I eye Otto, wondering if he recognizes any of the jägers close to us, but I barely have to think the question before I notice the way he keeps his head lowered under his cloak’s hood.
I have a panicked second of wishing I truly had made him stay in the forest.
I dip my own gaze. We amble through the gate, and I don’t think either of us breathes until we pass the final hexenjäger, who is already focused on a cart coming through, one laden with barrels of ale. He calls out to the driver to stop and pay a tithe,and Otto and I duck away, vanishing into the winding streets of Trier.
For a moment, I’m so overcome with relief that we made it in that nothing else matters.
Then we take a turn, another, Otto’s hand in mine leading me deeper into the city, and my mind fights to reconcile my memories of Trier with what I see around us now.
Last I was here, the city at least had the Christkindlmarkt to add flickers of joy. Ivy and holly draped across buildings and music lit the air, tinny and pitchy but celebrating the season. There was still an oppressive feeling of solemnity, but it was offset by attempts at happiness.
Now, Trier is every bit a city of fear and prejudice. The dirty streets snake between towering plaster-and-wood buildings, the cathedral dominating the skyline. The air is ripe with refuse and body odor, and everywhere,everywhere, is an oppressive, invisible scratch ofwrong. Something is wrong. An enemy lurks in the shadows. The people who had crowded anxiously through the gate scatter immediately, peeling off into stores or homes or down narrow alleys, no relief in being through the city walls;just trying to gethidden, everyone keeping their eyes to themselves, moving like they’re being hunted.
“The streets are practically empty,” Otto says, breathless. He’s slowed us to a determined walk, not running, but not wanting to draw attention by lingering, and his eyes cut around, spotting faces in windows and people slamming doors as we pass. He looks down at me, brows pinching. “Are you comfortable asking Holda where we should go? We could try to head for the main hexenjäger buildings to scout if Dieter is there, but if she can tell you where the stone is hidden, that may be a better starting place.”
His face is all soft, not wanting to push me to ask Holda. He can likely sense my spike of discomfort at having this information, wondering if Dieter could overcome me in spite of the steps I have taken to keep him out.
But we need to do this.
I close my eyes briefly, letting Otto guide me through the streets.Holda? Where is your stone?
Her pause twines with my hesitation, and I know she fears telling me too, fears that she cannot stop my brother’s grip on even the barest power.
After a long beat, she says only,Beneath you.
I frown, eyes splitting open.The aqueducts?
Confirmation comes in a settling of certainty. And I can’t help it—I laugh.
Otto glances at me oddly, half his lips lifting inadvertently. “What?”
“Holda had her stone hidden in the aqueducts,” I whisper. “The whole time you were routing people to safety and mapping the tunnels—”
“There was an ancient, powerful witch relic lodged somewhere nearby,” he finishes, and the same humor flashing in his eyes. “Where in the aqueducts?”
But I slam my mind against Holda telling me more. “Let’s get down there first. Step by step. Just in case.”
Otto nods. “This way. The fastest access is through the—”
We make another turn, Otto bent on a destination, but he stops up short.
The market square. The place where he took me shopping for food and supplies before we enacted his plan to free the prisoners in the basilica. Here is the starkest reminder that the Christkindlmarkt has passed; what was once the epicenter of festivity is now a wide expanse of dirty gray stones. Everything has been cleared out of this square.
Except for stakes.
Standing tall amid piles of burnt kindling are bodies bound in chains. Each corpse is blackened, shriveled into unrecognizable horror with their mouths agape in last, permanent screams of agony.
My hand goes to my stomach, pushing hard, unconsciously trying to dislodge the rising rush of nausea.
There are more than a dozen people on these stakes. Some still smoking. And there are unused stakes too, set up and ready, but no hexenjägers are currently here, no one being dragged to their deaths.
Most of the bodies are too burned to be recognized. But I know, in a sudden punch of instinct, that this is what happened to the other Grenzwache guards. This is why we couldn’t track them. This is why we didn’t hear from them.
Sorrow falls over me in a staggering wave. Otto’s fingers clamp on mine, holding tight, and I think he’s comforting me until I get hit with a wash of his emotions through our bond: Horror. Agony. Guilt.
I look at the side of his face again.
He’s gone pale, lips in a thin line, eyes wide and inert. He takes a frantic breath in. Gasping.
