To Kanthe, it struck him as far easier to simply back the wagon into one of the two pyres and be done with it. But apparently both the hieromonks and alchymists believed their honor would be tarnished if their fire missed out on this opportunity to exact divine retribution atop the Cloistery.
So, this was the solution worked out.
He huffed his irritation.
Let’s get on with it already.
On the far side of the pyres, the highmayor stood atop a stone dais and finished some grand speech. Thankfully the roar of the flames muffled the worst of his pontification. From all the Glory bes and Blessed Hes and Shes, Goren wanted his son properly mourned, but just as ardently, he clearly wished to polish his own image before the scholarly elite and the Vyrllian Guard gathered here. For those outside the school, it was a rare opportunity to stand atop the ninth tier. Even the century of knights had to remain one level below, encircling the summit.
The winds shifted, and the smoke of the pyres washed over Kanthe. He choked on the cloying mix of bitter alchymies and sweet incense. Coughing, he retreated back into the stench of the bullock. A fat fly took the opportunity to gouge a chunk from his arm. He slapped it away.
When will this be over?
As if summoned by his thought, a tall set of doors opened behind the highmayor, where the black towers of the alchymists ground against the white spires of the hieromonks. Two figures appeared and hurried forth, though the pair quickly parted in opposite directions.
Kanthe recognized Frell, who set about circling the pyres toward him. The other was a woman with a crown of white braids dressed in a stately robe with a black-and-white stole over her shoulders. She headed toward the raised dais, where the highmayor stood with his arms lifted to the sky, preparing to once again extol the gods. The woman—who had to be Frell’s old teacher, the Prioress Ghyle—stepped to Goren’s side and whispered in his ear. The highmayor’s arms sagged, like the sinking wings of a deflating wyndship.
Closer at hand, Anskar shoved toward Kanthe—or rather toward the wagon, brushing past the prince. “’Bout sarding time,” the vy-knight grumbled over to him. “Thought that fartbag would never stop blowing. Gimme a hand unwrapping the cage. Bastards will want to watch the beastie writhe and burn before their eyes. Then maybe we can get away from here.”
Gods be, I hope so.
Kanthe turned to follow, but the prioress spoke to the gathering, drawing his eye. “Thank you all for joining us here.” Her voice easily carried to Kanthe, though she did not have to holler and bellow like the highmayor. “It is with great regret that we must delay this Eventoll sacrifice.”
Murmurs of surprise rose around the smoking pyres. Voices were raised. Goren stalked over to her, looking ready to grab her, but a stern look rebuffed him.
Goren still insisted on being heard. “It is the king’s order! His Majesty’s sworn word under his personal seal. You cannot refuse it.”
Anskar groaned. “The god-blighted bastard is right. Let me see what this is about.”
The vy-knight stalked away, his crimson face glowering darkly.
Anskar was replaced by another. Frell had reached this side of the pyre. He rushed to Kanthe’s side, grabbed his arm, and drew him closer to the wagon. “We have a problem. One that requires a prince to resolve.”
Kanthe pulled his arm free and pointed toward the far dais. “I’m supposing it has something to do with that.”
“It does. We must stop this sacrifice. If the bat is burned atop the school, all will fall to ruin.”
Kanthe cast a skeptical eye. “To ruin? The Cloistery has stood here for nearly as long as Kepenhill. Who would dare attack this place?”
Frell nodded to the cage in the wagon and what was hidden inside. “That creature’s brethren. They gather into a storm as we speak.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
“The story is a long one, too long for now. Suffice it to say, it ties to the young woman whom your father wanted taken back to Highmount.”
Kanthe gave a shake of his head, struggling to make sense of it all. “The one who survived the poison and regained her sight?”
“The same.” Frell glanced back as more shouting rose from beyond the fires—then back to Kanthe. From the set of his lips, the alchymist struggled with how to convince his young pupil. With a sigh, he settled on an argument. “Prince Kanthe, a fortnight ago you pressed me with a story of Graylin sy Moor, the Forsworn Knight. You used that tale to sway me from taking my fears to your father.”
Kanthe squinted. “What of it?”
“I believe that girl is the very babe that Graylin sy Moor sought to protect by breaking his oath. Maybe the knight’s own child.” Frell stared hard at him. “Or maybe your half-sister.”
Kanthe scoffed at such a proposition. “That’s impossible.”
“Perhaps I could be wrong about her, but I’m certain about the danger. Her life—all our lives—will be forfeited if this sacrifice commences.”
Kanthe took the alchymist’s wrist. “Frell, you’re more of a father to me than my own blood. So, I want to believe you, but what you ask? You want me to break the king’s sworn oath. After my father has only just begun to trust me again, to put his faith in me. Do I look like some hero out of bygone stories?”
Frell smiled. “I won’t burden you with such a fate. It usually ends badly for such heroes.”
“Then you know I can’t do what you ask.”
Frell sagged and gave a shake of his head. Kanthe stared at the man who had mentored him throughout his years, who too often had held him when he was a first-or secondyear—a heartsick young prince who needed comfort. He read the disappointment in the man’s face, which wounded him far more than any fiery admonishment by his father.
I’m sorry …
Kanthe turned away and headed toward the back of the wagon.
Frell followed, refusing to give up—on this cause and on him. “Prince Kanthe, the prioress is only securing us a little time. Only you can dissuade the others.”
Kanthe reached the rear of the wagon and faced his mentor. “Frell, you again think too highly of me. The highmayor, the Council of Eight, even Anskar, none of them will heed the word of the Dark Trifle. The drunken Tallywag. A mere Prince in the Cupboard.”
Kanthe turned, hiked his bow higher on his back, and leaped into the rear of the wagon. Only then did he face the disappointment of his friend with a smile. “But they dare not shoot me in the back.”
He rushed to the front of the wagon, scooting past the wrapped cage.
Frell clambered up after him. “What do you—”
“You there!” Kanthe called down as he reached the cart’s seat.
Bastan dropped a curry brush in surprise and swung around at the bullock’s side. He stared up at the prince in the wagon.
Kanthe circled an arm around his head. “Turn this cart around.”
Frell joined him. “What are you doing?”
“They can’t burn a sacrifice that’s not here.” Kanthe tried again with the young man, pointing down the tiers. “Turn that big beast of yours. Gramblebuck, you called him. We’re heading back to the swamps.”
Kanthe pictured breaking the cage open and letting the wounded creature escape back into the watery bower of its home.