Текст книги "The First Stone"

Автор книги: Mark Anthony

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 38 страниц)

“Is that all?” Anders said.

“No, there’s more.” Jacoby picked up another photo, clearly quite excited. A sequence of symbols was circled in red marker. “I was able to translate an entire phrase here—assuming the results of my diachronic analysis were accurate, of course. It reads, the flame and the awe.”

That was it; Jacoby had been able to translate nothing more, though he intended to keep working.

“Absolutely fascinating, isn’t it?” Jacoby said, gathering his papers. “We always thought Linear A was one of the oldest writing systems known. However, it appears the language on the arch is even earlier.” He pushed his glasses up his nose. “You’ll let me know if you discover any more samples of this earlier writing, won’t you?”

“Of course, Paul,” Deirdre said. “Thank you so much for all your work on this.” She tried to sound sincere, but after Jacoby left she couldn’t help letting out a sigh.

“Not quite what you hoped for, was it, mate?”

She sat at her desk, gazing at the copies Jacoby had left for her. “I’m not sure what I was hoping for.”

“I’m hoping for some breakfast,” Beltan said. “Then it’s time to get the keystone.”

“Come on, mate,” Anders said, taking Beltan’s elbow. “I’ll help you with that first one at least. You coming, Deirdre?”

She gave them a wan smile. “You eat something for me.”

Once the two men had left, she bent her head over the photos of the stone arch. However, the symbols were meaningless to her. She shuffled the photos around, looking at the words Jacoby had written in red marker.

Sun. Journey. Blood. Death. Those were easy enough to interpret. The builders of the arch had come from the deserts of Eldh’s southern continent, and they had been sorcerers, workers in blood and death. But they knew all this already. Deirdre looked at the other photo and the words Jacoby had written on it. For a moment she simply stared.

Then she leaped up from the chair. Flame and awe.Jacoby had chosen those words for his translation. But he could just as easily have chosen synonyms, couldn’t he? Words that meant the same thing . . .

“Fire and wonder,” she murmured.

She sifted through the papers, then found it: the note from the Philosopher. He said she had forgotten something, a mystery from before this mystery.

“Think, Deirdre,” she said through clenched teeth. “Think.”

What had she been researching before she learned about Thomas Atwater, and the tavern, and the keystone? What had she been searching for before he first contacted her? The last pieces of the puzzle rearranged themselves in her mind. Slowly, she sank into the chair.

Fire and wonder. That was the first search phrase she had entered into the computer after receiving Echelon 7 clearance. The strange god-child Samanda had spoken those words to her once. The search had brought up a single file, one that was deleted from the system at the exact moment her search had discovered it.

In the strange days that followed, leading up to the assault on the Steel Cathedral in Denver, she had forgotten all about the mystery of the missing computer file. But he had told her to remember, and now she had. Only what did it mean? It couldn’t be a coincidence that those same two words were inscribed on the arch. Whatever was in that missing file, it was related to the stone gate.

Deirdre opened a file drawer and pawed through her notes. It took her a minute, then she found it: a computer printout from that night’s session, three years earlier. Her eyes scanned down the page. And there it was.

Search completed.

1 match(es) located:

/albion/archive/case999-1/mla1684a.arch

She had performed searches on that case number three years ago, and nothing had come up. What about the file name itself? Did it hint at what the file contained? Maybe. What the letters mlastood for, Deirdre couldn’t guess. However, the .archsuffix suggested this was an archive file, and 1684had to refer to a year.

Deirdre opened her computer and brought up a search window. “Display a summary of all major cases and events recorded in the annals of the Seekers for the year 1684,” she muttered the query as she typed it.

She hit the ENTER key, and seconds later a glowing green list appeared on her screen. It only took a moment before she saw the entry that mattered.

7 August 1684. Seeker agent Marius Lucius Albrecht dies, aged 29.

Deirdre leaned back, staring at the screen. The initials– mla—could only refer to him, to Marius Lucius Albrecht: the legendary Seeker who was expelled from the order for falling in love with Alis Faraday, the woman he had been ordered to observe. In the years that followed, Albrecht redeemed himself and was admitted again to the order, becoming perhaps the greatest Seeker ever before his untimely death at the age of twenty-nine.

