“What did she tell you?” I enquired of Delric.

  “That you tried to kill her,” the healer replied, not looking up. “That Albyrn Swain, a man I served alongside for years, lies dead at your hand, traitor.”

  “The first is true. The second is a lie.” Breath hissed through my teeth as he tied off the final stitch. Clenching fists through a spasm of agony, I spoke on, striving to keep the desperation from my voice. “Still, I don’t suppose it matters.” I watched the healer apply a clean bandage to the wound, then set about gathering his things. “Haven’t told her, have you?” I asked, bringing his movements to an abrupt halt. “About your part in her healing. You haven’t told her that it was your idea for me to go in search of the Sack Witch.”

  He kept his face averted, but his eyes slid to meet mine, narrow and fearful.

  “That’s good.” My fingers explored a scabbed bump on the side of my head. It ached when I prodded it, but not with the constant throb that had afflicted me after Althus Levalle cracked my skull. “Don’t,” I added, meeting Delric’s gaze and hoping he perceived my honest intent. “She’ll kill you, and anyone else she suspects had a part in it. Just like she killed Swain.”

  “There were many eyes there,” he said, though his tone was far from that of an ardent believer. “Witnesses—”

  “That there were,” I cut in. “All Duke Viruhlis’s men, I’d guess. None of our own people. Doesn’t that tell you something, Supplicant?”

  He looked away again, hands trembling as they hesitated over his accoutrements. “She ordered no harm done to you,” he said. “Pending trial, though she has yet to state when that will take place.”

  “And the war?”

  “Rumours fly thick and fast, it’s hard to know what to believe. Scouts report that the False King leads his army north, however.”

  “Scouts? My scouts?” Visions of dire punishments visited upon Lilat, Tiler and the others came to mind. Ayin and Eamond were also potential victims of Evadine’s fury, but the fate of Couravel spoke ill for their prospects in any case. I could only hope they had enough sense to get clear of the city and make themselves scarce.

  Delric shook his head. “They’ve vanished. Most of them, that is. A handful came in, those whose loyalty to the Ascendant Queen outweighed that owed to a man now condemned a traitor.” He paused, running a hand over his mostly bald scalp. “She will be crowned today…” He faltered and faced me squarely for the first time, voice lowered to a tremulous, rapid whisper. “At the coronation she will announce something, Scribe. A great and wondrous gift from the Seraphile, she calls it.”

  “The child, I know,” I said, the words emerging in a flat mutter even though I found myself beset by the perverse desire to laugh. “A gift from the Seraphile. Her holy, blessed womanhood remains unsullied by base human lust.” The mirth bubbled in my chest but swiftly died when the movement summoned another bout of pain. “She has to kill me now,” I murmured when the flare abated. “I don’t know why she hasn’t already.”

  “Yes, you do.” Delric gathered the rest of his things into a satchel and pulled the strap over his shoulder, rising to his feet. “I can do nothing more for you, Scribe. I’m sorry.”

  “Supplicant,” I said as he moved to the cell door, making him pause in the act of raising his hand to knock for the guard. “You need to flee. Choose a quiet moment and get as far from her side as you can. But don’t tarry. Otherwise, the knowledge you possess will be your doom.”

  Delric’s hand hovered for another instant before he lowered it and reached into his satchel. “Went to some pains to hide this, didn’t you?” he said, crouching at my side again. Opening his hand, he revealed a small cotton-wrapped bundle, somewhat stained by the hiding place I had consigned it to when pretending to piss. A clenching of my buttocks told me the healer had been assiduous in his inspection of my person.

  “I won’t ask what’s in this,” Delric added, the cotton falling away to reveal the small vial Lorine had given me in Castle Ambris. “But a traitor’s death is an ugly thing, so I’ll not begrudge you an escape.”

  I thought of telling him that I was far too great a coward ever to contemplate suicide, but didn’t. I had another use for this vial. Better if Delric imagined this to be his last act of compassion for a former comrade. “My thanks,” I said, taking the vial, adding in a smaller murmur, “Remember what I said. Fly far and fast.”

