Page 39 of Return of the Darkness
“Why are you so damn reasonable?” Nyzaia muttered, pressing her ear to the tavern’s back entrance. The corner of Farid’s lips twitched.
“Seeing someone broken reminds me what it was like to find someone who helped me piece myself back together.” Farid’s appreciation flooded through Nyzaia as he glanced at Jabir. Nyzaia smiled and decided to apologise.
“About earlier, I’m s—”
“I know.”
“If you two have finished with whatever emotional heart to heart you’re having, could we maybe, I don’t know, prevent more human sacrifices?” Jabir half-whispered, half shouted. Nyzaia sighed and nodded at Farid. They were ready. When he returned the nod, Nyzaia knocked on the battered wooden door, but no response came. No voice shouted they were closed. They heard only the creak of the door from the other end of the hallway before heavy footsteps approached. Nyzaia palmed two daggers in her hands as the door opened and swiftly pressed thedagger against the owner’s throat as Farid held the man’s shoulder against the wall, securing him in place.
Before Nyzaia could have her fun with threats, the man spoke in his usual gruff voice. “They’re waiting for you,” he said, gesturing to where a trapdoor lay open on the floor. “Well, go on then. I have tables to clean.” Nyzaia pressed her dagger deeper into his throat before signalling for Jabir to step forward.
“Unfortunately, the table cleaning will have to wait,” Nyzaia hummed. “Jabir here will make sure you stay put while we head inside.” The man conceded with a sigh as Jabir traded Soren for the landlord, passing her to Farid. They followed Nyzaia down the hallway.
“Did you know this door was always here?” Farid whispered.
“No,” Nyzaia murmured, staring down. “I hate surprises.” A rickety ladder was propped in the hole in the floor. Her chest tightened, but it was not her own. Nyzaia flicked her eyes to Farid, and she watched as he swallowed, staring at the small, cramped hole below. A sliver of orange light glowed beneath what she thought was the door, while darkness bathed the red stone walls. It reminded Nyzaia of the caverns at the Abyss Forge, where Farid had been forced into a space similar to this and was starved by his father.
“I’ll go first,” Nyzaia said, stepping onto the ladder.
“No,” Farid said. “It’s fine, I’ll go. We can’t risk your life.” Farid guided Soren towards Nyzaia, who reached for Soren’s slender fingers before thinking better of it and gripping the chains instead. Soren remained silent, watching the darkness below as Farid descended.
“You are next,” Nyzaia said, pushing Soren towards the ladder. As Soren descended, Farid knocked on the door below until light flooded the space, brightening Soren’s hair and face. She peered up at Nyzaia with an unknown emotion in her eyes. Farid caught her arm when she reached the last step, tugging her into the room. With a crack of her neck, Nyzaia jumped and landed in a crouch at the bottom. Light bathed her dark leathers, an entrance worthyof an assassin queen. Myara’s symbol on her attacker’s ring flashed in her mind; she knew who she would face.
“Hello, your Majesty,” said a slick, oily voice. Nyzaia raised her head and flipped her braid over one shoulder, meeting the eyes of a man that disgusted her.
“What a lovely welcome, Lord Israar.” Nyzaia smirked, assessing the lord. “Had you visited with your friend earlier, we could have avoided such a delay.” Lord Israar’s mouth twitched. He wore his usual blood-red sherwani, littered with flecks of golden thread that glinted in the light from the staggered flames in the room’s centre. Instead of sconces, the light shone from the wooden stakes plunged into the sandy floor, forming a circle. Twelve faces, illuminated by the flames, formed a larger circle around the blaze. Nyzaia did not recognise the people gathered, but noted their wrinkles beneath the woven fabric of their hoods and robes, drowning their figures. They were all old—far older than her attacker’s hands, perhaps as old as the Historian had appeared.
“It’s nice to see you in yournaturalattire for once.” Lord Israar smirked, perched on the edge of a table littered with leather books and papers. Nyzaia narrowed her eyes. “Come now. Did you think I knew of Tajana’s identity, but not your own?” He chuckled, entertained by Nyzaia’s naivety. She merely grinned, tugging her daggers back into her thighs.
