“By order of the Pharus!” A roar echoed from a nearby street.
Evren frowned. That voice sounds so familiar. Curiosity burning, he slid down the far side of the roof, leapt over a narrow gap, and scrambled up the sloped thatching of the next house.
Evren’s eyes widened at the sight of a familiar towering figure marching at the head of a troop of twenty Indomitables. Issa?
His vantage point gave him a clear view of Issa’s face as she stopped before the wall of unmoving Mahjuri. She stood tall, spine ramrod straight, her black armor with its long shoulder and elbow spikes giving her an imposing appearance, even surrounded as she was by Indomitables. Beside her, a bare-headed man in simple clothing waited in silence, thick ropes binding his wrists.
What in the bloody hell is she doing? And who’s that man she’s arresting?
Tension emanated from the crowd, so thick Evren could almost taste it. The anger in their eyes, clenched fists, and aggressive postures sent a shiver of fear rippling through him.
Whoever he is, the crowd’s pissed. This could get ugly fast.
Relief surged within him as the wall of people parted to make way for Issa and her prisoner. The Keeper’s Blade strode forward at a quick march, her Indomitables keeping pace. People swirled around behind them, muttering amongst each other and casting dark glances at the retreating soldiers.
A sudden inspiration struck him. Issa’s presence in the Slave’s Tier might actually be good—for him, if not for the poor sod she’d just arrested.
If I can get close enough to get her attention, maybe she’ll let me go with her and her patrol. The Ybrazhe would never be stupid enough to attack me then.
More than that, he could actually use Issa’s help to take down the Syndicate. He’d just been led to the Ybrazhe’s base of operations—a mistake Blackfinger would soon regret. One conversation with Lady Callista and he could get Blades and Indomitables flooding the western side of the Slave’s Tier, rounding up the brutes and criminals that served Blackfinger.
Hells, if we move fast enough, we might even be able to scoop up the man himself.
But it would never happen if he didn’t get out of the Slave’s Tier in one piece first. He’d need every shred of skill to evade the potentially-hostile crowds, the angry Indomitables, and the Ybrazhe hunting him.
He scrambled back over the far side of the roof and slid down the thatch, pausing only long enough to check for signs of Indomitables before dropping the five paces to the alley below. His knees protested at the impact but he ignored the twinge of pain. He had to catch up to the marching patrol.
The moment he raced out of the alleyway, a dense wall of Mahjuri forced him to grind to a halt. He stopped just short of plowing into a ragged-looking man wearing a blanket around his emaciated shoulders in place of a tunic. Scanning to his right and left, he raced toward a small gap in the crowd and squirmed between two white-haired men too short to see over the heads of the people in front of them.
Evren was shorter than the average Shalandran—shorter than most Vothmoti, too—but that worked in his favor most of the time. He could slither through all but the densest-packed crowds with only minimal jostling of those around him.
Yet this throng stood packed too densely for him to get through. It took him fully ten minutes to squirm, squeeze, and elbow his way between the people lining the Way of Chains. Worse, as he reached the front of the wall of Mahjuri, he found himself face to face with an unbroken line of Indomitables. The light of the noon sun glinted off their flat-topped spike-rimmed helms, and hard, wary eyes roved the crowd for any sign of threat. They gripped man-height shields and drawn khopeshes, tense, ready for attack.
No way I’m getting through them, Evren realized. His hand went to his forehead, where his still-fading bruise served as a warning of what awaited him if he made a move toward that wall of steel and nervous vigilance.
He could only watch, helpless, as Issa and her patrol disappeared to the west.
Damn it! He clenched his fists, frustration coursing through him. What now?
Swallowing the dread that formed jitters in his stomach, he contemplated his next move. He couldn’t get past the soldiers and people lining the Way of Chains to the east. With the Ybrazhe to the west—likely blocking off Trader’s Way by now—he was in serious trouble.
