All the waiting was excruciating.
No one had told Root how much waiting around and holding one’s breath was involved in heisting. Someone was always doing something, but when it was someone else doing that something, the others had to wait for their next cue. It felt so stop-and-go, scrambling about one minute to meet the narrowest window of a deadline, then many minutes of nothing the next, letting someone else take care of their duties, killing time until the next step of the plan.
The pauses—the in-between bits—weren’t even that long, in truth, but the weight heaped atop them made them sluggish and tense. The minutes moved like hours.
This one was worst of all. Leaving Vit and the king to see the task through, to finish this just the two of them, while the others waited around until the moment came to make their escape… it was like sitting at the bottom of a pond while holding your breath.
Root nudged Azriah when Elijah reentered the room. He made a beeline towards David. He did not look like he had good news.
At David’s side, Elijah stooped. Root had to creep closer just to overhear his words, and still barely she managed over the continued chatter of the room as the lightly-damp guests mingled like nothing was wrong.
“Sir,” said Elijah, “the crown—it wasn’t in either location.”
David balked. Then he was on his feet, much to the renewed displeasure of his aides and the tumultuous relationship he courted with his own balance. “You’re certain? You checked? You looked, really looked? It has to have been there, there’s nowhere else…”
Root’s heart leaped. Yes! Vit had done it. The church, the guards, the palace staff—they had lost all tabs on the halo; it was out of their grip and—shortly—out of the palace, out of Urk.
“I looked, sir,” said Elijah. “It is grim. But something has happened.”
“Put the palace—”
“The lockdown is in place.”
David put a hand to his head. His orders came out slow and uncertain. He took lengthy pauses—seconds Root knew to be grateful for despite her urgency to hear how the church planned to react. “Er, right, yes. Double the perimeter. More guards. No one leaves—no one leaves until it is found.”
“The guests—”
“Will know nothing.”
Root turned back to Azriah. He’d overheard as well. He gave her the faintest grin as they rejoined Beel where he sat.
“Get ready to go,” Root whispered to him. “We’re out of here.”
“It’s about time.”
From the crowd, Anjeanette appeared, still dressed in her oversized raincoat.
“We’ve got it?” she asked quietly.
“Yes,” said Root.
“They’ll be checking everyone soon,” said Azriah. “They may want to check us again. As soon as we’re cleared, we’ll be slipping out of here.”
“And then you’re off…” said Anjeanette with a sad nod.
“We’ll see you back in the basement,” said Root. “If they let you out of here early enough, that is.”
“Well, um, just in case…” She shook Azriah’s hand as he offered it to her, then she took Beel’s. She gave Root an awkward hug.
“Can’t go around looking like you know us,” cautioned Root, glancing back over her shoulder at the mob of guards, sweeping her eyes through the crowd to search for Syrus.
Anjeanette shrugged. “It was a pleasure networking with you this evening. Um, thank you for… becoming good contacts for my professional development.”
“They are certainly not that,” said Beel.
Anjeanette smiled. “See you.”
“See you,” said Root, and then the other girl was gone, melting back into the sea of yellow.
“Excuse me, everyone,” came David’s voice, loud above the chatter as it echoed around the vaulted ceiling. He slurred slightly, and his eyes didn’t quite focus where they should, and there was a discrepancy between the graveness of his tone and the hint of a smile that kept trying to usurp his scowl and crown itself Grinned Priest. “I’m terribly sorry to interrupt your evening, but unfortunately we live in tense times, as you know—dangerous times. The worlds are dangerous. You know—you know the threats the outsiders pose to us. Well, even during such a noble and holy evening such as this, we still have to contend with their wily forces, thwart them. It is a terrible disrespect to Saint Turstiel—patron of charity that occurs between four o’clock and midnight—but what more can we expect from the evil minds of the worlds?
