whitney, and for just a moment a wave of sadness passed across his features. “But I am only a man. I’m sorry.” He bore his fangs and plunged them into Sora’s neck.
Her scream shook the earth as if the Buried Goddess cried out with her. Flames erupted from her hands and swirled around both her and the upyr. Kazimir didn’t flinch, only wrenched her head to the side and drank, even as the fire had the flesh flaking off his face in embers.
“Sora, no!” Whitney screamed.
“Wake up.”
“No!” Whitney sprung up, sweat pouring down his face, searching from side to side. “Kazimir, no… no…” he panted.
“It’s just a dream, Fierstown,” Rand said.
Whitney’s eyes blinked blearily. His heart-rate seemed to slow. He held his hand to his face, just to test if the world was real. It didn’t matter, that dream felt real too. From Sora’s cries to the sense of cold which emanated from Kazimir’s body.
Just a dream, he reminded himself. Elsewhere is far behind you.
He drew a deep breath and scanned his surroundings. The darkness was all-encompassing. The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was driving over bumpy, rocky terrain. Now the moons, Celeste and Loutis both dangled in the sky like eyeballs in the Webbed Woods.
Whitney felt a finger against his lips.
“Don’t talk. Shhhhh,” Rand said. “Something is wrong.”
It was quiet, still, uncomfortable. The only sound was a gentle sobbing coming from somewhere to his left. Everyone in his carriage had passed out from exhaustion except Rand, and now Whitney. On both sides of the wagon, a tall, white structure stretched toward the sky and beyond that, merely darkness.
“We’re on the bridge already? How did… did they kill all the guards?” Whitney asked.
“No, that’s just it,” Rand said. “You ever been on this bridge without getting stopped first?”
Whitney thought back to just a few days ago when he and the troupe had passed through. They’d not only been stopped, but a heavy tax had been threatened for use of the pass. He shook his head.
“I’ve been awake, watching,” Rand said. “Not one guard. No resistance, like the bridge has been abandoned. Something is wrong.”
“Think things heated up in Shesaitju? Maybe they were all called down to aid?”
“No. Something else,” Rand whispered.
Straightening his back, Whitney looked through the back of the cage. Just the empty White Bridge and the towers marking its portal could be seen. There’s no way anyone could have passed without being questioned by guards, least of all, foreigners with cages full of prisoners.
Drav Cra savages walked alongside the wagons like zombies from legends of the Culling in Brekliodad’s dark past, their little trinkets, and tokens jingling with each step. It was an unnerving sound amid the silence. Their wagon was now side-by-side with another for the first time since their imprisonment began. The one holding his friends.
Whitney sighed. As much as he fought the belief in gods and goddesses, he couldn’t help think that it was all a sick joke, like Iam, Nesilia, or some other unnamed deity sat upon a throne of skulls and bones watching as Whitney was thrown into captivity over and over again. As if Fake Troborough hadn’t been enough.
Even in the darkness, Whitney could still see Conmonoc’s spattered remains. Behind his mangled corpse, Gentry slept, gripping Aquira tight. Beyond them, Whitney now saw where the sobbing originated. Crying softly into her mother’s chest, Talwyn’s shoulders bobbed.
As Whitney watched her, a tall tower passed by, casting them in shadow. It looked normal, blue and white flags flapping lazily, the Eye of Iam emblem in their center always watching. Whitney’s eyes never left the mid-point tower as it shrank into the distance. Then something glinted in Celeste’s light.
“There!” Whitney whispered. “Did you see that?”
Rand silently warned Whitney to keep his voice down, then whispered, “What?”
“Something—” His words were cut off at the sound of bowstrings snapping. Small flames coursed through the sky and all around them, and fire rose from grand basins, illuminating the darkness. Anyone who was asleep slept no longer. Who could with dire wolves barking and Northmen swearing?
“Halt!” The voice carried on the open air like Iam himself. All sound stopped except for clinking jewelry and the drawing of blades.
“Ik tarvoo!” came the reply in Drav Crava.
Every heathen took up arms and shields, but it was useless. From the towers on either side of the bridge, Glass soldiers emerged with their bows trained down at the horde. And on the sides, more soldiers climbed up ropes onto the walls, having been hiding, hanging beneath it.
The Drav Cra formed a tight circle, hoping against hope to be able to stop a barrage of bow-fire if it were to come down to it. They had the numbers, but not the position.
Typical, brainless savages, Whitney thought.
“Drop your weapons, surrender the prisoners, and fall to your knees,” a deep voice commanded. “Only then will your lives be spared.”
“Sir Reginald,” Rand remarked.
“You are nothing, puny Glassman!” Mak shouted back. “Where is Unger?”
“Come now, heathen. You didn’t expect the leader of the King’s army to drop everything to stop a minor inconvenience such as yourself?”
Whitney could no longer see beyond the backs of the Drav Cra warriors and their raised shields, but he could picture Mak’s face reddening at the insult. Beyond that, Whitney had to admit, it was a well-planned ambush. Torsten himself couldn’t have done it better. The Drav Cra army was far more substantial, but out on the seemingly abandoned bridge, where there’d be nowhere to run, numbers hardly mattered—especially since Sir Reginald and the Glass soldiers had the high ground.
The only problem, judging by the lack of their firing, was that the Drav Cra had prisoners and the Glassmen on the bridge didn’t want to die. The savages didn’t seem to share that fear. They so loved being buried.
“Lower your bows, surrender the bridge to us, and we will not crush every Glassman and woman in these cages,” Mak said.
“I say again, drop your weapons, and we will not litter you full of
new holes,” Sir Reginald retorted. Bowstrings pulled tauter. “Truly you don’t believe I’d hesitate to put down rabid dogs, do you?”
Just then, the ranks parted. Drad Mak approached the wagon and began working the lock. Then the door swung open. Everyone receded from the big man, but one poor soul wasn’t quick enough. The Drav Cra leader snatched him and dragged him out.
“Please, no,” the man stammered. “Please!”
The circle parted, and Mak pressed himself and the prisoner through, then the circle closed again.
“I said surrender the bridge, or we kill them one by one,” Mak warned.
“You say surrender. I say surrender. Can we not do this all night? There has been enough bloodshed,” Sir Reginald said. “On both sides. Release the man, lay down arms, and we discuss you and your people returning home peacefully. Final warning. None of us wants to see another battle.”
“Of that,” Mak said. “You are wrong.” There was a scream followed by the distinct sound of a body hitting the hard bridge floor, then the creak of bowstrings tightening again.
“Hold your fire!” Sir Reginald said.
“Oh, but I thought it was your final warning?” Mak chortled. “I’ve learned your ways, frail man. I watched as Torsten Unger had chance upon chance to kill Drad Redstar. Saw his loyalty to—what, honor? That is why, in the end, he has lost. There is no honor. Just the mighty and the weak. Bring me another.”
Rand swore as more savages approached.
Whitney pushed his way toward the cage door, and Rand edged with him. Finally, a plan popped into his head. Took long enough.
“What are you—”
“Shhhh,” Whitney said.
“You’re going to get us all killed,” Barty complained and elbowed Whitney as he went by.
“Shog in a…” Whitney spat, rubbing his shoulder. After sending a sharp glare, Whitney pushed forward.
“If we get out of here,” Barty warned. “I will have you hanged.”
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