“You were right,” he murmurs with a small, wry smile. “I was jealous of Thale.”
Seventy-TwoThe Race Is On.
As Merc makes the admission, my eyes search his. It seems so totally within his character to choose to be vulnerable at the end of his life, when it’s too late.
“You are such anaspinhaul.”
As I borrow a word from Mare, Merc throws his head back and laughs. Then he narrows his eyes. “What are you doing—”
“Shut up.”
I’m back at the cocoon, slashing with the crystal knife, its blade gleaming red. “I’m giving you a chance to save yourself—if I didn’t want you to die before, I definitely don’t now that you’re finally being honest.”
The more I do, the more he can do with his own blade that is so much bigger, and the next thing I know, the weight of the web is peeling free of his leather surcoat, and falling from his waist. And then he has a dagger in his other hand and is able to go to work himself.
I rush back to Lavante. I have to be so careful to not cut into him—and the way he throws his head as I go up his neck doesn’t help. Grabbing the reins, I try to control him as he begins to thrash his back legs and buck.
We are all but out of time. The darkness is about to reach the easternmost wall. From there, it will be a matter of moments before the eight-legged congregation is no longer hypnotized.
“Hurry,” I demand to Merc.
As if that direction is necessary. He’s making even quicker work than I could have, the sharp edges of his dagger and his broadsword flying around as the web falls farther and farther down his horse’s legs. Just as Merc arches up and peels his steed’s neck with one slice, Lavante breaks out with a violent, all-body explosion.
I barely have time to grab the reins.
The stallion gives me only a heartbeat of no-motion, his wild eyes swinging around to my own, as if to tell me that should I not get on his back this very instant, he’s leaving without me.
There’s no hesitation. I stuff my slipper shoe into the stirrup and throw myself up into the saddle—
He doesn’t give me a chance to get settled. And good thing. Lavante bolts down the pavers at a raucous dead run, his hooves hitting the stone with such force, the echoes among the broken statuary and cockeyed columns are like the roll of a drum. Without any direction from me, he dodges around fallen boulders and marble tiles, and I know better than to try to interfere. He’s a far better judge of what his footing can handle than I am.
I look back.
Merc is out of the saddle, but still working at getting the web free of his horse’s head—and the line of darkness is closing in. If he doesn’t get moving now, it will be too late. That dooming eclipse is traveling across the crumbled rooftops and the lanes now, moving so fast that it will reach that temple within moments.
“Hurry!” I holler over my shoulder.
When Lavante reaches the great entrance, he leaps as if there’s a jump before us. As he lands on the sandy dirt, I rein him to the right, just as the darkness wheels over us. He’s as fast as ever as he takes us toward the other slope, with its cap of dense fog.
“Merc!” I yell into the wind.
Twisting around, I can’t see him. Fates, he’s run out of time. The spiders must be coming back into awareness by now, and there’s no way they’re going to forget the two riders and horses they’d been ready to feed from.
I want to go back. I need to go back—
Merc and his horse burst free of the entry, and in spite of his horse’s name, they’re going like the wind. I have a moment of relief, but then I see the why of its speed.
Spiders.
A thousand of them spill out of the entry between the statuary, and when there’s a jam, they split up and flow over the disintegrated wall, forming a river of black legs and red, hungry eyes.
A sudden shift underneath me makes me refocus. Lavante has brought us to the slope and hit the incline hard. The stallion is grabbing at the ascending ground with his front hooves as if he’s climbing a ladder, great pulls keeping us going even as our speed slows. I want to look back at Merc, but if I fall off, I’m not going to be able to outrun the horde.
I get down low on Lavante’s neck, and hang on to his white mane, givinghim all the head there is. The higher we go, the slower the pace becomes, and I hear his heaving breaths. But he doesn’t give up. He keeps going, fighting for every length. Yet the top seems only to be getting farther away.
Higher. Higher.
When Lavante starts to slip and then tumbles down to his knees, I have to guide him to the left so his angle is not as extreme and he can get more purchase. Sure enough, he takes to the better footing and goes faster.
