Eben took me on a circuitous route to the paddocks behind the Council Wing. A new foal had been born while he was away. We watched the stick-legged foal frolic in a small corral, jumping for the sheer pleasure of trying out new legs. Eben balanced on the paddock rail trying to restrain a smile.

“What will you name him?” I asked.

“He’s not mine. Don’t want him anyway. Too much trouble to train.” His eyes flashed with every pain he still carried, and his tender years made his denial wooden.

I sighed. “I don’t blame you. It’s hard to commit to something after—” I let the thought dangle in the air. “Still, he is beautiful, and someone has to teach him. But there are probably trainers who are better at it than you.”

“I’m just as good as any old wrangler. Spirit knew what to do with just a twitch from my knee. He—” His chin jutted out and then, in a quiet voice, he added, “He was given to me by my father.”

And now I knew the true depth of Eben’s grief. Spirit wasn’t just any horse.

Eben had never made any mention of his parents. If Kaden hadn’t told me that Eben had witnessed their butchering, I’d have thought he was spawned by some impish beast and dropped to earth fully dressed and armed as a small Vendan soldier.

I understood the hole that Eben felt, the wicked depth of it, that no matter how much you wanted to pretend it wasn’t there, its black mouth opened up to swallow you again and again.

He shook off the mention of his father in a practiced way, flicking his hair from his eyes, and jumping down from the rail. “We should go back,” he said.

I wanted to say something wise, something comforting that would lessen his pain, but I was still feeling that hole myself. The only words that came were, “Thank you for my boots, Eben. They mean more to me than you can know.”

He nodded. “I cleaned them too.”

I wondered if, like Griz, this was a kindness to wipe out a debt.

“You owed me nothing, Eben. I took care of your horse for me as much as for you.”

“I already knew that,” he said, and hurried ahead of me.

We walked back through yet another tunnel, but I was getting good at memorizing them now, and I was beginning to understand a pattern to the chaotic layout of architecture. Small avenues, tunnels, and buildings emanated from larger ones. It was as if many large structures within this ancient city had slowly woven together, a graceless animal that grew extra arms, legs, and eyes without regard to aesthetics—only immediate need. The Sanctum was the heart of the beast, and the hidden caverns below, the bowels. No one ever mentioned what stirred beneath the Sanctum, and I never saw the robed figures at meals. They stayed to themselves.

As we walked the last hall to Kaden’s room, I asked, “Eben, what are those caverns down below? Aster mentioned them to me.”

“You mean the catacombs? Ghoul Caves, Finch calls them. Don’t go down there. Only thing in them is stale air, old books, and dark spirits.”

I suppressed a smile. It was almost the same description I used for the archives in Civica, only there the dark spirits were Civica scholars.

*   *   *

The next few days passed as the previous, but each one was shorter than the day before. I learned that time plays tricks when you want more of it. With each day that passed with no sign of Rafe’s soldiers, I knew that Vendan riders could be that much closer with news that the Dalbreck king was hale and hearty—a death sentence for Rafe. At least the Komizar would be gone for two more weeks. That would buy us more time for Rafe’s soldiers to appear. I tried to hold on to that hope for Rafe’s sake, but it was looking more certain that finding an escape was left only to us now.

The weather grew colder, and another icy rain drenched the city. In spite of the cold, each day I climbed out the window and sat on the wall and said my remembrances, searching through them like shuffled papers, trying to find answers, holding on to those that held a glimmer of truth. Each day a larger group gathered to listen, a dozen, two dozen, and more. Many were children. One day Aster was among them, and she called up for a story. I began with the tale of Morrighan, the girl led by the gods to a land of plenty, then told the story of the birth of two of the Lesser Kingdoms, Gastineux and Cortenai. All the histories and texts I had studied for years were now tales that mesmerized them. They were as hungry for stories as Eben and Natiya had been when we sat around the campfire—stories of other people, other places, other times.

These moments at least gave me something to look forward to, because there was no opportunity to talk to Rafe privately. Even when Kaden left me locked alone in his room and I snuck out, I discovered there were now guards posted below Rafe’s window too, almost as if they knew he couldn’t slip out through the narrow windows but someone smaller might slip in. The evening meal afforded me no greater opportunity for a private moment, and my frustration grew. Here in the Sanctum, we might as well have been separated by a vast continent. I attributed my restless dreams to my aggravation. I’d had another one of Rafe leaving, but it had more detail than before. He was dressed in garb I had never seen, Rafe, a warrior of frightening stature. His expression was hot and fierce, and he wore swords at both sides.

*   *   *

Evenings in Sanctum Hall were long and tiresome, not unlike court in Morrighan, but their ways were decidedly louder, cruder, and always seemed on the brink of chaos. The acknowledgment of sacrifice provided a curious quiet moment in stark contrast to their raucous activities. I learned the names of all the Council—the governors, the chievdars, and the Rahtan, even though so many of their names sounded alike. Gorthan. Gurtan, Gunthur. Mekel, Malich, Alick. Kaden’s name alone seemed to have no close soundalike. The chievdar I had met in the valley, Stavik, was sour beyond measure but turned out to be the most civil of the five army commanders.