Winterveil (12 page)

Edgar located the source of the burning smell when he spotted two prisoners working within a barred kitchen, stewing something for the other inmates' next meal. Whatever it was, it smelled as though they were boiling old boots.

Footsteps echoed ahead of Silas and Edgar along the hall. They were too heavy and purposeful to belong to any of the prisoners. Edgar's instincts bristled at the presence of a potential enemy, but Silas was already taking control. He stepped out into the path of two approaching wardens, saw that their weapons were already drawn, and floored one of them with a sharp jab to the throat. The officer fell to his knees, struggling to breathe, and the second man had just enough time for fear to register on his face before Silas did the same to him, only this time he did not let go. A few of the prisoners in nearby cells cheered, before Silas glared them into silence.

“I am here to talk,” he said, tightening his grip on the older man's throat. “You will listen.”

The warden on the ground recovered himself enough to speak. “Officer Dane,” he said, his voice strained. “If we had . . . known it was you . . .”

“Drop the daggers,” said Silas.

The men let their weapons fall at once. Silas released his grip. The younger of the two, not much older than Edgar, stood up but was unable to look Silas directly in the eye.

“Don't tell him anything,” said the older warden.

“You have been in contact with the surface,” said Silas.

“We heard what you did. About the men you killed. You are a traitor who deserves nothing but the noose!”

A glint of a hidden weapon flickered in the warden's hand, and Edgar looked away. He heard the gentle crack of bone and the slump of a body dropping to the floor. When he looked back, the older man's body lay still on the ground, and Silas was talking as if nothing had happened.

“How many wardens are stationed here?”

The younger officer's eyes met Silas's just for a second before he lowered them. “Twenty-five, sir.” He looked down at the body by his feet. “Or . . . twenty-four.”

“Gather them together. Tell them their orders have changed. I want the name and cell number of every prisoner who is strong enough to walk or wield a weapon. The Continental army is coming. I need people to fight for this city.”

“They won't let the prisoners out,” said the officer. “Our orders—”

“You have new orders,” said Silas. “Tell your associates that I would not be here wasting my time if I were deceiving them. This is not a test. It is a command. Anyone who challenges me on this will meet the same end as this man. Go.”

The young warden nodded smartly, stepped over the dead man, and hurried back the way he had come. It was only then that Edgar noticed the staring faces peering from the walls. Prisoners, looking out through their bars, had seen everything. Most were stunned into silence by Silas's words, and some did not believe what they had heard.

“Is it true?” A woman's hand reached out beside Edgar, making him stumble away in fright.

“Yes,” said Silas. “The enemy is coming. This is your chance to earn your freedom. Every one of you.”

“Why should we care about the City Above?” asked an old man, who blinked through large spectacles. “Fume is dead to us. It cast us aside. Now it'll get what it deserves.”

“The High Council sent you here,” said Edgar. “The people of the city have done nothing to you. Now trouble's coming, and weird things are going on up there. You must have felt the changes that have been happening. Haven't you seen things? Heard things you couldn't explain?”

“We've seen things all right,” said the woman beside him. “No surprise really, being locked down here. Bodies hanging from the ceiling, eyes watching us while we sleep. We've all seen it. That's what this place does, see? It watches you. Makes you see what isn't there. Sends you insane.”

“And we've heard plenty, too,” said the old man. “Scratching. Whispering. More than we'd tell you.”

“Then know this,” said Silas. “What you are seeing is real. Our ancestors have been disturbed. The veil is falling. The dead will soon walk again within these halls.”

Prison whispers relayed his words throughout Feldeep, and as they reached the farthest reaches of the cells, a rattling sound rang through the walls as prisoners clutched their bars, listening.

