by Emily Colin
33
Ari
In training, they drill us on The Art of War, a thin book by an ancient writer named Sun Tzu. Efraím used to quote the damn thing at me all the time. One of his favorite lines was this: “Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt.”
Making my way through the damp tunnels that will lead me back to the Commonwealth, I think of this and have to laugh. I hadn’t told anyone where I was going, just written Ronan a note saying I’d left of my own volition and he shouldn’t waste resources looking for me. That I’d be back if I could. Well, the tunnels are dark enough, and I suppose failing to reveal any details about what I have in mind falls under the category of ‘impenetrable.’ Still, I can’t imagine this singlehanded stealth attack is what Efraím had in mind.
I do have a plan, however shaky: Disable and silence whoever stands between me and my goal, question Eva, and liberate her from her cell. Then find our way back to the tunnels and flee for safety, either with the Brotherhood or, if they have moved on, deeper into the Borderlands. Make our way north, toward Banabrekkur, where my father is.
The plan sounds simple enough—but tactically speaking, it’s a disaster waiting to happen. There are too many unknowns, too many variables waiting to trip me up—what if Eva isn’t in her cell? What if there’s someone waiting to ambush me in the tunnels? What if she is too damaged to move? What if—
I shake my head hard to dislodge these unproductive thoughts. Dwell on them and I’ll be stymied before I’ve even properly begun. By the Architect, I am so mad at her for risking herself, for making me believe everything we shared was an act for the Commonwealth’s benefit.
The tunnels smell as wet and nasty as they did a few days ago—maybe worse, because every passing minute brings me closer to a bloody confrontation. “Damn you, Eva,” I mutter under my breath, and keep walking...left, right, then left again. The dank air of the tunnels fills my lungs, and without a flashlight, I have to squint to peer through the gloom.
Twenty minutes later, I hear the sound of water dripping, and increase my pace. Five minutes after that, I find myself in the cavern where we’d first found the wolf’s face.
I don’t hear anything when I press my ear against the door that leads to the scholar’s chamber, but I’m not foolish enough to fall for the same gambit twice. My sverd in one hand and my shuriken in the other, I kick the door in.
The scholar is nowhere to be seen. Instead, there are two Bellatorum guards—Austmar Bantok and Grímar Hjalvi, who I’ve trained alongside for the past two years. They’re good fighters, but they’re no match for me. I’m on them before they have a chance to raise the alarm, slitting Bantok’s throat as he opens his mouth to speak and driving my blade into Hjalvi’s chest as he lunges toward me. It’s over before it even began, the stones awash in blood.
Bantok’s lying facedown on the ground, at the center of a spreading pool of liquid, black in the dimness. This is good; I don’t want to have to look at what I’ve done to him. Hjalvi, however, is on his knees, gasping his last as I yank my blade free. He would have killed me, I’m sure of it—but still, he was a fellow warrior, a brother. I don’t enjoy watching the light fade from his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter as he pitches forward onto the stones, although I’m the only one who hears. “Integer vitae scelerisque purus.”
The blessing is the most I can give them, pitifully inadequate as it is. I wipe my blade clean on the back of Hjalvi’s shirt, drag both him and Bantok out of the line of sight of the doorway, and slip silently from the room.
The underground is quiet this time of night. I’d hoped for that, timed my attack this way on purpose. Still, I’m on edge as I creep down the tunnels that lead to the prison cells, concealing myself in the shadows. I hope they’re keeping Eva separate from the other prisoners, so breaking her out won’t cause too much of a commotion. The last thing I want is to kill or maim the other people locked in the cells when they start yelling for the guards—and they will. No loyalty exists between the Commonwealth’s prisoners. They’ll inform on each other in a heartbeat if they think it will grant them a measure of clemency.
As I round the final corner, I hear voices. I freeze, backing against the wall, and listen hard. Two men are talking, their tone the desultory banter of people who don’t expect to be overheard.
