by Ruby Dixon
Right. Right. Never mind that I just murdered two soldiers that were doing their jobs. This is war. I chant that to myself as Solat takes my arm and the men half guide, half drag me along with them, heading for the crypts.
Once we’re in the cemetery, I realize we never asked what the crypt itself looks like, but it soon becomes really obvious that we don’t have to. There’s one building in the midst of this place, with a statue of the god of the dead in front of it, skulls at his feet. Behind him rises a square building with columns, and absurdly, I think it looks a bit like a bank. It’s got double doors and columns and…well, bank. A hysterical laugh bubbles out of me.
“Get inside,” Solat hisses. “Hurry.”
The double doors are chained and locked with a delicate padlock that looks extremely expensive, and that Markos breaks with two swings of his sword. Then, the doors swing open and we step inside…and down.
Stairs descend, and it’s pitch black inside. The moment the doors close behind us, we’re in utter darkness.
“Um…?” I say aloud. “Did we think to bring a light?”
“I’ll get the sparker out,” Kerren says, and then there’s a rustling noise as he digs through his pack.
“Hurry. Hurry.” Solat’s voice is the essence of impatience. “The moment they find out we’re in here, we’re trapped like rats.”
“Let’s not mention rats,” I whisper.
Something taps. A skittering, scratchy sort of noise. It’s a noise I’ve heard before.
Ah, damn.
“What was that?” Markos asks.
“The dead. Can we hurry things along?” I ask. “Kerren? Please?”
The striker flares, and then Kerren lights a fat, ugly tallow candle shoved into a cup. He holds it up, and then hands it to me. “So we can keep our hands free,” he says.
Good call. I want them to be doing the fighting, not me.
The scratching noise starts again.
“Did you say that was…the dead?” Markos asks, confused.
“They’re coming back,” I say, stepping forward in a far braver fashion than I feel. “The god of the dead isn’t home to receive them any longer so they don’t have anywhere to go.” I shield the candle with my hand as I move forward.
Kerren mutters a prayer under his breath.
The crypt itself is long and cold and dusty. As I step down the stairs, I see niches carved into the walls, and each niche has a heavy coffin already in it. Cobwebs hang over everything, and as we pass by the first coffin, I notice there’s a heavy rock atop the lid. It’s not something that fell there by surprise—it’s easily the size of a shield, and not just the one tucked into my shirt. It’s enormous and would take several men to move it.
The coffin scratches, and Markos jumps, jostling me.
“Sorry,” he says.
I look across and the coffin on my other side has a similar rock. As we step forward, I see each one has something to weigh the lid down. “We’re safe,” I promise them. “Someone’s already been down here to do damage control. The dead can’t get out.”
“Safe,” Solat snorts. “How do you kill something that’s already dead?”
“Let’s hope we don’t have to find out, all right?” I say cheerfully and walk a little faster. “Look for a statue of Aron. An ugly one.” I pause then add, “It might not be that ugly. That just might be his vanity talking.”
Someone snorts.
We walk. And walk. I can’t go too fast or the candle will blow out, but I really want to get out of this crypt, and it seems like it snakes along for forever. We pass row after row of coffins, some with dried flowers left in vases by the floor, others covered in such thick dust that they’ve been here for forever. The scratching dies down the farther in we go, but I’m hyper-aware that Aron’s outside, getting pummeled just because he can’t die. I don’t want him hurt. As silly as it sounds, I worry about him. For all that he’s arrogant as hell and a god, sometimes he’s clueless. There’s a lot of things they can do to a man without actually killing him…and then I shake those thoughts out of my head because I don’t even want to consider it.
Then, the passage changes. It turns into a larger chamber, and at the far end is a statue of a man holding an axe, his head bowed. The entire thing is a little…stumpy and the expression on the man is downright constipated. I can’t help but laugh, because this had to hurt poor Aron’s huge ego. “All right, I think we’ve found our man.”
“How do we get inside?” Kerren asks, curious.
