The Blackthorn Key

I tried to scramble away. The Elephant held me down. Wat drew his knife, the one that had murdered my master. He sliced through my shirt and pulled it apart.

Oswyn searched the sash until he found the vial he wanted. The stopper was newer than the others, resealed. I’d refilled it in the lab, underground.

“I know you’re familiar with this,” he said.

He popped the cork, breaking the red wax seal, pulling away the twine.

“Please,” I said.

Oswyn held the open vial over my chest. I could smell its sour stink.

“Please,” I said.

“Tell me where the recipe is, Christopher.”

I didn’t.

The vial tipped, and one, two, three drops fell onto my chest, spattering just above my heart.

At first, it was nothing. It felt like water, cool drops on my skin in the springtime sun.

Then I burned.

? ? ?

Forever. It felt like forever before the oil of vitriol finally stopped tearing apart my flesh.

I didn’t look down. I didn’t want to know.

“End this, Christopher,” Oswyn said. “Tell me where you hid the recipe.”

“No,” I said.

Oswyn shook his head. “You cannot see.”

He brought the vial up. His hand blocked out the sun.

“And if you will not see,” he said, “then what good are your eyes?”

He tilted the vial again, slowly, directly above my face. The oil of vitriol slid toward the edge of the glass.

I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

I told him.





CHAPTER


35


THE SARCOPHAGUS IN THE MAUSOLEUM slid away. Oswyn stared into the darkness below. He motioned to the trussed Lord Ashcombe, slung over the Elephant’s shoulder. “Take him down first.”

“Just drop him,” Wat said.

Oswyn looked annoyed. “If I wanted him dead, would he not already be dead?”

The Elephant climbed down the ladder, Lord Ashcombe dripping blood across the back of the giant’s vest. Wat, sullen, took the torch from the wall bracket and followed them down the hole. I waited at the edge, holding the ripped ends of my shirt together. Underneath, my scarred chest still burned. Oswyn guided me toward the ladder, his hand on my back surprisingly gentle.

“I wish I’d chosen you instead,” he said.

? ? ?

Oswyn was amazed by the metal door behind the mural. He was even more amazed when I showed him how it opened. He stared at its glass back, peppering me with questions about its mechanism. For a while, it seemed like he’d forgotten what he’d really come here for. Soon enough, he pushed us forward, into the lab.

Wat led the way. The wooden door, shoved inward, thumped against the vinegar barrel I’d stacked to the right, partially blocking the entrance. The Elephant laid the half-conscious Lord Ashcombe down in the only place there was room, against the wall on the left, near the giant oven. I stepped sideways and stood next to him.

Oswyn stared at the equipment, the workbenches, the notes covering them all. He saw the parchment hanging from the nails on the board, the stacks of paper below them.

“All these years . . . ,” he whispered.

I inched closer to the oven.

Oswyn turned toward me. “Where is it?”

I froze. “It’s . . . on the workbench. Among the papers.”

He made as if to go. Then he stopped. He tapped his thumb against his chin.

“Go check,” he said to Wat.

Wat moved to the center of the lab, stubby fingers pushing aside glass beakers.

Oswyn kept his eyes on me. “Is it there?”

Wat shrugged. “There are a lot of notes here. I can barely make them out.” He scanned the papers, flipped them over, tossed them aside. “I don’t see it.”

I took another step back. My shoulder touched the oven.

Oswyn’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing? Don’t move.”

His voice brought the Elephant’s attention my way. Quickly, I bent into the mouth of the oven and grabbed the cylinder I’d hidden inside.