Page 74 of Among the Burning Flowers
‘I will afflict myself,’ Fynch said hoarsely, ‘but I would sooner you did not see it, Donmata. I am still afraid, and would not have you see me at my weakest, now the Saint tests me anew.’
Marosa watched his face.
‘If I leave you alone,’ she said, ‘you will not kill him, Your Grace?’
‘No. I will not sacrifice my own place in Halgalant for his sake.’
****
Time was of the essence. They used the water passages to bypass the locked door to the armoury, where Marosa gave Fynch furs to wear, along with an alpenstock and cleats, a crossbow, a firesteel and a sturdy blade, all so he could hunt and keep warm in the Spindles.
She gave him the posy ring from Aubrecht. It had pained her to work it from her finger, but it was the only jewellery that could be soundly identified as hers, so Virtudomwould know she was faithful. Lastly, she gave him a bundle of letters, written over the course of a year.
Deep in the bowels of the Palace of Salvation, they stood before the entrance to the cave, both holding torches lit with red fire. He wore the satchel containing the box, with the strap across his chest.
‘Go to Rauca first, my lord,’ Marosa said. ‘If Ambassador uq-Ispad is at his estate in Rumelabar, I am certain King Jantar will help you reach him. Tell him what has happened here.’
‘I will, Your Radiance.’ Fat beads of sweat lined his forehead. The plague must already be making him too warm. ‘I feel rather like Sir Wulfert Glenn, forging into the frozen North. Perhaps it is only right that I have an adventure in my winter years.’
Marosa returned his weak smile, wishing she could embrace him. ‘Goodbye, Lord Wilstan,’ she said. ‘The Knight of Courage is with you. So is the Saint.’
Even with plague reaching its roots through him, he bowed.
‘Goodbye,’ he said. ‘My lady.’
She watched him walk into the darkness, small but steady, lit by his Draconic torch. When his footsteps had gone too far to be heard, she ascended the steps and went to her apartments. For the first time in months, she dared to play music, plucking ‘The Swan Song’ on the harp.
When she tried to sleep that night, her mind wandered back to the tunnel. Something about the farewell had troubled her. She shook herself, but the feeling persisted, quashing any chance of sleep.
She lay awake until sunrise, listening to Priessa breathe. At last, she dressed in a clean shirt and kirtle. Taking a torch,she returned to the tunnel, heart almost thumping out of her chest.
In the cave, the volcanic glass reflected her torchlight. Its walls yawned around her, black and silent as a tomb. Marosa had not walked so much since she was a child; it seemed as if she would never stop. Down here, deep under the ground, time seemed out of joint.
The farther she ventured, the more she thought she was being foolish. Fynch had the plague. He was protected.
A spot of daylight far ahead, growing by the moment. She quickened her step, only to slow when she made out a shape on the ground. When she knelt, the red glow of her torch revealed it.
‘Saint,’ she whispered.
It was the box. Leaving it behind, she ran and ran for the end of the tunnel, and at last, her boots crunched into deep snow.
A bitter wind ripped at her veil. She took it off, blinking in the sudden, dazzling glare. The sky above was clear and blue, and there, in all their glory, were the mountains. When she looked behind her, Mount Fruma blocked any sight of the city.
For the first time in five years, she was outside Cárscaro. Had she not been so afraid, Marosa would have laughed in sheer relief.
As it stood, she had to keep her wits.
Her breath escaped her in white plumes. Never had she been so cold. She clutched her cloak around herself and shielded her eyes with the other hand. The tunnel had brought her to a narrow pass, with steep walls on either side, leading deeper into the mountains.
‘Lord Wilstan,’ she shouted, but the wind stole her voice. ‘Lord Wilstan!’
It took her a moment to notice the footprints. When she followed them with her gaze, she finally made out the small, distant mound in the snow. It could be a snowdrift, except that it was crimson.
Before she could think better of it, Marosa left the safety of the overhang above the cave. By the time she reached the corpse, her legs burned with exertion, and hot tears lined her eyes.
The snow was stained with blood and gore. Fynch had not met with a gentle death. One of his arms had been ripped off, and his skull was caved in on one side. Marosa collapsed to her knees.
She was no culler or historian, but she had read chronicles of the Grief. Straight after his death, the Draconic plague should have turned his hands red, and his body ought to smell of brimstone. Little by little, she peeled off his gloves, so she could see his fingers. They were still pale.
