The fissure was not a tunnel; it was a wound in the stone. It angled steeply, twisting upward and inward through the monastery's foundations. The air was heavy with damp earth and the mineral scent of the jade-green stone. Arya's lungs burned, and the scrapes on her forearm from the communication slit were protesting with sharp bursts of pain.
She moved with the slow, controlled pace of a spider, relying on her small size. Her knees and elbows scraped against the rough stone, but she pushed onward, knowing every inch upward was an inch away from Jaime Lannister's murderous grasp.
The fissure pressed so tightly around her that the thick stone of the monastery walls was only inches away. It was here that she found an unexpected advantage: the stone was an excellent conductor of sound.
As she pressed herself against the wall, she could clearly hear the muffled voices of the monks and guards moving in the chambers directly above her head. They were shouting, their voices full of confusion and rage.
A girl has ears, she reminded herself. And a need to listen.
She paused her ascent, finding a small wedge to hold her in place. The voices were speaking the rapid, clipped language she'd heard at the Northern Channel—the native tongue of this hidden people. But one voice cut through the others, speaking harsh, flawless High Valyrian. It was the voice of the tall, cloaked figure from the ship, the one who had commanded the transfer.
"The girl is Stark! The Lannister recognized her eyes. She is the little wolf, the assassin! Her presence means the North is aware! The ship must be made seaworthy immediately! The Wolf's Heart must leave this tide! Even if it means throwing the secrets overboard to ensure she drowns first!"
"But Lord Lannister commands we capture her," another voice protested in hesitant Valyrian. "The Silent Master requires her alive for questioning."
"The Silent Master will take no prisoners if the secrets are compromised!" the leader snapped. "Jaime Lannister is obsessed with his ghosts. We follow the orders of the Commission! He may be a Lion, but we are The Order of the Jade Seal! We do not fail!"
The information was vital:
Her identity was known, thanks to Jaime.
The threat—The Order of the Jade Seal—was a higher authority than Jaime, who was merely "a Lion."
The Wolf's Heart cargo was still the priority, and the ship was being fixed.
The shouting faded as the guards moved away, leaving Arya in the stifling silence. She had broken the spine of their operation, but the threat was not dead.
She pushed herself higher, finally seeing a faint glimmer of light far above. The fissure ended not in an open chamber, but in a small, square grate set into a floor—likely a drain or a maintenance shaft leading into an enclosed space.
With a final, desperate shove, she reached the grate. It was heavy iron, set deep into the stone. She wedged her fingers around the edges and heaved, her muscles screaming with the effort of the climb.
The grate gave way, sliding silently out of its recessed opening.
Arya pulled herself up and tumbled out of the fissure, landing silently on a cold, dusty stone floor. She was in a small, dark closet—an armory, by the feel of the swords and shields stacked around her.
She had bypassed the guards, she had bypassed the pursuit, and she was now deep inside the secure core of the monastery. She reached for the captured ledger, pulling it out to confirm the "Wolf's Heart" transfer point.
Suddenly, the closet door creaked open, throwing a shaft of light across the room.
Standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the lantern he held, was a man with the familiar, scarred face of the guard she had killed near the barracks. But this man wore a different, heavier robe, and his eyes were cold and perfectly alive.
"A girl does not learn from her mistakes, Little Wolf," the man said, his voice flat. "You are not the only one who takes faces."