I hit the stairs and begin to sprint, my breath rushing alternately hot and cold. The cuff at my wrist is soothing and centering, not a distraction so much as a reassurance—as are Sig’s footsteps behind me. I’m not sure what I did to deserve this strange, scarred boy’s allegiance—I have to wonder what he wants from me—but right now it runs warm through my veins.
Normally, these stairs are crowded with the warriors who reside here in the castle or who have been chosen to work within the walls. But today, Carina has gathered them all and taken them to the eastern part of the city, to lie in wait for Thyra’s rebels, to overwhelm them and end the uprising before it begins. It will save their lives but crush their spirits, and Thyra’s execution for treachery will make all that struggle meaningless.
I look up the broad spiral of sunlit steps, knowing the parapet is located three levels above the ground. Just as it is occurring to me that I should develop a strategy—I am one small warrior who will be facing Nisse, Jaspar, and their personal guard, which apparently includes Sander now—Sig yanks me to a stop. “Shhh.”
Just around the curve of the steps, I hear the buzz of voices. We won’t be able to pass unnoticed. But then Sig presses something soft into my hands.
It’s a pillow. And a robe. “Be Kauko,” he says as I realize he’s thrown another robe around his own body. Without so much as a question, he pulls at the rope that holds my breeches up, and as I grab for them, he stuffs the pillow under my tunic, reties the rope, and pulls the robe over the whole thing, tugging the hood up over my head.
I glance down at my puffed out belly. “You certainly are a clever madman.”
He pulls his hood over his own head. “Go now.”
I start up the steps, and as we turn the curve I see that the way is blocked—dozens of Vasterutians are coming down from the upper levels and being herded onto the main level by a few helmed and armored warriors who crowd them toward the exit to the courtyard. If we try to barrel past them, the alarm will be sounded and Nisse will know I’m coming for him.
He could kill Thyra in a heartbeat. One slice is all it takes. I know exactly how easy it is.
I glance behind me, at Sig, and put my head down as I trudge out of the staircase, following the Vasterutians. I stroke my paunch. One of the warriors says, “We thought you were downstairs with the witch.”
Sig bursts into a trilling cascade of Kupari, chuckling as he mimes chaining someone to the wall. I glance at the tree-trunk legs of our warriors, firmly planted but not in a wide fight stance, and silently pray that I look like an old, fat priest.
The warrior guard laughs. “Can’t understand a single stupid word you’re saying,” he says to Sig. “Go on, then. You must have her secure if you’re up here to watch the show.”
He shields me from sight a moment later and stays close as we walk with the Vasterutians toward the courtyard. Even through the thick robes, I feel the heat he gives off. By his own admission, he has no ice to balance it with. It simply flows from him like a current on the lake, constant and powerful. I wonder how strong he really is, if he has this much fire after being bled for so long. Either his magic is a very deep well or his spirit is unbreakable.
Then I consider the look in his eye as he promised Kauko’s death. Unbreakable, maybe, but definitely cracked.
We flow with the crowd of Vasterutians—there must be at least a hundred of them, all young and strong, all muttering among themselves in low, tense tones. These are the ones who will be taken as hostages to Kupari, to ensure that Vasterut remains under Krigere control.
When the sunlight reaches me, warming the black fabric of my robe, I chance a look around. Sig looms dark and hooded to my left, and we stand out among the Vasterutians, many of whom are wearing grayish-brown tunics and breeches, their feet covered in cloth boots that barely keep out the cold and damp. None of them are armed, but their dark eyes carry that sharp, wary look I have grown so familiar with. Do they know what Halina and Efren have done? I don’t see the black-bearded Vasterutian here, and I wonder if Nisse has already caught him, if he is somewhere in the bowels of the tower, chained and bleeding.
High above us is the parapet, and I hold the hood over most of my face as I look up. Sander and Halina stand on one side of the wooden-fenced walkway that surrounds that level of the tower, and Jaspar and Thyra stand on the other. Nisse stands in the center, wearing his broadsword and helmet, his graying blond hair loose over his shoulders. He looks dominant and deadly, and I know that is his intention. He raises his arms and smiles as a loud, eerie horn sounds off somewhere out in the city. The noise is repeated by a warrior just inside the courtyard, who blows a curved horn of a mountain sheep. Nisse grins. “My friends,” he shouts. “Do you know that sound? It’s our arriving allies, the priests of Kupari.” He leans forward and gestures at Halina to translate.