CHAPTER 4
BOOTS POUND ACROSS the room. The curtain flashes open as Finn and I leap, dropping face-first off the balcony and into the cool night.
“Winterians!” Herod screams. “Lock it down now!”
In the seconds of free falling before I hit the ground, I find myself faced with two options. Continue my fall, drop into a roll on the street, and make all haste out of Lynia in the hope that we can get back in later, or cling to the building and find a way inside. Key or not, we’re so close to the locket half that something as small as a jagged piece of metal shouldn’t stop us. But the plan was that if either of us ran into trouble, Finn and I were to regroup outside the city. If we leave now, though, getting back in will be impossible. They’ll move the locket half without hesitation, and we’ll be back where we started.
My body makes the decision before I do. The rock wall shreds my fingers as I scramble against it, and two windowsills fly past before I find purchase on one, body jerking to a halt, wrists screaming at having to support my weight so abruptly. I flail, arrows barely grazing my kicking legs and straining arms as I scramble against the rock, searching for footholds, and use a few chipped pieces of mortar to pull myself up and over the windowsill.
The window pops inward and I tumble inside, blinking in the darkness until my vision adjusts. Please don’t let this room be anything with soldiers inside. Maybe a kitchen, or a nice cozy bedchamber, or—I look around wildly—a storage room. It’s a storage room, empty but for stacks of shadowed crates in the narrow, lightless space. Perfect.
Outside, Herod’s voice carries, screaming about Lynia’s failures. I peek over the windowsill and spot Finn’s plump shadow skirting into an alley. He pauses, face caught in a ray of moonlight as he scans the area. He doesn’t see me, and I don’t want to draw any Spring attention by waving. He’ll go back to camp now, I know—another of our protocols. If one of us goes missing, the other is to leave immediately.
Before I realize the full extent of what I’ve done, how alone I am now, Finn’s gone. He’ll tell Sir I vanished in the chaos, and Sir will growl something about how he never should have let me go in the first place.
I have to prove him wrong.
My arms are too rubbery from my windowsill grab to throw my chakram, so I settle for the curved knives hidden in my boots. One in each hand, I creep across the narrow storage room. The door opens easily enough and I fly out, knives ready, heart racing.
But the hall is empty, lit only by a few widely spaced sconces on the walls. The floor slopes up to the right and down to the left. I run left, the sounds of chaotic anger closing in on me from above. No doubt Herod’s rushing down the Keep, shouting to the men below that I’m coming. Too bad I’ll beat him there.
A few stories later, I stumble out of the hall into the center receiving room, a grand affair draped in gray stone and heavy green curtains. The late night works in my favor—there are no men here. They’re all with the city master.
Herod’s shouts echo from up the hall, closer and closer. I scan the room, my pounding pulse choking any air from my lungs, leaving me gasping as I survey each corner. A door nearly three stories tall shoots into the air on my left—the exit, most likely. I do a quick count—four other doors lead out of the room, two closed, two open. Through the two open ones I see a long dining room and a small, dark kitchen. That leaves the two closed doors.
I ease one of my knives into my sleeve and attack the first door. It opens without a fight and I stumble into . . . somewhere really, really bad.
To my left and right stretch two long rows of cots, most filled with the lumpy bulks of sleeping soldiers. A barracks for the Keep’s guards. Terror makes sweat slick down my back, candlelight pouring in behind me from the chandelier that hangs over the center receiving room, and I chirp in surprise, then immediately smack my hand over my mouth. No one moves for a moment, and just when I think I might get by, Herod’s shout barrels into me, only a story or two above.
“To arms!” he cries, and that’s enough to send every sleeping soldier into instant readiness, whipping to their feet and scrambling for weapons.
I grab the door, yank it closed, and sprint for the other closed door. This is close, too close, and by the time the soldiers in the barracks open their door, I’m shaking the last closed door—locked—and spitting every curse I’ve ever heard.
“Snow and ice and frost above.” Luckily Sir likes to test Mather and me with inane challenges like Pick the lock on this chest, your supper’s inside. His tests and the finger-length hook-pick I keep in my hair finally prove useful, though I certainly don’t plan on telling him that. I tuck the other knife under my arm and busy myself with the lock.
The soldiers stumble out of their room. Herod draws closer. The lock doesn’t budge, whether because I’m too twitchy or my hands are slick with sweat or I just need to practice more lock picking. My chances of making it out of the Keep shrink with each breath I take, each strangled sputter of my heart filling my body.
“Who needs a key?” I growl as a I rear back and hurl all of my weight into kicking through the lock. It breaks open, sending the door thudding against the wall. A set of stairs curls downward with light lifting up from below, a flutter of yellow.
“Stop!”
I whirl. Herod stomps into the hall and his lumbering bulk freezes across the room. Such a perfect chakram shot; damn my shaky arms. But soldiers fill the space between us, most half dressed, clutching weapons and blinking away the blur of sleep. Too many to take all at once.
Herod glares at me and his face reddens. “Winterian!”
I dive into the staircase and slam the door behind me, but my kick broke the lock so the door refuses to close. Though it means I’ll lose a knife, I jam one of my blades as hard as I can through the lock and into the wooden frame. It’ll hold enough to give me a better lead.
The stairs get slippery the deeper I go, the walls coated in what smells like donkey waste. This isn’t just a cellar, and on a deep inhale, I realize exactly where I’m going, where they hid the locket half: the sewers. Oh, fun.
A few stifled breaths later, the sound of gruff voices echoes up at me. I test my arms—not quite as shaky—and draw out my chakram, tightening my hand around the familiar, worn handle.
“Hurry! There’s a ruckus above. Best we move quickly.”
I stop at the last turn in the staircase, the glow of lantern light strong. They’re close. Chakram-range close. My favorite kind.
“I’m not touching that thing. You know what it is! You pick it up.” From the sounds of their conversation, there appear to be only two of them.
The other man growls. “I’m your superior! I order you to pick up the damn locket piece.”
I smile. There’s my cue. “Now, boys, no need to argue. I’ll pick it up.”
I emerge from the staircase with my chakram wound back, ready to soar through the air. We are indeed in a sewer—a tunnel opens around me, holding a river of murky waste lined with foot-high walkways on each side. One man and a few horses wait on the farthest walkway, the other man stands ankle deep in Lynia’s filth. Very few men, but any more would draw too much attention.
Behind the men, one of the wall’s bricks has been removed and in the hole, illuminated by a few lanterns, shines a blue box. Relief fills me up. After years of searching, half of the locket is finally within reach.