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  Her hand clenching Quin’s wet sleeve, she guided him toward the looming entrance directly ahead. She could see nothing but perfect darkness on the other side of the doorway. No path. No light. It was like the world ended right there in front of them. She stepped across the threshold.

  The world wavered a bit around her then steadied. She was no longer in the gray corridor conquered by years and volcanic ash. Instead they had arrived in a mist-filled tunnel hewn from solid rock. Beside her, Quin sucked in a sharp, rattled breath.

  She turned toward him. And winced when she saw him.

  He positively glowed with a brilliant aura of sickening light. He was staring down at himself, rotating his arms slowly, a look of concern in his eyes. Naia knew immediately what the queer, putrid light represented. She’d seen such an aura before, on Darien. But it hadn’t been anywhere near this vivid. Compared to the green brilliance surrounding Quin, Darien’s aura had been a mere foreshadowing.

  Quin’s damnation was undeniable.

  He raised a glowing hand before his face and said, “Well, this is certainly disconcerting.”

  Naia wished she had better tidings to offer. But she was used to being the bearer of ill news. “It is not an optimistic sign,” she said, mustering all the tact and evasion of an anointed priestess of Death.

  Quin dropped his hand, appearing resigned. “I don’t suppose it is. Apparently, the goddess is well-aware of my transgressions.”

  Naia looked at him in sympathy. There was no glossing over the truth. “It means your soul is not destined for the Atrament,” she told him directly. “It is destined for hell.”

  He shrugged, forcing a smile. “Hardly anything I wasn’t aware of before.” He raised his hands, using the aura to illuminate the wall next to the opening of a passage leading off. “Comes in rather handy, actually. Look here.”

  Naia peered around him and saw a set of markings etched into the wall. Quin leaned closer, examining them with keen interest. “Well now, I wonder what that means.”

  Naia took him by the arm, turning him away from the inscription. “It means you need to keep out,” she said firmly. “That passage leads to a warded hall, and you’re not welcome there. You could walk in there. But you’d never walk back out again.”

  “Interesting.” Quin ran a hand back through his hair then set his wet hat on his head. “What’s so important that it needs warding?”

  There were some secrets a demon like Quin Reis should not know. Perhaps this was one of them. Or perhaps this was something he really should know. Naia decided on the latter. With a sigh, she informed him, “That passage leads to the Hall of the Masters. It is a shrine dedicated to the souls of mages who have passed on to the Atrament.”

  “I see. And since I’m damned…”

  “You don’t belong there, Quin. I’m sorry.” She said it as gently as she could. Even so, it sounded harsh to her ears. “If you were to walk in there, you might make it halfway to the center of the room. Then the wards would be activated. The last thing you would see would be a brilliant flare of light as your soul incurred the wrath of the goddess … and then nothing. Forever.”

  Quin stared apathetically at the passage. “Doesn’t sound entirely bad. I can certainly think of worse. I’m destined for worse, come to think of it.”

  “It would not be painful,” Naia agreed. “But it would be very final.”

  Quin dismissed the assessment with a wave. “Anything’s better than an eternity spent in hell. Perhaps it’s an option I should remember for later.”

  Naia could only gaze at him, agreeing with him quietly in her heart. He didn’t seem that awful of a person. She couldn’t wish an eternity of suffering upon his soul, no matter what sins he had committed.

  “Let’s go,” she prompted gently.

  He turned and walked beside her down the dim corridor, soft mist swirling out of their path like a writhing mass of snakes. The air was sharply cold but not humid here. It had a stale, dry quality that smelled of dust and old decay. Naia scarcely noticed. She was used to the atmosphere of the place. She had spent years of her life within these passages. If anything, the odor was slightly nostalgic.

  She led Quin out of the tunnel and into a vast chamber honeycombed with vaults that contained the remains of the dead. The walls stretched higher than she could see, until they disappeared, lost in distance and shadow. A cold breeze sweet with the stench of rot rustled her skirt. There was magelight here, glowing in the recesses of the vaults. She could make out the shrouded corpses in the lowest levels.

