Total pages in book: 222
Estimated words: 210715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1054(@200wpm)___ 843(@250wpm)___ 702(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 210715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1054(@200wpm)___ 843(@250wpm)___ 702(@300wpm)
“You asked me to be straight with you. If Everard finds out where we are going, a little bit of that iron control might slip. If you want to go back to get his permission, now is your chance.”
Lute shook his head. “I don’t believe I will.”
“Oh good. Because we have another forty-five minutes of walking, and my feet already hurt.”
CHAPTER 25
At its southern border, Kair Toren ran into a ridge of hills that stretched southwest to the ocean. The city streets climbed up onto the rises, and below them the Dokkon’s numerous tributaries carved their way toward the center of Kair Toren to join the wider river. One of those lesser rivers formed a tight horseshoe loop around a stone crag. A man-made channel, equipped with floodgates, bridged the loop, turning the bend of the river into a ring of water that hugged an oblong island.
The Defender Citadel sprouted from that island like a king trumpet mushroom, taking up all available space. Built with the trademark Kair Toren stone, the castle walls soared fifteen stories high, unified at the bottom, then widening into a collection of fortifications that would allow archers to rain arrows on any approaching attackers.
The Citadel was connected to the rest of the city by a sloping bridge, wide enough to allow six knights to ride abreast. The bridge spanned the open air between the castle and the nearest hill, and at the foot of the bridge, where it touched the street, a fortified gatehouse blocked the way, flanked by two towers and equipped with a heavy gate and portcullis. Right now, the portcullis was up, and the gate stood open, revealing a passageway that led through the barbican and up to the bridge.
Two knights in the beautiful pale armor and white-and-gold tabards of the Defenders kept watch by the gate.
I took my hood down, revealing my spectacular hair arrangement, and approached the knight on the left.
“Greetings, my lady,” the knight said.
“Greetings.”
I pulled Berengur’s crest out of my sleeve and showed it to the knight.
He examined it carefully, brushed his finger over it, checking for something, and nodded to me. “A moment.”
He flicked his fingers. A young teenage girl in a plain blue tunic ran out of the passageway and set a small stool in front of me. A boy of about the same age in an identical outfit ran to the bridge.
“Please wait here, my lady,” the knight said. “Would you like some refreshments?”
“No, thank you.”
I sat on the stool. Lute loomed behind me, projecting his willingness to do bodily harm to anyone who approached.
Minutes crawled by.
Finally, a young knight in armor emerged from the tunnel, stopped a few feet before us, and bowed his head. “Please follow me.”
Berengur was back. Yes! I might have a shot.
I stood up and started toward the passageway. Lute took a step to follow. The sentry knight moved, and Lute stared at the blade of a sword blocking his path.
“Just the lady.”
Lute glanced at the three knights. The odds were bad, but his eyes told me he was game.
“Please wait here,” I said.
Lute’s eyes widened. Crap. I shouldn’t have said please.
He dropped into a bow. “As you wish, my lady.”
I looked at the young knight. He indicated the passage with a sweep of his hand, and we began walking.
The long bridge rose slightly, probably to make it easier for the molten pitch and burning oil to roll down at potential invaders. In the second book, a mob tried to storm the Citadel, egged on by a former squire that had been cast out. He’d told them that only ten knights remained inside after Arvel and most of the Defenders had left the city. The knights had let the mob get three-quarters of the way up, and then they dropped a ball of flames onto the bridge. The narrative never explained what it was made of, but it was heavy and the fire coating it was white-hot. Those who weren’t crushed or burned fell to the Defenders’ arrows. All of the military orders acknowledged that Arvel’s knights knew no equal in archery. Nobody made it off the bridge.
My feet really hurt.
Finally, the bridge ended. The heavy metal gates swung open at our approach, their motion silent and smooth. A long chamber stretched before us, narrow and high, its ceiling supported by colonnades running on both sides. A walkway traced the walls above us, accessible only by interior doors I couldn’t see. No stairs. If attackers did manage to make it through that door, this chamber would become a deathtrap.
We passed through the chamber into a wide hallway with doors branching off. Men and women walked past us, moving with purpose. Everyone wore light brown, close-fitted pants with brown boots, white tunics, and white tabards with a golden Defender shield embroidered on the chest. They came in all sizes and shapes; tall, short, bulky, slender, some young, some older, but all of them ridiculously fit. They looked healthy, strong, athletic, and ready to spring into action. It was like walking into a medieval version of one of those firemen pet-charity calendars, except that everyone kept their clothes on and there was a distressing lack of kittens.