I freeze atop my stack of crates. How did they find me? How did they know? There’s nowhere to run if they’re here, no way to stay silent if I move, but the crates are bone dry, so they may not find me if I stay put.

  There. Two of them stride into view, strong, arrogant, eyes sweeping the dim space. One of them examines the vault door, runs his hands over it, then touches the other. Saying something through the water of their skin. I stay motionless, offering a prayer to Uje. If my cause is just at all, if there’s any truth to the things I’ve been discovering, let them not see me.

  They see me.

  The one looks right at me, and I duck my cowl forward, hoping to hide my eyes, to look like a Seilam Deul worker who happens to be balancing atop a stack of crates.

  “You,” he barks, with such a tone of command, such an expectation of response, that the student in me looks up before I can stop her.

  His eyes widen, seeing the violet in mine, and he runs for me.

  Panic seizes me. I ice it. No way to get down, more overseers below. Up, then.

  I pull the thief’s rope from my belt in one smooth motion and whip it at the rafters far overhead.

  I miss. I throw again. It catches and I clamber up, just seconds ahead of the overseer. He climbs after, nimble on the rope.

  I ice panic again. Nowhere to go once we get to the top. Alone, I could swing back and forth, reach one of the high windows, but not with him weighing it down. Sooner or later, then, I will battle him, with the loser facing a crippling fall. Better to do it on my terms.

  I swing us out as I climb, stacks of crates and aisles between them swaying underfoot, then pull my knife and cut the rope just as the overseer is about to reach me.

  He hangs in air for a moment, surprise marring his serene face, then plummets earthward. I scramble up as I hear the crash and his shout of pain. I can’t help wincing—that had to break bones. I ice the emotion. I will feel worse if the overseers catch Gaxna.

  Two of them stare up from below, meditation-cool faces like statues of Uje in death pose.

  Where can I go? Anywhere out of the warehouse means abandoning Gaxna. Anywhere inside it means they find me eventually. I swing left, swing right, consider my options. I can’t abandon her. But I’m no use if I get caught, either. Third option then: the roof. I swing farther out, farther, more overseers gathering below—six, like I thought, like have been patrolling the streets. Or five, now. Did I really just do that to an overseer?

  My feet touch wall and I push off hard, swinging the full width of the warehouse to the other side, where I catch a vent with one hand. I swing my body through, other hand keeping the rope. I tie it off and swing out the window.

  Flooding Gods. It’s a fifty-foot drop below me, and the wall is still oiled up here, almost impossible to climb. I grab it anyway, fingers slipping, and scramble up to the roof lip. It’s a slight overhang, but my instincts carry me over it and up.

  The roof is a long stretch of wood shingles, chimney vents for the summer heat studded along the low peak. I stalk up to a pair of them, keeping my steps silent, and take cover between. It’s the best hiding place up here, though I’m still exposed on two sides. I can only hope the overseers assume I got down and ran, and they spread out in the streets to catch me. Though I’m not sure the one that climbed after me meant to capture me or outright throw me to the floor to die.

  Which, I realize belatedly, I sort of did to him. Hope he’s okay.

  A few minutes pass, the ocean breeze cool against my pounding heart. I let some of my panic thaw, and my fear, my guilt, let my pulse beat it out of my system. I need to get Gaxna sooner rather than later—if the overseers stay inside and hear her banging to get out, they will find a way in and take her. And the punishment for theft in Serei is simple: you lose a hand. Then again, if the overseers have gone, they will surely notify the Seilam Deul, who will come with their own guards and find Gaxna. And the guard I attacked.

  There’s no way to know, and it’s bad odds, but I can’t abandon my friend. She rescued me, after all.

  I am just resolving to climb down and do what I can when a shadow falls over me. I jump up, but a hand clamps over my mouth, another binding my arms. I’m already starting Water Unwinds the Knife when my attacker’s thoughts register. I gasp.

  “Dashan?”

  Yes, he says through our waterbond. It’s me.

  Emotion comes with it, as it always has for Dashan. I don’t know why, but my watersight is deeper with him. He’s surprised and relieved and worried.

  What are you doing here? I step back, but keep hold of his hand so we can talk through the bond. Are you—part of them?

  He grimaces, broad face achingly familiar in the moonlight. I’ve missed him, I realize. More than anyone else I left behind. I am. Or—I’m not an overseer, but they took me, asked me to help them find you.

  I tense. So are you going to try to take me to them?

  I feel the emotion of a laugh, stifled for silence’s sake. I don’t think I could if I tried. But no. I only agreed to come along hoping that I could find you. We need to talk.

