A loud clanging noise echoed in the room and both boys froze. Kihrin frantically gestured to the tallow candle, and Galen snuffed it, plunging the room into complete darkness.
It was like that for several minutes. Galen found the darkness uncomfortable and disquieting and, although he would never admit it, even frightening.
Then he felt a hand clap over his mouth, and he almost screamed before he realized Kihrin had found him. The older brother tugged on Galen’s shirt and whispered, “Look at the light!”
Galen was about to turn on him and chide him for talking nonsense when he realized that no, Kihrin was right, there was a light.
The light formed a fine thread, almost hidden behind rows of stacked boxes and old broken chairs. The light crossed behind them, near the floor, then up from floor to ceiling, then across the ceiling and back down again. Galen, tracing that tiny path of light with his eyes, realized what he was looking at was a doorway. He’d never noticed it from this side, but it was big enough to take Thaena’s statue and all the other larger objects.
Then he heard the voices.
“It could stand a good dusting,” said one voice. Something about the tone made Galen’s skin prickle. Kihrin’s hand on his shoulder tightened, either from warning or fear.
“I can’t very well call in one of the serving staff, now can I?” Galen knew that voice: it was his father, Darzin. Galen put his own hand on top of his brother’s and squeezed back.
There was a third voice then—a rich, velvety baritone. “Of course you can. You’d simply run yourself out of serving staff.” Then the same voice asked, “What was this place?”
“Originally a mausoleum,” the first man explained in his dry, dead voice. “The tomb was built for Saric D’Mon the Eighth and the four dozen concubines he had ordered to be killed upon the occasion of his death.* It was converted into a demon-summoning chamber by High Lord Pedron twenty-five years ago. The doors in the various alcoves and down those hallways lead to the burial chambers for Saric’s wives—Pedron used them to hold prisoners awaiting sacrifice. For a brief time after that, this was a chapel to Thaena under the direction of Therin, but abandoned after he turned away from the church.”
“And I’ve been using the place to test poison recipes,” Galen’s father added.
“Yes,” the third man agreed, “that fits your reputation.” He didn’t make it sound like a compliment.
There was a moment of quiet, and then Darzin said, “You should watch your student. He seems intent on getting himself killed before you’re ready to slay him yourself.”
The first, horrible voice answered with a cold laugh. “He’s capable of taking care of himself.”
“D’Mon,” the third voice said in an unfriendly way, “I understand why you’re necessary, but don’t make the mistake of thinking that means I have to be nice to you. You’re a small-minded, petty bully who has no understanding at all of the real nature of power. If my master didn’t need you, I would take great delight in turning your bones back into the mother’s milk from which they were born, and consider myself to have done a service for the public good.”
Again, a long pause.
“Thank you for letting me know where we stand with each other,” Darzin finally said.
“My pleasure” was the response. “Although I’d hoped you’d be stupid enough to attack me.”
“Enough games,” the dead voice snapped. “Do you know your parents met on this very spot, boy?” he said, addressing the third voice again. “Pedron was holding your mother in preparation for a virgin sacrifice, in that cell right over there, before your father Sandus rescued her.”
“This cell here?” It was all Galen could do not to gasp when the light from the edges of the doorway dimmed. There could be only one explanation: the third man was now standing directly in front of the door, perhaps only a score of feet away from them. If Galen could hear every word that these men said, the reverse was true as well.
“If my memory serves me correctly, yes.”
“So, this is the place where Pedron was claimed by his demon? No wonder you wanted me to see it.”
Darzin snapped, “Yes, yes, it’s just dripping with sticky-sweet sentiment. The point is: will it work for the ritual?”
“Of course,” the third voice agreed. “It’s perfect. The vibrations are almost impossible to ignore. This place is so close to Hell you probably wouldn’t even need the sacrifice to catch Xaltorath’s attention.”
“You’ll have your sacrifice,” Darzin said. “I insist.”
“Oh, we’re agreed on that much. I said you wouldn’t need it to catch his attention. I said nothing about what it would take to keep him on his leash. This one isn’t for amateurs. Our little pet would rip this city apart given half a chance, and he’d start with us.”
“So we’ve seen,” the first voice said. “The last sacrifice was entirely unsuitable. He almost escaped from us. This time it must be blood.”
“I have no shortage of that,” Darzin replied.
“Very well. I leave it in your hands,” the grim voice answered. Galen heard footsteps, pacing. “And either clean the place up yourself or have someone else do it and dispose of them afterward. This dungeon reeks of sweat and fear.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Darzin, in the most deferential tone Galen could ever remember hearing from him.
There were more footsteps as the men walked away, and the light snuffed out. Galen started to move, leather boot scuffing against the stone as he tried to stand, but Kihrin’s hand on his shoulder prevented it. Too late, Galen realized they were not yet out of danger, and he nearly screamed when he heard that third voice again.
“Don’t come back. Next time he’ll find you.” The rich timbered voice was so soft and quiet that Galen almost thought it spoke directly into his mind. The man must have had his mouth pressed against the door. Kihrin’s hand tightened on his shoulder hard enough that Galen bit his lip to keep from yelling out.
“Are you coming?” Galen heard his father say loudly, but from an echoing distance. “Or do you enjoy playing with yourself in the dark?”
“Only dark to someone such as yourself,” the baritone voice corrected. This time Galen heard the man’s shoes scuff against the slate floor as he walked away. There was also a swish of fabric: robes of some kind or a heavy cloak. After a moment, a clanging sound echoed that Galen could now identify: the sound of a heavy iron bar being moved against a door.
Fabric moved as Kihrin somehow managed to shove all their food items back onto the blanket, sweeping it all up into a ball in the dark.
“Quick, take my hand,” Kihrin whispered.
Galen started at every noise as they rushed back out along the tunnel. He was so terrified he was close to tears. When they reached the servants’ hall, Kihrin stopped Galen from running. He dropped the blanket filled with spilled jars onto a servant’s cart. Still holding Galen’s hand, he strode briskly to the front of the First Court and called for an escort of guards and carriage.
At least he looked calm to most. Only Galen could tell by the weight of his intertwined fingers that Kihrin was shaking.
Then again, so was he.