Chapter 9
The Great Eye seared through her soul.
Leiyn jerked awake, shivering. The memory of the world titan’s gaze had her body flushed with heat. With every moment, the Crypt of the Six sapped it from her bones.
Yet it remained on her skin as she sat up. Setting the back of her hand against her forehead, the bone links of her chain dangled against her cheek. As suspected, her forehead burned.
Fever.
She dropped her hand into her lap and sagged against the stone wall. On top of everything else, she had contracted an infection. Likely, it came from the wounds Adelina had dealt her, though the food and water were plenty suspect.
Leiyn closed her eyes and thought back to the last time she had suffered a severe fever. She had been a child still, only twelve years old, and living in her hometown. The Blush had ravaged the Tricolonies—it had been inevitable that it swept through Orille.
But she had not thought the plague would rob her of her father.
She had almost died as well. Obeying her father, Leiyn had repressed her mahia. Only at her weakest did it win free of her bounds and save her life—inadvertently killing all their livestock as well as her loyal hound, Licky.
For years, she had rued that day. Now, she only wished her magic would return to her so strongly. After relying upon it in this war, she felt fragile and vulnerable without it.
This fever, she would have to fight off on her own.
Gritting her teeth, Leiyn labored to her feet. Stumbling about her necessities, she staggered free of the room and made down the corridor. She had to use the wall for support to stay upright, but just managed it.
She knew what Isla would say if she were here. There you go, being rash again. What’s the rush, Leiyn? Rest until the fever breaks. You can explore after.
But this was one time when Isla would have been wrong. She had no time to spare. Not with Adelina returning soon to likely to deliver another beating. Not with Sharo sniffing about her soul, waiting for her to break to seize it for his own.
She had to escape. Had to help them all escape. If they did not do it soon, she feared they never would.
Leiyn made it to the waxy altar before she collapsed. Slumped at its foot, she reached over the top to snap free one of the fresh candles, then lit it with the one that still burned. Rallying her flagging energy, she rose back to her feet. Blood rushed to her head, making her dizzy and almost sending her sprawling to the floor.
“Come on, Firebrand,” she wheezed. “Just two more corridors.”
She barely glanced up at the statue of San Jadiel, looking long enough to see the decorative scepter he cradled in his hands. Her gaze fell back to her feet, lacking the strength for anything more than shuffling forward. Even as she passed Zaki’s chamber, she did not look up. Only at the Eteman’s call did she pause.
“Leiyn, what is wrong? You look terrible.” Zaki rushed over as they spoke, moving far more nimbly than Leiyn despite wearing matching manacles.
Leiyn craned her neck to peer at the Eteman from the corner of her eye. “Not supposed to say that to a lady.”
“I did not think you so gentle.” Zaki gave her a fleeting smile. “Are you ill?”
“In a dozen different ways.” Leiyn waved a hand, resenting how even that slight gesture sapped her energy. “I have to see Jadiel’s tomb.”
Zaki sighed, then took Leiyn’s arm. Once, their hand would not have encircled it, but already, Leiyn felt herself thinning, her body eating away her muscles. Starvation and injury stole her reserves. Soon, she would be skin and bones, a ghost of herself. Just like Belen had become.
“If you must go,” they said, “then I will go with you. Come—before you collapse and I must carry you.”
With the Eteman half-dragging her, they made their way down the long corridor. Leiyn could only assume it matched the finish of the others; in all its length, she did not lift her head once.
Zaki spoke as they walked, a transparent attempt to distract Leiyn from her misery. “With all the time we spend waiting, it is difficult not to think of home.”
Leiyn bobbed her head. She had scarcely stopped thinking of home in all the time since she had lost hers at the Wilds Lodge. The ache for it had only grown when Isla died.
But the loss of Solace must feel keener for Zaki. It was the loss of their society, their entire world. Only Ketti remained of the Etemans, unless other villages still hid. Though even if some did, it was uncertain they would ever be found or reveal themselves.
“I know what you mean,” Leiyn rasped. After a few shuffling steps, she asked, “What’d you do before? Your profession, I mean.”
“Profession,” Zaki repeated, seeming to feel out the word. “What is this?”
Leiyn forced her muddled brain to think of alternatives. “Your job. Role. The way you made a living.”
“Ah, you mean how I was helpful to my people.” Zaki hummed under their breath. “I did many things, but most knew me as a bansu—a ‘shaper,’ in your tongue.”
“Shaper?”
Zaki gestured with their free hand. “I…made things. Mostly wood and stone, but sometimes metal, if there was any to melt.”
“Like tools?”
“Some tools, yes. Some things for pleasure. Carvings for mantels. Statues for the market.” Zaki shrugged. “There was time for it all.”
Leiyn recalled Solace as she had first seen it. The casual prosperity shared among its people. They’d had moments of leisure at the Lodge, but mostly, life revolved around necessary activities. She thought of how many more carvings Tadeo could have made had he had the time.
“Sounds wonderful,” she murmured.
