Grief and horror guttered in her eyes. He could hardly stomach it as he managed to go on, “Not one of them broke. When the king and—others …” He could not bring himself to finish. Not yet. Perhaps not ever, to face that suspicion and likely truth. “When they questioned the guards about me. Not a single one of them broke.”
He didn’t have the words for it—that courage, that sacrifice.
Yrene’s throat bobbed, and she cupped his cheek.
And Chaol finally breathed, “It was my fault. The king—he did it to punish me. For running, for helping the rebels in Rifthold. He … it was all because of me.”
“You can’t blame yourself.” Simple, honest words.
And utterly untrue.
They snapped him back into himself, more effectively than a thrown bucket of cold water.
Chaol pushed out of her touch.
He shouldn’t have told her, shouldn’t have brought it up. On her birthday, gods above. While they were supposed to focus on finding any sort of scrap of information that might help them.
He’d brought his sword and dagger, and as he limped into the palms and ferns, leaving Yrene to follow, he checked to ensure they were both still buckled at his waist. Checked them because he had to do something with his shaking hands, his raw insides.
He folded the words, the memories back into himself. Deeper. Sealed them away as he counted his weapons, one after another.
Yrene only trailed him, saying nothing while they picked their way deeper into the jungle. The entire site was larger than many villages, and yet little of the green had been tamed—certainly no path to be found, or indication of a city of the dead beneath them.
Until fallen pale pillars began to appear between the roots and bushes. A good sign, he supposed. If there were a cave, it might be nearby—perhaps as some ancient dwelling.
But the level of architecture they climbed over and walked around, forcing him to select his steps carefully …“These weren’t some cave-dwelling people who buried their dead in holes,” he observed, cane scraping over the ancient stone.
“Hasar said it was a city of the dead.” Yrene frowned at the ornate columns and slabs of carved stone, crusted with forest life. “A sprawling necropolis, right beneath our feet.”
He studied the jungle floor. “But I thought the khagan’s people left their dead under the open sky in the heart of their home territory.”
“They do.” Yrene ran her hands over a pillar carved with animals and strange creatures. “But … this site predates the khaganate. The Torre and Antica, too. To whoever was here before.” A set of crumbling steps led to a platform where the trees had grown through the stone itself, knocking over carved columns in their wake. “Hasar claimed the tunnels are all clever traps. Either designed to keep looters out—or keep the dead inside.”
Despite the heat, the hair on his arms rose. “You’re telling me this now?”
“I assumed Nousha meant something different. That it would be a cave, and if it was connected to these ruins, she’d have mentioned it.” Yrene stepped onto the platform, and his legs protested as he followed her up. “But I don’t see any sort of rock formations here—none large enough for a cave. The only stone … it’s from this.” The sprawling gateway into the necropolis beneath, Hasar had claimed.
They surveyed the mangled complex, the enormous pillars now broken or covered in roots and vines. Silence lay as heavy as the shaded heat. As if none of the singing birds or humming insects from the oasis dared venture here.
“It’s unsettling,” she murmured.
They had twenty guards within shouting distance, and yet he found his free hand drifting toward his sword. If a city of the dead slumbered beneath their feet, perhaps Hasar was right. They should be left to sleep.
Yrene turned in place, surveying the pillars, the carvings. No caves—none at all. “Nousha knew the location, though,” she mused. “It must have been important—the site. To the Torre.”
“But its importance was forgotten over time, or warped. So that only the name, the sense of its importance remained.”
“Healers were always drawn to this realm, you know,” Yrene said distantly, running a hand over a column. “The land just … blessed them with the magic. More than any other kind. As if this were some breeding ground for healing.”
“Why?”
She traced a carving on a column longer than most ships. “Why does anything thrive? Plants grow best in certain conditions—those most advantageous to them.”
“And the southern continent is a place for healers to thrive?”
Something had snagged her interest, making her words mumbled as she said, “Maybe it was a sanctuary.”
He approached, wincing at the slicing pain down his spine. It was forgotten as he examined the carving beneath her palm.
Two opposing forces had been etched into the column’s broad face. On the left: tall, broad-shouldered warriors, armed with swords and shields, with rippling flame and bursting water, animals of all kinds in the air or at their knees. Pointed ears—those were pointed ears on the figures’ heads.
And facing them …
“You said nothing is coincidence.” Yrene pointed to the army facing the Fae one.
Smaller than the Fae, their bodies bulkier. Claws and fangs and wicked-looking blades.
She mouthed a word.
Valg.
Holy gods.
Yrene rushed to the other pillars, ripping away vines and dirt. More Fae faces. Figures.
Some were depicted in one-on-one battles against Valg commanders. Some felled by them. Some triumphing.
Chaol moved with her as much as he could manage. Looking, looking—
There, tucked into the dense shadows of squatting, thick palms. A square, crumbling structure. A mausoleum
.
“A cave,” Yrene whispered. Or what might have been interpreted as one, as knowledge turned muddled.
Chaol ripped away the vines for her with his free hand, his back protesting.
Ripped and tore them down to survey what had been carved into the gates of the necropolis.
“Nousha said legend claimed some of those scrolls came from here,” Chaol said. “From a place full of Wyrdmarks, of carvings of the Fae and Valg. But this was no living city. So they had to have been removed from tombs or archives below our feet.” From the doorway just beyond them.
“They did not bury humans here,” Yrene whispered.
For the markings on the sealed, stone gates … “The Old Language.”
He’d seen it inked on Rowan’s face and arm.
This was a Fae burial site. Fae—not human.
Chaol said, “I thought only one group of Fae ever left Doranelle—to establish Terrasen with Brannon.”
“Maybe another settled here during whatever this war was.”
The first war. The first demon war, before Elena and Gavin were born, before Terrasen.
Chaol studied Yrene. Her bloodless face. “Or maybe they wanted to hide something.”
Yrene frowned at the ground as if she could see to the tombs beneath. “A treasure?”
“Of a different sort.”
She met his eyes at his tone—his stillness. And fear, cool and sharp, slid into his heart.
Yrene said softly, “I don’t understand.”
“Fae magic is passed down through their bloodlines. It doesn’t appear at random. Perhaps these people came here. And then were forgotten by the world, forces good and evil. Perhaps they knew this place was far away enough to remain untouched. That wars would be waged elsewhere. By them.” He jerked his chin to a carving of a Valg soldier. “While the southern continent remained mostly mortal-held. While the seeds planted here by the Fae were bred into the human bloodlines and grew into a people gifted and prone to healing magic.”
“An interesting theory,” she said hoarsely, “but you don’t know if it could stand to reason.”
“If you wanted to hide something precious, wouldn’t you conceal it in plain sight? In a place where you were willing to bet a powerful force would spring up to defend it? Like an empire. Several of them. Whose walls had not been breached by outside conquerors for the entirety of its history. Who would see the value of its healers and think their gift was for one thing, but never know that it might be a treasure waiting to be used at another time. A weapon.”