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  Quin climbed to his feet, shaking the dust off his pants. Without waiting for her answer, he reached out a hand toward the nearest chandelier. With a groan of protest, it bent toward him on its chain as if drawn by a magnet. The edge of the iron circlet came close to their stone perch … but not all the way. There was still a sizeable gap between the column and the fixture. They would have to jump. And it was a jump up, not down.

  “Oh, no….” Naia gazed at the chandelier open-mouthed. “You’re not thinking…” Of course he was. She shook her head, not bothering to complete the sentence. It was no use.

  She stared harder at the chandelier, studying its structure in an attempt to understand how either of them could ever scale it. The fixture was composed of two iron rings that held candle cups, a smaller ring at the top, and a much wider ring below. Both rings were reinforced by iron crossbars. The chandelier was mounted to the ceiling by a long chain that hooked onto the smaller ring. Four more chains came down to stabilize the larger circlet on the bottom.

  Quin looked at her with a reckless glint in his eyes.

  “No, don’t—!”

  Without a word, he drew back against the wall and took a running leap. He caught the iron ring by his fingertips, the whole fixture lurching under his weight. Tapers rained down, tumbling to the floor stories below. The magelight flickered, dimming, on the verge of going out.

  “Quin!” Naia screamed.

  The chandelier recoiled, swaying away from the column as Quin scrambled to pull himself up over the rim. At last he hooked one leg over, clinging to the bar as the fixture swung in great arcs like the bob of a pendulum. He got another leg over, pulling himself upright. Below, the floor of the hall seemed to lurk hungrily.

  To Naia’s horror, Quin wasn’t satisfied with his perch. He grasped one of the stabilizing chains and pulled himself to a standing position on the iron crossbar, reaching out toward her with his other hand. The chandelier swayed back toward the ledge and then stuck there, frozen at the extreme of its arc.

  “Come on!” The look in Quin’s eyes was just as insistent as his voice.

  Naia knew there was no argument; she couldn’t remain on the ledge forever. Neither could she retreat back up the wall. She wiped the sweat off her palms onto the bodice of her gown. Just to be sure, she wiped her palms again. Then, just as Quin had done, she took two steps back and pressed her body flat up against the wall. Naia stood there for a moment, breathing in shallow, rapid gasps, as the world spun around her. She took a failed step forward and stopped. She backed up again. Sagging, she groped for resolve.

  “You won’t fall. Just jump. I’ll catch you.”

  Naia wished she could trust him. But he was a demon, and she couldn’t.

  She squeezed her eyes closed then opened them again. She glared fiercely at Quin. She wished he still had that stupid grin on his face, but he’d lost it somewhere along the way. Clenching her hands into fists, she ran and leaped from the top of the column. She plunged right past Quin’s outstretched fingers and started screaming as she fell.

  Her body jerked upward, as if snapped back by a rope. Quin’s strong grip caught her wrist. She was hauled upward into his arms as she gasped and trembled in terror and disbelief.

  “How did you do that?” she gulped.

  “Darien fell from Aerysius and lived,” he responded with a shrug. “If I knew for a fact I could do it again, I’d tell you to jump off and I’d float you right to the floor. Unfortunately, I’m not sure I could repeat it.”

  The chandelier swayed steadily to and fro. The chain groaned and creaked. Below them, the floor contorted in an unsteady motion.

  Naia asked, “You don’t know what you did?”

  Quin shook his head. “No idea. Just happy as a daisy that it worked.”

  “A lark.”

  “What?” He looked confused.

  “The phrase is, ‘happy as a lark.’”

  Quin gazed at her and smiled. “Well, I’m happy as a lark, then.” His smile went back to where it came from. “I’m going to go first. Wait until I’m across, then follow behind me. Do what I do.”

  Naia shook her head. “No. Let me go first. If you fall, I don’t want to be trapped up here.”

  He frowned as if unsure about that plan, but ended up nodding. “Fair enough. Drop down and hang from that bar, then go hand-over-hand.”

