The Pyre-Chime began to move before the warning bell sounded below.
Kaelen was already on the stair when the first iron clang climbed from Verndall. He took the last steps two at a time, one hand sliding along the cold wall. The tower's upper chamber shuddered around him. In its cradle, the outer ring turned a fraction, slow as a jaw waking from sleep.
Elora came from the keeper's room with her coat half-buttoned. Her hair stuck up at the back.
“Stay here,” he said.
“I can hold the coal shovel.”
“Stay here.”
She picked it up anyway and followed him as far as the chamber door.
Below, the town's warning bell rang again. Through the narrow window, Kaelen saw a line of lanterns swaying along the western street. Something moved between them, low and black against the snow. A second shape went over the timber barricade without slowing. Its hide flaked in the lanternlight, shedding dark crumbs onto the white ground.
“Skahl-skin,” Elora whispered.
Kaelen pulled the outer ring's rope. The Pyre-Chime resisted. Its metal was warm beneath his burned palms, though the chamber was cold enough to frost the inside of the window. He leaned his weight into the pull.
“Get behind the stone,” he said.
Elora went. The shovel clanged once against the floor, then she had it hugged to her chest.
The outer ring struck.
The sound traveled through the Spire and out over Verndall in a hard, even wave. Kaelen felt it in his teeth. Along the western street, the Skahl-skin jerked as if their bodies had been hooked by invisible chains. One fell apart at the waist, brittle hide splitting into black flakes. The other two staggered into the barricade. One lifted its head toward the tower.
The town's lanterns swung. People ran between the buildings, carrying children and dragging shutters closed. A man stumbled near the well. Kaelen caught the flash of a hand reaching for him from the dark.
He hauled the rope again.
The second strike burst across the valley. The remaining Skahl-skin broke against the street stones. For a moment the snow above them lifted in a white sheet. Then it settled over the black remains.
No more shapes moved at the barricade.
Kaelen let go of the rope. The outer ring slowed, then stopped. A patch of skin across his palm had split. Blood ran into the old burn lines.
Elora came to the doorway. “Are they dead?”
Next
Kaelen must learn whether the tracks circling Verndall belong to a gathering horde before the town demands a stronger ringing—and a deeper memory from him.
He looked through the window. A lantern bobbed near the bodies. Someone was shouting for the gate to be held. “For tonight.”
She set the shovel down and found the folded rag he kept by the coal box. She wrapped it around his palm with practiced care. The cloth was too small. Her fingers still had room to tremble.
“You should tie it tighter,” he said.
“I am.”
He let her do it.
The Pyre-Chime gave a soft, inner click. Kaelen turned toward the bell. Its great central body hung dark above the cradle, ribbed with seams that tightened and loosened like something breathing in its sleep. The outer ring had taken its due. It always did.
He tried to remember the taste of the pear preserve.
The memory should have been easy. It had happened less than a week ago, in the keeper's kitchen. Elora had brought a jar up from town with a crack in its side. They had eaten the last of it on black bread, standing by the stove because the table was covered in repair tools. She'd made a face and said the preserve tasted like candle grease.
He remembered the words. He could see the jar. He remembered the stove's heat on his knees.
The taste was gone.
Elora had finished the knot. “There.”
“Thank you.”
“Was it the pear?”
He looked at her. “What?”
“The bell. It took something, didn't it?”
He could have said no. He could not make the answer come out cleanly. His wrapped hand rested between them, red showing through the cloth.
“I don't remember how it tasted,” he said.
Elora frowned. “It tasted bad.”
“So you said.”
“I said like candle grease. You said it was better than cold porridge.” She held his gaze, waiting for him to laugh. When he didn't, the corners of her mouth fell. “You liked it, though. You ate the rest.”
“I remember that.”
“Then it's still there.” She touched the jar's place on the shelf, where it had been put away after they finished it. “Sort of.”
Kaelen had no answer for that. He checked the bandage instead and tugged one end of the knot flat.
The warning bell below rang a third time. This one was slower, with a gap after the first strike.
Elora went to the window. “That means someone wants us?”
“It means Vey's coming up.”
“How do you know?”
“She always rings it like that when she doesn't want to wait at the door.”
A few minutes later, the tower stairs groaned under a heavy tread. Vey entered the chamber without knocking, her hood rimmed with ice. She smelled of smoke and wet wool. Her gaze went to Kaelen's bandage, then to Elora.
“Everyone out of the western street is inside,” she said. “Three dead things. No living dead.”
“Any townsfolk hurt?” Kaelen asked.
“Broken arm. Cuts. The usual shaking.” Vey stripped off one glove and rubbed her fingers together. “Oren has the west gate barred. He wants another ring if they come back.”
“They won't,” Kaelen said.
Vey looked at the window. “You saw three.”
“Three came through.”
“That's what I said.”
She went to the window and leaned close to the narrow glass. Kaelen joined her. Below, the town was dark except for a few lanterns behind shutters. Beyond the barricade, the black forest began where the valley narrowed. Snow blew through the gap in cobalt wisps.
“They found tracks on the inner road,” Vey said. “Fresh ones.”
Kaelen searched the ground below the tower, but the angle gave him little. “From the gate?”
“From the north slope. Across the wall.”
Elora stepped nearer, and Kaelen shifted to put himself between her and the window. “How many?”
“Enough that I stopped counting.” Vey pulled on her glove again. “They didn't come in. They circled the houses and went back into the snow.”
The outer ring sat motionless in its cradle. Its surface still held a dull heat. Kaelen looked at the black residue on the street and the snow beyond it. There were no more shapes he could see. That did not mean there were none.
“Oren wants the town awake,” Vey said. “He wants you to tell them whether the Spire can hold.”
Kaelen's hand tightened around the rope. The skin beneath the bandage pulled.
“It held tonight,” he said.
“That's not what he asked.”
“I'll speak to him in the morning.”
Vey studied him for a moment, then nodded once. “I'll tell him.” She turned for the stairs. “Keep the girl away from the north windows.”
“I heard you,” Elora said.
Vey paused. “Good. Then do it.”
When she was gone, Elora leaned over the sill, trying to see the ground below. Kaelen caught the back of her coat and drew her away from the glass.
“I'm not going out,” she said.
“I know.”
“Then you don't have to pull me.”
He let go. She rubbed the place where his fingers had caught the wool, though he had barely touched her.
Outside, the wind shifted. A little black snow pattered against the narrow pane and stuck there, shining like ash in the lanternlight. The tower's outer ring gave a small metallic tick.
Elora looked at it. “Does it do that after it eats?”
“I don't know.”
That was true. He had never heard it make that sound before.
He checked the rope and the mechanism, moving slowly so the cut in his palm would not reopen. Elora stayed by the coal box, watching him work. Neither of them spoke about the preserve again. When she finally went to the keeper's room, she carried the shovel with her.
Kaelen remained beside the window. The black snow began to melt against the glass, leaving a thin stain that ran down toward the sill.