For a moment he felt an unexpected temptation to join in the reveling. But no, the Victus stood above the ranks of mere men. They were the masters of the fates. The spinners of webs. The patient spider awaiting its prey. He could feel the trembling strain on the lines. It was time to act, time to bite, time to feast on blood.
Corriveaux reached the end of the corridor and opened another door that led down into the dungeons. As he passed, Leerings meant for light greeted him. His boots clipped on the rough stone steps as he hurried his way down. At the base of the steps, a door Leering blocked the way. These had also been taken from the abbeys and would only open with the proper password.
Unconquerable.
The door responded to his thought and swung open with a grinding sound that made him squirm. Flames dimly lit the passageway beyond, and the smell of nutmeg hung in the air. Corriveaux entered and walked down the small arched corridor. Rooms were set into each archway along both sides of the main gallery. Within these alcoves were shelves and tables that sagged under the weight of gleaming maston tomes. Buried deep within the ground, it was a place sacred to the Victus. It was the inner sanctum, the only place where the tomes were allowed to be read. The Leerings were triggered so that if anyone attempted to carry one of the aurichalcum tomes away, all of them would be instantly engulfed in fire.
The tomes contained rich secrets, and one of Corriveaux’s favorite pleasures was to come here and glean knowledge from the pages.
Another chamber—Corriveaux’s destination—rested at the very end of the corridor. The heavy wooden door gaped open.
“Corriveaux,” said a raspy, gravelly voice as he reached the threshold.
He could not see the man behind the voice.
“Where are you?” he answered.
“Where you cannot see me,” came the reply. “Put your dagger on the plinth.”
That was different. A Victus’s dagger was his only safeguard against murder. Being asked to put it down was a request for absolute trust and fidelity. The dagger was a symbol. The members of the Victus did not all know one another’s identities. Only the Hand knew. The dagger was a sign to show the carrier’s allegiance, a token that enabled him to walk unmolested past any Dochte Mandar and fulfill his assignment, regardless of where he traveled.
Corriveaux did not hesitate to walk up and put his dagger on the stone plinth positioned beneath a light Leering by the entrance to the room. Standing at the edge of it, he could see a shadow move on his left. He did not flinch.
“One of you has betrayed me,” the dark voice growled.
Corriveaux felt a spasm of startled surprise. He dared not utter a word, but the hairs on his neck bristled with fear and dread. Could it truly be him?
A heavy step sounded, followed by a dragging noise. Corriveaux knew the Hand had a stump for one leg. His movement was ponderous due to his girth. A gnarled, meaty fist closed on the dagger hilt on the plinth.
Corriveaux wanted to protest his innocence, but he knew it would be foolish. If the Hand believed it was him, he would die regardless of his innocence. He stood calmly, steeling himself, trying to keep a ball of sweat from dripping down his cheek, through sheer force of will.
“What news from Assinica?” the man rasped, bringing the dagger out of the shaft of light. He coughed wetly.
“They have fled,” Corriveaux said tautly, keeping his eyes trained on the light. He wanted to flinch and flee, but he knew it would mean instant death.
“Yes,” the Hand said in his guttural tone. “I expected this when you let the High Seer slip away.”
“I—” Corriveaux checked himself just in time. He blinked, trying to keep his thoughts collected.
A wheezing laugh followed his self-correction. “There are only three men who know enough to betray us,” the Hand whispered. “You. Walraven. And Gastone. All three of you are uncommonly clever and motivated. All three patiently bide your time for my death. I know that. But the traitor must meet his fate, and soon, if we are to succeed.”
Corriveaux could almost feel the Hand’s hot breath on his neck as the other man came around behind him. The stump-like appendage thudded once more and fell silent.
“It is you I have chosen, Corriveaux. You are young. You are ambitious. You are impatient.” A low chuckle sounded. “You know what happens next.”
There was a grunt and then a gasp.
Corriveaux whirled, watching in horror as the Hand pulled the bloody dagger out of his own stomach. The hulk of a man shuddered and dropped to one knee, his meaty fist clutching the front of Corriveaux’s tunic. He dropped the dagger to the stone floor, and it clattered away.
Corriveaux stared at the Hand in shock as blood began pattering on the floor.
“You will lead us,” the Hand hissed, his voice full of pain. “I will counsel you from the dark pools now. Your rivals must . . . be destroyed. Do not trust them. One of them . . . is the traitor.”
His puffy face and jowls quivered. His eyes were fierce with determination.
“Bring back the hetaera,” he said. “Destroy the world. Or the mastons will defeat us.” And then he collapsed.
CHAPTER TWO
The King’s Threat