He knew he must get Seth out of here, and soon. He had been looking for a subterranean route to the Keep; surely the Mace must have used such a route to slip in and out of the Arvath unnoticed for his reading lessons. But Tyler was afraid to venture too far from the safety of their crevice. The price on Seth was only a thousand, but on Tyler’s last trip topside, the bounty on his own head had stood at five thousand pounds. No Caden would allow such an opportunity to slip through his fingers. From the gossip Tyler had picked up in a shadowy pub, he knew that his bounty also included his possessions, and this told Tyler that while the Holy Father surely wanted them both dead—and would pay good money to be able to send Tyler to judgment himself—his primary interest was not Tyler or Seth, but the polished cherrywood box that Tyler kept in his satchel. Tyler longed to take it out and open it again, but they could not afford to waste any more matches; they were down to their last packet. All the same, he could not help holding the satchel close, feeling the comforting edges of the box inside.
After several weeks in the tunnels, Tyler had pieced together some of this business. The Tear crown had not been seen since Queen Elyssa died. She must have gifted it to the Church—an odd move for a monarch who did not attend services more than once a year, but Elyssa would not be the first to have found Jesus at her deathbed. Tyler had never met the Glynn Queen’s mother, but she was accounted the sort of woman who might attempt to buy her way into heaven. The crown was undoubtedly valuable, made of solid silver and sapphire, but its value to Tyler went far beyond money. This crown had sat on the heads of every ruler since Jonathan Tear, and had anchored many bloody battles of succession. It was rumored to have magical properties as well, though Tyler thought that was little more than fancy. To him, the crown was an artifact, a witness to the wild, brawling, extraordinary history of the Tear, and Tyler could no more be careless with such an artifact than he could leave Seth behind. Besides, he had a promise to keep. The thought of the woman, Maya, nearly wrenched him in half. She had given him the crown, and he had left her there, sitting in front of the table of drugs. He could not have taken her with him, or the game would have been up; he knew this, but the knowledge brought him no peace. Anders was not one to spare the rod, and Tyler could not imagine what fate had befallen Maya after his escape. If nothing else, he meant to keep his promise and deliver the crown to the Queen. But he could hardly do that down here.
Footsteps pounded on the stone above Tyler’s head, causing him to shudder. It might be the Caden, or another group of the lost and damned souls Tyler had seen down here. But the footsteps continued, many of them, and Tyler could not help thinking of another piece of information he had heard in the pub: mobs now roamed the streets of New London, carrying swords and carpentered crucifixes, praising God and threatening violence to all who would not do the same. There was nothing explicit tying these mobs to God’s Church, and yet Tyler smelled the Holy Father’s stink all over them. He would have bet his Bible that these people took their orders from the Arvath.
It was a good Church once, Tyler thought, and that was true. After the Tear assassination, God’s Church had helped to keep order. The Church had worked with the first Raleighs, kept William Tear’s colony from scattering to the four winds. In the second century after the Crossing, an enterprising preacher named Denis had seized on Catholicism, recognizing the great value of theatricality and ritual in capturing imaginations. Denis had overseen the design and construction of the Arvath, a life’s work that had drained the Church coffers and made the man old before his time. Denis had died only three days after the final stone was laid, and the Church now recognized him as the first true Holy Father, but there had been plenty of men before him, guiding God’s Church along the same path. Tyler, who had gathered as much oral history as he could, knew that his church was far from perfect. But not even the darkest chapter in its history approached the state of the Arvath now.
Of course, the Holy Father would not have dared to do any of this with the Queen in residence. Anders feared Queen Kelsea, feared her so greatly that, not so long ago, he had handed Tyler a vial of poison and ordered him to a terrible purpose. The Queen had surrendered herself to Mortmesne—that news had been impossible to miss, even in Tyler’s briefest trips to the surface—and the Mace was in charge of the kingdom. But the people of the Tearling did not love the Mace, only feared him, and fear was not nearly so dangerous. In the Queen’s absence, the Holy Father was emboldened.
She must come back, Tyler thought, almost in the form of a prayer. She must.
New footsteps echoed in the tunnel outside, and Tyler pressed back against the wall. Several men ran by the tiny opening, but they made no sound beyond their steps, and even through the wall Tyler could sense the military efficiency that underlay their movements, all of them unified in purpose.
Caden, his mind whispered. But in search of what? Were they here for Tyler and Seth, or someone else? It hardly mattered. All it would take was one sharp pair of eyes to spot the narrow opening in the tunnel wall, and they would be discovered.
The footsteps passed without slowing, and Tyler relaxed. Seth huddled against him, shivering, and Tyler wrapped his arms around his friend. Seth was dying, slowly and painfully, and Tyler could do nothing for him. He had helped Seth to escape the Arvath, but what good was escape to them now? All hands were turned against them.
Dear God, Tyler prayed, though he felt certain that the words were going nowhere but around and around the dark chasm of his mind. Dear God, please show us your light.
But there was nothing, only darkness, an endless drip of water, and, somewhere nearby, the fading footsteps of assassins.
Chapter 5
Tear’s Land