“I simply did not care, Israar. I am Queen of Keres. Your opinion matters little when I control this realm.” Nyzaia scanned the room—it was bare, mostly. Twelve wooden chairs lined one wall, matching the number of people standing in a circle, their eyes downcast. She could not determine the purpose. Patterned rugs lay scattered on the ground; perhaps it was their usual dining spot. No weapons peeked out from clasped hands, no markings were on the walls, or blood on the floor. From what she could tell, no sacrifices had occurred here. Soren’s chains clinked as she wriggled in Farid’s grip, staring at the floor in the centre of the circle while avoiding the eyes in the room.
“You really should care, your Majesty.” Israar pushed off from the table and turned to look at his books; he feigned reading the pages. “I imagine you have questions and are here to accuse me of unnecessary murder.” Nyzaia glanced between the lord and those in the circle. No one moved; they kept their wrinkled eyes averted. She could not imagine such elderly people committing murder. Perhaps the attacker Seiko had butchered was the main assassin, maybe a son of one of the elders.
“So, you did not break into the Red Stones den and sacrifice six of my men and women?” Nyzaia asked. “And then have someone attempt the same on me?” Israar did not turn around, though he stroked his oily beard.
“Your men and women? Last I heard, the Red Stones are now a democracy.”
“They are residents of Keres. That makes them my people.”
“Do you feel remorse knowing your people grieve for those who died at your own hands, assassin?”
Nyzaia did not flinch. “Enough, Israar,” she snapped. “You and I both know our thoughts on one another. The simple matter of the fact is, I amqueen, and you are sacrificing people for gods know what reason.”
“Ah!” Israar spun to look at her again, holding three objects. “For gods, that’s just it. All of this is to speak with them.”
Nyzaia frowned. “You want to speak with Keres and the others? Why?”
“Who said they were the only gods?” Israar smirked and strode towards the circle; the flames licked to warm him as he stepped onto the carpets and positioned three objects in a triangle: a rusting dagger, a red feather as long as her forearm, dipped in gold, and a single jar of what appeared to be ash. Nyzaia kept her face neutral. A jar of ash had been present on the table when Farid found her. She thought of Exandria, how she shifted with smoke as ash filtered through her very being. Something told Nyzaia the odd encounter was more than a drug-hazed dream.
“If there are more gods, I’d like to know where the hell they’ve been while we’ve faced war,” Nyzaia scoffed.
“Why would they serve those who worship the celestial four, tyrants who believe themselves to be the only worthy gods?” While Israar’s expression remained neutral, the robed men and woman sneered at his description. The mark on Nyzaia’s palm burned—acelestialtie. Why did Israar differentiate Novisia’s gods from these supposed others?
“Don’t the other gods also consider themselves more worthy?” Nyzaia scoffed.
“Ah, but they would be correct.” Israar smiled. “I’ll do you a kindness, a final piece of information before I take your life.” In the circle, Israar spun until he faced her again. Nyzaia snorted at the absurd notion he was capable of taking her life. “You have only been queen for a short while; I have been a lord for far longer, providing answers when people asked and money where needed.” Israar looked at each face around the circle. “You may see me as greedy or self-motivated, but in offering my services, I became the most sought-after person when citizens of this realm needed secrecy and assistance, trusting the word of a lord over the Red Stones. Thus, when an old man appeared at my door and spoke of old awakened memories, and different gods and lands—a place where I could be king, if only I helped with one thing—who was I to refuse?”
Israar’s tale seemed as farfetched as the idea of Caligh’s once did, except the notion of other lands was becoming more and more plausible following Osiris’s claims, and now this. What if the gods Israar believed existed originated from other lands? On Nyzaia’s left, Soren continued fidgeting, as if trying to reach the circle; her eyes fixed on the ground. “Tobias here”—Israar gestured to an old man—“originally hailed from Keres, but married into a Garridon family soon after arriving on Novisia. Imagine his surprise when one morning he awoke to recall memories that had long been hidden.” Nyzaia clenched her fists. Herassumptions about Osiris’s warning and the link to the sacrifices were correct.
