“My reserves have no geographical boundaries. More importantly, they’re loyal. They bow to kings. Not to old Autumn trees.”
Bowing for old Autumn trees. Spiritually, this statement could apply to any species. But only one stung my flesh, as it had when I read the note.
Two physical reactions on the same day. So now I knew where to find his spy camp. And I knew how to get there.
Only one thing was missing.
I packed the whetstone into a satchel, harnessed the axe, and opened the back door. Outside, a weather vane swiveled atop our gable roof. The second story overhang jutted like a pouting lip, twilight bathing the timber and plaster in an iridescent sheen.
In the front yard, I stopped beside a birdhouse. Constructed of multiple levels along a tree trunk, it included swings and ladders.
I leaned one shoulder against the tree and knocked three times.Rap rap rap.
In response,Peck peck peck.
An avian launched from one of the holes, her short wings flapping. The woodpecker twirled in front of my nose, a half-disc of red feathers running along the length of her skull, like the comb of a helmet.
The indignant bird unleashed a hoarse string oftchurs. The Masters had once mocked my kinship with this little avian in front of Poet and Briar, years back when the jester and princess infiltrated them. But to hell with those rotting ghosts, who’d had less imagination than their former status implied.
I ran a finger across the woodpecker’s plumes. “Take care of her.”
The avian blinked its pebble eyes, then spiraled around my head and darted through Mama’s bedroom window. She flew faster than an arrow, her beak stabbed deeper than a blade, and she maintained a kinship with local birds-of-prey. In an emergency, she offered the next best line of defense while I was gone.
I trekked through the beech forest and stashed my pack out of sight, then halted at the border. Corn and wheat stalksflanked the exposed brick road. Like the day before, no way was I taking Briar’s shortcut through The Wandering Fields. If I went in, I might never come out.
The watch knew me, and I had clearance into the stronghold. However, strutting past the guards wasn’t an option tonight. Not unless I wanted witnesses.
I sealed my eyes shut, hating this, hating Rhys, and hating that oak.
Then I ducked into the half-light, migrating from the brick road and harvest fields to the maple pasture. Red leaves dripped from the boughs, the rich color gleaming through the eventide. Taking into account every access point and blockade, I scurried across the grass to one of the maple trunks, as I had yesterday. Flattening my palm against a ridge in the bark, I pushed inward, then twisted my wrist counterclockwise.
The silhouette ruptured. The outline of a door split open.
This particular route trenched beneath the moat and ascended into the west tower, the patrol stationed a good thirty feet from the tunnel’s exit. Checking the perimeter, I slinked from the tree and shut the partition, then craned my head toward the sky, where a fleet of hawks circled.
I counted each synchronized flight until the birds scattered to the east wing, then I sprinted to the closest entrance. A guard with skin like a flaky pie crust manned the entrance, a single-edged glaive braced in his thick fist.
Slipping out my axe, I blew out a focused breath. Then I released the weapon, letting it fly. Tumbling over itself, the hatchet slammed into the door inches behind his head.
By the time he jerked toward the thud, I scuttled behind him. And before he completed the full rotation, I tore the axe from the door, thank you very much.
While the baffled man inspected the empty space, I vanished into the corridor. Torch flames writhed from brackets.Distant voices floated from alcoves. As I crossed a network of hallways, a clammy draft flew past my clothes, and rugs cushioned my footfalls.
Beyond a gallery of pastoral oil paintings, a towering door rose to the rafters. I worked the complex latches, which entailed a sequence only the clan knew. Next, a wide stairwell plummeted into the earth.
At the landing, a set of double doors loomed. An iron crest of bronze leaves, gilded stalks, intersecting axes, and red fox decorated the surface.
The relic vault.
Briar’s ladies and Flare once teased the princess about this place. The banter revolved around Poet and a record-breaking round of smut.
I studied the layout. No padlocks, chains, or clasps. No need for a key. Instead, the vault required a code. This came from the intricately patterned brick flooring that led to the doors, which camouflaged the correct path, which must be taken in the right order.
One false move, and the floor would trap me. One wrong choice would trigger a mechanism, and the false brick would sink, enabling clamps to lock around my ankle until security arrived.
Sweat bridged across my forehead. I extended my leg to the first slab, yet the brick stayed put.
Okay. Next step. Next one.