“We’ve received a threat from a group of outsiders. Do not fear! Do not worry—we have our most valiant forces dealing with that rabble. But they’ve alerted us to a matter most grave, yes. It seems someone here this evening has fallen to their ways of devilishness and malefaction, their piddly offers and ill boons. Do not worry, no—we will keep safe all of our Children, all who are holy and bright and follow the path of righteousness. No evil will befall you in these walls, because together we will root this interloper out. Please aid our palace safe-keepers in conducting a search, seeking out any dangerous contraband here this evening.”
The guests gasped and huddled as David spoke. He didn’t even need the halo to keep them under his thumb, to tug them around on a leash of fear, corral them like frightened sheep to a shepherd with a pack of well-trained pet wolves at his disposal.
“I’m sure you’ve also noticed that we tucked the Crown of Samesh away,” he continued. “Yes, have no doubts: it is safe! It’s been moved somewhere even more secure for safekeeping while we deal with this most grave matter. With the enchantments acting awry, we can’t afford to let bad actors try to take advantage of such a moment. Come now—you will be divided into lines and progress through to this side of the room once you have been cleared of all suspicion of harboring. A judgment of your souls, an inspection of sins.”
Root widened her eyes sarcastically at Beel and Azriah. She had to give David some props, though; she doubted she’d manage half of those words on a quarter of whatever dosage he was slipping around on.
“And remember this,” said David, tacking on a final note. “Yes, remember. And consider: would you feel safer amidst all this uncertainty, amidst all this chaos, if you had with you now the official Grand Priest Underlayer Body Armor—light, breathable, thin enough to wear beneath your everyday attire? Only seven ninety-nine ninety-five, you know, yes.”
A pair of guards approached Root, Azriah, and Beel. “Come,” said one, and gestured them forward. They followed him across the room, where he and the other guards gave them another swift set of pat-downs, checked Root’s bag and clutch.
“Still clear,” said one to another guard nearby dressed in a more embellished uniform. He turned to them. “They said you’d already been checked. You’re all set.”
“Thanks,” said Azriah.
They stood in the front half of the Hall of Relics; everyone else was ushered towards the rear. Some guests—the ones heavier with gold and swollen jewels, and the ones looking around at their fellow guests with the greatest fear and shrillest cries of distrust—were herded forward with greater expediency, scanned and patted-down and questioned, then deposited into the front area with the others. Quickly, a small crowd trickled over to their side. Once enough bodies diluted the attention, Azriah motioned the three of them aside.
“Time to go,” he said, and led the way. Root and Beel followed right on his heels.
They ducked around the corner and wound to the rear side of one of the massive columns that lined the room’s outer edges, hidden from sight by a hefty planter thick with a mane of long leaves. Here, Azriah knelt and pressed his fingers under the thin crack between the column’s base and the floor. Root and Beel kept watch.
“Clear.”
Plick-unkun. The lapis-crusted panel swiveled away, hinged like a narrow door. Hollow. Root didn’t think that was advisable from a structural point of view, but then again, nothing about the palace was. It hadn’t struck her as one of the king’s priorities. For all his fearing for his life, in the end a simple building collapse could’ve done him in. And then he’d just come back and have to deal with the mess. Really, that would’ve been the worst bit.
Inside the column, a ladder descended. Once again, Root was grateful she wasn’t attempting all of this in heels. Although, in all fairness, they might’ve helped her reach the bottom faster.
“Go,” said Azriah. Root took the lead, then Beel, then Azriah at the rear, all three of them vanishing into the hidden passage in hardly north of two seconds. Then it latched behind them and left them in utter darkness.
Vit stared down at the empty display case. Failed. They’d failed. All that work—the weeks of planning, every prior step and phase of their plan, leaping through the evening’s hurdles with hardly a hitch—all of that for nothing. All because of them. They hadn’t been fast enough.
“What do we…?” started Vit. They reached up and plucked the whisper stone from their ear. “What do we do?”
The king let out a long, deflated sigh. “Not much to do, I’m afraid. At least not now. They’ll still be coming; we have to get back up and into the vent.”
Vit looked back down. No, this couldn’t be it. Their hands shook. No, no.
