Page 15 of Down Comes the Night

“So sorry, Sister.” He grinned at her from beneath his mustache. “Have a blessed day.”

Wren stared incredulously at his retreating back. No one was ever that nice here.

Clutching her bag close, she continued toward the harbor, where the North Tower turned its watchful glass eyes over the sea. It was a monstrosity of a building, all jagged spires and imposing black stone. It was by far the tallest building in the city, reaching into the snow-laden clouds as if it meant to pull the Goddess herself to the earth. Wren understood why the queen had made it her home. From the window in her office, she could see all of Knockaine stretched out beneath her like a chess board. Isabel had fashioned herself into a goddess in her own right, removed and all-seeing.

Along with the stench of salt and sweat, the crowds only grew thicker as Wren drew nearer to the Tower. People lingered in intersections and filled alleyways. They buried their faces in the paper, jostling their neighbors and tripping over their own feet. They hugged. They wept openly. They stumbled out of bars with their slurred, singsong voices bouncing off the cobblestone streets.

Wren couldn’t fathom what news had stirred everyone like this. For weeks, the headlines had all been the same: portents of war and heart-wrenching accounts from the families of the missing soldiers.

Maybe someone found them. Maybe Una could finally come home.

Her appointment with the queen was in twenty minutes, but she couldn’t bear not knowing. Shoving her way through the crowd, she purchased a newspaper and ducked beneath an unoccupied awning to read.

Nestled among advertisements for gold-plated spoons and malt vinegar, gossip columns and theater announcements, was a portrait. It had been years since she last saw Hal Cavendish’s face, but it was unmistakably him. Everything about him oozed imperiousness, from the downturn of his full lips to his bored, coal-black stare. On reflex, she tore her eyes away from his deadly gaze—and tripped over the headline.

“REAPER” HAL CAVENDISH FOURTH VESRIAN THIS YEAR TO DISAPPEAR; TENSIONS RISE AS VESRIA TURNS TO DANU FOR ANSWERS

Wren hadn’t known Vesrian soldiers were vanishing, too. And while the news troubled her—confused her, really—she could not stop herself from grinning at the first part of the headline.

Hal Cavendish, missing. How could they get so lucky?

At nineteen years old, he was the favored candidate to become the next grand magistrate, and Wren shuddered to think what horrors would come of Hal’s reign. To please their ravenous god, Vesrians held elections that were little more than blood sport. Every five years, each of the eight ruling families put forth a candidate whose worthiness to lead was tested in combat. This year, however, Hal would be the ninth mage—and the first Cavendish in two generations—to stake his life for power.

The magic in the Cavendish bloodline had run dry with Hal’s grandfather, and true to Vesria’s brutish customs, his family had been stripped of its title and barred from the magisterium. Now, Hal would slaughter and intimidate his way to glory among the aristocracy. A sordid redemption, indeed. Who, after all, would be fool enough to challenge the Reaper of Vesria? No one knew how many Danubians he’d killed. And even before joining the war, he’dcommitted atrocities. Rumor had it the Vesrian military academy graduated only half their recruits. The other half died, slain by their own classmates in a tournament.

Good riddance,she thought.One less monster left in this world.

“Anything interesting?” Una asked.

Wren whirled toward the sound of her voice. It took a moment to process that it was Una—really Una—standing there. She almost didn’t recognize her in civilian clothes: a black tie and knee-length coat against a crisp white shirt. In the hazy light, her amber eyes had darkened to the warm, rich color of syrup, and her black hair shone starkly against the gathering snowfall. It dusted her eyelashes, melted into the wool of her jacket.

“Una.” She surged forward and crushed her into a hug. Una, predictably, stiffened, but right now, Wren didn’t care. She would hear no protests. “You’re home. You’re alive.”

“Of course I am.” Una extricated herself from Wren’s arms. “I said I’d come back.”

“You did, but—”

“It’s only been a week.”

“I was stricken with separation anxiety.”

“Clearly.”

Wren bit her lip. It was almost overwhelming to have her back. She wanted to extract every detail about the mission from her. She wanted to tell her to never leave her behind again. But she couldn’t be late. “I have a meeting with the queen. Walk with me a while?”

“Lead the way.”

Una fell into step beside her, and their conversation tapered into an uneasy silence. The major had always possessed the single-mindedness of a steam-engine train, but today, she wielded it like a weapon. Something about the upward cant of her chin, the rhythmicclackof her boots on the street, split the crowds in twain. Nothing broke her focus or her grimly disinterested expression. Not the workers hoisting protest signs outside factory gates. Not the merchants winding up wheezing clockwork trinkets, shouting, “Amarvel all the way from Cernos, Sister!” Not the market stalls brimming with pears and glazed pastries.

She was avoiding something, and Wren would get it out of her one way or another. Nudging Una’s shoulder with her own, she said, “So? Tell me everything.”

Their surroundings must have become significantly more interesting. Una was staring determinedly at the Tower in the distance. Thick gray clouds had consumed it until only the barest hints of its intricate openwork spires pierced through, as lacy and intricate as the queen’s gowns. By the looks of it, they’d be buried in snow soon.

“He got away.”

Wren’s heart sunk. How could the boy have escaped from Unatwice? All she could say was, “Oh.”

“We pursued the trail until it vanished near the Cernosian border. I expected the queen to be furious, but she wasn’t.” Una set her jaw. “She called off the investigation entirely.”