The file, mla1684a.arch, had to be an archive of his final papers or reports. Whatever the file contained, clearly someone didn’t want her to read it, as they had deleted the file before she could access it. Or perhaps an automatic guard had been set up around the file: a program designed to delete the file the moment anyone tried to open it.

Either way, there was one thing she did know: He had first made contact with her just after her search located the file. The Philosopher who had been helping her. Now the note he had given her had reminded her of this old mystery. For some reason, her mysterious helper wanted to point her in the direction of Marius Lucius Albrecht.

But why was Marius Lucius Albrecht important? She was still missing that piece of the puzzle. Like every Seeker, she had studied the history of all the cases he had worked on. They were fascinating—the result of a brilliant mind and a superb researcher—but none of them had anything to do with the keystone or the tavern or the arch on Crete.

None of the ones you read at least, Deirdre. But maybe you haven’t read everything of Albrecht’s. I’ll bet you no Seeker has seen what’s in that file that was deleted, at least not in recent history.

She wished Farr were there. He had studied Albrecht’s career in greater depth than any Seeker she knew. Indeed, many in the order had considered him to be a modern-day Albrecht. He was as dazzling an investigator, and his rise in the order as meteoric. And, like Albrecht, Farr had even fallen in love with the woman he had been ordered to watch: Dr. Grace Beckett. However, Farr hadn’t been cast out of the order; he had quit of his own accord. And something told Deirdre he was never coming back. She was on her own in this one.

So what do you do, Deirdre? You can’t get at that deleted file, not even with Echelon 7 clearance.

She gripped her yellowed bear claw necklace, centering herself. She needed to treat it like any other investigation—which meant starting by gathering all the information she could concerning Marius Lucius Albrecht. She pulled her computer toward her and began typing.

The wall clock ticked away the hours as she worked. Anders and Beltan didn’t return from their quest for breakfast, but Deirdre only noted that in passing. She called up every file in the system that concerned Marius Lucius Albrecht. Searching the documents for the terms keystoneand tavernrevealed nothing of import, as she had guessed, and soon she found herself focusing on a summary of Albrecht’s life.

By the time she finished, she knew what she had to do. She leaned back from her computer, rubbing her aching neck, as Anders stepped into the office.

“Looks like you’ve been hard at work, mate.”

She shut her computer. “I’ve just been doing some cross-referencing on the terms Paul Jacoby translated on the arch.” She hated how easily the lie slipped off her tongue.

“Sounds good. Any luck?”

“Zero,” she said with a sigh. “So where’s Sir Give-Me-the-Keystone-Now-Or-Else?”

“Beltan? He’s in the parlor taking a lie-down. I actually convinced him to leave the keystone scheme alone for today.”

Deirdre sat up straight. “How did you manage that?”

“I used my preternatural powers of persuasion,” he said, then winked. “All right, the truth is I managed to get a large number of bloody Marys into him at breakfast. He’s conked out at the moment.”

Anders got Beltan drunk? Maybe it wasn’t the subtlest way to derail Beltan’s enthusiasm for tracking down those who possessed the arch, but Deirdre had to admit it was effective. And she was glad Anders had managed the feat. The nameless Philosopher had said it wasn’t time to go after the arch, that if they did they would perish. Besides, there was somewhere else she needed to go.

“He’s going to be angry when he wakes up,” she said.

“And he’s going to have one bugger of a hangover to boot. I had the bartender double the vodka in each of his drinks.”

Deirdre gave her partner a sharp look. Why exactly had he gotten Beltan drunk? Was he trying to prevent them from going after the arch?

“I’m going to put on a pot of coffee,” he said, taking off his coat. “Want some, mate?” He turned his broad back as he worked at the counter.

“Sure,” she said. She couldn’t stand doubting him. She couldn’t stand believing he was a traitor. But did she really know for certain he was? He wasn’t telling her the truth about the gun, yes. But she had no hard proof that he—

Her gaze locked on the corner of a manila envelope sticking out from underneath her computer. It was the envelope Eustace had brought earlier, the one from Sasha. Deirdre pulled it free, opened the flap, and slid the contents into her hand.

It was a photograph. The photo was pixilated, and slightly blurred, but clear enough to make out the scene. It had been shot through a door that was cracked open an inch. The room beyond was this one, her office. Half of Deirdre’s desk was in view. A figure bent over it, going through the papers on her desk.

It was Anders.

“Here we go,” Anders said.