“—don’t know why the Executor has it in for her,” one of them says. I recognize his voice. It’s Benedikt Mundahl, one of the four bellators who were recruited along with me. “She was his golden girl a couple months ago.”
There’s the scraping sound of shoes moving over stone, and then the other man replies. “Who can say, Mundahl. I always told you it wasn’t natural, the way they let a female in. There’s something twisted at work there, no mistake.”
Anger flares in me, but I stay still, assessing. The second man is Gídeon Falk, a broad-shouldered beast who’s been paired with Benedikt for guard duty before. He outweighs me by forty pounds. I’m faster, though, not to mention smarter. As for Benedikt, I have nothing to worry about. Efraím used to pit the two of us against each other all the time, and I always kicked his ass. Together, though, they represent a force to reckon with. I knot my hand around the hilt of my sverd, and try to figure out what to do.
In the end, I decide my best bet is to divide and conquer. Drawing a deep breath, I look down at the ground, find a loose pebble, and kick it, hard.
As I intended, this gets the immediate attention of Falk and company. “What was that?” Gídeon says, sounding more alert.
“Sounded like a rock shaking loose to me.”
“A rock being kicked loose, more likely.” I hear the hiss as Falk’s blade comes free of its sheath. “You stay here.”
Then he’s stalking toward me, his footsteps growing louder as he approaches the bend in the tunnel where I stand, concealed from view. “Show yourself,” he growls.
And so I do.
This fight is not as easy as the others. For one thing, it is noisier. Falk gets half my name out of his mouth before I kick him in the stomach, silencing him. He surges toward me, blade outstretched, trying to pin me against the wall, but I dodge and knock him into it instead, headfirst. He comes back at me, slashing with his knife, and I duck under his arm. As he spins and lunges for me again, I stab him in the gut, twisting the blade. He opens his mouth to scream, and that’s when I cut his throat.
The whole thing’s over in thirty seconds. I bend over him, muttering the blessing again, and yank his set of keys free. Then I straighten up, and realize I’m not alone.
“You exile bastard.” It’s Benedikt, standing a foot away, his mouth open in shock and his sverd in his hand. “You won’t get away with this.”
“Hello, Benedikt,” I say, wiping my blade clean for the second time tonight. “If you don’t want to meet a similar fate, I would suggest you unlock Eva Marteinn’s cell and pretend you never saw me.”
“The girl?” he says, stepping to the side to avoid the river of Falk’s blood that has begun trickling toward him. “You came back here for your apprentice? By the Architect, Westergaard, you must be even dumber than I thought.”
“Is that a no?” I say in the same polite voice. “It sounds kind of like a no to me.”
“You’re not getting past me,” he says, doing his best to block my way.
“Oh, Benedikt. If that’s the way you want to play it,” I say, backing up. He’s still talking when I give myself a running start and vault over his head, using the sides of the tunnel for leverage. I land on the other side of him and take off running, in the direction of the cells. I know Benedikt; he won’t go for help. The bastard’s prideful—after all the times he’s fought me and lost, he’ll want to be the one who brings me down. He’ll come after me, and a good thing, too. If I can’t find Eva on my own, I may need to coerce him into sharing what he knows.
She isn’t in the first cell, or the second. In fact, all the cells are emp
ty, a lucky—and suspicious—fact I realize as I race by them, Benedikt hard on my heels. I yank the unlocked doors open behind me as I go, and hear him swear as he dodges one after the other. Finally I’m at the end of the cell block, Benedikt just feet away. I peer into the last cell on the left and see Eva gripping the bars, her clothes ripped and her dark eyes wide, the truth stamped all over her face.
The sight of her is a sharpened blade, piercing straight through me. Even filthy and caged like an animal, she’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen. More than that—she is air, filling my chest where that awful weight used to be. Her lips form my name as Benedikt comes pounding up behind me, blade gripped in his hand. “Get away from her,” he barks.
I lean back, against the bars, and face him. “Whatever you say,” I drawl.
