“This is the first true Mortem leak in… in… I don’t know, exactly, but a long damn time, and you need me, Gabe.”
His teeth ground in his jaw. He said nothing, just kept moving ahead at that punishing pace.
Anton and Malcolm were a few feet ahead of them, too focused on making their way to the Church to hear their hissed exchange. Just as well, since Lore couldn’t be sure they’d side with her—her plan was simply to follow along behind the Presque Mort like a shadow and hope they didn’t notice until it was too late.
“And the odds of dying aren’t only mine,” she whisper-yelled at Gabe’s back. Bloodcoats ran down the halls; distantly, she heard surprised cries as courtiers were startled by their flight. “The Presque Mort may not be able to channel it all.”
Real leaks—not just the little wisps of Mortem that sometimes escaped into the stone garden when the well was opened, but leaks, waves of power seeping out of the catacombs—were exceedingly rare. Not counting the first few years after the Godsfall, when magic had flowed from the Buried Goddess’s tomb like opened floodgates, there’d only been three Mortem leaks on record. All of them had claimed significant casualties. All of them had made it beyond the borders of Dellaire before they petered out, the Presque Mort unable to channel it all safely into stone flowers and trees.
Gabe ignored her. The door that led to the front gardens and the bulk of the Church and South Sanctuary loomed ahead, all gilt and garnet in afternoon light. Bloodcoats stood on either side, ready to close and lock it as soon as the Presque Mort had left the building.
“I don’t want you to get hurt,” Lore said, voice a low rasp, out of breath. “All right, Gabe? I don’t want you to get hurt, so let me go and help you, because otherwise you are absolutely going to get hurt.”
He stopped. Turned. Stared down at her with that one blazing blue eye.
“Fine,” Gabe said, and then he was stalking toward the open door, and she was running after him, and it was closed and locked behind her before her foot fully left the threshold. The door wouldn’t open again until the Mortem leak was taken care of.
Either Anton would lock her in the Church instead, or he’d let her come. And Lore didn’t think he’d turn down another set of Mortem-channeling hands.
Her assumption was proven correct as they all rushed to the Church door on the other side of the gardens. Anton looked behind him, did a double take when he saw Lore. “What—”
“You know you don’t have enough channelers to handle a leak of any significant size,” she said, brushing past him and through the second interior door that Malcolm held open. “I’m coming.”
The Priest Exalted didn’t try to argue. He stared after her, the scarred side of his face in shadow, dark eyes glittering. “Yes,” he murmured, after a moment. “I think that might be a good plan.”
Lore didn’t pay attention to the Priest Exalted. She walked past Malcolm and into the cool darkness of the Church. It smelled like polished wood and incense, a scent that reminded her of Gabe’s.
“You’re sure you want to do this?” Malcolm murmured, falling into step beside her. Anton passed them both and led them away from the double doors of the South Sanctuary, down a gray stone hall toward what looked like cloister rooms. “To say it’s not pretty is an understatement.”
Lore nodded, resolutely ignoring the flip of fear in her middle. “You need me.”
“I won’t argue there,” Malcolm replied.
Anton led them at a brisk pace, winding through hallways that felt nearly as labyrinthine as the ones in the Citadel, finally stopping at a wide, doorless room full of other scarred people—the Presque Mort. There were only around a dozen, all of them in varying states of undress, changing out of white robes that mirrored Anton’s for dark, close-fitting shirts and leather harnesses. The harnesses held daggers, but only two, on the off chance they needed to defend against a human element rather than a magic one. The Presque Mort stayed armed, but that wasn’t their purpose. Inked candles flashed in all their palms.
Every eye in the room locked on Lore, some in curiosity, others in outright suspicion. She tipped up her chin and stared right back.
Anton waved a hand as he descended the short set of stairs. “Another Mortem channeler,” he said dismissively, as if Lore were of no consequence. “We’ll need all the help we can get.”
They didn’t run to the Southeast Ward—they rode. A phalanx of black horses, cantering over the cobblestones, rushing around corners so close that Lore was afraid she’d gash her head. Everyone moved out of the way with a quickness, the news of the Mortem leak having spread through the city at a blessedly faster pace than the magic itself. Most civilians wouldn’t be able to see the Mortem, and that added an extra edge of panic. The closer they drew to the Ward, the emptier the streets became, everyone who was able fleeing to the opposite side of the city.
Lore pressed her chest against Gabe’s back and held on to his waist for all she was worth. She’d never been very comfortable riding horses. Her own feet or a cart were infinitely preferable.
But there was no denying the speed. They were in the Ward within half an hour.
And the very air tasted wrong.
Gabe dismounted, then reached up and grasped her waist, swinging her down behind him. Lore nearly stumbled. The ground felt unsteady, almost, a thin membrane over something decayed, ready to break at any moment. A sour, fetid smell permeated the air and made her stomach twist in on itself.
“Do you feel that?” Lore’s voice sounded as shaky as her legs. “Smell it?”
“What is it?” Gabe narrowed his eye as he handed off the horse’s reins to a waiting clergyman—not one of the Presque Mort, just a plain acolyte, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. “I don’t smell anything.”
Gabe’s face looked blurry. The edges of him weren’t clearly defined, as if he might morph into something else at any moment. His tattooed hands were slightly outstretched, like he thought he might have to catch her, steady her.
“Nothing.” Probably just nerves. Lore shook her head and started walking, following Anton.
Nothing else looked blurred, she noticed as she walked, concentrating on keeping her gait steady. Only Gabe seemed like something in flux, caught in a state of unbecoming.
Just nerves.