“Lord have mercy!” breathed Erkanwulf beside her. “Look! The badge of the King’s Dragons!”
Reason enough to kill Bloodheart.
They picked their way through the terrible remains of the king’s elite cavalry. At least the Eika, for unfathomable reasons of their own, had dragged them down to decay among the holy dead.
She dared not look too closely for fear she would see the dragon helmet that marked the remains of Sanglant. Her memory of him was so clean, so strong, of his living face watching her in the silence of the crypt, his chin as smooth as a woman’s under her fingers; of him standing proud and confident in the midst of the crowd that had threatened to mob the palace; of his last dash into the fight, when all had seemed lost. She could not bear to see his beauty reduced to dust. So she stopped looking at the remains around her except to place her feet with care so that she did not step on too many of them, poor dead souls.
With each step, purpose weighed more heavily on her: She could become the instrument of vengeance for what had been done to him and to his Dragons. It gave her heart as she neared the steps that led up to the cathedral.
When her boots nudged the bottom stair and she peered upward where spiderwebs wreathed the canted wall and glittered like a silvery net of moonlight above her torch, she turned back. “Let me scout ahead,” she whispered.
“Your group will file up behind you,” said Lavastine. “We dare not be caught here.”
“Let me just scout first alone,” she said. “Should I be caught, and if they guess where I have come from, then you are on an equal footing. Eika see in the dark no better than a human man—” Although not as well as she did, but she could not say so out loud. “—and you will have a better chance of fending them off … and of escape back through the tunnel.”
“What of the dogs?” whispered Erkanwulf. “What if they smell us?”
“Then again you are safer to remain here, where the smell of lime and damp will somewhat cover your trail.”
“And if they don’t know of the tunnel,” said Lavastine quietly, “then they would have no reason to look down here. If they discover you, they’d be as likely to look elsewhere and thus give us time to get out and move for the gates.” He nodded curtly. “Go on.”
Go on. So coolly he considered her death and resolved that it might benefit him.
But Liath only smiled grimly, gave her torch to Erkanwulf, and set off up the stairs.
The curve soon took her out of sight of the soldiers waiting below, but even the memory of torchlight was enough to light her way. She heard the delicate tread of men coming up after her. Soon a thin line of light limned the door that led out onto the nave, but she passed it by and crept on up a narrower set of stone steps that led to the choir.
Here, in a cramped landing, she set her hand on a thick door ring and rested her ear against the rough planks. What she heard from beyond was faint, a teasing melody as light as air. Dust coated the iron ring, slick under her fingers. She gave a nudge with her shoulder. The door cracked open. Daylight blinded her and she had to stand for the count of twenty until her eyes adjusted even to the thin line of light that now edged the stone column around which the stairwell wound. From the nave she heard the sound of flutes.
She tucked her sword against her and eased open the door. The choir walk ran empty, a balcony no wider than an arm outstretched, all the way to the opposite end of the nave. A layer of dust blanketed the floor. Tapestries whose brightly woven stories were muted by dust hung on the walls beneath the huge second tier of windows through which the sun shone, motes of dust everywhere streaming and dancing in the light. Where a few of the tapestries brushed the floor, sagging or half fallen, their bases had been nibbled into ragged ends by rats or mice.
She set a foot forward and eased herself into the quiet walk. A dart of movement startled her, and she froze. But it was only a mouse, bold enough enough to prowl the choir in broad daylight. The sight of it gave her courage. If mice skittered about so freely, then it was not likely anyone lurked up here.
She stepped farther out, hugging the wall, and eased the door closed until it stood with only a crack. Each step left a distinct print behind as she crept forward.
She crouched and made her way along the solid railing. Above, the ceiling vaulted high to span the nave. Flute music echoed below and beside and beyond her. She dared not look at the windows for fear one glimpse of sunlight would ruin her eyes when she needed to look below. Her quiver brushed the rail, and she rose slightly to peer over.
And there, in a shaft of sunlight streaming in through the western windows, sat Bloodheart on his throne.
