Page 142 of Vasmora

“How do you propose we do this?” Allura pressed her palms to her knees, heaving for breath. “You can’t just waltz into the castle and ask the king, who attempted to have you killed, by the way, to hand over the one cursed object that can stop this.”

“I’ll be honest, I’ve not entirely come up with a plan.”

“Brilliant.” Allura threw up her hands. “You can’t cleave us inside?”

“Unfortunately, no. Rykaia had to cleave us into the mages’ crypt when we went after Maevyth. But don’t worry, I’m certain we’ll find a way.”

Allura sighed, dragging a hand down her face. “You are, without a doubt, the most knowledgeable man I’ve ever known. But you can be incredibly, frustratingly spontaneous, and it drives me a little mad.”

Ignoring her, Dolion peered around the corner to the streets that remained bustling in panic.

A gilded carriage tore through the crowd, with ornate filigree and the royal crest he recognized as belonging to the king’s warder. Undoubtedly heading toward the castle.

“Ready yourself,” Dolion said, shifting on his feet.

“For what?”

Before Dolion could answer, he darted out of the alley just as the carriage whipped past and reached out for the handle alongside the vehicle’s luggage boot. The minor bounce when he landed wouldn’t have drawn the coachman’s attention as the carriage jostled over cobblestones. Muscles straining, Dolion pulled himself onto the boot, and twisted around for Allura, who chased after, her skirt tangling around her legs as she reached out a hand. Air wheezed in his lungs, his pulse frantic with the exertion, but he raised his palm for the Claodyruz glyph, and Allura’s body floated through the air. Gripping her hand, he gently set her down inside the boot next to him.

“Thank the gods. That glyph has failed me a time, or two,” he rasped, doubled over as air sawed in and out of his lungs. Certainly not a plan he’d have attempted any other day, as the guards were usually more attune to the crowd and would’ve surely noticed the two of them hitching a ride, but Dolion imagined the chaos had dulled their vigilance.

The curtain through the window beside them fluttered, and Dolion ducked, yanking Allura’s arm to follow. Above them, the warder peered out, but with their backs pressed against the wall, he didn’t seem to notice the two. That, or he was looking for monstrous creatures from the mortal lands chasing after the carriage rather than a couple of stowaways.

He finally closed the curtain, and Dolion exhaled a sigh of relief as the carriage rolled on through the city, up the hill toward the castle. It slowed briefly as they passed through the gate, then trotted along toward the front of the castle.

Guards bustled about, soldiers crossing back and forth over the grounds and making preparations for an attack they’d never win. Dolion had spent too long studying, had had too many visions of the creatures that would soon invade their beloved kingdom. The plague would spread without prejudice with a strategy they were not prepared for, and the only sure way to stop it would be trapping the god before he could ascend to his full power.

The moment the carriage rolled to a stop, he pressed his finger to his lips, urging Allura to remain silent. Over the top of the boot, he watched guards approach, seemingly unaware of them, their minds far too focused. They hadn’t even bothered to perform their usual inspection of the carriage, before it set into motion again, heading toward the stables.

When it squealed to a stop a second time, Dolion hopped off and steadied Allura, as she stepped down onto the straw-covered floor. The two of them quickly shuffled toward an empty stall, watching as the footman dismounted, leaving the horses to the two stable boys who led them away. In a matter of seconds, they were alone, and with a deep breath, Dolion scanned the grounds, searching for an opportunity to infiltrate the castle.

Across the yard, he noticed a line of servants entering and exiting the kitchen door that was ordinarily locked shut. Frail bodies hauling oversized sacks and supplies from the pantry coffers and root cellar, as if preparing for siege.

Dolion tugged the hood of his cloak over his head and glanced back at Allura, who’d already concealed herself in her own hood. He pushed to his feet and took measured steps toward one of the pantries, keeping his head down to avoid drawing attention. With ease, the two of them fell in line with the other staff, and Dolion swiped up sacks of root vegetables that’d been gathered in a pile, carrying them toward the kitchen. A plump woman just inside the door ordered them to drop the vegetables at the sink, while other workers filled the larders.

“Everything will be jarred and stored away to preserve it from blight!” she called out, before waving toward the stove, where two of the largest pots Dolion had ever seen waited to be filled. “You two!”

Dolion froze and turned to see her pointing at him and Allura.

“Get those pots filled with water!”

Nodding, he swiped up one of the pots and he carried it out of the kitchen, with Allura on his heels.

Once out of earshot, he stole a few seconds to observe each end of the corridor. “We have to reach the lower level. The king’s hold is there. I’ve no doubt that’s where he’ll seek shelter.”

“Won’t it be heavily guarded?”

“I suspect so.”

Two guards rushed past them, and Dolion lowered his head, still holding the pot in his hands. Mere hours ago, they would’ve questioned him, undoubtedly arrested him. The two didn’t bother to acknowledge him as they passed.

“Any word from Akmyrios?” he heard one of them ask.

“Hasn’t yet returned from Solassios, as far as I’m aware,” the other answered, and a thought struck him.

Akmyrios’s sleeping chamber also happened to be in the lower level. It was where the selfish mage kept countless tomes, against the laws of the Magestroli, but in that moment, Dolion was grateful. It was there he might find information on the binding ritual for the amulet. Perhaps a disguise, as well.

He led Allura through the corridors, to the tower which housed the stairwell down into the bowels of the castle. En route, he traded the pots for a bale of straw meant for the prisoner cells down below.