Page 97 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

The Draconic plague was inside him. One touch to the brow of the Flesh King, a prickle in his hand, and an hourglass had turned over in his mind. Soon enough, the fine grains of his sanity would begin to course between his fingers.

Slung over his shoulder was a leather sack, filled with supplies for the journey through the mountains. His baselard and sword were at his side, concealed beneath a winter cloak.

Kit followed him down the winding stairs. “I do hope this is a good idea, Arteloth,” he said.

“It is the opposite of a good idea.”

“Piracy was the better option.”

“Undeniably.”

They were entering the bowels of Cárscaro. The Donmata Marosa had told him how to access a hidden stair from the Privy Sanctuary, which tapered as they descended. Loth dried the cold sweat from his brow. He had pleaded with Kit to stay behind, but his friend had insisted on coming with him.

An eternity passed before their boots hit flat ground. Loth held his torch up.

The Donmata Marosa was waiting at the foot of the stair, her face cast into shadow by her hood. She stood before a great crack in the wall.

“What is this place?” Loth asked.

“A forgotten escape route. For use in sieges, I suppose,” she said. “It was how Mama and I meant to flee.”

“Why did you not use it to get word out?”

“I tried.” She lowered her hood. “Lord Kitston. Are you now afflicted?”

Kit bowed. “Yes, Radiance. I believe I am sufficiently plague-ridden.”

“Good.” Her gaze snapped back to Loth. “I sent one of my ladies. That was before I knew how many Draconic creatures were in the mountains.”

The inference was clear.

The Donmata reached behind her and held out matching wooden staffs, each capped with a hook. “Ice staves. They will help you find your balance.”

They took them. To Loth she handed another sack, heavy with the iron box.

“I bid you not abandon this task I have set for you, Lord Arteloth.” Her eyes were jewel-like in the firelight. “I trust that you will do this for me. And for Virtudom.”

With these words, she stood aside.

“We will send help.” Loth spoke quietly. “Keep your father alive for as long as you can. If he dies, hide yourself from Fýredel. When this task is done, we will tell the sovereigns of Virtudom what has happened here. You will not die alone in this place.”

At last, the Donmata Marosa smiled, just a little. As if she had forgotten how.

“You have a kind heart, Lord Arteloth,” she said. “If you do get back to Inys, give Sabran and Aubrecht my regards.”

“I will.” He bowed to her. “Goodbye, Your Radiance.”

“Goodbye, my lord.”

Their gazes held for a song of heartbeats. Loth dipped his head once more and stepped into the passage.

“May the Knight of Courage bring you cheer in these dark hours,” Kit said to Marosa.

“And you, Lord Kitston.”

Her footsteps echoed as she left. Loth felt a sudden regret that they could not take her with them. Marosa Vetalda, Donmata of Yscalin, imprisoned in her tower.

The passageway was unspeakably dark. A breeze drew Loth on like a beckoning hand. He snared his boot on the uneven ground at once, almost robbing himself of an eye with his torch. They were surrounded by the glimmer of volcanic glass and the porous swell of pumice. The glass mirrored the light of his torch, casting a hundred different reflections.

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