Chaol debated mentioning the usefulness of cryptic warnings before plunging into battle, but simply entwined his fingers through Yrene’s and launched them down the hall.
61
Yrene counted every step. Not that it helped, but her brain just produced the numbers in an endless tally.
One, two, three … Forty.
Three hundred.
Four twenty-four.
Seven hundred twenty-one.
Down and down they went, scanning every shadow and aisle, every alcove and reading room and nook. Nothing.
Only acolytes quietly working, many packing up for the night. No Baast Cats—not one.
Eight hundred thirty.
One thousand three.
They hit the bottom of the library, the lights dimmer. Sleepier.
The shadows more alert. Yrene saw faces in all of them.
Chaol plunged ahead, sword like quicksilver as they followed Nousha’s directions.
The temperature dropped. The lights became fewer and farther between.
Leather books were replaced with crumbling scrolls. Scrolls replaced by carved tablets. Wooden shelves gave way to stone alcoves. The marble floor turned uncut. So did the walls.
“Here,” Chaol breathed, and drew her into a stop, his sword lifting.
The hall before them was lit by a sole candle. Left to burn on the ground.
And down it: four doors.
Three sealed with heavy stone, but the fourth … Open. The stone rolled aside. Another lone candle before it, illumining the darkness beyond.
A tunnel. Deeper than the Womb—deeper than any level of the Torre.
Chaol pointed to the rough dirt of the passage ahead. “Tracks. Two sets, side by side.”
Sure enough, the ground had been disturbed.
He whirled to her. “You stay here, I’ll—”
“No.” He weighed the word, her stance, as she added, “Together. We do this together.”
Chaol took another moment to consider, then nodded. Carefully, he led her along, showing her where to step to avoid any loud noises on loose bits of stone.
The candle beckoned by the open tunnel doorway. A beacon. An invitation.
The light danced along his blade as he angled it before the tunnel entrance.
Nothing but fallen blocks of stone and an endless dark passage greeted them.
Yrene breathed in through her nose, out through her mouth. Hafiza. Hafiza was in there. Either hurt or worse, and—
Chaol linked his hand with hers and led her into the dark.
They inched along in silence for untold minutes. Until the light from the sole candle faded behind them—and another appeared. Faintly, far off. As if around a distant corner.
As if someone was waiting.
Chaol knew it was a trap.
Knew the Healer on High had not been the target, but the bait. But if they arrived too late …
He would not let that happen.
They inched toward that second candle, the light as good as ringing the dinner bell.
But he moved forward nonetheless, Yrene keeping pace beside him.
The sole candle grew brighter.
Not a candle. A golden light from the passage beyond. Gilding the stone wall behind it.
Yrene tried to hurry, but he kept their pace slow. Quiet as death.
Though he had no doubt whoever it was already knew they were coming.
They reached the turn in the tunnel, and he studied the light on the far wall, trying to read for any shadows or disruptions. Only light.
He peered around the corner. Yrene did so, too.
Her breath snagged. He had seen some sights in the past year, but this …
It was a chamber, as enormous as the entire throne room in Rifthold’s palace, perhaps larger. The ceiling held aloft on carved pillars receding into the gloom, a set of stairs leading down from the tunnel onto the main floor. He knew why the light had been golden upon the walls.
For illuminated by the torches that burned throughout … Gold.
The wealth of an ancient empire filled the chamber. Chests and statues and trinkets of pure gold. Suits of armor. Swords.
And scattered amongst it all were sarcophagi. Built not from gold, but impenetrable stone.
A tomb—and a trove. And at the very back, rising up on a towering dais …
Yrene let out a small sound at the sight of the gagged and bound Healer on High seated on a golden throne. But it was the woman standing beside the healer, a knife resting on her round belly, that made Chaol’s blood go cold.
Duva. The khagan’s now-youngest daughter.
She smiled at them as they approached—and the expression was not human.
It was Valg.
62
“Well,” said the thing inside the princess, “it certainly took you long enough.”
The words echoed down the massive chamber, bouncing off stone and gold.
Chaol assessed every shadow, every object they passed. All possible weapons. All possible escape routes.
Hafiza did not move as they neared, walking down the broad avenue between the endless, glittering gold and sarcophagi. A necropolis.
Perhaps one enormous, subterranean city, stretching from the desert to here.
When they’d visited Aksara, Duva had remained behind. Claiming that her pregnancy—
Yrene’s hiss told him she realized the same.
Duva was pregnant—and the Valg had a hold on her.
Chaol sized up the odds. A Valg-infested princess, armed with a knife and whatever dark magic, the Healer on High tied to the throne …
And Yrene.
“Because I see you calculating, Lord Westfall, I’ll spare you the trouble and lay out your options for you.” Duva traced gentle, idle lines over her full womb with that knife, barely disturbing the fabric of her gown. “See, you’ll have to pick. Me, the Healer on High, or Yrene Towers.” The princess smiled and whispered again, “Yrene.”
And that voice …
Yrene shook beside him. The voice from that night.
But Yrene lifted her chin as they halted at the base of those steep dais steps, and said to the princess, unfaltering as any queen, “What is it that you want?”
Duva angled her head, her eyes wholly black. The ebony of the Valg. “Don’t you want to know how?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell us, anyway,” Chaol said.
Duva’s eyes narrowed with annoyance, but she let out a small laugh. “These tunnels run right between the palace and the Torre. Those immortal Fae brats buried their royals here. Renegades of Mora’s noble line.” She swept an arm to encompass the room. “I’m sure the khagan would be beside himself to learn of how much gold sits beneath his feet. Another hand to play when the time calls for it.”
Yrene stared and stared at Hafiza, who was watching them calmly.
A woman ready for her end. Who now only wanted to make sure Yrene did not think her frightened.
“I was waiting for you to figure out it was me,” Duva said. “When I destroyed all those precious books and scrolls, I thought you’d certainly realize I was the only one who hadn’t gone to the party. But then I realized—how could you suspect me?” She laid a hand on her full womb. “It was why he chose her to begin with. Lovely, gentle Duva. Too kind to ever be a contender for the throne.” A snake’s smile. “Do you know Hasar tried to take the ring first? She spied it in the wedding trove sent by Perrington and wanted it. But Duva snatched it before she could.” She held up her finger, revealing the broad silver band. Not a glimmer of Wyrdstone.
“It’s beneath,” she whispered. “A clever little trick to hide it. And the moment she spoke her vows to that sweet, lovesick human prince, this went on her hand.” Duva smirked. “And no one even noticed.” A flash of her white teeth. “Except for keen-eyed little sister.” She clicked her tongue. “Tumelun suspected something was wrong. Caught me poking about in forgotten places. So I caught her, too.” Duva chuckled. “Or didn’t, I suppose. Since I shoved her right off that balcony.”
Yrene sucked in a breath.
“Such a wild, impetuous princess,” Duva drawled. “Prone to such moods. I couldn’t very well have her going to her beloved parents and whining about me, could I?”
“You bitch,” Yrene snapped.
“That’s what she called me,” Duva replied. “Said I didn’t seem right.” She rubbed a hand over her belly, then tapped a finger to the side of her head. “You should have heard how she screamed. Duva—how Duva screamed when I pushed the brat off the balcony. But I shut her up fast enough, didn’t I?” She again brought that knife up to her belly and scraped over the silk fabric.