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Sigil busied herself with the wooden chests next to the fireplace, kicking open one after another. She pawed through bottles of bad wine, a few books, and stacks of old tunics. Then she checked the bodies themselves.After a few seconds, she donned a leather belt and sheath, sliding a sword into place.
Sorasa followed, grabbing a sword before retrieving the Lionguard dagger. The rest of the gear was useless to them. Sorasa preferred her leathers to chain mail, and none of the jailers were anywhere close to Sigil’s size.
The Elder waited at the next door, his pauldron braced against the wood, his ear pressed up to listen.
As before, Sigil and Sorasa flanked him, watching for his count.
This time, he held up three fingers.
So it went through the palace dungeons.
Blood ran beneath doors and over stone. Green tunics fell in their wake, jailers and castle guards alike. Dom listened, Sigil looted, and Sorasa led, taking them past bunk quarters and storerooms, tracing paths remembered from a scrap of parchment. They gathered supplies with every step. Sorasa shouldered a bow, a quiver of arrows at her hip, while Sigil squeezed herself into a coat of chain mail and jacket.
All this they did in relative silence, the only sounds the hiss of steel or the wet rattle of a dying breath. Until Sigil threw open one last chest, half hidden behind a tapestry.
She bit her lip, subduing a whoop. Sorasa leapt to her side, heart rising in her throat.
Sigil’s broken ax smiled up at them, the edge catching the candlelight. Even snapped in two, the Temur weapon had never looked so beautiful, the long wooden handle wrapped in black leather and copper. Grinning, Sigil picked up the two pieces, and fixed them to her sword belt.
Beneath the ax was a greatsword, still in its sheath, attached to a fine belt. Sorasa recognized the intricate Elder craftsmanship, a pattern ofgalloping stags worked into the oiled leather. She passed the blade over to Dom wordlessly.
He exhaled a long breath, turning the sword over in his hands. With a flick, he drew it an inch, exposing the Elder steel within. His ancient language stared up at him, etched into the sword.
Sorasa’s own hands found the Amhara dagger at the bottom of the chest, beneath a tattered old cloak the color of moss. She pushed it aside with shaking fingers, drawing out the bronze blade as she would a baby from the cradle. Her belt was there too, dangling with her pouches of powders and poisons. She snatched it up greedily, buckling it into place around her hips. The weight felt like a warm embrace.
Their old gear, battered by too many battles, was a strange comfort. Sigil donned her padded armor, the black leather plates linking together neatly despite a good many rips. Dom drew out his Ionian cloak, half-destroyed, the green-gray fabric near to ruins. Stags ran the length of the hem, embroidered in fraying silver thread. Sigil opened her mouth to scoff but Sorasa cut her off with a sharp look. It surprised them both.
Dom didn’t notice. Stone-faced, he tore off the cleanest square he could, tucking the little piece of his enclave away.
The rest he left, abandoning it forever.
Sorasa felt a little like the old wool: bloody and frayed, worn through. But still alive.
“This way,” she murmured, indicating the next door.
The dirty floors were gone, swept clean to reveal flagstones and mortar. They trekked down the last passage, to the final stairway dividing the dungeons from the barracks above. Fresh air seared down Sorasa’s throat. She breathed greedily, sucking it down, filling her lungs with cold, damp hope.
The palace lay ahead.
And only death behind.
“The guards change one hour after sunset,” Sorasa said, eyeing the landing. Dark red light spilled down from the top of the stairs. The last rays of a dying sun.
One hour until someone discovers the bodies.
Sigil ran a thumb down the edge of her broken ax. “I hope it’s enough.”
Dom took the first step, and then the next, never looking back. With his armor, helmet, and green cloak of the Lionguard, no soldier ahead would dare stop him.
“It will be,” he rumbled, breaking into a silent run.
Low as it was, Sorasa heard his whisper, nearly lost to the spiraling stone.
“With me,” he said.
She bit her own lip, nearly drawing blood. The response welled up in her throat anyway.
With me.
