The Rising (The Rising #4) - Kristen Ashley Page 0,140

the Go’Doan were wrong about their exceptional speed,” Ha-Lah drawled.

“And agility,” Farah muttered.

“Regardless that I run the risk of us entering another five-hour, fruitless discussion, I must point out we’re reacting, when we all bloody know that’s the most foolish thing we can do,” True said.

“And you suggest?” Elena asked.

“I suggest we’re right where they want us to be because they led us here, and they’re somewhere else altogether doing something we don’t want them to be doing,” True told her.

“How close is the Dome City from here?” Farah asked.

Everyone looked at everyone else.

But on these words, Mars rounded his horse and dug his heels in, shouting, “Yah!”

The rest all followed.

Dawn was touching the horizon when Star and Sky led them out of the purple onto the bleached cobbles of the Dome City.

Those amongst them who had never been had at first gazed around in awe at the tall white buildings built one right against the other, with their golden domes in the middle of which, striking toward the heavens, were spiking finials.

There were lanes, avenues, paths, elevated walkways, but Mars knew from past visits any green they had was in carefully cultivated gardens on the outskirts of the city or courtyards that could not be seen from the streets.

The pristine, whitewashed edifices with their priceless domes were all the creators of this place, and those who lived there, wished you to see.

It was striking upon first sight, how sleek and seamless and clean it all was.

It took some time to realize it had no character, no color, no depth, no emotion.

And the outside hid what happened within.

However, that had been some hours ago.

Now they had lost patience with the ambassadors who were summoned to speak to them, the sun was in the sky, not a one of them had had any sleep, and Mars and Cass were leading their band across the snow-white cobbles at Elena’s direction.

She’d studied there. She could guide them.

This was good.

For the priests were being exceedingly unhelpful.

Case in point, the one who had lifted his white robes at the front of him and was jogging to keep up at Mars and Cassius’s sides.

Doing this speaking breathlessly.

“As you were told, back in our Communion Hall, it would take no time at all to discuss this amongst the Go’En and garner approval for you to enter the Narration Hall.”

“We do not need approval,” Mars countered, still striding.

“I understand that things are quite…unresolved between our peoples, but no one enters the Narration Hall without prior approval of the Go’En,” the priest said. “We were caught unawares by your visit, and—”

“Turn left up ahead,” Elena instructed.

“Really, this is…gulk!”

Mars held him aloft by his throat.

“You are trying me,” he growled.

“My darling,” he heard his wife say.

He tossed the priest aside, ignoring the man’s cry, and the thud his body made when he hit a wall, and Mars continued striding.

They turned left as Ellie had said, and all saw it up ahead.

It couldn’t be missed.

The ornamentation was spartan, but regardless, the colossal circular building was grand.

And they went right to it.

They pushed through the double doors, but they barely took five steps in before they all stopped.

Not because what lay before them, in a round, was spectacular.

The acres of curved shelves at the outer walls that rose stories and stories up high and were filled with books. The ornately carved, whitewashed desks scattered about with the long feathery, white plums of the quills drifting in the air, stuck at an angle in their beds beside ornate ink pots made of white porcelain. The white marble floors with veins of gold.

No.

They did so because they all felt it.

Farah spoke first and it was tremulous.

“True.”

Mars looked to her as True demanded, “Take the women outside.”

“They stay with us,” Aramus decreed.

“Then cover their eyes,” True shot back.

But it was too late.

He heard his wife gasp.

Gods bloody damn it.

He walked that way and saw another piece of lore that it was clear was passed through the generations as successfully notated information.

The demons drank from the necks of their victims.

Three mauled corpses lay behind a short shelving unit, heads torn from bodies, pools of blood forming from the separation.

The heads were not close to their remains. They lay some ways away. There was gore at the neck, but no blood had leaked out onto the floor.

“They might still be here,” Cass said low.

“Then we all must stay close,” Aramus decreed.

“Fuck, fuck, shite,” Mars bit, not wanting his Silence anywhere near this madness, but taking hold of