The owner of the cart, an old farmer named Jinkin Heelswool, tipped his cap to them from atop the wagon. “Where you be day after next? Here?”
“I don’t know,” said Laurel.
“Okay,” the old man said, nodding. “If needs be, you know how to contact me.”
“We will. Thank you again, Jinkin.”
“It’s my pleasure, milady. You take care of yourselves now.”
“We’ll try,” said Lyana. “You too.”
Jinkin ushered the two wretched mares that pulled his cart onward. Laurel watched him go as she and Lyana crept toward the shadows cast by the building to her left. She hoped he made it back to his meager fields without incident. Jinkin had been a boon for them; his family had a longstanding relationship with House Vaelor, Jinkin’s own son serving as master chef at the Castle of the Lion before the war had come and yanked all men of fighting age away. When the Forgotten King’s Renegades, as those who fought loyally with Laurel had come to call themselves, had been forced to flee the caverns beneath the Black Bend, the king himself had called upon the old man, asking his assistance in moving around unnoticed. Jinkin had been the only planter who kept proper stores when winter hit, and when he presented that bounty to Veldaren’s new ruling class-namely the zealot priest Joben Tustlewhite-he was given uninhibited access to the city. His wagons came to deliver foodstuffs to the castle and beyond daily, guided by him and his eight daughters. Now, however, they carried with them other cargo as well-the rebellion itself. When Laurel had asked him why he would agree to so dangerous a task, his answer was inspiring. “What future is there for us if we ain’t free?” he’d said. “In the world as it is now, we’re nothin’ but slaves. I think we deserve better. By the abyss, Karak promised us better.”
She couldn’t have agreed more.
“Come, Lyana,” she said. “Let’s see if the others made it.”
Laurel hurried down an alley until she reached the rear entrance of a massive storehouse. It was one of three similar buildings that sat side by side on Merchants’ Road. The storehouses had become home to the destitute, those who had lived in the streets and feared the lions’ claws, in the time since Tustlewhite and the Judges took power. At least that’s what Laurel had heard.
The storehouse door entered into a space forty feet long, sixty feet wide, and twenty feet high. Nearly every inch of space was occupied by people, jammed together shoulder to shoulder. Most turned to her and Lyana as they gently closed and barred the door. It was quite dark, as the building had no windows, and there were very few candles lit. Despite that and the anxious look in their eyes, Laurel smiled at them. Though there were many she didn’t recognize, she did notice quite a few familiar faces, some that she herself had saved from the streets.
People nodded to them as Laurel and Lyana snaked their way through the human maze, but none spoke. Silence was tenet now. The Judges were leaving the castle earlier and earlier, and on this day their first roars had come more than two hours before sunset. That being the case, and with the rebellion switching locations every two days, they were forced to move about during daylight hours. If not for the old man’s aid, they would’ve been snuffed out long ago.
The storehouse had a loft area ten feet up the wall, and she could see people lingering about up there as well. She started to walk toward the hanging ladder, only to notice that the massive gathering of people kept clear of a section of floor to her right. She went there instead, Lyana stalking silently behind her. Those gathered in the circle backed up even more. One of them, a former bandit Lyana had brought to the caverns, stepped forward. He bent over, grabbed a metal ring embedded in the floor, and pulled. A solid set of boards lifted, exposing a portal into the darkness below. Laurel silently thanked the man, then knelt down and found the ladder.
She descended into darkness, and when she reached the bottom, there were three men there to greet her, the one in the middle holding a candle. They were former members of the Palace Guard, still wearing their purple sashes with pride. They helped her off the ladder’s final rung, which hung two feet off the ground. “Jericho, Luddard, Crillson,” she said with a nod. The men smiled. Minister Mori had once told her that it meant a great deal to the guards for those they protected to call them by their true names, simply because so few did. It was a lesson Laurel had found true.
The three guards then stood back as Lyana effortlessly dropped from the ladder. Their smiles melted away when they nodded to the girl. Their expressions grew hard, understanding. To the guards, Lyana wasn’t a ward to be protected; rather, she was a warrior, even if she was the granddaughter of the woman they loved best. Though Laurel was revered by them, Lyana was treated like a sister, perhaps even an equal.
“Where is the king?” Laurel asked.
Luddard turned to her, his pale brown eyes flicking farther into the darkness. “Down that way,” he said. Crillson then handed her a candle and lit it with a tinderstick. Laurel mouthed, Thank you, grabbed Lyana’s hand, and guided the girl away.
She walked slowly. The floor was earthen and damp, and the wide chamber stunk like old compost. “What is that?” Lyana asked, coughing out her words and covering her nose and mouth with the crook of her elbow.
“Just what it smells like,” answered Laurel. “Rotting plants. These large fruit cellars get like this if left unattended for too long. Most of our storehouses in Omnmount had one dug into the earth beneath them.”
“Oh.”
Murmuring voices broke through the silence of the cellar, and Laurel followed the sound. Eventually she reached a wooden barricade-most likely the part of the cellar that once stored wine and other liquors. The voices were coming from the other side, where light shone between the slats. There was a crude door, hanging cockeyed on crumbling iron shingles. Laurel wrapped her fingers around the wood and pulled.
The room was lit by eight flickering candles scented with lavender to mask the stink of the cellar. Conversation ceased. King Eldrich, sitting on a stool above the rest, smiled warmly at her. Pulo Jenatt was there as well, and his smile was just as wide. Also present were the four hard, odd men who called themselves the Movers, along with the woman who led them-Moira, the lost Crestwell. Everyone in the small, sealed-off room, save the king, still bore injuries from the Judges’ claws, though they hid their pain well.
“Darling Laurel,” King Eldrich said. “You made it.”
“I did. Thankfully.”
She walked in and sat down on the ground beside Pulo. Lyana took her place beside Laurel. Moira, who was on the king’s other side, offered her a kind, almost blissful grin. Laurel had never met the woman until their attack six nights ago, but she had seen her sister, Avila, in the castle on a few occasions. It was amazing how similar and yet different the two women were. Their facial structures were nearly identical, all the way down to their quaint, pointed noses, and both had straight, silver hair. However, where Avila’s blue eyes radiated coldness, there was warmth in Moira’s gaze, especially when she looked at Laurel. She sometimes tilted her head coyly when they talked. It was odd, but the woman’s soft, almost innocent laugh more than made up for her personality quirks.
Laurel looked away from Moira’s intent gaze. “How many did we lose today?” she asked the king.
Eldrich shook his head. “Three.”
“Three? That’s not so bad.”
“It’s still too many,” said King Eldrich. “If we are to succeed, we must have all possible manpower.”
The one who called himself Gull cut in. “I was just telling the king, we should draw from those who already called the storehouse home. They are mostly women, yes, and many are hungry and weak, but what better fodder to protect us during the assault? Force them out in front. When the Sisters respond to our threat, they will have to cut through them first. When you speak of attacking a well-guarded castle, time is of the greatest essence. They will buy us that time.”