Haven felt a stab of guilt for not telling her.
“I’m sure the Shadeling can still communicate with the Godkiller,” Haven continued. “Could Morgryth have found the map and given it to him?”
Stolas ran two fingers over the tip of his jet-black horn as he thought. “Highly unlikely. He may be free from his cage, but he’s still trapped in the lower levels of the Netherworld, and ward maps cannot pass the threshold into the Netherworld. All ward maps are sensitive to even the slightest hint of magick. It’s a failsafe in case the map falls into enemy hands, meant to prevent magick being used to unlock the encryption.”
“So someone in this realm has the map and is slowly deciphering the encryption and then feeding the wards to the Shadeling somehow, who in turn works through the Godkiller?”
“That would be my assumption, yes.”
Everyone at the table stilled at that. Of course Haven knew that forces would come for the Godkiller. Archeron. Morgryth.
But she hadn’t expected the breach to come from the inside.
It was just another reminder of how vulnerable they were.
For a moment, she remembered the brief vision she saw in the caves. But everything had been blurry and she wasn’t even sure what she saw now. Hands and possibly scrolls of some kind?
“Why not destroy the thing?” Demelza asked. She was seated to Haven’s left, wrapped in both her heavy wool shawl and Haven’s, her crooked body hunched over her beef stew trying to capture the escaping heat. Apparently the woman despised the cold, which seemed odd considering she was from the north and complained of hot flashes all the time.
“Powerful runecasters have tried,” Xandrian explained. “It’s like the abominable weapon is permanently coated in black ruin.”
“Black ruin?” Haven looked to Bell as she waited for him to put on that scholarly face and explain.
He didn’t disappoint. “Black ruin is a substance that’s collected from the Nether and broken down into liquid form. It’s very volatile. When an object comes in contact with the stuff, that object temporarily exists inside the Nether and is protected for a period of time, even if it can be seen in this realm still. But black ruin only works on an object for a few days, a week at the most.”
Haven remembered the sticky substance that seemed to coat everything in the Nether a monochromatic gray.
Nasira’s eyes brightened. “Didn’t the Demon Lords gift us a vial of black ruin once?”
“Whatever you’re thinking, Nasi,” Stolas warned, cutting his eyes at her, “don’t. Even mother knew not to touch that poisonous material. It has more uses than the Demon Lords let on.”
Nasi? Haven was absolutely filing that away for later.
Now, though, her thoughts were riveted to decreasing their ever-growing list of enemies. Poking at the biscuit resting on the edge of her stew bowl, she said, “Nothing yet from the ravens?”
The silence gave her an answer—just not the one she wanted.
“I thought once word of our alliance spread . . . never mind. I’m sure it takes time to craft such a response.”
Relinquishing her grip on her bowl, Demelza reached over and patted Haven’s hand. “If these Solis rulers do not come to you, they are fools. Every one of them.”
“My mother is one of those Solis rulers,” Ember pointed out, her fierce pride reminding Haven so much of Rook.
“And if she does not come to Haven then she is a fool,” Demelza bravely insisted.
For a tense heartbeat, no one dared to breathe as they awaited Ember’s reaction. But the Morgani princess finally cracked a smile, her head falling back as she laughed. “Haven, I think your lady’s maid was a Morgani warrior in a past life.”
“Agreed.” It was Haven’s turn to squeeze her friend’s hand. The kind of courage it took to follow an outlawed crew of immortals across the sea to a condemned land, and to not complain once . . . Haven could only pray she could be half as badass when it came to protecting her friends.
“There might be a reason my mother has not sent a carrier hawk back yet,” Ember added. “My kingdom is in the middle of planning their Fertalis Amare festival.”
Bell straightened in his chair as his face lit up. “I’ve read about that festival. It celebrates Freya’s sister, the goddess of love and fertility, and ends with a contest, right?”
A look of intense longing sparked in Ember’s eyes before guttering out. “This year it’s an archery contest.”
“Rook entered one year,” Surai mused, her eyes darkening at the