  How did you know where to look?

  He hesitates. His blind is up, but I can feel something in him—regret? They—got a tip.

  A tip? From who?

  I don’t know. That’s not important now, Theia. You need to get out of here, before something worse happens.

  I can’t. Not yet. My friend is still down there, trapped.

  So leave him. The overseers will take care of him.

  Sometimes he is so stupid. My friend I said, Dashan. I’m not leaving her to get a hand chopped off because I failed in my part of the job.

  The job? What, are you a burglar now? Just gave up on the temple? He’s angry. I can almost feel it pulsing in his wrists.

  Dashan, the temple gave up on me. Or did you miss the part where Nerimes tried to kill me?

  He squats down beside me, putting on a reasonable expression. He wasn’t going to kill you, Theia. That was just for show. Just like when he came to spar.

  The iron weights they were putting my legs into didn’t seem like a show.

  Well anyway, he couldn’t do it now if he wanted to, not in the temple. There are a lot of people on your side.

  My heart jumps. So they heard what I showed in the water, when I was running? They’ve realized the traditionalists are corrupt?

  Confusion comes through our bond, echoed on his face in the moonlight. What? No. They just think the death sentence is going too far.

  My blood chills. The death sentence?

  That’s why I came. He’s calling for your life, Aletheia. Ever since you ran from the overseers and attacked them with bloodborn—

  What? That wasn’t me. I summon up the memories of the day, so he can see them through the bond, see that it was a theracant who called the bloodborn chasing me that first day.

  No surprise registers in him. I never thought it was you. I know you’re not a witch. But there are some people in the temple that think, you know—

  That think I’m a heresy. Trust me. I know.

  Yeah, well, they’re calling for your head. Saying you’re too much of a danger to the city and the religion to be given a regular trial.

  Floodwaters. So the overseer before was trying to kill me. They’re all trying to kill me. I get sick for a second, thinking of all the times in the past week Gaxna and I have been on the streets, exposed, my violet eyes there for all to see. I could have been killed many times over.

  Then I get angry. Is Nerimes this much of a pawn, that he’ll issue a kill-on-sight order in public, just to please whoever’s controlling him? Because that’s what must have happened—word got back to him from the wealthy merchant I talked to, or the crier, or both, and they decided I was too much of a danger. It’s unjust and obvious, and I hate that only part of the temple is even upset about it.

  Dashan takes my hand. I won’t let them do it, Aletheia. I won’t let them take you.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  I shake my head. Then why are you here? Why are you helping them?

  Chagrin comes through our bond. I’m not helping them, I just—I hoped they would know where you were. And they did! And now we’re here, and everything will be okay.

  “What?”

  I recover myself, answer in water. In what way is everything going to be okay? Dashan, my friend’s trapped down there, and I’m going to get killed if I try to help her.

  He gives my hand a squeeze, but I’m too upset to feel anything but worried and annoyed. We’ll deal with her later. We can help her, Theia. But first we have to get you back to the temple.

  I goggle. The temple? That’s the last place I want to be right now.

  No, don’t you see? It’s the only place that’s safe. The loyalists there will protect you.

  Loyalists?

  The ones that want you back. That are arguing you should have a chance to explain yourself, that the council is going too far with the death sentence. We heard what you said in the water, when you were fleeing the temple. His eyes meet mine, dark and glassy in the moonlight. A lot of the temple believes you, but it’s not enough. They need to hear it in your words.

  I’m not—I take a breath, ice the frustration and fear and everything else I’m feeling. Try again. Dashan, I’m not coming back to explain myself. I did nothing wrong. And if Nerimes can send a bunch of thugs to my room once, he can do it again. Kill me before I get a chance to escape this time. I’m safer out here.

  Where the overseers are trying to kill you?

  Where they can’t find me through the water. Where the answers are to whoever killed my father and got Nerimes into power. I grip his wrist harder. Here. Look.

  I call up everything I’ve gathered—the crier admitting they were bribed to play up the heresies, the merchants proving trade was being manipulated during my father’s time, the Seilam Deul’s revelations about Ieolat. The memory of Nerimes listing all these things, then implying the real reason was my father was in his way. That dissent is the ultimate heresy.

  He gasps. “What did you do?”

  I realize in my haste I might have pushed some of the thoughts into him, rather than spoken them. Sorry. But that’s what I have so far.

  Uje and Jeia, he says, thinking through it, looking through my memories. So you’re saying the traditionalists had your father killed?

