rings the entire city, and strange mirrors dot between the metal prongs fanging the parapets. For Silver shadows, I assume, to concentrate their ability to harness light. And of course, there are more traditional weapons to take stock of. The oil-dark watchtowers bristle with grounded heavy guns, artillery ready to fire on any- and everything in the vicinity. And behind the walls, the buildings rise high, made tall by the cramped space. They too are black, tipped in gold and silver, a shadow beneath brightest sunlight. According to the maps, the city itself is organized like a wheel, with roads like spokes, all branching from the central square used to muster armies and stage executions.
The Iron Road marches straight through the city, from east to west. The western Road is quiet. No marching this late in the afternoon. But the eastern Road bustles with transports, most of them Silver-issue, carrying blue-blushing nobles and officers away from the fortress. The last, the slowest, is a Red delivery convoy returning to the markets of Rocasta, the nearest supply city. It consists of servants in wheeled transports, in horse-drawn carts, even on foot, all making the twenty-five-mile journey only to return again in a few days. I fish the spyglass from my jacket and hold it to my eye, following the ragged train.
A dozen transports, as many carts, maybe thirty Reds walking. All slow, keeping pace with each other. It’ll take them at least nine hours to get where they’re going. A waste of manpower, but I doubt they mind. Delivering uniforms is safer than wearing them. As I watch, the last of the convoy leaves the eastern gate.
“The Prayer Gate,” Barrow mutters.
“Hmm?”
He taps my glass, then points. “We call it the Prayer Gate. As you enter, you pray to leave. As you leave, you pray never to return.”
I can’t help but scoff. “I didn’t know Norta found religion.” He only shakes his head. “Then who do you pray to?”
“No one, I guess. Just words, at the end of it all.”
Somehow, in the shadow of Corvium, Shade Barrow’s eyes find a bit of warmth.
“You get me in that gate, I’ll teach you a prayer of my own.” Rise, Red as the Dawn. Annoying as Barrow might be, I have a sneaking feeling he’ll be Scarlet soon enough.
He tips his head, watching me as keenly as I watch him. “Deal.”
“Although I don’t see how you plan to do it. Our best chance was that convoy, but unfortunately you’re—what did you say? Chronologically challenged?”
“No one’s perfect, not even me,” he replies with a shit-eating grin. “But I said I’d get you inside today, and I mean what I say. Eventually.”
I look him up and down, gauging his manner. I do not trust Barrow. It’s not in me to truly trust anyone. But risk is part of the game. “Are you going to get me shot?”
His grin widens. “I guess you’ll have to find out.”
“Well then, how do we do this?”
To my surprise, he extends a long-fingered hand. I stare at it, confused. Does he mean to skip up to the gates like a pair of giggling children? Frowning, I cross my arms and turn my back.
“Well, let’s get moving—”
A curtain of black blots my vision as Barrow slips a scarf over my eyes.
I would scream if I could, signaling to Tristan following us from a quarter mile away. But the air is suddenly crushed from my lungs and everything seems to shrink. I feel nothing but the tightening world and the warm bulk of Barrow’s chest against my back. Time spins, everything falls. The ground tips beneath my feet.
I hit concrete hard, enough to rattle an already rattling brain. The blindfold slips off, not that it does me much good. My vision spots, black against something darker, all of it still spinning. I have to shut my eyes again to convince myself I’m not spinning with it.
My hands scrabble against something slick and cold—hopefully water—as I try to push myself back up. Instead, I fall backward, and force my eyes open to find blue, dank darkness. The spots recede, slow at first, then all at once.
“What the f—!”
I turn onto my knees, throwing up everything in my belly.
Barrow’s hand finds my back, rubbing what he assumes are soothing circles. But his touch makes my skin crawl. I spit, finished retching, and force myself to uneasy feet, if only to get away from him.
He puts out a hand to steady me but I smack it away,