Page 49 of The Fallen and the Kiss of Dusk (Crowns of Nyaxia #4)

ASAR

I would begrudgingly admit that we were indeed fortunate to have Atrius.

The maze was already nearly impossible to navigate, even with him at the head of the group guiding us.

The stone was sheer white here, reminding me of the bone cliffs of the Descent, though this was perhaps some kind of polished marble.

Once, maybe it had been a grand building of some kind, but those days were long behind it now.

The stone was worn and crumbling, reclaimed by the harsh wind of the northern Bloodborn territories.

The only thing left that hinted at what it had once been were the broken gold doorframes, signaling each new potential turn, and the slippery cracked staircases.

When Atrius had described a maze, I’d been expecting sprawling, flat hallways. But this one climbed up just as much as out. There were no straight angles. Each path spiraled and twisted, and all of them were virtually indistinguishable from each other.

Up close, I had to admire the artistry of the wall.

The glyphs carved into the stone had been long sanded away by time—at least, I thought they were glyphs, though they looked nothing like any I’d ever seen.

I could feel the ancient remnants of their magic pulsing through the stone—probably predating not only Obitraes but also Vathysia, going back to the magic that the gods used to create the very bedrock of this world.

It was fascinating. Even my collection didn’t contain artifacts this old.

So few remnants of this magic existed in the mortal world at all.

I could’ve set up camp here and studied it for hours.

Mische, too, stroked the stone as we traveled through.

Do you hear that? she said into my mind. It’s talking.

She peered over her shoulder at me and gave me a weak smile.

She was exhausted, and she couldn’t hide it anymore, but I could see the same eager curiosity in her face that I felt.

It was exactly the same look she’d get when she came with me to fix the gates in Morthryn’s halls, and the sight of it made my heart hurt.

I’d give the Bloodborn this: they trained impeccable horses.

I’d learned that the beasts would be willing to follow us anywhere, through swamps or mountains or, now, up narrow, rocky, ancient paths that shifted under their hooves.

They did it all without complaint. I stroked my gelding’s neck as he passed over a particularly tricky crack in the road.

I had no idea how far up we were, but the wind made it seem like we were very high.

Luce darted happily ahead, more energetic than she’d been in days.

Atrius took up the front, then Sylina, then Mische, then me.

Mische’s horse had grown slow, and she slipped and stumbled over even small rocks, her neck swaying.

This much time this close to death was not agreeing with her.

“H-how did you find your way through the first time?” Mische asked. The weakness in her voice made my heart twist. The effects of the blood I’d given her had waned quickly.

The mask in my bag pulled at me, as if drinking down that glimmer of fear—an uncomfortable sensation.

Atrius was silent for a moment. I heard the ghosts crawling behind the bone walls in the quiet, as if rising to answer the question. I wondered how many of them had once been Atrius’s comrades.

Atrius said stiffly, “Trial and error,” and urged his horse onward.

After hours in the maze, Sylina cocked her head in concentration and raised her hand silently.

Atrius paused beside her, peering around a corner.

We stood before an open arch, towering five or six times our height.

Still, for all its grandness, at first glance it looked no different than the countless others we’d passed on our way here, framing a sheer drop down into the cliffs.

It was only when I looked more closely that I could sense something off about this particular passage—that the image we were staring at didn’t quite match up with the others, the stars a little misplaced, the skyline of the mountains in the distance not quite matching up with the view through the arch beside it.

An illusion. And a well-made one.

Atrius turned around in his saddle.

“He is here,” he said quietly. “This door will pass through to his bridge to the deadlands. It will seal behind us, and our only option will be to move forward. But the opposite door won’t open unless he opens it for us.”

Atrius drew his sword. His horse, ever loyal, pawed the ground, as if ready to charge into battle.

Mische and I drew our weapons, too. She frowned down at her broken blade.

“Do we have to fight him?” she said.

Atrius looked at her like this was a foolish question.

She spread her hands. “Could we maybe just ask him nicely to let us pass? I can be very persuasive.”

“It’s not an outrageous question,” Sylina said to Atrius, who seemed annoyed.

“If you want to go try to seduce the Keeper, by all means, do so,” he said to Mische. “If you die, at least we can go home.”

It was only at this dry joke that the terrifying possibility occurred to me that perhaps a lesser god could kill Mische. Mortal blades didn’t hurt her, but the Sentinels’ blessed weapons had. I had to imagine that a god’s would be just as dangerous.

Mische scowled. “I didn’t say anything about seducing him.”

I examined the arch. The illusion to hide the door was difficult to push past, even for me. But I could sense, albeit vaguely, a presence beyond it—undeniably divine.

