“We’re being baited.” Jheraal stared down at the sleek, steel-ribbed helm of a Rack Hellknight. It lay atop a folded cloak and a pair of crossed gauntlets, arranged like a battlefield memorial on a cairn of stones in Rego Cader.
After nearly two weeks of silence, during which none of them had found any leads fresher than what lay in the yellowing pages of the Dorjanala’s archive books, Vhaeros had finally alerted them to a discovery in the Dead Sector. Velenne had summoned the other two, and her dog had led them to a cairn outside the ruined bathhouse where they’d found the second group of heart-stripped hellspawn.
The armor on that cairn, Jheraal felt certain, had belonged to Hakur.
She had no real reason to think that. Within the same order, one Hellknight’s armor looked like another’s, barring distinctive adaptations like the hollow slots in her helm that cradled her horns. Nothing about the cloak, helm, or gauntlets distinguished them from pieces that might have belonged to any other Hellknight of the Rack.
But she was sure of it all the same. Those were Hakur’s. His killer had stolen them, used them to lead her captives into Rego Cader, and then left them here.
A handful of loose pages fluttered under the crossed gauntlets. They hadn’t been out there for long. It had rained yesterday, but the papers were dry. Vhaeros had probably found them within hours of their placement.
They’d been that close to the killer, and they’d missed their chance.
“Bait,” Jheraal said again.
“Yes, I believe that’s obvious.” Velenne swept a jeweled hand toward the papers trapped under the gauntlets. “Do you wish to read the message we’ve been left?”
With a grunt of wordless assent, Jheraal lifted the helm, pushed the gauntlets aside, and picked up the sheets.
There were three pages. She read each of them aloud. The first said: “I won’t be needing these anymore. You can take them, with my thanks, back to Citadel Rivad. There’s an empty box in the library that they should fit nicely.”
Jheraal’s grip tightened. Inhaling, she smoothed the crumpled paper and shuffled that message to the back.
The second one, written in the same scratchy hand, said: “I bought a few new toys recently, but they’re already boring me. I’ll keep them just a little while longer, and then I suppose I’ll say farewell. Come to Citadel Gheisteno if you care. Don’t dawdle, or they’ll look just like your servants.”
The third page was written in a different hand. Its crisp clarity marked it as a professional scribe’s work. It was a bill of sale, duly recording that Sechel of Citadel Gheisteno had purchased seven slaves from Calphex Redhammer for use without restriction, had paid all taxes and tariffs on the sale, and was now legal owner of the seven specified persons.
Jheraal read the names aloud. She listed them with gravity, as she would have recited the names of the honored dead after battle, but no one recognized any of them until she came to the names of the buyer and seller.
Then Velenne stirred. “Calphex Redhammer?”
“You know him?”
“Of him. He’s a slave dealer in Nidal. Hellspawn. Most of his trade is also in hellspawn.”
“I could have guessed that last part.” Jheraal reshuffled the pages into their original order and put them back on the cairn, using Hakur’s helm to weight them down again. She didn’t want to hold them any longer than she had to.
“Mostly they’re children.” Velenne’s lips pursed. “He recruits runaways from the slums of Cheliax. The hungry, the desperate, the hopeful. He gains their trust, lures them across the border, and then puts them into chains. There’s little demand for such slaves in Cheliax, and one cannot simply kidnap children off the streets and sell them at whim. But in Nidal, the children aren’t citizens and have no rights, and any living thing that can suffer has value. So that’s where he sells them.”
Seven hellspawn children. Seven helpless children. They were being used to taunt her, and the assassin had left her with no legal recourse. Bait.
Jheraal snarled. The display of open anger was untoward. It was a failure in her self-control, and she knew it. She snarled anyway. “We have to go to Citadel Gheisteno.”
“Which is, of course, precisely what our assassin wants. Sechel, I presume.”
“It doesn’t matter. We have to go.”
“I agree,” Ederras said. He looked to Velenne. He didn’t move, but she canted her head toward him, softening minutely, as if he’d touched her. Something had changed between those two in the past few weeks. There was a warmth in them that hadn’t existed earlier. But a tension, too. “Can you take us there?”
