Chapter 18

Beneath Akh-tazi, Neron

Essana had thought the dark could no longer make her feel fear. Now, as she crawled behind the Keeper, she learned she'd been wrong. There were different kinds of darkness. Her imprisonment had been cold, bleak and hopeless, but it had also been solid, knowable. Down here, with earth beneath, beside, and above, she was aware of how easily she could die—no, not just die, but be lost forever. It would take only a weakness in the crude shoring timbers above her, or the slightest of tremors in the earth below. She would simply be gone.

Yet there was something even worse: the threat from behind. She waited and waited, as she and the Keeper dragged themselves through the dirt, for the sound of the barrel rolling aside and the gurgling and slithering of the yaggol. She'd barely gotten away from the group in the cellar; here, there was no room for her to fight—and no weapon to fight with, either. She could almost feel their bony fingers closing around her ankles, the cold, wet kiss of their tentacles on her skin. She shuddered.

And felt the first of the aches.

It began more as a twisting feeling that something wasn't right. She fought, trying to find a way to keep the cramp from building, but couldn't stave it off. It gathered, settling in her gut as muscles bunched and something down there stirred.

Oh, no, she thought. Not now. Not here.

It passed quickly, thank the gods, and ahead the Keeper kept going, none the wiser.

"How far?" she grunted, sweating. A shower of dirt poured down on her.

"Soon," he murmured. "This lets out at a secret place, a quarter mile from the temple. Not very far, but they'll still be looking inside, tearing the cellar apart."

"They'll find the keg," she said.

"Yes. But I've put spells of distraction on it. They won't notice it as long as there's anywhere else to look. That should give us a chance—unless one of the Brethren comes to help them."

She nodded. "And if one does? Then what?"

"Then we're in trouble."

"Oh."

They crawled on. The going got harder with every yard. Her knuckles and knees were scraped, bloody. Her shoulders burned. Her back felt ready to snap. But all these little pains faded when the second wave of cramps hit.

Worse than the first, they were intense enough to steal her breath away. She stopped, sucking dusty air through her teeth as she tried to fight through the pain. Her hands clutched her middle. Her belly felt wrong—not as firm as before. Something was moving inside.

No, she thought. No, no, no, no…

"Nnnnnnngh," she groaned.

The Keeper finally realized something wasn't right. He stopped, robes rustling as he twisted to look back. Violet light glimmered around him, falling on her as well. His hood had come off, revealing his not-face. With the pain now like a hot iron in her stomach, she barely even noticed.

"What is it?" he asked. "It can't be the child. You're not due for weeks!"

"Tell me all about it," she replied, her teeth grinding.

She rolled onto her side, trying vainly to draw enough air into her lungs. Tears tracked down her face, leaving trails of mud. Finally, the agony began to subside. She lay still, drained, without the strength or will to budge.

"No," the Keeper said, bringing himself around. His hands touched her, first her throat to find the life-beat, then her stomach. His fingers jerked at what he felt there. "This isn't right. This isn't supposed to be—"

He stopped, suddenly pressing the side of his head against her stomach. He had no outward ears—they had gone along with the rest of his face—but the holes in the sides of his head served well enough. He listened, shaking his head.

"What is it?" Essana asked, her voice high with fear. "Damn it, tell me!"

"You're miscarrying!" he snapped back. "The child's dying—and if it does, you'll likely die with it."

It was hot and dank in the tunnel, but Essana felt like she'd been doused with ice water. When she finally found her voice, it was quiet and small. "Help me. Please. There has to be a way."

"Not down here, there isn't," he said. He raised his head and looked up and down the passage. "Shalukh! Of all the times… ."

"Keeper!" she cried, her voice breaking. "You have to do something."

A small voice in her head spoke. It sounded like her own, but calmer, older, wiser. No he doesn't, it said. Send him away. Let the child die.

Another cramp came on, and the world went red, then white. The tunnel, the Keeper—everything vanished in the enveloping pain. She screamed, waiting for the warm wetness that would signal the inevitable.

