Methodis grabbed a rag and wiped away Cassandra’s message.
“Bring him over here and lay him down on the floor,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
—
Keegan was so exhausted he could barely stand when Callastan finally came into view. The city was just barely visible in the rapidly fading light of the setting sun, but it was clear they had arrived too late: The attack had already begun.
Dark plumes of smoke rose from the city, and the gates had been thrown wide. Bodies were strewn along the base of the city wall, and a smattering of slow-moving figures could be seen moving steadily away from the carnage: lucky refugees who had managed to slip past the Order’s lines during the fighting.
This is my fault!
Despite his bold claim a few days ago, the toll of his time lost in the Burning Sea had drained Keegan’s body, mind, and spirit. Only a few hours after they had first set out, he’d already begun to labor. Neither Scythe nor Jerrod called attention to his weakness, but they both insisted on frequent stops along the way.
“We’re too late,” Scythe muttered beside him. “We’ve come all this way for nothing.”
“We don’t know that,” Jerrod told them. “Just because the Pontiff has taken the city doesn’t mean she has the Crown. Cassandra is resourceful: She has successfully avoided capture for some time so far.”
“She would have tried to find a ship,” Keegan said. “To take her to the island where the Keystone is located.”
“How would she know where to go?” Scythe asked. “Did your visions show you how to get there?”
The young man shook his head.
“This is all just speculation,” Jerrod told them. “We need to get inside the city and find out exactly what happened with Cassandra.”
“I don’t think the Pontiff is accepting visitors,” Keegan said.
“I grew up on Callastan’s streets,” Scythe told them. “I know every smuggler’s tunnel and secret entrance. I can get inside the walls without being seen. And some of my old contacts might still be there. Maybe they’ll know something.”
Keegan expected Jerrod to object—sending her off alone into an enemy-occupied city seemed incredibly risky.
But instead, he only said, “There is a good chance many of your contacts have been killed or captured. Unless they managed to flee during the attack.”
“You don’t know Callastan,” Scythe replied. “The gangs and crime lords fought too hard to carve out their territory simply to run away. When things get bad, they go to ground. There’s no way the Order will find all their bolt-holes and underground lairs.”
“What about the Sword?” Keegan asked, suddenly concerned. “Won’t the Inquisitors be able to sense its presence?”
“I don’t think so,” Jerrod explained. “The Sword doesn’t radiate Chaos; it devours it. To my Sight it appears nothing more than an ordinary blade.”
“Good,” Scythe told them. “Because I wasn’t going to leave it behind.”
“Go,” Jerrod told her. “See what you can find out. Keegan and I will wait here for your return.”
“I might be gone for a couple days,” she warned. “Try not to panic.”
As she turned to go, Keegan reached out and grabbed her shoulder. She turned back to him, her eyes wide with trepidation at what she feared he was about to say. But something held Keegan back.
“Be careful, Scythe,” was all he said. “And hurry back.”
Relief washed over her features.
“After everything we’ve been through,” she assured him, “this will be easier than bribing a politician.”
She set off at a run, the Sword strapped across her back. Keegan watched her until she disappeared out of sight.
“She knows how deeply you care for her,” Jerrod told him once she was gone. “There is no need to say it. At least not until all this is over.”
He’s right. My feelings don’t count for much against the fate of the entire world.
“What happens if Cassandra was captured?” Keegan asked. “What do we do if the Order has the Crown?”
“I have a feeling we don’t have to worry about that,” Jerrod said. “Cassandra is like you and Scythe. You are the Children of Fire, and the Pontiff has no idea what she is up against.”
—
Yasmin walked slowly along the main thoroughfare that ran through Callastan’s market square as the last rays of the setting sun disappeared behind the sea’s distant horizon.
The fighting here had been particularly intense several hours ago, and many bodies from both sides littered the street. The merchant stalls that filled the square had been utterly destroyed: Tents and awnings had been slashed into tatters and been upended and smashed into kindling. All manner of wares from merchants who had been setting up in the early dawn before the attack were strewn about—everything from fruits and vegetables to jewelry to silk scarves and handwoven baskets.
I must tell Xadier to post some guards in the square to discourage looters, she thought.
As if on cue, the Seer ambled into view from around a corner on the other side of the street. Seeing the Pontiff, he hurried over to deliver the latest news.
“The city is ours,” he triumphantly proclaimed. “There are still a few pockets of minor resistance, but most of the defenders have retreated or surrendered.”
“Or gone into hiding,” she cautioned. “Just because they are too beaten to continue the fight today doesn’t mean they won’t strike back at us tomorrow.”
“Of course, Pontiff,” he said. “But we now control all the areas of strategic importance in the city.”
“Including the docks?” she asked.
“They are secured now,” he answered, obviously uncomfortable, “but there were many ships that managed to escape before we took control.”
His implication was clear. Neither Cassandra nor the Crown had been located yet.
“And what of our Inquisitors?” Yasmin demanded. “The ones I sent to watch the docks?”
“Most are still missing,” Xadier answered, “but we found the bodies of Rezza and Juloss.”