“These souls are showing you the truth,” said Silas. “They are sharing the story of their deaths, trying to find peace. This city was built to honor the dead and rescue those who had become lost on their way into death. We all have failed them in some way. The dead are trying to be heard. They have been sealed away from the world, forgotten, for too long, just like you. If we allow Fume to fall, the Continent will bury all of us beneath their twisted version of history. Albion will be forgotten. Our families will live under the flag of a new nation, the dead will walk alongside us, and no one will know peace again. I am giving you the chance to reclaim what was taken from you. Take back the freedom that the High Council denied you and fight by my side against an enemy that will never expect it. You all were sent here because of your beliefs, your skills, or your histories. You can stay here in the dark and wait for the Blackwatch to slay you like rats in a trap, or you can trust me.”

The prisoners' whispering fell silent, but the steady rattling grew louder as weak fists shook the bars of their cells, rising into a steady rhythm as those who could not see Silas signaled their solidarity with his cause.

No one wanted to be left down there. Silas knew that any prisoner would do anything for even the slightest chance of escape from that place. But for his strategy to work, those prisoners were not the only ones he had to convince.

12

INHERITANCE

K
ate left
Wintercraft
in the water. Part of her was glad to see it sink. She was tired of carrying the responsibility of something she had never wanted in her life. She wanted to be free of it. It had clung inside her coat like a heavy weight ever since she and Silas had discovered it in the ancient underground library. She had thought she was its protector, but instead it had claimed her. Her life was no longer her own. She was trapped in a cycle of events that had threatened to overwhelm her many times. And for what?

Dalliah had studied every word within the book's pages and knew all of them by heart. She would not care that her enemies' work was being destroyed. She hated the Winters family, perhaps with good reason, and that hate extended easily to Kate herself. But Kate was not a direct reflection of her ancestors. She was her own person, with her own thoughts and plans for her life. She was not responsible for carrying on what they had begun.
Wintercraft
was not her burden to bear.

Kate wanted the water to wash away the ink her parents had tried to protect. She wanted to see the pages disintegrate into fiber, catch upon the water, and wash out into the city to be lost in the gutters. She wanted more than anything to take back the events of recent months, to go back to the way life had been with her uncle in the bookshop. She missed Edgar. All she wanted was to be back home.

The book sat in the water, as still and solid as a stone. Kate might not have trusted Dalliah, but it was hard to believe that the way the woman had spoken about her family was anything less than the truth. Artemis had kept most of their history from Kate. He had even lied to her about the way her parents had died. He had known enough to hold back the truth. Maybe now she was hearing it for the first time.

“The final wheel will be of interest to you, Kate.” Dalliah had returned to her favorite technique, manipulation. “If you want real answers. You will find them there. Your ancestors do not want you to think for yourself. If you want to challenge the fate they have delivered to you, follow me to the wheel. I will let you ask the spirit there anything you wish before the end. He will speak to you, just as this spirit did because he, too, once shared your blood.”

“You've found the Winters wheel?” said Kate. “Where is it?”

Dalliah pointed out of a blue window. “Their memorial tower was built on a rise at the edge of the lake before it was drained. You can see its walls from here. What is left of them, at least.”

Kate looked back at the sunken book and was sure she saw the silver glint of spirit eyes watching her from the water. “Take me to it,” she said, turning away. “I want to end this.”

Kate and Dalliah left
Wintercraft
behind and stepped out into the predawn hours of a freezing morning. It was still dark, but Kate no longer felt the cold that was chattering in her bones. She did not care about the scattering of snow that had settled on every surface. She did not listen to her aching leg muscles, which prickled like shards of glass, chilling her blood and tiring her body as her pulse began to slow. Her physical body no longer felt important to her. The pain in her veil-burned hands was worse than anything she had ever experienced, and it stole all her attention as she tried to lock it away.

Kate and Dalliah walked through the flooded waters and climbed the steps up to the bank's highest point, where people were gathering to see if the water would rise any higher. The lower rooms of a few buildings that stood too close to the water had been flooded, but they were long abandoned by everything except rats. People stood huddled with coats over their nightclothes, arguing about what they had seen and trying to guess what the rising water could mean, but they all fell quiet when Kate and Dalliah walked by.

Kate was soaked through, but her face was set with such determination and her hands were held so close to her chest that no one dared ask if she needed help. They avoided Dalliah completely, stepping back to make way for her as she followed the water around to the opposite bank.