Fresh blood soaked the handkerchief. Vit looked at their hand. Shreds of the handkerchief had been ripped away and transported out of the room alongside the halo. Alongside—by the looks of it—the very tip of their middle finger. The sight of it made their vision spin, and they sat back, grounding themself atop the display case.
When the room stopped spinning, their sense returned. They pressed the handkerchief against the wound and sopped up the blood. No longer drowned in a trickle of deep red, they got a better look at the wound. Not as bad as they’d first thought, but still a nasty cut. Like they’d gotten too careless while prepping a meal and shorn off a chunk of the digit, but they’d lost nothing major. But damn, it hurt.
The king cleared his throat—or whatever he had. Right. They didn’t have time for this.
Vit morphed their right arm into two spider limbs. The cut remained on the upper of the pair, and the pain with it, but the flow of blood ceased, replaced with a bead of their greenish hemolymph, though no circulation threatened to dribble it all across the floor. The tight sleeve of the shirt bound the two limbs tightly together. Vit strained—
—And the sleeve ripped. Much better.
Vit still couldn’t tear their eyes away from where the halo had been—like if they glanced down at it, one of these times it would be there, hidden by a mirage, a trick of the light. But no—this time, the halo didn’t reappear. It wouldn’t.
Vit looked at the door. “What about out there?”
“There will be guards. A force that makes the one upstairs look like a small-town precinct at brunch, I’d wager.”
“And other vaults.”
“Maybe. Likely. Yes. But if I were picking the dump spot for a skip snare, I wouldn’t pick the room next door.”
“There has to be something—”
“Not down here, there isn’t,” snapped the king. “One thing at a time. Not much we can do if we’re caught. Now move!”
With one claw, Vit swiped around the inside of the case, clearing all the webs and wadding them up, leaving no trace. They pinched away the gunk around the latch, withdrew the king, and, after one final heavy glance, kicked the lid shut.
“All right,” said Vit, but their voice felt like lead in their chest. “Back up, and then—”
A whirring, clicking sound came from somewhere beyond the walls. Muffled, but close.
“Another door,” said the king. “Someone’s just outside. Go, go!”
“Uh, sorry!” said Vit as they caught the king’s brick with a string of web. They flung it upwards like a flail and the brick shot into the narrow air shaft—perfectly. Where was this accuracy moments ago? Where was this when they needed it?
Vit fired more webs down to the floor, flinging other items up through the small hole—one gauntlet, the other. The burlap bag they caught in one hand as they took a quick survey. How would they rate their experience in the vault on a scale of one to ten…?
No other signs of their presence lay about. Vit jumped, threw a web, and shifted their form.
They sailed up through the air shaft just as the room’s door began to open. They caught the walls, reached below, and pulled the vent grate back into place. They’d have to do without the bolts.
The door opened. Elijah strode into the room.
He went to the case and looked inside. Clearly unable to trust what the glass told him, he took out a key and unlocked the lid. The inside was equally empty. He lifted the skip snare—a small gold tumbleweed like a wad coughed up by a cat that’d been swallowing bits it shouldn’t. He pocketed it and hurried back out of the room.
Vit climbed up to where the king and gauntlets hung from webs against the walls. The king was quivering, little carved eyes pressed shut, face contorted.
“Spiders,” he muttered. “Heights. Sticky. Do not—”
Vit clacked their jaws in apology and he fell to terrified silence again. Oops.
They gathered the items and toted them back up the air shaft. It was slow going with so much to push, but eventually they reached a larger duct. The king pointed them to a hidden latch and Vit pulled everything into a secret tunnel, morphing back to human form at last. They deployed their extra arms for light, washing the tunnels in a green glow. It was only a short clamber to a spot where the tunnel joined another. A heap of belongings lay there.
Vit rifled through everything. Their bags and travel things. They reached inside and gave each periapt a quick pat. Mirror, amulet, flute. All accounted for. But no halo. They lifted Orne Tyn from the dusty floor and leaned him against the other things.
“Peh. Rrrii.”
“Sorry.”
“I’ve been in danker hollows. But not with worse company. Corpses aren’t as annoying as you all. Rrrriiiiiii.”
