I nodded slowly. And then everything burst into motion.
Not a day goes by that I don’t question why I drew. On good days, I tell myself that it wasn’t my fault—that the goddess wouldn’t let me turn myself in, or turn my blade on myself. On bad days, I fear a deeper truth—that at some level, I was scared to die. Despite all the men I’d fought, all the men I’d killed, I was too young to really understand death for what it was.
I drew, and I fought, and I ran. Behind me, three of my men—including Kelif, my best friend in the unit, a man I’d already secretly selected as the sword-father of my first child—lay on the floor of my house, screaming in puddles of their own blood. For my own inability to let go of the woman I loved, to acknowledge the fundamentally capricious and senseless nature of the universe, three good soldiers’ wives would wear the ashes. And through it all, I saw Jannat’s face, and heard her words. I’m so sorry, Salim.
They pursued me, and hard—treason among the Pure is the worst kind. But I had learned too many of the underground priests’ tricks in my time, and before long I was across the border into Thuvia, and could breathe easier. Truth be told, I scarcely wanted to. What was the point of breathing, now? Without honor, without a purpose, without the woman I loved, breath was just a stalling tactic.
It was as I sat in a cheap room at an inn one night, somewhere along the Path of Salt, holding my knife and contemplating finishing what I’d been too cowardly to do before, that the angel first appeared.
“I wouldn’t do that,” a voice said.
I leaped up from my cot and spun around, coming reflexively into a crouch, the knife up and ready to stab.
On the other side of the bed, a figure floated in the air, its feet not touching the ground. It was pale and beautiful, neither man nor woman, and it filled the room with great black wings that sprang from its shoulders. It spoke again.
“That’s somewhat better, if still inadvisable. But at least it shows spirit.”
“Who are you?” I asked. “What are you?”
“A messenger,” it said, and its voice was soothing, joyous. “Your divine liaison. You may call me Ceyanan.”
“I don’t understand.”
The perfect lips twisted into a mock pout, but its eyes were still smiling. “Come now, Salim. Of course you do. Haven’t you been waiting for this ever since you fled Azir?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But somewhere in the back of my mind, a door opened, and I knew that it was right. The angel saw it in my face and nodded, ignoring my words.
“You made a deal, Salim. A promise. You called out asking for help, for your wife to be returned to you, and she was. You offered your soul and your allegiance, and my liege accepted. Now it’s time to start honoring your side of the bargain.”
It spoke the truth, and we both knew it. Yet it had overlooked one key fact: disgraced or not, when faced with slavery, a Rahadoumi always has a second option.
“My apologies,” I said, bowing slightly. “But I’m afraid I’m going to have to renege on the bargain.”
Then I drove the knife point-first into my neck.
The pain was ...incredible. There were perhaps three hot bursts where I felt the blood pouring over my hands, flowing in rhythm with my heartbeat, and then the room faded and I felt nothing.
For an indeterminable length of time, I floated in darkness. There was no heat, no cold, no light or dark. Just an endless sea, rocking me. I scarcely knew who I was, and my last thought as I began to dissolve into nothing was: so this is peace.
Then the darkness exploded. My form was back, and now it was burning, every pore screaming with flame. Surely, I thought, if I weren’t already dead, this would kill me. And then the pain was too extreme for thought, and I opened my eyes.
I was still in the room at the inn, lying awkwardly on the floor next to the bed. My knife was beside me, its blade red and crusted. I put a hand to my neck, but where there should have been a ragged hole, there was only smooth flesh. My mouth tasted of blood.
The angel was looking down at me, its expression one of concern.
“I would not recommend trying that again,” it said.
“What—?” I started to ask, and then stopped, recognizing the horrible symmetry between my words and Jannat’s, when she had first awoken on the kitchen floor. The angel answered anyway.
“Did you really think suicide was any way to cheat the goddess of death?”
I gaped. “Pharasma?”
