Chapter 60: The City of Doors

RENERE WAS A city built on secrets.

I’d heard stories about it, of course. Everyone had. The ancient capital, where emperors had ruled before the Commonwealth existed. The jewel of the Four Corners, where art and politics intertwined until you couldn’t tell them apart.

But the stories hadn’t prepared me for the reality.

The streets were wrong. Not obviously—they followed sensible patterns, led to reasonable destinations. But underneath the logic, there was something else. A geometry that whispered of other places. Of doors that weren’t quite doors.

“The founders built the city on top of the original sealing site,” Devi explained as we wound through the market district. “Every building, every street, every plaza is aligned with the patterns of the binding. It’s a giant lock—a physical representation of the seal.”

“And the key?”

“Is hidden in the Lackless box. That’s why it was made—to hold the physical component that completes the pattern.” She nodded toward the palace visible above the rooftops. “The ritual will happen there. In the great hall. Where the binding is strongest.”

“And weakest?”

“Both. The binding’s strength is also its vulnerability. If you have all three components—if you know how to use them—you can reverse the whole thing. Turn the lock into a door.”

We found lodging in a district near the palace.

Not an inn—something more discreet. A house owned by someone Devi knew, a merchant who traded in information as well as goods. He asked no questions, demanded no names, and accepted payment in coins too old to be traced.

“You have three days,” he said, as we settled in. “The ball is in three days. After that…” He shrugged. “Whatever happens, happens.”

“What do you know about what’s coming?”

“I know the whole city is holding its breath. I know the nobles are gathering from every corner of the realm. I know there are whispers about a ritual, about ancient magic, about doors that have been closed too long.” He met my eyes. “I know that when the sun sets three days from now, everything changes. One way or another.”

“Will you stay?”

“Where else would I go?” He smiled without humor. “I was born in this city. If it ends, I end with it. Better than running forever.”

That night, I walked the streets alone.

Not wise, perhaps. But I needed to understand the city. Needed to feel its patterns, sense its rhythms. The binding Devi had described was more than architecture—it was a song frozen in stone. A melody written in streets and plazas and ancient walls.

And I could hear it.

Not with my ears—with something deeper. The same part of me that knew the wind’s name. The same part that had touched the silence.

The city was singing.

A low, mournful sound. The song of something locked away too long.

Release, the song whispered. Freedom. An end to the waiting.

I stopped in a plaza I didn’t recognize.

It was circular—unusual for Renere, which preferred squares and rectangles. In the center stood a fountain that had run dry centuries ago. And on the fountain’s base, worn almost to nothing by time, carvings that I recognized.

Yllish knots.

The same patterns I’d seen on Denna’s skin. The same shapes that made up the binding that had held her.

“They’re everywhere,” a voice said behind me.

I turned, one hand reaching for my knife.

A man stood at the plaza’s edge. Old. Thin. With a white beard that hung to his chest and eyes that caught the moonlight like polished stones. He leaned on a walking stick, watching me with the calm patience of someone who had been waiting a very long time.

I knew him.

The recognition hit me like cold water. Years fell away—the smell of stale beer and straw, the sound of a story told in a Tarbean tavern to a half-feral boy who had nothing left but grief. A story about Lanre. About betrayal. About the price of love.

“Skarpi?”

He smiled. It was the same smile—warm, knowing, faintly amused by things that weren’t funny.

“You’ve grown,” he said. “Less feral. Better fed. Though you still have the same look about you.” He tilted his head. “The look of someone who needs a story to make sense of the world.”

“What are you doing in Renere? The last I saw you, the Tehlin priests were dragging you away in chains.”

“Chains.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Chains are only a problem for people who intend to stay in one place. I had other places to be.” He stepped closer, his walking stick tapping against the ancient stone. “The patterns,” he continued, gesturing at the carvings. “They cover the entire city. Most people can’t see them—they’ve been worn away, built over, incorporated into decorations. But if you know what you’re looking for…”

“They’re part of the seal.”

“They are the seal. The physical component, at least.” His eyes held mine. “I told you a story once, in Tarbean. About Lanre and the cities that fell. Do you remember?”

“Every word.”

“I told you what I could. What a twelve-year-old boy could carry without breaking.” He looked at the dry fountain, at the Yllish knots worn nearly smooth. “You’re not twelve anymore. And what’s coming requires more than stories.”

“You’re Amyr.”

“What remains of us.” He gestured at the empty plaza. “This was our gathering place once. Before the purges.” His eyes were sad—the same sadness I’d seen in Tarbean, when he told us how the cities fell. “Now there are fewer than two dozen of us left. Half won’t survive what’s coming.”

“Can you help us stop the ritual?”

“We can try to contain the damage. When the doors open—and they will open, nothing can prevent that now—we’ll work to keep them from opening further. To limit what comes through.”

“That’s not enough.”

“No. It isn’t.” He looked at the dry fountain. “But it’s what we have. The Amyr were never warriors, Kvothe. We were scholars. Keepers. We understood that some things couldn’t be prevented—only managed.”

“And Cinder?”

“Will complete his ritual. Will achieve his transformation.” Skarpi’s voice carried the same weight it had in that Tarbean tavern—the voice of a man who tells true stories and wishes they weren’t. “We can’t stop him. We can only hope that what emerges isn’t as terrible as what he intended.”

“That’s your plan? Hope?”

“Sometimes hope is all that remains.” He began walking away, his stick tapping a quiet rhythm on the stones. Then he paused at the plaza’s edge and turned back. “I told you once that all stories are true. Do you remember?”

“I remember.”

“I was wrong.” His smile was tired. “Some stories are truer than others. And the truest ones are the ones we haven’t finished telling yet.” He tapped his stick once against the ground. “You have something we don’t, Kvothe. Connections to the old powers. Naming, singing, the silence that waits. Use them. Because what comes through those doors will make Cinder’s transformation look merciful.”

I returned to our lodging at dawn.

The others were awake, waiting. Their faces showed the strain of the past days—the travel, the tension, the knowledge of what was coming.

“I explored the city,” I said. “Felt its patterns.”

“And?”

“The seal is everywhere. Every street, every building—they’re all part of the binding.” I sat heavily. “But they’re failing. I could feel it. The song they’re supposed to sing is off-key. Dissonant.”

“How long until they fail completely?”

“Three days. Maybe four.” I looked at Denna. “When the ball begins, the seal will be at its weakest. That’s when Cinder will act.”

“Then we have three days to find an alternative.” Simmon’s voice was determined. “Three days to find something everyone else has missed.”

“Everyone else has been looking for three thousand years.”

“Then we look harder.” He stood. “Devi, you know the city’s underground. There must be records somewhere—old texts, forgotten libraries—”

“There are. But they’re guarded. Protected by what remains of the Amyr.”

“Then we convince them to share.”

“They’ve been hiding their secrets for centuries. They won’t—”

“They will.” My voice was quiet but certain. “Because they know as well as we do that their secrets won’t matter if the doors open. Whatever they’re protecting becomes worthless the moment Cinder succeeds.”

I stood.

“Three days,” I said. “In three days, we either find another way, or we accept that there isn’t one.”

“And if there isn’t?”

I looked at Denna.

She looked back with eyes that already knew the answer.

“Then we make a choice,” I said. “The hardest choice any of us will ever make.”