It didn't come, though; the pain subsided to a dull throb, not quite going away. The world returned. The Keeper was talking, but his voice sounded far away. She choked, wiping blood from her mouth. She'd bitten her tongue.

"What?" she asked.

"I said, as soon as you think you can move again, we've got to go," he replied. "If we get out of here, we can find the cha'asii. Between their healers and me, we might be able to stop this before it's too late. But we have to move fast. Can you do it?"

She didn't think so, but she couldn't tell him that. The next cramp would probably make her lose consciousness. But they had to do this. Had to. They'd come too far to give up. She drew a shaky breath and nodded.

"Good," he said. He turned around again, brushing dirt from the wall. The ceiling groaned, sending down showers of grit. "It's only a little way more."

He went on, not looking back. She hated him for it, but she also understood. He was forcing her find her strength, and she found it. Rolling over, she clawed forward again. Her womb never stopped aching. Time became a yawning chasm. They probably crawled only a few hundred more yards, but it could have been all the way back to Coldhope, the way it felt. Near the end, she became aware of a low, rushing sound, up ahead. She tried to see what it was, but there was only blackness, broken by the faint purple glow around the Keeper. She dragged herself on until she bumped into him from behind. He had stopped.

"We're here," he whispered, pressing his hand against a wall of stone before him. He bowed his head, murmuring spidery words, and a low thud shook the tunnel, bringing down dirt all around them.

With a scrape, the stone parted, then swung open. Beyond lay a cave. The air was cool, fresh. It felt better than anything Essana had ever felt as they dragged themselves out of the passage. She lay gasping on the floor. The Keeper bent over her, running his fingers over her middle, then listening again. The rushing noise was much louder.

"There's still time," he said. "Can you stand?"

She shook her head. She could feel another cramp coming: a big one. The fear must have shown in her face. Drawing his hood back over his head, the Keeper bent down and lifted her in his arms. He was stronger than he looked; even Barreth would have had trouble hoisting her while she carried the extra weight of her pregnancy. He turned toward the cave's mouth, and she saw the source of the sound: a waterfall, pouring down beyond the opening. It gleamed ruddy gold, the setting sun bright behind it.

"It's all right," he told her. "The cha'asii will be waiting at the pool below. They'll take us to safety. You'll be better."

From the tone of his voices he didn't quite believe it either, but she nodded, leaning her head against his chest as nausea and pain gathered around her. She wept in anticipation of how bad it was going to be. The waterfall grew louder and louder, deafening her. They stepped out onto a ledge, then started down a path along the cliff face beyond… .

And stopped. The Keeper sucked in a breath. "No!" he gasped.

The pain was still growing, not fully bloomed quite yet. She turned her head, looking out past the thundering falls. The water plunged over a precipice some sixty feet high, down a cliff alive with vines and creepers, to a churning pool below. She squinted, trying to make out what had caused the Keeper to panic, and then she saw it: bodies, strewn along the pool's far shore, their blood staining the foaming water pink.

Elves. Cha'asii. Their rescuers.

Around thirty yaggol stood among them. They stared up the slope.

"Oh, gods," she murmured. "Keeper… ."

"Did you truly think we didn't know where you were going?" asked a voice, very near.

The Master appeared, stepping out of the shadows where the path descended to the jungle. Two other hooded figures stood with him, along with a dozen more yaggol, their tentacles twisting.

"I found your tunnel weeks ago, traitor," the Master said. "I've known you were a spy even longer, but I chose to humor you, hoping to catch you at your subversion and find out who you were working for. Even I didn't think you'd be so bold as to smuggle our prize out of the temple. Not until the yaggol began to die, anyway."

"Don't come any further!" the Keeper shouted. "I can still rob you of the child. I'll throw her over the edge!"

Essana started, staring at him in shock. "What?"

The Master only laughed. "Go ahead. My magic will catch her before she hits the water."

The Keeper looked down at his fellow Brethren, weighing the truth of the words. He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Essana," he said and set her down on the stone. He turned to face the other Brothers.