“No freaking clue,” I admit, and hand him the candle so I can run my hands along the wall itself, looking for a hinge mechanism of some kind. I run my fingers over the cracks, and I find a narrow, straight line between the large stone bricks that has to be our secret door, but no amount of pushing or pulling will open it. “Is there a lever somewhere?”
“Faith,” Markos warns. “Hurry up.”
“We can all look, you know,” I snap back at him, studying the floor. Is there a panel we step on? I push on one tile experimentally but nothing moves.
He readies his sword, and Solat does, too. “Someone just came in,” Markos whispers.
Then, I hear it, too. Voices. Distant, but definitely in the crypt. Fuck. We have to get out of here, and soon, because we’re cornered. Frantic, I run my hands over the wall one more time, but when I find nothing, I turn to the statue. Maybe our answer is here. I run my hands all over the ugly dwarf-Aron made of stone, checking the mouth, the crotch, the hands, but it all seems to be entirely one piece. Even as I move, I hear footsteps approaching, the clank of armor, and then shouting.
“Come on, Aron,” I whisper. “Help a girl out.”
I jerk on the axe, hoping that it’s the key I’m missing, but when it doesn’t move, I glare at the statue itself, frustrated.
And stop. The eyepatch covering Aron’s left eye looks strange. I run a fingernail under the patch itself and it flips up. Inside Aron’s eye socket is a pupil, which shouldn’t be there if he’s missing an eye, right? I shove my finger inside and push it, and it clicks like a button.
Stone rumbles, and the wall slides open in a cloud of dust. A new, dark passage opens.
Fuck yes! “Let’s go,” I tell the others, flipping the eyepatch down and snatching the candle from Kerren. I lead the way, down a second narrow passage, and the men file in behind me. The stone scrapes behind us a second later, indicating that the secret door is closing once more. My candle blows out at the rush of air.
Then, all is silent.
“Did they see us?” I whisper into the darkness.
“I don’t think so,” Markos murmurs. “Where are we?”
“Hell if I know. No choice but to go forward, right?” I put a hand out and take a few steps into the dark. I don’t hear the dead scratching, so I’m really, really hoping this is just a small antechamber and not crypts 2.0. Sure enough, my fingers brush over stone, and I’m touching a wall. “Here we go.”
I run my hands up and down the stonework in the dark, and to my surprise, there’s something protruding—a door handle? I turn it and the door swings outward.
Light spills in.
72
A group of women sit in the room in front of us. It’s a library of some kind, the walls filled with books and scroll-nooks. Chairs are seated near a fireplace, and one woman sews on an embroidery pedestal while another holds a book in her lap. A third woman stands as we stumble inside. She’s got a long, thick braid and wears a pale lavender dress that looks incredibly ornate and very expensive. There’s a circlet on her brow. Her pregnant belly is rounded and in her arms is a child of no more than one or two years old.
Her eyes narrow at the sight of us. “Guards. Bar the secret passage and arrest these intruders.”
“Hi,” I say, waving. “So this is terribly awkward, but Aron told us to come here.”
A man rushes out of the room and I can hear him bellowing for guards. Markos and Kerren pull closer to me, holding their swords, while S
olat tries to shove me behind him to protect me.
Sweet thought, but no.
I shove him back and take a step forward. “We mean no harm, okay? We just had to get away from the Adassian army and Aron told us there was a secret passage in the crypts because the ugly statue was dedicated to him. I swear we’re not here to hurt anyone.”
The woman holds her baby closer to her chest and takes a step back as guards flood into the room. “If you mean Aron of the Cleaver sent you, then you must be working for the Adassians.” She holds her baby’s head protectively and steps behind one of the guards. “Take them to the dungeons. My husband will want to know how they managed to sneak in.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” one man says, moving forward.
Markos raises his sword and I put my hand on his arm. We’re not attacking anyone. “So this is awkward. I think you’re talking about Aron of the Cleaver—Hedonism Aron, who’s shacked up with the Adassians and is attacking you guys, right? That’s not who I’m with. My Aron is the Aron of Arrogance. He’s just outside, creating a diversion so we could get away. He’s come here to join the Yshremi army.”