The splintered remains of a memorial tower scratched the sky up ahead, surrounded by smaller towers that huddled around it like a group of whisperers sharing their secrets. Kate fixed her eyes upon the central tower. She was shivering and pale, but even if Dalliah had offered to heal her injured body, she would have refused her help. This was her journey. Her fate.

Every step felt heavier than the last. Kate's breaths were too shallow to feed her body the oxygen it needed, but she did not care. If the spirits in that city wanted her to do something, it would be on her terms and by her own choice. She would not be led into anything against her will. Not anymore.

 

If Kate had looked back, she might have seen a face watching her from the center of the small crowd: a boy, no older than eleven, who waited for Dalliah and Kate to turn off into the streets leading toward the broken tower. Once he knew which direction they were heading in, he pushed his way back through the gathering and ran toward a man who was hunched in a doorway with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cloak, waiting for him.

“Artemis,” the boy whispered, “it's her.”

The past few weeks had been unkind to Artemis Winters. He struggled to his feet and reached for the stick that Tom held out for him, trying to see through the crowd. He was barely forty years old, but his body was weakened by worry and grief. It had taken days to find his way out of the City Below, where he had searched for any word of Kate and her whereabouts only to be threatened into silence whenever he had mentioned her name.

Finding food had been difficult in the tunnels, and he had been forced to rely upon Tom's skill at thievery to feed the boy and himself down there in the dark. When they first left the Skilled cavern, Artemis had been fit and confident of finding Kate within a day. Now he was nursing an injured leg, caused by a fall from the edge of one of the City Below's vast underground caverns. He had been lucky to fall only part of the way. Tom's increasing healing ability as a fledgling member of the Skilled was all that made walking on what had been a broken bone bearable.

Artemis did not like relying on the boy to help him. He had failed Kate, but he was determined not to do the same to Tom. During their journey together, he had hidden the boy from a wandering Skilled who had clearly lost her mind and shielded him from the woman's rage. When Tom had been caught stealing from a traveling trader near the surface, Artemis had taken the blame and suffered a black eye in return. They had walked through a dangerous world, and Artemis had barely survived. Life in the upper city had not been any better.

“Do you want me to follow them?” Tom walked restlessly beside Artemis as the older man hobbled to the lake edge, where people were already starting to disperse. He pointed to where he had last seen Kate and Dalliah, and Artemis immediately recognized the jagged shard of the tower that they were heading toward.

“No need,” he said. His voice was empty, as if he were already defeated. “I know where they are going.”

Artemis's stick splashed in the water as he slowly followed Kate's trail, but the farther he walked, the more uncomfortable he became. Pressure squeezed in upon his temples, and his eyes blurred until it was difficult to see. He stopped walking, and the pain faded until he started moving again. His stick lost its footing in the damp, and he fell forward, plunging his hands into the shallow water, where a face that was not his own looked up at him.

Artemis cried out in fright and scrambled backward. Tom tried to help him up, but Artemis was pointing at the water with terror in his eyes. “Did you see that?”

“There's nothin' there,” said Tom. “You haven't slept much. Maybe that's it.”

“No,” said Artemis. “No . . . I was warned about this. It's happening again.” He managed to stand and took a careful step forward, only to double over in pain. This time he looked down at the water and refused to look away when silver eyes emerged in what should have been his reflection near his feet. Logic and reason fought against the evidence of his eyes.

“What are you lookin' at?”

“I—I've seen him before,” said Artemis. “I've dreamed about that face. I should be seeing my reflection, but it—it's someone else.” He took a step back, and the face moved with him. As long as he was moving away from the tower, the pain did not return.

“Artemis?” Tom whispered to get his attention as he continued to back up. Artemis looked up and discovered that the two of them were far from alone.

Dark figures had gathered around the lake's shore. They looked like shadows when viewed straight on but took almost human form when seen out of the corner of the eye. Every one of them was still, looking not toward the water but to a partly submerged building near the shore.

“I can see
that
,” said Tom.