An image flashed through his mind: a rolled-up papyrus inked with dark, intersecting lines.
The map!
He’d spent less than an hour poring over the map of the Serenii tunnels before sleep claimed him. He had no hope of remembering all of the twisting, turning passages, but could he recall enough to get him out of the Slave’s Tier?
After a moment of contemplation, he decided he had to take the gamble.
He pushed through the crush of people back the way he’d come, earning more than a few dirty looks and a pair of muttered curses. The moment he burst free of the throng, he ducked into a nearby alley. Crouching, he snatched up a shard of broken pottery and began drawing in the dirt. He etched the details he’d burned into his memory. Though he didn’t remember all the labyrinthine lines on the map, he had memorized enough to know that at least six passages led from the Slave’s Tier to the Cultivator’s Tier above it. He only needed to find one and he could skirt the crowds entirely—and, better still, evade the Ybrazhe.
Studying his crude map, he determined the location of the closest one—just a few streets east of his current position.
Now, if only I can remember how to find them. He replayed all of the annotations etched into the margins around the drawn map. Sleep blurred many of the details, but one particular fragment came back.
“The gates are in the walls,” the words had read. “Two and center. The mark of the ancients guides your steps.”
At least I know where to start looking. The first clue made it clear he’d find the passage in the nearest wall—in this case, the one that separated the Slave’s Tier from the Cultivator’s Tier above. But the details got a tad fuzzy after that.
He kicked himself for forgetting to ask Briana for help. She had been the one to decipher the Secret Keeper script and write the translated note in the margin.
She’d been busy, then he’d been too preoccupied with the matter of the poison in the food supply that it had slipped his mind. Her presence and the strange flood of emotions that filled his chest to bursting whenever he was around her hadn’t helped.
Only a fool wastes time wishing for something he won’t have. He sighed. I’ll just have to figure it out. Not that I’ve got much choice. The alternative was capture by the Ybrazhe or being arrested by the Indomitables.
Swallowing his frustration, he rose from his crouch and slipped in silence through the alleys. His steps led north, toward the enormous golden sandstone wall that bordered the lowest tier.
It proved slow going—between the threat of the Ybrazhe and the Indomitables marching through the back alleys, he had to move with caution, sneaking from shadow to shadow, checking each lane before breaking cover. Nervous tension knotted in his shoulders, and his jaw muscles soon grew sore from clenching.
The sound of approaching boots sent him ducking into cover behind a set of crumbling stone stairs. He waited, breathless, heart hammering, until the tromp, tromp of the passing Indomitables faded into the distance.
He only moved once fully certain the soldiers had left. He’d seen the aftermath of their rampage through the Slave’s Tier—he had no desire to share the torment inflicted on the Mahjuri and Kabili the previous night.
To his relief, he finally reached the alley that led him north, toward the narrow back lane that cut west to east along the base of the wall. He moved west, in the direction of the location marked on the map of the city. Or, at least the location he felt fairly certain was the one he sought. He had nothing more than the crude sketches to guide him.
According to the map, the eight passages on the Slave’s Tier were set at precise, equidistant intervals between Death Row on the east
and the Path of Sepulture on the west. The entrance he sought should be located within fifty paces east or west of his current position.
Now, if only I knew what the hell I was looking for.
He played the strange words over and over in his mind. “Two and center. The mark of the ancients guides your steps.”
If he had to guess, and he did, he’d gamble that the “mark of the ancients” referred to Serenii runes. In the Empty Mountains, the runes had only been visible when exposed to the light of the morning sun and the glow of strange luminescent flowers known as Sapphire Lilies.
Yet the clue hadn’t mentioned anything about special plants or specific light to open the way. The only clue aside from “the mark of the ancients” had been “two and center”. That made even less sense to him at the moment.
He moved west at a slow, steady pace, his eyes scanning up and down the golden sandstone surface for anything out of the ordinary. Plenty of rough stone worn away by weather, wind, and age, but no strange-looking Serenii runes leapt out at him.
