Page 60

Atticus paused here, face going still as he stared Orpheus down, like he was the reason he’d used his wife’s name in the past tense. Because it was obvious, whatever grudge Atticus held was personal. Painful. As deeply rooted as the hurt Orpheus felt each time he wondered where the hell Fenrir was.

“Lore hurt a lot of people, I’m sorry your wife was one.”

Atticus’ smile remained firmly in place. “Oh, Lore didn’t hurt my wife, my unfortunate mage.”

Orpheus swallowed, aware of the trap but unable to see it.

“Before the good people of Sanctuary put me in charge, my wife held this position. She was a pacifist, like most of us are, though we don’t take for granted the force required to maintain our peace. But my wife wanted to open Sanctuary up to others. She thought it was time to start pursuing our forefather’s agenda when our scouts began reporting those outside Sanctuary were starting to find their way without us.”

“Ghosts of the Rim,” Orpheus murmured, remembering what Farris had called them—the white-cloaked figures who stole children from their cribs.

“My wife led the first rescue missions through the Deadlands. An incredible woman, she was. And her Netherflame immunity made quite a few of us wonder if she wasn’t the fated mage our forefathers spoke of.”

Immunity? But the only non-mage Orpheus knew possessed immunity was Lore, and that’d been the result of a decade of brutal experimentation.

“She was immune?”

“We all are here, to one degree or another. Anyone born under the shadow of the chasm has some resistance to raw Netherflame. My wife, however, could walk through the fires of Hell itself, if she so desired.”

Orpheus thought of Fenrir falling into the chasm just to re-emerge on the back of the Emperor Dragon, and the lack of decay he’d sustained despite entering Hell for those brief, if tumultuous, moments. Then he thought of Farris and his ability to repair Orpheus’ tech—tech that had nearly killed Achates, that Farris had no logical right to withstand.

“What happened to her?” he asked, as sure as he was terrified of Atticus’ answer.

Atticus held his eyes, face impassive, voice a thread. “Your general murdered her.”

As if Netherflame had reignited his core, Orpheus’ whole body went cold.

“No,” he breathed, eyes flicking from Atticus to Serval’s darkened stare. “Fenrir wouldn’t do that.”

“He very much did. She and a team of soldiers left to support your Empress in a peacekeeping mission, but your precious general ran them all through. All but one, who was able to escape and return to Sanctuary, barely alive.”

The realization struck Orpheus hard—that certainly would explain Serval’s scars.

“Needless to say, if I could have safely apprehended Fenrir Rawkner and brought him to justice too, I would have. We ran many extractions in the following years, saved a good number of your people from the expanding chasm before it reached Sanctuary, and we witnessed the trenches your general dug and the perimeter his army established, keeping those fleeing your destruction out.”

“You stole children from their beds. We have our own stories, and those who witnessed your missions don’t talk of heroic saviors rescuing them in the night. They speak in whispers, scared of the ghosts who took their babies, forever wondering where in all hells they went.”

In the dim light of the cell, Atticus’ face shuttered. “We saved who we could. Who it was safe to. Who couldn’t share the secret of our location, so that Sanctuary could remain safe, as it has been for hundreds of years.”

He’s lying, the voice inside Orpheus hissed. He bit his tongue before he could say it aloud, certain whatever ground he’d gained would be given up with the accusation. But it was true, Atticus may be giving him a part of the story, but not all of it.

Until he knew more, Orpheus could only chase Atticus’ good graces.

“I didn’t know about Sanctuary. No one did. No one but Lore,” Orpheus said, and the steely resolve on Atticus’ face dissolved just enough.

“I believe you.” A nascent quiet bloomed, then Duluth’s heavy footsteps echoed up the hall and Atticus twisted around. “Ah, good man. Thank you.”

A leather bag dropped heavily to the ground beside Atticus, falling open enough that Orpheus could peek inside.

“You recognize these, I presume?”

From within the bag, Atticus pulled out a canvas roll of tools, silver glinting in the low light when he arranged it atop his lap.

Orpheus’ blood went cold, then hot. He scrambled across the floor to press against the wall.

“We’ve some here at Sanctuary who would love to get their hands on you and discover how those heretics achieved what they did.”

Heretics? Wait—Atticus knew about the hermits?