Chapter 20

Ursula was pretty sure Pasqual’s solution was the worst idea she’d ever heard, and yet Bael had agreed, and she went along with it because at least Bael wasn’t demanding they leave Mount Acidale anymore. In any case, the end result was that she was now standing in a dark basement between an open grave and a pile of corpses, holding her nose. The stench was like nothing she’d ever experienced—far worse than the cat-piss smelling salts. She inched closer to Bael. At least her shoulder had begun to feel a bit better.

“I’m sorry.” Pasqual cleared his throat. “I would have cleaned up down here if I’d known you’d be visiting.”

“Why is your basement filled with dead bodies?” asked Ursula. Her voice was nasal due to the fingers holding her nostrils shut.

“They were opium addicts.”

“So they all overdosed?”

“You might say they got a bad batch,” said Pasqual. He grinned, flashing his fangs.

“You mean you killed?—”

Pasqual cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Let’s not dwell on the particulars of who killed whom.”

“When does the undertaker arrive?” Bael interjected.

“Should be here any minute,” said Pasqual.

As they waited, the corpses did not get any less rotten. It took all of Ursula’s willpower not to hurl.

At last, a knock sounded on the wooden doors, and Pasqual pulled them open. A gaunt man with a face like a mummified dog stared at them, gripping a long pitchfork. Behind him stood an open-topped wooden cart.

“Good to see you, Victor,” said Pasqual.

Victor just stared.

Seems like a fun bloke.

“I have some bodies for you,” said Pasqual. “Also, my friends would like a ride to the Necropolis.”

Victor nodded slowly, his eyes shining and mournful. He didn’t blink once.

“Excellent,” said Pasqual. He stepped out onto the cobbled street, and quickly looked in both directions. He gestured for Ursula and Bael to follow him out. “Hurry, hurry.” He pointed to the cart.

They hopped in the back, ducking down so they couldn’t be seen.

“Bael,” Ursula whispered. “If someone looks in, they’ll see us.”

The undertaker appeared in front of them. On the end of his pitchfork, he’d skewered a body. Ursula gagged. With a single motion he tossed it in front of them, and Ursula held her breath, trying to tune out her disgust while bodies filled the cart.

The undertaker climbed onto a seat in front of them. Without speaking, he handed them a wool blanket. Bael pulled it over them, and gently pushed Ursula down. Through the blanket and the pile of bodies, Ursula heard the undertaker slap the reins on his horse, and the cart began bumping over the cobbles.

After a few blocks, a shout pierced the quiet. “Who goes there?”

The cart slowed to a stop, and she felt Bael stiffen next to her.

“It’s a patrol,” whispered Bael. “Close your eyes and don’t move.”

Ursula lay perfectly still. Outside of the cart, horse hooves clopped over the pavement, and the sound of male voices floated above them. King Midac’s soldiers.

“You know there’s a curfew?” said one of the men.

If the undertaker responded, Ursula didn’t hear it.

“It’s the undertaker,” said another. “Do we really want him out during the day?”

Hooves echoed off the cobblestones, moving around the cart as one of the horses circled.

“Carry on,” said the first voice.

The cart lurched forward, and one of the bodies flopped into her. She clenched her jaw tightly, then clamped her eyes shut as they bumped along the street. With each bump over the cobbles, she felt a dull throb in her shoulder where she’d been stabbed.

They traveled through the city for what must have been at least an hour. Fortunately, no more patrols intercepted them. A faint breeze picked up, giving Ursula some breaths of fresh air, even in the corpse wagon. Throughout the journey, she kept her eyes shut, focusing instead on the warmth of Bael where he lay next to her. Once again, her thoughts drifted back to the beautiful, sun-scorched fields of Byblos where Bael had once lived.

She nearly jumped when he gently nudged her. “I think we’ve arrived.”

When she opened her eyes, a dead man’s face stared back at her, until Bael gently pulled her up out of the corpse wagon. They were still bumping along the road, and she held on to Bael for stability.

“Look,” he said.

In front of them stood an old stone wall. Broken crenellations, like gnarled teeth, lined the top. Victor directed the cart through an iron gate. On the other side, tall monuments of pale stone pierced the thick mist. They stood at odd angles, like broken teeth.