His eyes narrow, and then he launches himself. I spin, letting his momentum carry him past me. He smacks into the bars of Eva’s cell, panting. His eyes meet mine, and then Eva uses the dagur she’s liberated from my belt to reach through the bars and cut his throat.
He claws at her, trying to get free, but it’s too late. Blood gushes over her hand where it grips the knife. In the half-light of the cell, her face is bone-white, her breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps. Benedikt’s body sinks to the ground and I push him out of the way with my foot, shoving key after key into the lock until I find the right one. Finally the door swings open, and then Eva is in my arms.
34
Eva
Ari holds me close, gripping me as if he doesn’t believe I’m real, his heart pounding against me. He smells like blood and fighting and the dampness of the tunnels, but he also smells like him—that ineffable, intoxicating scent of burnt sugar. I bury my face in his chest and breathe him in. “You came back,” I whisper.
His hand twines in my hair, pulling me tighter against him. Then he lets go and steps away. “Are you all right? Did they—what did they do to you?”
I shrug, feeling infinitely better now he’s here—despite what the Executor told me about my true nature, and his. Selfish, I think. “Nothing that really matters. I’m all right.”
His eyes darken. “I wish I could kill every one of them that hurt you.”
Now that we’re not touching, I feel awkward in his presence, clumsy and stiff. There’s so much I have to explain, and no time in which to do it. At the very least, I owe him an apology.
“I’m sorry, Ari,” I blurt out, kneeling next to Benedikt to divest him of his weapons belt and the blade down his back. I’m unprepared for the boneless way his lifeless body moves, and have to fight a shiver of revulsion as I slide the belt and the blade free. “Your mother—I’m so sorry. I never meant this to happen. I had no idea. You have to believe me.”
Ari kneels next to me, rolling Benedikt over so I don’t have to look at him anymore. “I know,” he says, getting to his feet and turning to scout the hallway for intruders.
“That day at the camp...I didn’t—I wouldn’t—I never—” The words catch on each other, so that I can’t complete the sentence, and I give up trying. Instead I buckle Benedikt’s belt around my hips, slide his ill-fitting sheath onto my back, and find the courage to look at Ari. He’s turned from the hallway and is staring down at me, his green eyes troubled.
“I know, Eva,” he says again.
“I tried to tell Kilían—and then I passed out and the next thing I knew, I woke up here again…”
“It’s all right,” he says. “Eva. It’s okay.”
“But I—”
He reaches out and presses a finger against my lips. His skin tastes like other people’s spilled blood, but his touch is gentle. “Not now,” he says, dropping his hand and setting off down the aisle between the cells at a brisk pace. “We’ll talk about it later, if we live that long. Any minute, they’re going to find the trail of corpses I’ve left behind. When they find out you’re gone, there will be hell to pay, and the two of us will be first in line.”
35
Ari
We run out of the cellblock and back into the tunnel where Falk’s body lies, scanning the hallway. We’ve been lucky so far, but unlike skill, luck cannot be trusted. Lady Luck is capricious; she gives as she wills, and takes away when the spirit pleases her.
Sure enough, footsteps come pounding down the tunnel, blocking our only escape route. Eva pales. She looks left and right, desperately—then up. “The ventilation shaft,” she says. “Hurry!”
I kneel and she climbs onto my shoulders, knife out to pry the grid loose. It swings free with a creak and clatter of metal, opening on rusty hinges.
“Boost me up, Ari,” she says, but I’m already standing, providing her with the height she needs to wriggle into the shaft. I pull myself up, drop the grid shut behind us, and crawl after her into darkness.
36
Eva
We crawl as fast as we can through dirt and dust. I concentrate on what I can remember of the ventilation tunnel blueprints the guard showed me that day in the gen lab, but at last, despite my best efforts, we come to a dead end.
Drawing a deep breath, I reach forward and slide my knife around the edge of the grid, then push it outward. I lean forward, enough to see over the edge.
We are in the hallway of the skól, where the Instruktors teach. It is deserted, only the emergency lights illuminating the corridors. The swinging doors at the end of the hallway are shut. But when I breathe deep, I can pick up a scent that doesn’t belong here—well-oiled metal. A Bellatorum blade.
