I wait for several hours in what must be a prison cell. It’s small and cold, without a single light or window. I’m desperate for a window, to witness the passage of time, to see the stars and any advice they might have for me, for what little of them I understand. I’ve found strength in the night sky when I could find none in humankind, and so I seek out their light even here, locked away beneath the surface of the world.
On the well-worn floor is nothing but an old cot, where I sit, and a tin water bowl like one might give a dog, which I’ve already drained. The door is narrow and heavy, with a thin slider that can be accessed only from the outside. But the slider is open, letting in light from sconces in the hallway, so I don’t worry too much.
As I lean against the cool wall, dozing, heavy footsteps approach. I start and listen. Three pairs of them, but two drop away, leaving only one pair to reach the door. She blocks the light, which makes her difficult to make out, but I do not miss that she is unhappy, for that expression is similar across all the gods’ creatures.
She’s over seven feet tall, with thick divots in her arms and shoulders marking every massive muscle and taut sinew. Her waist tapers above notably round hips. Her skin is a deep shade of green; dark-auburn hair is pulled away from her face, emphasizing a widow’s peak; and bony studs gleam on her scalp. Ivory teeth bookend her lips and nearly reach her nostrils. Her eyes remind me of uncut topaz. I notice two turquoise beads on her sleeve, similar to Qequan’s.
I stand, and she looks me over briefly, her frown deepening. “You’re Lark.”
I nod.
She grumbles something under her breath, then turns and leaves. I follow, quickening my steps to keep up with her long stride. When I’m at her heels, she says, “Don’t know what use you’ll be at the docks.”
“Docks?” I repeat, ducking to avoid a sconce. “You have ships?”
She gives me an incredulous look. “No.” She rubs the spot between her brows. “Regret knows what I did to deserve this.”
That term, again. Regret. “I’m sorry, but what was your name?”
She drops her hand. “Unach.”
It’s a hard name, oo-natch, and my tongue resists when I repeat it. “And where are we going?”
Unach seems irritated even by my voice. “We’re going to my quarters. The council has decided that you are somehow worth something, and I’m supposed to house you until they can find some other nook to shove you into.”
I guess by her tone and choice of words that the council respected my request to keep my abilities secret, the last thing I’d begged of them before a guard escorted me to that cell.
Worth something. Even children know the trolls value strength above all else. I never considered myself weak, but I’m truly nothing next to the others I’ve met in size and bulk. All the food and exercise in the world would never get me close.
We start up narrow stairs, forcing me to walk directly behind Unach. At least we’re leaving the prison.
“I’m a slayer,” she continues. “I’ll be teaching you the ropes. Literally.”
Her accent is so heavy it sounds like her words barely make it past her lips. I don’t know what she means by the “ropes,” but I hesitate to ask. She mutters something I catch only half of, but I piece together the meaning. Qequan has finally lost his mind. And then what sounds like a curse about humans.
Unach searches through a bag at her side as we reach the top of the stairs, and she hands me a hard, lopsided, bright-pink circle, roughly the size of my hand. “Here.”
I take it, the edges rough and flaky. “What is this?”
Her brow lowers. “What does it look like?” She rolls her eyes. “It’s food, human.” And she starts walking again.
I turn the disk over in my hands, hurrying to catch up. This is food? My stomach tightens and rumbles, so I raise it to my lips. It smells oddly floral and doesn’t taste like much, slightly sweet with a mildly bitter aftertaste. But it’s edible, so I chew and swallow, chew and swallow, until my jaw hurts.
We walk down a narrow corridor that isn’t stonework like the council room or the prison, but solid stone, carved out of the cliffside itself. The corridor gives way to a short wood-and-metal box, which Unach steps into. There’s a pulley inside, and after I join her, Unach tugs on the rope and lifts us up, her biceps bulging impressively. Her clothing appears to be mostly leather, with some fur, covering her shoulders but leaving her arms exposed, save for two leather straps that meet a leather cuff. Bony nubs, roughly the size of coins, protrude from her forearms. I wonder if she catches me staring, for when we reach the next level, she gives me a chiding look and walks even faster than before.
I hurry to follow her, nearly tripping over myself as I take in my surroundings. The short, narrow passageway opens into an atrium lit by sconces and other lights I can’t identify. I assume that the dark holes in the ceiling are flues of some kind to let out smoke. Carefully mortared stonework, concrete, and metal beams are ever present, but here an artful array of iron and wood composes my surroundings, not unlike the architecture of a bridge.
A gleam of starlight falls through a large window ahead, and I look up, catching a glimpse of the constellation Swoop, the spoon. It’s before midnight, then. My hands tighten on the disk in my hands. Swoop is the constellation of harvest and bounty. It seems to say, See? I’ve fed you.
Down toward the shadowed canyon below me, trolls call out to one another, but I can’t understand them. The canyon distends from the city, impossibly deep and dark, but Unach allows me little time to gawk. I glance up and catch sight of one of the Empyrean Bridge’s girders. We are well and truly below the bridge, then. I see nothing else through that sliver of a window, only the bulk of city above me, nearly as dark as the canyon below. Human settlements tend to spread out like an open hand, but Cagmar is long and deep, like a tooth.
My fascination is almost enough to quell my apprehension.
Up, up, up, I’m led, then down again. Unach pushes me through a winding tunnel, past a few watching eyes. No one asks what she’s doing. I wonder whether it’s because she’s unfriendly, or if there’s a different reason. We take another lift and walk a darker corridor before she finally slows at a door. Under the maze of beams and arches, Unach pulls out a heavy key, shoves it in the lock, and turns it.
“Don’t touch anything,” she says. “And stay out of the way. This is only temporary.”