Well, I’ve never tried to save the realm before, so nothing comes to mind.
Dom’s voice grated in her ears. “What’s next, Sarn?”
She wanted to slip through his bars and tighten the chain around his neck until he couldn’t breathe, let alone speak. Instead she crossed the aisle, setting to work on Andry’s cell.
“If your life didn’t depend on getting out of here, I’d say you were gloating, Elder,” she snapped over her shoulder.
His chains clinked. He drew up his chin as best he could. “The Vedera do not gloat.”
Andry pushed open his cell door with a grateful nod.
“Valtik?” he said, looking to the witch. “Any tricks?”
Still on the dirt floor, Valtik shrugged her narrow shoulders. “Listen for the bells,” she said. For the first time since they met, Sorasa thought the old woman sounded tired, her voice matching her advanced age. “So the bone tells.”
Andry winced, reaching through the bars to help her to her feet. His expression darkened like a storm cloud. “I’ve had enough of bells to last a lifetime.”
The picks turned in another lock and Corayne’s cell opened. She spilled out, a whirlwind, a mad horse kicking up dirt. “We can’t go anywhere without the blade,” she said. Her body leaned, compensating for a weight she no longer carried. Without her cloak, without the sword on her back, she looked small and young, a child plucked from her bed.
Then she gnashed her teeth, stepping into Sorasa’s way. The assassin stared, the child melting away before her eyes.
“The Spindleblade, Sorasa,” Corayne said, her eyes black as jet.
“I know,” she hissed, making quick work of Valtik’s lock.
“Do you think Charlie is still waiting?” Corayne followed close on her heels. Desperation rolled off her in waves.
“I really can’t say,” Sorasa forced out, prying open the final cell. Dom glowered at her from the wall, awkwardly splayed within his chains. The assassin approached him with her picks bared, raised like daggers. “Try not to bite, Elder.”
“Why would I?” he snarled back. “Your blood is probably poison.”
His first wrist came free, then the second. The neck was more difficult: she had to push his hair away to find the padlock holding the chains in place.
She chuckled to herself, unlocking his feet. “Only a little,” she said as he fell to the floor, a heap of sore muscles.
Corayne was right: there was no time to waste. But Sorasa found herself wishing they were deeper in the cells of Taltora, if only to buy a few more seconds to think. They were running into oblivion, with no plan and no hope of finding the light on the other side. It was well into the night by now, but that would mean little until they made it outside. Past the guardrooms, the garrison, the citadel itself . . .
Her mind spun, hunting for opportunity.
For the first time in her life, Sorasa Sarn found none.
The door loomed, cedar planks banded with iron, its hinges fat and heavy. She imagined it splintering under Dom’s weight, opening onto a room full of soldiers armed to the teeth.
Our only hope is surprise. Get a sword, get a dagger, get any weapon we can. Fight until numbers are back on our side. Let Dom do the heavy lifting. I could manage the rest.
And above all else, she knew, keep Corayne an-Amarat alive.
Dom stared at the door, his face pulled in concentration. Sorasa knew he was listening, trying to figure out exactly who and how many were on the other side.
“I’ll take down whoever I can,” he murmured, staring around at them. Even Valtik stood in front of Corayne, with Andry shifting to protect them both, his long arms stretched out.
The squire met the Elder’s eye, exchanging stern nods.
“With me,” the boy said, resolute.
“With me,” Domacridhan of Iona echoed, taking as many steps back from the door as he dared. Two, three, ten. Until long yards stretched between himself and the wood.
He lunged, a blur, sprinting so quickly Sorasa felt the air stir around her. She braced, willing him through the door, telling herself to follow, as close as lightning to thunder.
The door gave beneath his shoulder, cracking on its hinges, falling flat like a drawbridge. He kept his balance, staying on his feet to pound through, nearly colliding with an oak table. Instead he leapt over it, spinning, lithe as a deer in the forest.
Sorasa burst into the room, clamping down on the fear rattling between her teeth. She waited for the sting of swords, the cut of daggers, the bashing blow of a shield or fist.