  He gave no sign of agreement, just a final glance of farewell before returning to the door and knocking loudly for the guard. It swung open almost immediately, making me suspect whoever stood on its other side had been straining to hear our conversation. I caught a glimpse of a hard, brutish and familiar face as the door lingered open to allow Delric to exit, then it slammed closed with an echoing boom.

  I heard none of the Ascendant Queen’s proclamation from the steps of what had been the Couravel cathedral. Even Evadine’s gift for projection couldn’t reach me here. I did hear the cheers, though. A vast outpouring of worshipful acclaim that went on for what felt like an age. I would learn the detail of her speech later, but the words rendered on a page surely fail to capture what must have been her most powerful oration. She condemned the Algathinets for the deceit and cowardice, pronounced sentences of death upon Arthin, his mother and any who still marched behind their banner. “Henceforth, friends, we can no longer allow ourselves the luxury of mercy.” Her audience of soldiers and crusaders cheered all of this with happy abandon, but it was her final revelation that brought forth the great chorus of adulation.

  “Know that on this very morn I was visited by the Seraphile,” she told them. “And that from their blessed touch, I received the greatest of gifts. Long have I suffered the knowledge that service to the Covenant would rob me of the joy of motherhood. It is a burden I have borne gladly, albeit with pain. Now that pain is ended, for the Seraphile have ordained that this realm, now reclaimed for the Covenant Resurgent, cannot fall into the disunity and strife that arises from the uncertainties of succession. Know that in my womb there grows a child. A child given life by the Seraphile themselves. A child that will one day ascend these very steps and wear this crown. A child that will complete the great work we have begun. This child will lead your children and grandchildren to the greatest glory. This child will be no mere Ascendant monarch, but a Transcendent Emperor. Under this child’s divine guidance, all the world will know the Seraphiles’ love.”

  In truth, for all my scholarly passions, I remain glad to not have borne witness to this most momentous speech. I’ll confess that this may be in part because she made no mention of me at all. Not a single word, even to condemn my treason or spin some lie regarding my mythical role in some insidious Algathinet plot. From here on, the tale of Alwyn Scribe, the redeemed outlaw who had fought for the Risen Martyr when she stood atop the scaffold, the lieutenant who had been so conspicuous at her side, would be stripped from her story.

  “Trial,” I said with a soft but bitter grunt as I listened to the ongoing cheers. There would be no trial for me. Delric was right. I retained my life for the simple reason that Evadine still harboured love for me. My brightest prospect would be to spend my remaining years in this cell. The darkest, that she would, sooner or later, find her affection dwindling to the point that my worrisome existence could no longer be tolerated. I found this by far the more likely outcome. Evadine was, whether she realised it or not, a being of malice. Such a creature, for that is how I now thought of her, would see me quietly disposed of before long.

  My options were therefore limited. I could orchestrate an escape of a kind this very moment. If Lorine was to be believed, the vial I had once again consigned to its uncomfortable hiding place was so potent it would do the job with but a single drop. Terrifying as the thought of years’ long incarceration or impending murder might be, I simply couldn’t do it. I have acquired a certain humility these many years, but the scale of my self-regard has never dipped so low as to permit even the slightest consideration of suicide. Which left but one course.

  Timing would be crucial. I needed to heal, but not so much that my captors thought me fully recovered. But, neither could I dither too long. I felt I could almost hear Evadine wrestling with her thoughts, veering from our shared delusion of love to the moment of my betrayal. Then there was the child. Our child. The more I pondered it, the more the notion of my son or daughter growing up under Evadine’s care grew to sickening proportions. The very idea of fatherhood had always been beyond me, a weight of responsibility I had never wanted, even if my issue hadn’t been ordained for tyrannical rule by an insane mother.

