37
I’m not sure what I expected exactly, but it wasn’t this.
The dungeons are unfathomably large, larger even than the training room in the Keep, but just as gold. I peer over a railing and discover that they extend for what seems like miles, cut deep into the bowels of the earth. No, not the earth – themine.Of course. Cor Caval was built upon an ancient goldmine. That’s why it was the only central province unaffected by the Cleaving. The Earth Cleaver could not destroy the Imperial Province because its foundation is nothing less than the purest, most sacred solid gold.
I appear to be standing on the top level, and stretching down into the shadows are many more floors, each with countless doors set into golden walls. In the centre – nothing but empty space. I take the nightlight from my pocket and bring it close to my lips. It lights up immediately at the sound of my voice and I hold it out in front of me as I descend the staircase to the level below, peering into rooms containing sinister-looking instruments.
I don’t stop, not until the top level disappears from view, shrouded in the gloom that seems to hang in the air like smoke.
After what feels like hours the staircase seems to come to an end, and I pause a moment to catch my breath. That’s when the smell hits me – thick, acrid and unmistakable. Unwashed bodies, vomit, waste, blood. It is the scent of suffering and it threatens to suffocate me. I clap a hand over my nose and mouth, and force my feet to move.
I shine the nightlight through the small slot in the first door I come to and almost let out a shriek, for what must be two dozen pairs of eyes are looking right back at me. Old and young, thin and very thin, the prisoners are hunched against the walls of the cell or grouped together, attempting to share whatever body heat still lingers in their bones. Some look simply malnourished, whereas others are injured, cradling black eyes or trying to staunch bleeding wounds with dirty scraps of fabric. In one corner sits what looks like a horse trough, the contents of which send bile creeping up my throat. There is no food or water in sight, no blankets, no nothing. Just misery. The sort of misery that turns death from being something one tries to avoid into something desirable. It sickens me.
The old man’s words elbow their way intrusively into my consciousness.
Life is sickening, Storm Weaver. But it is always preferable to death.
Yet looking into this cell, I find myself in disagreement.
What could anyone possibly do to deserve such treatment? Are they awaiting execution? Or have they just been left down here to rot?
My gaze lands on an empty pail. It’s not difficult to summon the rain. There are gasps among the prisoners. Iwatch them fall upon the water, and I think about just how little I’ve seen of the world, its beauty and its brutality.
Then I turn and walk away down the passageway before I can do anything stupid.
At the next cell, a similar scene awaits me. And the next. Some of the prisoners bear features that are not native to Ostacre – oddly coloured eyes; swirling tattoos of strange symbols inked along their scalps, round their necks or down their arms. One woman, whose tattered clothes are stained with dried blood, nurses a newborn baby.
I’ve never experienced it before – this kind of pity. It’s physical. I feel it in my chest.
Eventually I reach the last cell. It has only one occupant. A boy, not much older than I am by the look of him. Coppery hair falls into his strange yellowish eyes, and his skin is sallow and pale, almost grey. His wrists are bound with manacles that look like they’re made from glass, from … My eyes widen.
There is only one reason this boy would be wearing crystal shackles.
He’s a Mage.
But hecan’tbe. The Magi lost their magic when they lost the War of the Empires. The people of the Otherlands are now nothing but Fidra, with each new generation being born powerless. Could it be that this boy somehowretainedhis power? But then, how is he still so young? The war took place over fifty years ago.
I waver a moment, caught somewhere between terror and pity.
The boy doesn’t glance at the shower of rain falling into the empty pail beside him. He looks only at me. There is along, still silence in which I have to remind myself to breathe. And when he speaks, it is in the native language of Nepta, an isle in the heart of the Otherlands that was once home to Magi with the ability to communicate with the dead.
‘S’ai nova sempara, Voya Ishraki.’
My whole body goes rigid. Because what I said to Hal was true – I can speak six languages. And this is one of them.
S’ai nova sempara, Voya Ishraki.
I will remember this, Storm Weaver.
My skin turns deathly cold. I back away from the door. This was a mistake. I should never have come here. I don’t know what I was thinking.
Extinguishing the nightlight and slipping it into my pocket, I lean heavily against the wall … and fall flat on my back as part of it swings open to reveal a hidden chamber made entirely from crystal.
The old man was telling the truth.
I scramble to my feet, heart pounding. This cell is larger than the others, more like a cave than a room. It glistens, and I see myself, a blurred mirror image reflected a hundred times around the walls, which curve round at odd angles. Large chunks of crystal taller than me are wedged into the ground, creating a maze of sorts.
I shiver as I walk slowly around the cell, waiting for the Eye to do something – grow heavy or light, pulsate or glow, send shock waves through my chest.