  Quin made a face at the ripe odor, craning his neck to look up into the endless heights of the surrounding walls. Naia took him by the hand, leading him forward. They walked into what looked like a small city or a maze, past mausoleums and ancient sarcophagi, monuments and statues with faces of the deceased. They were on a street of sorts in a city of the dead. The stench of decomposition grew stronger, almost overwhelming. Quin covered his nose with the collar of his coat. He looked back at Naia with a look of apology.

  She couldn’t blame him. She remembered how it had been for her, so long ago. When she had first begun ministering to the dead. Before she’d become accustomed to the culture of decay.

  They walked onto a bridge that spanned a river of what looked like black water. It wasn’t water, Naia knew. But she wasn’t about to tell Quin that. Not all cadavers ended up in the vaults. Not every corpse was worth the space. Or the effort. The black liquid below took care of the rest.

  They reached the end of the bridge and exited the cavern, passing under a horseshoe arch decorated with iron filigree. The ever-present mist tumbled forward ahead of them, creating an illuminated path that split just ahead. One fork led to the next vast room of vaults. The other veered away toward chambers she was eager to avoid.

  Quin stopped at the fork, looking at a side passage with speculation in his eyes. Naia didn’t wait for him, knowing that was not a path he should tread. She walked quickly toward the curving passage ahead, calling back to him over her shoulder, “Hurry, it’s this direction. We still have a long way to go.”

  She’d taken several steps before she realized he wasn’t following. She stopped, turning to glance back with a feeling of trepidation. She could see the glow of his body clearly through the fog, moving toward the open doors.

  “Quin,” she called, starting after him. Her shrill voice rang strangely in the darkness, as if muffled or half-muted.

  He paid no attention. She wasn’t sure that he heard.

  Naia hurried toward him, catching him by the shoulder and forcing him to turn around. “What are you doing?” she demanded. He had no business going past that door. She knew what was there; she could taste the danger like metal on her tongue.

  Quin didn’t answer. Instead, he shrugged out of her grasp and strode into the dim chamber, following an illuminated path of mist. Naia trailed behind him, unsure of what to do. He seemed determined to ignore her.

  “Quin, stop. Please trust me. You don’t want to go in there.”

  The hall they entered was empty, save for one columned structure at the far end: a mausoleum made of glistening white marble with veins of gold. The glowing mist led straight toward it like a signal beacon. Quin lurched toward the mausoleum as if compelled. He only stopped when he encountered the iron grate that guarded the entrance to the tomb.

  He gripped the wrought iron bars and gave the grate a sharp tug. When it didn’t give, he started wrenching at it, rattling the bars as if trying to rip them off their hinges. When the grate still refused to budge, he whirled back toward her, eyes burning with fury and frustration.

  “How do you open this?”

  “Why?” Naia demanded. “You don’t understand what you’re doing. Why do you want in there?”

  “Because of that!” He pointed above the tomb’s entrance, to a triangular slab of marble held up by fluted columns, where the word REIS was etched into the stone. Naia stared at the letters then stared at Quin, feeling deflated.<
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  He looked at her with self-hating desperation in his eyes. “How do I open it?”

  Sighing, she yielded to his need, though it went against her better judgment. She reached out and took hold of the grate, pressing the release mechanism on the back. With a throaty groan that sounded like a death rattle, the grate swung outward. Quin stood for a moment with his hand lingering on the marble of the doorway, staring into the dim shadows beyond. His face was stern and haunted. Solemn but resolute.

