“Why does it always have to be ruins?” Jasper grumbled, shaking the dust off his hair-feathers. Clouds of it cascaded from the ceiling, jolted free by the presence of living things disturbing the stale air. “Why can’t we ever look for something at, like, an amusement park?”
His question went unanswered as Dorian helped Echo over a precarious pile of fallen stones. They had been climbing through the ruin for what felt like hours but had probably only been forty-five minutes. Echo’s legs were significantly shorter than Dorian’s and Jasper’s, and her calves were beginning to ache with ferocity.
Echo paused, hefting her backpack higher on her shoulders. It contained everything she thought she might possibly need: the silver bowl, the glass vial half full of Caius’s blood, her dagger, water, a flashlight, snacks. Echo didn’t know what Tanith had been feeding Caius this whole time, but she was willing to bet it was terrible.
The temple was majestic in its own way, but it was very much ruined, very much forgotten. Broken statues lay in fragments at their feet; aggressive vines wound their way through holes in the cracked paving stones; the air was thick with the pungent scents of moss and decay. Every now and then, Echo heard a distant noise that was either the sound of an animal in distress or wind cutting through the rubble at just the right frequency to sound like a wailing ghost. She sincerely hoped it was the latter.
“What was this place?” she asked. Once Dorian had identified the location where Caius was being held, Echo had gone into overdrive, preparing for their departure and steeling herself for whatever they might find. It hadn’t occurred to her to ask which ancient Drakharin god the temple had been dedicated to or what rituals had been performed there.
Dorian broke his tense silence to answer her question. “There was a time when every god in our pantheon had a specific place of worship.”
“Before humans spread across practically every available inch of this planet like a plague?” Jasper interjected. “No offense,” he added for Echo’s sake.
“None taken.” Not only did her humanity feel like a thing of the past, but when you’re right, you’re right.
“Yes, quite,” Dorian said. He peered up at one of the statues that was still mostly standing, save for a left arm that had been knocked off at some point over the centuries. The stone figure was relatively humanoid. Two arms (in theory), two legs, one head. But then there were the wings. A set of them jutted forth from the statue’s shoulder blades, creating a wingspan of at least twenty feet. They reminded Echo a bit of bat wings.
“Like the Avicen,” Dorian continued, “our gods don’t have names. We referred to them by their attributes.” He laid a reverent hand on one of the outspread wings. “This temple was built for the god of battle.” He inclined his head to the statues flanking the winged figure. “Those were probably minor gods. They embodied different aspects of the god—bloodlust, justice, mercy. Their places among the pantheon have largely been lost to time.” With a look back at the god of battle, he said, “We only remember the major gods now. So much has been lost.”
Jasper snorted as he sidled up next to Dorian. “God of battle. Really sneaky hiding place you picked here, Tanith.”
Dorian cracked a short-lived grin. “She always was dramatic like that.”
“Bet she’s one of those bad guys who likes to monologue their big evil plan,” Jasper said.
An involuntary and wholly inappropriate giggle burst from Echo’s lips. “Yeah, she is.”
The laughter died as abruptly as it had begun, because it was impossible to remember the new Dragon Prince’s penchant for theatrical verbosity without remembering the death and destruction that came in its wake. Tanith did talk a big game, and her follow-up had a body count. Echo trudged forward, determined to push the memory of smoke and ash and screams from her mind. She picked up her pace, relishing the burn of her muscles as her legs plaintively begged her to slow down.
Jasper kept up a steady stream of chatter. Silence, particularly when it was heavy with sadness, made him uneasy, though Echo had no doubt the litany of questions and voiced thoughts was as much for Dorian’s sake as his own. If Dorian was focused on replying to Jasper’s questions, then he couldn’t use the entirety of his brainpower to agonize over what condition Caius would be in if—when—they found him. Especially if that condition was anything other than “alive and well.”
“Did the Drakharin perform any nefarious rituals here?” Jasper asked. “You know, sacrificing cute, fluffy animals or dancing naked under the light of the full moon?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Magic orgies? That sort of thing? If you have any sordid tales of ancient Drakharin debauchery, I am all ears.”
“Sacrifice has always been a cornerstone of the way we worship,” said Dorian, “though not all the gods desired one. You jest, but ritual intimacy was not uncommon, especially during the harvest—”
“Stop.” Echo held up a hand, motioning for the others to halt.
“But he was just about to tell us about the orgies,” Jasper said, exasperated. “What could be more important than that?”
Wordlessly, Echo pointed to the statue in front of them. It was shorter than the winged figure—a minor deity. A red smear painted the face of whatever forgotten god it had represented. Against the bleached marble of stone flesh, the brownish-red stain stood out in lurid contrast. The blood flaked away at Echo’s touch. It was old, but not very. Old enough to dry, but recent enough to have withstood erasure by the elements and the passage of time. Five smaller smudges orbited the bulk of the blood.
“A handprint,” Echo said. “And I don’t think it’s been here very long.”
Dorian drew closer, his hand reaching for the sword at his hip. He didn’t draw it, but he let his palm rest on the pommel, ready for anything. Leaning forward, he inspected the bloodstain, scrunching his brow in thought.
“The shape is unclear, but the size is right,” he said.
“Do you think Caius left this?” Hope and fear surged in Echo’s heart. If Caius had smeared his blood across the statue’s face, then hopefully they were not far from where he was. But it also meant that he had been bleeding profusely enough to have left a mark of that size.
Dorian nodded, his jaw clenching visibly. “I think so. I hope so.” He pressed a finger to the center of the stain. Flecks of blood broke away from the marble, fluttering to the ground like paper ashes. “It’s been here a week or so, I would wager.”
“So we’re on the right track,” Jasper said. “Though I can’t say I’m overly pleased to be following a trail of blood. Couldn’t he have left bread crumbs like a normal kidnap victim?”