Only a last few defenders still blocked the entrance to the far cross-passage. At a word in their heads from Saqri, the Ettins fell on them and within moments cleared an opening. The last of the Qar force now hurried across the main passage and followed the rest into the cross-tunnel, the physician Chaven and the less warlike Qar near the back. Yasammez and her black-clad guards came last. The god’s daughter did not even look at Barrick when she passed, her cloak pulled up around her neck and head, her face like a thunderstorm.
When everyone was in, Yasammez’s guards turned to hold the doorway—the Xixians had regrouped outside and were now trying to push their way into the passage. “We cannot have them behind us.” Saqri’s voice echoed in Barrick’s skull. “Hammerfoot, my friend, are you badly wounded?”
The giant took a few steps forward, forcing others to flatten themselves against the corridor walls. The edge of his great shield was hacked and pitted, as was his helmet, though his eyes still gleamed beneath the visor. His rough skin was shiny with dark blood from a dozen or more deep wounds. “Passing well, my queen.”
“It is for you and your kin to hold this passage now. We cannot do what we must do if the southerners are behind us. I need time, Hammerfoot, prince of the deeps.”
“Daughter of the First Flower, my sons and I will give you as much as our last breaths can buy,” he said. “Come, Deeplings!” he bellowed, and several of the great Ettins moved up to join him, Singscrape and a half dozen more; in a moment they had taken the place of Yasammez’s guards, their big bodies filling the tunnel as though they had rolled there in some ancient avalanche. “Go, now,” Hammerfoot rumbled, even his thoughts so deep and strong that they made the bones of Barrick’s head quiver.
Saqri turned away. Her eyes were dry. “Forward,” was all she said to the rest.
Barrick looked back at the Ettins. Hammerfoot was sharpening his great ax blade against a stone. He saw Barrick and lifted a massive pointing finger in a sort of salute.
“Keep the queen alive as long as you can, manchild,” the giant rumbled. “Do not waste our deaths!”
Barrick turned to follow the rest of the Qar down into the hot depths.
34. Coming Home
“The treacherous servant Moros had run away with the shining white horse ... The Orphan had to walk all the way back to Syan (as it is now called) carrying a piece of the burning sun in an eggshell ...”
Midsummer’s Eve was over and the morning sun of fateful Midsummer’s Day was high in the sky, but the castle was still not theirs, and only the gods knew what was happening in the depths beneath their feet.
Briony and Eneas hurried the rest of the Temple Dogs in from the outer keep through Chert’s secret way and fast-marched them through the empty streets behind Raven’s Gate, deserted since the cannon fire had resumed. Briony half expected an ambush to erupt from the Throne hall but the damaged building remained as silent as the immense graveyard beside it. Was Hendon Tolly really so certain he could defend the royal residence against all comers? Or did he plan to use her subjects as hostages and stall her until he could escape? Briony had no doubt that Hendon Tolly knew an Eddon rode with the Syannese soldiers. It must be clear to him that his reign was over, but he was waiting for some final throw of the dice. She had imagined every way the coming confrontation might play out, from the dramatic foolishness of challenging the usurper to single combat to simply having him filled with arrows the first time he showed himself, even under a flag of parley, but the more she considered, the more she doubted she’d have the restraint to deal with Hendon face-to-face. The thought of his satisfied smirk had haunted her dreams for months.
Briony, Eneas, and the Temple Dogs, their numbers swelled now by Southmarch soldiers, crossed the edge of the great commons and halted by the small, mostly empty lake to assess the defenses. It was strange to see the royal residence caparisoned for war—almost pathetic, like some ancient nobleman forced into armor at a point when he was long past it. The great lawns and gardens were gone, and only torn, naked earth remained; the lower floor had been covered in boards and piled stone to protect the windows, and the turrets at each corner of the vast, square building had been turned into cannon nests. Briony wondered how long the guns would stay silent. Several hundred of Eneas’ soldiers were still fit for battle, but if they had to take the residence under cannon fire and arrows from the guard posts on the roof this would be a long, difficult siege, the last thing Briony wanted. Still, she could see no other choice.
“We must give them a chance to surrender,” Eneas said in a low voice.
“No. Hendon will only parley to buy time. He is a devil. We will have to take the residence. That is the only way.”
“And I say we will not.” Eneas’ voice rose a little. “My lady, I do not doubt that you know this Tolly fellow well, but I cannot risk my men’s lives without giving the defenders a chance to surrender. You said it yourself. The innocent must be spared. If you fear to see Tolly himself, stay back with Helkis and the others.”
She felt her cheeks go hot with blood. “I don’t fear to see him, Eneas, but if you parley with the dog who stole our kingdom, I can’t promise I won’t put this blade right through his grinning face.”
“You will not do that under my flag of truce,” he said, his voice hard. “You will not, Lady.”
Her teeth were clenched so hard her jaws hurt. “Very well. I will stand back and stay silent. Call for your parley.”
To her surprise, the man who came out of the front door of the residence under a white banner made from a bedcover was Sisel, the Hierarch of Southmarch. The old man had not aged well since Briony saw him last, his face so thin and his cheeks so shadowed that she wondered if he had been ill.
“I come under your safe-conduct,” he said as he approached. “Prince Eneas, I believe? I have news for you.” As he came closer, his eyes lit on Briony and widened, but he did not say anything to her.
“Do you speak for Hendon, Eminence?” the prince asked. “I have terms for his surrender. Surely he knows there is no chance for him. This is Her Royal Highness Princess Briony. She has returned to claim her family’s throne.”
“To claim it for my father, who still lives,” she said as loudly and clearly as she could, so that anyone listening from atop the residence walls would hear—especially any Tollys.
“Blessed Brothers, it is you, Princess!” Sisel seemed not just surprised but frightened, as though simply by surviving this year of war he had done something wrong. “My eyes… It will be a great joy to your people to know you live… !”
“Enough,” she said. “There will be time for such things later, Hierarch. Tell us what the traitor Tolly has to say. Will he surrender and spare innocent lives?”
“But… but that is just it,” said Sisel. “He is not here!”
“The pig!” Briony could scarcely contain her anger and disappointment. “Where has he gone?”
“I am still a lord of the church, whatever else has happened,” Sisel said stiffly. “To insult my position is to insult the Trigon itself.”