“Dral,” Brant finally barked out louder than he intended, earning a glance back from Tylar.
“Apologies, Master Brant. It were just that my belly was growling and I thought-”
He turned a hard glance to the large man.
The giant slowly closed his mouth.
Brant felt a tad shamed at his outburst. He read the edgy twitch to Dral’s eye. Despite his size and strength, he was plainly rattled, too. And the cramped quarters of the passage only squeezed his fears closer to his heart, loosening a nervous tongue.
He touched the giant’s hand, acknowledging both his forgiveness and his own apology.
At last, Tylar halted before an arched doorway. “Here we are.”
“I got it,” Rogger said, slipping a large iron key from a pocket. “Not that I really need this.”
He touched the door-and it creaked open on its own.
Unlatched.
Even Brant knew this was not good.
Rogger backed away.
“Stay here,” Tylar said. “But be ready.”
The regent edged the door open with a toe and thrust his torch through the gap. Brant cringed as Tylar followed the flames into the room. The regent’s torchlight reflected off a pair of iron braziers at the back of the room. They cast monstrous shadows on the back wall. Tylar’s movement set them to dancing.
Brant had a horrible feeling about what was to come.
Tylar crossed to another door in the back wall, some inner chamber, the alchemist’s study. It stood ajar. The regent approached, kicked the door wider, and stepped to the threshold.
He paused for a moment, his back to all of them.
“Tylar?” Rogger whispered.
The regent swung around, his cloak billowing out. He rushed to the door. “Gone,” he said, his voice stiff and angry. “We’re too late. Only by moments, I suspect.”
He waved them back to the stairs. “We must get out of here.”
They retreated, in reverse order as before, mostly as the giant blocked Tylar from passing. Krevan led them back to the stairs.
Still, Brant could not escape that horrible feeling he had had only a breath ago. It remained with him as much as the stink off Rogger. But it grew worse with every step. He felt something building. The very air seemed to suddenly weigh more. Each breath took effort.
Somewhere on the back of his tongue he tasted a hint of spiced oil, a whisper of scent, more memory than real, of pompbonga-kee.
Oh, no…
Dral cleared the passageway and reached the broader stairs. Brant stepped after him, glancing back to warn the regent.
Too late.
The torch tumbled from Brant’s fingers. Both hands grabbed for his throat. Fire ignited his chest, burning through his skin, turning bone to ash.
He fell to his knees.
Arms reached for him.
“Master Brant…?” Dral asked, his voice mirroring everyone’s confusion.
Except one.
“It’s the stone,” Rogger said. “Somewhere they’ve exposed the skull. Cleared the black bile.”
Brant fell farther, catching himself with one hand on the steps. “It’s near…” he gasped.
Then Tylar’s face was in front of his. “Where?”
Brant sat back, bones burning. He lifted an arm, fighting the pained trembling of the effort. He pointed.
“Down,” Rogger said.
“Can you lead us?” Tylar asked.
Arms lifted him, to his feet, to his toes. He shook to keep his heels to the stone. He nodded. “Down,” he gasped. “Down…”
“Where the rats fled from,” Rogger said.
Tylar descended with his torch held before him. The others followed. The giant supported the boy, whose face remained clenched in agony.
“Is this wise?” Rogger whispered.
“There’s a chance the daemons don’t fully grasp what they have yet. If we can reach them before they understand…”
Rogger nodded.
Tylar tightened his grip on the torch. “I could still smell them in there. We were only moments late. If we’d not dragged our heels…”
“Or let so many others know what we sought,” Rogger added pointedly. “I know Kathryn meant well. But I find it strange that the ghawls should discover the skull shortly after you made your plea in the fieldroom.”
Tylar pictured Master Orquell. Even beyond the man’s clouded eyes, Tylar had noted the hunger shining through. Had word somehow reached Castellan Mirra down here? Or was it pure happenstance? Suspicion had already weakened Tashijan, stoked by Mirra’s manipulations. So which path was the more dangerous: to be too trusting or not enough?
A moan arose behind them.
“Left…to the left…” Brant choked out.
Out of the darkness, torchlight revealed another landing. The passageway headed the correct direction.
Tylar led the way and lifted his torch toward the passage. The flickering glow revealed only darkness and sealed doors. But that did not mean the shadows did not hide a legion.
“Close…” Brant confirmed it with a moan. He was now carried like a babe on the hip of the giant. One hand clawed tight to his throat.
Tylar turned to Rogger and held out his free hand. “Your lantern.”
The thief unhooked the bronze-and-glass lamp from his belt and passed it to him. Tylar thumbed the flame higher, then tossed the lantern in a high arc.
Glass shattered and flames spat with the angry hiss of a cat.
Darkness shredded and swirled away like burning ash. A bit of cloak caught flame and whisked down the hallway. A keening wail fled with it, setting all his hairs on end.
The daemon knights were here, buried in the darkness.
“Keep your torches up!” he ordered and entered the hall.
The firelight pushed back the shadows and anything hidden within. They gave chase, but Tylar did not forgo caution. If he had to burn through the bowels, he would have that skull.
He headed deeper into the level as it branched. Brant pointed the way. Passing a sealed room, the boy gasped. His hand raised, palsied and weak, pointing toward the door. Agony stole the boy’s words.
Tylar tried the latch. Locked.
Rogger passed him his torch, then slipped to a knee and worked with a thin dagger. A click of release sounded. He stood and took back his torch.
“The cask,” Tylar said. He would take no chances.
The giant passed him the small oil barrel he’d been carrying. It trailed a twist of soaked cloth. Rogger lit it with his flaming brand, then rested a hand on the latch.
Tylar nodded.
Rogger cracked the door open, and Tylar rolled the barrel through the gap. He joined Rogger and pulled the door closed, together bracing it shut. The small whooshing boom sounded. Flames lapped under the sill, then retreated.
Tylar shoved the door open, expecting to find a nest of burning knights. And though the oil had lit tapestries and flames chased across chairs and tables, there were no knights.
A single figure stood in the middle of the fiery room, untouched by any flame. Tylar noted a mist of Grace surrounding her, one of water and air, a cocoon of protection.
“Castellan Mirra.”
The brightness of the flaming room had no effect on her. She was not a creature of shadow like her legion. In truth, she looked little changed from when last Tylar had seen her. Same snow gray hair, secured plainly behind her ears, framing a serious face, but not necessarily a cold one. She wore a simple ankle-length gray shift, sashed with black at the waist, and soft black boots.
The only difference: She usually leaned on a cane.
Instead, she lifted the skull between her two hands. Blood dripped to the floor from sliced palms. She smiled warmly at him, welcoming.
Then she sang his name. “Tylar…”
And he was lost.
Through tears of fire, Brant saw Tylar fall to his knees at the threshold to the door. The torch tumbled from the regent’s fingers and rolled across the floor. Krevan collapsed in a similar posture, dropping both sword and brand. The woman Flagger went to her leader’s aid.
In the room, the old woman whispered in a lullaby voice, melodious and sweet. “I’ve been waiting so long for you.”