“Interesting question, Brin, but I don’t see how it helps us”—Moya focused a disapproving gaze on Tressa—“although it does suggest that maybe Malcolm isn’t a god after all.”
“He is,” Tressa insisted, “And he would have foreseen our imprisonment.”
Moya slapped the wall. “Then he should have told us how to get out of here!”
“He did,” Roan said, once more using her private-dialogue voice.
“You’re twisting and chewing your hair, Roan,” Moya said with a growing smile. “Tell me something is going on in that famous head of yours.”
Roan shrugged. “Not much.”
“Not much from you has been known to turn the tides of war. We’re sort of desperate, so forgive me if I seem a little excited.”
“It’s just that . . .” Roan focused on Tressa, as if speaking to her alone. “Well, didn’t you say the key could open any lock in Phyre? Not just doors, right? And we are locked in.”
“Only in a manner of speaking,” Rain said. “And you can’t insert a key into a manner of speaking.”
Tressa’s hand fluttered to her chest as her eyes widened. “Has to be.”
She quickly stepped forward into the light, her hand reaching into her shirt.
Moya stopped her. “Hold on. What are you planning on doing?”
“I don’t know,” Tressa said. “Just gonna touch the key to the wall and pray, I guess.”
Moya licked her lips. “Not yet.” She peeked out the little window, then began to string her bow. “In the unlikely event this works, we still have Goll to deal with.”
“It will work,” Tressa said.
Moya frowned. “I’m actually starting to believe you, but it’s so frustrating. Why didn’t Malcolm just come with us?”
“He can’t,” Tressa said. “He told me so. He’s immortal. It’s the same with Muriel. Only the dead are allowed.”
He cursed me with immortality, Brin remembered Muriel saying. I hate him.
That was the final tiny crack that launched the landslide. With it, all the pieces came together in one perfect and terrible pile, each stacking up in proper order.
Muriel had said, I hate him with every particle of my being.
Her mother had mentioned, Our existence and the world wasn’t supposed to be like this. It’s broken, and we’ll continue this way until it’s fixed.
Drome told them, Then Uberlin’s greed and arrogance ruined everything.
And most damning of all was Malcolm’s admission that he was the one who broke the world.
Brin gasped as the thought materialized. Oh Blessed Mari! Malcolm is Uberlin!
“I suppose that makes sense,” Moya said.
Brin looked up in shock but quickly realized Moya was replying to Tressa. That didn’t matter; she finally figured out what Drome felt she needed.
Malcolm is the god of evil.
Rain stopped chiseling and looked up at her. “Yer free.”
Moya waited, peering out through the narrow slit until she could see Goll. The mountainous being didn’t stand in one place. He wandered around with no perceptible pattern, pausing in places for no reason, then moving on to another spot. The one-eyed creature busied himself by occasionally slapping his own head, coughing, or swiping through the air at nothing. Watching him, Moya estimated his intelligence at just above a particularly dull lump of coal.
Having just one eye didn’t help. Truth be told, the eye bothered Moya. Not only did it lack a partner, but it was far too large. The problem wasn’t that the eye was bigger than Moya’s entire head, but that it was out of proportion for Goll’s. It took up too much space, dominating his forehead and extending way past where a nose ought to be. That prominent feature was complemented by a ruthlessly fanged mouth, and both barely fit onto Goll’s egg-shaped noggin.
Roan was the one who called what they were about to try a plan because that was the way her mind worked. Moya considered it a desperate gamble because that was how she considered things. Most of her life—the best parts—had been one reckless risk after another. Gambling became a compulsive habit for those who had enjoyed even minor success, and Moya’s chance-taking had promoted her from village hussy to Keenig’s Shield, a position so revered that men often referred to her as sir. She had no idea if they forgot themselves or felt a feminine honorific beneath the station, but the sentiment was genuine. They respected her. No one could take that away; not a dead mother, not a chieftain or husband, not even a one-eyed brute. The chance-taking was intensified by the fact that she was involved with another obsessive-compulsive gambler. They fed off each other. Yawns, laughter, tears, jumping off cliffs—all were contagious. Most people wouldn’t understand that last one, but Tekchin and Moya did—and they were about to do it again.
She fitted one of her eight remaining arrows to her bow, then her lips found Tekchin’s in the dark. His were moist and firm. No hesitation there—never had been. He wasn’t a god, but close enough.
“I just want to say it was an honor dying with all of you.” Moya stepped away, taking position directly in the light. She took a moment to look at Rain, Roan, Brin, Gifford, and lastly Tressa. “And I do mean all of you.”
“We’re going to survive this,” Tekchin said.
“He’s right,” Tressa agreed. “We have Malcolm on our side.”
“Of course,” Moya said. “Absolutely. Why in Rel not?”
“You’re starting to scare me now,” Tekchin told her, though he didn’t sound frightened.
The person who looked the least confident was the Keeper. The little bit of her face that Moya could see suggested the woman was about to be sick. “You all right, Brin?”
She hesitated. “Not really, but I don’t see how it matters at the moment.”
“Okay then.” Moya nodded toward Tressa. “Whenever you’re ready.” She tested the tension on her bow, drawing it slightly, feeling the resistance. “Unlock this thing.”
Tressa stepped forward into the dark. Moya heard the faint jingle of a thin chain.
“Here goes,” Tressa warned.
They all waited, seeing nothing and hearing only the soft scrape of metal on stone. There was more scraping, and with each passing second, Moya knew it wasn’t working. She couldn’t say she was surprised. Moya had hoped, but she was used to disappointments, and what they were attempting was a long shot at best.
“Tetlin’s Tit!” Tressa said.
“It’s not your fault, Tressa,” Moya told her, thinking how odd it was—how far they had come—that she was consoling Tressa for failure.
Then Tressa let out a hysterical laugh.
“Tressa?” Moya asked, concerned. I hope she hasn’t gone nutty.
“I’m an idiot.”
Moya considered making Tressa the butt of an obvious joke, but the giddiness in the woman’s voice, the borderline crazy glee of her bubbly tone, made Moya hesitate.
“I’m holding it backward. Hang on.”
An instant later, they were all blinded.
The walls of their prison dissolved, and light from the pure-white room hit them from every direction. After hours—or was it days—in the dark, the illumination was overwhelming. Moya was forced to squint so narrowly that for several seconds sight was impossible. This was most unfortunate because the first step in the plan was for her to blind Goll with an arrow. While she did that, the rest were supposed to rush down the stairs. The hope was that the men who had escorted them into the castle wouldn’t be waiting in the vestibule. It was a slim hope, but not too thin to embrace.