He nods. “Ten minutes.” We’re ushered through and the stone slides shut behind, hiding the Praetorian from view and sealing us in.
I come to a halt as I take in the next room. Smoke from two fresh torches vanishes through thin slits that must circulate the air down here. They light a room that’s about twenty feet in both width and length. More stone walls, though the stifling feeling of the Will cage has vanished.
The space ahead is empty, except for the angled stone slab in the centre of the room, and the man chained to it. An obsidian blade jutting from his chest.
My blood runs cold.
One of the corpses from the ruins on Solivagus? It’s my first thought, but one I dismiss as I take in the man. Deep lacerations cover his face, cleaned and bloodless though they are. He’s clothed, but where skin shows through it’s scratched as well, torn in places. His eyes are closed.
I recognise him. Don’t place from where, not at first. But then I see his neck. Swathed in bandages.
“Rottinggods.” I take a half step back. I remember him on the ground next to Callidus. Throat torn clean out. “He’sdead, Emissa.” Deep unease in my chest, even if I keep my voice steady.
She walks past me. “You remember what I told you, about why I stabbed you during the Iudicium?”
“Of course,” I say slowly.
She picks up something from beside the slab. A medallion. Thin stone, some kind of symbol engraved on it. A scarab, I think, from the glimpse I get.
She drapes it around the corpse’s neck. Steps back.
For a second, nothing happens.
And then the dead man’s eyes snap open.
I WATCH IN DETACHED HORROR AS PALLID SKIN BEGINS TOpull tight around dry wounds, leaving only thin, raw lines. The Anguis corpserasps a breath and jerks. Thrashes. Issues a throttled moan of what could only be intense pain.
“Are you alright?” Emissa’s watching me more than the man. I’ve backed away several steps.
“What in therotting hells?” I whisper it. “No, Emissa. I’m not alright. What is this?”
“This is the Necropolis. The real Necropolis. I told you about iunctii—well, Military found some pre-Cataclysm artifacts that can create them. Bring the dead back to life, and then these swords can force them to do whatever you tell them. To tell you the truth about anything they know.”
I say nothing, just staring at the grotesque form chained in front of me. “So if they really want to know something from someone who’s alive …”
“There’s a reason this place is so secret.”
“Gods’ graves.” I finally rip my gaze from the prisoner to her. Mind racing. An active temptation for Military to abuse Birthright. I wonder how often they resist it. “How did you getmeapproved to see this?”
“I didn’t. Veridius spoke to my father. Strings were pulled.” Her mouth twists. “The Praetorian wasn’t joking about the time limit, and I’ve been here before, so whatever questions you have—ask them now.”
I stare at her. Swallow numerous dazed objections, and turn back to the prisoner. His breathing has calmed, but he still wheezes awfully. His eyes are wide. Terrified as they stare into mine. “Can he even talk?”
“He can talk.”
Vek. I turn to the man. Some combination of horror and fury roiling as I lock eyes with the corpse of the man who killed my friend. “What is your name?”
“Antonius … Pius.” Wheezing and hoarse. Pained. Dragged unwillingly from his lips.
“Are you Anguis?”
A nod. The movement clear.
I glance at Emissa. “You’re sure he has to tell the truth?” Asking more to pause and steady myself, than to be sure.
“The truth as far as he knows. The truth according to him.”
I take a breath. Queasy, mind racing. At the least, I came here to confirm what the scarred stranger told me during the Iudicium, even if the truth of it seems to have been playing out in Caten’s politics. And I wanted to see exactlyhow the Anguis had managed to sow so much doubt using only a single prisoner’s admissions.
