Rift (8 page)

The paintings rendered vividly the third aspect of war. Not only a practice of mind and body, this office was also one of the heart. Within these frames she found courage, sorrow, sacrifice, and hope.

Ember paused, closing her eyes and letting the collection of the room sink into her memory. When she opened her eyes, she was looking at the door set in the chamber’s far wall. A part of her was tempted to run to it, flinging it open and casting her lot with this room of battling impulses. Of beauty and horror.

She forced herself to turn her back on the beckoning door. There was no going back once her choice had been made. She passed a boy on her way out of the room and wondered whether he would choose the door she’d walked away from.

The first impression made by the third room was one of scent rather than sight. The mixture of odors was so intense and confusing that Ember had to pause and regain her bearings. The temperature in this room was markedly higher than in the previous chambers. The reason for the difference was easy to find. A blisteringly hot forge squatted in the center of the room. The fire within its bowels roared despite the absence of a blacksmith to stoke its flames.

Unlike the first two rooms, this chamber was a perfect circle. Ember walked to the edge, and while she kept her distance from the forge, sweat was soon beading on her forehead. In the ring around the blazing fire, she found the tools and crafts of master artisans. She paused amid the stringent scents of a tanner’s work, marveling at the skill it must take to create one piece of leather armor that seemed as tough as steel while another was softer than silk. As she continued, her nose crinkled not because of a foul stench, but in distaste. She quickly passed a spinning wheel and several looms. While she could appreciate the fine clothing and marvelous tapestries spread alongside the weaver’s tools, she had too many memories of sitting with her mother and Agnes forced into the monotony of spinning to want to linger here.

Ember walked past a chandler’s wares and barrels of all sizes created by a cooper. Of all the rooms this one offered the widest variety of sights and scents. The office of craft encompassed many livelihoods should she choose the door in this room. She watched as a girl brushed by her, hurrying to the door. She turned, giving Ember a shy smile before she disappeared and the door closed after her. Despite the many possibilities presented by this room, Ember knew it wasn’t what she desired.

Making her way to the antechamber, Ember felt as though a fist had closed around her heart. She looked at the archways that led to the room brimming with scrolls and the one leading to war. Which should she choose?

The first room promised a world of secrets revealed. A life of learning—a rare and precious vocation, one she wished she could share with Agnes. Ember’s sister would happily stay forever in such a room. The second would be exactly as it appeared: unpredictable, dangerous, filled with contradiction. Though immersing oneself in the arcane wasn’t without risk, a scholar’s life would be filled with a much subtler danger than the overt costs of war. She knew what her family would want. Her mother and sister would be relieved that she was sequestered with scribes. Her father might hope that she could continue her studies while still becoming the wife of Gavin Mackenzie. If she surrendered to Lord Morrow’s will, she might even be able to spend time with Agnes. It wasn’t unheard of for sisters to spend a season or more in each other’s home, particularly after the birth of a child. Would it be worth choosing the room full of books so she could keep Agnes in her life?

Though the risk to her body might be less by her choosing the first room, the risk to her spirit was too great. The hope Ember held dear, that she’d imagined might be made real through her father’s debt to Conatus, was that she could have a life where she wouldn’t be caged. And marriage would leave her tethered to a husband and his manor for the rest of her life.

Ember drew a long breath and turned to the center room. She walked swiftly beneath the archway, past the chart-covered tables. The door in the far wall of the room was plain and narrow. It waited for her. Without pause, Ember grasped the handle and flung the door open.

“This is my choice,” she murmured, and stepped into darkness.

Blinking to let her eyes adjust to the much dimmer light, Ember discerned that she had entered some sort of passageway.

Ember gave a startled cry as a hand on her shoulder turned her around. Her fear became embarrassment as she found herself looking up at Barrow.

“You’ve made your choice, but now you must be tried,” he told her. “Come with me.”