  She gathered her courage then did as he suggested, sitting down on the crossbar that supported the chandelier’s outer ring. The bar wasn’t very thick; she could get her hands around it. Which was good; the ring that held the candle cups was much thicker, and she doubted she could keep a good grip on it. She dropped down, her legs kicking as she swung from the bar.

  Hand-over-hand, she made her way slowly down the length of the bar toward the outside edge as the fixture dipped lower, tilting beneath her weight. When she reached the outer ring, she stopped and looked back at Quin.

  The chandelier righted itself. It began to sway, gently at first, picking up speed as it went. Then it paused and swung back the other direction. It stopped at the apex of its arc, the iron ring frozen above the next chandelier in line. The gap was too much. Terrified, Naia glanced back at Quin.

  The next chandelier swung toward her until it rested up against the ring of the fixture she was riding. Naia breathed a sigh of relief and swung from one giant ring to the next. But as she grabbed on, the whole contraption lurched beneath her weight. Quin righted it, but not before it sent her heart leaping into her throat.

  Naia sucked in a deep breath as the chandelier tilted back to level. Her hands were slick with sweat. She pulled them off one by one, wiping her palms dry on her gown. She made the mistake of looking down. The floor swam in shadow far below her dangling feet. She broke out in a sweat all over again.

  Naia bit her lip in concentration and started forward again, hand-over-hand down the bar as the fixture tilted.

  This time, the transition was easier. Quin had anticipated the weight redistribution. Naia paused, wiping her hands. She healed the blisters that were forming on her fingers and palms. Then, little by little, she edged along the bar and onto the next fixture. And the next. And the next. Six chandeliers in all.

  Until she reached the far wall. And had no idea what to do next.

  There was nowhere to go. Naia clung to the bar still stories above the floor. The only thing beneath her was the statue of Mercy seated upon her marble throne. But it was too much of a drop; even if she did make it, Naia felt sure she’d roll right off.

  She glanced back at Quin in desperation.

  “Just close your eyes and let go!” he shouted, still standing on the first chandelier. His voice rang off the walls, his face bathed in crimson magelight that made him look even more demonic than he was. “Either you’ll make it, or you won’t!”

  “That’s not very reassuring!”

  “Don’t think about it! Just let go!”

  She sucked in a breath and gasped out a prayer. “Merciful goddess!”

  She screamed as she fell. The slap of her body against stone knocked the scream right out of her. Then she was falling again.

  Something jerked her to a stop. She hung in the air, her feet swinging beneath her.

  Her head throbbed, and her stomach recoiled in a surge of nausea. She tried to concentrate, healing herself as best she could. Her vision went dim. A profound sense of weariness dragged her downward. She swung gently in the air, like a bird riding a tree branch on a breezy day.

  “Wake up!” That was Quin shouting.

  Naia dragged herself back to consciousness, blinking awake. She clawed her mind back into focus. Was she still hanging in the air?

  “Open your eyes and look at me!” His voice sounded much closer than before.

  Naia looked up and saw him hanging overhead from the fixture right above her. He was clutching the outer circlet with both hands, looking down at her with his chin against his chest. His feet dangled uselessly, the toes of his boots pointed at the floor
. The chandelier swung in a slow circle, the frame that held the candles wrenched at an unnatural angle.

  Naia saw Quin’s precarious situation and felt a swift jolt of fear. Then she saw what was holding her own body up, suspended in the air. The fear turned to a wave of panic that broke over her, ripping a scream from her throat.

  The strap of her pack had somehow hooked on to the statue’s upraised hand, caught on one delicate thumb. She hung suspended, still far above the floor. The hand of the goddess had saved her life. The hand of Mercy. The coincidence felt like a gut-punch. Guilt filled her face with heat that overwhelmed even her fear. She had abandoned her goddess two years before. Yet her goddess had not abandoned her.

  She squirmed, kicking, until she managed to slide out of the straps that held her pack. She fell and hit the floor.

  Naia rolled over on her side, scrunching her knees up to her chin. She rocked there back and forth, trembling and sobbing in relief and regret. She was barely aware when her pack lifted on its own, rising from the statue’s hand to settle softly by her side.

  “Naia!” Quin called down. He was still hanging from the acutely tilted fixture, taking turns flexing the fingers of first one hand then the next.