Deirdre wadded up the photo and tucked it into the pocket of her jacket, which hung on the back of her chair. Anders turned around, smiling, two cups in hand. She took one. It was blistering hot, but she squeezed her hands around it, letting the pain clear her head.

“So, now that our good sir knight is sleeping it off,” Anders said, “what are you going to do with the rest of the day?”

Deirdre gave him her cheeriest grin. “I’m going to go home and take the afternoon off.”

32.

Two hours later Deirdre sat on a train, watching as the English countryside blurred past the window. She glanced down at the note in her hands. To find an answer, don’t forget that it is always best to go directly to the source. . . .

She had taken that advice. To learn about Marius Lucius Albrecht, she was going to the source—to Scotland, where he had spent his first nineteen years before joining the Seekers. There was a manor house in Midlothian, not far from Edinburgh, where—according to the history she had read—he had spent many formative years as the adopted ward of a nobleman. The manor was now some sort of private museum.

This is ridiculous, Deirdre. You can’t believe you’re actually going to find something at the manor. And what will Anders and Beltan do when they discover you’re not really relaxing at your flat like you said?

Only she did expect to find something. The nameless Philosopher’s clues had never led her astray before.

Well, there’s a first time for everything. Why has he been helping you, Deirdre? What if he’s just using you for some purpose of his own?

She was certain he was. Surely he had not been helping her out of charity, or to advance her career. He wanted her to find something, only he couldn’t tell her directly what it was; for some reason it wasn’t safe, or he wasn’t able to do so. And as for Anders and Beltan—well, she could worry about what to tell them when she got back to London. If she ever spoke to Anders again, that was.

She stuffed the note into her jacket pocket and pulled out the photograph. Sasha had said not to trust Anders, and she was right. She must have snapped the photo with her digital camera, catching Anders in the act of riffling through Deirdre’s desk. What had he been hoping to find among her papers?

It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he had been spying on her. Later, she would thank Sasha for sending her the photo. At the moment she had to get to Scotland before Anders discovered she was gone. Because whatever it was the mysterious Philosopher wanted her to discover, she was certain the people Anders worked for wanted just as much to keep it secret.

It was still light out when she exited the train station in Edinburgh. In the summer, so far north in the world, the sun lingered late. The castle loomed on its crag above her, stark against the silver sky. Carrying her satchel, she walked down Princes Street to her hotel.

She checked in, leaving orders for an early wake-up call and a taxi. If she could have, she would have gone to the manor directly, but according to the scant information she had found about it, it was unlikely anyone would be there at such a late hour.

The night passed slowly. Deirdre didn’t sleep, and she kept expecting to hear a knock at the door and Anders’s angry voice. She heard nothing until the phone rang, causing her to leap out of bed. Trembling, she picked up the phone. A computerized voice wished her a pleasant morning. It was time to go.

Deirdre dressed, choked down half a pastry from the tray that had been left outside her door, then went downstairs to find the taxi waiting for her. She gave directions to the manor, and agreed to the exorbitant fee the driver promised to charge her for taking her so far outside the city. As the taxi sped down Princes Street, she leaned back against the seat and willed herself not to glance out the rear window, to see if anyone was following.

It took less than an hour of winding along narrow roads to reach the manor. After traveling half a mile down a single-track lane, the taxi stopped in front of a set of iron gates. Deirdre got out. The gray sky hung low, and it was misting; moisture beaded on her leather jacket.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to wait for you, miss?” the taxi driver said, leaning out the window.

“No, thank you. You can go.”

“Suit yourself.”

The taxi turned around, then rolled away down the lane and out of sight. Deirdre approached the gate. Beyond, two stately rows of elms bordered a driveway that curved away into the mist. The manor was not in view. Nor were any other people.

Deirdre looked around and saw a sign on the gate, as well as a black box that bore a speaker and a red button with the word CALL stenciled above it. The sign read: MADSTONE HALL. And below that, in smaller type: PRIVATE MUSEUM—VIEWINGS BY APPOINTMENT ONLY.

Maybe she shouldn’t have sent the taxi away after all. She hesitated, then pushed the button on the box.

“Hello?” she said, leaning forward.

Silence. Then, just when she was about to push the button again, a woman’s voice crackled out of the speaker. “Yes?”

