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The assassin trailed off, stopping at the top of a curving stair. She ran a hand over the wall to her left, the exterior of the keep. The square black stones were rough beneath her hand, their age obvious. She took a step down the stair, her fingers passing from the pitted black rock to pale yellow stone.
“If we’re very lucky?” Dom prodded.
Her palm went flat against the wall. It felt cool, smooth. New. She took another step down the spiraling stair, then another. At the bottom, a door curved into view, the wood gleaming. Polished oak.
“I’ll let you know if it happens,” Sorasa answered, to his annoyance. Even as she smiled, she tried not to think of the flames consuming everything around her again. “Shall we?”
Dom nodded stiffly and she wrenched open the door below, leaving behind the old keep.
Sorasa kept a sharp eye for servants, though they would hardlyquestion a Lionguard knight. Part of her was surprised by the ease of their journey through the palace. The doubled guard should have been more of an obstacle. But most of the palace soldiers were halfwits and Erida thought herself safe in the heart of her kingdom. She had no cause to look for danger. Her war was far beyond the walls of Ascal, not inside her own palace.
The Queen’s pride made her shortsighted, and Sorasa intended to use it to full advantage.
The servants’ stair led down to another narrow passage. It ran long and straight, dimly lit by torches, with squat columns arching overhead. Storerooms marched along the right, cave-like and tunneled together. Most were piled high with stores of food, meant to feed the palace through the winter.
“We must be close to the kitchens,” Sigil said, grabbing a whole onion from the closest sack. She bit into it like an apple.
Sorasa jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. She barely noticed the dried meat in her hand, half of it already in her mouth.
“Behind us,” she said. “Ahead is the royal residence. There’s a stairwell all the way up to Erida’s own chambers.”
“And what is above us?” Dom eyed the ceiling. It was not stone, but thick wooden beams, holding up the floor above them.
“You already know,” she answered, reading the sharpness of his features.
Beneath his helmet, Dom furrowed his brow. His gauntleted fist closed on the hilt of his sword.
“The great hall,” he growled.
His cape wound around Sorasa’s fist, as if her grip would truly stop Domacridhan should he choose to bolt. Still, she pulled it taut.
“Don’t even think about it, Dom,” she said through gritted teeth.
He glared down on her. “I thought you wanted to be useful,” he hissed back.
“Useful, notdead. Taristan will kill us if we’re found, or worse.” Sorasa loosed an exasperated sigh. She fought back the familiar urge to beat some sense into the immortal. “You agreed to this. Sigil will get the Temur out of here. We burn what we can, head for the lagoon, and swim out.”
Dom wrinkled his nose and grimaced. He opened his mouth to argue, only to stop short, tipping his head.
With the wave of a hand, Dom ushered the three of them into the closest storeroom. They pressed in, only to face endless rows of ale and wine, stored in giant barrels. There was also a wall of mismatched bottles, liquors imported from every corner of the Ward. It looked enough to drown a Treckish war band.
Sigil slipped behind one, the barrel taller than she was. Dom kept his eyes on Sorasa, his glare like green fire. He backed her into a corner, hiding them both from the doorway.
Sorasa ignored his infernal closeness and listened for the gentle pattern of footsteps. Out in the passage, a pair of servants idled by, chattering in low voices.
Only when Dom sighed did Sorasa uncoil. The servants were gone.
Scowling, she put both hands to Dom’s chest and shoved with all the strength she could muster. It felt like pushing against a brick wall.
“Do you think you’re going to take Taristan on in front of Erida’s entire court? Save the realm in a blaze of glory?” she laughed, throwing back her head. “I thought your time in the cells would give you a little more perspective, Dom.”
“I find it difficult to manage perspective when facing the end of the world,” he said tightly, throwing off his helmet. It clanged against the wall.
Without the helm, he was too easy to read. Sorasa had seen it all before, the frustration and rage of Prince Domacridhan. He mourned without knowing how, and now he faced another failure. Not just losing Corayne, but walking away from Taristan. To leave him alive was to admit defeat, something Dom still had not learned how to do.
“You can’t beat him, Dom,” she said softly, keeping her distance. The tight air of the storeroom heated with their presence, warmed by their bodies and breath. “None of us can, not now. Not even together.”
To that, the Elder had no answer, his face like stone.
