Somehow, he would have to go it alone. Sneaking into the Seraglio would be tricky without her, and finding the portal well-neigh impossible (what did it look like? he had never even seen one before). He felt foolish and inconsequential, like a discarded chess piece that had wandered back on the board. What did Giacinta expect him to do? Her last words haunted him, rich with prophecy: because you’re the one who could do what Sir Otrygg couldn’t. We saw it long ago.
How could she know? And why couldn’t she help him, or at least give him a nudge in the right direction? More than anything, he missed her presence, her voice, her eyes. He had always imagined they would do this together, right to the end. When she abandoned him it felt like even more than a betrayal, because it confirmed everything he knew in his heart. She was too rare, too perfect to belong in his life. Like everything else he had known, she was just passing through, and would never be seen again.
Astrid was just the same. Even Sonya Vasileyevna must have known the partnership would fail. Or maybe she never meant it to work in the first place? Maybe, like everything else, it had been a ploy—a way to string him along until he was no longer required? His thoughts continued to darken until he descended to the street level and watched the storm clouds lumber past.
I could just leave, he thought to himself. Let the city go to the wind, and the smoke, and whatever other Messengers wanted to claim it. No one would ask questions or even remember my absence. When the story was told, it would feature all the grand players—Hildigrim, Sonya Vasilyevna, Lord Gramsteed, maybe even Astrid and Giacinta. But not me. Yes, perhaps that was best. If not, he would soon be arrested, brought before the tribunal, and if Lord Gramsteed had his way, executed. All for what? His master’s schemes? A broken heart?
A fine rain came down, sending the area’s few pedestrians scattering for cover. He hunched over, made his way slowly south, out of the Gap and toward the city gates.
“Turold! Wait!”
Astrid? He swung around, expecting to see her flanked by Lord Gramsteed’s assassins. But no, it was just her, her face damp with tears, her hair plastered with rain.
“Do you know what this means?”
“What…the rain?”
“No, what you told me: fire the lungwort?”
“I have no idea…some sort of code?”
“It means she’s going to die,” she said, wiping her eyes. “She always told me, if I ever foresee my death, you’ll have to set my affairs in order—you’ll be the one in charge. I’ll tell you, ‘fire the lungwort,’ and you’ll know, there’s no going back. Don’t try to find me; don’t send me a message. Just go—and don’t look back! That’s what she told me, years and years ago, though I never believed her.”
“Why lungwort?”
“I’m not sure, though it’s used for healing…and this is a wound that can never be healed. So there’s no use bringing it out again.”
“How can she know…unless Lord Gramsteed actually means to kill her? Would he?”
“I don’t know, but that’s why I ran away. After everything you told me, and then this…I couldn’t bear it. I don’t know what I would do without her.”
“I know, I lost my Master, too,” he said, taking her hand. “But she wouldn’t leave unless she thought—unless she knew—you could handle this on your own. That you’re ready to be without her.”
“But I’ve never been alone before. Not like this.”
“I felt the same way, though back then, I really was alone. But now, look—I’m here. I can help you.”
“Yes, I see that now. She wanted us to join forces, to support each other,” she said, smiling through her tears. “Probably the very reason I always resisted. Somehow, I must have known.”
“So you’ll come with me? Try to finish her work?”
“I…yes, but it’s a hopeless mission. The Seraglio, Turold? We would be caught. And even if we did find the portal, I wouldn’t know how…we couldn’t do it.”
“But we’re not alone, there are others. Just get us there, and I’ll do the rest. Trust me.”
“I really don’t know the first thing about being a concubine,” she said, with a laugh. “Do they ever dress like this–in a shapeless black cloak?”
“I think I know someone who can help us,” he said, with a knowing look.
After a quick visit to his tailor, who boasted that Turold was his “best customer, absolute gentleman, first class,” they were now ideally suited for their mission. Astrid wore a qangiu, the traditional robes of a concubine, complete with head scarf and winged turban, while Turold bought a zeilan, the double-breasted jacket and pantaloons of a eunuch. Of course, dress was merely their calling card; actually getting into the Seraglio would require subterfuge, wit, persuasion, and that rarest of attributes, luck.
Two guards met them at the gates, each missing an eye, each sporting long pikes splattered with rain (which in this light, looked distressingly like something else). Turold made a formal bow and gestured to Astrid, who stood awkwardly beside him.