“Right,” said Vit. They stared at their feet.
They had a short while to wait. Minutes wore on, then finally sounds filtered down from the tunnel ahead. Root dropped to the bottom of a ladder, followed by the others. They ducked under a low overhang and joined Vit in the new tunnel—a spot where they all only had to crouch a little. It was remarkably spacious, comparatively.
Root wore a wild grin. Azriah looked equally content and proud. The hard part was behind them, after all—or it was supposed to be. Even Beel looked relieved.
The expressions on their faces began to melt when they locked eyes with Vit—slowly at first, then cascading, like ice cream in the sun. As Vit sat there in the dark alone—or, mostly alone—the weight of their failure had only grown greater and more painful. Frustrated tears clouded their eyes.
They tapped their ear, then mimed removing a whisper stone. The others slowly removed theirs.
“Sorry,” said Vit. “I just didn’t want to admit it to everyone yet. Uh. I have bad news. Really… really bad news.”
In all Vit’s life, nothing had ever been worse than this.
They’d broken their wrist, once. That probably came in second. It’d been painful—sharper than this, more immediate and clouding. But a few deep breaths and a bit of painkiller had dulled it down, made it better. Bradan had tended to it and cared for them while that wound healed. Third was probably the day they’d found that dead rabbit. Bradan had been there too, and even though it was what he’d said that cemented that day in Vit’s ranking, they’d still had him there, had him near.
They didn’t have Bradan now. They didn’t have anyone.
The shovel shlupped in the wet dirt. Vit worked at a rhythm, ignoring the ache of their hands. Ignoring the ache was easy, like ignoring a single bee in a bustling hive, one drop of rain in a downpour.
This feeling was nothing like a broken wrist or a budding fear. It was so much bigger, duller and yet more constricting. Vit had never come close to drowning, but they felt certain this was the same sensation, a desperate struggle for something out of reach, none of your limbs working as they should, flailing in numb, cold emptiness.
They tossed another shovelful of dirt. Another. Another. A bird twittered in the treetops, a light sound far too beautiful for a moment like this, a moment thick with mud and sorrow.
It took a few hours of heavy labor. The grave wasn’t even all that deep. Though they were at the highest ground for miles around, too much lower and Vit knew they’d start flooding their shoes. It wasn’t the best place for it, but it was where Bradan wanted to be, here in the orchard, their final trip up the hill.
With the hole dug, Vit reached up and took the blanket-wrapped body in their arms. It was frailer than it had been even months prior. Bradan had joked that they were working on making it easier for Vit to carry them up the hill. Vit hadn’t laughed at that one.
But this time, remembering those words here, now, they did laugh.
It caught them off guard, like a rampaging spirit bursting from behind the brush, sudden and unexpected and wrong. Why were they laughing? This was horrifying, this was the end. This was everything they’d hoped to never face, everything that terrified them about the future.
They couldn’t quench it. The laugh flowed like clear water, washing away the mud all up and down their arms. They sat down at the bottom of the grave, cradling the scratchy blanket and its contents against their face, and they laughed.
Tears dripped down their cheeks and soaked the blanket. They weren’t happy tears, tagging along with the laughter, but they weren’t sad, which was a distinct change of pace. They were simply tears.
“Oh, Bradan,” they murmured. “I don’t know how I’m going to do this. I don’t know what to do. How did you always know what to do? You never taught me that.” They took a shaky breath. “I’m so scared, I—I…” The words stopped, replaced with heavy, uneven breathing. Vit just sat there, curled around the body, trying to still their warring emotions. And somehow, the thought of laughter hadn’t completely fled the scene. What was wrong with them?
When their mind calmed, they sat up and looked up out of the grave to the silver sky above. Then after laying a tender hand on Bradan’s covered forehead, they climbed up and out, back into the world of the living.
“Thank you,” they said, looking down into the hole. “For everything. I… I’ll see you again.”
And then, because there was always more to do—always another step to take, no matter how bleak—they took up their shovel and began to fill the grave.