“They’re coming,” I say, leaping down to the floor.
Ari lands next to me, yanking a coil of rope from his weapons belt. “We don’t have time to make it to a stairwell. Come on.”
He shoves the door of the nearest classroom open and points at one of the windows. I push it up, the swollen wood protesting, as he knots the rope around the stanchion that supports the ceiling and gestures to me to go first.
As I climb through, I hear the hallway door judder open, hear Efraím’s voice raised in inquiry, then in demand. We have seconds, no more. I grip the rope tight and start scaling down the outside wall, my feet braced against the brick. The rough fibers burn my palms, but I ignore the pain, use it to goad me onward. If they catch us, a few abrasions will be the least of my problems.
The rope jerks, and I look up to see Ari above me, climbing down as fast as my pace will allow. I redouble my speed, and he responds, pushing off the wall to give him as much momentum as possible. We have almost reached the ground when the rope goes slack, and then we are falling. It’s only about five feet, but when I hit on my back, hard, with Ari on top of me, it knocks the air out of my body.
He scrambles to his feet and pulls his blade, looking upward. In the lighted frame of the window stands Efraím, the severed end of the rope in his hands. He gazes down at us, and the look on his face is all threat.
“Come on,” Ari says, but I’m already on my feet, heading for the alleyway that snakes between the food market and the garment factory, emptying out into Wunderstrand Square. The only reason Efraím would cut the rope is to give himself an advantage; otherwise he would’ve come rappelling down after us. Which in turn means he has bellator reinforcements on the ground.
The wind picks up as we disappear into the confines of the alley, howling through the narrow passage and whipping around the buildings. A squall is coming, one of the fall thunderstorms that descends quickly in the mountains. Above the damp scent of moss-covered cobblestones, the far-off acridity of the trash fires, I smell the men who are on our trail, borne to me on the rising breeze.
“There,” I say to Ari, pointing. Beyond the mouth of the alley, at the edge of the square, I can make them out—four bellators lying in wait, hidden in the shadowed arch of the temple. If I hadn’t scented them on the wind, I would have been hard-pressed to find them until it was too late. Efraím would expect us to retreat that way; it’s the most direct route away from the skól, plus it’s got the hidden crypts beneath the sacristy floor, a p
erfect place for hiding. He has set us a trap. No wonder he was so confident about cutting the rope; it’s fed us right into his hands.
“By the Sins,” Ari swears under his breath. Behind us I hear the rest of the Bellatorum guard making their approach, blocking the entrance to the alley, the way we’ve come.
They are boxing us in—again.
“Can they still track you?” he hisses, and I shake my head with relief, remembering what the Executor said to Efraím.
“All right,” he says, running his palm over the wall of the garment factory. “We’ll have to climb. You first, Eva. Go.”
“Climb this?” I say, my voice squeaking. “How?”
“You can do it. I’ve seen you.” His tone is firm, refusing to admit the possibility of failure, and despite the gravity of our situation, I feel his confidence seep into me. “Now go.” He boosts me, hard, and I grab for the wall, digging in my hands and feet, finding purchase on the rough stone. I haul myself upward by sheer force of will, jamming the toes of my boots into the crevices between the rocks and ignoring the sensation of flesh shredding from my fingers, already abused from their encounter with the rope.
Beneath me I hear a grunt as Ari leaps for the wall, then a thud as his foot collides with flesh. I spare a glance downward, and he shakes his head furiously. “Climb, Eva,” he demands. “Don’t look down.”
Training or no training, the last thing I want is to be a liability that puts us in even more danger. So for once I obey him, turning my entire sense of purpose to the task. I ignore the shouts from below, the sounds of knives clattering uselessly against rock, and climb as fast as I can, until the pain in my bloodied fingers fades into numbness and the pounding of my heart blurs with the thud of my boots against the stone, the scrape and snag of my clothes as I drag myself upward.