The cart stopped at a low building of gray stone, and the undertaker turned in his seat. He gestured for them to get out, and Ursula was more than happy to comply.

In the fresh air, she sucked in a deep breath and hopped down to a gravel path. Bael followed, and the undertaker slapped his reins. The cart rolled off into the fog, leaving them completely alone.

Ursula loosed a long sigh. “That may have been the most disgusting experience of my life. So glad I could spend it with you.”

A faint smile. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah.” The fog seemed to thicken in the air around them. “Any idea where we’re heading?”

Bael pointed to a knoll in the distance, where a tower loomed above the hill. “That’s the White Tower.” He started into the mist, his footsteps crunching over the gravel path until he turned off into the grass.

Dressed in a simple woolen skirt, button-down shirt, and shawl, Ursula followed Bael between the gravestones and obelisks. Ursula’s clothes grew damp in the thick mist, and she pulled her cloak tighter around her.

Eventually they ran into another gravel path, and Bael picked up the pace until they reached the base of the hill. As they climbed it, Ursula wished she’d brought a sword instead of the small dagger Pasqual had given her. She was good with a sword—a dagger might not get her very far. What if it was some kind of trap?

The White Tower stood in a small clearing of oaks at the top of the hill, built of pale marble with only narrow windows interrupting the stone. Cautiously, they encircled the monument, searching the shadows for signs of their mysterious “friend.” A door was inset into the stone tower, but no one seemed to be lurking around the place.

“Do you think he’s already here?” Ursula whispered.

“There’s only one way to find out.” Before Ursula could respond, Bael charged at full speed into the tower door. He slammed through it, wood splintering around him.

So much for the stealth approach.

Taking a deep breath, she rushed in after him. Already, Bael seemed to have disappeared into the tower, and she stood alone on a marble floor. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she made out a marble staircase that curved upward.

Drawing out her dagger, she began to climb the curving stairwell, winding her way up the interior of the tower. The arrow slits illuminated brief portions of the stairs, but for the most part she was hidden in shadows. Of course Bael had to rush ahead on his own.

As she neared the top, more silver light began to filter in from an open doorway that she thought led to the roof. Her fingers tightened around the hilt of the dagger. From her position in the stairwell, she had no way of knowing who or what was on the roof.

Keeping as low as she could, she peeked out.

The first thing she saw was Bael’s body lying on the stone only a few feet from her. As she stepped out onto the tower’s balcony—about to kneel down next to Bael, a metallic clicking sound stopped her. From behind, something hard and cold pressed into the back of her head. Not good.

“If you move, you die,” said a man’s voice. Gruff and cold as the night itself.

Bloody hell. Ursula remained still, but the muzzle of the gun pressed against the base of her skull.

“Drop the blade.”

Ursula let go of the dagger. It struck the tower stairs, then spun off into the darkness below.

Ursula stared at Bael’s prone body on the stone balcony, and panic clawed at her chest. “What did you do to him?”

The man didn’t answer, instead pushing the gun harder into the base of her skull. His intent was clear—leave the relative safety of the stairs.

Slowly, she climbed onto the roof of the tower. A pair of glowing manacles lay on the stone.

“Cuff yourself.” He pushed the barrel of the gun harder into the back of her skull.

She knelt and clasped her wrists together. The man pushed her forward, toward the edge of the tower, and her gaze flicked to Bael. He lay face down, and the sight of glowing manacles on his wrists eased some of the panic in her chest. If he’d been cuffed, he was still alive. A rope had been tied around his feet, and white cloth was wrapped around the back of his head. He didn’t move as she passed.

The man directed her forward, until she reached the crenellations that ringed the tower’s edge. Her muscles tightened. What does he want from me?

“Don’t move, or I will have to pull the trigger,” said the man. He pulled the muzzle of the gun from the back of her head.

Ursula stood as still as she could. Far below her, the gravestones rose from the mist like the stumps of an ancient, petrified forest. In the distance, the gray slate roofs of Mount Acidale pierced the fog beside the broken towers of Calidore Castle. A cold wind nipped at her, and she shivered.

From the opposite side of the tower roof, the man spoke. “Now. Turn around slowly.”