The diabolist snorted, crossing her arms. “I can, yes. That in no way implies that I think I should. It would be purely idiotic to go there under ordinary circumstances. To go when you know there’s a trap waiting—that is stupid beyond all words. Even for you.”
Velenne stared at the paladin. “Yes, we can. I’m very good at that. I am an expert at abandoning the helpless. Please believe me when I tell you that it’s the easiest thing in the world. Hardly any work at all. If you didn’t know better, you might think you weren’t even doing anything.”
“Very droll. We still have to go. You told me once that you admired my passion. My faith. This is what those oaths mean. We can’t abandon those children in the citadel. If you meant what you said, then help me.”
“Had I known you were prone to throwing my compliments back like weapons, I would never have given you any. A lesson for another time.” Velenne sighed, immensely resigned, and flicked a hand in a wave of surrender. “Fine. If you’re so determined to kill yourself, I suppose I might as well go along to watch the screams.”
They didn’t leave immediately. Ederras wanted to get his armor back from the smith who had been repairing the dents and tears he’d accrued in Mendev. Velenne needed to prepare her spells, and mentioned something vague about collecting on a few debts that she and Vhaeros were owed around the city. She hadn’t explained how her dog owned debts, and no one had asked, because neither of the others really wanted to know.
Jheraal went back to Taranik House.
She didn’t need the time to prepare herself. Not as the others had. Hellknights were expected to be ready for everything from escaped fiends to city riots at a moment’s notice, and Jheraal was no exception. She could have marched on Citadel Gheisteno the minute they’d found those messages.
But she was glad she didn’t have to.
Alone in her spare little room, Jheraal unlocked the box where she kept Indrath’s letters. There hadn’t been any new ones in the past two weeks, and only one since Indrath received the book. Probably that meant her daughter was busy with her studies, nothing more—the teachers at Citadel Demain were nearly as hard on their foundlings as they were on the armigers—but she wondered. She couldn’t help but wonder.
Are you well? Healthy? Happy? Safe?
There was no way to know. Days of hard riding separated Jheraal from Citadel Demain. If it had been a part of her official duties, she could have sent a message by magic, or perhaps even requisitioned a wizard’s services to teleport, but there was no reason for a Hellknight to take an unexcused leave from an investigation to visit a foundling girl.
Not even if that girl was her daughter. Not even if she might never see her again.
At least, Jheraal supposed, there was some cold comfort in the knowledge that this would be true even if she’d acknowledged Indrath as her own. The Hellknight code was hard on anyone’s family. She wasn’t special there.
And maybe it was better this way. If Jheraal failed and fell in Citadel Gheisteno, Indrath wouldn’t lose a mother, just a friend. Not so devastating a loss, really. Nothing that would break her.
Jheraal could consider that another protection. Maybe.
She breathed a sigh through her teeth. It had been a long time since she’d doubted whether she would come through a mission alive. She trained as hard as any Hellknight—harder than most, really, to make up for being hellspawn—but in practice she was an investigator, not a warrior. Mostly she tracked down murderers and malcontents, and mostly the fight went out of them as soon as she kicked down their doors.
This was different. This wasn’t going to be a hard knock and an easy arrest. This was going to be a fight every step of the way.
But there was a crime at the core of it, and Jheraal had her duty.
She lifted the lid of the box, breathing in the familiar scent of sandalwood, aging paper, and old wax. The letters were well worn from reading and rereading, their paper soft as baby’s blankets in her hands. The little buttons of candle wax that Indrath loved to use for seals were brittle and dry, crumbling away in hard chunks no matter how carefully Jheraal tried to preserve them.
Tomorrow, she would put aside all sentiment, wrap herself in steel, and march against an evil greater than anything she’d ever faced.
Tonight, for a little while, she could read.
