"This has to be illegal," Grayson muttered.
He rammed the wooden door. The iron latch shuddered, but the door didn't budge. Grayson blew warm breath into his frozen gloves. Above, the convent watched them with scornful eyes; candlelight flickered in the arched windows, and snow-kissed spires ripped through the starry fabric of the sky. Grayson could hear the distant clatter of forks and plates, and he glanced at his pocket watch. About dinner time.
Grayson raised his fist again. A small hand touched his elbow.
"Here," Penny said. "Let me."
She moved forward. Her white cloak shifted, revealing the pale crook of her neck, and her auburn hair looked almost black in the moonlight. She reached forward and turned the door handle.
The wooden door swung open.
Grayson's eyebrow shot up. "It was unlocked?"
Penny shrugged. "Convents are open to the public."
She slipped through the doorway. And Grayson — who couldn't decide what was more bruised, his shoulder or his dignity — followed.
They emerged into a wine cellar. Grayson stripped off his gloves with his teeth, pulling the map from his pocket; the parchment was damp with snow or sweat, or maybe both. "It feels wrong to steal from a church."
"We're not stealing the sword," Penny said. "We're borrowing it."
"Oh, good," Grayson said dryly. "I'm sure the gods will forgive us, then."
He took a left. Oak barrels lined the wall, smelling faintly of woodchips and something sour. A tabby cat slithered between shelves, pausing to lick at a puddle of red wine. Penny turned slowly in a circle.
"This place is huge," Penny said.
Grayson followed her gaze: three staircases branched off in different directions. He looked down at the map of Bardan; the c remained on the convent, although it was difficult to tell exactly where in the convent it was located.
"How do you feel?" Penny asked.
Grayson lowered the map. "Worried."
"No, I mean the..." Penny gestured to his chest. "You know. Your superpower."
"It's not a superpower," Grayson said.
Penny crouched down, scratching the cat under the chin. "You can lead us to an ancient sword capable of killing celestial beings. I'd call that a superpower." She rose, the cat wriggling in her arms. "Well?"
"Well, what?" Grayson asked.
"I don't know," Penny said. "Do you feel... tingly?"
The cat leapt from her arms. Grayson raised an eyebrow. "Tingly?"
She crossed her arms. "I don't know how it works."
Grayson rubbed at his tattoo; the skin felt warm and raw. "There must be hundreds of rooms in this place." His thumb traced a wave. "We should have brought Isolde. She'd know her way around."
"I don't trust her," Penny said.
Grayson dropped his hand. "You sound like—" Ryne. The word died in his throat. Penny looked away, and his chest tightened. "Sorry."
"It's okay," Penny said. "You can say his name."
She was staring at the cat, watching as it nudged a wine bottle with a paw. Snow melted into her hair. Grayson reached forward to brush it away. "Ryne would have worked out the directions ahead of time."
"Ryne," Penny said, "would already have the sword by now." She turned for the nearest set of stairs. "Come on. I bet this leads to the crypts. And I'd put good rukka on the sword being in the crypts."
Grayson shoved the map away. "Why?"
Penny shrugged. "Crypts are old. The sword is old."
"That's your logic?"
She picked up her skirts. "Do you have a better suggestion?"
He didn't. They both knew it. Grayson scrambled down the stairs, cursing as he tripped over a loose stone. Penny's hair was a flame, vanishing into the darkness below. He sped up, almost barrelling into her as they emerged into a dingy room.
The cramped space smelled of rot and musty clothes. Rusted shields lined the walls, and a coat-hanger laden with snowflake pendants grew like a strange, skeletal tree in the light of the sconces. Not a crypt, exactly, Grayson thought: more of a storage space. Penny crouched down, rifling through a large trunk. Grayson pressed a hand to his tattoo; the skin was throbbing now, pulsating like a second heart.
"What are we looking for?" Grayson asked.
