A minute passes, then another, and it does not come. The thunderous sea has muffled the clangor.
The base of each wire is secured to the rocks. One by one, we make our way up, leaving Chari and Xio behind with the dinghies. The thin wires dig harshly against my palms despite the thick climbing gloves I’ve donned to protect them. I call a current of air to buoy myself, speeding the ascent.
We’ve only just arrived, but already I can feel the malignant effects of the iron eroding my maegical reservoirs. These rocks reek with ore, thicker even than that within the copper depths of the Red Chasm back in the Midlands—and that deadly crevasse had been potent enough to bring me to my knees.
But I am stronger now, I reason, gritting my teeth as I haul my body upward. I am no longer that scared, skeletal halfling on the edge of a cliff, at the mercy of mortal soldiers. Nor am I the frightened girl who fled Seahaven in the night without even a pair of boots to protect her bloodied feet.
That girl had no real concept of who she was or what she was capable of. She knew nothing of the real world. Not its horrors, nor its enchantments. She had never taken a life. She had never wielded her power. She had never looked into someone’s eyesand felt, down to her very marrow, that she would be quite satisfied to never look at anything else for the rest of her life, if only—
I shake my head, banishing the distracting thoughts as I heave myself up over the edge of the wall into Mabon’s burly arms. Taking a deep breath, I look around. The thick stone beneath my feet hides all manner of evil. I can feel it oozing through the mortar like sap from a poisonous tree.
We move in silence, eyes peeled for threats. Atop the ramparts, it is wide enough for only two to walk side by side. Or, in Vaughn’s case, for one. I find myself squeezed in next to Alaric, staring at the back of Soren’s and Penn’s heads as they lead us toward a guard tower. I cloak us as best I can as the distance narrows from paces to handspans, but summoning even a thin shrouding of mist takes twice the effort it did at sea. It is like pulling maegic through a sieve.
Soren gives a nod and, with a speed that stuns the senses, Penn jerks open the door. The two of them strike like lightning, dispatching the pair of scarlet-clad guards inside before they can even summon a scream. Their necks snap in perfect sync, their bodies falling to the stones with twin thuds. I stare at their slackened faces and the unsettled pit in my stomach stretches wider.
They are mortal. And yet, not quite. There is something distorted about them. Their faces bear a strange amalgamation of wounds new and old—some scars long healed, the others freshly stitched closed. Their sightless eyes are beady as a vulture’s, and unnatural in color. Strangest of all is their skin. Even before their hearts ceased beating, it was not the tone of healthy flesh but the bluish gray of a corpse. Beneath the pallor, the veins appear black and mottled. It reminds me of meat gone spoiled at the butcher’s shop—the rotten hunks only fit for hounds and hunting traps.
No wonder the soldiers of Efnysien’s red army are so reviled. Just the sight of them on the field of battle would surely be enough to make any enemy troops turn tail. I wonder briefly what sort of hideous experiments led to such an appearance of flesh and form, then quickly decide I don’t want to know.
We move single file through the chamber, exiting to the ramparts on the other side, where we continue our slow slink through the darkness. The prison is square in design, with four equidistant lookout towers at the corners. According to Soren’s spies, the cellblocks are buried deep beneath the inner courtyard, in a light-starved dungeon where the ore is thickest. If Arwen is here—if she is still alive—that is undoubtedly where she will be.
She is alive.
She has to be. Efnysien has been obsessed with her for more than a century. He has been planning this for gods only know how many years. Why go to all the trouble of having her kidnapped from her own wedding, only to execute her immediately?
He would not.
No, he will make this last, draw out this ploy as long as possible. Not only to sate his own vile bloodlust but to strike at Soren. Efnysien knows how close they are. He knows that each day his sister spends in captivity takes its toll. If we do not get her back, I fear Soren will be forever changed. As for Arwen…I dare to hope she is tough enough to endure whatever horrors have already been inflicted. A spirit like hers is not easily broken.
We slow as we come upon the second tower, keeping to the shadows as we listen to the voices that spill out the narrow windows. At minimum three guards, from the sound of it. We cannot afford to leave them alive. If a single one of them sends up the alarm, every guard on this island will come running, and our one chance to reach Arwen will crumble into dust.
Farley and Harpina both draw their bows, ready to fire as the door is jerked open. But there is no need for arrows. Soren and Penn move in perfect coordination as they repeat their swift neck-snapping efforts, taking out a trio of scarlet-uniformed soldiers without a whisper. I avert my eyes from the black-veined skin and slackened faces, examining the tower instead. This one is slightly larger than the first. On the far wall, a set of steps spirals downward toward the inner courtyard—or, with any luck, the dungeons beneath.
“We’ll take the final two towers,” Penn tells Soren, voice low. His chin jerks to indicate the Ember Guild. “The rest of you go down, get Arwen out.”
Soren nods. “I’m not certain how effective the bond will be once we’re belowground. The ore…” He pauses, brows pulling together. “If you find yourself in trouble and cannot signal for us, get yourself to the boats. We will find our own way out.”
I do not like that.
Not at all.
Penn isn’t looking at me, but even in profile I can see how tightly his jaw is clenched. How the muscle in his cheek ticks with rage. The shadows beneath his eyes look darker than ever. I cannot sense his emotions, but I know just being here, surrounded by water, is sapping his maegic.
“We should not split up,” I interject softly. “Penn, you are not at full strength. The effects of the water in addition to the ore here…”
“Do not concern yourself with me,” Penn says, a hint of bitterness in his tone. “It is no longer your place. If it ever was.”
I suck in a breath, heart panging.
Soren says nothing, but I can feel his anger billowing out, charging the air with new tension. He does not like to see me wounded—not even if it is a lashing I deserve.
“Is this melodrama necessary,” Melité drawls from the corner, crossing her arms over her ample chest. “Or can we carry on ahead?”
My glare narrows on her. She is nearly popping out of her dress. I have no idea how she managed to scale the wall in such ridiculous attire. Though Cadogan does not seem to find fault with it. He is gazing at her with the same dopey-eyed affection I’ve seen since they first met.
“Gill-girl has a point. We need to keep moving,” Vaughn mutters, stepping over one of the corpses as he strides toward the stairs.
Alaric is already starting down them.