A week later, they gathered on the grounds of Vaneo Celverian. Ederras was resplendent in the silvered plate of a crusader, Jheraal grim in her Hellknight armor. Velenne wore a dress of black leather paneled with dark chain, accompanied with enough jewelry to suit a royal wedding. Dark pearls in silver filigree swung from her ears, rings glimmered on both her hands, and an ornate choker with an enormous black sapphire wrapped around her throat. Only the suite of wands banded in crimson leather on her hip indicated that her attire wasn’t purely ornamental.
“Have the two of you done any research on graveknights?” the diabolist asked, one eyebrow lifted as she looked from Ederras to Jheraal. “In particular, Lictor Shokneir and his servants? They’ll be formidable foes. According to the accounts of those few who’ve entered the citadel and escaped—or more likely been released—they’re impervious to several different types of elemental energy, and all but impossible to harm without powerful spells and enchantments. And even if we defeat them, we have no prayer of truly killing them. All graveknights are arguably deathless, as their spirits are bound to their armor … but the Hellknights of the Crux are cursed beyond that. They cannot be destroyed by any mortal hand. Slain, they will rise again within days. And, of course, they have an army of undead at their command.”
“I’m aware,” Jheraal said. She dug the bottom of her heavy shield into the grass and rested a gauntleted hand atop it. “Are you trying to talk us out of going? It’s a little late for that.”
“No. No, I’m resigned to letting our charming champion of Iomedae march bravely into doom. I understand he’s made a career of it. What I’m wondering is why, if you had any idea of what we’ll be facing, the two of you arrived alone. Do we have no Hellknights marching with us? No crusaders clad in faith and glory? This is terribly disappointing. Also stupid. It took the entire Order of the Scourge to bring down Citadel Gheisteno last time, I’ll remind you, and they had allies. We, by contrast, are three people and a dog.”
Jheraal lifted her visor, meeting Velenne’s mockery with a flat stare. She had asked for aid, from both the Rack and the Scourge, and had received nothing from either. “The Hellknight orders feel that this would be a poor use of their forces. Lictor Shokneir remains imprisoned in his citadel, which is isolated in desolation and poses no threat to any civilized realm. Sending Hellknights against him for the sake of seven hellspawn children who may or may not actually be there would be foolish. They’d lose far more lives than they saved, even assuming the whole thing isn’t simply a false trail concocted by our murderer. Therefore they will send no one.”
“How unexpectedly sensible. I’m delighted the Hellknight orders are led by such rational souls.” Velenne turned her acid little smile onto Ederras. “And you, dearest? Your people tend to be much worse at math. Throwing away dozens to save seven is exactly the kind of idiocy they love, especially if the dozens are well trained and the seven are worthless—I’m sorry, ‘innocents.’ So why aren’t they here?”
“I didn’t ask.” Ederras pushed his own visor up. He seemed untroubled by her nettling. “Many Iomedaeans in Westcrown would have come, if I’d asked. But it would have been folly. Not one of them would stand a chance against Lictor Shokneir or his lieutenants, and I won’t lead soldiers to suicide just because they’re brave enough to go.”
“But you’ll lead us? I’m touched you value me so highly.”
“It’s not suicide for us. We’re not just three people and a dog, Velenne. You know that as well as I do. Each of us has fought foes most of Westcrown can’t even imagine. We’re blessed—if you can call it that—with that skill and experience. We can do this.”
“I do love watching you believe that.” The diabolist shook her head in resignation, pearl earrings gleaming through her hair. “Please pause and reflect that I brought my army. In our hour of need, the only allies that marched with us were the devils of Hell. I would like both of you to remember that, should we survive this. We didn’t get the Hellknights and we didn’t get the virtuous crusaders. But the devils?” She tapped the scroll case buckled next to the wands on her hip. “They obey.”
“I’m profoundly reassured,” Jheraal said. “Let’s go.”
“Attend.” Velenne raised her hands, beginning her invocation. At its conclusion, a pane of darkness opened in the air before her, wavering in the air like a curtain of deep gray silk. “The shadowlands can be dangerous. Stay close.”
Jheraal nodded, lowering the visor of her helm. Clasping hands with the others, she walked through the wizard’s gate into the dark.
