Page 33

CYRUS

Mezor leaves. Cyrus tries to keep himself occupied—no, exhausted. He doesn’t want to think. He wakes, eats the strange green stuff Mezor harvests from his garden, shoots, rests, shoots some more, washes in the stream and lies on the shore to watch the glimmering moths flit around the ceiling. He crawls into his nest so he can sleep, then does it all over again. Still, he can’t keep his mind busy enough. New fears spring up like poisoned buds. What if all the Grey Company have been killed? What if Ekko gets sicker? What if the tunnel collapses into the grotto?

Only once Mezor is back, when Cyrus curls into his arms inside the nest Mezor built for him, do his thoughts calm.

When Mezor’s latest trip runs long, and Cyrus stops sleeping.

It’s not the bond keeping him awake—it burns, but it’s a manageable pain now. Something else eats at him, a prickle that sends him round and round the grotto in a restless circle. Annoyed, he picks up the bow to occupy himself, ignoring the warning shiver up his spine. Mezor’s quiver of white arrows catches his eye and he takes them to the target range on the far side of the grotto.

When he draws the bow, the bowstring snaps with a twang and whips his cheek. He yelps as the arrow clatters aimlessly to the stone.

“Damn it,” he hisses, touching his cheek. His fingers come away black.

He cleans the wound back in the cottage, gritting his teeth through the sting. Then he digs out Mezor’s spare bowstrings. The bow seems to twitch in his hands, ducking to and fro as he tries to pull the string tight. Finally he grips it between his knees and forces it into submission. With a groan, the wood gives in.

He sighs. There’s no way more practice will be fruitful.

A loud splash interrupts his self pity. He freezes. One of the minnows?

He sets the bow on the table.

Outside, he’s plunged into darkness. The moss has gone silent. Cyrus fetches a torch, heart pounding. The sense of wrongness builds.

The splash must have come from the basin, but torchlight bounces off the surface of the water, hiding what’s beneath. At first it looks like there’s nothing. Maybe the lack of sleep is getting to him.

Then he spies something floating in the water. It’s a pale thing about the size of his palm. It looks like a piece of rope coiled in on itself. He goes back into the house to find something to scoop it out with.

When he finally gets the thing on shore, he’s perplexed.

Whatever it is, it’s dead. He prods it with the stick, wary, but it’s stiff and unresponsive. The white, worm-like body is rolled into a loose ball, with hundreds of tiny legs that are pulled in tight.

Close up, it’s probably the length of his forearm, with a thin segmented body and pincers around its mouth. Cyrus lifts the torch and peers at the roof. A faint, silvery trail winks back at him.

He follows the trail across the grotto, where it disappears into the staircase. Is this odd visitor coincidence? Or something more sinister?

Cyrus leaves the insect pinned to the table with an arrow—just in case it’s faking. He digs out the uniform he wore for so long, which now feels foreign. Over the once-white shirt and the conspicuous blue pants he rubs ash from the pit fire out back, slowly turning them both muddy grey. He mixes some of the ash with water and sticky sap collected from the vines, making a pungent paste to smear across his scent gland and cover the mark Mezor gave him—fading, but obvious on his bare skin.

Instead of pulling his hair back in a tight queue, he lets it fall around his jaw. His face is of course instantly noticeable, even accompanied by a grubby uniform, so next he rubs ash into his skin. If someone recognizes him he’s dead.

The grittiness and the smell are almost unbearable. When he peers into the water basin, a dirty, dusty, exhausted stranger stares back at him. It will have to be enough. He has to be anonymous, just another Marcus blending into the masses of the Court.

His heart thrums with worry—but also with anticipation.

He’s going to investigate, that’s all. Nothing more. But along the way, he just might find answers about what’s happening in the Court.

He follows the creature’s trail up the long staircase leading into the Court. In the hidden tunnel, he pauses to listen for footsteps, but there are none. The trail is harder to track in the main hallway, disappearing into the rough ceiling before reappearing elsewhere. He traces it as best he can. But somewhere in the Obsidian Wing, it sinks into the stone and disappears.

It may have been just a lost Hell-creature. But his gut tells him otherwise.

He re-traces his steps and searches again, but it’s as if the creature emerged out of thin air.

Or out of the stone itself.

He should return to the grotto and wait for Mezor to come back. He should stay hidden and safe.

Instead, he heads toward the forge. If he can only talk to Claudius, it will put his mind at ease.

His heart jumps each time he passes another demon, but they pay him no attention. His disguise is complete—he’s just a harried minor demon heading to his next task. Still, a sense of foreboding nips at his heels.

The forge is locked and silent.

A faint trickle of water echoes across the walls. Behind the gate, the fires are dark and the forge hammer is silent. Cyrus grips the bars. Did Leuther kill them all?

Suddenly, he’s eager to get back to the grotto. Whatever’s happening in the Court is nothing good.

A shout cuts across his thoughts. “Hey!” A demon soldier strides across the hall and grabs his arm before Cyrus can duck away. “You shouldn’t be down here. The new dig is that way!”

“Let me go!” He tries to pull free, but the other demon is stronger. “I was told to check on the armory?—”

“No need for swords now, is there? Quartermaster says all hands to the second dig until the work’s done. You lot will be lucky to see the barracks tonight.”

“Fine.” Cyrus ducks his head. “I’m going.”