  Naia felt a twinge of apprehension in her chest as she watched him take an echoing step inside, crossing onto the marble tiles of the floor. She moved to follow him, magelight trailing in beneath her feet. There wasn’t much space within; it was a small room just big enough for two people, white marble walls to either side. Halfway up the wall in front of her, an anchored vase held a single white rose. She pressed her hand against the cool face of the marble, running her fingers over the etched words:

  SEPHANA CLEMLEY

  PRIME WARDEN OF AERYSIUS

  The rose blossom looked perfectly fresh, as if it had been placed there just that morning. Naia reached out, touching the marble on the opposite wall. There, in letters carved boldly into the polished surface:

  BRADEN REIS

  FIRST OF THE SENTINELS

  Reading that name, she felt a lump rise to her throat. She turned to look at Quin, wondering what he must be feeling. She knew from previous conversations with him that he had never come to terms with his brother’s death. She supposed it might be good for him to confront his feelings about it. Grief had a purpose, after all. It was the first step of forgiveness, of letting go.

  Quin stood next to her wrapped in his glowing aura of corrupted light, hat in hand, head bowed solemnly. The other hand rested against the wall of his brother’s tomb. He was leaning on it heavily, staring downward at the ground. He stood there silently, reverently, alone with his loss.

  At last he looked up and asked, “Is there a way to open it?”

  Naia frowned, profoundly disturbed by the request. Opening tombs was something that simply wasn’t done. It went far beyond disrespect, to a place that bordered on blasphemy. “Why would you want to open it?” she whispered, appalled.

  “I want to see him.” Quin’s gaze was hard, his face resolved. He wasn’t asking her permission.

  Naia wasn’t sure what to do. He was obviously distraught. She set a hand on his arm, seeking to comfort him. Or at least deter him. “Quin. Your brother has been dead for a thousand years.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t care. I want to see him.”

  She had dealt with grief before; it was something she was used to. She had trained most of her life to deal with the circumstances surrounding death. Not just the care of the departed, but also tending to the wounds of loved ones left behind. But this went far beyond grief; she could see it in his eyes. This was something different. It wasn’t grief. It was guilt.

  She resorted to appealing to his morals. “It’s not right to disturb the peace of the dead. It’s disrespectful. And undignified.”

  Quin shot her a hostile glare. “Is that why you chose to wake Sareen? Because disturbing the dead is undignified? Don’t patronize me—just tell me how to open it.”

  He turned and felt along the marble wall, at last locating one of the release mechanisms that would, if depressed, unlock his brother’s crypt. Naia reached out and caught his hand.

  “Please. Braden earned his rest.”

  But Quin was apparently disinterested in his brother’s rest. He was drowning in guilt and shame. Quin’s gaze seared through the filthy green aura that framed his face, a white-eyed look of wildness and reproach.

  “Just tell me how to open this gods-damned box!”

  Naia realized there was no use trying to dissuade him. She didn’t understand his need but, then again, she didn’t have to. Perhaps this would help him put the past in perspective. More likely, it would leave a permanent scar, like ripping open an old wound. She just hoped it didn’t fester.

  Naia reached up and turned his face toward her. Gazing into his eyes, she said very carefully, “Quin. I need you to understand something before we open this. It’s important. I’m sure the temple worked very hard to insure your brother was well-preserved. But a thousand years is an awfully long time. He may not look anything like you remember.”

  He grimaced, growling through clenched teeth, “That’s the problem—I can’t remember! I don’t remember what Braden looked like, and I promised I’d never forget! I gave him my word…” He swallowed, looking feeble.

  Adamant, Naia shook her head. “This isn’t the answer, Quin. I don’t think your brother would want you to see him like this.”

  He jerked back from her. “Listen to me plainly: I don’t care. Open it. Now.”

  Naia sighed, collecting herself. “If you insist.” She leaned forward, depressing the twin mechanisms recessed on either side of the wall. There was the slightest clicking sound. Then the marble face of the crypt parted at the seams. Naia twisted the device, creating handles to slip her fingers through. She pulled, putting her back into it; the marble face was heavier than it looked. It folded down, the drawer of the crypt sliding effortlessly out of the wall.

  Inside the drawer lay a body covered by a thin shroud.

  Naia’s breath caught in her throat. She knew who lay beneath that delicate fabric. The legend of Braden Reis overshadowed the accomplishments of any other mage in all of history. He was not only the founder of the Order of Sentinels; he was the one man who had stood opposed to Zavier Renquist.

