Saipha pauses at the railing of the bridge we’re on, but only for a second. “It’s hard to think people prefer this.” Her eyes dart to Horowin and his group.
“You can’t hear the bells this far below,” I say. “There’s a peace to that.”
“True, but it feels like giving up. That’s the last of our land up there.”
Spoken like a true Mercy Knight.
We arrive at an intersection, then another, before heading up a ramp. I try to keep track of where we might be in relation to the city above, but it’s impossible to tell from down here. The prelate opens a metal gate at the far end with a heavyclank.
The next set of stairs is so dimly lit that we’re relying on the walls to keep us upright as we pass back into the bedrock that’s the foundation of the Upper City. I hear supplicants behind me trip. Cursing. But no one stops.
As we ascend, the stone wall feels somehow softer under my fingernails. I imagine them sinking into it for purchase. There is a ripple in the darkness, like a breeze that shouldn’t exist. No, not in the darkness—underneath my skin.
I shiver, and my head hums. Then my vision sharpens unnaturally for just a second before a door ahead opens and everything blinks back to normal.
I can feel Lucan’s eyes on me, but I don’t dare glance behind for fear I’ll draw an inquisitor’s attention. Nor do I rub my sternum, where my scar feels like it’s been lit on fire.
We end in a massive, dungeon-like room. There are multiple pathways that extend farther into darkness—almost all of them barred. To the right is a heavy door, the old wood fortified with iron bars. The ceiling is so low that the taller supplicants, like Lucan, must crouch. And the air…
The air is thick with decay.
Supplicants around me gag. One boy with wavy brown hair I saw a few times in the library sways, leans against a wall, and turns up his breakfast. The inquisitors grab his elbow unceremoniously and wrench him away, dragging him acrossthe room.
“I’m not— I was just—” Whatever else the supplicant was going to say is lost with the closing of a heavy door.
Don’t show weakness. The inquisitors know that a cursed is among us and are no doubt on edge. They will do whatever it takes to find who it is.
“I think I know where we are,” Saipha whispers. I glance in her direction. “Sundering pits.”
My jaw slackens slightly. It’d explain the stink, the strange in-between feeling of these rooms—not quite Upper City and not Undercrust—and the unnerving sensation I felt on the way here.
Slain dragons are taken to the sundering pits. According to the Creed, they can’t be left to rot aboveground because they might attract scavengers in the form of other dragons. Moreover, as they rot, the Creed says they release Ethershade, which could cause the scourge to break out within Vinguard.
The sundering pits break down the corpses of the dragons slain. The belief is that when the carcass is disassembled, the Ethershade is less potent. Less focused, less of a possibility to create harm to Vinguard or the Font with the thick crust of the earth protecting both above and below. The dragons are broken down until the Ethershade is so minimal they can be left to rot in these passages that look right out of a nightmare.
Though Mum disagrees with all of this, of course.
“You will be assigned two to a room and given instructions by our knights,” the prelate says, her voice as sharp as a Mercy dagger.
All of us start looking around, sizing up who we might be paired with. I grip Saipha’s hand.
“Your performance will be scrutinized and judged. Remember that everything you are about to do is in service of Vinguard, the Creed, and those who lay down their lives upon the ramparts to keep us safe.”
No one dares say a word, every set of shoulders tight.
The prelate points to the heavy door the boy just went through. “Perform well. Do not give us a reason to take you through this door and administer a harsher test to ensure your heart has not been softened toward a dragon due to the curse.”
With no further warnings needed, the prelate begins to call out names, pairing people off with each other. Horowin is paired with Rovin, another boy from the Undercrust. Cindel with Benj. Nelly, the supplicant I saw fighting Cindel on the first night, with Daisy, whom I’ve only met in passing but I know is another Upper City supplicant.
The list goes on and more supplicants step forward, exchanging wide-eyed glances but with set, determined jaws. As the prelate reads, Mercy Knights arrive, emerging from the halls in full regalia. Saipha’s eyes widen, and her fingers tense around mine as she beholds them, like she hasn’t grown up seeing those dragon-blood capes and armor of leather dotted with silver plate that crackles with flames, sparks with lightning, or shimmers a nearly iridescent silver, depending on what sigils have been etched on the underside.
The knights guide the pairs down seemingly random hallways. The idea of no longer being in the care of inquisitors somehow feels more comforting.
“Isola Thaz,” the prelate calls.
I stand a little straighter and exhale a steadying breath, share one last look with Saipha, who dips her chin slightly, and move to the front of the pack. Even though I can’t see the prelate’s eyes from underneath the shadow of her hood, I can feel her piercing stare. The sensation of it prickles across my skin like the first frost of winter.
“Lucan Darius,” she calls next.