The woman—the queen—pauses. “Your Aron?” She arches an eyebrow.
Aw shit. I might have just given myself away as his anchor. I ignore the flutter of panic in my chest. “I’m a devotee,” I lie. “But I’m telling the truth—there’s a second Aspect of Aron here, and he’s fighting his way toward your gates even now. If you don’t believe me, look outside.”
The queen gives us a tight look. She hands her child to another one of her women, who scuttles out of the room with the baby, accompanied by a few guards. More file in to take their place, and the room feels stifling.
“Give us your weapons,” she says in an imperious voice. “You’re surrounded and there’s no hope for your plot to work.”
I gesture at Kerren and the others to do so. “There’s no damn plot. We’re here because my Aron wants to fight the other Aron and he said the Yshremi are faithful to him. I promise, just go look outside.”
The queen exchanges a look with one of her guards. She leans in close to him, whispering as others take our weapons away. I give up my quarterstaff and grimace as I pull the shield out of the front of my dress. Damn thing must have cut into my sides somewhat awful, because my skin hurts. I hear the word “husband” mentioned, and “front lines” and the queen’s expression grows even more pinched. She seems to age in a matter of seconds. But she straightens, looks at me, and then flicks a hand, indicating she wishes to be followed. “Take the woman. We will see if this is truth or not.”
“No,” Kerren says, trying to push in front of me. “She stays with us—”
“It’s okay,” I say quickly, putting up my hand before he can get himself killed. Or me killed. “We have nothing to hide. It’s fine. I promise.”
“If Aron finds out,” Markos begins, warning in his voice.
“Then we tell him it was necessary.” I step forward, and I don’t panic when two guards immediately grab my arms. “It’s fine. This is all fine.”
It’s really not fine. I’m kind of freaking out, but if the queen can wear a serene expression, I can, too. I smile as if this is all totally going as planned and let the queen’s guards drag me along as she sweeps out of the room.
“Faith!” I can hear Markos yelling as I’m taken into the keep itself. We move quickly, following behind the queen, and there are so many guards around me that I can’t really see much about this particular castle, other than it’s got a high stone ceiling in the rooms we cut through and banners cover each wall, most of them emblazoned with a red hand over an eye or a scroll.
We march up stairs, and my bruised front and sides ache with every step. That shield must have been a bad idea. I can just imagine the mark it left—then again, it saved my life…and Aron’s. I’ll take a few bruises.
The queen doesn’t speak as we go up twisting stairs after twisting stairs. I’m panting by the time we get to the top, and then our small group steps outside into the night. The queen moves to the edge, her hands on the crenellated wall as she stares down at the gates just in front of the broken bridge.
I jerk against the arms holding me, and the guard glares at me. “I want to see, okay? I just want to see.”
The queen glances over at me, then points. “Something’s happening down there. Let her look her fill.”
I practically run to the wall the moment their hands loosen on me and peer over the side, down at the scene below. The tower we’re in is at the edge of one side of the city, and there’s a cluster of close-packed houses below us that seem to go on for forever, right up until they butt against the wall. We’re high enough that I can see beyond the wall, and it looks like a swarm of ants on the far side of the river, surrounded by torches. The rickety temporary bridge is down, but no one’s crossing it, and I fidget anxiously, looking for signs of my Aron.
Surely he didn’t just hang out in the enemy camp just because?
Then, the crowd just in front of the bridge—the swarm of ants—erupts, and I can hear a man bellow. Lightning crashes and thunder booms overhead. It sounds angry, and I immediately brace myself for a surge of pain if Aron reaches for his powers. My head’s fine, though…which means Aron’s not angry.
He’s having fun.
“That fucker,” I breathe, unable to tear my gaze away. “He’s going to get himself killed.”