Deirdre pressed the button again. “I’m sorry to bother you. My name is Deirdre Falling Hawk, and I—”

“Oh, yes,” the tinny voice came from the speaker. “We’ve been expecting you. Please come up to the manor directly. You can use the front door.”

There was a buzzing noise, then with a metallic grating one of the gates swung open. Deirdre gazed around, then slipped through the gate and walked up the driveway.

Once she rounded the corner she saw the manor. It was beautiful: a long, three-story structure of gray stone, with tall windows, and handsome columns framing the entryway. Gardens surrounded the manor on all sides, wild and vivid green against the gray air.

There was a single car next to the carriage house. Deirdre passed it and walked up stone steps, to the front door of the manor. It opened before she could knock. On the other side was an older woman, past sixty, and quite small. Her white hair was short and neatly coiffed, and she wore a well-tailored skirt suit of gray wool.

“You must be Miss Falling Hawk,” she said with a warm smile. Her eyes were bright blue behind moon-shaped spectacles.

Deirdre was too dumbfounded to do anything but nod.

“Well, then, come out of the mist,” the woman said, gesturing for Deirdre to enter. “I’m Eleanor Tate. I’m one of the docents here at Madstone Hall. Would you like a cup of tea? It’s a chilly day out there.”

Deirdre followed her into the front hall. It was grand and dim, obviously well kept but shabby from age. A sweeping staircase rose up to the second floor, while halls led off to either side.

“Thank you,” Deirdre said. “Tea would be wonderful.”

“I thought you might like some,” Eleanor said, taking Deirdre’s jacket and hanging it on a rack, “So I brought a thermos with me. I can’t brew it here, as Madstone Hall itself isn’t wired for electricity, though we do have power in the carriage house.”

No electricity. That explained why it was so dim.

“I’m surprised you’ve come today,” Eleanor went on, apparently content to carry on the conversation without any help from Deirdre. “Usually historians stay away on dreary days like this, as it’s hard to see anything. But then, we haven’t had many researchers at all lately. I don’t think the consortium likes having them poking about. You’re quite lucky to be allowed in. And they tell me you’re to have the run of the place, which is quite unheard of. You must stand very high in their regard.”

Deirdre shook her head. “In whose regard?”

“Why the consortium, of course. They own Madstone Hall, and they’ve kept it private all these years, rather than turning it into a public museum. Their goal is to preserve it just as it was in the late seventeenth century. As you’ll see, very little has been changed since then. There’s no plumbing, so if you need to use the loo, you’ll have to go out back to the portable. All the furniture is original, and the paintings on the walls, and everything else you’ll see. The only work we’ve done over the years is what we must: repairing the roof, and replacing broken windows, and airing the place out, of course, so everything doesn’t mold. It’s marvelous to see something as it was so long ago. I’m the third in my family to be a docent here, and so it is for the other caretakers. It’s as though Madstone Hall belongs to our families. Or rather, I should say, as if our families belong to it.”

As she spoke, Eleanor had opened a stainless-steel thermos, filled a chipped teacup, and handed it to Deirdre. The tea was sweet and fragrant with lemon.

“Thank you,” Deirdre said, trying to take all of this in.

“You’re quite welcome.” Eleanor took an overcoat from the coatrack and pulled it on. “Now, I’m sure you have a great deal of research to do, so I’ll leave you alone. Do try not to disturb anything as you work. But of course, the consortium told you all about that, so you know what to do. I live just a half mile away, in the white house at the start of the lane—you would have passed it on your way in. If you need anything, my telephone number is by the phone in the carriage house. You’ll find tin lanterns and matches on the table by the stairs. Do be careful with them. And please be sure to shut the door if you leave. And watch the fifth step—it’s loose. Good day, Miss Falling Hawk.”

Eleanor whisked herself out the door, shutting it behind her. Deirdre stood, staring, as she heard a car door open and shut. The sound of an engine roared to life, then faded. She was alone. Alone in the manor where Marius Lucius Albrecht had lived before he joined the Seekers, and where nothing had been altered since.

How was it she had never heard of this place? The history of Albrecht she had read had mentioned Madstone Hall only in passing. Yet surely this manor was a treasure trove of information about the famous Seeker. And clearly the Philosophers knew about it. It had to be hisdoing that she had been granted entrance. All of this had the mark of her unnamed helper on it.

“So what is it you want me to find here?” she said, looking around.