Frustration and impatience mounted within him as he moved. Blackfinger might even now be abandoning his hideout—leaving behind a fortune in mushrooms out of fear Evren might reveal his location. If Evren couldn’t get Issa and the Keeper’s Blades to raid the Ybrazhe’s stronghold soon, Blackfinger would likely fade into the city and take refuge in one of his many hiding places and safe houses.
Just then, something caught his eye: a deep groove carved into the wall. He nearly moved past it without a second glance. After all, it appeared as just one more natural feature of the irregular golden stone.
Yet when he caught sight of a second such groove a hand’s span to left of the first, hope sprang to life in his chest. A moment later, a third groove of similar length, depth, and thickness met his gaze.
Three? His search yielded no more of the strange furrows in the stone, so he returned to stand in front of them. Three it is.
He studied the grooves through narrowed eyes. This is the mark of the ancients? They didn’t look much like the Serenii runes etched into the walls of the tunnels beneath Voramis, or those sunken into the cliffs of the Empty Mountains.
His mind raced. But what if these were runes, just worn away by time and age? The Serenii that created these tunnels had disappeared from Einan more than five thousand years earlier. Five millennia was enough time for the marks to be worn away. Unlike the symbols in the underground tunnels, these were exposed to wind, rain, dust, and human wear on a daily basis.
So if these are the mark of the ancients, as the map says, what the hell does two and center mean?
There were three grooves, each set at his chest level and an equal distance apart. He stepped closer to study them. They bore no key holes or slots to insert any strange artifacts like the one Hailen had found in Suroth’s office. To his eyes, they appeared like three vertical claw marks carved into the stone.
Two and center, he played the words over and over in his mind. Hesitantly, he reached out toward the two outermost grooves. He tensed as his fingertips rested against the marks in the stone.
Nothing happened.
Confusion twisted his forehead into a frown. He pushed harder, but the stone felt solid beneath his hands. Well that was—
Suddenly, the wall gave a quiet thunk and two chunks of fist-sized stone sank into the rough surface. Evren’s breath caught in his lungs and he jerked his hands away. Long seconds passed and nothing more happened. The two sunken stones made no sound, and the wall remained sealed.
Two and…of course! He cursed himself for a fool and pressed on the middle groove. A moment of pressure and the third chunk of stone sank into the wall. Stone ground quietly on stone and, with a quiet hiss, a door slid open in front of him, revealing a passageway into darkness.
Yes! Triumph surged within him as he stared into the tunnel. The passage was wide enough for Evren to walk comfortably, and stood nearly half again his height. Golden sandstone dust covered the ground, swirling into the air as he strode through it. He covered his mouth to avoid coughing as he slipped deeper into the tunnels. Curiosity burned within him as he scanned the strange symbols etched into the wall. Hailen might know what the Serenii runes meant, but to Evren, they were nothing but a riddle he could never solve.
A low rumble echoed behind him, and Evren turned back in time to see the stone doorway sliding shut. The quiet boom resonated through the passages and darkness, thick and all-encompassing, surrounded Evren like a stifling cloak.
Evren’s heart leapt to his throat. He wasn’t afraid of the dark, but he always preferred a light when wandering unfamiliar passages, especially ones as confusing as these.
To his relief, a single spot of light brightened in the tunnel a moment later. Evren approached and found a glowing gemstone set into the wall. The light did little to push back the gloom of the passages, yet it served as a guide to keep Evren moving forward. As he reached the first glowing stone, another sprang to life thirty paces farther down the tunnel.
A grin split his lips. That’ll make getting around a whole lot easier!
The dim illumination made for slow going, but Evren kept his pace as steady as he could manage in the dark passages. He moved as silently as he could, placing each foot with care, his right hand running along the walls to keep his bearings. The little pinpricks of light set into the wall served as his only frame of reference in the all-consuming darkness.