  Or killed him as part of their deal to get into power. I’m pretty certain they sold the temple out one way or another.

  He frowns. It’s obvious someone was doing something strange back then. But none of this points directly to the council.

  It points to Arayim, who’s either going to be a traditionalist pawn, or the one pulling Nerimes’ strings from the background. Have you heard of him?

  No. But you’re planning to meet him. He must have glimpsed that in the memories I showed him. Dashan grips my hand harder, and something deep and warm comes through our bond. Theia no. It’s too dangerous.

  Love. I realize what I’m feeling from him is love, or something very like it. For a moment, I don’t know what to say. Dashan. I—

  Please. The temple needs you. I need you.

  It’s intoxicating, like a whole twist of cloveleaf at once, like magic. I think I used to feel this way for him too, deep down, under my fear and determination. But now? I’m not ready. I need more time. More proof. Something no one can deny. Something that will rally the loyalists to action. And I won’t find it in the temple.

  Dashan shakes his head, eyes gleaming in the moonlight. When will you be ready? What is worth more than us being together?

  His words crush me, but not my core. The truth. Getting justice for my father. Keeping the traditionalists from corrupting our temple and everything we stand for.

  He looks away, toward the ocean, and I feel loss and resignation in him. That’s what I thought you would say. When he looks back, he’s smiling. You always were a fighter. Always needed to have it your way.

  Damn right. Speaking of which, my way right now means keeping my friend from losing her hand. Dashan, can you do anything?

  He grimaces, and I see the struggle of loyalties on his face, the pull to obey the temple and the urge to help me. He’s a good man. I can imagine loving him, if my life was different.

  But it’s not, and Gaxna’s trapped down there with overseers.

  Dashan, please. I pull closer to him on the roof. I don’t know if this is trusting him, or using him, but it’s all I’ve got.

  He struggles a second more, then nods. Okay. But what can I do?

  Lead them off. Tell them you saw me up here, running. That you think you know where I’m going. Then take them away.

  Okay. But then what? When will I see you again?

  I don’t know if the ache I feel in my chest is mine or his. I always knew he liked me—Uje, loves me—but I guess I can’t deny now I feel something like that, too. Not the same, but deep feelings I’ve iced and kept iced, because if they thawed I don’t know what I would do. It was never the right time.

  And now isn’t either. I don’t know. Soon. Another couple of weeks, hopefully, and I’ll have all the proof I need. If you want me, leave word for a boy named Gaxna with a crier at Elim’s fountain in the Blackwater.

  He nods.

  And Dashan, show the loyalists what I’ve shown you. I know it’ll be memories of memories, but try to convince them there’s a deeper reason the council wants me dead. It’s not because I’m a threat to the city or the temple or whatever. It’s because I’m a threat to Nerimes’ power.

  He stands. I should go. Give me ten minutes.

  I stand with him, our hands still tangled. I know I’m making the right choice, that I need to stay out here, but it’s hard to see him go, to turn down his vision of returning to the temple, even though I know it wouldn’t work. It feels like letting go of my past.

  I don’t know how to say any of that. So I just say, “Thank you,” whisper it out loud, wanting something more real than this silent conversation we’ve just had.

  He nods and turns away. Then he’s back and pressing his lips to mine, hard. For just a second, then he runs across the roof, toward where Gaxna’s rope was tied to the ventilation shaft.

  I can’t breathe for a second, then my heart comes back, beating fast. Dashan slips off the edge of the roof, and I realize distractedly how dangerous that climb is, even for me. That he’s risking it for me. And I can’t help him down without risking getting seen.

  I hate this. Hate putting people’s lives in danger for something I want. But I have to believe everyone’s lives will be better if I can get Nerimes deposed.

  So I stand on the roofs and count my breaths, icing whatever comes up, watching the sea and the dark ships in the bay. Let it all slide off me, especially what just happened with Dashan, and focus on what I have to do. Why I am here. I know there’s a chance Dashan won’t convince the overseers to go, or the Seilam Deul will have come, or any other number of things that will make going back into that warehouse suicide, but I still have to go. What is any of this worth if I have to sacrifice my friends to get it?

  Ten minutes pass without much sound from below. Maybe they’re gone, or maybe they saw through Dashan’s blind and are waiting to kill me. There’s no way to know. I ice my anxiety and climb down.

