Page 57 of The Cradle of Ice
Still, the Dresh’ri had cast their lives at Pratik’s feet. He understood their sacrifice; it rang clear with every strident strike of the gongs echoing through the cavernous space. Before Pratik and Frell could escape the chamber below, Zeng ri Perrin had fled away and roused the alarm. The other Dresh’ri had sought to delay them, laying their lives down, trying to hold them until the palace guards could sweep down here.
Even a few servitors had struck at them with brooms and mops, only to die just as surely or be driven back. Thankfully, the majority of the baseborn, which vastly outnumbered their masters down here, hung back, adhering to the assigned duties of their respective castes. It was one of the rare times Pratik appreciated his culture’s regimented structure and the mantra drilled into him as a boy.
Each to his own place, each to his own honor.
To stray from that course brought shame to one’s family and clan.
Pratik was long past such conceits. It was what made it all too easy to subdue one of the Dresh’ri, truss him up, steal his outer garb. In a city where one’s clothes marked one’s caste, none had questioned him.
He had also armed himself.
And it was providence that I did.
Earlier, after hearing the details of Zeng ri Perrin’s interrogation of Frell, Pratik grew apprehensive, especially with the Dresh’ri leeching blood from his friend. He had decided to disguise himself and learn what more he could. He also kept close watch on the rooms of Frell and Kanthe and luckily spotted the cadre of Dresh’ri heading up there. One had carried a smoking brazier on a chain, and another pair had handheld bellows.
Suspicious at such strangeness, he had trailed them and watched Frell be subdued and carried off. Fearing the worst, Pratik had followed them, keeping his distance until they reached that accursed chamber. It was easy to slip inside and keep his head down. The hardest part was not to gasp in shock at the mutilated sight of the Venin.
As he spied upon the proceedings, he had hoped they would release Frell, that Pratik would never have to reveal his subterfuge, an act punishable by death if exposed. One did not pretend to be a member of another caste, especially a higher one.
Unfortunately, Prya—the god of fate, after whom Pratik was named—was not so cooperative.
“Where now?” Frell asked as they reached the librarie’s main chamber. He had to yell to be heard above the echoing gongs. “Do you know another way out of here?”
Pratik shook his head. “I’ve never set foot down here before.”
Frell lifted an arm and pointed between towering shelves. He hugged a crumple of pages to his chest. “Then out the way we came in.”
Pratik nodded and headed away. The alchymist teetered on his feet, still addled by the lingering effects of the soporifics that had subdued him. Pratik did his best to steady Frell with his free hand.
In a lull between gong strikes, Pratik heard the scuff of leather sandals on stone behind him. He spun around, brandishing his sword. A servant in a byor-ga rushed up from the spiral stairs behind them. A jangle of beads marked her caste as a maid. She froze at the sight of them. Then without a word, she dashed to the side, simply trying to escape.
Like all of us.
With his heart pounding, Pratik led Frell onward. The spread of shelves had gone far darker. Only a few lanterns remained lit, and even those were far off. The space looked hastily abandoned. In the distance, a few servitors hid along from their path, crouched low with their lanterns covered, leaking only glowing glimmers.
Otherwise, only the bats stirred above, sweeping the shadows overhead.
Pratik kept a wary watch, while trying to increase their pace. They had no lamps themselves, so their path grew hard to discern. Pratik followed the row of shelves that radiated outward from that central stair. He prayed they were headed toward the lift that led to the gardens.
Frell leaned closer to be heard, giving voice to Pratik’s own concern. “Where are the rest of the Dresh’ri?”
Pratik frowned. The attacks had indeed stopped.
Then the answer came from ahead of them.
Down the stretch of shelves, fiery light flowed into the cavern. It looked like a dam had burst, flooding the space with flames. As Pratik’s eyes adjusted to the sudden flare, individual lanterns and torches could be discerned. They spread rapidly in either direction.
Pratik knew who had arrived to block their way. “The imperial guard,” he warned, and drew them to a stop.
Orders and commands snapped sharply, echoing all around. Deep-throated barks pierced the darkness, accompanied by a rattle of heavy chains. Pratik pictured the massive war dogs of the citadel, dreadful beasts with spiked collars who had been corrupted by alchymies to a fearsome savagery. Only their handlers, bridle-bound to their charges as pups, could control them. It sounded like a full battalion had swept down here.
The spread of lanterns and torches marched inexorably toward them. Howls and barks spread outward, flanking wide.
“What do we do?” Frell asked.
Before he could answer, a new sound intruded. It came from behind them, rising from the well of the spiral stair. Chanting … accompanied by a frisson of bridle-humming. The power sizzled through the darkness.
The Venin …
