Mort hissed when she appeared at the door to the tomb. “Plan on desecrating any other sacred objects tonight?”
Carrying a satchel full of papers and books that she’d grabbed from her rooms, Celaena merely patted his head as she walked by. His bronze teeth clanked against each other as he sought to bite her.
The tomb was filled with moonlight bright enough to see by. And there, directly across the tomb from the eye in the wall, was another eye, golden and gleaming.
Damaris. It was Damaris, the Sword of Truth. Gavin could see nothing but what was right—
It is only with the eye that one can see rightly.
“Am I so blind?” Celaena dumped her leather satchel on the floor, the books and papers spilling across the stones.
“It appears so!” Mort sang. The eye-shaped pommel was the exact size …
Celaena lifted the sword from its stand and unsheathed it. The Wyrdmarks on the blade seemed to ripple. She rushed back to the wall.
“In case you didn’t realize,” called Mort, “you’re supposed to hold the eye against the hole in the wall and look through it.”
“I know that,” snapped Celaena.
And so, not daring to breathe the entire time, Celaena lifted the pommel to the hole until both eyes were evenly aligned. She stood on her toes and peered in—and groaned.
It was a poem.
A lengthy poem.
Celaena fished out the parchment and charcoal she’d stashed in her pocket and copied down the words, darting to and from the wall as she read, memorized, double-checked, and then recorded. It was only when she had finished the last stanza that she read it aloud.
By the Valg, three were made,
Of the Gate-Stone of the Wyrd:
Obsidian the gods forbade
And stone they greatly feared.
In grief, he hid one in the crown
Of her he loved so well,
To keep with her where she lay down
Inside the starry cell.
The second one was hidden
In a mountain made of fire,
Where all men were forbidden
Despite their great desires.
Where the third lies
Will never be told
By voice or tongue
Or sum of gold.
Celaena shook her head. More nonsense. And the rhyme with “Wyrd” and “feared” was off. Not to mention the break in the rhyme scheme in the final lines.
“Since you clearly knew that the sword could be used to read the riddle,” she said to Mort, “then why don’t you save me some trouble and tell me what the hell this one’s about?”
Mort sniffed. “It sounds to me like it’s a riddle giving the location of three very powerful items.”
She read through the poem again. “But three what? Sounds like the second thing is hidden in—in a volcano? And the first and third ones …” She gritted her teeth. “‘Gate-Stone of the Wyrd’ … What is this a riddle for? And why is it here?”
“Isn’t that the question of the millennia!” Mort crowed as Celaena walked back to the papers and books she’d scattered at the other end of the tomb. “You’d better clean up the mess you brought down here, or I’ll ask the gods to send some wicked beastie after you.”
“Already happened; Cain beat you to it months ago.” She replaced Damaris in its stand. “Too bad the ridderak didn’t take you off the door when he burst through.” A thought hit her, and she stared at the wall in front of her—where she’d once fallen to avoid being ripped apart. “Who was it that moved the carcass of the ridderak?”
“Princess Nehemia, of course.”
Celaena twisted to look toward the doorway. “Nehemia?”
Mort made a choking sound and cursed his loose tongue.
“Nehemia was—Nehemia was here? But I only brought her to the tomb …” Mort’s bronze face gleamed in the light of the candle she’d set before the door. “You’re telling me that Nehemia came here after the ridderak attacked? That she knew about this place all along? And you’re only telling me now?”
Mort closed his eyes. “Not my business.”
Another deceit. Another mystery.
“I suppose if Cain could get down here, then there are other entrances,” she said.
“Don’t ask me where they are,” Mort said, reading her mind. “I’ve never left this door.” She had a feeling it was another lie; he always seemed to know about the layout of the tomb and when she was touching things she shouldn’t be.