Rone didn’t sleep well. Could have been because he’d been shot. Could have been because he’d been lying on his back all day in the hidden room in the rear of Kurtz’s flat, staring at the same wood slatting of the ceiling for hour after damnable hour. Could have been the pain in his hip and the weird drugs his old master kept forcing down his throat, or the worry that he had a rather large number of enemies roaming the streets of Dresberg.
The insomnia also could have been due to Sandis’s revelations and the knowledge that his mother was sitting in a dark, rank cell, alone.
His inability to move gave him far too much time to think, and his thoughts flopped back and forth like a dying fish. The vision of Sandis’s bare back lingered behind his eyelids. Her . . . God’s tower, those were brands. Very large, deep brands, with gold melted into them. She’d been, what, fourteen? What had they used to draw them? Iron? Forged gold? A hot poker? How did a person, let alone a child, survive something like that?
He cringed and spun the amarinth, which teetered depressingly in his fingers. Rone knew the history of the occult; it’d been drilled into him as part of his religious education, along with all the other jokes about God and faith and what have you. His roving ancestors had sailed the Arctic Ribbon and stumbled upon what was now Kolingrad, a vast and relatively fertile land previously inhabited by the Noscons, who, for some unknown reason, had abandoned all of their colonies and cities. No one knew what had become of them, but bounteous lore and tall tales revolved around their fate. Many thought they’d taken to the ocean, just as the Kolins once had.
The Noscons had left behind evidence of one aspect of their culture: they were heathens. There were few surviving texts, but scholars had uncovered tablets that focused on the ethereal plane and numina and what was now considered the “occult.” Historians had continued to study the Noscons until one of their self-righteous contemporaries went off about how there was one true god and the worship or study of anything else was blasphemy. That scholar talked his way into all the fancy religious power he wanted and became the first Angelic. The Kolins then plowed over the Noscon ruins to build their cities, and anyone who still cared an ounce about the twisted Noscon magic was declared a heathen, subject to imprisonment and execution, thanks to the sway the Angelic had over the government. That sway had lessened over time, but old habits died hard.
For most of his life, Rone had thought vessels and numina and summoning were all fairy stories. After he found the amarinth and began working his way through the darker layers of the city, he’d heard a rumor here or a story there. That was it. Now a vessel to some powerful, otherworldly equine demon was sleeping ten feet away from him.
He spun the amarinth. It continued to resist him. He watched candle shadows dance across the monotonous ceiling. Did his mother have enough light to see shadows, or was her world entirely dark?
If they hurt her, Rone would . . . what? What on this damnable earth could he do? Gerech was an impenetrable fortress. Even caring nothing for his own life and armed with the amarinth, he’d never get past the first wall. He’d used his one visit. He’d need to bribe his way past the guards, bribe the warden . . . Money, money, money. Where would he find a buyer who understood the worth of the amarinth but would be honest enough to offer a fair trade? Grafters would covet it, certainly, but they’d sooner shank Rone’s kidney than fork over their life savings with a smile.
His thoughts turned darker yet. Did Gerech torture its prisoners? Starvation? Whips? Boiling water? Molten iron?
Brands. The loops of ancient golden writing on Sandis’s back seemed to draw themselves on the rafters overhead. What was it like, to be possessed? Sandis said she didn’t remember details, that it was all pain and then waking up. But she also claimed there was some kind of communication between her and this Ireth. Rone closed his eyes, trying to imagine another being taking over his body. Becoming his body.
There was no way that didn’t hurt.
Did those brands hurt even when she wasn’t possessed?
He turned his head toward her. She wore a simple dress—why Kurtz owned a dress Rone didn’t know and didn’t want to know—and lay facing away from him, her single blanket pooling at the dip of her waist, highlighting the curve of her hip.
If she’d been ugly, he never would have gotten involved in this. And now Kurtz was rooting for her and wanted him to bring her to the Lily Tower, of all places. God’s tower. He hadn’t been there since he was thirteen, and he’d vowed never to go back.
He thought of his mother. Guilt squirmed through his gut like hunger. Any moment now, the amarinth would reset, and he’d be able to get up and leave this place, even if there were grafters hunting him. Meanwhile she was locked in a cell, persecuted for a crime he had committed.
Leave this place. And go where? Check his other drop-off spots, he supposed. See if he’d found work. He needed money to make this right.
A thought surfaced. Why wait for someone to hire him?
Chewing on the inside of his lip, Rone let his mind pursue the idea. He did odd jobs for the city’s elite, whatever it was they wanted. He didn’t care who hired him, so long as they had enough money.
How much sweeter would it be if the cash came with a side of revenge?
Ernst Renad obviously had plenty of money . . .
Rone’s body began to tingle with alertness, eagerness, the need to get up and get moving. He had never stolen for himself before. Theft could be such a gray area that way. But this was his mother.
He spun the amarinth; it twirled lazily, useless.
He knew exactly where the guy lived. Not terribly far—Rone could get there while it was still dark. He also knew the layout of his house. Knew where he kept valuables that could be sold for enough cash to appease the twisted warden.
He’d be able to save his mother.
He’d be able to keep his vow to never return to the Lily Tower.
Rone spun the amarinth again. It responded with its blessed whirl and floated a few inches above his navel. Rone let out a sigh as pain receded from his side and the heat in his hip cooled. His muscles relaxed, then tensed again as his intentions—get up, get moving, and get the money—pulsed through his veins. Pushing the still-spinning amarinth aside, Rone sat up and cracked his neck. Stretched his arms. Rolled his shoulders, feeling the familiar tug in his left shoulder. The amarinth was a miracle, but it only healed life-threatening injuries, not the purely annoying ones.
Standing, careful not to wake Sandis, Rone grabbed his things and readied himself to leave. The amarinth was spent, but he hadn’t needed it last time, had he? This was a simple burglary, no magic required.
The amarinth’s loops slowed and stopped, and the artifact fell. Rone caught it before it hit the ground. Pocketed it.
Now or never, he thought, picking his way through the darkness to the alley-facing door.
He inched it open and slipped into the night.
Kas Kirstin had taught him how to pick locks.
Rone was fifteen years old when he met Kas. The older boy had apparently worked some unsavory jobs before getting caught and fined, so when a job opened up in Rone’s sector for sewage, he had been shoved there without a second thought. By that time, Rone had already picked up an enthusiastic street dialect and disregard for adults in general. He’d worked really hard to be all the things his father hated.
His father would have hated Kas.