“Perfect. I know that lake,” Frell said. “If we can, we will look for you there. But be wary. Be ready to flee farther if you must.”
“Aye,” her dah said. “You don’t survive the M?r for long without being wary.” He glanced to the little altar in the room’s corner, aglow with a score of candles. He kissed a thumb and tapped it against his forehead in a silent plea to the Mother Below. Then he nodded to Frell. “Do what ya kin, and we’ll do the same.”
Frell firmed a fist around the key and waved to Kanthe. “You proved your marksmanship earlier. Maybe spared the school with your effort. We cannot lose this chance. We must get them to listen.”
“I’ll try.” The prince gave a small shrug. “But my tongue is not nearly as sharp as my arrows, nor its aim as true.”
Frell clapped him on the shoulder. “We shall see.”
As they headed out, the prince gave Nyx an appraising look, as if searching for something in her face—then he turned and dashed through the door.
Jace urged Nyx the other direction, toward the rear of the house that led out onto the length of the marsh dock. “Hurry. We must join your brother and put as much distance as possible between us and what comes—whether that be bats or the king’s legions.”
* * *
KANTHE HURRIED IN the wake of Frell’s swift passage through the streets of Brayk. Even this late, people crowded about, still celebrating the parade of the king’s knights and guards. Drunken singing echoed down alleyways, along with boisterous cheers and laughter. A few brawling fights tumbled across their way and had to be skirted past. Children ran hither and yon, waving tall sticks with paper bats fluttering from strings. Throughout the merriment, hundreds of braziers smoked with fish, broiled meats, and steaming bread.
The latter reminded him that he hadn’t eaten in half a day. Still, terror and worry knotted his stomach. As the Cloistery gates appeared ahead, he searched up the length of steps, expecting to see a clutch of knights or crimson-faced Vyrllians rushing down. But he spotted no armor-clad figures or raised swords. Apparently, with the dead bat in hand, the king’s legion had returned to their assigned task, determined to finish the sacrifice before directing their attention to a lawless prince.
Still, the stairs ahead were even more packed than the streets. The crowds had refilled them after the broken wagon had crashed downward from the heights. It appeared as if the entire town had come out to witness the burning of the winged terror.
The press of bodies on the steps made him appreciate the key in Frell’s hand. Hopefully the private stair would offer an easier climb to the top. Still, as he and Frell elbowed and wiggled through the school gate, Kanthe struggled for the words he would need to convince the others not to toss the dead bat into the flames. Especially Anskar and Goren. Presently, such an argument still escaped him.
Once clear of the archway, Kanthe divided his attention between Frell’s charge through the pack of onlookers and the twin pyres flaming and smoking high above. Then movement drew his eye to the left, where a commotion centered around a craggy mountain. It was the hulking figure of the Gyn. The beast of a man shouldered back the crowd. People retreated in a stumbling, elbowing rush—though, it was less due to the threat of the Gyn than the gaunt hooded shape he guarded over. Shrive Vythaas hobbled out of a door, likely exiting from the hieromonks’ secret stair on that side. The Shrive fell into the Gyn’s protective shadow, using his cane to ward off anyone who dared get too close. But the sight of such a holy man was ward enough. Everyone backed away a respectful distance.
As Kanthe stared, the tattooed band over the Shrive’s eyes swung unerringly toward his position. He shivered and ducked farther into the pack of people around him. Luckily, Vythaas seemed not to have spotted him. The Shrive turned and followed the Gyn as he forged a path to the gates. The pair were likely returning to the black livery sled that had carried them through the swamps.
Good riddance.
Kanthe turned in the other direction and hurried after Frell. He joined the alchymist at a stout door studded in iron—when a loud cheer resounded from on high. In moments, the triumphant cry swept down through the gathered onlookers, spreading like a flame through dry tinder. Kanthe retreated a few steps to get a better view to the top of the school.
He feared the worst—and was not disappointed.
His heart sank at the sight of a thick column of dark smoke rising from the twin pyres. Fiery embers, like a thousand furious eyes, spiraled through the heart of the black pall. Bright horns blew from on top of the school, sounding the victory, which raised more raucous shouts from those packed below.
Kanthe stumbled over to Frell. The alchymist had frozen with the key in the door’s lock. “We’re too late,” Kanthe warned.
Frell swore—something Kanthe could not recall the alchymist ever doing in his presence before—and yanked open the door. He stared hard at Kanthe. “I must warn Prioress Ghyle. You go after the others.”
Before Frell could cross the threshold, a long, piercing cry—as sharp as broken glass—shattered through the blare of the horns. It immediately silenced the cheers, smothering the crowd to a tense uncertainty. People shifted nervously. Then a chorus of shrieks joined the first. They seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, the cries echoing and reverberating off of every surface.
Kanthe clamped his hands over his ears, but he could not escape the anger and fury in those cries. The noise shook his teeth, tremored his ribs. He squinted against a force that felt like a wind.
To the south, darkness swelled into the sky, blowing up into a black thundercloud. The storm swept against the winds toward the school. Then suddenly the piercing screams died all at once as the silent black wave crested high, about to fall upon the school.
No one moved. Faces stared upward.
Kanthe knew they could not wait. He grabbed a fistful of Frell’s robe. “Surely the prioress now knows we failed.” He tugged Frell away from the door. “And I don’t know these swamps like you do. If you want me to help that accursed girl, you’re coming with me.”
The alchymist resisted for a long breath—then relented. “You’re right.” He shoved Kanthe toward the school gate. “And the prioress tasked me with another duty if all else failed.”
Kanthe couldn’t imagine what that might be and didn’t care. Right now, he wanted to be far away from this place. They set off for the gates and not a moment too soon. The frozen tableau around them finally shattered as the realization of the threat spread through the crowd.
Screams and shouts erupted. People snatched children off of steps. Fear and terror drove everyone to seek the nearest shelter.
Kanthe and Frell were buffeted by the panicked crowd, but they made it through the school’s gates and out onto the streets of Brayk. Chaos followed in their wake. The pair fled, trying to stay ahead of the worst. Frell led the way, knowing the town well. Still, a couple of times Kanthe lost sight of his fleet-footed mentor, only to spot him again. They raced and zigzagged, elbowed and shoved, until finally the glassy black waters of the swamp shone ahead.
“Over here!” Frell yelled, and rushed toward a small punt with a set of crossed oars atop it.