“They are dead?” Normally the Pontiff was an expert at controlling her emotions, but the news was so unexpected she couldn’t hide her surprise.
“For at least a day, it appears,” he told her. “Their throats were slashed and the bodies drained of blood before being stashed away in an abandoned building damaged by the recent earthquake.”
Drained of blood?
Had Cassandra turned to dark Chaos rituals to escape them? Or was there some other explanation?
“Cassandra was here with the Crown,” Yasmin insisted. “Someone in the city had to see her. Somebody has to know where she went!
“Offer a substantial reward for any information about her. Interrogate every prisoner who surrendered to us. Go to every door in every neighborhood and question every citizen who still remains.
“She may have slipped through our grasp, but we will find her again,” the Pontiff vowed. “Someone helped her escape Callastan, and for that this whole wretched city will suffer!”
SCYTHE HAD LITTLE trouble sneaking past the Order’s guards and into the city. Even after centuries of trying, the Callastan authorities had never been able to stop completely the flow of contraband smuggled into and out of the city. It was foolish to think soldiers who didn’t even know the city would be able to accomplish the task on their first night of occupation.
Creeping through the night, she made her way to a nondescript section of the east wall. Far from the main gate, she located a small, square section of stone at the base that appeared virtually identical to every other. Atop the wall a pair of guards walked past, not bothering to look down. Even if they had, they wouldn’t have seen her in the shadows.
When she lived in Callastan, every thief and criminal knew the guards atop the wall were merely for show—a way to make the nobles inside the city feel like they were taking some action to curb the illegal activiti
es within their city. As an actual deterrent, however, they were completely ineffective.
The more things change, the more they stay the same, Scythe thought as she braced her hands against the cool earth and pushed with both boots against the stone.
It slid into the wall, scraping softly. She scooted forward on her backside and gave another push with her feet, moving the stone enough to reveal a small hole just large enough for a child—or a small, lithe woman—to squeeze through.
Once inside the wall, she shoved and worked the stone back into position, sealing up the secret entrance. She paused to see if anyone had been attracted by the sound, then stood up and darted off down the street once she was confident the coast was clear.
With her heightened sense, she’d be able to hear any soldiers out on patrol early enough to avoid them. She wasn’t sure what she’d do if she ran into any Inquisitors: They’d probably sense her before she had a chance to avoid them. Hopefully they’d just disregard her, not wanting to bother with the petty crime of a lone citizen breaking curfew to wander the streets. If not, she was confident she could defeat them with the Sword as long as she didn’t have to take on more than four or five at once.
She slowly worked her way deeper into the city until she reached the slums. She suspected the bars, whorehouses, and other natural gathering places would be occupied by soldiers by now—or at least under close surveillance. But she doubted the invaders would have ventured into the tunnels and sewers below the city streets.
It didn’t take her long to find a false sewer grate that hid one of the many entrances into Callastan’s literal underworld. Sliding it aside, she slithered through the entrance and clambered twenty feet down the rotting wooden rungs built into the wall. The surface of the tunnel was covered with an inch of fetid wastewater, but even after so much time away Scythe was still so used to the smell she barely noticed it.
A maze of twisting tunnels eventually led her to her destination—a large antechamber several hundred feet across. The streets above had the market square; the sewers below had the Pit.
It wasn’t unusual to see a crowd of a hundred or more gathered in the Pit on any given night—once the sun went down the real business of Callastan’s economy happened here. On this night, however, there were fewer than fifty souls wandering about.
Scythe made her way into the mass of people, looking around for a face she recognized.
“Quint!” she called out. A young man turned in response to his name, then smiled when he saw her.
“Long time no see, kiddo!” he said, rushing over to wrap her in a fierce hug. “Last I heard you had run off with some big Barbarian.”
“I’m back now,” Scythe said, not wanting to talk about Norr. “By myself.”
“Picked a hell of a time for a homecoming, kiddo,” Quint said with a grin.
“Where is everybody?” Scythe asked, looking around. “I didn’t think that many of our people would cut and run.”
“Ah, not many did,” Quint answered. “But Grevin and Stitch have their people on high alert, got them all holed up together. And Brinn told her people to lie low for a couple days. Figured the rest of the gangs decided to follow their lead.”
“Good to know the Order hasn’t broken their spirit yet,” Scythe said with a grin.
“You know how we operate, kiddo,” Quint answered. “Wait for the enemy to look the other way, then stab them in the back. Twice.”
It’s good to be home, Scythe thought.
She was surprised to realize that part of her wanted to pretend like nothing had changed—just slip back into her old life as a petty criminal working Callastan’s streets. If it weren’t for Norr, I never would have left.
But she had left, and since then too much had happened. She wasn’t a lowly pickpocket anymore; she was destined to save the world.
“I’m looking for information,” she said. “Trying to find someone.”
“I keep my ear to the ground,” Quint said. “Try me.”
“What’s this going to cost?” she asked.
“No charge. Consider it my welcome-home present. Who you after?”