Artemis instinctively pushed the boy behind him.

“Shades can't . . . they can't harm people,” said Tom. “That's what the Skilled said. That's right, isn't it?”

“Yes. Yes, that's right.” Artemis hoped Tom would not hear the uncertainty in his voice. “There's nothing to worry about.” He glanced down and winced. The silver eyes were still there.

“What are they doing?” asked Tom.

“Just . . . letting us know they are here.”

The two of them moved back along the bank until they were forced to wade into deeper water, and Tom bumped into a wall set with a blue window.

“All right,” said Artemis, talking loudly, trying to sound authoritative. “Tell us—tell us what you want.”

Some of the shades left their places on the banks and drifted across the water, heading straight for Artemis. “Go inside,” he said, pushing the door open for Tom. “Quickly.” The moment the two of them were inside the building, the shades stopped moving, content to watch them from a distance. Tom stayed by the doorway, looking back at them with nervous fascination.

“Climb out of the water,” said Artemis. “You'll catch your death in this cold.”

Tom scrambled up onto a table at the side of the room and sat there shivering. Artemis waded deeper into the room and bumped into something solid that was hidden under the water close by. His hands found what felt like an open circle made of stone.

“Artemis . . .”

Tom sat up straight. Artemis put a shaky hand upon the edge of the circle, and the stone tiles trembled beneath his fingers. A symbol—a snowflake—glowed in the water, flickering as though lit by a submerged flame.

“I—I don't . . . ,” he stammered nervously, looking back at Tom. “I can't . . .”

“. . . book bearer . . .”

“No. That's not me,” said Artemis, talking to the symbol, not knowing what else to do. “My niece, Kate. She's the one who—”

“. . . she abandoned us . . .”

“I don't know what she did. I'm looking for her. I want to help her.”

“. . . Kate will see in the darkness. She is not strong enough to resist us . . .”

“Who are you?” demanded Artemis, his voice quivering. “How can I hear you?”

“. . . we have claimed this wheel to speak with you. These stones are ours now. We are your past, your blood, and your bones. We gave you life through the centuries. You carry our name, but you deny our ways. You and Kate are nothing without us . . .”

“I don't believe that,” said Artemis. “If you are Kate's ancestors, you would try to help her.”

“. . . you let her go . . .”

“I was protecting her!”

“. . .
from us
. . .”

The stone tiles became colder than ice, but Artemis refused to lift his hand away. “Was Kate here?” he asked. “Did you speak to her?”

“. . . she will finish our work, then she will die beside us . . .”

“No. Your time is over. This is her life.
Her
time.”

“. . . no Winters walks alone . . .”

Artemis pushed himself away from the spirit wheel, and the light in the symbol died. “I am talking to the air!” he said furiously.

“Shades were alive once,” said Tom. “They still are, just in a different way.”

“I don't care,” said Artemis. “I don't care about any of it! I want Kate out of this city and back where she is safe. With me.”

“. . . your chance has passed. You have a new role to play.”

Water drained swiftly from the center of the wheel, sending droplets spluttering into the air, and Artemis spotted an object hidden in the space it left behind. The purple cover of
Wintercraft
was damp but not soaked through. The edges of its pages were discolored, yet the papers themselves had survived. Artemis reached in carefully to lift it out. He inspected the book on all sides, ran a hand over the silver studs speckling its edges, and opened it carefully to the first page, which bore the inscription he already knew so well.

 

THOSE WHO WISH TO SEE THE DARK,

BE READY TO PAY YOUR PRICE.

 

Those words had never seemed more true. That book had already cost him and Kate their family. Now its legacy was threatening to claim Kate, too.

Artemis turned gently through the pages, and faint whispers spread around the room. Halfway through, the pages were parted by a loose note that had been slipped in between them. For a moment Artemis hoped that Kate had left something behind. The paper was dry and fragile, and when he unfolded it, he found a letter signed with a name he did not know.

“What's that?” asked Tom.

“I'm not sure,” said Artemis, before reading the letter out loud.

 

My name is Ravik Marr and these shall be my final words.