Rhaif wished he himself had heeded that wisdom earlier.
Berryl leaned closer. “Word is that there are Shriven about?”
The other scowled. “What did I just a’say?”
The pair looked to be brothers, both black-haired with thick noses, fleshy lips, and pinched eyes from years of squinting at the endless sun glaring off sand and rock. Only the crisscrossing of scars mapped their faces differently.
Rhaif’s mother was from across the seas, from the highland forests of the Cloudreach. He only had vague memories of her. She had been svelte, with fiery hair and pale skin. She was nothing like the folks in the territories with their dark sun-burnished complexions and beefy frames. From such a commingling, Rhaif ended up slightly taller and thinner of limb than most. His hair was a ruddy auburn, his features less rocky. Best of all, he had been born with his mother’s natural gift of agility, speed, and balance. It was why he had been so readily recruited into the guild at a young age. Slippery as a fresh-oiled eel, Llyra had once described him, encompassing both his body and his skills.
“Be’s quiet now,” Hrahl warned, nudging and pointing ahead.
Their two bulky forms blocked Rhaif’s view. He heard voices carry back to him from the tunnel. He recognized the low tones of the Shrive, accompanied by the cowed acquiescence of the mine’s maestrum.
Rhaif inwardly winced.
Can’t rid myself of these pevvy swinks.
The maestrum called over to them. “You two, take this lot to the privy gaol uppaways. Wait for me there with them.”
A clank and rattle of chains announced the presence of the doomed miners. Rhaif remembered the whispered words of the Shrive, the maestrum’s palm resting atop his dagger. Rhaif wanted to shout a warning, but what would that accomplish?
Only get me killed, too.
Hrahl and Berryl grunted their assent. They hurried forward, exposing Rhaif to the attention of both the maestrum and the Shrive. He kept his face low, which was not unusual in the rare presence of such a holy man, someone who had achieved the status of Highcryst in both alchymy and the religious orders.
Even the two brothers hurried past with hardly a glance.
The maestrum turned away with a command for Rhaif: “And you help me with this.”
The Shrive stood bent over the figure of the bronze statue. It had been laid atop a wheeled flatcart. The man’s hands hovered over the gilded shape, not touching, as if he were warming his palms over a fire.
He finally straightened and turned enough to reveal the black tattoo across his eyes. “Follow me,” he ordered, and led the way into a side passageway. “And be alert, Maestrum Keel.”
Keel waved Rhaif to his side. “Get your arse over here.”
Knowing he could not refuse without drawing attention, Rhaif hurried over. The flatcart had a front and rear handgrip. Keel took hold of the one at the back. Without being told, Rhaif edged around the cart to reach the other.
Together they set off along the tunnel, Rhaif pulling and Keel pushing.
* * *
AFTER A TIME, as they rolled after the Shrive, Rhaif found his gaze returning to the bronze figure. He studied her unblemished form, free of any tarnish. He was awed by the curve and smooth suppleness of her shape. He kept returning to her face. He remembered the serenity captured there, only now from this angle, it looked slightly less peaceful. The perfect brow bore no crease but looked close to pinching with concern. And the full lips appeared drawn thinner. He cocked his head back and forth, squinting at those eyelids. He remembered thinking they had started to open, but now they were plainly sealed, fused even, showing no gaps.
He noted tinier details. Fine wires, a darker bronze, represented delicate lashes. Even her hair—which he had thought was a solid plait—was made of an intricate twining of bronze filaments.
It made no sense to him.
Why go to such detail?
The cart bumped over a ridge in the floor, interrupting his reverie.
“Watch yourself!” Keel warned. “I’ll stripe your hide if any harm is done.”
Rhaif grumbled an apology and focused on the path behind the robed Shrive. He guided the cart to as smooth of a course as possible. Only now did he realize he was lost again. The Shrive was leading them into a maze of ever-narrowing passageways. It was a section of the mine that Rhaif hadn’t known existed.
The walls here had drifted from white chalk to a dark glassy stone. There were no ax or chisel marks. The tunnel looked less like it had been dug out as melted through.
Where are we?
He risked a glance toward Keel. Even the maestrum looked disconcerted, his gaze nervously sweeping the tunnel, as if he had never been here either.
Finally, the Shrive led them to where the tunnel ended at a bronze door. Black diamonds had been imbedded in its surface, forming a curled asp crowned in thorns. All knew that foul mark: the horn’d snaken, the sigil of the dark god ?reyk.
Rhaif gave the Shrive a harder look as the man hauled open the thick door. While the Shriven were a reclusive bunch, there were rumors of a cabal within the order, called the Iflelen, who pursued forbidden arts, ancient magicks and spylls of the darkest nature, and alchymies even blacker still. It was said the Iflelen worshipped ?reyk, marking their efforts with the horn’d snaken. Whispers spoke of blood rites, burnt sacrifices, and the summoning of daemons.
Rhaif wanted to run and keep running. But he caught a firm scowl from Keel. The maestrum’s expression was easy to read.
Move and you die.
With the door open, the Shrive stepped through and waved for them to follow. “Bring the statue to the center.”
Rhaif balked, but Keel pushed the cart, ramming it into him. With no other choice, Rhaif guided the statue across the threshold. The next room was a circular chamber with a domed roof. All the glassy surfaces had been polished into a thousand-faceted mirror, reflecting everything, which dazzled the eye and confused the gaze. It was like walking into the eye of an oxfly.
The view was further confounded by the clutch of figures that swept down upon their group, circling the cart. Their movements, reflected all around, churned his stomach.
Rhaif had to look away. He focused on the cart and statue. But from the corner of his eye, he spotted a shuffle of robes and faces banded in black.
More Shriven.
The one who led them here met three others. They spoke rapidly in a tongue Rhaif did not know. The others were all far older, wrinkled and pocked. One’s features looked more skull than flesh.
Then another figure jostled forward.
Rhaif’s fingers tightened on the cart’s iron handle.
The gods have surely cursed me.
The last of the group was a black-haired man. He was tall with a pointed face, his chin and cheeks shadowed by a trimmed and oiled beard. He wore silken trousers, polished boots, and an embroidered leather vest. He also carried a sheathed sword at his hip, the pommel topped by a priceless diadem of sky-iron.
Two years ago, Rhaif had tried to steal that blade.
He lowered his face and shook the edges of his hood lower. He did not know if the archsheriff of Anvil would remember him, but Rhaif dared not risk being recognized.
Not here, not now.
What is Laach doing in Chalk, a hundred leagues south of Anvil?
A clue came from the man’s next words as he stepped up to the cart with the Shriven. “I don’t understand. How could this accursed object turn the tides of the coming war?”