“The Lady of Graves herself.” The angel folded its legs up and floated lower, so that it could look me in the eye. “Who else would give you back your wife? You belong to Pharasma now, and if you think you can escape her through death, you’re not nearly as bright as I’d hoped. The bargain was simple: Your wife got a second chance. We got you.” It smiled. “You work for us now.”
“And if I refuse?”
It waved the question aside with one long, perfect hand. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later, if you insist. But first, hear me out.”
Its big, black-pupiled eyes bored into mine. “There are creatures, Salim, that are worse than any priest. Things sprung ripe and rotting from the grave, living corpses that walk among the people and drink from their blood and tears. There are those who fear death so greatly that they transform themselves into twisted parodies of life, disrupting the natural flows of existence in their quest for power. These things are unnatural, and suffering follows in their wake. You, with your unique skills, are perfectly suited to helping us hunt down these monsters and drive them from society, to satisfy the church and protect the innocent, both atheist and religious.”
I said nothing, only waited.
“Think about it, Salim. You’ve trained your whole life to be a weapon—the weapon of a nation that’s now closed to you. Or do you think that you can somehow return to the way things were?”
I shook my head. There could be no going back. Even if I managed to sneak back into my homeland, there would be no redemption, no explanation for what I’d done. I’d be back in the slums, living underneath scrap board and hiding my face whenever a familiar figure passed by. There would be no reconciliation with my comrades in the Pure Legion. There would be no Jannat.
“No,” the angel said, and the sympathy in its voice sounded genuine. “You can’t go back. You’re a man without a home, or a purpose. But you don’t have to be.”
The figure calling itself Ceyanan straightened, and those great black wings flared majestically.
“We’re not just calling in what’s owed to us by your bargain, Salim. We’re offering you a chance at redemption. Not of the spirit—the Lady knows you don’t care about that. I’m talking about a resumption of purpose, of meaning. Through us, you can continue to do what you were made for, and need bow to no priest or church, even that of the Lady of Graves herself. This is a covenant between you and her.
“Salim,” it whispered, and its voice was triumphant, ecstatic. “You can hunt again.”
The thought of serving a deity was repulsive. Yet what other option did I have? As it said, my choice had already been made, kneeling in the pool of blood on the kitchen floor.
I accepted.
Chapter Eighteen
Movements Underground
And so began my servitude to the goddess of death,” Salim finished. “With the angel Ceyanan as my handler, I traveled far across the nations of the Inner Sea—yes, and the Outer Planes as well—searching out and destroying the creatures of the night who denied Death. They offered me magic, divine spells to assist me in my hunting, but aside from the amulet you’ve already seen, I’ve rejected such gifts wherever possible. If it’s my destiny to act as Pharasma’s hunting dog, I’ll at least do so as a man, not a puppet-conduit for divine filth.”
For the first time during his story, Neila spoke up.
“But the angel—are you saying that you can’t die?”
Her voice sounded hopeful, and it pained Salim to kill that hope.
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“It’s true that the goddess won’t let me rest,” Salim said. “I’m too useful, and I’ve not yet repaid my debt—if I ever can. But it’s not that simple. If anyone knows about my curse and can figure out a way around it, it’ll be Khoyar. And even if they don’t kill me, there are other things. Maybe they’ll blind and lame me, and set me loose in the market with my tongue cut out. Maybe they’ll smash me under a rock, or keep me chained and barely alive in a stone sarcophagus for centuries. Regardless, it doesn’t fix our current situation.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, Neila.”
There was a long silence, and then: “Did you ever go back? To Rahadoum?”
Salim suddenly felt very weary. “Once.”
“And did you see Jannat?”
“Yes.” The memory was so painful that he almost couldn’t speak. “She had grown older, and remarried, yet even with white hair she was still beautiful. For a moment, she looked up, and I was sure that she recognized me. But then she turned away.”
Through the darkness, Salim could feel Neila move uncertainly.
“Salim,” she asked, and her voice had an odd, strained quality to it. “How old are you?”
He answered honestly. “One hundred and twenty-seven.”