“I am humbly escorting my resplendent mistress to the king’s magnanimous service,” he said, adopting the gracious, formal tone of the court. “She will be expected.”
“Where is she from?” one of them asked.
“The province of Zaamba,” he said, vaguely remembering such a province on an old map. “Our governor sends his regards.”
“Don’t we have one from Zaamba already?” the guard asked his fellow.
“They all look the same to me,” he shrugged. “What’s one more? The king never loses his appetite.”
The guard glared at him quizzically through his one eye, even squatting down on his haunches. Turold met his stare boldly, yet with a degree of deference, the way he imagined a man without his—er, his personal treasures—might look. The guard hoisted himself up and nodded gruffly.
“You can go in. But remember, once you’re in, you’re in. She never leaves. And it’s death for any man who enters. So I dearly hope you’re not a man.”
“Not for some time now, I’m afraid,” he bowed, with a grin.
“Sorry to hear it,” the guard laughed.
The doors opened and the two scampered inside, surprised to see a rather dingy hallway leading to a vast chamber punctuated by torches in odd corners.
“Now what?” she whispered.
“We have to find the portal before we’re spotted. Any clues?”
“I’ve never seen one before, either,” she admitted, with a sigh. “But wait—the Mistress told me that they project a smell…almost like mint, she said. “Deep and pungent.”
“So follow our noses?” he suggested.
They crept through the darkened hallways, meeting nothing more than a stray guard who dozed on his pike, but strangely, no courtesans and no trace of mint. In fact, the entire Seraglio seemed abandoned, the walls echoing their footfalls through empty corridors like a funeral procession. At length they found a stairwell that circled down to a subterranean room; faintly, they could hear the splash of water. They descended, pausing every few steps to sniff and listen. Yes—as the air became more humid, a faint scent of mint seemed to dance over it. Astrid seized his hand and took the steps two and three at a time, the smell growing stronger; it was definitely on the floor below.
Once they reached the bottom, a series of double doors masked the sound of water and rumbling chatter. They listened closer, and could faintly hear voices, laughter, more splashes. And mixed in with the smell of heated water was a positive reek of mint, or something very like it, sweet and cloying. They traded expressions, weighing the moment to enter. Should they try to sneak in or boldly announce their presence? They were just courtesans, after all; dim-witted, docile creatures who passed their lives in passive pleasure—nothing for them to fear, surely. They would probably pass in completely unnoticed. Astrid nodded. Turold opened the door.
“Oh gods…” he whispered.
At least two dozen women met their stare, bathing in a large pool in the center of a marble courtyard. All were completely naked, of every color and size imaginable, and each one brandished an assassin’s blade. In the center of the pool, reflecting the backsides of the women and their own astonished expressions, was a large mirror, framed in gold.
“Great gods, Turold, it’s the portal!” she whispered.
“Why is it in the water? With them?”
“At last!” one of them said, leaning over the edge of the pool. “He’s arrived! The final sacrifice.”
The other concubines flocked around her, their blades flashing in the torches and the mirror behind them.
“No, we’re not here to be sacrifices—we’re here to help. We were sent here by Sonya Vasilyevna,” he explained, nervously.
“She said you would be coming: the Touchstone, the one who will summon the Four,” the concubine said, to coos of approval.
“She…Sonya Vasileyevna?”
“No, the Wind. Our Master,” she replied.
“What’s the wind?” Astrid whispered.
“That’s what happened to Giacinta, she thinks she’s of them,” he replied.
The concubines began climbing out of the pool, the water dripping off their bodies and pooling at their feet. However, their beauty was somewhat dampened by the expression of grim ecstasy on each face, each one exactly the same.
“This is a mistake—we’re here to help you! I’m Turold, apprentice to Hildigrim Blackbeard! I know the Wind!” he said, desperately.
The women continued to approach, their daggers held with bent arms, ready to strike.
“They’re not impressed,” Astrid said, backing up.
“They’re just like her—crazed, possessed,” he said, holding her behind him. “I’ll try a simple ensnare spell to buy us time. Perhaps you can prepare something stronger? Sleep? Teleportation?”
“It’s time to put aside magic, Turold,” a voice said, clasping them both on the shoulders. “A new era awaits us. A better one.”
Turold froze. The voice, the words, even the feel of the rough fingers against his neck. It could only belong to one man. He twisted aside and broke loose, beholding the one face he once dreamed of seeing again—and now dreaded beyond any visage on earth.
Hildigrim Blackbeard.
