The heavy bronze keys in Deacon Vane’s trembling hands clinked like wind chimes in a gale.
Three flights below the donjon courtyard, the air smelled of stale grease, cold stone, and damp parchment. The subterranean vaults of Black-Marsh Citadel had been carved out of living granite three centuries ago, sealed behind three-foot slabs of solid star-iron.
Sera Thorne walked two paces behind him, Storm-Pike held at a ready angle. Her leather boots clicked against the damp steps, while her sharp dark eyes swept over the disabled tripwires and broken warding glyphs.
“Take your time, Deacon,” Sera said dryly. “The Chancellor is already scattered across the courtyard. The lock isn’t going to bite your fingers off.”
“Respect the craftsmanship, Miss Thorne,” Vane whispered, his breath puffing in the chilly air. “This is a Tier 6 imperial double-cylinder vault lock. Forcing the tumblers without the master key would trigger twenty-four lightning traps.”
He inserted the third bronze key and gave it a firm, satisfying twist.
Clunk.
The massive star-iron slabs groaned on their greased bronze hinges, swinging outward to reveal a chamber eighty paces wide.
