In the light of the torches, Robrand looked older than he was and even more harsh. “I’ll try.” He gestured and the two ogres retreated up the stairs.
Nearly a dozen paces farther along the corridor, a brazier full of hot coals stood beside another door. An older ogre with stringy gray hair tended it, stirring the coals with a heavy poker. The hilts of several knives protruded from the brazier, their blades buried inside it. A hobgoblin sword and other gear-Ekhaas’s presumably-lay in the shadows nearby. The ogre looked up as Robrand and the others approached. His nose was missing, lending a strangely flat quality to his voice when he spoke. “As you orders, General. Waits for you.”
“Well done, Lor. Leave us for now.”
The ogre looked disappointed. “Leaves?”
“Tzaryan’s guests will speak with the prisoner first. I’ll summon you back when they’re finished.”
The old ogre’s scarred face fell, but he pushed past Geth and the others and headed for the stairs. Geth choked and held his breath as the ogre passed-the smell of smoke and burned flesh clung to him. Dandra closed her eyes for a moment and looked away.
Robrand strode past the brazier and up to the door. “Singe,” he said. “Help me.” Between the two of them, they lifted the bar that lay across the door and dropped it to one side. Robrand stepped back. “She’s all yours for as long as you need,” he said. “She’s gagged right now-you’ll want to take that off, but be careful of her spells.” He turned to go.
“You’re not staying?” asked Dandra.
“You don’t need me and I have to tell Tzaryan about Chain,” he said. “Come find me in the upper levels when you’re finished. You remember how to find your way back?”
Dandra and Singe both nodded. Robrand gestured for two of the orc slaves to leave their torches behind in brackets on the walls, then left with the other slaves lighting his way.
Singe drew a deep breath and turned to the door. “Let’s see what Ekhaas can tell us about Taruuzh Kraat.” He tugged the door open.
The cell beyond was possibly the first cramped space that Geth could remember seeing in Tzaryan Keep. A single ogre would have been squeezed tight in the cell; two creatures of human size could have stood close within it. Ekhaas crouched against one wall, chained to it by a collar around her neck. Her hands were bound and her mouth, as Robrand had said, gagged. She still wore her studded armor, though her hair was no longer so severely drawn back. Singe glanced at Dandra, then stepped into the cell alone while the rest of them watched from the doorway.
Above the gag, Ekhaas’s eyes were bright and hard. Her wolflike ears stood straight. “I’m going to take the gag off,” Singe told her. “Bite me or try to cast a spell and it goes back on.” He reached behind the hobgoblin’s head. The gag fell.
Ekhaas didn’t move except to lick her lips, working saliva around her mouth. There was a bucket of water close to the brazier Lor had left behind. Geth grabbed it and cautiously scooped some liquid into his mouth. It was stale, but clean. “Singe,” he said, passing the bucket into the cell. The wizard took it and offered it to Ekhaas. She only regarded it with disdain.
“I won’t take water from someone who intends to defile Taruuzh Kraat,” she said, the cedar-smoke voice that Geth remembered rough and cracking.
“You might as well,” said Singe. “We’ve already been inside. We found your hole-that’s how we got in.”
Ekhaas’s ears twitched back. Her lips drew away from sharp teeth. Singe held the bucket closer, tipping it so that she could drink.
“Drink,” he said. Ekhaas stared at the water, then stretched out her neck and sipped, her eyes rolled up to watch Singe. The sip turned into a gulp, the gulp into a greedy guzzle. Singe let her drink her fill, then took the bucket away as she sat back.
“Now,” he said, “let’s make sure we all understand the situation. Tzaryan Rrac is going to have you tortured. We may be able to persuade him to set you free. All you need to do is answer some questions for us and we’ll talk to Tzaryan.” He waited but Ekhaas made no response. He set the bucket aside and crossed his arms, looking down at the hobgoblin. “The General said you were a member of the Kech Volaar and that you knew something about the ruins.”
“I am a duur’kala, a dirge-singer, of the Kech Volaar,” Ekhaas said haughtily. “I know tales of glory from times before your ignorant kind set foot on this land, human.”
Geth saw Singe stiffen, but the wizard kept his voice neutral. “Share some of them with us then. We’ve come a long way to learn about Taruuzh Kraat. We’ve been inside. We’ve seen the writing. We’ve seen the great hall and the grieving tree.” Ekhaas’s eyes narrowed and her ears sank low. “We didn’t touch anything,” Singe told her. “We’re not treasure hunters. We just need to know about something. It’s important.”
He crouched down before her, putting himself at eye level with her. “Tell us about Marg and the stones,” he said. “Tell us about the father of the grieving tree. Who was he?”
Ekhaas’s ears flicked sharply. Her lips twisted and she gave a bitter laugh. “Khaavolaar! You ask the things that lull a child to sleep. You know nothing, human.” She sat back against the wall. “Go away. Leave me to my fate.”
Singe stood up again. “I know where there’s another device like Marg’s,” he said. “I know what became of the stone that he made.”
Ekhaas sat forward sharply. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not.” He glared at her. “I’d wager that you’ve found signs that someone-or something-lived in Taruuzh Kraat for a long time about two centuries ago. His name is Dah’mir and he’s a dragon. We believe that he came to Taruuzh Kraat to study the writing on the walls and to learn how to create his own version of Marg’s device for trapping mind flayers. We know that his servants took Marg’s stone.” He bent low to stare into her face. “Dah’mir follows the Dragon Below and we think that he was trying to use the stone to create servants with the power of mind flayers and a resistance to Gatekeeper magic. And if it takes a child’s tale for us to understand more, then you’re going to tuck us in and sing us a lullaby.”
He stood straight once more and turned away from Ekhaas. His face was flushed. Behind him, Ekhaas was still, her ears standing straight, her dark eyes intent. Geth held his breath-just as Dandra did on one side of him and Orshok on the other-waiting to see what would happen.
Ekhaas drew a breath. “Mothers of the dirge, forgive me,” she said softly, then sat as straight as her bonds would allow. “You’ve seen Taruuzh Kraat backward, human. Marg was nothing but a jealous madman. The device he built, the stone he created, were flawed reflections-poor attempts to emulate the genius of his master.”
Singe turned back to face her. “We know. We saw the statue. Who was Marg’s master?”
“Taruuzh.” Ekhaas’s voice swelled with pride. “What did you think ‘Taruuzh Kraat’ meant, chaat’oor? It is the smithy of Taruuzh, a stronghold of genius against the armies of the daelkyr. Taruuzh was the greatest daashor of his time-the crafter of marvels, the inventor of wondrous weapons.”
“A daashor is an artificer?”
Ekhaas bared her teeth. “A daashor would make one of your artificers look like a wandering tinker.”
“The inscription on the statue in Taruuzh Kraat called him the father of the Grieving Tree,” said Dandra.
“The true Grieving Tree was his greatest creation. The one that stands in Taruuzh Kraat was said to be the first, but before Taruuzh died, a grieving tree stood in every city of the empire. The secret of their making was lost in the Desperate Times, but even today, hobgoblins of all clans emulate their use.”
“What was so great about them?” Geth growled. “What did they do?”
Ekhaas’s eyes darted to him. They burned with a zealous intensity that left him wishing he hadn’t said anything. “The Grieving Trees kill people, shifter. A criminal to be executed is hung upon a Grieving Tree. Today, the criminal must be broken and left to die, but in the time of the Empire, the tree drew his life out of him.”