A Thief in the Night

chapter Ninety

Cythera stretched upward on the balls of her feet to bring her face into the little patch of sunlight. She closed her eyes and sighed in deep pleasure. “I’d begun to think I’d never smell fresh air again,” she said.

Aethil smiled sadly and turned away.

It was Malden’s only chance.

He grabbed the elf queen by the shoulder and pulled one arm across her throat. She screamed and every crystal in the grotto shivered. Pulling the queen off her feet, he held her close to his body to keep her from breaking free.

He’d been considering this move for some time. He’d put it aside for a while—when Aethil confided in him, when he felt sorry for her, it seemed like the last thing he should ever do. He still felt terrible about it, guilty almost to the point of letting her go. But not quite.

There was no other way. Their best plan had been to get Aethil to let them see the sun. Their only plan. But this route wouldn’t work—he couldn’t fit through the crystal tunnel, couldn’t escape that way. And now he was out of time.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “If there was any other way, I’d take it. But I will kill you if it means we get out of here alive.”

“What are you doing?” Aethil demanded. “Sir Croy! Defend me!”

Cythera wheeled around and stared at Malden. “No—not like this,” she said, shaking her head. “Please, Malden.”

“You asked me once if I believed in anything,” Malden told her. “Well, I do. I believe in freedom. I won’t let myself be dissolved in that slime pit. I will not be imprisoned with a thousand dead elves for all eternity. I won’t be this one’s pet any more either.”

Aethil started to scream again. Malden put pressure on her windpipe until she stopped. He felt like a cad. He felt like a villain. It didn’t matter. This was their only chance. He would save Cythera and Slag, and he would buy his own freedom at any price.

“But what of Croy and Mörget?” Cythera said. “We know they’re alive, now—would you leave them here to be tortured to death?”

“What choice have we?” Malden demanded. “Slag, grab that candlestick,” he said. “We can use it to break away the crystals. I don’t know where we’ll find ourselves once we climb up there, but it’s better than being stuck down here.”

The dwarf didn’t move. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.

The body in Malden’s arms went limp. White smoke wreathed Aethil’s head, streaming out of her mouth and nose and eyes. As Malden watched in horror it coalesced and formed a demonic visage, all horns and gnashing teeth. The white face came looming toward him, jaws stretched wide to snatch him, and he panicked.

He fell backward, crashing against a wall of sharp crystals that exploded into choking, glittering dust. His arms flew back and Aethil was free. She did not waste another moment on beseeching Slag’s aid, but dashed toward the exit of the grotto, back toward her apartments.

The demonic face broke up into swirling vapor that dissipated almost instantly.

“Blast!” Malden shouted. “She’ll have every elf in the Vincularium down on us in a moment. I’ll go after her. Cythera, Slag, start breaking the crystals. Don’t wait for me, just get out of here!”

Malden ran toward the grotto’s exit and into Aethil’s bedchamber. Ahead of him the waterfall curtain had become a pounding torrent, a cascade of water that roared violently and foamed on the floor. He put one arm over his face and dashed through—

—and felt watery hands grab at him, holding him in place as the rushing water bashed and beat at his face. Water filled his mouth and nose and he had to fight his natural instincts to keep from breathing it in. A trap, a magical trap.

But Malden was very good with traps.

The hands that clutched at him weren’t solid enough to be beaten away with his flailing fists. He couldn’t move his torso or his head, for they were held fast by the very same water—it was solid enough when it wanted to be. Everywhere the water touched him he was stuck fast. One of his legs, however, had passed through the curtain before the trap activated—and now it was mostly dry. It extended out into the main chamber beyond. He could see nothing out there—the water filled his eyes—but he could still move the leg. His foot struck the floor and found the leg of a table. Hooking his foot around this anchor, he dragged himself out of the waterfall, pulling for all he was worth against the watery hands that tried to hold him fast.

When his face broke the surface of the water, he sucked in air and made one desperate, convulsive push that sent him sprawling onto the carpets beyond, soaking wet and bruised. Black spots swam before his eyes.

Ahead of him the door to the royal apartments stood open. Just a few feet away. He pushed himself up, forced himself to stand. He ran out through the door and into the stone passage beyond. An elf maid in a patchwork dress stood there, staring at him in horror. Malden pushed past her and kept running—

—straight into a massive intersection of tunnels, where a dozen elf soldiers in bronze armor stood waiting for him. Aethil stood among them, her face a mask of imperious rage.

Malden stopped where he was and raised his hands in surrender.

He expected Aethil to speak, to say how disappointed she was in him, or to chide him for abusing her hospitality. Instead she simply turned her face away. Then someone else pushed through the rank of soldiers to face Malden. Not an elf—a human, dressed like a priest, with tiny dark eyes that displayed a malicious intelligence.

“Prestwicke?” Malden asked. “But . . . how?”

“Not easily. I followed you all the way from Ness. I’ve never had to travel so far on a contract,” Prestwicke told him.

“But the elves—”

“My new friends? I did a small service for them. In exchange they’ve agreed to give me a gift. Your life.”