  The rope is where I left it. I peer down into the warehouse. It’s too dim to see much, but the area in front of the vault is clear except for some scattered crates and the body of the warehouse worker, still unconscious. I untie my end of the rope, then swing back and forth above the stacks of crates and boxes till my arc slows. I drop light as rain onto a bale of furs. I don’t unhook my rope—there’s no way I could stop the end hook from clattering to the floor, and the last thing I need right now is noise. I can buy a new one.

  I creep instead down to the floor, press an ear to the door to listen for Gaxna—still nothing. Maybe she’s given up. Maybe she’s waiting between the two locked doors, afraid to make a noise because she figured out something’s wrong. I pull the square key out and work it into the lock. And it’s only by virtue of the blood still smearing the floor that I catch the faintest trace of something behind me. Something alive and thinking.

  I duck left on instinct, and a wooden staff cracks into where my head was.

  Roll. Come up to find an overseer, armed, stalking me. I can’t run. Not now that he knows there’s something inside the vault. Besides, I’ve never been much good at running, really, even if I’m outmatched. I’m a fighter.

  So I fight.

  He swings in again and I duck under, knowing going against an overseer is madness, knowing too that I nearly beat Nerimes in our sparring, that I’ve since gained skills the overseer can’t know. He chops with a free hand and I seize it, pulling him off balance, trying to kick out a leg. He counters, and the battle begins.

  I do what I can, climbing barrels, throwing things, drawing his staff strikes toward metal edges that might break it, but it’s hard without water, hard to guess his moves. So when I clamber up a stack of oak casks from the upper peninsula, once again giving me the high ground and forcing him to climb awkwardly, I kick the barrel chocks out rather than fight. One topples close to his head, but he is too fast to get hit.

  The barrel smashes into the floor, then a second, a third, and red wine gushes everywhere, barrels bursting into wood and staves. I grab one of these, meeting his blow with a counter, and seek his thoughts in the liquid.

  They are opaque, with just the slightest hints of intention, but it’s something. I keep my blind frozen solid and use the hints against his greater strength, better weapon and faster blows.

  It isn’t enough: I’m giving ground, being fought out of the spreading stain of wine, taking bruising hits to my arms, ribs, and legs. So I push back in the only way I know how: with truth. I shove the memories of Nerimes admitting guilt into the water, into his mind.

  And he gasps. Actually stops completely in mid-swing, eyes opening.

  I take the advantage, swinging in with a blow designed to knock him cold. He manages to block it, but the main force still takes him in the neck, driving him back.

  I strike again, summoning memories of the criers, proof of the news about my father’s heresies being manipulated, shove them into his mind. He again hesitates, and this time I land a solid blow to his chest, knocking him off his feet.

  I leap after, seizing his staff, pushing more memories into him: the merchants pointing to trade manipulation, the dockworker talking of Seilam Deul warehouses, the Deul guard admitting they bought up supplies and stockpiled them to depress trade. That Nerimes’ bride did that, proving a secret collusion. In the end the overseer is open-mouthed on the floor, shaking his head, his blind and faith tattered enough that I can read his thoughts. The denial, and the inability to deny.

  I press the shattered end of the staff against his throat. There is no move he can make from here that will not first mean his death. Submit, I say through the wine. Roll onto your stomach and submit.

  Who—what are you? What did you do?

  I nudge him with the staff and he rolls. I seize a piece of baling twine and bind his hands. I am Aletheia of the Vjolla, rightful heir to the Ujela Dais, and what I did was show the truth you refused to see.

  But—they’re our Council! They can’t—The disbelief, the shock is palpable in his mind.

  They can and they did. And if you are a true believer, a true loyalist, you will repeat what I’ve shown you to your age class, to the other overseers, to the temple. The death sentence on me is an admission of guilt—Nerimes knows if I am allowed to live, I will destroy him. I finish tying the knot and move on to his feet. And I will destroy him. With his own lies.

  But—your thoughts, the way you pushed them into me—

  I shake my head, though he can’t see it. I don’t know myself how I do it. That’s not important. What’s important is putting yourself on the right side of Uje and His justice. I will leave you here to think about it. Choose wisely, Overseer of Serei.

  I stride away then, keeping the excitement and disbelief at what I’ve just done—defeated an overseer—safely behind my blind, until I am out from the wine patch.

  Gaxna is pounding now. She must have heard. I grab the key, twist it in the lock, and wait as the strange Deul mechanism does its work. My friend emerges carrying a long package.

  “Got it!” she says, eyes full of victory. “Anything happen while I was in there?”

  I step back so she can see the smear of blood, the smashed crates, the overseer bound and gagged on the floor. She just about drops the loot.

  I shrug. “You could say that.”