All this time it had been right beneath my feet. The Stone of Earth.
“Sky exists to contain and channel its power, but here, so close, there is always some leakage.” Nahadoth’s finger shifted slightly. “That power is what keeps him alive.”
My mouth was dry. “And… and what did you mean about… sending the Stone to the ritual chamber?”
He pointed up this time, and I saw that the ceiling of the oubliette chamber had a narrow, rounded opening at its center, like a small chimney. The narrow tunnel beyond went straight up, as far as the eye could see.
“No magic can act upon the Stone directly. No living flesh can come near it without suffering ill effects. So even for a relatively simple task, like moving the Stone from here to the chamber above, one of Enefa’s children must spend his life to wish it there.”
I understood at last. Oh, gods, it was monstrous. Death would be a relief to the unknown man in the pit, but the Stone somehow prevented that. To earn release from that twisted prison of flesh, the man would have to collaborate in his own execution.
“Who is he?” I asked. Below, the man had managed at last to sit down, though with obvious discomfort. I heard him weeping quietly.
“Just another fool caught praying to an outlawed god. This one happens to be a distant Arameri relation—they leave a few free to bring new blood into the clan—so he was doubly doomed.”
“H-he could…” I could not think. Monstrous. “He could send the Stone away. Wish it into a volcano, or some frozen waste.”
“Then one of us would simply be sent to retrieve it. But he won’t defy Dekarta. Unless he sends the Stone properly, his lover will share his fate.”
In the pit, the man uttered a particularly loud moan—as close to a wail as his warped mouth could manage. Tears filled my eyes, blurring the gray light.
“Shhh,” Nahadoth said. I looked at him in surprise, but he was still gazing into the pit. “Shhh. It will not be long. I’m sorry.”
When Nahadoth saw my confusion, he gave me another of those strange smiles that I did not understand, or did not want to understand. But that was blindness on my part. I kept thinking that I knew him.
“I always hear their prayers,” said the Nightlord, “even if I’m not allowed to answer.”
We stood at the foot of the Pier, gazing down at the city half a mile below.
“I need to threaten someone,” I said.
I had not spoken since the oubliette. Nahadoth had accompanied me to the Pier, me meandering, him following. (The servants and highbloods gave us both a wide berth.) He said nothing now, though I felt him there beside me.
“The Minister of Mencheyev, a man named Gemd, who probably leads the alliance against Darr. Him.”
“To threaten, you must have the power to cause harm,” Nahadoth said.
I shrugged. “I’ve been adopted into the Arameri. Gemd has already assumed I have such power.”
“Beyond Sky, your right to command us ends. Dekarta will never give you permission to harm a nation which has not offended him.”
I said nothing.
Nahadoth glanced at me, amused. “I see. But a bluff won’t hold this man long.”
“It doesn’t have to.” I pushed away from the railing and turned to him. “It only needs to hold him for four more days. And I can use your power beyond Sky… if you let me. Will you?”
Nahadoth straightened as well, to my surprise lifting a hand to my face. He cupped my cheek, drew a thumb along the bottom curve of my lips. I will not lie: this made me think dangerous thoughts.
“You commanded me to kill tonight,” he said.
I swallowed. “For mercy.”
“Yes.” That disturbing, alien look was in his eyes again, and finally I could name it: understanding. An almost human compassion, as if for that instant he actually thought and felt like one of us.
“You will never be Enefa,” he said. “But you have some of her strength. Do not be offended by the comparison, little pawn.” I started, wondering again if he could read minds. “I do not make it lightly.”
Then Nahadoth stepped back. He spread his arms wide, revealing the black void of his body, and waited.
I stepped inside him and was enfolded in darkness. It might have been my imagination, but it seemed warmer this time.
19. Diamonds
You are insignificant. One of millions, neither special nor unique. I did not ask for this ignominy, and I resent the comparison.
Fine. I don’t like you, either.
We appeared in a stately, brightly lit hall of white and gray marble, lined by narrow rectangular windows, under a chandelier. (If I had never seen Sky, I would have been impressed.) At both ends of the hall were double doors of polished dark wood; I assumed we faced the relevant set. From beyond the open windows I could hear merchants crying their wares, a baby fussing, a horse’s neigh, womens’ laughter. City life.
No one was around, though the evening was young. I knew Nahadoth well enough by now to suspect that this was deliberate.
I nodded toward the doors. “Is Gemd alone?”
“No. With him are a number of guards, colleagues, and advisors.”
Of course. Planning a war took teamwork. I scowled and then caught myself: I could not do this angry. My goal was delay—peace, for as long as possible. Anger would not help.
“Please try not to kill anyone,” I murmured, as we walked toward the door. Nahadoth said nothing in response, but the hall grew dimmer, the flickering torchlit shadows sharpening to razor fineness. The air felt heavy.
This my Arameri ancestors had learned, at the cost of their own blood and souls: the Nightlord cannot be controlled. He can only be unleashed. If Gemd forced me to call on Nahadoth’s power—
Best to pray that would not be necessary.
I walked forward.
The doors flung themselves open as I came to them, slamming against the opposite walls with an echoing racket that would bring half Gemd’s palace guard running if they had any competence. It made for a suitably stunning entrance as I strode through, greeted by a chorus of surprised shouts and curses. Men who had been seated around a wide, paper-cluttered table scrambled to their feet, some groping for weapons and others staring at me dumbly. Two of them wore deep-red cloaks that I recognized as Tok warrior attire. So that was one of the lands Menchey had allied with. At the head of this table sat a man of perhaps sixty years: richly dressed, salt-and-pepper-haired, with a face like flint and steel. He reminded me of Dekarta, though only in manner; the Mencheyev were High North people, too, and they looked more like Darre than Amn. He half-stood, then hovered where he was, more angry than surprised.
I fixed my gaze on him, though I knew that Menchey, like Darr, was ruled more by its council than its chieftain. In many ways we were merely figureheads, he and I. But in this confrontation, he would be the key.
“Minister,” I said, in Senmite. “Greetings.”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re that Darre bitch.”
“One of many, yes.”
Gemd turned to one of his men and murmured something; the man hurried away. To supervise the guards and figure out how I’d gotten in, no doubt. Then Gemd turned back, his look appraising and wary.
“You’re not among many now,” he said slowly. “Or are you? You couldn’t have been foolish enough to come alone.”