Dim faces gazed at her out of the shadows: portraits adorning the walls. She moved to the table by the stairs and, with some effort, lit one of the lanterns. Gold light seeped out, not so much pushing back the dimness as making it deeper, more mysterious.

She ascended the stairs—careful to avoid the fifth step– holding the lantern up to each of the portraits. Nameless men, women, and children—all dressed in the finery of lords and ladies—gazed back at her.

At the top of the stairs was a full-length portrait. It showed a man dressed in black. His dark hair tumbled over his shoulders, framing a bearded face that was grim rather than handsome, yet compelling. She raised the lantern higher. The figure’s eyes seemed to reflect the gold light; they had been painted with gilt rather than pigment of blue or brown.

Deirdre explored the upper levels, though she did little besides peek into each room. They were mostly bedchambers and sitting rooms, places where the manor’s noble residents and guests would have spent their private time. The top floor contained more austere accommodations—for the manor’s servants, no doubt.

She headed back downstairs and one by one explored the grand front hall, the dining room, the cavernous kitchen, and a large parlor that offered spectacular views of a distant ridge, now mantled in clouds. Everywhere she went she saw tarnished candelabras, Louis XIV chairs, and Chinese porcelain.

This place is remarkable, Deirdre. Museums or collectors would pay a fortune for some of these pieces.

Only they had rested there for centuries, just where they had been left. According to the history she had read, Marius Lucius Albrecht had lived in Madstone Hall until about 1674, and Eleanor had said nothing had been altered here since the late seventeenth century.

Which means everything is as it was about the time Albrecht left.Deirdre felt a spark of growing excitement. In fact, it’s possible that no one else lived in this manor after he left it.

Again she wondered why the Seekers seemed not to know about this place. Surely this manor held vast amounts of information that could shed light on Albrecht, the greatest Seeker in the history of the order. Why wouldn’t the Philosophers want the Seekers to know about it?

Maybe for the same reason someone deleted that file when you found it, Deirdre.

She opened a door at the end of the front hall, then stared in wonder at the room beyond. Shelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound books. A sword hung above the fireplace, gleaming dully in the lanternlight. There was a large globe in one corner, and a claw-footed desk dominated the center of the room.

Deirdre moved to the desk, then drew in a breath. Ink stained the felt blotter—the ghosts of letters written long ago. Something near one corner of the blotter attracted her eye: a symbol drawn in dark lines.

It was a hand holding three flames.

Gripping the lantern to keep from dropping it, Deirdre circled around the desk. Unlike the faded ink stains, the symbol was crisp and black; it had been made recently. But by whom? By Eleanor? She didn’t seem the type to go about the manor idly doodling on furniture. And what would she know about the Seekers?

Deirdre bent down. On the right side of the desk, just beneath the sigil, was a drawer. She reached out, then hesitated. She wasn’t supposed to disturb anything. Or was she? Maybe it was precisely to disturb things that she had been brought there. She opened the drawer.

It was empty. At least she thought so. She couldn’t see the back of it; there wasn’t enough light. She stuck a hand in the drawer, groping toward the back.

Her fingers closed around something hard and cool. She pulled her hand out. On her palm was a silver key, blackened by tarnish.

Deirdre’s neck tingled. She walked around the library, searching. It didn’t take long. Tucked in a corner near the globe was a small cabinet of dark wood. The cabinet had two doors. One bore a keyhole. Deirdre set down the lantern. Her hand was trembling so hard it took her several tries to fit the key in the lock. She turned it, expecting it not to work. But there was a click, and the cabinet door swung open.

She crouched. In the cabinet were two shelves. One was lined with books. Deirdre ran a finger over their well-worn spines, certain it would be fascinating to read them, but also certain that was not why she was there. On the other shelf was a wooden box. She took it, carried it to the desk, and set it down. Dust swirled up. She held her breath a moment, letting the dust settle, then opened the lid.

There were three things in the box. One was a glass vial, empty. Its stopper was made of gold wrought into the delicate shape of a spider. The other two objects were books. One was small, its leather cover battered, its pages so dry they started to crumble when she tried to open the book. Hastily, she set it down.

The other book was larger. Its cover was smooth and new, and its pages white, cut into a clean, mass-manufactured edge. This was no antique book. It was a journal such as could be bought in any present-day stationery shop. Deirdre opened it to the first page.

