“Who are you?” he whispered.
With his soft words, eyelids parted, revealing—
A shout rose behind him.
He ducked and searched around. As a thief, his first instinct was to hide when exposed. He followed that instinct, hurried out of the egg, and dove behind a nest of chalk boulders to the immediate left. The rocks were unusually warm, hot to the touch. Still, he tucked himself in tight. A glance to the side revealed that the chalk that rimmed the egg was blackened and scorched. He lifted a hand toward the surface. His refuge was close enough to the side of the egg that he could touch the curve of copper on this side. With his palm raised, he felt no heat wafting from the metal. He tested a fingertip, then the rest of his hand against the cool copper, confirming the same.
Strangeness upon strangeness.
Under his palm, he felt a faint vibration. More shouts drew his attention back up the slope, where a score of lamps and torches now lit the upper tunnel. Orders were barked. The lights began to descend down the rockfall. As Rhaif waited, the vibration of the egg faded to his touch. Even the faint glow ebbed into darkness.
His hiding spot did not allow him to see inside any longer.
Still, he pictured the bronze statue in its glass alcove. He would’ve sworn it had responded to his voice, its eyelids opening. He gave a small shake of his head at such nonsense.
Just a trick of the light.
In short order, the searchers descended to the bottom of the slope. After so long in the gloom, Rhaif had to blink away the glare of their bright lamps and flaming torches. He kept low, tight to the shadows. But all focus appeared to be on the egg. No one seemed to be looking for him, an escaped prisoner, as he had initially feared. In their haste, they must have missed the telltale signs of his trespass.
At their forefront strode a pair of thick-muscled overseers, dressed in their hooded blue cloaks with short-whips at their belts. They carried lanterns high. Behind them came a clutch of enslaved miners. A few held torches aloft, but they all had pickaxes and hammers strapped to their backs.
But it was the last member of the party that nearly drew a gasp from Rhaif. The figure shoved to the front. The man was far taller and thinner than the others. His long silver-white hair had been braided and tied in a noose around his neck. He wore a long gray robe with its hood tossed back. His exposed eyes were banded by the stripe of a black tattoo. It was said to imitate a blindfold, representing such men’s ability to see what all others were blind to. Across his chest, he wore a thick leather bandolier, studded with iron, and lined by square pouches, each etched with symbols.
Rhaif hunkered lower.
None of the chained miners even dared look in the man’s direction.
How could they?
Here stood a holy Shrive.
It cannot be.
Rhaif had only heard rumors of such a secretive sect. They were rarely seen. It was claimed most of the Shriven were hundreds of years old, though this figure looked no more than a decade or two older than Rhaif.
“Stay here,” the Shrive ordered, and went alone into the now dark egg.
The overseers flanked the opening, while the miners in tow nervously shuffled their ankle chains.
The Shrive entered with no lamp, lantern, or torch. Still, from inside the egg, strange lights flared. A soft chanting echoed out—then an eerie high-pitched cry set Rhaif’s teeth to aching. Everyone outside cringed and covered their ears as best they could.
With Rhaif’s palm still resting on the copper shell, he felt the metal momentarily vibrate—then go quiet again.
A white smoke billowed out of the egg, reeking of bitter alchymies. It drove the others away from the opening. From that cloud, the Shrive reappeared. His features were dispassionate, but sweat pebbled his brow.
He stepped to one of the overseers, a man Rhaif now recognized as the head maestrum of the mines. “Have your team remove the statue and come with me.” Those tattooed eyes hardened. “And take great care.”
“Your will is ours,” the man promised.
Before the Shrive swept past, he leaned closer to the maestrum. His next words were meant only for the man’s ears, though Rhaif eavesdropped from his hiding place. “Afterward, none must know.”
The Shrive’s gaze swept over the chained men.
The maestrum bowed his head, a hand coming to rest on the hilt of the curved dagger sheathed at his waist. “It will be done.”
Rhaif sank deeper into hiding, confused but knowing one certainty.
I should not be here.
* * *
BY THE TIME the bronze goddess was hauled out of the shell and up the treacherous slope, Rhaif’s knees ached from crouching for so long. It took all six prisoners, three to a side, to carry her to the mouth of the tunnel. The Shrive kept alongside them, while the maestrum trailed, whip in hand.
A second overseer remained behind to guard the copper egg and its secrets. Rhaif sneered. He knew Overseer Muskin all too well. In Rhaif’s pocket, he carried the man’s wayglass. The overseer had taken clear pleasure in removing the fingers of his crew as punishment for the theft, searing their stumps with a smoldering brand. The prisoner who finally confessed—false though it was—had his throat slit.
Rhaif felt the press of the wayglass in his pocket. While his thievery might be partly to blame for the others’ suffering, he carried no guilt for the torture and death. Such harsh punishment was ill-fitting for a petty crime. Even down here. Rhaif had thought Muskin would’ve simply believed he’d misplaced the wayglass or lost it. Rhaif had not accounted for Muskin’s pleasure at inflicting pain, of burning his mark on those beneath him.
From his hiding place, Rhaif watched the lights vanish into the tunnel above, one after the other, until the world shrank again down to the single pool of light from Muskin’s lantern on the floor. The overseer stalked back and forth before the egg, clearly not happy to be left behind, even less so about the press of shadows. From the man’s nervous glances and how he jumped with every rasp of sifting sand or tumble of loose rock, Muskin was similarly afflicted as Rhaif by the threat of darkness.
Rhaif waited for his chance.
It was not long in coming.
The man’s tenseness worked its way down to his bladder. The warning signs were evident enough from the growing agitation to his pacing, the occasional clutch at his privates. Finally, Muskin swore and headed to the far side of the egg. He grumbled as he unhooked his breeches to free himself.
Rhaif waited for the splashing and relieved groan. He then slipped from his boulders, and with all the stealth gained from his many years as a thief, he crept up behind Muskin. Without even a single clink of his chains, he stopped in the man’s shadow.
He eyed the hilt of Muskin’s sheathed dagger.
Quick now, he urged himself.
Still, Rhaif hesitated. He had never killed a man before. Yet, he knew only death would free him from here. He could not risk a shout drawing the others back.
He gulped and reached out a hand.
As he did, a rumble sounded behind him. A trickling avalanche skidded down the slope. Muskin flinched and swung around. His stream splashed wildly, even more so when he spotted Rhaif standing there.
The overseer snatched for his whip, and Rhaif lunged for the man’s dagger. They both gained their weapons. Muskin’s face purpled with anger, his chest swelling toward a bellow. Rhaif could not wait. Nimble and fast, he sprang at the man. Muskin, still addled, tried to block him and failed. Rhaif drove the blade through the overseer’s throat. The point burst out the other side of his neck.