  Didn’t think about all this when you lay with her, I reminded myself, one of Lorine’s occasional aphorisms coming to mind: All men are as putty when they let their prick take charge of their brain. The welling of guilt and self-recrimination made me wonder if this had been Evadine’s scheme all along. To ensure her triumphant ascendancy, an heir was vital. An heir possessing both our gifts. What kind of monster would she make of such a child? I couldn’t abide the thought of it. I have never been one for oaths and such, but, lying there in that damp, chilled stone box, I swore that I would wrest my child from Evadine if it cost me my life. Had I been of a more rational mind, I might have paused to consider how many other lives this would cost.

  Two weeks of dull routine passed. Lacking something to scratch tally marks into the wall, I twisted the sparse straw littering the floor into loops to mark the passing days. Once a day the door opened and my brute-faced gaoler would provide a bowl of gruel and a cup of water before replacing the bucket containing my effluent. Having taken the bowl and cup from the day before, he would exit the cell and slam the door with not a word exchanged between us. I recognised the man as the amiable turn-screw who led me to Magnis Lochlain’s cell to record his testament. Even so, I made no attempt to break his rigid silence. The flat, unyielding mask of his heavy-set face was discouragement enough. But I also didn’t wish to form any bond with a man I would probably have to kill before long. I was careful to slump on to the mattress when he came, sparing him a miserable, listless glance while I shivered and shuddered. Better he thought me still lamed, even though Delric had done his work with typical excellence and my wound healed well, showing no sign of corruption.

  I waited three days before testing my strength, and then only at night. At first, I could manage to totter from one wall to another, teeth gritted against the throbbing heat in my hip. I fell repeatedly, swallowing my shouts of pain, then forcing myself back to my feet and resuming the stumble. Within a week, I could walk without falling, albeit with a pronounced limp.

  In addition to conditioning my body, I honed my mind. I was no stranger to imprisonment, or escape, but never purely on my own agency. Getting free of the Pit Mines had required years of combined labour by Sihlda’s congregation, costing all but three of their lives in the end. My escape from the Dire Keep had in fact been a rescue, thanks to Lilat’s gift for infiltrating ancient ruins. I could expect neither aid nor rescue here, though I worried that the huntress might get herself killed making an attempt. So, I sought inspiration not from personal experience, but from the stories I had heard from Deckin’s band.

  I never met an outlaw who didn’t love a story, either the telling or the hearing. Some, like the enigmatic Raith, were taciturn by nature, but even he would spin a brief yarn or two from time to time. Given the nature of our occupation, tales of capture and escape were frequent at the fire, and it was to the treacherous Todman I looked for guidance. Todman, you see, was perhaps the most accomplished escaper I ever encountered, and his tales were not merely the boasts of an overly prideful bully. He knew all the knots and, more importantly, how to slip them. He knew locks and how to pick them. Most of all, he knew gaols, for he had been both a prisoner and a gaoler.

  “Boredom is your friend and the turn-screw’s enemy,” he told a collection of us keen-eared cubs one night. Todman was a man of considerable faults, but his innate brutality was rarely visited upon children. I’ll give him that. All the older outlaws would entertain us with their varied, often incredible tales, but Todman was always more in the vein of a teacher. His stories were lessons, and, though I’d already begun to detest him when still just a cub, even I could recognise their value.

  “Gaolers do the same thing at the same hour day after day,” he said. “Their lives are ruled by habit, and that’s where you’ll find your chance. They’ll be more watchful when you’re a new face, for the freshly caught are more likely to try to slip the snare. Make ’em get used to your face, your own habits. Every time they turn their eye on you, make sure you’re in the same place doing the same thing. You need to be exactly where they expect you to be, until you need to be somewhere else. In that instant, that moment when you’re not there, that’s your chance, for they always hesitate. Just for a second.” Todman snapped his fingers. “They’ll be looking the wrong way, asking themselves, Where’s that fucker gone? That’s when you either kill them or lay them low. Killing’s better because a dead man won’t come to his senses and raise the alarm before you’ve managed to get his keys into the right lock.”