He heard the small noises of rustling cloth, and then her hand was on his face, caressing his stubbled cheek and spidering its way wonderingly over his features.
“You hide it well,” she said.
Was that humor in her voice? Salim inclined his head mockingly. “You’re too kind, Lady.”
But Neila wasn’t ready to give up the topic. “Back in the manor,” she said, “you said you hadn’t touched a woman since your wife died.”
It was true. He acknowledged as much.
“Why?”
“Because—” he started, and then stopped. Why indeed? “Because I don’t deserve to.”
The hand on his brow now moved to his shoulder, trailing warmth across his arm and making its hairs stand on end beneath the robe. “You gave up everything you believed in for the woman you loved.”
When he spoke, his words were hard and bitter. “It was stupid.”
“Stupid is a hundred years of penance for a noble deed.” She picked up one of his hands, and held it to the side of her neck, heating it against her skin. Then she slid it down until it was cupping the side of her breast. Salim jerked back, but her grip was firm.
“Neila, I—”
“Stupid.” The word was sharp, but her voice was smooth and low. The hand holding Salim’s palm to her chest slid up to his own, palm flat against his sternum. “We’re set to be executed tomorrow, and you’re still punishing yourself for things that happened before anyone except you was born.”
“But—”
She was leaning so close now that he thought he could almost make out her face in the dark, half-lidded eyes catching the glow from the door and reflecting it back at him.
“If you can’t die,” she asked, “don’t you think it’s time you started living?”
He opened his mouth to argue, then stopped.
Perhaps the girl had a point.
Neila wrapped a hand around his neck and lay back, pulling him with her. Then all thought left him, and he was following her down, and down, and down.
∗∗∗
They woke an indeterminate amount of time later, the darkness around them unchanged except for the faint smell of sweat and their lovemaking. Salim lay on his back, half on the splayed fabric of his robe, half on the cold stones of the cell floor. Neila was curled under his right arm, head on his shoulder and body pressed sweetly against his. Salim was staring into the blackness, mind drifting, when the shape next to him stirred and let out a sleepy grunt. Without lifting her head from the hollow of his collarbone, she stretched slowly and languorously, the smooth skin of her stomach and thighs sliding pleasantly against him. Then she shivered.
“It’s cold in here,” she murmured.
In response he reached for her, feeling the gooseflesh prickle up along her breast and back, but she pushed him gently away. There was a rustle as she gathered up her clothes from where they’d been discarded and began to slip back into them.
The rustling stopped abruptly.
“Salim.” Neila’s voice was tense. “Salim, get dressed. Now.”
Salim had been a soldier too long to question that order. He rolled to his knees and immediately pulled on his robes, tying them securely. “What is it?”
“This.”
In the darkness, she found his hand and unfolded it, pressing something small and straight into his palm.
“One of my hairpins,” she said, her voice pitched low, as if it only now occurred to her that someone might be listening. “They removed them all from my hair, but this one must have fallen down inside my shirt, and the priests either didn’t notice or were too proper to go digging.”
Salim understood immediately what had excited her, and some of his own resurgence of hope abated. “This is good, Neila, but I’m no thief. My knowledge of locks is rudimentary at best.”
“Then give it back,” she said, and as quick as that the hairpin was back in her possession. She knee-walked over to the door, and Salim followed. The glow around the doorjamb was barely enough to illuminate the hairpin—just a thin, dark line against the light—but Neila began to bend and twist the pin with precision. Salim leaned against the wall on the other side of the jamb, giving her space.
“You can pick locks?” He tried to keep the incredulity out of his voice. He must have failed, because Neila’s reply was both proud and sharp.
“A surprisingly useful skill for a young woman who wants to go out at night, or who wants a bit of spending money without a big explanation of why she wants it. Now be quiet and let me—ah! There we go.”
There was a click, weighty and authoritative, from behind the metal panel with the keyhole. Neila grabbed Salim’s hand and squeezed once.
“Ready?” she whispered.