They passed through the shadowlands swiftly, crossing a starless nightscape that reflected the real world in darkened, distorted form. Mountains rolled across the distance, their peaks tapering indistinctly into sky. Rivers swam between the hills like shining ebon snakes, sleek and predatory and strangely alive within their gray-grassed banks.
And then, too soon, the cindery bulk of the citadel rose before them, solid and immovable in a land of mist and shadow.
“I cannot bring us into Citadel Gheisteno,” Velenne said. “There is a magic around it that blocks my spell. This is as far as the shadows will take us. Are you ready?”
Ederras slid his shield onto his arm. The golden wings painted on its face, bereft of sunlight to reflect, were dulled to bronze in the shadowlands. “Yes.”
Jheraal remained silent. A hand of iron had closed about her core, allowing nothing more to pass. She knew this feeling well: the touch of dryness at the back of her throat, the unnatural acuteness of her sight. Time seemed to slow around her, allowing her to see and feel everything with an intensity that thrilled across her marrow.
“Walk with me into light.” Velenne took their hands again, and the shadows fell into brightness as she carried them back to the world.
One moment, they were standing amid a vale of sourceless shadows that rose into half-real shapes. The next, they were in the Menador Mountains, a crisp breeze blowing from the far-off snow-caps and a mantle of dark green pines, almost black, stretching across the slopes below. There was a hint of blue to the overcast sky, and the shrubs that grew between the mossy rocks around them showed spidery red veins in the center of each green leaf. The presence of brighter colors in the world told Jheraal that they were near or in Molthune. In the heartlands of Nidal, under the oppressive influence of the Midnight Lord, colors often seemed to drain to gray.
Citadel Gheisteno stood to the northeast. A natural chasm, spanned by a slender thread of stone, separated the fortress from the surrounding mountains on three sides. The fourth backed against a forbiddingly steep peak that loomed above the citadel and cast it into deep, unchanging shadow. Both the fortress and its surroundings were blackened and charred as if they had survived an incalculable fire.
The Order of the Crux’s stronghold had no visible weaknesses. Its towers looked out upon all sides, allowing its archers to strike down anyone who had the temerity to approach. The curtain walls were high, thick, and impregnable; there were no usable positions where siege engines could be mounted effectively around them. Short of an assault by a full company of battle wizards, or the devastating aerial fury of a flight of dragons, Jheraal couldn’t imagine how anyone had taken Citadel Gheisteno by force.
Not when there had been archers in those towers and standing along those parapets, at least. Not when there had been armed and armored Hellknights on the walls and behind the gates, ready to lay down their lives to fight back invaders.
As she looked up at the fire-scarred fortress, however, Jheraal saw no defenders anywhere. The gatehouses were desolate, the battlements empty. No lights burned in the windows. Five flagpoles rose from the citadel’s towers, but none of them flew a banner. Three stood barren. The other two held burned black rags, so weighted with soot that they hung lifeless in the mountain wind.
“They’re waiting,” Ederras said, starting toward the bridge. Vhaeros loped alongside him, sure-footed on the mountain rocks. Velenne followed more cautiously, using her hands to steady herself along the path.
No guard towers watched over the near end of the bridge. Huge, ragged scars in the mountainside showed where they had been torn out to the foundations, but whatever magic had brought back Citadel Gheisteno didn’t seem to reach this far. The chasm beneath the bridge was full of roiling dark mist. Not white, as natural fog should be, but an opaque black that seemed to carry the viewer out of the reality of the waking world into a land of nightmare.
Near their end of the span, the bridge was an unremarkable gray, the same color as the mountainside itself. As the bridge neared the fortress, the scattered specks of black dotting its stone thickened into a pointillist storm of darkness. From the halfway point until it reached the citadel’s foot, the bridge was entirely black.
A flare of magic beside her told Jheraal that Velenne had summoned some protective enchantment to ward herself. The aura expanded to include Vhaeros, settling into his coarse gray fur with a shimmer. Without breaking pace, the diabolist and her dog went on.