A wave of dizziness came over her, forcing her to sit in the desk chair. In the dim light of the lantern, her eyes scanned the first lines.

You should not read this. Because if you do—if you learn the secrets contained within this journal, if you come to see the Philosophers for what they truly are—then I will have doomed you just as surely as I doomed her over three hundred years ago. They will condemn you, they will hunt you with all their powers, and they will destroy you.

Yet I beg of you, in the name of Hermes, keep reading.

“Great Spirit,” Deirdre murmured, her hands shaking so badly she had to set the journal down.

It was not just the words themselves that stunned her. It was the smooth, elegant hand they were written in. She didn’t need to reach into her pocket, to pull out the handwritten note she had received from him yesterday, to know that the handwriting was identical. He had written this journal—and just recently, by the look of it—this nameless Philosopher who had been helping her.

Only he wasn’t nameless, not anymore. Because the moment she read those first lines, she had known at last who he was, who it was who had been guiding her all this time, advising her, leading her to this very place.

“You’re Marius,” she murmured to the shadows, as if he was listening. “You’re Marius Lucius Albrecht. Somehow you’re still alive. You didn’t die in 1684. You became a Philosopher. That was what was in that file; that was why the Philosophers deleted it. They didn’t want me to learn the truth.”

Only he did. But why?

Deirdre held the answer to that question here in her hands. The daylight was failing outside the high windows; a storm must be coming. She moved the lantern closer, adjusted the wick to brighten the gold light, then opened the journal and bent over it.

You should not read this. Because if you do—if you learn the secrets contained within this journal, if you come to see the Philosophers for what they truly are—then I will have doomed you just as surely as I doomed her over three hundred years ago. They will condemn you, they will hunt you with all their powers, and they will destroy you.

Yet I beg of you, in the name of Hermes, keep reading.

Forgive me the recklessness of these words, for I must write them in haste. It is ironic, for a being who is immortal, that I should have so little time in which to fill these pages, but they will soon turn their eyes in my direction. Unlike the ones they seek to understand, they do not sleep and have always kept watch on me. From the very beginning they have doubted my intentions, even as they transformed me into one of their own and brought me into their order.

But then, is it not safer to keep the wolf where you can see him? Except I know now it is the lamb I am to play in this bit of mummery, and for good or ill it is nearly at an end. Would that I could use a computer to set down these words more quickly, but they monitor all such devices, and perhaps it is just as well that I compose this on paper with an old-fashioned quill pen. It reminds me of a time long past. Of my time.

I did not seek to become immortal—that is the first thing you should know. On the contrary, when he first found me, life had no worth to me whatsoever, and at the ripe old age of fourteen I was doing everything I could to throw mine away. It was spring, in the year 1668, and Edinburgh was just beginning to stink.

In that era, Edinburgh was one of the most densely populated cities in all of Europe, for the entire citizenry—compelled by fear of the English—had crammed itself within the confines of the city’s stone walls. They had come seeking protection. What they found instead were filth and poverty, disease and death.

In Greyfriars graveyard, along the Cowgate below St. Giles, layers of corpses were stacked with barely a layer of soil between them, so that after a hard Scottish rain limbs would jut out of the ground like tree roots. The living fared little better. With no room to build out because of the constricting embrace of the city’s walls, the people of Edinburgh built up instead. Wooden tenements sprouted from the tops of stone buildings like fungi encouraged by the damp air. They were wretched structures, drafty in winter, stifling in summer, and rat-infested at all times, with narrow windows that opened only to allow the foul contents of a chamber pot to be thrown onto the street– and any unwary passersby—below.

The tenements were always catching fire, or falling down entirely, taking their unlucky occupants with them, and thereby contributing to the population of Greyfriars. However, unwholesome and unsafe as they were, the folk who dwelled in those structures were not the city’s poorest by any means. For there was one other direction in this crowded city in which to build—and that was down.

There is no telling when the excavations beneath Edinburgh began. Perhaps, in the gray time before the dawn of history, primitive men used crude tools to hew at the volcanic crag where the city would be built in a later age, carving out chambers in which to practice secret, blood-drenched rites. By the time I came to know them, the delvings were ancient and vast, and they were filled with a darkness that was far more than a mere absence of light. If fair maidens like Hope and Joy had ever stumbled into that place by mistake, then they had been ravaged and left for dead.