Chapter 10 The Fortress of Blackstone

The next morning, Edward and Lyra set out for Blackstone Keep, moving through the streets of Port Edmund with the careful tread of travelers rather than conquerors. They carried no weapons that were visible, dressed in the plain clothes of commonfolk, and they spoke no word of their true purpose to anyone they passed. But Edward could feel the weight of suspicion on his shoulders, the knowledge that he was being watched, that the Order's agents were scanning the crowds for faces they did not recognize. They reached the outer wall of the fortress by midday, a massive structure of stone and iron that rose from the hilltop like a promise of violence. The gates were guarded by soldiers in black armor, their shields bearing the symbol of the Black Rose—a rose with thorns, painted in red on a field of black. Edward and Lyra waited in the shadow of a nearby building, watching the guards change shift, noting the patterns of patrol, the blind spots in the surveillance. I know the schedule, Lyra whispered. There is a gap every three hours, when the night guard relieves the day guard. We can slip through during that window. When is the next gap? In twenty minutes, Lyra said. But we need to move quickly. If we are caught, there will be no second chance. They waited in the shadows, counting the seconds, listening to the sounds of the city around them. A merchant called out his wares. A child laughed. A dog barked. The world continued as if nothing important were about to happen. Then the bell rang. The gap had begun. Edward and Lyra moved as one, running across the open ground toward the gate, their hearts pounding, their senses sharpened to an almost painful degree. The guards were in the process of changing, their attention divided between the new arrivals and the departing shift, and for a moment there was a gap in the barrier that Edward and Lyra could exploit. They reached the gate and pressed themselves against the wall, waiting for a moment when the guards were turned away. Then they slipped through, moving quickly and silently, and emerged into the courtyard of the fortress, surrounded by buildings and corridors and the constant movement of soldiers and servants. Stay close, Lyra whispered. And do not look at anyone. They moved through the corridors, following the signs that pointed toward the inner quarters, the residential areas where the noble residents of the fortress lived. Lyra knew the way, having spent years navigating these halls as a courier for the Order, and she led Edward with the confidence of someone who had memorized every turn and every staircase. They reached a narrow corridor that led to a small chapel, and Lyra stopped and pressed her ear against the door. She is in there, she whispered. Lady Catherine. Edward nodded, and Lyra pushed the door open. The chapel was small and simple, a room of stone and glass with a single altar at the far end. And there, kneeling before the altar, was a woman in her fifties, her hair gray, her face lined with the passage of time and the weight of grief. She looked up as they entered, and her eyes widened in shock. Lyra? she whispered. Is that you, child? Lady Catherine, Lyra said, moving to her side. I have brought someone. Someone who can help us. Catherine's eyes moved to Edward, and something in her expression shifted. She had heard the stories, perhaps, of the bastard of Northgate, the son of Gareth who had appeared at his father's funeral and then disappeared. She had heard of the crown, the relic that could prove legitimacy and claim thrones. And she had heard of the Order's crimes, the murders and betrayals that had brought Aldric to power. What do you need? she asked. They reached the outer wall of the fortress by midday, a massive structure of stone and iron that rose from the hilltop like a promise of violence. The gates were guarded by soldiers in black armor, their shields bearing the symbol of the Black Rose—a rose with thorns, painted in red on a field of black. Edward and Lyra waited in the shadow of a nearby building, watching the guards change shift, noting the patterns of patrol, the blind spots in the surveillance. I know the schedule, Lyra whispered. There is a gap every three hours, when the night guard relieves the day guard. We can slip through during that window. When is the next gap? In twenty minutes, Lyra said. But we need to move quickly. If we are caught, there will be no second chance. They waited in the shadows, counting the seconds, listening to the sounds of the city around them. A merchant called out his wares. A child laughed. A dog barked. The world continued as if nothing important were about to happen. Then the bell rang. The gap had begun. Edward and Lyra moved as one, running across the open ground toward the gate, their hearts pounding, their senses sharpened to an almost painful degree. Boots sounded in the corridor outside, two pairs, unhurried, coming nearer. Lyra snuffed the candle by the door with her fingers and pulled Edward into the shadow behind the altar while Catherine rose from her knees and began reciting a psalm in a steady voice, loud enough to be heard through the wood. The steps paused. A key turned partway in the lock, stopped, and withdrew. When the boots had faded toward the barracks, Lyra let out a breath she had been holding and Edward realized his hand ached from gripping the wrapped crown through his coat, its warmth pressing against his ribs like a second heartbeat. Against the wall hung a roster of the fortress household, inked on slate, and while Catherine recovered her composure Edward read it in the gray light from the window—names, duties, watch rotations, a small cross scratched beside four of them in chalk that would wash away with rain. He memorized the four names and where they slept. When Catherine finally spoke again, her voice had changed. Sit, she said, gesturing to the bench beneath the window. If you are truly Isabella's son, then you had better hear what happened to her, and who in this fortress helped it happen. The Fortress of Blackstone - Continued