Five telliron boxes lie open on the floor, and the room hums with the intensity of the relics’ gathered power. Leth wears the Dravansword strapped to his back, and Dansa carries the Crown of Sephine and Scepter of Maiza in a bag slung across her chest. Ronan carries the Crown of Vara and Songbird’s Flute in his own bag. He vividly remembers his teacher handing him the flute seven years ago. Tangible proof of the story she told him and the quest she bequeathed to him.
When he touches the Crown of Vara, he doesn’t remember stealing it. He doesn’t remember the blood on his hands. He remembers the flash of amber eyes, and a thin, strong voice saying,Let me wield it.
With my magic and the Crown of Vara, no one in Ostaris will be able to stop me.
If Karis is the Voice of Vara, then every word he said in the Riverwatch inn was true. But Ronan has no talent for truth or trust; his domain has always been falsehoods.
Dansa buries her face in Alice’s fur, inhales, then sets the cat down. Coira strikes her firestone rings together and catches the flame in her cupped palm. “Say when, boss.”
Ronan looks over each of them. His allies—no. His friends. “Everyone knows what to do, whatever we find. But there’s one last thing I want to make clear. This mission will succeed.” His voice grows firmer with every word. “That doesn’t mean we’ll succeed today. If things look bad, we get out. If we can’t secure a location for the unbinding, then we abandon the unbinding. We grab Melanne and Karis, and I’ll throw the Crown of Vara like a discus if it’ll get the Varans off our tail.”
Leth flinches. “I’m not leaving without the relics. We’ve given up—”
“We’ll give it our best, but we don’t have to give our lives.” Ronan locks eyes with the sword-witch until he looks away. “The gods aren’t going anywhere. They have all the time in the world. If we fail, the Trickster can find another Voice a hundred years from now, and another group of Locksmiths can pick up the task.” He touches the bag at his side, feels the smooth curve of the crown through the leather. “The world will be a better place if we succeed today. But it won’t end if we fail.”
“Halla help me.” A grin unfurls across Dansa’s face. “You’ve gone sentimental on us, Ronan.”
“Shut up,” he says with an answering grin. “Coira, let’s go.”
Coira steps into the center of the room and begins muttering her incantation. Practiced movements paint a flaming door before them. Beyond the flames waits a plain stone wall, and Coira says, “Now.”
Ronan is first through the flames. He lands in a plain stone cell, with bars to his left and three stone walls to the other sides. A pair of empty cuffs lies discarded in the center of the cell, and Melanne stands at the bars. Bruised, battered, far too pale, but alive.
Relief crashes through Ronan with the brutal cleansing of a tidal wave. Despite Coira’s insistence, despite the proof of the opening door, in the despairing depths of his heart he still believed she was dead.
Melanne’s lips open, then close. She seizes Ronan’s arm and silently holds on, focused on the door as Dansa, Leth, and Evain come through. Everything’s silent until Coira steps through the flames. With a whimper, Melanne lets go of Ronan’s arm and flies towards her sister.
While they hug, Ronan crouches to inspect the discarded manacles. He recognizes some of the gold-etched runes in the steel; he wore those runes around his own wrists for weeks, not too long ago. But Melanne’s contract is with the Flame Twins, not the Trickster. She could pick the mechanism given the chance, but she shouldn’t have been able to unlock the spell on her own.
He gives the sisters a few more moments to embrace, then stands up and touches Melanne’s shoulder. “Where are the guards?” he whispers, near-silent.
Melanne’s hair is matted with sweat, and faded green bruises line her neck and forearms. No visible blood. Her face is paler than Ronan remembers, with dark circles under her eyes, but her gaze is bright. “Near the exit,” she whispers back, pointing out and to the right of the bars. “There shouldn’t be many. Ronan,” she says urgently. “I saw Karis.”
His pulse quickens. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know. He unlocked my manacles as he passed.” Melanne bats away her sister’s hands, while Coira attempts to finger-comb her hair.
“Can you move quickly?” Ronan asks.
Melanne nods. Dansa moves towards her, but Ronan shakes his head. “Treat her when we get there.” The guards might sense the magic. “Melanne, stick with Coira. She’ll explain as we go.”
He drops to one knee and rolls a die. Theclankof the door unlocking echoes through the prison hall. “When you reach the stairs, head left,” Ronan says. “Go!”
They burst from the cell in a whirlwind of magic and flames. The guards at the stairwell are entirely unprepared, and moments later, the Locksmiths reach the stairs.
The element of surprise gets them up two flights of stairs before an alarm begins to sound. Nothing like the sonorous music of the Bower bell. This is a drum, beating like a heart through the walls of the cathedral.
The Locksmiths hole up in a narrow first-floor hallway to regroup. Predawn light filters silver-thin through the wide, clear windows. Ronan remembers the layout of the cathedral. The prison is below the northern wing, and Dawn’s Tomb is in the south. Everyone else has studied the blueprint too, and Dansa asks, “North hall, or straight across?”
“Straight across.” They’ll be more exposed—but the quicker they move, the better. “Evain, cover—”
A flash of sky blue catches his eye. Ronan’s heart leaps.
But the squire peeking out from the doorway isn’t Karis. She’s a young woman with long, dark hair, and wariness in her eyes. Ronan doesn’t remember her name, but he first saw her on the journey back from the border. And he last saw her at the gates of Marrick.
Coira steps forward, flame in hand, but Ronan catches her arm. “Wait.”
The squire says, voice shaking, “I need to talk to Vizia.”
