Bloodleaf (Bloodleaf #1)(28)

“Invitations?” I asked as we walked.

“Ray is a smuggler,” Zan explained. “I use my connections inside the royal family to get him blood-marked invitations issued by the prince so he can sell them to the highest bidder, and he lets me know when he comes across something I might find interesting. In this case, you. Or rather, your Empyrean.”

“Her name is Falada.”

“And what is your name?”

“It’s . . . Emilie.” It was an impulsive decision, to give her name as mine. I’d wear it like a cilice; it would hurt, but at least I wouldn’t be allowed to forget her.

Even in the middle of the night, Zan made his way around the outside of the wall with a deftness that suggested he was well acquainted with its unsystematic layout. We zigzagged through the hive of encampments and clapboard hovels spaced between the occupied gibbets, of which there were many.

“Where are we going?” I asked Zan.

“High Gate,” he said. “You’ll know it when you see it.”

He was right; there was no mistaking High Gate when we came to it. Rising at least twenty feet over the already colossal wall was a gatehouse, flanked on each side by a barbican and crowned by a polished sculpture of three majestic horses, stamping and rearing, mouths open in silent, defiant screams. They gleamed white in the moonlight, perfect copies of Falada herself. I had to look back at her to remind myself that she was flesh and blood and they were not.

“Empyrean horses are incredibly rare and very highly valued in Achleva,” Zan said. “It is absolutely imperative that we get yours to the stable before anyone else sees her.”

“You’re afraid someone might buy her before you can?”

“Not exactly.”

Beneath the statue, a swarm of shades clamored at the gate. They varied in opacity; some were fully formed, almost real enough to touch, and had likely met their ends in the last several years. The oldest spirits were but tattered threads of their former selves, caught like flies in a web at the place of their demise. They all had one thing in common, however: a network of blackened veins standing out against their pallid skin.

Zan gave me an assessing stare from over his shoulder. “I should warn you. Even with the royal blood-marked invitation, the crossing is likely to be . . . uncomfortable.”

Made sense, considering going without one seemed to turn a person’s veins into charcoal.

Zan passed me the invitation. “I’ll go through first. When you get to the borderline, break the seal on this parchment and place your hand over the prince’s mark. After that, you’ll step onto the border, holding the invitation in front of you, like this.” He demonstrated. Then he reached for Falada. “Animals can cross without incident. I’ll take her through first.”

“No,” I said. “She goes through with me.”

He gave an irritated sigh. “Fine. Just . . . well. Good luck.” He turned on his heel and walked underneath the portcullis without pause or any further comment. On the other side, he put his hands in his pockets and waited.

I wondered if, when I stepped onto the borderline, I’d find that the invitations were fake. He could let me burn to a crisp and take Falada like he wanted.

But what did I have to lose?

Without breaking his gaze—?partly to convince him of my fearlessness, partly to keep from making eye contact with a crowd of spirit spectators, who were all now watching to see if I’d soon be joining their ranks—?I broke the wax seal and unfolded the parchment. In black ink, the words were carefully lettered: This blood, given freely by Valentin de Achlev, hereby grants the bearer of this document passage into the city of Achlev, across the Wall, and through the Gates. Beneath that, a rust-colored drop of blood had been drawn into an approximation of the three-pointed knot. With a deep breath, I pressed my fingers against the symbol and then, parchment held in both hands, stepped under the portcullis.

At first I felt nothing. But slowly the blood mark began to streak out across the page in cobwebby tendrils, disintegrating the paper into ash as it went. And it didn’t stop at the end of the paper; the red lines simply twisted and coiled onto my hands. I fought the urge to scream as searing heat struck across my skin and dug, needle-like, beneath it, boring into my flesh, my bones, my blood, until the whole world was laced with pain and red heat. I closed my eyes and let it overtake me, allowing the magic to circulate inside until I was nothing but burning, molten light.

And then it was over. I took two stumbling steps and fell to my knees on the other side of the borderline with a gasp. Falada followed behind, nonchalant. If the same thing had just happened to her, she didn’t show it. “Blood of the Founder,” I muttered through heaving gulps of breath. “You bastard.”

Zan’s mouth was screwed to one side. “I told you it would be uncomfortable. The gates are spelled against foreign blood. It’s an incredibly powerful magic—?it gets inside you. It tests you. Now imagine what it might be like if you didn’t have the prince’s mark to shield you.”

I shuddered, glancing back in sympathy at the sad lot of spirits who hadn’t.

“On the bright side,” he said amiably, “you only ever have to do it once, unless someone in the royal family revokes your invitation.” He helped me to my feet. “The inn is this way,” he said. “We’ve got to hurry. The sun will be up soon.”