They reached the bridge. The wind blew hard across the unprotected stone, stinging Jheraal’s eyes through the gaps of her visor. Vhaeros’s nails scratched behind her as the dog lowered himself against its push.
She came to the first wavering line of black specks. They were skulls, human skulls, coated in soot and embedded in the bridge like ornamental stones. All seemed to have been blasted by flame. The holes of their nostrils were charred, their craniums were cracked, and many were missing teeth that had exploded from the force of the heat they’d suffered.
As Jheraal stepped over the nearest skull, its eyes ignited. Spectral green fire, virulent as burning venom, lit in its hollow sockets.
I see you.
Jheraal froze. She took a breath. Walked past.
I see your sins.
Another voice that time. A second skull, ten feet away, had lit as she passed it. This voice sounded female, somehow, whereas the other struck her as male, even though neither of them made any actual sound. Their words reverberated in her mind, booming within her skull. Closing her ears would have made no matter. The dead didn’t really speak.
She ignored the second voice as she had ignored the first. But she could not ignore the third, for it drove an icy shard of remembered vision into her mind along with its words.
And Jheraal saw herself, as through outside eyes, wearing the enchanted hood that had let her pretend to be human for a time. She saw herself laughing in the sunlight, rolling in the sweet grass with the boy who’d become Indrath’s father. Who had never seen her real face, never known her real name.
I see your thefts.
Another voice. Another fragment of memory. This time Jheraal saw herself, pregnant at seventeen, stealing toward a farmhouse in the dead of night. The farmer’s daughter had left her wash drying on the lines after dark, and Jheraal wanted one of her blankets. She had nothing so fine of her own, and no money to buy a blanket that might be warm and soft enough for her child. So she had stolen what she needed, and then the winds of chance had blown her away, and she had never repaid that debt.
I see your lies.
Jheraal at eighteen, barefoot and desperate outside the gates of Citadel Demain, holding a tiny girl baby swaddled in that stolen blanket. It was filthy and threadbare by then, but still the warmest thing she owned. She had given Indrath that blanket, her name, and a hope of a better future … and nothing else. No truths, because truths would destroy that hope. She had given her daughter a shield of lies instead.
The Hellknight came to a stop on the bridge, brought to bay by the fiery skulls and the memories they wrenched from her past. Tears ran freely down her cheeks under her horned helm. Pride kept her from retreating, but she couldn’t go on. I’m a disgrace to the Scourge. I’ve never been strong enough. I’ve never been worthy.
A hand closed on her wrist. She didn’t feel it at first, but eventually the tugging became too strong to ignore, and Jheraal looked to see what it was. If it had been Lictor Shokneir himself, in that moment, she would have surrendered without a fight. She wasn’t worthy to fight.
It wasn’t. It was Velenne, her temples damp with sweat, her voice frayed to the edge of breaking. Green flames, stretched into starved crescents, reflected from her choker’s black sapphire. “Go on. You must go on. Follow Vhaeros. Ignore everything else. He can guide us across. None of this affects him.”
“How—”
“Vhaeros is a devil. It’s not in his nature to go against law. Ever. Not because he’s stronger or better or truer. Because he has no free will, and thus he has no capacity to sin.” Velenne’s smile was small, tight, and bitter. “That’s what this is, you realize. A showing that none of us can live up to the Crux’s measure. That we’re all failures against their ideal of perfection—because you and I do have free will. Because we’re not devils or angels, but people. And people do not exist in absolutes. That’s the flaw they find so abhorrent. Choice, and the capacity to err. Freedom, and the chance of failure.”
Cracks in the stone where flowers might bloom. Jheraal had read that somewhere. She couldn’t remember where. It didn’t matter.
The Crux’s skulls had tried to make those cracks her greatest sin, and indeed many of her life’s regrets were linked to those early years … but she would never have traded any of them. Not for anything. Not if it would have cost her daughter.
Jheraal looked across the bridge. The dog was there, his gray fur backlit with green fire. Inhuman. Infernal. But untouched.
She fixed her eyes on the devil, and she went on.