"Wait," she breathed. She couldn't move now; the cramp was bending her in half, making bile boil in the back of her mouth. "Tell me… one thing, before this is… over."

He looked down at her, his hideous eyes shining. "What?"

"Your… name."

He hesitated, gazing at her, expressionless. "Azar," he said. "Azar ket-Turang."

She nodded. "Thank you, Azar. For trying."

The Keeper stared a moment longer, then sighed and walked away, down toward the Master and the others. She heard shouting and the clamor of magic and a scream, but she couldn't look. The ache in her belly was too great.

Then the ache burst, and she knew no more.

The flames were everywhere, all around—great red tongues of fire, hundreds of feet high, filling the sky, bathing everything in their ruddy glow. Below, at the foot of the rocky promontory where she stood, magma seethed beneath a thin black crust of hardened stone. Geysers erupted from fissures, hurling bombs of fire high into the air. Smoke choked the air, black and thick. From those terrible clouds a rain of ash fell, fat, gray clots drifting on the baking wind.

The heat would have killed her in an instant, had this been real. But Essana knew it was a dream, a vision consuming her as the Brethren bore her back to the ruined temple. It kept away the real pain of what was happening, the spasms that were trying to purge the child from her womb. Her baby, the one she and Barreth had longed for, the only chance they would ever have of an heir—dying. And she was glad.

They would try to stop the purging. The Faceless would use all their powers to save her son's life—and hers with it. She prayed for them to fail. "Let us die, Mislaxa," she whispered. "We are ready. Do not spare us."

"Speak for yourself, woman."

She stiffened at the sound of the voice behind her. It was familiar, like her husband's, but not. There was none of Barreth's warmth, the fire that had drawn her to him. This voice was cold, flat, scornful. Slowly, she turned.

He looked like Barreth too, but not completely so. He was younger, his hair full and long, his skin a bit darker, closer to her own. He had no beard. But the strong jaw was the same, as was the heaviness of his brow. He wore blue robes that shimmered in the firelight.

Essana's mouth dropped open. When they came, her words were soft, almost inaudible. "My son?"

He smiled, but cheerlessly. His gaze stayed flat, detached. "You seem surprised to see me, Mother," he said. "What, no embrace? No kiss for your beloved firstborn?"

She shook her head; then something in the distance caught her eye. It was the Chaldar, the Tower of Flame, rising like an accusing finger from the sea of lava. Fire bathed its surface, crimson and gold and blue.

"This will be my home," her son said. "No—our home, for I will take you with me. I will remake Taladas as it was—and we will rule, together! I as the emperor who once was, and you as queen-mother! The lesser realms will fall, one by one… the Rainwards, the League, the Silvanaes, the ragged tribes of the Tamire. All will bow to us, to Aurim reborn."

She shook her head, tears tracking down her face. They tasted like soot and hot metal. "Not us, child," she murmured. "Never us. You cannot fool me—you are not my son. You are Maladar, and you will not share power. No—I will fight you. I will save my son, even if it means his death… and mine."

His smile froze, shattered, falling away. His expression revealed bare hate, glittering like a knife's edge. "You no longer have a choice in that, Essana," he hissed. "Do you think you are the only one I speak to? The child and I have known each other for some time now. He belongs to me now. That is why he rebelled when you tried to flee. Now that the Brethren have reclaimed you, he will be well again. And you will live to see him born."

She stared at him, a cold stone in her heart. She understood now. The Master had found them not because he was clever, but because he had been warned. The child had told Maladar of the plan to escape, and Maladar had told the Brethren. The child had betrayed them. The knowledge drove the strength out of her, and she sank to her knees.

"Oh, gods," she moaned.

The boy looked down, the reptilian smile returning. He drew a dagger of black iron from his belt. She shrank back, but the blade wasn't meant for her. Instead, he set its edge behind his right ear. His eyes burned red, no longer human.

"Blood for the Faceless," he said and began to cut.

