Page 17

CYRUS

The lower levels are silent. Even the hammer of the forge has fallen still today, leaving the halls empty. Cyrus heads into the very heart of the mountain—the place he hates the most.

The cages.

The wide open hall slopes down toward the cage room. Every time Cyrus comes here he feels as if he’s being tipped into the dreaded hole. Sweat pricks his brow the closer he gets. He hugs the wall, telling himself it’s in case someone comes by. But few demons come down here. Only the Quartermaster.

Demons hate the Quartermaster’s whip, but what they truly fear is the cages. Many have been dragged here never to leave. Their bones lie at the bottom of the hole, a testament to Magnus’s sadistic cruelty.

Cyrus was last here three moons ago, not as a prisoner, but a visitor.

The slope steepens, pebbles sliding underfoot. At the bottom of the slope the ground cuts away to a hole, and the ceiling rises into a vaulted roof. The ribs of its dome hang like warnings from a carved peak. He squeezes past the edge of the drop-off onto the surrounding ledge, a broad, unfinished floor stained with unmentionable substances. Ever-burning torches line the room, illuminating its centerpiece: a gaping hole, above which hang a dozen rusted cages. Suspended on chains as thick around as Cyrus’s wrist, each cage is big enough to hold a demon—maybe two, if the Quartermaster is feeling especially cruel. The chains are fastened to powerful winches set into the wall, which allow the Quartermaster to decide how high or low to dangle the offender.

Higher, and the caged demon is safe from what lurks below.

The deeper into the hole the cage goes, the less likely they’ll survive.

A careless demon, dazzled by the horrific display above, could easily tumble over the edge of the hole. Cyrus spares the cages a mere glance. Long poles are cradled in brackets on the far side of the room, used to draw the cages in for new victims, but Cyrus ignores them too. Instead he heads for a notch in the lip.

Cautiously, he lowers himself over the edge of the hole.

The descent makes him clammy and short of breath every time. His vergis goes crazy, his nerves screaming. Something about the dark pit ignites a horrible fear in him. But he climbs slowly, purposefully, suppressing every single instinct with sheer force of will.

This dark is not like a room without torches, or a night without a moon. It’s an oppressive, stinking, frightened dark. At the bottom of the hole a den of starving serpents are chained to a post, trapped by a steel net that keeps them from chewing their way out.

Serpents don’t prefer demon flesh, but they’ll eat anything if they’re starved for long enough.

Cyrus holds his breath against the stench. Fear threatens to crawl out of his throat in a cry. He’s been caged before—more times than he can count. The first time, it was the worst thing he’d ever experienced. Worse than the whip. The second, third, tenth times were just as terrifying. Alone, with no measure of time, suspended and unable to move. And the stench. But each time, he survived.

You’re in control. You’re not in a cage now.

In control.

In control.

He doesn’t look down or around until he reaches his destination: a small ledge carved in the cliff. Next to it, a different type of cage is set into the rock—a cave with a barred door. He stops, clinging to the cliffside as he catches his breath.

Magnus uses this climb as an initiation rite, sending minor demons into the hole to feed the serpents if there haven’t been fresh prisoners to lower in. Taunting the inhabitant of this cage is just a bonus—stand too close, and an unsuspecting demon might get dragged inside.

Cyrus inches closer to the bars.

He unwraps the hunk of meat from his shirt. Below, chains clank as the serpents stir. They smell it, of course. But they can’t reach him here.

He taps on the bars.

“Hey,” he calls softly. Tap, tap, tap . “Ekko. It’s me.”

There’s no response. Cyrus’s chest tightens with worry and guilt. I shouldn’t have left it so long.

Ekko is the one Magnus doesn’t feed. Cyrus has spent enough time dangling next to this very spot to know it intimately.

Magnus is afraid of Ekko.

Cyrus isn’t.

He taps on the bars again. “Ek-ek. Come on. I know you’re in there.”

“Ek-ek-ek.” The faint noise echoes back at him, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

The shadows stir as the serpents rattle their steel net below. Slowly, a familiar creature steps into the light.

Even tattered as a worn rag, Ekko is a regal sight. His head comes to Cyrus’s chin, and his crest nearly to the top of Cyrus’s head. A wickedly curved beak precedes his broad, brindled chest. Feathers give way to thick black legs, each claw topped with talons the length of Cyrus’s palm. One black eye leads, assessing Cyrus from a distance. His beak opens and his ek-ek greeting clatters off the stone.

“That’s right,” Cyrus breathes. “Hi, Ekko.”

The huge raptor looks unwell again. He turns stiffly as Cyrus edges closer. His breast is patchy where he’s lost feathers and his eyes are dull. Cyrus tries not to immediately project his worry. Ekko is sensitive to emotion, and if he picks up Cyrus’s fear he’ll refuse to eat.

“I brought you something.” He holds the hunk of meat up to the bars. He’s tried to bring Ekko gruel before, but the bird turned his nose up at it, so he only comes when there’s meat. “It’s not very good. I know. But it’ll be better than nothing.”

Ekko leans in, parting his beak to taste the air around it. With a violent shake of his head he pulls back again, puffing up his feathers. Cyrus grits his teeth. The black-eyed side of Ekko is contrary.

“You have to eat,” Cyrus tells him. “I’m sorry for staying away for so long. Things are changing in the Court—not a good change. I have to be careful.”

It’s hard to know how much Ekko understands. The big raptor is clearly intelligent, but he only responds to Cyrus when he wants to. How much of his life has been spent in the cage? Did he grow from an egg in this dark place? Cyrus has no idea.

He hopes Ekko has memories of Hell’s velvety dark sky to comfort him.

Still, he suspects Ekko understands more than he lets on. So he talks a lot. He has since the first day Ekko appeared at the bars, a wary, watchful prisoner with whom Cyrus felt instant kinship. He’d talked across the yawning pit and wondered if he’d survive the night—and if the Quartermaster would come back in the morning to lower him to the serpents. All the while Ekko watched him with his yellow eye, the curious one.

He did survive. The next time, Ekko appeared in the light right away.

He puts his hands through the bars and Ekko’s beak bumps his fingers. The bird lowers his head to be scratched.

“Eat,” Cyrus tells him, gently rubbing his claws across the giant head. “You need to stay strong.”

Starvation hasn’t killed Ekko yet, but he gets sick often—moulting, despondent, quiet. Then he’ll get better for a while. Cyrus dreads the day he doesn’t get better. He worries he’ll climb down one day to find Ekko silent for good.

Figuring out how to smuggle a bird that’s nearly the size of him out of the Court isn’t easy, though. For now, the best he can do is bring food.

Until he’s stronger.

Ekko finally turns his yellow eye to the meat and bobs his head. In a single gulp, the food is gone. He swallows quickly, then dips his beak to wipe the blood on Cyrus’s discarded shirt.

“Best give that back to me,” Cyrus says, but Ekko picks the shirt up and waddles slowly into the dark.

Cyrus leans into the bars and watches him disappear. Once, all he wanted was to survive. Vergis, spy, lieutenant, every path represented a dead end. Literally. When he met Ekko, that changed. He vowed his first act would be to free Ekko, even if it was also his last.

Ekko isn’t even a piece in the Court’s game—just a discard. A beast they have no use for yet whose cage they won’t open.

He scowls into the dark. Even cruft has a place under the boot of tyranny.

The prickle makes itself known again, sharp and bright. His skin tingles. It feels like the Hunter has carved out a piece of him and stolen it away. Cyrus is running out of time to get it back.

What he needs is a way out for both of them. But the Hellspring seems farther out of reach every day.