Nyx saw why.
Across the chamber, the obstruction around which the taproot passed stood on the chamber’s far side.
Xan crossed toward it.
Nyx and the others gathered behind the elder.
Ahead of them, an oval copper door bulged into the space. Tangles of bronze and gold filaments delved outward along its edges, digging into root and stone. None of it appeared to have been crafted by any hand. It was all flowy, with no straight edges. She imagined it slithering down here and lodging in place, intent on sucking strength and sustenance from the base of the sacred tree.
To Nyx, it looked like the coppery maw of a great beast.
Or maybe a god …
Xan bowed her head before it, leaning on her staff with both hands. She began to sing to it. The chant rose low in her thin chest, as if she were trying to draw something from deep in her heart.
Nyx listened with an ear cocked. She sought the rhythm and melody, but it was unlike anything she had heard before. She took a step forward, but Aamon growled next to her, shifting in front of her, as if warning Nyx that this was not meant for her.
He’s right …
From behind her, the painted woman limped forward. She shed those who had been supporting her, revealing herself fully for the first time as she stepped into the lamplight.
Nyx fell back from the sight.
Jace tried to draw her farther away, while Frell gasped and Kanthe swore.
The Guld’guhlian stretched an arm toward her. “Shiya…”
The Klashean grasped his arm, keeping him from following.
Nyx gulped down her initial shock and studied this strange woman sculpted of metal. Her limbs moved stiffly, as if the bronze fought the intent inside.
As the figure joined Xan, she began to sing, easily finding the rhythm that had escaped Nyx. The fragility of each note awakened the sadness and grief inside her. Still, in that moment, she knew her loss was but a drop compared to the ocean within this living statue.
As the two sang toward that coppery door, shimmering threads flowed outward from the women. The strands wafted toward the door, tangling into a complicated knot, then vanished into the metal.
Without being told, Nyx understood. She remembered her confrontation with the scyther, how she had undone the lock within the helm’s steel by forging a key to open it.
It’s the same here.
A deep atonal note responded to their twined song—and the copper door swiveled on a pivot down its middle, opening like the wooden door far above.
Beyond the threshold lay only darkness.
Xan sagged, exhausted from the effort. The bronze woman—Shiya—stumbled back, only to be steadied by the Guld’guhlian, who rushed forward. The Kethra’kai, along with the man’s two companions, helped him.
Nyx drew closer to the door.
One of the scouts lifted his lamp higher, casting its shine past the threshold. A long tunnel, made of the same copper, extended into the darkness. She remembered Xan’s description of what awaited them below.
An even more ancient root, one belonging to the old gods.
Frell joined her, possibly remembering the same. The alchymist turned to Xan. “This tunnel … where does it lead?”
Still tired, Xan breathed heavily but answered. “To the Shrouds of Dalal??a.” She turned to the bronze figure. “To her home.”
FIFTEEN
THE DEATHLY STONES
Lysten with an open heart,
ra?er than a deaf ear.
Sing from eyowre spirit,
ra?er than with eyowre breath.
Sculpt each note with resolve, ra?er than with a simple tunge.
Onli then will eyow see the treuth, ferre better than any eyes can ever show.
—Chant of Pethryn Tol, translation by Rys hy Layc
48
GRAYLIN CROSSED THE meadow toward the shadow cast by the Sparrowhawk. The swyftship hovered in a clearing high overhead. Farther above, mists obscured the balloon. He had offloaded with a handful of the crew earlier. He had helped them anchor the ship’s bow and stern lines to tree trunks along the meadow’s edge.
Darant had scouted out this spot when he circled the Heilsa to ambush the warship. Now they hid and were forced to wait. The crew didn’t need Graylin’s help with the ropes, but he had followed them down the same ladder that had rescued him two bells ago. He could not stand being confined in the swyftship. He longed for the empty, lonely stretches of the Rimewood, just him and his two brothers. The close quarters of the boat only squeezed his anxiety to a tighter knot. He could not escape the image of Nyx and Aamon jumping out of the back of the Sparrowhawk. Worry about their fate ate at his gut.
So, he had joined the crew on the ground, needing to move, to breathe open air, to feel the brush of grass across his legs, to listen to birdsong and the distant howls of the wild forest. Even now, he had no compunction to return to the ship—except for the disturbing blast to the northwest of their position, off by Havensfayre.
The ground had shaken from the explosion, and branches had shivered their gold leaves. He did not know what that explosion portended, but he feared the worst. He waded through the tall grasses toward the Sparrowhawk. Far above, the aft deck lay open to the sky. The lowered door formed a stout platform sticking out of the boat’s stern. He spotted Darant atop there, shading his eyes, scanning the mists. The man was also worried. Then someone called to Darant, and he disappeared inside.
Graylin reached the ship’s shadow and hurried to the ladder. He mounted its rungs and quickly scaled up to the open portside hatch. His arms and legs burned as he climbed. His skin had been cut and blistered by the strike of fiery splinters from the exploded sailraft. He had plucked out as many as he could with the help of Darant’s daughter Brayl, but he still felt wooden slivers imbedded deep. Any further digging for them would have to wait.
At the ladder’s top, he scrambled back into the ship’s hold, only to be nearly bowled over by Kalder. The vargr bounded over and slammed broadside into him, a typical pack greeting. Graylin caught the door’s edge with one hand and patted Kalder’s side with the other. The vargr chuffed, panting hard, his ears high. He knew the beast was as anxious as him. Kalder remained nervous with his brother missing and plainly did not like Graylin being gone, too. And this lengthy confinement was not helping the vargr’s unease.
To reassure his brother, Graylin let go of the hatch’s frame and grabbed Kalder’s jowls in both hands. He bent down and pressed his forehead atop his brother’s furry crown. “I’ll take you with me next time,” he promised.
Kalder bumped him back, hard enough to rock him on his heels. The message was clear: You’d better.
A shout from the top of the spiral stairs echoed across the cargo hold. A few birds in hanging cages squawked back, but the message was for him.
“Graylin! Get up ’ere,” Darant called. “You need to see this.”
Graylin did not like the pirate’s grim tone. He gave Kalder another pat and crossed the hold and took the stairs two at a time. In the passageway above, Darant waved for him to follow and marched toward the ship’s forecastle.
“What’s this about?” Graylin asked.
Darant glanced back. “You heard that blast a moment ago?”
“How could I not? Nearly put me on my arse.”
“It did more than that.”
Darant pushed into the forecastle, which was empty except for Brayl, who was on her back, checking something under her station. The only other crewmember was a grizzled, pock-faced old man, who stood beside a farscope. The instrument was not standard for a swyftship, but clearly the pirate had done some modifications to turn the Sparrowhawk into a better raider.