I get a good punch in at one point, and certainly a well-placed kick, but before I know it, the palace guards shove me into a cell made of thick iron bars and slam the door in my face. Sooah and Wen are similarly thrown into their own cells on the other side of the room.
There’s a ringing in my ears. My muscles are so tight they threaten to snap. I pace around my cell, not that there’s much room to begin with. I reach the back of it in little more than four steps.
“You know,” Wen mumbles, “yelling our heads off about the demon army probably wasn’t a good idea.”
Sooah sighs heavily, as if to say,Shut up.
“They don’t understand what we saw,” I grumble. “What we know is coming.”
Yue can’t hold the Maskmaker and his army off forever—I try not to think about what will happen when they overtake her. If the king and the rest of the Jade Palace won’t listen, then we’ll have to do this on our own. But how?
If Yue were here, she would doubtlessly have chewed or slammed her way through the bars and barreled through the palace by now. But she isn’t, and I can’t rely on her strength to see us out of this. If only I were smaller, I could slip through the bars…
I notice our confiscated items piled high on a rickety wooden table to the right of my cell. It’s well out of reach, but I have to try.
I lean against the bars and squeeze my arm through the narrow gap, desperately stretching my fingers in the hopes of grasping onto something. Anything. I can see the Maskmaker’s paintbrush sitting near the edge of the table, but it sits at an angle, pinned down by the weight of our weapons and my hunting log. Sweat drips from my brow. Every muscle in my body strains, burning with the effort.
The tips of my fingers just barely graze the end of the brush’s handle when the ground suddenly shakes. All around us, the walls and the ceiling of the palace prison tremble violently.
An earthquake?
No. The frantic, bloodcurdling screams that follow can only mean one thing: the Gates of Hell are open.
My stomach twists.
Yue.
But there’s no time to mourn.
The tremors are so vicious that the table of supplies ends up tipping—in the wrong direction. I just manage to grab hold of the paintbrush, gripping its bamboo handle tight. I watch in dismay as my hunting log falls, open-faced, my life’s work scattering across the floor. All the knowledge I’ve collected over the years, sentenced to lie in a crumpled, disheveled heap.
Above, the screams grow louder. The loud clang of the watchtower gongs ring loudly into the night.
Gritting my teeth, I snatch up the first piece of paper I can get my hands on and bring the tip of the brush down to paint. I don’t need a reference. I can do this by memory alone. My work is messy and rushed, but this mask doesn’t need to be perfect. I hurriedly smash the paper to my face and feel the magic rush over me like wildfire on drought-ridden land.
Wiry whiskers, tiny pink claws and feet, and ugly, matted black fur. A rat demon in all its horrendous glory. It feels strange, but not wrong, necessarily. Like putting on a borrowed cloak. A part of me is surprised. I thought the brush might not be able to recreateanything other than human faces, but now that I know what’s possible, I realize the endless miracles of this tool. I jump through the gap between the cell bars with plenty of room to spare, ripping the mask off the moment I’m free.
“The keys?” I snap, picking up the paintbrush.
“I think the guards have them,” Wen answers.
No time!Sooah signs.
She’s right. I take a step back and kick, slamming the heel of my boot against the lock of Wen’s cell. I strike with such force that it falls apart, bits and pieces of metal clattering to the floor. As Wen emerges from his cell, I do the same for Sooah, freeing them both.
“I have to find my family,” Wen says.
I nod, already scooping up three fresh pieces of paper. I paint hastily, doing my best not to let my hands shake. “Find them. Evacuate any civilians you come across. Once they’re out of harm’s way, put these on and come find me.”
They take their masks without question. We leave through the prison’s main doors to find the halls empty. The guards have abandoned their posts. With one final nod to one another, they make for the city, while I race to find the Maskmaker with my weapon held tight in my hand.
Our chances of succeeding are slim, but we know what must be done.
43Sonam
Chaos.
Demons drag themselves through the Gates of Hell. They come through all at once, the ground shaking beneath our feet so violently it knocks several soldiers off their feet. Our ranks are disorganized, fracturing. A dam about to easily be broken.
