“What was that?” Laach asked, his voice pitched high. “What manner of daemon did you summon into this shell?”
“Not summoned,” Wryth said. “Woken.”
“What is your intent with it?” Laach pressed.
Wryth’s answer was full of dark hunger. “It may take another moon or two before we can answer that. Countless more bloodbaerne sacrifices.”
Rhaif glanced to the dead woman and shivered under his cloak.
Laach scowled, looking dissatisfied, but also pale with terror. “I cannot wait in the depths of Chalk for such a long span. I’ve matters to attend in Anvil.”
“As you should. Return to your duties and leave us to our own work. I will dispatch a skrycrow, keep you abreast of our progress. We have much to study.”
“I will leave you to it then.” The archsheriff turned on a heel and headed stiffly toward the back door. He looked anxious to be rid of this place.
Rhaif narrowed his gaze as Laach departed.
Does that door lead to another way out of the mines, one kept secret from most?
Before he could ponder it further, the Shrive Skerren addressed Wryth. “I would like to assess where the artifact was preserved. It might give us some guidance on how best to proceed from here.”
The others also mumbled their consent.
Even Wryth nodded. “It’s a trip well worth taking, I assure you. I had to hurry earlier. And haste is the scourge to knowledge.”
Rhaif kept his face passive, but his chest squeezed tighter. He pictured the copper egg—and the body sprawled in a pool of blood at its entrance. He prayed the Shriven would put this off for another day.
Wryth ruined this hope with his next words. “I’ll take you now. I’m anxious myself to study it more.”
He headed toward the main door, drawing the others with him, even the hulking form of the Gyn. He stopped long enough to point to Maestrum Keel. “See to the prisoners from earlier. They must not share what we discovered.”
Keel bowed and prepared to follow. “It will be done.”
Rhaif took a step after them, but instead he drew Wryth’s attention.
“You remain here,” the Shrive instructed. “Guard the chamber. None must enter.”
Following the maestrum’s example, Rhaif bowed. “It … It will be done.”
With that, the others reached the entrance, filed out, and slammed the bronze door behind them.
Alone now, Rhaif turned to the statue on the flatcart and the cooling body of the poor sacrifice. His lantern, still hanging at his hip, reflected a thousand times in the mirrored facets.
He crossed over to the bronze woman.
“I can’t seem to escape you,” he whispered.
He remembered how the wayglass’s lodestone had directed him toward her, then continued to point after her, as if fixed to her, drawn to her. He could not dismiss a similar pull in his own chest. Whether it was simple curiosity or something more profound, he felt a connection, as if massive gears had turned the skies and the Urth to bring them together.
He shook his head at such delusions, especially for a lowly thief from Anvil. He pushed down such thoughts. He did not intend to stay a moment longer. With time running short, his best course was to seek another way out of the mines of Chalk—hopefully through that back door that Laach had used.
Still, Rhaif stepped next to the flatcart.
He reached and touched the hand that had lifted earlier, its movement fueled by forbidden alchymies. He found the bronze weirdly warm, but still hard and stiff—which made his heart sink.
What were you expecting, you daft swink?
He lifted his palm and turned toward the back door, knowing he must hurry.
Before he could move away, he felt a touch—then warm fingers closed over his hand.
7
AGHAST AT THE sight of bronze fingers latched on to his, Rhaif yanked his arm back—only to have the grip tighten and trap him. He tried again, but the more he pulled, the more those fingers squeezed. Fearing he might end up with a crushed hand, he relented.
“What do you want?” he gasped at the figure.
The bronze grip grew warmer, the metal going strangely softer.
He gulped and searched around. He stared at the door through which he had hoped to escape. It looked an impossible distance away, especially anchored down by a bronze statue. Still, he knew it wouldn’t be long before the gongs of discovery would be ringing. He had to be gone before they let loose the pack of thylassaurs.
“Let go,” he pleaded. “I have to escape.”
With a wince, he tugged again, expecting a crush of bone. But the grip remained the same—only the response was much worse.
The bronze figure stirred on the cart. The waist bent, lifting her upright, though it took two attempts, requiring her to prop her other arm under her. The head rolled atop its shoulder, as if stretching a kink, and the drape of filamentous hairs shivered, falling loose like any woman’s coif.
Then eyes, framed by long delicate lashes, opened.
He cringed back, expecting to see into the fires of damnation. But instead he found eyes not unlike his own staring back at him, only glassier, with pupils of azure blue that seemed to glow faintly—though the last could be his panicked imagination. That gaze found him, flicking from his trapped hand to his face.
Her head cocked in plain curiosity. Her lips parted, showing a glimpse of bone-white teeth. Her other hand rose and touched those lips, her bronze brow wrinkling, as if sculpted of tanned flesh.
Rhaif noted the fingers clasped to him felt soft and warm.
What manner of daemon has animated this statue?
As much as he should be horrified, he could not look away as she continued to wake. Had she been feigning earlier, perhaps sensing the ill intent of those gathered around her? He knew of many beasts that would pretend to be dead to ward off predators. Or had she simply been building her strength, stoking the alchymies into a mightier fire to rouse her fully?
He could not know—but down deep, he suspected her stirring was meant for him alone. Her eyes continued to stare at him, as if appraising him.
As she did, her hand shifted from her lips and gently combed fingers through her bronze locks, which had taken on a darker sheen as if tarnished. Then with an arch of her back, which lifted her small breasts higher, she swung her legs from the cart to the floor.
He backed to the length of their two joined arms.
She stood, shakily at first. He stared down at her toes, inscribed with fine nails. She began to lose her balance, teetering and leaning toward him.
He tried to steady her, but her weight came close to dropping him to his knees. Despite her animated appearance, she remained as heavy as a statue. Still, he caught her arm with his free hand and helped keep her upright. It took all the strength in his legs and back.
“I got you,” he whispered.
She finally straightened, finding her ease.
He studied her countenance. Ages ago, he had visited the Holy Kath’dral in Anvil. Adorning its main nave, a towering stained-glass window displayed the pantheon of the gods. While the Mother Below had been depicted with a loving expression, the Daughter’s face was as hard as the glass, resolute and unforgiving. She carried a bow in hand and a quiver of arrows across her back. She was sometimes also called the Huntress.
Rhaif stared at the bronze figure, naked and unashamed. From visage to shape, it was as if the Daughter herself had been given form on Urth.