  Naia staggered to her feet, craning her neck to look up at him. He looked pathetic up there, legs kicking as the contraption swayed and creaked, the chain groaning in a fatigued voice. She glanced from Quin to the statues of the aspects, at the water streaming thinly to a pool at the base of the thrones. The sound of the fall was a muted, sibilant drone.

  Above, the chandelier Quin dangled from lurched and began to sway. Her eyes went wide as she saw what he was attempting. He was causing it to swing far enough to time his drop over the head of the nearest statue.

  “Don’t!” she shrieked up at him. If he missed, he’d drop all the way to the floor. The chandelier swayed all the way to the far wall with a contemptuous creak. It slowed with a grating noise, then swung back toward her again.

  With a shout, Quin let go.

  He dropped right onto the goddess’ head, slapped hard, then slid down her front. His body tumbled past her outstretched hand, landing face-down in her lap. Naia rushed forward, plunging into the pool, splashing as she surged toward the statue’s feet. She could see Quin’s legs hanging over the marble knees. He didn’t appear to be moving.

  “Quin!” she called up at him.

  A foot twitched. There came a low groan. Then:

  “Why do I always end up in the laps of stone-cold women who won’t spread their legs?”

  Naia gasped, more in dismay than relief. Her hand flew to her mouth. “You dare blaspheme the goddess in her sacred hall?!”

  Above her, the feet disappeared and Quin’s face poked out, grinning down. “Doesn’t feel very sacred. More like haunted and abandoned.”

  Hanging on to the statue’s knees, he swung his legs over then dropped. He landed in the reflecting pool, staggering to catch his balance. He bent over, panting and swaying. Naia waded toward him, catching hold of his shoulders.

  “Do you want me to heal you?”

  He shook his head. “No. I’ve got it.”

  He closed his eyes, screwing his face into a grimace. A wave of energy passed over him, and he caught his breath. He wavered over his feet then straightened, hands going up to tug at his rumpled coat. He plunged his hand into his pack and retrieved his hat. He took his time about adjusting it. At last seeming satisfied, he spread his arms out at his sides.

  “See? All just a grand adventure.”

  Naia looked at him. “I’m beginning to understand why you’re dead.”

  15

  The Beautiful Dead

  Naia slipped her pack on over her shoulders and waded through the shallow, murky pool in the direction of the waterfall. The spray was chill, the mist dampening the dusty air of the sanctum. The water poured from an opening high up on the wall between the two stone statues of the goddess. It plunged in a thin, veil-like stream between the hewn thrones. She couldn’t tell if the feature had been created by man or by time. She supposed it didn’t matter.

  She turned and stared back toward the anterior of the hall. By the diffuse red glow of Quin’s magelight, she could make out the tall doors that led to the temple’s sanctuary. From her years of study and worship, she knew that was not the direction they needed to go. They would need to find a way deeper into the heart of the temple, where the most sacred of all mysteries was contained. There was no obvious exit from the sanctum, but that didn’t surprise her. The Catacombs were one of Death’s most closely held secrets.

  She looked back toward the statues of the goddess, feeling certain. “We must go through the waterfall.” It wasn’t a guess; she just knew.

  Quin glanced up, a look of surprise on his face. The spray of the mist collected on his face in a dewy sheen. Almost reverently, he removed his hat.

  Hiking her skirt up over her knees, Naia splashed forward through the frigid pool. She closed her eyes as she moved into the waterfall, clamping her jaw as the chill of the water washed over her head, wetting her hair and awakening every nerve in her body. Shaking and drenched, she stepped out on the other side and opened her eyes.

  Darkness confronted her.

  Teeth chattering, she cast a trail of magelight ahead, a brilliant azure glow that flowed like mist to illuminate a filthy corridor ahead. She heard the sound of splashing behind her and then Quin appeared at her side, soaked and shivering, hugging his hat against his chest. He looked at the magelight and stiffened, his eyes flashing back to her.

  “I keep forgetting you inherited Darien’s legacy,” he said, looking suddenly somber. “What tier are you?”