He squeezed back, and she gave the door a push.
After so long in the dark, the light was blinding, and both prisoners’ first response was to shrink back and shield their eyes. Salim fought the urge and barreled forward fast and low with arms outstretched, determined not to lose the element of surprise. His hands met the flat stone of a far wall after only a few paces, and he spun, forcing his eyes as wide open as he could, sending pain lancing deep into his brain.
The corridor was empty. As the shapes resolved themselves and the white sunburst of aching eyes broke into its component colors, he saw that they were indeed underground, somewhere in the Pharasmin catacombs. The brilliant nova of light turned out to be a softly glowing glass orb, welded into place in a wall sconce. He looked to Neila, who was blinking hard, reflexive tears coursing down her face.
“Beneath the church?” she asked.
He nodded.
“But you can find the way out.” It was not a question.
Salim thought about it for a second, then nodded again. The hallway was too old and worn to be of the level they had visited earlier to view Faldus’s body, but the fact that there was magical lighting down here—the globe right in front of him, and the similar glow visible farther down the corridor—implied that they were still in a relatively well-traveled section of the crypts. That probably meant they were close to the surface.
It also meant they were more likely to encounter someone. Salim popped his knuckles. Despite his pleasant interlude with Neila, he was still far from pleased with the situation, and would welcome the chance to express his displeasure physically on any guards they ran across.
“Come on,” he said. “Walk softly, and keep to the shadows where you can. Let me go ahead a little.”
Moving with a grace he’d had little cause to use in their adventure thus far, Salim slid almost silently down the hallway, his bare feet an asset against the dusty stone of the floor. Ten feet behind him, Neila followed in his tracks, her own step light as a dancer.
Several
times they passed other doors and branchings in the corridor, lit by more of the globes. At each of these Salim stopped and stooped long enough to study the trails in the dust, then stood and moved on. It was obvious to anyone who bothered to look which of the turns and offshoots received the most traffic, and Salim made each turn to follow the most traveled path. It was no different than following a stream to the sea.
At one point they came to a passage where a section of wall had caved in and not yet been repaired, strewing rubble across half the width of the hall. The two escapees stepped over the stones easily enough, but there Salim stopped. He bent, studied the scree for a moment, then selected a jagged chunk of masonry twice the size of his fist and straightened, hefting the rock. It was at least fifteen pounds—more than sufficient to crush a skull, if used properly.
Neila eyed the stone warily. “What’s that for?”
“In case we meet anyone on our way out.” He tossed the rock lightly and caught it again.
The girl looked uncomfortable. “Salim, most of the priests here probably believe the allegations about us. It’s not their fault Khoyar’s lying to them.”
“Nor is it ours, but they’d lead us to the gallows just the same.”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. We can’t just kill them.”
Salim kept his voice reasonable. “Of all the people you can kill, death priests are probably the least inconvenienced. And it might only put them to sleep, the way they so kindly did for us.” He smiled and touched the swollen, egg-sized knot at the back of his head. But Neila would have none of it.
“Salim. Please.”
He sighed. “Well enough. We won’t kill anyone unless we have to.”
“Thank you.” Her face brightened, and she surprised him by rising to her tiptoes and planting a quick kiss on his cheek. In the light of the corridor, such physical affection felt awkward, as if the two figures that had moved together in the dark had been different people. “Now let’s get out of here.”
They continued. Though the corridor remained flat, they could tell that they were approaching more traveled areas by the conditions of the walls, the trails in the dust, and the increasing prevalence of the globes. Salim slowed their pace, motioning for Neila to stay well behind him each time they came to a corner or branching. At last they reached a T-shaped intersection that appeared to be the best-maintained yet, complete with a mural of a robed skeleton surrounded by roses and spirals. Salim craned his neck around the corner, then ducked back and flattened himself against the wall, motioning for Neila to hold her position. He lifted one finger, then motioned to the right with his head. Her eyes widened immediately in understanding, and she crouched back into the shadows.
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