The anthill spills, and then they give space to a single man in the center, a man riddled with arrows, his clothing torn and bloody. He brandishes an axe—not sure where he got one—and then lets out another battle cry.
Men charge at him, and they lose. Every single time. Within moments, there’s a pile of bodies in front of him, and he whirls the axe again.
The queen shoots me a look. “He’s attacking the Adassian troops.”
I nod. “He’s creating a diversion so we could get here safely.”
“Why does he want to come here?”
“Your army,” I admit. “He was offered one in Novoro but he wasn’t a fan. He said the Yshrem and the Cyclopae kick everyone’s ass and so if he was going to have an army, he wanted the best army in the world. We didn’t know the other Aron was here until today.”
She stalks toward me, her eyes wide, and grabs my sleeve. The queen leans in, studying me. “You keep saying ‘we.’ Are you…his anchor?” Her voice lowers in a hush.
I swallow. If I say so, am I condemning myself?
Before I can answer, a look something like relief crosses her face. “You are. He sent you here for safety…because he’s coming to our side?” Her hand clutches my arm tightly. “To join forces with our side? You’re certain?”
“Well, he’s sure not joining the other guys.”
For a moment, the queen stares at me. Her shoulders sag, ever so slightly, and I catch a flash of relief in her eyes. “Thank the gods. We have a chance.”
73
We watch as the one-sided battle plays out for a while. Eventually, the men stop attacking Aron, and he spreads his arms wide, a taunt for them to continue. To take a chance. No one takes him up on it, though, and he throws the axe to the ground and then crosses the bridge into Castle Yshrem.
“They’re opening the gates,” the queen murmurs. “Come. My husband will be with them.”
We head back into the keep and down the stairs, the queen utterly silent and the only sound the jingle of armor of the men who accompany us. When we arrive into a large hall, a cheer goes up, and for a moment, I think they’re cheering the queen. But it’s clear when we get inside that no one even knows she’s there. The place is absolutely packed with men, some dressed in leather and fur, some dressed in armor of varying types. All of them are filthy and cheering.
They also completely block the doorway, so the queen can’t enter.
She turns and looks at one of her men in frustration.
“Make way,” he bellows, storming forward, only to have his words drowned out by another
cheer. The man shoves his way through the crowd, clearing a path for the queen, and once people realize she’s approaching, they part for her.
I follow close behind, because Aron’s somewhere around here. He—
He’s there, right in front of me. I stop as I clear the wall of soldiers standing shoulder to shoulder, jostling each other. Aron’s in the center of the room, standing next to a young-looking man with long black hair and an eyepatch. He wears a cloak of startling white fur and leather leggings, and grins at the queen when she approaches, offering her his hand. Is that the king? Not that I care.
All of my attention is on Aron, who’s practically unrecognizable.
From head to toe, my Aron is covered in blood. His hair is plastered to his scalp, his clothing demolished and shredded, and his skin is a mucky, dark red. His eyes shine bright—green and brown—in his face, and as I watch, he pulls another arrow out of his arm. I can still see two more sticking from his side.
He looks like a damn mess.
I’m so relieved to see him I want to cry.
He grins at something the king says, and then I can’t stop smiling as I approach. I’m so thankful he’s here and whole, so happy.
The queen whispers something in her husband’s ear and then he looks at me. Aron does, too.
And his pleasure fades away to rage.
“Why is she bleeding?”
Thunder booms overhead, and my head feels as if it was just struck by lightning.
I stagger, pressing my palm to my forehead. “Aron! Stop it! Control your temper!”
He immediately moves to my side, his hands on my gown. It’s a pale green and my hem is muddy from all the running around. “I will control my temper when I see for myself that you aren’t hurt.”
I look down as his big hands move over my abdomen, and hiss when his fingers burn over my scrapes. Sure enough, I look down and there are two dark, wet spots, one on each side of my stomach. I’m confused until I remember the sword that tried to slice me in half. “Oh. I guess that guy’s blade connected a little more than I thought.”