Ishmah is under attack.
16
THE BELL CONTINUES TO PEAL, a bright, brassy clang pinging against the slanted rooftops of the upper ring. The alarm is unceasing. It precedes the uprise of screams.
The ruby fixed into the labyrinth flares. I stumble back as shadows begin to seep out through the bottom of the door, coiling up the pillars that mark the entry. They move swiftly. If I’m not mistaken, the same shadow also drapes the darkwalkers’ skeletal forms.
Sarai, a low voice hisses.I await your arrival.My mind blanks, engulfed in a sudden cold.
“Princess Sarai!”
I blink, and my awareness of the present returns. The courtyard has fallen into chaos. Attendants flee toward the palace, baskets of towels and crates of fruit abandoned to the sweltering sun. A door slams shut, locking from the inside. A harried woman bangs her fists upon its oaken shield with increasing desperation. But the rules are clear. In the event of a darkwalker strike, the palace doors, once shut, will not open. They will have to find shelter elsewhere.
One of the guards sprints toward me, scimitar drawn, and herds me across the baked stones. Meanwhile, additional sentinels pour in from the city beyond to station themselves around the labyrinth. My thoughts spin. Is it possible more darkwalkers have infiltrated the palace? If so, I must ensure my family is safe.
I’m halfway across the courtyard when I think of Haneen, the storyteller. I halt in place.
The guard glances around worriedly. “Your Highness, we must get you inside.”
He is a young man, this guard, perhaps a few years younger than I am. The whites of his eyes, the sweat layering his skin—he is afraid. He is wise to be.
Another door closes with a startling bang—the east wing. Two more attendants managed to slip inside, but only just. Maybe I, too, can be like Aziza, the woman from the storyteller’s tale, and draw courage from the place it has been buried.
“I need you to send a handful of men to the library,” I tell the guard.
“Your Highness, we will, but first we need to make sure you’re safe.”
Generally, when darkwalkers are spotted in the desert, the bell rings briefly before quieting, to signal that the capital is secure. But the bell continues to peal, which can only mean something has malfunctioned with the city gates. The moment I enter the palace, the gateway will be barred until the threat has passed. I will shelter in my rooms: doors locked, windows latched, curtains drawn. No less than twenty men will guard my door—men better served protecting Ishmah’s citizens.
“Your Highness,” the guard presses urgently.
“Let the attendants inside.”
“What?”
A dozen still remain trapped outside. They climb over one another, claw at the door latch, scream for help. The sight turns my stomach.
The young sentinel shifts his weight uncomfortably. “They are low-born, Your Highness.” He watches two women yank the solid brass handles. One falls to her knees with a broken sob. He turns his face away. “Our duty is to protect the crown.”
Low-born or not, they are my people. I have doomed them enough for one lifetime, I think. “The longer you wait, the more lives will be lost. Open the doors, and I will cooperate.” It is exhilarating, I think, to use one’s voice. To use it forgood.
The guard mutters his dissent, yet he unlocks the nearest door without complaint. Pushing it wide, he allows the attendants to rush inside, then follows. He does not bother to check whether I trail him. He does not see how I have lied.
The moment the guard crosses the threshold, I dash toward the stables. There is a shout, the rapid footfalls of pursuit. After diving into the secret passage, I reach the Queen’s Road in minutes.
Terror bleeds through the streets. The gates separating the upper and lower rings have broken open, sturdy hinges shattered from force of entry. Everyone, from the wealthiest aristocrats to the destitute families of the slums, floods the wide, paved roads of the affluent upper ring, their sights set on the gleaming palace atop the hill.
From my vantage point, I see the whole of Ishmah, its thousands of citizens teeming like a colony of ants. In the distance lies the capital gates, split wide. Darkwalkers prowl through, dripping shadow over jutting bones. The bell continues to clang.
Leaping over a stack of crates, I dive into the rush of cityfolk fleeing the streets. An elbow stabs into my spine, and I stumble with a cry of pain. Someone snags my dress and attempts to drag me toward the ground. I whirl, snarling, to slap aside the woman’s hand. Her eyes widen in recognition before I plunge deeper into the current.
Eventually, I reach the lower ring. The crush of bodies is even more horrendous, bottlenecked at the souk entrance. Multiple stalls have folded inward. I pass a spice cart having toppled onto its side, yellow cumin and red-orange cinnamon draining out like the city’s lifeblood. A dry wind courses through the crooked footpaths. It smells of a long-burning fire: sweet char and bitter smoke.
I’ve nearly reached Haneen’s dwelling when screams erupt from the next street over. There is the unmistakable sound of tearing flesh.
Darting down an alleyway, I peek around the wall of a crumbling building. Darkwalkers, three of them. They block the road ahead, tearing through the throng of fleeing citizens, and there is blood, clouds of it, the dry earth sucking it down through its cracks, and limbs strewn about, and the whites of peoples’ eyes rolling in fear. One womanshoves her child to the side, and the darkwalker snaps its massive jaws around her body instead. Someone attempts to hack it down with a rusted sword, but unless the blade has been coated in salt, it will fail to harm the creature.
In seconds, citizens fall prey to the beasts. The dead litter the street. Eight, eleven, fourteen—still more. A man falls. He curls onto his side, arms covering his head. The beast lowers its snout to his face and inhales.