“It was.” Leiyn heard a smile in Zaki’s voice, one tempered by longing and sorrow. “Perhaps one day, if enough of my people remain, I will become a shaper once more.” They shook their head. “But such dreams will torment if allowed. For now, I only dream of escape.”
Leiyn nodded. Her agreement needed no words.
As they reached the Saint’s tomb, she finally raised her head. Disappointment arose as she found it nearly identical to those that had come before. The same empty displays. The same sealed coffin. Only the etchings of Jadiel differentiated it, as did a thin crack on the opposing wall.
Hobbling around the chamber, Leiyn peered at the fracture, following it up to the ceiling. It was more of a fault line than she had yet seen but for where water dripped in San Davina’s unfinished tomb. Yet it would not see them to escape anytime soon. Still, if they remained in the Crypt of the Six long enough, it was a place to begin a long excavation.
Such an optimist now, a part of her mocked. Better break that fever first.
Leiyn repressed her doubts as she labored up the dais to look upon the coffin. Jadiel clutched a scepter on his tomb as well as his statue. The Saint of Grace and Beauty looked as affable as ever, shown with a round face, thinning, curled hair, and a wearing a smile even in death.
She pushed away from it, half-hoping the lid would shift at her touch, but it remained as firmly in place as the others. Turning back for where Zaki awaited her at the entrance, Leiyn averted her gaze and started back down the corridor. The Eteman must have sensed her mood, for they remained silent as they followed behind.
Their quietude persisted until the pair came abreast of Zaki’s chamber. Though Leiyn sagged with exhaustion, her flare of temper had subsided, leaving her mind clear enough to remember a necessary task.
She turned to Zaki and braced herself before speaking. “Sharo came to me while I slept two nights ago.”
The Eteman furrowed their brow. “In a dream?”
Leiyn shook her head. “In the flesh.”
“I am sorry,” Zaki murmured. “What did he say?”
Leiyn hesitated, but there seemed little point in hiding a desire Sharo himself had not been shy in sharing. “He wants my soul.”
Zaki muttered something in Eteman under their breath. Leiyn only caught a word of it—gallu, their people’s word for “devil.”
“Why has he not taken it?” they asked after a moment. “You cannot resist him as you are.”
“I know.” Leiyn could only admit it through gritted teeth. But it did not change the truth of their reality. Only in acknowledgment could they hope to alter it. “He wants me to give it willingly. I think if I don’t, I’ll upset the balance within him.”
Zaki nodded. “Yes,” they said, dragging out the word. “He contains many. Only through order can he wield his full power.”
“I think there’s more to it, but yes. So long as we don’t give in, I don’t think he’ll kill us.”
The Eteman stared at Leiyn, but Leiyn could not look up. She guessed that Zaki knew as well as she they had no such guarantees. But they did not contradict her.
“When the time comes,” Leiyn continued, meeting Zaki’s gaze, “when it’s time to rebel, I hope I can count on you.”
Zaki smiled and gripped Leiyn’s shoulder. Their chain knocked against Leiyn’s where it hung from her collar.
“Of course,” they said. “You have but to let me know.”
“Thank you, Zaki.” The slighest of smiles touched Leiyn’s lips. Though the odds were stacked against them, to have someone on her side made escape seem possible.
***
It would have been wiser to return to her chambers and sleep. Her fever raged, her skin burning hotter than ever. Her body weakened with every step.
Yet only one corridor remained. She could not rest until she saw it.
Replacing her candle with a fresh one from the altar, she staggered from pearl brazier to brazier until she passed the statue to San Jadiel. San Inhoa loomed to her left.
If there was a patroness of death among the Saints, Inhoa best qualified. She was shown as a curvaceous woman, dark and beautiful in a way that reminded Leiyn unpleasantly of Sister Adelina. Her statue was veiled so as to hide her eyes and fine features, yet Leiyn felt as if the Saint’s stony gaze followed her. The four-pointed sun, an archaic symbol of Omn, she held aloft; “Inhoa’s Star,” Gran Ayda had called it.
Only as Leiyn stumbled into the corridor did she halt. If Belen was awake, the captain would already have heard Leiyn’s clumsy footsteps and seen her candlelight. There was no avoiding a confrontation if the captain wished for one.
Inching around the bend, Leiyn peered into the first alcove. She started at a glimpse of a silhouette, but Belen appeared to be seated and turned away from her. Facing the wall, knees tucked into her chest, she resembled a child afraid of sleeping lest they return to a nightmare.
Pain tightened Leiyn’s chest. Pressing a hand to her sternum, she continued past without speaking. What could she say? How could she find the strength to face all she had doomed her to? The most she could do for Belen was keep pressing forward. Find a way to free her after all these long seasons.
In a daze, she made it down the corridor to the chamber at its end. She had a disorienting sense of having seen it before, so closely it matched the previous tombs of the other Saints. Leiyn drove against the despair lapping at the edges of her mind and stumbled up to the tomb. There was San Inhoa, depicted upon the coffin lid, and that four-pointed star a motif around the sides. But as she leaned on the coffin, nothing shifted, the lid as tightly sealed as before.