The demon is a savvy one—he holds tight. “I’ll take ya there,” he says, frog-marching Cyrus up the corridor.

Cyrus holds back a hiss of frustration and shuts his mouth. He should pretend to be the type of demon who’d be cowed by a soldier—only an uppity lieutenant would talk back.

The demon takes him through the lower levels, heading to the tunnels—the ‘new dig’ is the second tunnel that leads deeper into the wilds, according to Leuther’s map. The main tunnel has transformed, no longer buzzing with industry. Instead, a wide, well-established track runs as far as he can see. Huge piles of materials sit at the entrance—stone pillaged from the Court itself, massive wooden beams, heaps of ceramic tiles. The demon steers Cyrus past it all and into the second tunnel where chaos reigns. Hammers and picks clang with the sweat of miserable labor, and shouts ring out from demon foremen whose lives rely on the speed of the work.

“Report to him.” The demon points to a tall, familiar figure.

Claudius .

Not all the Grey Company are dead, then.

Cyrus is released into the hive of activity. Claudius’s scowl transforms into surprise as he approaches.

“ You ,” he hisses.

Even if Claudius wants to talk instead of sticking a knife in him, there’s no way to talk in the open

“Where do you want me?” Cyrus says instead, playing into his role.

“Thought you were dead,” Claudius mutters. He points deeper into the tunnel. “Laying tracks. Damned carts keep falling apart on this ground.”

Cyrus hurries down the tunnel. There are eyes everywhere. How is he going to get out?

The crew accepts him without comment—smeared with dark ash all over, he looks much like the rest of them. If anyone recognizes him, they’re too exhausted to care. But his mind churns as he works. Claudius is alive, which means General Leuther doesn’t know about all the traitors in his midst. There may still be hope—with their help, he could get Ekko out of the cage. After that, he might still find a future out from under the Quartermaster’s thumb.

Maybe the gleaming trail he saw was just the fruit of his over-taxed imagination. Maybe the strange invader doesn’t mean anything. If only he believed that.

Sweat quickly drenches his uniform and his hands go numb from the vibrations as he holds wooden rails in place for the demon above him to hammer at. It takes all his focus just to keep his hand from slipping so the hammer doesn’t miss and slam into his fingers. When each piece of rail is finished, Cyrus runs back to the cart and lifts a new beam onto his shoulder, careful not to get in the way of anyone else doing the same thing.

They’ve made it almost a dozen meters from the cart when Claudius appears out of nowhere. He waves abruptly at Cyrus, ignoring the rest of the crew.

“Hey, you—we need more hands in tunnel one!”

“He’s my worker,” the foreman protests.

“Shaddup. Quartermaster’s orders—you want to be the one to tell him he doesn’t know what he’s doing?”

The foreman grumbles and falls silent.

Cyrus hurries after Claudius, wiping blackened hands on his thighs. As soon as they’re out of earshot of the foreman he asks, “Does the Quartermaster come down here?”

“Not here,” Claudius hisses, not looking at him. “Go on ahead and wait for me at the head of tunnel one. The last crew just left, so it’ll be empty for a while. You shouldn’t be bothered.”

Cyrus ducks his head and makes his way back to tunnel one, heart hammering. A few moments later he’s dragged into an alcove, and he yelps.

Claudius looms, scowling. “What are you doing at the dig site? I thought you were dead. Unless you really have a death wish, you should stay away.”

“I was in hiding,” he says stiffly. “I need to know what’s going on.”

“You’re a slippery one,” Claudius mutters. “I would’ve sworn Leuther had you taken to the cages after what happened to Sabinus. There are too many heads on pikes these days.”

“How did they find out about Sabinus?”

“Caught him coming back from the stores. That’s what tipped them off.” Claudius grimaces.

“Who else is dead?” Cyrus presses.

Claudius shakes his head. “You wouldn’t know them. A dozen all told, traced through Sabinus. But we’re careful. Leuther didn’t dare keep digging—there are enough of us for a fine riot now. He doesn’t want that. He wants everyone working, building his tower for the coronation. You watch your step, though. Magnus comes down here whenever he pleases, and the General Himself, too. Something tells me they wouldn’t hesitate when it comes to you.”

“Of course not.” Twice a spy—they’d make an example of him like they did with Sabinus, except in front of the whole Court.

“Leuther’s been in a state, saying the King is out there in the wilds and he’s gonna flush him out. They’ll figure you know where he is.” Claudius’s gaze is far too shrewd for his liking.

“I don’t know anything,” Cyrus replies automatically.

Claudius snorts. “Keep your secrets then. Are you coming with us or not? I’d say you’ve earned your place…not so sure the others agree, though.”

“Yes, fine. But I need something from you,” he says, leaning in. “Promise you’ll do me a favor when the time comes.”

Footsteps sound, and Claudius gestures sharply. They wait for the noise to pass.

“A favor?”

“It’s not safe to say. Just promise. I helped your cause, didn’t I?”

“You blackmailed me,” Claudius says darkly, raising a brow. “You have a spot in the company and you’ll march with us—that isn’t enough?”

“I protected you.” Cyrus crosses his arms. “I could have done nothing and been safe—Leuther went after me because I was a convenient scapegoat, but if I hadn’t been there, he would have gone looking for a ring-leader.”

Claudius sighs, his brow pinching. “Fine. Alright. A favor.”

“Good,” Cyrus says, triumph surging.