Phoenix Flame - Sara Holland Page 0,54

sturdy and magnificent like everything else here, but spindly, studded with rough wood planks sharpened to points at the top.

Beyond that—a drop-off. A drop-off I surely would have gone over if Nahteran hadn’t caught me.

He lets me go, and I fill my lungs and step forward, more cautious now. The light in here is strange, not gas lamps and torches like upstairs, but not natural either. It’s pale and diffuse. I can’t tell where it’s coming from. But more important is what it reveals.

We’ve emerged into one of the middle levels of a great, cylindrical room. Unlike the tawdry opulence upstairs, the walls here are built of rough-hewn bricks of dark stone, fitted roughly together with some kind of concrete that swells from the cracks. It stretches far up above our heads, and down even farther. It’s ringed with narrow, precariously constructed walkways of wooden planks, like the one Nahteran and I are standing on now, dividing the space into circular levels. And every floor is lined with openings, panopticon-style. Doorways. Some of which have doors—some which have nothing at all, just holes full of darkness—and some which have silver objects spilling out of them as from the mouth of a dragon’s cave, magic hoards gleaming strangely in the unnatural light.

The noise is coming from the ground level, where maybe a dozen people—it’s too dim and far away to make out more details—are fighting. They are crammed too close together to discern between the groups of foes, but I hear Graylin’s voice floating up and Brekken’s. My heart clenches. Before I can think, I’m running, circling the walkway until I find a rickety staircase. Nahteran behind me, I run as fast as I can without tumbling down.

Outnumbered, is all I can think. They’re outnumbered.

On the ground floor, Brekken and Graylin are fighting with their backs to a strange stone pillar in the center of the room. Or rather—Brekken is fighting, his sword weaving a net of silver lightning that holds off the three Winterkill guards; while Graylin runs his hands frantically over the pillar, as if searching for something on its surface. It’s maybe fifteen feet tall, with a pointed top, almost like an obelisk. It’s carved of a darker stone than the floor around it, too dark to see anything that might be inscribed on its sides. What is Graylin doing?

I see Brekken notice me in the midst of his fight—notice both Nahteran and me. Brekken’s eyes go wide, and his head jerks marginally toward us. But he doesn’t stop fighting for a second. Not even as Nahteran steps in front of me, drawing his sword and dispatching one of the guards with one fluid motion. The Fiorden man in his green coat yelps sharply and hits the ground with limbs askew.

For a moment, I can’t move. I scarcely even saw Nahteran draw his sword. And in the seconds that follow, the tables turned, Brekken’s sword crosses the throat of the second guard. The third turns and runs, vanishing through one of the dark doorways that encircle the room. Nahteran takes a step after him, but then stops and pivots toward the pillar, toward Graylin.

I’m dizzy and torn between two thoughts: numb disbelief that two people are dead on the floor who were alive twenty seconds ago. And damn, I need to learn how to fight.

“Who are you?” Brekken calls out.

I look up, confused. It takes me a moment to understand he’s talking to Nahteran. Brekken’s sword is down at his side, but still held tight. His face confused. He looks between me and my brother. Graylin has turned around too. All eyes are on Nahteran.

I walk toward them, stepping carefully over the black puddles of blood on the ground, trying to figure out what to say, how to explain, but my brother beats me to it.

“My name is Nahteran.” He steps forward to Brekken, his bloodied sword loose at his side, right hand extended.

Graylin’s mouth drops open and Brekken’s eyes widen.

It’s clear Brekken remembers the name. He was the one who first figured out that Taya’s Terran was my Nate. Brekken looks at me for confirmation, and I nod.

“Well.” Brekken’s voice is uncertain, but he steps forward and shakes Nahteran’s hand. “I’m Brekken.”

“A pleasure to meet you.” Nahteran’s voice is even, placid, like he didn’t just run across a castle and take down a trained guard.

By contrast, standing in the shadows, I feel as though I can’t get my heartbeat under control. Like it might bust out of