"I don't know." Penny glanced up. "A hidden trapdoor? A mysterious ladder? A sign that says mythical sword this way?"
"Very funny."
She rose. "I wasn't joking. I—"
Penny froze.
She shoved him, hard. Grayson toppled into a wardrobe. He opened his mouth — to protest, or maybe ask a question — and Penny clapped a hand over it. She climbed into the wardrobe, yanking the door shut. He could feel the frantic beating of her heart, so fast that it felt like hummingbird wings.
He spoke around her fingers. "Penny—"
"Quiet," she hissed.
Penny's hair tickled his nose; she smelled of peppermint and something bright and fruity. Their breathing was harsh in the darkness. A strip of light filtered through a thin crack. And then Grayson heard it: two sets of footsteps, approaching at rapid pace. A female figure stepped into the room.
"You see?" A second woman followed, holding up a candle. "There's nothing here."
The first woman — tall, imposing, dressed in a nun's habit — moved further into the room. Her silver hair was pulled into a severe bun, and she had the pinched expression of someone permanently smelling sweaty shoes. Grayson glanced at Penny. She must have sensed the women's feelings, he realized; she'd known they were coming.
"I heard something," the first woman murmured. "I'm sure of it."
The other woman shrugged. "Must have been a rat."
"I don't like it."
"Come on, Tria." The woman with the candle turned. "We'll be late for evensong."
The silver-haired nun — Tria — took another step toward the wardrobe. But she must have decided that being late was unacceptable because she turned and vanished up the stairs. Grayson waited one second. Two. Penny exhaled, her heartbeat slowing. Then she pushed out of the wardrobe and ran towards a trunk.
Grayson stared. "What are you doing?"
"It's through here," Penny said.
Penny fell to her knees, throwing aside hair ribbons and lace doilies and moth-eaten umbrellas. Grayson raised an eyebrow. "God-Slayer is... hidden in a trunk full of doilies?"
"I don't know." More hair ribbons flew. "All I know is that the trunk is important."
"How?"
"The nun," Penny said. "She felt anxious when she looked at it." She dug faster. "It was almost as if— Aha!"
She emerged from the trunk, her expression triumphant. Grayson moved closer. "What is it?"
"A trapdoor," Penny said. "Told you I wasn't joking."
She gestured to the trunk. The bottom was hollow, Grayson realized; he could see a wooden door with a handle, half-peeking out from beneath the hair ribbons and doilies. Penny climbed to her feet. Then, to Grayson's alarm, she got in the trunk.
"Penny," Grayson said. "What are you doing?"
She looked at Grayson as if he'd asked her what direction the sky was. "I'm going through it."
Wariness filled him. "You don't know what's down there."
"Well," Penny said, "that's half the fun, isn't it?"
She threw open the trap door. The smell of damp stone flooded the room, along with something like mouldering plants. Grayson peered into the trunk; he could see only darkness beyond. "We should wait. Work out a plan."
Penny sat. "We don't have time."
She stuck her legs through the hole. There was no ladder, Grayson realized; it looked like a sheer drop to whatever lay below. "What if it takes days to find the sword? Or weeks? We should bring food. And torches. And," he added, more as an afterthought, "warn Maribel where we're going."
Penny waved a hand. "I wrote Maribel a letter. There's a ship leaving to Salvatoria from Port Flurry in two days' time; I've bought her passage on it. Tristan's relatives are expecting her." She reached for a green hair ribbon. "I've taken care of it, Grayson."
He sighed. "Of course you did."
Penny's mouth quirked. "I think the words you're searching for are thank-you, Penny, you incredibly resourceful and clever little genius."
"I still don't like this," Grayson muttered.
He eyed the dark hole. The walls were slightly mottled, as if they were made of stone. And that smell... a memory tickled at the back of his mind, although he couldn't identify it. Penny braced her hands against the sides.
"I'm going," she said.
Grayson rubbed his face. "What about the food?"