Strangely enough, though, it didn’t feel sentient. I sensed no emotions. No mind.

Curious.

“Gods respect nothing but dominance,” Atrius said. “Be ready to move as soon as we pass through. If given the opportunity, he’ll kill us all before you have the chance to speak. And I know this because I’ve witnessed it.”

I rubbed my fingers together at my side, testing my magic in preparation. On the Night of the Melume, I’d been close to the underworld, the greatest wells of my power right at the surface. Now, I had to haul it up like water from a drying well.

The Mask’s power thrummed beside me in a way that felt deliberate, reminding me of its existence. As if I could ever forget it.

At Atrius’s instruction, we arranged ourselves in a set of four—Atrius and I taking up the front, Mische and Sylina behind, Luce at the center.

And at Atrius’s command, there was no time for hesitation. We all surged forward as if one entity.

For one terrifying moment, as our horses dutifully charged through what seemed like an open, empty door to a bone-crushing drop, my stomach fell out beneath me. Every survival instinct screamed. It occurred to me to wonder, What if he picked the wrong door?

Time slowed. I watched the cliffs below in slow motion. The wind whipped my hair back.

And then we crashed into darkness.

Our horses hit the ground, hooves screeching against stone.

A bridge stood before us. It was dark, save for a cold white glow from what looked like luminescent snow beneath it.

My horse slipped on something as he recovered, though I couldn’t quite identify what.

Stone surrounded us on all sides, and above us.

At the end of the bridge stood a door, the twin to the one we’d passed through, bricked over and full of glowing mist. Silhouetted before it was a hulking figure.

The Keeper.

My sword was already raised. Shadows swelled around me. Mische was surrounded by darkness, her blade high above her head. Atrius’s battle roar echoed in the dark as we charged ahead.

Only to be met with silence.

My brow furrowed as logic clawed through adrenaline.

Atrius had the same realization. He pulled his horse to a skidding stop, fist raised to signal a halt. The rest of us followed, our horses snorting and dancing with anxiety, whitened eyes staring at the creature before us.

Atrius had been right. The Keeper was a terrifying being.

He was at least the height of three men atop each other.

He had the body of a tiger, with paws the size of my head.

The torso of a man, bare and scarred. The head of a bull, eyes glowing white, one horn missing.

A broadsword that was nearly as tall as I was lay beside him.

And he was already dead.

He was slumped against the frame of the gate. His gut had been ripped open, humanoid torso split chest to navel to reveal a mess of guts. I realized the liquid my horse had slipped on, thick and silver, was his blood, which spread across the bridge.

We stared at him.

Then at the gate behind him. Stone. Closed. With no one to open it.

Silence.

Sylina at last said, “That’s inconvenient.”

I dismounted and knelt beside the corpse. It smelled terrible, but I was fairly certain the stench belonged to the Keeper and not to rot. The decay hadn’t progressed far.

Mische joined me. She pulled off a glove and laid her hand over his arm. It looked comically small in comparison.

“I don’t think he’s been gone for long,” she said.

“I thought it was impossible for him to be killed at all,” Atrius said. “He has guarded this passage for thousands of years.”

He actually sounded a bit sad.

I eyed the wound. The skin around it was scorched. Up close, I could see faint whorls of smoke slowly rising from it.

Godlight?

“Perhaps it’s possible if a god does it,” I said.

“His threads were cut suddenly. I can still sense it.” Sylina turned slowly, taking in the rest of the room. “Asar may be right. A mortal didn’t do this. Perhaps someone who wanted to make sure that no one passed into the deadlands.”

Mische and I exchanged a glance.

Nyaxia? Mische said silently to me. We’ve definitely caught her attention by now. Or maybe Shiket? She sent the Sentinels after us. Maybe she suspected we could come here next.

It could have been any of them. It was probably easier to count the gods who didn’t want to find us than the ones who did. I had been betting on Shiket and Nyaxia being so distracted by each other that they would let us slip away. That hope now seemed naive.

Mische stepped gingerly past the Keeper’s corpse and went to the gate behind him. She reached into the mist. Beyond her, her palm flattened against solid stone.

“No one else can open this?”

“If anyone else ever has,” Atrius said, “history never recorded it.”

We all stared at each other, at an impasse.

Then I turned back to the Keeper’s corpse, which Luce was sniffing suspiciously.

It wasn’t in bad condition. Fresh enough.

And this was his home, which would make it easier—more of his essence to draw from.

There was the small complication that he wasn’t mortal, but Mische and I hadn’t let that stop us before.

It was actually a little invigorating to have a challenge.

I neatly folded up my left sleeve to the elbow. Then the right.

“Well,” I said. “It’s a good thing that we’re necromancers.”