“A young blond girl. White eyes, like she works for the Order. But she’s not on their side.”
Quint laughed. “You hoping to cash in on that bounty?”
Seeing Scythe’s confusion, he laughed again.
“You really are out of the loop, Scythe. You ain’t the only one looking for her. Ever since that army showed up at our walls, there’s been a big reward out for blondie. Must have done something to piss the Pontiff off real bad.”
“You could say that,” Scythe admitted. “But I’m not after a reward. I just need to know where she went.”
“Rumor is she was seen hopping on a ship with some pirates today. Got out soon after the fighting started. No idea where she was going, though.”
“Can you think of anyone who might know?”
“The pirate who took her is a man named Bo-Shing. You know him?”
“Name’s not familiar.”
“Doesn’t come around too often. Typical Islander slaver scum. But I heard he used to sail with a healer named Methodis.”
“Methodis?” Scythe said, her head spinning.
No, it can’t be.
It had been over five years since she’d been forced to abandon the man who’d raised her. Five years since she’d left him chained up in the cargo hold of the pirates who attacked their ship and took them prisoner.
“You okay, Scythe?” Quint said, grabbing her upper arm. “Look like you’re about to pass out.”
“Where’s Methodis?” she snapped. “Tell me how to find him!”
Quint’s hand dropped away from her arm and he took an involuntary half step back.
“It’s okay, Scythe. Just relax. Didn’t mean to grab you like that.”
Good to know people still remember I have a temper, she thought, even as she tried to rein in her rampaging emotions.
“I’m sorry, Quint,” she said, straining to keep the urgency from her voice. “But I really need to see this healer as soon as possible.”
“He’s got a shop near the Laughing Donkey. Opened it up about a month after you skipped town.”
That’s his old apothecary. It has to be him!
“Thanks, Quint,” she said. “I know the place.”
“Hey, hold on a second,” the young man called out as she turned to go. “It’s almost morning. You don’t want to be out on the streets when it’s light. Better wait until nightfall before you go see him.
“Stick around and you can buy me a drink.”
“Sorry, Quint,” she called out over her shoulder. “This can’t wait!”
If Quint thinks there’s a connection between Cassandra and Methodis, Scythe thought, then others must think it, too.
It wouldn’t take long for this news to reach the Pontiff’s ear.
I have to find him before they do!
—
Methodis rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, blinking in surprise as the morning sun peeked through his window. Since returning to his shop yesterday, he had worked nonstop treating the wounded who were brought to him. He had stitched cuts, set broken bones, cleaned and dressed wounds, and handed out all manner of herbs, poultices, and powders to speed the healing and help control the pain.
Several of the local men and women had come to help him as best they could, setting up a makeshift triage outside his door. They assessed the severity of the wounds and tried to get urgent cases in first. In some cases they helped carry the severely wounded into the shop and carried them back out once their treatment was finished.
Harsh conditions and long hours were nothing new for Methodis; in his years as Bo-Shing’s captive he’d suffered far worse. Still, the endless stream of patients was taking a toll. For all his skill, there were some brought in who were beyond his help; he found those cases to be particularly exhausting. But he could never turn anyone away even if all he could do was make their
final moments more comfortable.
“Methodis!” one of his volunteers called out, poking her head in through the door. “They’re coming!”
Even in his sleep-deprived state, he knew whom she meant. He’d know the Order would link him to Cassandra eventually, and he’d asked his assistants to warn him when the Inquisitors came.
So soon. I thought I’d have more time. A few days at least.
“Get everyone out of here!” Methodis called back. “But if they try to stop you, don’t resist. If they ask you anything, tell them the truth!”
He quickly finished bandaging what remained of his current patient’s right ear, then slapped a roll of thin white fabric into the man’s hand.
“Keep this clean and use it to change the dressing in two days. Now go. Go!”
Hustling the patient out of his shop, Methodis locked the door. He knew it would only delay the Inquisitors for a few seconds, but that was all he needed.
He turned back to the medicines on his wall and grabbed a blue bottle from the lowest shelf.
How much to take? he wondered.
Behind him he heard someone slam against the door, and the wooden frame cracked.
Yanking out the stopper, he guzzled down the entire bottle.
The door flew open behind him, and he spun around to see three white-eyed agents of the Order—two women and one man—advancing on him. He should have been terrified, but the contents of the bottle were already taking effect, and he greeted them with a wide, glassy-eyed grin.
“The Pontiff wants to speak with you,” one of the women said. “About Cassandra.”
Methodis opened his mouth to reply, but all that came out was a long, twittering laugh. He was still giggling as the Inquisitors seized him by the arms and literally dragged him away.
—
Scythe flew down the sewer tunnels with supernatural speed, the Sword fueling her mad dash. A series of sharp turns and narrow passages brought her to an exit back to the street that would emerge only a block away from the apothecary.
Ignoring the wooden ladder on the wall, she leapt and grabbed the ledge at the top and hauled herself up with one hand. The other slapped the grate aside, and she rolled through the opening and popped to her feet.