“It still smells like opium,” Rowan said, frowning. Aelin brushed her foot over the ashy ground, kicking away cinders and debris. It had to be somewhere—ah.
She swept away more and more, the ash staining her black boots and suit. At last a large, misshapen stone appeared beneath her feet, a worn hole near its edge.
She said casually, “Did you know that in addition to dealing opium, this man was rumored to sell hellfire?”
Rowan whipped his gaze to her.
Hellfire—nearly impossible to attain or make, mostly because it was so lethal. Just a vat of it could take out half of a castle’s retainer wall.
“He would never talk to me about it, of course,” Aelin went on, “no matter how many times I came here. He claimed he didn’t have it, yet he had some of the ingredients around the shop—all very rare—so … There must have been a supply of it here.”
She hauled open the stone trapdoor to reveal a ladder descending into the gloom. None of the males spoke as the reek of the sewers unfurled.
She crouched, sliding onto the first rung, and Aedion tensed, but he wisely said nothing about her going first.
Smoke-scented darkness enveloped her as she climbed down, down, down, until her feet hit smooth rock. The air was dry, despite their proximity to the river. Rowan came next, dropping his torch onto the ancient stones to reveal a cavernous tunnel—and bodies.
Several bodies, some of them nothing but dark mounds in the distance, cut down by the Valg. There were fewer to the right, toward the Avery. They’d probably anticipated an ambush at the river mouth and gone the other way—to their doom.
Not waiting for Aedion or Chaol to climb down, Aelin began following the tunnel, Rowan silent as a shadow at her side—looking, listening. After the stone door groaned closed above, she said into the darkness, “When the king’s men set this place alight, if the fire had hit that supply … Rifthold probably wouldn’t be here anymore. At least not the slums, and probably more.”
“Gods above,” Chaol murmured from a few paces behind.
Aelin paused at what looked like an ordinary grate in the sewer floor. But no water ran beneath, and only dusty air floated up to meet her.
“That’s how you’re planning to blow up the clock tower—with hellfire,” Rowan said, crouching at her side. He made to grab her elbow as she reached for the grate, but she sidled out of range. “Aelin—I’ve seen it used, seen it wreck cities. It can literally melt people.”
“Good. So we know it works, then.”
Aedion snorted, peering down into the gloom beyond the grate. “So what? You think he kept his supply down there?” If he had a professional opinion about hellfire, he kept it to himself.
“These sewers were too public, but he had to keep it near the market,” Aelin said, yanking on the grate. It gave a little, and Rowan’s scent caressed her as he leaned to help haul it off the opening.
“It smells like bones and dust down there,” Rowan said. His mouth quirked to the side. “But you suspected that already.”
Chaol said from a few feet behind, “That’s what you wanted to know from Nelly—where he was hiding. So he can sell it to you.”
Aelin lit a bit of wood from Rowan’s torch. She carefully poised it just beneath the lip of the hole before her, the flame lighting a drop of about ten feet, with cobblestones beneath.
A wind pushed from behind, toward the hole. Into it.
She set aside the flame and sat on the lip of the hole, her legs swinging in the dimness beneath. “What Nelly doesn’t know yet is that the opium monger was actually caught two days ago. Killed on sight by the king’s men. You know, I do think Arobynn sometimes had no idea whether he really wanted to help me or not.” It had been his casual mention of it at dinner that had set her thinking, planning.
Rowan murmured, “So his supply in the catacombs is now unguarded.”
She peered into the gloom below. “Finders keepers,” she said, and jumped.
CHAPTER
50
“How did those lowlifes keep this place a secret?” Aelin breathed as she turned to Chaol.
The four of them stood atop a small staircase, the cavernous space beyond them illuminated in flickering gold by the torches Aedion and Rowan bore.
Chaol was shaking his head, surveying the space. Not a sign of scavengers, thank the gods. “Legend has it that the Shadow Market was built on the bones of the god of truth.”
“Well, they got the bones part right.”
In every wall, skulls and bones were artfully arranged—and every wall, even the ceiling, had been formed from them. Even the floor at the foot of the stairs was laid with bones of varying shapes and sizes.
“These aren’t ordinary catacombs,” Rowan said, setting down his torch. “This was a temple.”
Indeed, altars, benches, and even a dark reflection pool lay in the massive space. Still more sprawled away into shadow.