Leiyn stumbled back down the dais and moved around the room, but she only made it halfway. The rest of this place was just as empty and useless, the walls as free from blemish. There was nothing here. Nothing to aid her escape.
The Crypt of the Six would be her grave.
Leiyn sagged and sat on the far edge of the dais. Closing her eyes, she leaned back and let the dark world spin behind her eyelids.
Give up, a part of her pleaded. Let go. What’s left to fight for?
She did not want to die in a cage. But even more, the guilt of dooming all those with her weighed her down so she could not rise. Heat pressed against her eyes. Leiyn curled in on herself, keenly aware of how she matched Belen’s pathetic stance and feeling all the more miserable for it.
Tears pressed through her eyelids. She started shaking, weeping, sobbing as she had not since she was a child and she was cast into the world, orphaned and alone. Every loss, every injury, every burden of guilt and shame came crashing down on her. Losing Isla. Losing her friends. The deaths she had caused. The blood on her hands.
All she had suffered—and for what? Only to fail. Dying as a pawn to Sharo’s plans.
No. Never that.
Sniffling, Leiyn wiped her filthy sleeve across her face and nose, then blinked her eyes open. She could not give in. Not yet. Not while one course of action still remained.
If they could not escape by subtler means, they would fight their way out.
A laugh, as bitter as their prison smelled, bubbled up in her. Fight in her condition? She could not overcome a child, much less an armed and trained paladin.
So you’ll rest. Forge weapons in secret. Hope Sharo gives us enough time.
Hope—another laughable thought. But Leiyn only shook her head and placed her free hand to the dais to rise. Perhaps there was no hope. But that was not why she fought.
To spit in the eye of her enemy one final time—that was reason enough.
She started to get back to her feet when she paused. There was something beneath her left hand, hard and cylindrical and thin. It felt like a stylus or graphite pen such as she had used for drawing. Yet as she picked it up and raised it to the candlelight, she saw how wrong she was.
She held a human finger.
Gray and desiccated, it had clearly been cut from the hand of a person long since deceased. Yet even with her lifesense restricted, she detected a faint sheen of lifeforce imbuing it.
She studied it closer. Severed at the knuckle, it was crooked and tipped with a long nail. A woman’s finger, likely, though it might have been a man’s. It bore a ring she had missed before, cut jet set upon tarnished gold.
Perhaps it was from a prisoner kept here long ago. But the presence of esse, its preserved state, the jewelry—they led her to a different conclusion.
Leiyn held the relic of a Saint. One of the few to exist across all of Unera.
Not all relics were pried from a Saint’s body, but many believed the most potent were. The manifold effects the possession of a relic might bequeath had fascinated even Baltesians across the sea. One became blessed and fortunate in all their endeavors, it was said. Miracles followed in their wake, and life would become easy and devoid of hardship—so long as one remained in Omn’s light, of course.
Though there was little hope of discovering one where Saints had never roamed, Leiyn and her childhood friends had pretended to hunt for them in the fields and forests surrounding Hunt’s Hollow, claiming they had discovered them in oddly shaped sticks and stones and pinecones. The one holding the object agreed upon as the relic dictated the rest of the day’s activities, making it a cherished prize for a child.
Now, Leiyn wondered if there was truly magic to this ancient finger. If she might discover what secrets it held were her mahia not chained.
Whose finger is it? San Inhoa’s, abandoned here as they moved the rest of her remains?
She had assumed the First Saint’s body stayed in her tomb, and the same of the others. But perhaps they had all been moved. Or perhaps San Inhoa had lost the finger during her life and it was a relic kept separately from the rest of her body.
A vaguer possibility, one based more on hope than reason, occurred to her. That, perhaps, it had not been discarded accidentally, but placed.
That the Altacura had left it for her to find.
Leiyn mulled over the thought as she turned the finger over. She had hoped Ayda bristled at her chains. Guessed she had. Surely, a woman risen so high as to lead the Holy Catedrál must guard power jealously. This could be an advantage, if she only knew how to access it.
But Sharo was a dangerous enemy, as the Holy Mother knew. To risk aiding his prisoners with this relic… Leiyn was not certain she believed it.
Only then did she remember the risk she ran by holding it so openly. Every passing moment was a chance for Sharo or another lyshan to appear and detect it. Until she unshackled her mahia, her prize must remain hidden.
Leiyn pried open the neck of her tunic, then the bindings around her chest. Wincing at its touch, she tucked it within. The relic nestled uncomfortably between her breasts, the jet stone hard and the thought of dead flesh making her itch. Still, it was the surest place for it to go unnoticed. And this was the least of the discomforts she was forced to endure.
Rising, she moved with energy once more. That small sense of concord, even imagined, gave her purpose. She had avenues to explore. Paths that might lead to escape.
She refused to relent to despair. Not while light remained.
* * * * *
Thanks for reading these sample chapters of The Titan Revenant! I hope you enjoyed them.