  She glanced at Quin, feeling terrible for him. And terrible for his brother. This was not the choice she would have favored for either of them. Or for the temple she had once held allegiance to.

  She feared what lay beneath that cotton shroud.

  Quin stared at the covered remains, his face fixed in a scowl of infinite sorrow. Solemnly, he reached down and fingered the fabric of the shroud. He whispered, “I want to see him.”

  Naia closed her eyes, a nervous wave of tension passing over her. She let out a lingering sigh. Then she took hold of the shroud’s soft fabric and drew it back.

  At her side, Quin made a quiet gasping sound.

  She already knew what her action had uncovered. She didn’t have to look. She drew the fabric lower, folding it down. She smoothed it out with her hand. Only then did Naia open her eyes to gaze upon the remains.

  Braden Reis was garbed in the indigo robes of the Lyceum, his hands folded neatly over his chest. Naia stared down at him for a long moment, afraid to move. Afraid to say anything. She was too frozen by dismay.

  Quin whispered, “I don’t understand….”

  Naia did. The remains of Quin’s brother had not been preserved. Instead, Braden Reis had been frozen in time. His flesh had been placed here scant minutes after death, probably before the body had even cooled. Here within the spelled wonder of the Catacombs, time had not been allowed to touch his flesh to work its ills. Whoever had tended his remains had done well by him. He was perfect in every way: the flush of life still touched his cheeks. His hands looked supple, the skin smooth and plump. He was a handsome man, far more so than his brother. There was a strength about him that even death could not deny.

  Quin shook his head, drawing in a shuddering breath. “How is this possible?”

  Feeling terrible for him, Naia took him by the hand. She said in a lowered voice, “The temple has many holy mysteries. This is one. I’m sorry, but I’m not at liberty to elaborate.”

  Quin’s eyes widened. Then they narrowed. “You knew!” he accused. “You knew he’d be like this! That’s why you didn’t want me to see him!”

  Naia struggled to maintain her composure. It was difficult; there was so much she wanted to tell him. And so much she could not. “Quin. It’s time. We’ve disturbed your brother’s peace long enough.”

  “No.” He shook his head, drawing back from her. “Wait. You can bring him back! Like you did to Sare
en! You can bring him back, can’t you?” His eyes were wide, glinting in desperation.

  But Naia was already shaking her head, fending off the idea by waving her hands in front of him. “No! Quin, I can’t bring him back.”

  “Why not?”

  Because it was forbidden.

  “I could heal his body,” Naia confessed, avoiding his eyes. Instead she stared down into the face of his dead brother. “Maybe with prayer and supplication, we could convince the goddess to part the Veil of Death. But Braden was a mage, not a demon like Sareen. I have no way to heal the loss of his legacy. You know as well as I: once a person inherits the gift, it becomes inseparable from their life-force. We would be healing him just to watch him die all over again. I’m sorry, Quinlan. I truly am. You must say goodbye to your brother now. I’m going to wait outside.”

  She squeezed his arm then turned to slip past him. As she did, something in the drawer caught her eye. Something tucked beneath the shroud, only one silver glint visible to the eye. She knew instantly what it was. While Quin was focused on his brother’s face, Naia scooped the silver necklace up in her hand and fled the mausoleum, head bowed, shoulders shaking, hands clasped in front of her. She ran forward through the glowing spill of mist without aim or direction. She didn’t have a destination in mind; she just wanted to get away. She couldn’t escape the image of Braden Reis. It followed her even as she fled.

  Naia chanced a glance back over her shoulder, then paused and opened her hand. She held up the object she had stolen from the crypt: a silver medallion with a dull, black stone of many facets that hung from two silver bands. Just the sight of the Soulstone made her sick. She thrust it deeply into the pocket of her cloak, then turned to wait for Quin.

  It was a reckoning long overdue; she sincerely hoped he’d found what he sought so desperately.