The Shattered Land_ The Dreaming Dark - Keith Baker [113]
Hard to lend a hand when you don’t have any, but I healed you, didn’t I?
Daine paused to consider this. It was true. The gouge on his cheek was gone. The sickly weakness from the poison had faded away. Aside from the terrible hunger in his belly—which the gruel was addressing, however unpleasantly—he felt fine. “Really?”
Of course not. I’m dead, remember? The elves must have done it.
“Why would they do that?”
How should I know? They were talking about prophecies, legends and testing you. Maybe they want you healthy for it.
“I thought the test was fighting those guards.”
Well, that would have been a big failure.
“I failed you.”
I didn’t give you much of a choice, did I?
Daine looked at the little bottle. “You were there for me when I was at my worst. I should have—I should have known. I should have taken better care of you.”
Enough self pity. I’m the dead one. You’ve got other things to think about.
“Like what? Digging my way through a wall of glass?” He sorted through his belongings and produced the crystal shard. “I’m sure this will do the job.”
The words had scarcely left his lips when he felt a wave of intense heat. An orange glow suffused the wall to his right, and as he watched the wall melted away. Instead of simply flowing down toward the ground, the molten glass spread out in a circle—flowing up and sideways in defiance of gravity.
An instant later the glass was cold again, leaving a round exit from the cell. The chamber beyond was lit by flickering firelight, and Daine could see dark figures standing around the door.
“Out,” a voice called—a woman’s voice, deep but sweet.
Daine quickly thrust his belongings back into the belt pouch. Grabbing the gruel bowl, he slid out of the alcove.
The chamber beyond was formed of pure black glass. Haven’t these people heard of wood or stone? The floor was slightly rough, providing traction. The walls were smooth and reflective, but Daine could see a double row of rough circles along the wall. More cells, I suppose. The upper row of circles was six feet off the ground, and Daine idly wondered how you’d get someone into a cell that far up. There were no exits that he could see—just a huge hearth filled with a roaring fire on the far wall.
There were four guards standing around the cell when Daine emerged, but his eyes were drawn to their leader. It was the woman he’d seen beyond the walls, the warrior with burning blades. Zulaje. She was almost a foot shorter than Daine and couldn’t be more than half his weight. Her hair was hidden beneath her bonfire helm, which appeared to be made from soot-coated gold. At the moment, she was holding her sword in a neutral posture, but Daine could see the graceful tension of her grip, the way her feet were spread, knees slightly bent—she was ready for battle, and she knew how to wield that weapon. Her chain armor was still orange with heat, and the fiery tattoos spread across her face seemed to burn as she stared up at him.
“Your presence is sought,” she sang softly, flowing her words together as Shen’kar had. “Waste time and you die, and you waste time already.”
“Oh, I hate to waste time,” Daine said. “Lead on. You don’t mind if I finish this on the way, do you?” He indicated the bowl of porridge. “I love gruel, and let me tell you, it doesn’t get much better than this.”
Zulaje glared at him disdainfully then turned her back without saying a word. Two of the guards took up positions on either side of Daine, spears lowered; the other two remained by the row of cells. Zulaje led the way across the room, and as they approached the hearth, Daine saw that it held no logs nor any fuel at all that he could see; it was a wall of searing flame, deadly and