frail as he looks and worth a considerable sum in ransom. This priest is Deepgate’s Presbyter.”
Bataba watched the Presbyter pick himself up. “A token of your faith? Or are you a token of his?”
“Kill him if you wish.”
“You think I require your permission, Poisoner?”
Devon did not reply. By now the tribesman had returned with a rusty saw—painfully blunt. He felt nauseous.
Everything now rested on his offer.
“Listen to me,” he said. “I came here to end this war, to end the decades of bloodshed. I came here to offer you victory. I can give you Deepgate.”
Bataba turned slowly, his face still hidden by the scarf. Blood matted the tokens sewn into his beard. “You are a liar and a murderer. Every word you speak is poison. We will ransom the priest, but not you.”
Devon spat more blood into the sand. “Then you’re a fool,” he said. “Do you think our sciences end with me? There are others to take my place. And how much do you think you’ll get for him? Look at him, he’s almost dead. Just keeping him alive will be a struggle. The temple will prevail without one crippled old priest. I’m asking for your help to end this war.”
Bataba hefted the saw, studied the dull serrated blade. “This will cause a great deal of pain,” he said flatly.
Devon snorted. “A waste of your efforts. Pain, as you can see, means little enough to me.”
The shaman looked up. Slowly, he unwrapped the scarf from his head.
Devon’s breath caught. Half the shaman’s face was darkly tanned and smooth; the other half was a ruin. The left eye was misty grey, the right nothing but a red welt. Burns like reptile skin swept up from his neck and over his sunken cheeks. His right ear was missing. Black tattoos spiralled through the burns, through the wrinkled mess of his missing eye, and narrowed to points on his cracked and blistered scalp. Clumps of hair still sprouted from the unburned side.
“Yes,” the shaman said, “little enough to you.”
* * * *
We should turn off the lantern,” Rachel said, above the whoomph of Dill’s wings. She hugged his neck with one arm, while her legs wrapped around his midriff.
“No.” Dill held the lamp close, like a mother holding a baby.
“We need to save the oil.”
“I…” He could think of nothing to justify his need, other than the truth.
“He’s afraid of the dark,” Carnival growled, banking close by.
Rachel studied him for a moment, then rested her head against his shoulder. “We can keep it lit a while longer, then,” she said.
“No.” All at once, the light seemed as much of an enemy as a friend, both easing and exposing his fear. “You’re right,” he said. “We need to save the oil.”
With trembling fingers, he extinguished the lantern.
Darkness slammed in.
They flew down deeper and deeper into the abyss. The dark formed a solid wall around them, broken only by the faintest knot of light above. Deepgate was smaller, more distant every time Dill looked up. He felt Rachel’s breaths against his neck, her chest rising and falling against his own, and he tried to match her breathing. But, as much as he tried, he took two breaths for every one of hers.
Only Carnival could see in this gloom. Occasionally he heard a wing beat off to one side, or felt the air stir as she circled them. Her plan had been for them to keep close to the gently sloping wall, but without light Dill had no way of knowing where it lay. With every turn he made, he feared he would bruise a wing against the rock. He strained his eyes, trying to distinguish forms in the dark, until they were weary.
The air grew warmer, denser. Sweat broke from his forehead and matted his hair; breathing became laborious. His armour rubbed against him, stifled him, and trapped the sweat on his back. A dull pain took root in his neck, then reached out tendrils into his shoulders and crept down his spine.
Unseen, Carnival sailed around them effortlessly.
After a while Rachel asked him, “Do you need to rest?”
“I’m all right,” he mumbled. Dill’s thoughts were elsewhere.
The city of Deep lay somewhere below, legions of ghosts wandering its cold streets. Were they now looking up from the darkness? Did they still yearn for Ayen’s light? Oblivion seemed a kinder fate than millennia without light at all.
Rachel shifted against his chest. The scabbard on her back bruised his arm where he gripped her. A movement in