Tension and worry knotted his muscles and a reverent hush gripped him. These tunnels lacked the eerie, moaning wind that whistled through the Serenii passages beneath Voramis, but the silence was almost worse. The utter absence of sound played tricks with his mind. Images of stone-skinned demons from the Hunter’s story danced before his eyes—who knew what awaited him in the shadows in front of him?
In the lightless tunnels, Evren had no way to mark the passage of time. He couldn’t rely on the beat of his heart—it hammered a nervous staccato against his ribs. Nervous sweat trickled down his face and soaked his tunic.
Something pricked up Evren’s keen ears. A sound, faint, distant.
For a moment, he thought he’d misheard. It had to have been the pounding of his blood in his ears or the whisper of cloth as his movements set his clothing swishing.
Yet when it came again a moment later, he knew he hadn’t imagined it. There was no mistaking the scuff of leather sandals on stone.
There’s someone in here with me!
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Kodyn stiffened at the sight of Ennolar’s baleful expression. This can’t be good.
The bald man’s words confirmed his suspicion. “My Secret Keepers have returned from the Hall of Bounty and run every test they could think of on the grain.” He shook his head. “They could find no poisons.”
“Impossible!” The word burst from Kodyn’s mouth before he realized it.
Six pairs of dark, kohl-rimmed Secret Keeper eyes stared at him, frowns twisting their faces.
“I mean,” he said quickly, “how else are the people of the Slave’s Tier being poisoned if not through their food? The only other option is…” He trailed off, his brow furrowing. There were only a few ways to take poison. He sucked in a breath, realization hitting him like a blow to the gut. “The water!”
Ennolar nodded. “We considered that, and even now our Secret Keepers are on the way to the Lower Wellspring to collect a sample. It will take some time to confirm our theory, but—”
“Handsome knew it!” Kodyn’s eyes widened. “The assassin that killed Councilor Angrak, he knew that the water was poisoned.” He turned to Aisha and the others. “There wasn’t a single drop of water in his lair. Everything was wine and beer casks and bottles of liquor. Unless he was a total alcoholic—highly unlikely, given his profession of choice and his reputation—he’d only avoid water if he had good reason to. Like knowing that it was poisoned!”
Irritation cracked Ennolar’s face. “That’s precisely what I was about to say.”
T
he Secret Keeper’s response sucked some of the wind from Kodyn’s sails.
The purple-haired Guardian, Tianath, spoke now. “The black alchemy potion you brought us, the one you took off this Handsome, it was meant to be an antidote against whatever poison was causing the symptoms we wrote off as disease. The fact that we now possess it means that we can try to break down its components and study them to find out what poisons they combat.” She inclined her head to Kodyn. “Thanks to you, we can save the people of Shalandra.”
Kodyn’s jaw dropped. Bloody hell! The words slowly sank in, yet seemed so hard to believe. He’d nearly died facing Handsome, yet it had been worth the risk. Aisha grinned at him, and the pride that shone in her eyes brought a flush to his cheeks.
Ennolar’s face revealed no trace of mirth or relief. “But the discovery of this antidote brings us two additional problems.”
“Just two?” Kodyn chuckled. “Given what we just uncovered, how big could these problems be?”
“A great deal larger than you might expect.” Ennolar’s thick lips pursed into a deep frown. “First, there is a matter of the ingredients used to make the antidote. While some of them are mundane, the others are exceedingly rare. So rare, in fact, that they only exist in four places south of the Chasm of the Lost. Three of those places are temples in service to the Mistress, and I can assure you that none of my brothers or sisters would betray their oaths to our goddess in this way.”
“Which leaves us the fourth location,” Kodyn said.
“The Terrestra.”
Icy feet danced down Kodyn’s spine. “In the palace?”
Ennolar nodded, his face solemn.
“Issa told us that someone opened a secret passage for the Gatherers to get into the palace through the Terrestra,” Briana said.
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