Havilar’s hand slipped into his, her tail twining nervously around his ankle. He could hear the words she hadn’t said yet-Brin can come with me. And split her focus, he thought. You could get her killed that way.
“I’ll go with Mira,” Brin said, squeezing Havilar’s hand. “If we can get the arcanist out, I’m the best person to try the air vents first. In case they’re too narrow.”
Tam nodded. “Excellent. Go.”
Havilar held tight to him, and unlike before, she looked nothing short of terrified. “You have to be careful,” she said, a little tremor in her voice. “You have to promise.”
“You be careful,” he told her. “I’m just doing a little climbing.”
Havilar seized him in a fierce embrace, tucking her face against the crook of his neck. “Just promise, all right?”
“I promise,” he said, and he kissed her quickly, before hurrying after Mira. Havilar looked around the camp, as if searching for someone-Farideh, he realized, but her twin had rushed off to help cast the rituals. Oh, Loyal Torm, he thought, seeing the sudden anguish on Havilar’s face, don’t let me have kept her from saying good-bye.
He broke into a run to keep up with Mira, darting around the twisting paths of the library’s shelves. She stopped abruptly along a mostly straight aisle, lined with fat, leather-bound books on either side, and wide enough for Lorcan to have spread his wings. She scanned the floor.
“Here,” she murmured. “It’s the only place that’s wide enough for that thing to get out.”
“How … big is it again?” Brin asked.
Mira didn’t answer, but dropped to her knees and started pulling at the corners of the tiles with a slim, sturdy wire. Brin bent low, studying the sand between the tiles for signs of disturbance. Off in the distance he heard the muffled booms of the wizards blasting their way through the obstacles. Ye gods, he thought. Where in the Hells was it?
Suddenly his ears felt thick, as if a storm were coming fast over the horizon, and the air seemed to vibrate. He looked up and saw the ghosts, still wearing the forms of Havilar, Farideh and himself take shape in the shadows. The booming grew louder, and Brin realized, as the ghosts edged closer, that not all of it was coming from the Shadovar’s progress.
“Mira,” he called.
“Have you found it?” she said, then she let out a little cry as she spotted the ghosts.
“It’s found us,” he said. He drew his sword and his holy symbol, and heard her take out her knives. The ghosts all eyed him as he backed toward Mira, as if waiting to see if he could do anything at all with the occasional goodwill of Torm.
One of the tiles started to lurch upward, out of place.
“Head for the others,” he said. “I’ll lead-”
“No,” Mira said, firmly. “I’ll lead it out. You get down there and make sure the air vents are a decent route.”
Brin might have argued, but then the tile flipped out of place, and a hideous, skeletal arm as long as he was reached up out of the floor. Mira darted past him, scoring a slash along the thing’s forearm, and the arcanist howled in rage. The mummy hauled himself up out of the trapdoor and for a brief, terrible moment, his glowing green eyes fell on Brin. He snarled and tossed his head, so bestial Brin could hardly imagine he had once been the architect of the library. Whatever the arcanist’s howl had meant, the ghosts understood, and as the mummy turned to follow Mira, the three of them focused their cold eyes on Brin.
Loyal Fury, he thought, and he leaped down the trapdoor into the darkness. The drop was long enough that it shocked his ankles, but Brin ran past the pain, down the steep and winding passage. One of the ghosts streaked past him with a sound halfway between a swarm of bees and a stiff breeze, and his own self seemed to take shape fifteen feet before him. He held the pendant of his holy symbol up menacingly.
“The gods cannot hear you down here,” the ghost said.
Brin gripped the emblem all the harder-if ever there was a time his fickle powers should come through, this was it. “Loyal Fury,” he said. “Aid me.”
The emblem took on a bright sheen, and the air rang with the sound of a blade against a whetstone. The ghost took a step back. Brin edged forward.
“Let me pass,” he said. “Or I release it.” He swung the holy symbol around to see the ghost in Havilar’s skin creeping up on him. “This is the sort of magic that killed your friend,” he warned.
She smiled, an evil, slippery thing. “He was already dead.”
Which ghost lunged first, he couldn’t have said. His eyes were first on Havilar’s face catching fire in the sudden brightness that exploded from the pendant, then on his own, the ghost’s gaping mouth filling with the holy light. His stomach churned up, but he had the good sense to run past the screaming creatures and swallow his sick back down.
They did not follow him into the crypt-whether they were dead or that fearful of him, he didn’t know. He ran through the field of bones to the trio of niches along the far wall. Even though the air was dense with the rotten smell of the arcanist’s victims, he could tell it was fresher than in the rest of the library, stirring the dank air into something breathable. He imagined the arcanist, his apprentices, or maybe their slaves-the wretched-looking little gnome of the Book’s pedestal flashed through his thoughts-laboring in the dark and the murky air, and he shuddered.
Brin sheathed his sword and took the stub of chalk he’d been carrying since Mira gave out orders. He looked up the first shaft and saw no sunlight-he drew a rough X before the opening, and hoped it would deter the others if they came before he’d found the right way out. The second looked promising, but a quick scramble found the rock crumbling under his hands fifteen feet up. He slid back down and drew another mark before starting carefully up the third vent, his arms and legs screaming as he crept nearer and nearer to to the world beyond.
“You know,” Lorcan said as Farideh poured the mix of metal salts into a circle around both of them, “there is a simpler way out.” The sounds of Rhand’s people making their way through the library made a strange complement to his calmness. He shifted out of the way as she came under his wing. “Not nicer, but simpler.” She stepped around her open ritual book to finish the line. “If we break the protection, Sairche will be on us in a heartbeat. She’ll pull us both out, quick as can be. Your sister too, I suspect.”
“But not the others,” Farideh said, calm because the alternative would undo her. “And then Sairche has us.”
“And then we have at least a little longer to live,” he corrected. “And a little longer to find a way out of the fire.”
Farideh thought of Havilar, of the approaching voices of the Netherese scouts, and the inevitable presence of Adolican Rhand. “I think our chances are better this way,” she said, even though she wasn’t sure. “I know the others’ chances are better this way.”
“No doubt,” Lorcan said. The echoing booms of the Shadovar’s wizards blasting their way through Maspero’s maze of shelves was getting closer. “What is your sister doing wrapped around the little wayward Tormite?”
“What it looks like,” Farideh said mildly. She scrutinized the circle rather than meet Lorcan’s eyes. He’d already seen whatever stunned expression must have crossed her face when Havilar went to Brin, all worried eyes and lashing tail-and not to Farideh. How many times had Havilar made her promise to stay safe when she wasn’t going to be there to save Farideh? Enough that she couldn’t shake the sense that missing that promise meant Farideh wouldn’t come back at all.
“It sounds like that bothers you,” Lorcan drawled.
“We are about to be overrun by a Shadovar army,” she said. “I’m not gossiping with you.” She looked back down the aisle where Dahl and Tam were bent over the ritual books, trying to transfer Dahl’s spell to Tam’s quicker than they ought to have.