A Thief in the Night

chapter Ninety-two

They dragged Malden through their twisting stone tunnels and brought him to a wide hall, a place where massive columns fronted buildings that were full of nothing but cobwebs. A gallery let out onto the central shaft, and the red light of the dwarven sun cast the place in sunset hues.

Malden was tied to a marble column thicker than his waist, and left there, all alone. Not for long, though.

One by one elves in patchwork smocks or the finest beetle-silk livery came to the hall’s many entrances. At first they arrived only to peek inside at the man who had assaulted their queen, but soon they grew bolder. Elfin maids perched on high cornices while dandies leered out from behind archways. Soon groups of them lined up around the far walls of the grand hall, and Malden realized that his execution was to be a grand spectacle. An event not to be missed in an underground world where diversion was a rarity.

Soon enough the hall was half filled with elves of every station. The humblest mushroom farmer and the grandest nobleman of elfinkind had come. The soldiers in their bronze breastplates, the jugglers and musicians and duelists, the Hieromagus and, yes, Aethil, all were in attendance. And then the others were brought in. Cythera and Slag were hauled out onto the flagstones for the elves to jeer at. They each wore a silver chain around their neck. There seemed to be no more doubt that they were kept as pets for the queen. Malden tried to catch Cythera’s eye but she was too far away. Besides, she was watching the archway through which she’d entered the chamber. It seemed there were more guests yet to arrive.

A great booing and hissing commenced as three more trespassers were wheeled out. Malden gasped in surprise to see Mörget and Croy—still alive, though worse for wear. The warriors were bound to a cart, their arms bent up behind their backs and tied to a post. They looked drugged—their faces slack, drool sliding down their chins. At their feet lay Balint, her eyes wide open and staring up at nothing.

“Together,” the Hieromagus said, and the murmuring crowd fell instantly silent. “Together . . . at last . . . all of them.”

The throng held its collective breath as they waited to hear what their wizard-priest had to say. Yet the Hieromagus seemed even more distracted than usual. His eyes were as vacant as Balint’s, and his hands occasionally flew up around his face, as if to drive away bothersome insects. He was ushered to a good viewing spot, then left alone by his attendants.

Last to arrive, Prestwicke entered the hall and strode across the flagstones, bowing deep as the crowd cheered him on.

“This is not how I wanted things to end, dear Malden,” he confessed, coming close enough that he could speak to the thief in a conversational tone, though the marble walls around him reflected his voice so that Malden was sure the elves could hear him, too. “I wanted to do things properly. There are forms to follow, rituals to carry out. I wanted to make this clean. But you forced my hand.”

“So sorry for the inconvenience,” Malden said, intending the words to come out clear and defiant. Instead they sounded like a panicked mumble.

Prestwicke drew an oilskin bundle from inside his woolen habit and unrolled it carefully. Inside, his knives gleamed as bright as polished silver.

“What are you?” Malden asked, in his desperation. “You’re no assassin. I’ve known bravos before, jaded men who would cut a throat for the price of a cup of wine. Stupid, brutish fellows with no imagination. You’re different from them.”

Prestwicke smiled broadly. “Flattery,” he said, “will not save your skin, Malden. But I’ll answer your question. I am exactly what I look like.”

“A priest?”

Prestwicke bowed again. “Exactly. I serve Sadu, the Bloodgod. I do not assassinate my victims. I sacrifice them, in His exalted name.”

Malden frowned. In Ness there were still plenty of people who worshipped Sadu, of course. The Lady was the official religion of Skrae, but her tenets meant little to the poor, and they had kept the old religion alive through centuries of persecution. It was hardly an organized faith, however. “There are no priests of Sadu,” Malden said.

“Not now. Yet once there were, and there will be again. I will be the first,” Prestwicke said. “I will renew the church. I will bring back the old ways.”

“I’m no scholar of theology,” Malden admitted, “but I know Sadu’s priests never took gold for their ceremonies.”

“You’re assuming I will be paid in coin. Malden, I will gain so much more than that from your death! My employer claims to have certain books that were long thought lost. Books I would give anything to see. The secrets I will learn—the prayers, the ceremonies, the sacred lessons, will bring great honor to Sadu. But I say too much.” He took a knife from his pouch. “I shouldn’t waste time with chatter, when there’s work to be done.”

He brought his knife up to Malden’s forehead. Malden tried to jerk his head backward but Prestwicke grabbed his chin and held him in a viselike grip. He had forgotten how surprisingly strong the killer was.

The knife touched Malden’s skin. He tried his hardest to keep his eyes open, to stare his hatred into Prestwicke’s face while he was slaughtered, but the pain was too much. He squeezed his eyes shut and gasped as blood rolled down through his eyebrows.

Prestwicke moved his knife to Malden’s cheek.

Before he could press it home, though, a terrifying shriek split the air. The gathered elves murmured and cried out in surprise, and even Prestwicke stopped what he was doing to look.

The Hieromagus had jumped up from his chair and was clawing at nothing as if he were beset by wild animals.