Thealos opened his eyes and stared at the bars, boiling with frustration. She was nearby—yet he did not think she would hear him if he yelled for her. Up some stairs, down the hallway—Tsyrke’s chambers. He squeezed his eyes shut, the frustration turning into searing anger.
Thealos wondered if he had been too na?ve all along. The wellspring gave him wisdom, but had he truly done his best to heed it? Again he was trapped in a cell beneath the city. No Sturnin Goff to save him. No Ticastasy to free him. How long before Mage returned? Or what if Ballinaire himself came again?
The bonds chafed against his wrists, against his spirit. He had to get free. But how? He felt as if the world tottered at the edge of a table, ready to tip and crash into oblivion. How could he get past those iron bars, past the rope of chains binding him to the wall?
The answer struck him like lightning.
He could try to walk the Crossroads.
Would he be able to though?
There was nothing left to decide. If he could not, he could not. He had to try.
Clutching the stones in one hand, he bowed his head and delved into the power of the Oath magic, summoning up the memories of how to do it. The concept was easy to understand. In a way, it was like gathering the folds of a blanket and wrapping it around his body—except the world was the blanket. It took a lot of practice to be proficient in it. Many Ravinir could never do it—could not convince themselves that it was possible to do on their own. But Thealos had been with Jaerod. He had experienced the rush of the magic first-hand. He knew it could be done.
Taking a deep breath, he invoked the Oath magic and plunged into the Crossroads.
The shock of it was like an ice-cold lake. It was a sickly familiar feeling, a sense of drowning. His mind fought against it, struggling to surface again and free himself from the overpowering panic. Something inside him, a core part of his being, ripped loose.
He opened his eyes and the swarm of colors and feelings made him sick to his stomach. He’d forgotten about that part. The chains dropped from his wrists and lay in the mess of straw. The strain of holding himself there wracked him. Willing the stones to hide him, he took three steps and entered the main corridor of the dungeon block and then let himself emerge from the Crossroads.
Vomit rose in his throat as his stomach heaved. His guts wrenched and he doubled over, emptying his stomach on the paving stones. The magic of the stones cloaked him and the sounds, but he knew he would leave a puddle. His vision swam and the corridor lurched, nearly spilling him to the floor. He gripped the iron bars with his free hand and steadied himself, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Dizziness rocked him and he waited for it to pass.
It didn’t.
It was the result of using the magic, he knew. Many Sleepwalkers faced it. Not many had the stomach to handle the Crossroads regularly. Sweat popped out against his head and a chill shook through him. It was like having a fever.
Which way to go?
One direction led to the Silverkin.
The other led to Stasy.
*
"Ban you, Tsyrke, untie me!” Ticastasy fought against the leather straps securing her forearms and tethering her to the bedpost. They bit against her skin and stung, cutting off the blood to her hands. It hurt like fury, but she didn’t care.
“Quit squirming, Sparrow. You’ll only make it worse. I’m a sailor. You’ll not be able to undo those knots. Not in time anyway.”
He looked in the last trunk lid at the vibrant-colored moss and then slammed the lid down. “This is the last one,” he told two soldiers. “Carry it with the others and leave it at the end of the tunnel. Then go through the way into the cellars like I told you.”
“Aye, sir. We have horses ready for the ride. You sailing with us?”
“I sure as Fire am not staying in this cursed city longer than I have to. We ride fast and we ride hard. Do you have the cloaks Mage made for us?”
“Waiting below, sir. Come on, Umerill.” The two hoisted the chest and carried it to the trapdoor behind the desk and together they lumbered down the steps.
Ticastasy glared at Tsyrke. “I’m not going with you.”
He cocked his head, his eyes twinkling with exuberance. “The city is about to fall to Lord Ballinaire. You would really rather stay?”
“I don’t want to go with you!”
He paced around the desk, his hauberk rattling as he walked. His crimson cape was left in a heap by the bed. It was one of the only times she had seen him not wearing it.
“I think it best if we had this discussion somewhere else. There’s going to be a war here, girl. It’ll be one banned good fight, I imagine, but the Shae and Dos-Aralon will win it. I’m sailing for Windrift and then east to Sheven-Ingen. I’m bloody bringing you with me.”