She couldn’t read his expression, try as she might to draw some hint of what was to come from within his storm-gray eyes.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

He didn’t answer, and the brief thrill she’d felt at seeing him became sullen resentment. The corridor widened, and Ember saw a row of figures lining each side of the hall. Her pulse thundered in her ears as she realized that they were the members of the Guard standing at attention. They watched solemnly as she passed them, twelve on each side of her, though Alistair, Kael, and Barrow were the only three warriors she knew. Why were all of the Guard assembled here? And what were they waiting for her to do?

At the end of the row of knights, Alistair stepped forward and fell into step beside Ember. His mischievous smile eased her mind a bit.

“Good choice, Em,” he whispered, and she smiled at him.

Barrow stopped, turning stony eyes on Alistair. “Return to your place. She isn’t finished.”

Alistair ignored him, leaning closer to Ember. “Don’t worry. We’ve all done it.”

“Alistair. Stop.” Barrow took a step toward him. “You know this isn’t permitted.”

Alistair scowled at the tall knight.

“Why are you interrupting the trial?” Barrow gave him a stern look.

“Only offering to accompany my friend as long as I’m able,” Alistair told him curtly.

The chill covering Ember intensified. Alistair’s words suggested that at some point, he wouldn’t be able to remain with her—wherever they were going. And Barrow seemed to think Alistair shouldn’t be with her at all.

Barrow stiffened but didn’t offer further objection. He turned his eyes on Ember.

“Follow us.”

Alistair placed his hand on her elbow, walking beside her as Barrow led them from the hall. Ember caught several gazes from the two rows of knights from the corner of her eye. Everyone was watching her. Wherever she was going, whatever was about to happen, it was important. It was important to all of them.

Ember shuddered and Alistair squeezed her arm. “Ember, I swear that—”

“Enough, Alistair!” Barrow had turned to face them.

Alistair glared at the taller knight. “What harm could it do if I explain what’s happening? You must understand that Ember is different. She has no—”

His words were cut off when Barrow shoved him away from Ember. “If she is to be one of us, there can be no exceptions.”

“You don’t know her like I do. I only want to ensure—” Alistair snarled at him.

“I said, enough.” Barrow nodded at Kael, who while watching the exchange slunk from his place in the line of soldiers and came to stand beside Alistair. “You will remain here with the others.”

Alistair blanched but upon feeling Kael’s hand on his shoulder followed his mentor back into the row of knights.

Barrow didn’t say anything to Ember but simply turned and continued along the corridor. She hurried to keep up with him, her heart racing as much from the angry set of Barrow’s shoulders as from anticipation of whatever lay ahead. She also felt the sting of Alistair’s words. Did he believe she was too weak to live by the rules of the Guard? Part of her was resentful of his poor opinion of her, but another part worried about what could make him so afraid for her.

Barrow stopped when they reached another door at the end of the corridor.

“I leave you here,” Barrow said, reaching beneath his cloak. “Take these and use them as you see fit.”

He handed Ember a lantern and a dagger. The short, thick blade was coated in a viscous, bile-colored liquid that gave off a pungent odor.

The door groaned in protest when Barrow pulled it open. All Ember could see were the first three stone steps in a staircase that spiraled down.

“That is your path,” Barrow said.

Ember looked up into the knight’s steel-gray eyes but found no hint of his feelings there, only a steady gaze. Dozens of questions swirled in her mind, but she already knew they would be asked to no avail. She forced herself to nod and began to descend the stairs. She’d barely stepped into the darkness when the door closed behind her, making her gasp. Her heart stuttered when she heard the door’s lock click into place. The only way now was forward, into the darkness.

With the lantern in her left hand and the dagger gripped in her right, Ember moved down the steps. The darkness closed around her while the candle in the lantern bobbed and winked in her trembling grasp. She could see very little, only what was revealed by the pale cloud of light cast by the lantern—the stairs’ tight coil, the rough stone walls. Her descent wasn’t long, and she soon found herself at the bottom of the staircase. The darkness hadn’t abated, and she walked cautiously, trying to identify her surroundings. The air was musty and full of a damp chill.

Shapes began to appear at the edge of her lantern’s sphere. Tall and rounded, the objects rose from the floor to the low ceiling. Ember reached out, running her hands over the wooden casks. The wine cellar. She was in the wine cellar.