  Keys were the real treasure, of course, and my silent brute jangled them all the way to my door every day. I could gauge the length of the passage from the sound, also the squeal of the gate at the far end. Fortunately, I heard no muttered voices accompanying the squeal, meaning it lacked a guard. I had a decent knowledge of the upper reaches of this building thanks to my visits to Lochlain’s cell. It was an old, unkempt structure but, as befits a prison, rich in iron gates and heavy doors. I knew my brute to be the master of this place, probably relieved to have kept both his job and his head after the Algathinets’ flight and the Ascendant Queen’s arrival. That kind of relief breeds loyalty, a keenness to prove one’s worth. Therefore, the master gaoler had taken on the role of overseeing the Traitor Scribe himself, and every time he did so, the keys to every lock in this building dangled from his belt.

  After another week, I had recovered to the point where my limp was greatly reduced, but the pain of movement remained fierce. Getting clear of this building was one thing. Slipping through a part-destroyed city infested with the Ascendant Queen’s host would require all the stealth I could muster. I forced patience upon myself, spending the hours between bouts of exercise attempting verbatim recitals of the key scholarly works Sihlda had impressed into my mind in the Pit.

  I was a few verses into the Epic of Queen Liselle, the only female monarch of the Algathinet dynasty, when the echo of footsteps from beyond the door brought a plummet to my heart. I could recognise the gaoler’s footfalls by now, but my sudden despair came from the fact that his heavy clomp was accompanied by another, more purposeful and measured stride. I had left it too late.

  Still, I got to my feet and moved from the mattress, pressed into the far corner of the cell with my vial of deadly poison in hand. If one drop could fell a man, a few more would see to the gaoler’s companion. There would be more waiting, of course, an escort for the Traitor Scribe to his final meeting with death. Probably followed by an unmarked grave in some rarely visited forest. I had no choice but to risk it. If I could just escape the building and get to a horse, I might have a chance.

  Calculation faded as the key rattled the lock. I plucked the stopper from the vial, holding the small glass vessel away from me in preparation for casting forth its contents. When the door swung open, the gaoler did all that was expected of him. Halting in baffled indecision at the sight of my vacant mattress, he let out a puzzled huff before beginning to turn his head. My arm tensed and I began to flick my wrist, then stopped when the gaoler’s companion stepped into view.

  “You look like a bundle of cold shit,” Wilhum informed me, nostrils wrinkling in disgust. “And you smell worse.”

  I said nothing, panicked gaze flicking from his burgeoning grin to the vial in my hand. The gaoler had fully recovered his wits by now and his practised eye was quick to fix upon this previously unseen object.

  “What’s that?” he growled, taking hold of the cudgel dangling from his belt. “You been hiding trinkets? That’s not nice.”

  “Now, now, my good fellow,” Wilhum said, resting a hand on the gaoler’s meaty shoulder. “I’m sure my lord Scribe has merely been concealing a small keepsake.”

  “He’s not a fucking lord any more.” The brute’s features darkened and he shrugged off Wilhum’s hand to advance upon me. “And your warrant’s only for a visit. Till the queen says otherwise, this fucker’s mine…”

  The pommel of Wilhum’s dagger produced a curious sound as it struck the rear of the gaoler’s skull, almost bell-like in its hollow ring. The blow sufficed to bring the brute to a halt, but didn’t fell him. Instead, he stumbled forward, head lolling and mouth emitting a puzzled groan.

  “More granite than bone,” Wilhum grunted, bringing the dagger’s pommel down once more. This time the gaoler went to his knees and it required an additional blow before he consented to collapse, already flattened nose flattening further as it broke on the flagstones.

  “What is that?” Wilhum enquired, sheathing his dagger and nodding to the vial in my hand.

  “Poison,” I replied, carefully replacing the stopper. “Kills on contact with the skin, so I’m told.”

  “Oh. Keep it close. I’ve a fancy we’ll need it before the night’s out.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  We exchanged no words as we made our way from the cell and along the passage to the gate. Unlocking it required sorting through the copious bundle of keys crowding the gaoler’s ring. It was only when it squealed open, and I stepped through to find the stairwell beyond empty, that I permitted myself a question.