Page 294 of The Cradle of Ice

With a tired grimace, Wryth pushed inside to find the young acolyte Phenic fussing over a bloodbaerne again. At least this time the child was not struggling to wake. The opposite was true. The boy in front of Phenic lay dead in his cradle, his small features sunken and drained.

“Why haven’t you already replaced this one?” Wryth scolded, irritated at yet another problem.

“I … I did … I mean…” Phenic stammered to explain. “This boy … I consecrated him into his cradle about midday.”

“Preposterous. One this young should have lasted three days, maybe four. You must have done something wrong.”

“I swear I didn’t. And it’s not just this boy.” He pointed to the far side. “Another girl was consecrated yesterday, and she is already empty. And I didn’t perform her rite.”

Wryth waved him back. “Stay here and get this boy removed. I’ll go check on the girl.”

He headed across the obsidian chamber, intending to pass through the great instrument to reach the far side. As he neared its heart, a pain stabbed into his right eye, a reminder of the crystal globe’s blast—and his failure.

He stopped to adjust his eye patch.

This was the first time he had returned to this spot, having little reason to do so before now. He glanced around. The debris had been cleared out and the blood scrubbed away. Even the globe’s pedestal had been carted off.

He stared where it had been, unsure if they could ever re-create the globe again. The design had been Skerren’s, and from his frantic last message and the explosion, the man was assuredly dead. Especially as Wryth could still hear that distant scream of fury that had seemed to shatter the crystal. He frowned, remembering Skerren’s last message.

He whispered it to the quiet room. “She is the Vyk dyre Rha! She has risen.”

As he finished those words, he noticed the room had gone too quiet. All the bloodbaernes had stopped their thumping, not just the two that Phenic had noted.

In the silence, a whisper reached him. “She must be stopped.”

Wryth cringed and stumbled back, striking his shoulder against a corner of the great instrument. Before him, the bronze bust glowed brightly, stirring with energy. He remembered it doing so a month ago, too—after the globe had shattered, as if the blast had transferred power to it.

Only now it shone even more brilliantly.

The bust’s mouth moved faintly. “Must be stopped…”

Wryth took a step closer, balancing between horror and wonder. “Who … who are you?”

Bronze lips formed a name. “Kryst Eligor.”

Wryth leaned closer—then those bronze eyelids snapped open, shining forth with a brilliant azure fire, like two brilliant suns blazing with infernal energies.

The intensity of that gaze drove him to his knees.

“I will guide you!” the voice boomed, forcing Wryth’s brow to the floor.

“To what end?” Wryth asked.

Even with his face lowered, Wryth felt the burn of that gaze.

“To rebuild me.”