As wondrous as this all was, Rhaif recognized the press of time. He swallowed and tried again. “I must go.”
He headed toward the smaller door at the rear of the chamber, while trying to free his hand. She refused to let go. Instead, she followed his steps, keeping abreast of him.
Rhaif exhaled in relief.
Good enough for now.
He continued across the chamber, fearing she might stop at any moment and anchor him in place again. He sensed he needed to keep her moving, like a boulder rolling down a hill. Still, he did not hurry, lest she lose her balance. As he led her, her gaze swept the room, her face hard and unreadable.
He reached the door and found it unlocked. He hauled it open and got them both through into a small anteroom. The reek of blood and bowel struck his nose. Even the bronze woman recoiled.
To the left was a stone table with shackles. Blood pooled around it. On the floor, as if tossed aside, was a square of bone, flesh, and skin. Rhaif pictured the poor girl, the bloodbaerne sacrifice.
The bronze woman stepped toward the bloody remains, but Rhaif restrained her—or, considering how much she weighed, at least discouraged her. “No, there’s nothing we can do.”
A glance to the other side revealed a pile of discarded clothes: worn leather sandals, a shapeless beige shift, and an overcloak that looked more patches than cloth.
Must’ve belonged to the sacrificed girl.
Rhaif urged the bronze woman over to the pile. “You need to dress. Can’t have you traipsing around bare-assed to the world.”
He certainly couldn’t sneak off with a walking bronze statue next to him.
She cocked her head, her expression quizzical.
Gods, woman, must I do everything?
He pantomimed with one hand, and with some guidance, he got the shift over her head. Slowly, she grew to understand his intent. She let go of his hand long enough to drape the dress to her knees. She then bent down to the cloak and frowned a moment. Before he could tell her anything, she began to don it.
“Sandals, too,” he warned.
No one went barefooted in the territories, not across the ember-hot sands that could blister a sole in two steps. It was one of the reasons the overseers kept the prisoners shoeless, all the better to keep them from running. He stared over at the woman. While he didn’t know if such bronze could be damaged by the heat, the oddity of a woman strolling without protection across the scorch would draw unwanted attention.
Then Rhaif finally realized the truth. He looked down at his empty hands.
I’m free.
He glanced to the tunnel that exited the antechamber. He stepped in that direction as the woman struggled with the overcloak. If he ran now, he might get away. Escaping unseen would be far easier without such a mystery in tow.
Still, he closed his eyes with an exasperated sigh, knowing he must stay.
You are such a swink.
He opened his eyes and turned to her as she managed to secure the overcloak. He crossed over and pulled the cloak’s hood over her head, doing his best to hide her unnaturalness. He stared into her eyes, which in the shadows of the hood did indeed glow faintly. Her expression—like her bronze form—softened.
An arm rose. He expected her to grip him again, but she only passed the back of her hand across his cheek. The warmth melted into him. Then she lowered her arm and bent down to the discarded sandals.
He helped her don them, then gave her a final inspection. He eyed her up and down as she stood. “As long as no one looks too closely…” he muttered, then silently added, What am I thinking?
He shrugged and headed toward the tunnel.
He reached it just as a distant ringing echoed. With each breath, it grew louder, spreading throughout the mine.
The gongs.
He glanced back to the bronze countenance.
We’re too late.
* * *
RHAIF GAVE NO heed to caution. He had no time for a studious assessment of his route. He simply ran, only checking every now and again to see if the woman followed him. She kept pace. Her eyes glowed back at him from the shadow of her cloak’s hood. He read no panic in that gaze, which greatly irritated him.
Gods be, I should already be gone.
The clanging gongs chased him down the tunnel. He stuck to what appeared to be the main passageway. Side tunnels cut away, but they appeared smaller, more likely to winnow away to dead ends. Other chambers stood open or were barred shut. He ignored them all—though he was thief enough to wonder what treasures might be buried down in these Shriven halls.
The only promising sign was that the glassy black rock returned to white chalk veined through with dark brimstan. He also felt the tunnel steadily rising. The pressure in his ears eased with every hundred steps. The air turned drier with each panted breath.
Finally, the passageway leveled out and ran for some straight distance. Hoping for the best, he fled faster. He found the end of the tunnel sealed with a door. He ran up to it, his heart choking him with its hammering.
He feared the overseers had already locked this way down, as they would all the exits from the mine once the gongs sounded. Still, he prayed he was in time. He reached the door and tried the latch. It would not give. He fought it some more, but to no avail.
Already barred …
He leaned his head against the studded wood, accepting his cursed fate.
Then a hand shoved him aside. The bronze woman placed both palms against the door and pinioned her legs behind her. She braced her limbs, put her shoulder against the frame, and strained harder. Her feet ripped clean out of the leather sandals and dug into the chalk, gouging deep.
Rhaif backed away.
Gods be …
Metal groaned—whether door or woman, he could not say. Then came a booming splintering, and the door crashed open. Sunlight blasted into the dark tunnel.
Rhaif lifted a forearm against it but was still blinded. He stumbled out of the tunnel. “Hurry,” he urged the woman who had freed him.
They were far from safe.
As he hobbled into the open, he blinked away the glare, needing to get his bearings. Shouts rang out all around. The braying of oxen rose to the right. The pounding of raw ore under hammers was everywhere. Not far off, sifters and washers sang brightly at their slurries and cribles.
Within a few steps, Rhaif’s sight returned to reveal the chaos of topside. Past the mine’s many pit mouths, a whole village spread. A mix of tents, wooden stables, smithies, foundries, and whorehouses were all set amidst towering hills of mine tailings and waste gob. Ox-driven wagons worked their way through a maze of roads, the paths long ago rutted into the stone by the passing centuries. All about men and women labored: pumpmen, smelters, sorters, carpenters. Others straddled horses or rode hardy Aglerolarpok ponies—a rare sight so far east and said to be worth their weight in silver.
Rhaif glanced behind him to the open door and shattered wood. The entrance was well to the side of the village, far from the nearest pit mouth. No one seemed to have noted their arrival or heard the splintering blast.
Clearly this entrance was meant to be far from prying eyes.
All the better.
“This way,” he urged his companion.
He set off on a path to skirt around the village of Chalk. He wanted to keep those hills of barren ore between him and any eyes looking this way. He hurried but did his best not to look rushed or suspicious. He had a goal in mind and intended to reach it.