Ember didn’t know whether to laugh or scream because this could be nothing other than some sort of joke meant to frighten her for the entertainment of the more seasoned knights. Poor Alistair, no wonder he’d tried to warn her. He’d only been attempting to save her from this humiliation.

She had imagined Barrow’s stern face and made a silent promise to herself to one day trick him into an equally embarrassing predicament when something turned her away from the wine casks.

Had there been a noise?

Her vengeful musings had captured most of her attention, but at the edge of her mind she’d sensed something. A wheezing sound. The hard-won breath of a sick man.

Ember raised her lantern, keeping her back to the wooden casks. She stayed very still, listening so hard her temple began to throb. The darkness remained silent. She cursed her heart, which was pounding against her ribs.

Her eyes widened. There it was again. This time accompanied by a scuffling sound. Feet dragging over the floor. The thick wet drawing of breath.

“Who’s there?” Ember kept her tight grip on the dagger and took a step forward.

Something came whistling from the blackness beyond her lamp’s glow. A clay jug cracked into her wrist. She cried out, dropping the lantern. It didn’t go out when it hit the ground but rolled away, letting shadows pour over her. The jug smashed against the floor and beer spilled around her feet.

The shuffling became scuttling. The wheeze a cough. A hunched figure lurched at her.

Ember cried out again, falling back against the wine casks. The thing was reaching toward her. Whether it was a man or a woman, she couldn’t tell. It stood on two legs, but its skin was gray and in some places torn away; it flapped like loose cloth when the creature moved. It was staring at her, but it had no eyes. Only black pits that were somehow full of hunger.

And the smell. Terror was all that kept Ember from retching. The thing reeked of spoiled meat and worse. With each cough and ragged breath it seemed the creature was choking on its own putrefying lungs.

It gaped at her, swaggering forward. She didn’t know if it was trying to speak. Its mouth opened and closed, and sloppy, gibbering sounds emerged. It leaned over her and she couldn’t move. A maggot dropped from the rotting flesh of its jaw and squirmed over Ember’s cheek. She screamed. She could see its teeth. See how sharp they were.

The instinct to survive freed Ember’s body from fear’s paralysis. She dropped to her knees, crawling across the floor toward the lantern. She reached the flickering lamp and rolled over, thrusting the light up toward the thing, which had followed and was already bending over her. It moaned, clawed hands covering its face as if the light were painful. As it backed away from her outstretched arm, Ember scrambled to her feet.

The creature scuttled into the shadows, its labored breathing faster now, its groans frustrated. It wanted her. Ember knew the light would only keep it at bay for a short while. She had to find a way out of the cellar. Keeping her back to the wine casks, she began to move along their length. She held the lantern away from her body, creating a barrier of light between herself and the thing. She could hear it moving with her, following her.

Without warning it lunged, a thick, bubbling scream pouring out of its throat. Ember swung the lantern at the creature. It flinched, flinging one arm up to protect its face even as it reached for her throat with its other hand. With the thing half-blinded, Ember struck at it with her dagger. But she quickly discovered that fighting this beast was nothing like attacking her lifeless straw targets, much less her playful battles with Alistair. The creature feinted from her unskilled hand, the blade catching in the tattered rags that hung from the monster’s skin.

Ember stumbled back as it attacked with renewed fury. Its arms flailed, one at last knocking away the lantern, and this time the glass shattered upon hitting the floor. The candle snuffed out and Ember was plunged into darkness. She sobbed, gripping the dagger in both hands. Slowly she moved back, sliding each foot along the ground.

She couldn’t see the creature, but she could smell it and hear it. She knew it was only a few feet in front of her. She knew it would attack again.

The rustle of its shredded clothes reached her ears a moment before the thing hit her, knocking her to the floor. She was on her back. Its hands were on her shoulders, holding her down. She felt the rush of its hot, putrid-sweet breath on her face. She choked on the rotted air as she thrust the dagger up with both arms, using every ounce of strength she could muster.