“Be ready,” I called to my friends.
I angled close to the door, bumped up over the steps, and jerked the horses to a stop. We jumped down and shoved our way violently through the crowd gathered in the entryway. Shiguan vestiges punched us and grabbed at our clothes, but we shot through the ward barrier to safety. The semblance music instructors and students stood against the far wall, clutching their instruments. A few held music stands out like weapons.
The mob outside the barrier got loud, hurling insults at us. Someone called me a yaldson—meaning son of a whore. What I wouldn’t have given to be here under different circumstances.
Lakshmi eyed the Shiguan. “Some of these are deep-Strata recovery teams. Once the ward fails, they’ll descend to theAncient Stratum to seize the Ward’s song and finalize Brach’s invasion.”
“Then let’s not give them the chance.” I turned to the instructors and students. “Were any of you Path-ka for Henry?”
One of the instructors raised his hand.
I went over to him. “I’ll leave the Steps door open in the instrument room. The ward seems to extend a bit farther on each lower stratum. So, if you have to, lead the others down the Steps. Just stay behind the ward for as long as you can. But you may have to fight back before it’s over.” He nodded hesitantly.
With the mob still roaring behind us, we stepped through the instrument room to the stair door. I traced the lock, and we paused long enough for me to cut several lengths of Kincaid’s lingual thread. I made necklace loops for my friends and handed them around, coming to Chuey last.
“The deeper we go, the more you and I are going to feel it,” I said. Chuey showed me his rosary. “I’m all beaded up.”
I chuckled and put a lingual thread around my own neck—I’d done nothing yet to learn about xenoglossia. Then I got out my lantern, called the ghost stone to life, and we hustled down the Steps toward the Ancient Stratum.
The steps down from the Renaissance Stratum were chiseled directly into stone. The passageway had the feel of a mine, with the musty smell of crumbled rock and dry roots. The stairs weren’t as even as above—they twisted downward like switchbacks on a canyon wall—which made it slow going. Partway down, a cool, misty breeze blew in from the left. I swung my lantern around to find the shore of a vast dark lake. It reminded me of those misty views in amusement park rides when you’re traveling through tunnels on little boats. Flutters and groans echoed out of the darkness across the water.
We kept moving. Only a few steps farther down, my sutured wound began to ache, and a blinding pressure began spinning in my head like a migraine . . .
. . . Ms. Rojas, the Westmont librarian, hands me a brass handbell. It’s an award for finishing the young historian unit. “ You have a bright future,” she says. I’m going to show Mama at Ardells . . .
I shook my head, trying to rid myself of the memories carrying me toward that damned bakery.
. . . On the walk home with my award, three members of the South Side Locos corner me and start to beat me. I go down but just then, a couple of guys from my wet-laundry metal crew show up . . .
I hadn’t thought about that in a long time. Made me feel a little better. “Jack, bro, I need some air,” Chuey said, gasping.
I nodded, struggling to breathe myself.
“Neither of you will be of any use if you don’t acclimate soon.” Lakshmi hooked an arm around Chuey. Church did the same for me.
A few steps more and the door to the Medieval Stratum came into view. It was a narrow, double door of greying wood, with a small, rusted knob, and framed in arched, beige limestone, like the Norman doors at Westminster Abbey.
I staggered down the last few steps and traced the lock. Lakshmi pushed open the door, letting through a distant harmony of a cappella voices, and we stepped into the crypt of a small medieval church. Low vaulted ceilings of dark stone arched overhead. Around the edges were low, dusty benches and chairs. An unassuming altar stood below a boarded window. Two unlit candles had been burned to the nub, lending the air the scent of cold candle wax. And rusted iron plaques with names carved in relief hung from bolts on the walls.
We wove through the crypt past a few limestone sarcophagi to a set of stone steps and climbed up into the church nave. The heavy scent of incense and oiled rosewood hung in the air. All around us the stone walls and vaulted ceilings echoed with a Gregorian chant.
The singers stood in the choir stalls, facing the altar, their voices washing over me, slowly clearing my head. But Chuey was pale and bent over, working his rosary. I asked the others to wait while I helped him past the small congregation toward the outside door to grab some air. Halfway across the apse, we slipped through the protection of the ward. We finally stepped out of the church into medieval London. Wattle-and-daub homes and shops were wedged together on both sides of the dirt street. Crests hung above the doorways showing allegiances to one ruler or another. A few of the signs bore symbols of trade—a hammer and anvil, a compass and quill.
Everything seemed caught in a sad winter light, and a grim procession of grey clouds swept across the sky. Doom-metal fans would have loved it.
The road was a narrow sludge pit, men and horse carts trudging through the muck. Nearby, two boys played swordfight with sticks while their friends watched and shouted encouragement. A mangy dog trotted toward us with a bone in its mouth.
Then we heard marching boots from up the lane. The street urchins scattered. Men and horses cleared the road. Even the dog scuttled away, disappearing down an alley, leaving us alone in the street.
Moments later, mobs of men and women came parading up the road toward the church, armed with everything from swords and spears to pitchforks and shovels. Others carried lanterns, leather folios, and instruments. Most had the Shiguan mark emblazoned on their tunics in scarlet red.
Chuey blew a long sigh, stood up, and stuffed his rosary in his pocket. We hurried back inside the church, closed the big doors, and barred them shut. Then, working forward from the back pew, we alerted the parishioners and herded them inside the ward.
Just as the last few were crossing to safety, the church doors began to rattle. A moment later something began slamming them. Booming echoes brought the chant to a halt. I hurried up to the priest at the altar.
“W-what’s going on?” he stammered.
“Keep your people inside the ward,” I told him. He studied my face. “Are you the new steward?” “I’m doing what I can?—”
