The Sleeping Prince - Melinda Salisbury Page 0,112

out from beyond the hall, and we spin to face it. A second later Silas runs in, his face pale, a dark stain on his tunic.

“Silas,” I cry, running to him, relieved when I realize it’s not his blood.

“They’re almost here,” he tells his mother, then looks down at me, one arm reaching around my waist even as he says, “You have to go.”

“You need to come too,” I say. “If he captures you, if he sees your hand…”

“She’s right,” Sister Hope orders, clasping him on his sword arm. “And you, Amara, go. Out of the snake passage.”

“I won’t make it,” Amara says. “Leave me.”

“Amara, you can’t—”

“I said leave me,” she demands. Her face is crumpling, her breath sharp. Silas and his mother exchange a loaded look. “Twylla, you know everything now. I’ve told you all of it. What you do next is up to you. It always has been.” Amara’s eyes bore into her daughter’s.

There are more screams and shouts from outside, the sound of footsteps, of metal ringing, but none of us moves, all of us locked in this moment.

“I did love you,” Amara says. “I tried.”

Twylla’s face is blank as she looks at her mother.

Then the curtain is pulled down, and two men dressed in black tabards and clutching bloodstained swords lurch into the room.

“Go!” Amara bellows, and the spell breaks. Silas dives in front of us with his sword extended, and I scrabble for my knife, realizing too late I don’t have it, that I lost it in Tremayne.

I start to back away, pushing Twylla behind me. Silas is in front of us, sword ready. The alchemist swings her mace, whirling it into the skull of one of the men, killing him instantly. Sister Hope lunges at his comrade and the two begin to fight. I stand mesmerized, watching Silas’s mother wielding a sword better than any man, the steel a blur, her robes flaring out behind her as she turns and parries and lunges. When she cuts the man down with a single sweep, Silas turns to me and smiles proudly.

“Go!” Sister Hope roars, as more men pour into the room. She raises her sword again and charges towards them.

We turn from the fight; my hands reach for Silas’s and Twylla’s. Then the curtain promising our escape route opens and a man enters, dressed head to toe in gleaming armour. We stop and Silas pulls both Twylla and me behind him, shielding us from the Silver Knight. He draws his sword and swings it in an arrogant, easy loop, and I hear Twylla breathe “No.”

Silas tenses. “When I start to fight, run,” he murmurs.

“No—”

“I’ll be right behind you.”

“Si—” But I don’t get to finish, because the Silver Knight lunges and Silas has to raise his sword to keep from being cut down. The sound of steel against steel is deafening as it echoes off the rocks, and to the left a cluster of stalactites falls, barely missing the alchemist as she swings her mace.

I grab Twylla’s hand, but before we can get to the door, the Silver Knight realizes what I’m doing and moves to block us. Behind us Sister Hope, Nia, and her wife are somehow holding their own against the other men, forcing them to bottleneck in the doorway while they lash out, Sister Hope with evident skill, and the others with sheer dumb luck.

I drop Twylla’s hand and run to the table, grabbing at one of the benches. Twylla looks at me as though I’m mad, and screams something, but I can’t hear her over the noise. I push it across the floor with all my might. It ploughs into the Silver Knight’s legs, sending him stumbling away from the door. At the same time, Silas crows in triumph as his sword makes contact with an open joint on the knight’s sword arm. “Now!” I hear him shout, and I seize Twylla’s hand again, jerking to a halt when a golem reels into the room, clay hands reaching out blindly. It’s smaller than the one that broke me, but still as bone-chilling with its blank face. My back gives a twinge and I’m frozen to the spot.

Then, from behind it, another figure enters.

Dressed in gold armour, pulling a golden helmet shaped like a dragon from his head, white hair spilling down his back, a grin carved across his bloodless face.

The Sleeping Prince.

He tilts his head in that uncanny way the alchemists seem to all have. “We’ve met,” he says, his eyes fixed