I grimace. “I did not know. I can put it back. Get another.”
“No. Your taking it is being seen as presumption, but your discarding it would be an insult that few here would abide. It is done.” Lir hesitates, watching Gallchobhar’s face grow redder and redder, then squeezes me encouragingly on the shoulder. “Keep your mind clear and you will fight well, Deaglán. I have no doubt.”
“Thanks,” I mutter under my breath as he steps away and Gallchobhar stalks around the table to stand in front of me. The man is even bigger, up close.Six and a half feet of barely bounded muscle. Bearded and scarred and angry. His long, beautifully carved spear a toy in his massive grasp.
My heart pounds. I was never skilled with a spear, even with two hands. And though I have faced men bigger than me many times, Gallchobhar is no Octavii. This isn’t meant to be a fight to the death, but these are real weapons and the way the giant in front of me is glowering leaves little doubt as to his intent.
He takes his stance. I take mine, awkward though it is.
“Begin,” commands Rónán, the single word slicing through the ongoing angst of the crowd.
The whites of Gallchobhar’s eyes flood to black.
Vek.
XXV
THE SHINING, CUTTING POLISHED BLACK OF DUAT SPEARSthe sky as we approach. I watch it through Duodecim’s eyes. Willing it closer. Its growing presence the only reason I can still force myself to stillness, to continue the façade. Even the threat of death seems faint next to the pain.
We near, our height never deviating, though the swarm of body-laden figures starts to gradually bunch together as we arrow for a specific spot in the pyramid. I am near the middle of the group, surrounded on all sides by mute, shadowy Gleaners, whatever was lighting their blades having gradually faded to nothing during the journey. Their eyes are fixed straight ahead, never once glancing to the side, let alone in my direction.
As we approach the glaring dark mirror, something shifts ahead. A section begins folding away, revealing a triangular-shaped hole almost ten feet high. Eerily familiar in form, though I didn’t hear “Scintres Exunus’” or any other verbal commands.
The glare from the moon’s reflection is blinding, but Duodecim never blinks, never glances away. I have to stop watching through his eyes for a few seconds. Let myself go blind, and only give the command again when I sense us passing into darkness.
My twisted stomach lurches as we descend.
Duodecim’s eyes are adjusting. We are plummeting. Not falling, though close to that speed. Inside some sort of shaft. Smooth obsidian walls refracting an ever-dimming light as we get farther from the moonlit sky. Deeper.Deeper.
Then Duodecim is slowing. Then he is walking, as are the other Gleaners, moving in stiff unison through a long, low triangular tunnel—made of the same reflective mirrorlike black stone as outside—and lit by green lines along the apex and the two lower corners. The same eerie hue as from the ruins near the Academy, or the entrance to the garden at Qabr. It’s seemingly etched in, nothing protruding to indicate that it’s emanating from something other than the stone itself. No suggestion of any purpose other than to illuminate, though.
We march. The unnaturally straight way ahead, the dizzying, almost perfectreflections of it broken only by the mechanical movement of the Gleaners as they advance soundlessly.
After an age, openings appear to the sides and Gleaners begin branching off; as soon as they are through, the pyramidal holes fold shut to conceal them. A few in front of us are still open as we pass, but Duodecim’s gaze never drifts, so I cannot see what lies within.
Finally, the Gleaner slows and turns into a gap on our left. Steps through. Places me on the floor.
With a smooth, quick motion, he slides the granite blade from my chest.
I can’t help the agonised moan that escapes my lips, muted and from between desperately gritted teeth though it is. I force myself to silence and stillness again, tears leaking from my eyes. The worst of the pain fading with merciful speed as my Vitaeria do their work, even if the suffocating dread and need to move, to scramble away and cower in the corner, remains.
There’s nothing, though. No suggestion of other Gleaners approaching to investigate. Duodecim just stands there, looking down at me.
Finally, cautiously, I instruct him to turn around. Confirm that the door is closed.
Then I roll up into a ball and gasp some desperate, sobbing breaths. An hour, at least, of pain and panic assaulting the knowledge that if I reacted to either in any way, I would die. I know I should still be quiet, should be moving, should be figuring out exactly how to get out of this place and into Duat itself. But I can’t. Not yet.
I need to let my tightly bounded terror loose, for a while.
Duodecim just stands there, back to me. Unmoving.
Eventually, my rasping breaths ease into something approaching normalcy. The pain is still there, but nothing like it was with the blade embedded. My trembling limbs still, and I suck in a few more deep lungfuls, steadying as my thoughts begin to clear. I pick myself up, touch my chest wound. It’s clean. Blood barely stains my fingers. The two scarab medallions around my thigh are keeping me mobile, keeping it contained. It will hurt for weeks—longer, maybe—but as long as I find some way to stitch myself up, it should heal.
I’m still connected to the humanlike monstrosity in front of me, and as much as I want to release it, I know I can’t. Not yet.
“Lead me into the city without anyone else noticing.” I rasp it.
Duodecim doesn’t even twitch.