Penny shrugged. "I have a blueberry muffin."
Grayson scanned her form-fitting dress, wondered where on earth one could possibly store a blueberry muffin, and then decided he didn't want to know. "A muffin won't be enough to— Penny!"
She vanished through the trapdoor.
Grayson scrambled into the trunk, craning to see in the darkness. Blood roared in his ears. Two seconds passed. Five. He cast about desperately. Should he rip one of the sconces from the wall? Try to use the candlelight to see? Or a rope, surely there was a rope here to pull Penny back up to the—
"It's alright," Penny called. "Watch your hands."
Her voice sounded odd and echoey, as if it was coming from very far away. Grayson eyed the hole. He lowered his long legs into the space, only to meet resistance a few feet down; it was a slide, he realized. A gigantic stone slide.
Right.
Only one thing for it.
Grayson braced himself. Then he threw himself down the slide.
The world fell away. Stone scraped his back and arms, and Grayson tucked his chin to his chest, gritting his teeth until it hurt. His body careened right. Left. Right again. Then the slide spat him out, dumping him unceremoniously onto a hard floor.
He rose. Something crunched under his feet.
Grayson blinked. He was standing in a cavernous stone room, dominated by stalactites and shiny silver gemstones. The only ornamentation was a large black obelisk at the heart of the room. And under his feet...
Something sour rose in his throat. "Are those...?"
"Skulls," Penny said grimly.
Grayson wrenched his gaze away, although he needn't have bothered; the image was burned into his brain. Penny moved closer to the obelisk, running her finger along grooves in the black marble. Words, Grayson realized; someone had carved words into it. He shifted again; more bones crunched.
Grayson exhaled. "Gods."
Penny glanced at the white bones. "I guess we're not the first to try this."
Grayson looked at the stone roof. It had to be— what? Thirty feet above them? More? "We must be miles below the citadel."
"Grayson." Penny's voice sounded odd. "Come read this."
He moved closer to the obelisk; moonlight spilled through a single shaft in the roof, colouring the stone in silver paint.
Should you seek to split worlds apart,
You must prove yourself brave of heart;
Should you seek to turn seeing gods blind,
You must prove yourself clever of mind;
Should you seek to cleave what is whole,
You must prove yourself true of soul;
Made of metal, in metal made,
Only then can you wield the blade.
Grayson looked up. Penny's brow knitted together. "What does it mean?"
He stepped back. "I'm not sure."
"Can't say I love that bit about cleaving things," Penny muttered.
"Yeah," Grayson said.
"Or the part about splitting worlds apart."
"Same."
"Excellent structure," Penny added. "I adore rhyming couplets."
Grayson nodded. "Right."
He was only half-paying attention; his mind was racing, sifting through possibilities. There was no door out of the cave. Why was there no door? His tattoo was aching, rubbed raw like an exposed nerve. This was the right place. He could feel it. Perhaps there was a hidden door, Grayson thought; this felt like the sort of place to have one.
Penny paced around the cave, bones crunching under her feet. "I didn't love the end of the first stanza. Did you notice the extra syllable? I don't think—" Her voice turned fearful. "Grayson."
Grayson spun, and pain exploded in his shoulder. He cried out, toppling to the floor; the wind was knocked from his lungs. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. His shoulder was burning, the flesh searing from his arm.
One beat passed.
Two.
Grayson blinked. Sunlight swam behind his eyelids. Were his eyes closed? He hadn't realized. The pain in his shoulder was receding, and he struggled into a seated position. The room swam into view: pastel blue walls, gauzy white curtains, a slim window bench... He could smell a salt breeze drifting through the window. A brass bell rang, signalling a boat coming into the harbour.
Heavy boots clomped across the expensive carpet. Grayson looked up, and a shiver slithered down his spine.
No.
This wasn't possible.
Grayson blinked. Blinked again. But his uncle remained, white teeth bared.
"Hello, Thomas," Orin said.