Fantasy of Fire (The Tainted Accords #3)(93)

“Your mother’s glory will continue on.” The words are muffled, but every one of them strikes a chord deep in my soul.

A scream rips from me as I push both hands on the door. This stairway is the only way to the roof. Rhone said the other way was already blocked off. Brovek will already have lit the fire by the time we force our way through. And, of course, my Soar is back in the First Sector because it only would’ve slowed me on the run here.

My mind churns. People I loved were going to die. All the Bruma I left to fight in the First Sector; Jovan, the advisors, Adnan, and Sole. I place the back of my hand against my mouth as bile burns my insides. Once Cassius was finished with the Bruma, he’d turn the army’s efforts to the Ire, eliminating the peaceful folk I’d developed a fierce desire to protect. I bet Cassius had already killed Jimmy.

The red-haired boy’s name shifts the block in my mind.

Jimmy didn’t use the stairs!

I fly back down the hall and dodge Blizzard’s swinging sword. Only two Elite remain there.

“Olina, what?” someone yells. I don’t answer, looking at the walls in panic. There are only a few tapestries which cover the entire distance from floor to ceiling beams. I hope Fiona was right when she told me how strongly they’re attached to the stone of the wall. I guess I’ll soon find out.

I try to bunch the coarse, heavy material in my hands, but it won’t give me a firm enough hold to climb to the ceiling. If I die reaching the roof, the others won’t have time to stop the signal being lit. Brovek must be half way there by now. I run to the outer edge of the carpet artwork. It will be easier to hold on to the edge. I begin my climb, scrambling up the wall, with only my tenuous hold on Jovan’s mother’s tapestry to save me from falling. The beamed ceilings of the food hall are high, five times the height of Avalanche.

I’m suddenly grateful for my smaller frame. Who knows how much weight the fabric could take before tearing off the rod holding it in place? But true to Fiona’s word, the material stays secure against the stone, not budging at all. I’m nearly there. My arms burn with the effort of pulling my body weight upwards, no different to the burn of climbing a rope for hours in Aquin’s training shed.

I can’t get the thought of Jovan facing a deathly army of Solati by himself out of my mind. I can’t let him down.

I reach the top and I look over my shoulder at the beam as I grip the tapestry with tight hands. The distance between the wall and the beam looks larger from up here. But I’m a meter or so above the beam’s position. I’ve faced worse odds.

I push off the wall.





Chapter Twenty-Two


I almost sob with relief as I cling desperately to the wooden beam, but my fingers will only support me for so long. I dangle nearly fifteen paces above the food hall floor, hanging by one of the smallest limbs of my body.

My mind firms. This I can do.

I trust completely in my stronger right arm as I slap my left hand on the beam. My right follows. I swing side to side and shift. In no time, I’ve used momentum to get both forearms on the beam. From there it’s simple. I have to trust Brovek isn’t there yet, or everything I’ve done has been for nothing. I dash away thoughts of the fire taking hold as I scramble to my feet.

I refuse to believe this is over. The hawk’s entrance is to my right. I run along the beam. I have no trouble with this. It’s much sturdier and more reliable than the rooftops in the Outer Rings.

I assess the hawk’s entrance as I near. The entrance is a trapdoor that usually opens with the hawk’s downwards weight, but it can be pulled open from below. I climb up a diagonal truss and wrench the large ceiling door toward me with the thick rope attached to it. I wince at the noise the door generates as it’s opened. Brovek will hear that if he’s already there.

I know from my time spent on the roof that the hawk’s entrance is surrounded with metal railing to protect the castle roof sentries from accidentally falling through. I’d leant against them while waiting for the Ire’s report not long ago. Now, I’ll use these vertical bars to pull myself up.

I strain to reach the railing through the door while maintaining a stable footing on the beam. This isn’t working. I hold on to the trapdoor’s rope with one hand, and raise on tiptoes. My feet are still on the truss, though my body is slanting precariously over empty space. My fingers fumble on the cool surface of the railing.

I stretch further, rising onto a single leg on the beam.

My right hand finally closes around the bar. It’s enough. I let go of the rope in my left hand and swing into empty space, relying completely on my right arm on the roof rail to support me. I outstretch my left arm and quickly locate a neighboring bar.

Devoid of any weight to draw it down, the trapdoor pushes up under my feet, helping me as I shimmy my hands up the railing, my body swaying beneath me.

The roof slowly comes into view as I struggle upward. I swing my legs up onto the solid stone roof and take a moment to absorb what I’m seeing.

I’m glad Hare accidentally warned me, because the sight of over fifty slaughtered men, piled in a heap, disturbs me on some deep, unspeakable level. The bodies are strewn between chairs, tables and sticks. Bunches of clothing have been thrown on top of them too. Anything that will light on fire to form a massive signal. This fire will be seen for miles—just as the Elite intended.