Essana woke with a scream, trying to sit upright—but a sudden, wrenching agony in her wrists kept her from rising. She fell back, gasping, sick, weak. There was light here—wherever here was: cold, gray light, shining down from a source she couldn't see. She lay upon a table of volcanic glass, cold and hard against her back. Shackles bound her wrists and ankles, the chains taut enough to make her shoulders and hips ache. The only part of her that could move was her head, and now she craned and twisted to see what was around her. The room was small, dark, with a low ceiling and glowing crystals set into the walls. Drapes of purple satin hung to either side of her, sealing off the ends of the room. Behind the one on the left she heard quiet movement; to the right, slow, steady breathing.

Some foolish part of her wanted to call out, to ask who was there. She swallowed the words; she didn't want to draw attention. But it didn't matter: an instant later, she felt a mind touch hers, cold and slippery and inhuman. Yaggol. They had found the talisman—no surprise. She hadn't really tried to hide it. The alien mind slithered around, inspecting her thoughts, then coiled itself, forming words.

She wakes…

The movement behind the left-hand curtain stopped. There was a moment's silence. Then the cloth jerked back and the Master strode through. Behind him was a worktable, festooned with glasswork and phials of powders and pickled insects and tentacled things floating in jars of brine. He had been doing something to a beaker that bubbled over an open, blue flame with no obvious source of fuel. Greasy brown smoke flowed over the phial's edges, down onto the tabletop. Two yaggol stood at either end of the table, watching as the leader of the Brethren approached her.

She swore at him, conjuring the vilest oath she could think of. He stopped, taken aback, then shook his head and chuckled.

"My delicate lady of Coldhope," he rasped. "I had begun to wonder if you would ever wake. It has been a week since your pathetic attempt at escape."

She blinked. A week? It seemed like only hours ago that she'd collapsed by the waterfall, the pains of miscarriage overwhelming her. Only hours since the Keeper let out that terrible, agonized shriek and blackness came down.

She looked at her belly. It was round and firm again, even more distended than before. The pain was gone. Essana shut her eyes, letting out a forlorn sigh.

"Yes, the child lives," the Master said. "Though it was a near thing. You came quite close to ruining everything… you and that miserable turncoat, the Keeper. It didn't work, though—and now things are far worse for you. You will remain bound like this until it is time for the child to be born. You will only be unchained to attend the sacrifices. We cannot let you try to stop us again."

She said nothing, only glared at him, hate boiling inside.

She wonders about him, said the mind of the yaggol. The traitor. She wishes to know his fate.

"Do you?" the Master asked, mocking. "You would learn of your savior? He lives, you know. We decided to leave him alive. Do you wish to see him?"

He lifted his gaze, looking beyond, toward the other side of the room. The other curtain. The breathing. Essana swallowed, shaking her head.

"No," she said, her voice dry. "No, I don't—"

She lies, thought the yaggol. She yearns for it. The truth.

The Master laughed, gesturing. "Very well. Look, my lady, and see what remains of the one who would have betrayed us to the Rainward kings."

The curtain pulled back. The breathing grew louder, more rapid. Essana fought the urge to look—and lost. Against all better judgment, she turned… and screamed.

They'd hung him from the ceiling, from chains and hooks jabbed deep into his back. After that, they'd started with his limbs: the cutting. Both legs were gone at the knee, both arms at the elbow. Next they'd put out his eyes, and torn out his tongue. Then they'd ripped off his skin, like the Brethren had stripped away their own faces, laying bare bloody sinew and bone. Lastly, they'd cut him open from the base of his throat to the top of his abdomen. The flesh spread wide, like glistening wings. Beneath, she saw the white of his ribs, and within those, his lungs—still pink and twitching, in time with his tormented breathing. Between them, the fist-sized muscle of his heart beat rapidly.

She shut her eyes, looked away—all too late. The sight of the Keeper had burned into her mind, and was all she could see. She began to sob.

The Master laughed and laughed as the curtain swung shut again.