“There’s writing on the bones,” Aedion said, striding down the steps and onto the bone floor. Aelin grimaced.
“Careful,” Rowan said as Aedion went to the nearest wall. Her cousin lifted a hand in lazy dismissal.
“It’s in every language—all in different handwriting,” Aedion marveled, holding his torch aloft as he moved along the wall. “Listen to this one here: ‘I am a liar. I am a thief. I took my sister’s husband and laughed while I did it.’” A pause. He silently read another. “None of this writing … I don’t think these were good people.”
Aelin scanned the bone temple. “We should be quick,” she said. “Really damn quick. Aedion, you take that wall; Chaol, the center; Rowan, the right. I’ll grab the back. Careful of where you wave your fire.” Gods help them if they unwittingly placed a torch near the hellfire.
She took a step down, and then another. Then the last one, onto the bone floor.
A shudder crawled through her, and she glanced at Rowan out of instinct. His tight face told her all she needed to know. But he still said, “This is a bad place.”
Chaol strode past them, his sword out. “Then let’s find this hellfire supply and get out.”
Right.
All around them, the empty eyes of the skulls in the walls, in the structures, the pillars in the center of the room, seemed to watch.
“Seems like this god of truth,” Aedion called from his wall, “was more of a Sin-Eater than anything. You should read some of the things people wrote—the horrible things they did. I think this was a place for them to be buried, and to confess on the bones of other sinners.”
“No wonder no one wanted to come here,” Aelin muttered as she strode off into the dark.
The temple went on and on, and they found supplies—but no whisper of scavengers or other residents. Drugs, money, jewelry, all hidden inside skulls and within some of the bone crypts on the floor. But no hellfire.
Their cautious steps on the bone floor were the only sounds.
Aelin moved deeper and deeper into the gloom. Rowan soon cleared his side of the temple and joined her in the back, exploring the alcoves and little hallways that branched off into the slumbering dark. “The language,” Aelin said to him. “It gets older and older the farther back we go. The way they spell the words, I mean.”
Rowan twisted toward her from where he’d been carefully opening a sarcophagus. She doubted an ordinary man would be able to shift the stone lid. “Some of them even date their confessions. I just saw one from seven hundred years ago.”
“Makes you seem young, doesn’t it?”
He gave her a wry smile. She quickly looked away.
The bone floor clicked as he stepped toward her. “Aelin.”
She swallowed hard, staring at a carved bone near her head. I killed a man for sport when I was twenty and never told anyone where I buried him. I kept his finger bone in a drawer.
Dated nine hundred years ago.
Nine hundred—
Aelin studied the darkness beyond. If the Shadow Market dated back to Gavin, then this plac
e had to have been built before it—or around the same time.
The god of truth …
She drew Damaris from across her back, and Rowan tensed. “What is it?”
She examined the flawless blade. “The Sword of Truth. That’s what they called Damaris. Legend said the bearer—Gavin—could see the truth when he wielded it.”
“And?”
“Mala blessed Brannon, and she blessed Goldryn.” She peered into the gloom. “What if there was a god of truth—a Sin-Eater? What if he blessed Gavin, and this sword?”
Rowan now stared toward the ancient blackness. “You think Gavin used this temple.”
Aelin weighed the mighty sword in her hands. “What sins did you confess to, Gavin?” she whispered into the dark.
Deep into the tunnels they went, so far that when Aedion’s triumphant cry of “Found it!” reached Aelin and Rowan, she could barely hear it. And barely cared.
Not when she stood before the back wall—the wall behind the altar of what had no doubt been the original temple. Here the bones were nearly crumbling with age, the writing almost impossible to read.
The wall behind the altar was of pure stone—white marble—and carved in Wyrdmarks.
And in the center was a giant rendering of the Eye of Elena.
Cold. It was so cold in here that their breath clouded in front of them, mingling.
“Whoever this god of truth was,” Rowan murmured, as if trying not to be overheard by the dead, “he was not a benevolent sort of deity.”
No; with a temple built from the bones of murderers and thieves and worse, she doubted this god had been a particular favorite. No wonder he’d been forgotten.
Aelin stepped up to the stone.
Damaris turned icy in her hand—so frigid her fingers splayed, and she dropped the sword on the altar floor and backed away. Its clang against the bones was like thunder.