  “Third,” Naia replied through chattering teeth. “Meiran inherited the other five.”

  “That’s too bad,” Quin said, voice brittle with scorn. “She doesn’t deserve them.”

  Naia found herself silently agreeing. Quin had told her about Meiran’s betrayal of Darien. She didn’t hate the woman for it, but the contempt she felt was only a moment’s reflection short of hate. Of course, she couldn’t claim that she was more worthy of the legacy. By the ancient laws of Aerysius, she had forfeited her right to it when she’d forfeited her Oath. No matter how much she regretted that decision, it was something she could never take back.

  Naia returned her attention to the corridor ahead. The ceiling had crumbled, creating a debris field at their feet. Tall, rusted candlesticks lay scattered across the floor at haphazard angles. A thick layer of ash coated everything. Naia trailed her fingers over the relentless gray of the wall, revealing the colorful design of the tile beneath. The corridor must have been beautiful at one time.

  She lifted her wet skirt and stepped over the first tumbled candlestick, picking her way carefully across the mangled floor. At the far end of the passage were three imposing openings that led off in scattered directions: one to the left, one to the right, and another leading straight ahead. There were no doors; doors were unnecessary. No light could enter the passages beyond, and no shadow dared cross the thresholds. It was as if there was an indomitable barrier separating the light of the world from the velvet darkness beyond.

  Naia stopped, turning back to her companion. “Quin. Look at me.”

  He did. His face was streaked with water that dribbled from his hair. His ancient eyes spoke of weariness and sorrow, wisdom and regret. Naia shivered harder, taken aback for a moment by the layers of depth in his eyes. He really was a demon, she realized. She would have to remember that … especially where they were going.

  “On the other side of these openings is the Catacombs,” she said with a fierceness that surprised her. “I must warn you: the living are forbidden to communicate with the dead.”

  A mirthless smile shadowed Quin’s face. “I deduce that doesn’t apply to me.”

  He was most likely correct. But she had no idea how to deal with Quin’s peculiar circumstances, or how he might be affected by the Strictures. He was not alive, but nor
was he a shade. He existed somewhere apart, a despoiled soul denied all hope of the Atrament.

  Naia frowned. “Perhaps. But for you, there may be other dangers.”

  Quin folded his arms. “Such as…?”

  “There are places within Death’s Passage that are sacred to the goddess. A soul such as yours will be forbidden to trespass. Entering such a shrine would shred the fabric of your soul.” There were few such shrines, but they did exist. And they were difficult to avoid, if they came across one.

  Quin scowled reflectively. “I’d like to avoid any amount of soul-shredding if I possibly can.”

  Naia looked at him in sympathy. “I’m sorry. Some aspects of the Catacombs exist more in the Atrament than they do in this world. And, as you know, your soul is incompatible with the Atrament.”

  He chortled. “‘Incompatible.’ That’s a diplomatic way of putting it.”

  Naia squeezed his arm, as if by pressure she could impart an appreciation of the danger he faced. “Speak to no one. Touch nothing. Go nowhere unless I say it’s safe. Do you understand, Quinlan?”

  Holding his hat in his hands, he executed a formal bow. “Madam, you have my word I’ll behave. As much as I can, at any rate.”

  Somehow, Naia doubted that. Nevertheless, she nodded before turning back to the darker-than-black openings before them. Quin’s sarcasm was quickly forgotten as she put her mind to the problem of selecting which path they should take.

  Atrament, Oblivion, Netherworld.

  Mercy, Sacrifice, Vengeance

  “Skara’s temple,” she murmured, her brain working to decipher the code. “Which face of the goddess was displayed at the pinnacle of the dome?”

  Quin appeared to be wrestling with an unpleasant memory. “The ugly one,” he said finally. That would be the aspect of Sacrifice.

  They would choose the Oblivion portal.

  Not that the portal actually led to Oblivion, just as the portal on the right didn’t lead to the Netherworld. It was a mnemonic, a device used for aiding memory. The Catacombs existed apart from distance and time, though travel through them still took time and covered distance. The paradox was one of the temple’s holy mysteries. She was determined to select the shortest route to their destination, even if it wasn’t the straightest.