The room gives a shuddering jerk. It rocks you to your feet, sending both arms out for balance. Quinn’s hand catches your forearm and pulls you back to the safety of the wall. You both notice the pit below begin to move and glow. It’s like watching ocean waves during a storm. Something dark is rising up and you know it’s coming for you.
Quinn shoves you back toward Trust and helps Etzli to her feet.
“They’re resurfacing,” you shout. “We don’t want to be here when they do.”
Another tremor shakes the tunnels. Debris flutters down from the makeshift ceilings. A violent splash of heat sears the air behind you and a glance shows shards of light fracturing the black. You curse, knowing the wraith is breaching. You mount Trust before turning to help Quinn get Etzli in the saddle. Fire scorches upward. A golden, sunlit claw appears along the rim of the pit. Blackened nails dig into the ground as a shapeless head rises, eyes bright with wanting. Etzli’s body fits against you with a slap of mud and heat. Quinn blinks from the floor to Trust’s back and you whip both sides of the horse, urging him into motion.
He bolts, almost rocking you off one side, but you clench your legs and hold tight to the reins as the wraith gives chase. There’s a press of heat, a scrape of claws, and then Trust’s hooves pounding over both. The creature follows. Its mate howls in the distant dark.
Trust nearly startles when he hears the noise, but you click a command to keep him calm, feet moving. No matter how quickly you take the turns, the heat trails and grows. You thunder through the mirrored route, hoping you can survive, hoping you can make it out before the sun rises. By your measure, night should be working its way to dawn.
There’s a final turn before you burst free of the cave, out into a weak, pre-morning light. Quinn slides from Trust’s back and helps Etzli to the ground.
You free the switch from your belt and squeeze twice. The whip slides out as the wraith appears, burned body framing the entire entryway. Another scream sounds somewhere deeper in the pit. The great creature cocks its pitted head, listening and eager, but you’ve stolen its attention. You’ve interrupted the mating cycle. Its mouth opens in a fiery snarl.
Trust obeys the press of your calves. A few strides puts you between the wraith and Etzli. The wraith snarls, its beaded, black eyes narrowing. A hole opens in the center of the flames and you see a flash of massive stone teeth. Before it can lurch out into the light, you brandish the whip. A crack sounds as the blow lands just above the wraith’s right eye. It snarls again, but you twist your wrist and land another blow. Twice more it feels the pain of your strikes, and twice more it hears the call of its lover within. It looks torn, but you watch as it scrapes the walls angrily, then turns. You crack the whip one more time and the beast disappears from sight.
Turning back, you find Quinn on the ground with Etzli. The girl looks like something out of a nightmare. Her shirt is ripped, her eyes are wide, and she’s soiled by streaks of drying sludge. She watches you and it’s clear as day that she’s shocked you came back for her. Ignoring that, you dismount and start removing saddlebags and gear from Trust’s back. Quinn takes the canteen.
“Make sure she drinks.”
Quinn nods in the direction of the mountains. “Do you have enough time?”
She understands what’s happening as well as you do. The sun is almost up. It’s almost the start of the third day and gods help you, you don’t have enough time. You’re not ready for it. The death will have to come quick. The calculations will be a nightmare. You steel yourself, though, because if you can go back and save someone’s life from a sun wraith, you can damn well do some fast-fingered alchemy.
“Let’s win this thing,” you grunt.
Trust is down and dying. You set your hand on his heaving neck and watch as his eyes spin with fear. For the first time in all his lives, you don’t whisper quietly for him to enjoy the peace you think he deserves between this death and the next life. Instead, you’re begging the flames to burn quick and hard. When they finally start to race over his body, you tear your attention away to focus on the components. Ashes are gathering on the ground and you’re scrambling to figure out how the hell you’re going to summon a horse in such a tight window.
Quinn leaves the canteen with Etzli and joins you. She’s like a beacon of ghostly hope at your side. You stand there, thinking and panicking, but she whispers fiercely, “You can do this.”
Nodding, you kneel over the components. Your mind races in twenty different directions.
“Sunlight will hit in about thirteen clockturns. Some of my components need at least ten with the ashes to take in a rebirthing. So we mix them in the next three clockturns or it’s a wash. But the ashes are still cooking. Scorching hot ashes burn away components faster. Same result: a wash. So I have to overdose them without over-overdosing them.”
“Keep calm. Focus,” Quinn says. “What’s the first step?”
“I’m thinking.”
You’re not thinking, not really. You’re drifting into instinct. Equations flash through your head, but they’re coming too fast, too unsettled. You take a deep breath and run them again. Lingerluck has resistance qualities. It won’t burn as fast, but it’ll still diminish. You double the typical amount before sifting out a few pinches on instinct. Carefully, you add it to the ashes.
The pile hisses smoke into the air, burning a pleasant aroma that you have zero time to appreciate. Instead, you turn your attention to the Gasping Mercies. They’re the more difficult of the two components. The side effects of an overdose will destroy your chances. Normally, you’d add the little powdered flowers last. Their burn rate is far higher than most components, but you can’t remember the exact number. Panicked, you glance over at Quinn.
“I can’t remember.”
“Talk your way through it.”
You nod. “Gasping Mercies are a wildflower. They only grow in cemeteries.”
“Keep going.”
“The component breeds a horse with healthier hearts and healthier lungs. Side effects of overdosing are asthma, heart murmurs, and collapsed lungs.” You strain mentally, but the words of old texts are blurring. “The Gasping Susan…it burns….If ashes…Dammit!”
“Gasping Mercies burn faster than most,” Etzli recites. “By a rate of 3.84.”
Your eyes flick her way. You can’t fight your natural Ashlord suspicion. Etzli is one of your competitors. You are the reason she always finished second. Is she telling you the truth?
“You saved me,” she whispers. “I vow on my life. The rate is 3.84.”
Trusting her is like breathing in a new kind of air. You nod your thanks, siphon out the powder, and start sorting through the other components. Vibrant streaks are coloring the horizon. It won’t be long now. You do the final calculation, siphon the powder into an open palm, and flour it along the edges of your pile. The second it’s finished, you almost collapse from the stress.