Gates of Thread and Stone(29)

The stone beneath my feet vibrated as the door swung shut behind us. I kept walking. I had to stay focused.

“I would introduce myself,” the boy said, “but I haven’t decided on a name yet. I was called G-10. Might as well go with that for now.”

G-10. Not even a name. Was he a hollow, then? But he looked so normal.

My eyes scanned the shadowy corners of the hall. I saw only layers of dust and cobwebs. I kept expecting an ambush. I was glad it hadn’t happened yet, but this strange welcome worried me.

I looked at Avan, but as usual, his face gave nothing away.

We passed through the hall into a corridor with a low ceiling and a sallow rug stretched over the floor. The corridor forked up ahead. The boy turned left, but I looked right.

I dropped Avan’s hand, inching forward to see more. A glass door opened into a courtyard. The air here was bright and clear. It smelled different: warm and sweet instead of the cool dryness of the Void. The clouds hung overhead, bloated and yellow with no sign of the fog that cloaked the fortress and the bridge. Bushes weighted with flowers lined the swept path, and a single tree rose on a grassy patch at its center, its branches providing shade to a wrought-iron table and matching chairs.

My eyes fell on the blade of my knife, still clutched in my fist. What was I doing ogling a courtyard in my enemy’s house?

Behind me, G-10 and Avan waited. G-10 smiled. I didn’t see any malice in his eyes, but it had to be there. When he turned to continue on, the breeze from the open door shifted the high collar of his tunic and revealed a red tattoo at the base of his neck.





CHAPTER 15




I JOLTED FORWARD, my hand closing on the boy’s shoulder.

“That—on your neck,” I stuttered, and then let go. I hadn’t meant to touch him, but it looked so much like Reev’s.

G-10’s fingers brushed over the bright scar tissue edging the tattoo. He smiled, and this time, it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“My collar,” he said. “Broke the leash, though.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

Instead of answering, he gestured to a door I hadn’t noticed. The wood bore scars and scrapes and looked ready to fall off the hinges.

“The Rider is inside,” he said.

I couldn’t swallow. I kept seeing the gargoyles lined up on top of those lampposts. Wild animals transformed into perfectly controlled guards.

G-10 knocked briskly on the door—which didn’t cave in—and pushed it open. He stepped aside to let us enter.

The study had peeling blue walls, brightly lit by an assortment of mismatched lanterns, and an oversize desk. In the middle of the room, a man stood bent over a round table, building an elaborate series of towers out of beige blocks. He murmured something and then snatched up one of the blocks and bit into it. It made a chewy sound.

Was this the Rider? I slid my hand behind my back to hide the knife.

The door shut behind us, with G-10 on the other side. The Rider straightened, half-eaten block in one hand. His other hand tugged at a strand of hair that stuck out from his head. He was tall, even hovering over Avan. And he was startlingly thin, his gaunt face topped with black hair that was peppered in gray. His eyes, deep set and shadowy against his light-brown skin, regarded us with mild curiosity.

Why would G-10 leave us alone, armed, with the Rider?

“Bread bite?” the man asked, holding up his bitten block. His voice was deep and resonant, and I felt it vibrate through the small room as if we stood in a much larger space. If emptiness had a voice, this was it.

G-10 had left us with the Rider because he didn’t believe we were a real threat. Not to this strange-looking man who could steal people from behind Ninurta’s walls and unsettle me with a couple of words.

I stared at the Rider’s offering and didn’t answer. He shrugged and shoved the rest of it—the bread bite—into his mouth.

“Mmm. Brilliant with honey,” he said, indicating the amber moat surrounding his bread towers. At the forefront of the display was a pile of bread bites artfully arranged into what looked like a miniature horse and rider.

He moved over to a set of purple drapes hanging from floor to ceiling. He had to elbow aside standing lamps to get through. They wobbled on their uneven bases, the flames inside wavering, but didn’t tip. He parted the curtains to display a pair of glass doors. Natural light joined the array of lanterns in the room. Beyond the glass doors, the view presented another angle of the courtyard.

He gestured to two chairs beside the doors. The upholstered seats were torn, and stuffing spilled out the sides.

“Welcome to Etu Gahl,” he said. His voice made me feel empty, too. Adrift. Hopeless. “Please sit.”


I didn’t move. I didn’t want to sit or eat or make small talk with him. Avan remained standing as well. The Rider didn’t appear bothered by our refusal.

“My name, as it is now, is Irra,” he said, and swept us a liquid bow. He wore a tattered suit, the tails of his untucked shirt fluttering around him.

As it is? I didn’t know what to expect when we found the Rider, but this wasn’t it. The friendly guard, the quiet threat cloaked in hospitality, the man’s frazzled appearance—if this was a trick to throw us off, then it was working.

But I wasn’t interested in whatever game the Rider was playing. “Where’s my brother?”