The Blackthorn Key

The blood made me remember we weren’t alone. Or maybe we were, now. The dust thinned slightly, but I couldn’t see the others. Where Oswyn and the Elephant had stood, there was nothing but rubble.

There was something else, I thought. Someone else. Some reason my master had woken me.

Wat.

Wat, who’d crawled into the corner before the explosion, had escaped the collapse of the ceiling, though not unscathed. He lay slumped against a heap of stone. His left arm hung lifeless from his shoulder. The left side of his face was blackened and warped. A lick of flame still quivered on the charred linen of his sleeve. His right eye—the only one that remained—stared straight back at me. Then it blinked.

All right, Christopher, I told myself. Get up.

But Wat was the one who moved. He pushed his bulk from the wreckage. He wobbled, then fell to his knees. He huffed, and spat on the stone. All the while, he stared.

Christopher. Get up.

Wat staggered to his feet. He took a step. Then another. His blackened fingers gripped his knife. How did he still have his knife?

My mind screamed. I couldn’t move. Lord Ashcombe stirred, dragging himself from the mouth of the oven, but he was in no shape to stop the boy, either. I clawed at cracked stone, trying to get away.

Useless. A foot pressed against my hip, turned me on my back. Wat straddled me. His head bobbed, like he couldn’t focus.

He could see enough. He raised the blade.

Then it came. From the side of my eye swooped a rolling pin.

I am dreaming, I thought.

The rolling pin, a rich cherry red, was as long as an arm and as thick as a tree. It bonked Wat on the blind side of his skull. His good eye glassed over.

A second blow came, a deep, solid thwock on the top of his head. Wat crumpled to the ground. I stared dumbly at his unconscious body.

Tom leaned over. He put his hand on my chest, his face lined with worry.

“Rrrr ooo aaa iii?” he said.

He sounded like he was underwater. I shook my head to clear the bells inside. Bad idea. I turned over and retched. Bile, sour, mixed with stone ash, bitter. I retched again.

Tom held me. This time, through the ringing in my ears, I understood.

“Are you all right?” he said.

“You came back,” I croaked.

“Of course I did. The promise you made me make was stupid.”

“Sorry.” I slumped against him. “Was that really a rolling pin?” I said.

Tom looked embarrassed. “It’s the only weapon I know how to use.”

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Tom told me later that I crawled up the ladder on my own. I don’t remember doing that. I do remember that he carried Lord Ashcombe over his shoulder, and got us to the street, where we were nearly run over by a four-horse carriage.

The driver hauled on the reins, skidding the carriage to a stop. An irritated horse bumped his nose against my head, blowing spit in my ear.

The driver cursed us up and down. The sweating noble inside leaned out of the window to let us have it, too. Then he saw the blood, and the man Tom carried.

Lord Ashcombe opened his remaining eye. “The Tower,” he growled.

The noble blanched. Drips of sweat turned to buckets. He scrambled out of the carriage and tripped on the footstep, sprawling on the cobbles.

Tom loaded us inside. The driver took us where Lord Ashcombe had commanded, whipping the horses at reckless speed through the streets.

The guard at the Tower gate watched curiously as Tom pulled the King’s Warden out. When he saw whom the boy was carrying, he dropped his spear. A dozen of the King’s Men rushed out to help him.

Half-conscious, Lord Ashcombe pointed at me. “Bring that one,” he said, just before he passed out.

Rough arms grabbed me from every direction. I didn’t resist. I couldn’t, either way.

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