Michel reached for another rock, but his hand touched smooth, polished wood. “No,” he said, pulling his pistol out of the rubble. “This is.”
The blast took je Tura full in the chest. Je Tura jerked back, staring down at Michel in disgust, then stumbling to one side. He dropped his sword with a clatter, then fell beside it.
It took Michel over a minute to get to his feet, ears still ringing. Nothing seemed broken, but his whole damned body hurt. It took him well over a minute more to reload the pistol with trembling hands and step over to je Tura. He claimed the other’s lantern and kicked the sword away from his hand.
Je Tura looked up at him balefully, clutching his chest, jaw clenched, not making a sound. Michel raised his pistol and aimed it at je Tura’s head.
“Why’d you betray us?” je Tura demanded.
“You say that like I was ever one of you,” Michel responded, his voice quiet lest someone on the other side of that pile of rubble overhear. “Don’t get high and mighty with me, je Tura. You’ve been bombing public spaces for a month now. Killing children. Civilians. You’re a piece of shit.”
“You haven’t seen what I’ve seen.”
Michel considered pulling the trigger, not giving je Tura the satisfaction of a few last words. But his interest was piqued. “What have you seen?”
“You know about the godstone?”
“What of it?”
“You know what they’re doing to try to get it working?”
“I don’t.”
“Well, civilians isn’t even the start of it.” Je Tura shifted, and Michel watched carefully to be sure he wasn’t reaching for a weapon. He continued. “Blood sacrifices, turncoat. They’re marching prisoners and orphans and every damn person they think won’t be missed over to that great big obelisk and slitting their throats. They hang them like pigs to bleed every drop onto the surface and their Privileged and bone-eyes stand around. They chant and they wave their hands and they rub the blood all over the stone.”
The hair on the back of Michel’s neck stood on end. “Why should I believe you?”
“You didn’t know, did you? I can see it from your face. These are the people you signed on with, turncoat. You think they call those foxhead magicians ‘blood sorcerers’ because they like the name?” je Tura laughed, sputtered, and coughed up blood.
“Are you the last one?” Michel demanded. “Is anyone else down here?”
Je Tura grinned at him, and Michel heard someone call his name through that rubble. “Go to the pit,” je Tura told him.
“You first.”
The echo of the shot made the ringing in Michel’s ears worse. He checked to make sure je Tura was definitely dead, and went to the rubble where he noted a small space that revealed a bit of light coming through from the other side. “Is everyone all right?” he called.
“Tenik’s in bad shape,” someone answered. “The rest of us are fine. Je Tura?”
“He’s dead.” Michel looked at his hands, scraped and bloody, and wondered if he’d even be able to walk out of here. “Look, you need to stay put. I can’t dig you out on my own. I’m going to head up and send down diggers and a surgeon. We’ll have you out of there in an hour.” He squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to think of Tenik buried beneath that rubble, body broken from the blast that collapsed the tunnel. “Shit, I’ll have them send a Privileged. Hold tight!”
Michel hurried back up the tunnel as fast as he could manage, holding je Tura’s lantern and following the string. He paused a few chambers over, looking toward the dark room labeled MARA on his map, then looking back toward his trapped escort. Swearing under his breath, he ran down that side passage and into MARA, where he held his lantern up high.
At first, the room seemed completely insignificant. It was neither the largest nor the most interesting of the chambers he’d searched. It was completely empty, perfectly spherical, and there was no adornment but torch recesses in the wall and a single stone slab in the center of the room. He almost turned and left, but something compelled him to step over to that slab. He peered at the dusty stone, noting a narrow indentation that ran around the outside of the slab and then spilled out at the end. It reminded him of the marble slabs in Emerald’s morgue—the way they were designed to catch blood and funnel it to the feet of the body, where it could be cleaned up easily.
This did not look like a morgue.
With a final glance around, Michel rushed to the chamber where his escort had made their detour, then followed his maps toward the closest exit, praying that he wouldn’t run into any more iron grates along the way. He managed to make it to the surface within twenty minutes, and within another ten he was at Yaret’s headquarters. He babbled instructions, calling for Yaret to help Tenik, and then collapsed into a chair across from a table covered in the maps of the catacombs.
A whirlwind of activity followed. Teams of soldiers headed directly into the chapel catacombs, while others went to find the spot where Michel had surfaced. A Privileged was sent for. Michel remained numb, his mind barely working, his eyes still seeing the flash of the explosion and his ears still ringing.
It was several minutes before he realized that Yaret was watching him. “Je Tura is dead,” he reported.
“You already told us,” Yaret said gently.
“Oh. I forgot.” Michel scowled, thinking of that chamber with the morgue slab that definitely wasn’t a morgue slab.
“We’ll get him out of there as quickly as possible. You did well coming to us instead of trying to dig them out yourself.”
“I …” Michel didn’t know what else to say, surprised at how distraught he was over Tenik’s possible death. “I have a question. Tenik said you know Old Dynize.”
“A bit,” Yaret said, clearly caught off guard.
“Do you know the word ‘Mara’?”
“ ‘Mara,’ ‘Mara,’” Yaret muttered. “Oh, yes. It’s the word for sacrifice.”
“Could it be a room for sacrifice, too?”
“I suppose it could, yes. Why do you ask?”
Michel pushed himself to his feet. His valise of maps was still slung over his shoulder, but he couldn’t organize the thought or energy to drop it. A thousand little pieces—information, half suspicions, and loose ends—suddenly clicked together in his brain. He thought of the godstone and of je Tura’s claim of blood sacrifice, and what little he knew of Ka-poel’s childhood. “I have to go.”
“You’re in no shape to go anywhere.”
“It’s okay, I’m not going far.”
CHAPTER 65
Amrec’s hooves hammered the ground as Styke flew through the chaos of the camp of the Third Army. Soldiers milled about, throwing themselves out of his way as he passed, and it was clear no one knew what was going on. Sergeants bellowed at their infantry to fall in line; commissioned officers screamed at each other in confusion. Styke slowed only enough to find Colonel Willen near the entrance to the curtain wall.
“What the pit is going on?” Willen demanded, looking up at the high towers now firing nonstop toward the ocean. “Who are manning those towers? What the pit are they firing at?”
Styke sawed at the reins, Amrec dancing eagerly beneath him. “Dvory has betrayed us. Those towers are manned by Dynize, and they’re firing at a Fatrastan fleet.”
“You must be joking.” Willen was slack-jawed.
“Serious as pit. I just watched Lindet arrive. Dvory has captured her and now aims to sink her fleet. Unless my guess is wrong, he’ll turn the citadel guns on the Third within moments and …” Styke trailed off, realizing that the citadel guns would only make a dent in the fifty thousand men camped so close. The Third had some cannon and scaling ladders, and though they’d lose thousands, they would still be able to take the citadel. Dvory wasn’t that stupid. He had to have backup somewhere. “Your scouts! Have they reported anything suspicious?”
Willen began to sweat visibly. “One of the outriders just came back with word of a large Dynize force nearby. He didn’t see them, just their trail.”
“How far?” Styke demanded.
“A few miles off.”