“Lukien,” whispered Cricket. “Look.”
She walked toward the center of the chamber, where a large stone coffin stood, raised up on a marble pedestal chiseled with words. The slab that had once covered the coffin lay to the side, a reminder of Fallon’s grave-robbing. Atop the slab was another sculpture, this one of a bird. Cricket ignored the coffin and looked at the bird instead.
“It’s empty,” said Malator as he floated over the coffin.
“Of course. Fallon got what he needed. Whoever it was has been turned into mummy powder.”
Malator moved his hand over the words inscribed on the pedestal. They were foreign to me, like runes. “Can you read it?” I asked.
“No,” said Malator. “It’s probably some old Akyren language.”
“His name was Atarkin,” said Cricket. I turned and saw her reading the words, holding out her flaming palm as she knelt near the slab. “He was the last Emperor of Akyre.”
“How do you know that?” I asked. “Not even Malator knows that.”
“The words,” said Cricket. “I can understand them.”
“Well, now we know you’re definitely from Akyre,” joked Malator.
“How can you remember that?” I asked “How can you remember a whole language when you can’t remember who you are?”
Cricket pondered that, as confused as I was. “I don’t know. It’s like remembering how to talk I guess.”
“What else does it say?”
She leaned in and read some more. “He was called ‘the Nightingale.’ That’s what the people called him.”
“The bird,” said Malator, noting the sculpture on his slab.
“The Nightingale? Strange thing to call a tyrant.”
“Maybe he wasn’t a tyrant,” said Cricket. “Maybe he was a good king.”
I knew she wanted to believe that. “Maybe.” I touched the coffin, noticing for the first time the stone flowers carved into it. “Roses,” I whispered. “Nightingales and roses.” I looked around the tomb, struck by all the beautiful paintings and statues. “Was this Akyre? Is this what it was like?”
Cricket went on studying the words. “He was the master of the dead. Huh.”
“Huh?”
“That’s what it says, Master of the Dead.” She pointed to show me. “What’s that mean, Malator?”
Malator thought for a moment. “Master of the Dead.” He looked around the chamber. He stroked his chin with his glowing hand. “Emperor. Master of the Dead. What did Diriel say to you, Lukien? About magic?”
“He said the old kings called on the powers of the dead,” I recalled. “Whatever that means.”
“Master of the Dead,” Malator repeated. “Master.” He tipped his head over the empty coffin and looked inside. “Atarkin’s body. You can’t just grind up any old mummy and expect to make men immortal from it. Something about Atarkin was special.”
“His bloodline maybe?” said Cricket.
“That’s what Diriel said,” I pointed out. “He said it was his right to control the monster.”
“It’s a puzzle,” sighed Malator. I could feel his frustration. “The monster came from here. From right here in this chamber.” He turned toward the darker part of the tomb, where the tributary flowed. “From there.”
Cricket and I both froze as we watched Malator drift along the side of the water, gradually illuminating a tunnel of stone. The monster wasn’t here-I believed Malator about that. So why was I so anxious? I helped Cricket up and walked with her after Malator, following him into a dark antechamber. The flame still burned in Cricket’s hand. She held it up, revealing the opposite wall. Jagged rock, like all the others, the wall was painted with an enormous mural depicting a place I’d never seen before, a twisted landscape with blighted trees and burning mountains, peopled with tormented ghosts. In the center of the world stood a multi-armed, multi-headed beast, its long tongue roped around a naked woman, its tails rimmed with bloody thorns. It had the face of a human and a goat and a bird and a pig, and it was the goat’s tongue that held the woman, about to devour her. Above the painting was chiseled more of the Akyren letters.
“Gahoreth,” said Cricket. She turned to Malator. “What’s that?”
But Malator didn’t answer. He was looking down at the ribbon of water. “Look at the river.”
I’d been so struck by the painting I hadn’t noticed the river at all. It didn’t wind off into the darkness as I’d supposed, but disappeared directly into the wall. I peered closer, not sure what I was seeing. The river was there, right at my feet, and then it wasn’t. It didn’t pool at the wall like a dam. It just flowed right into it, into the painted world.
“Gahoreth,” said Malator. “One of the realms of the dead. A hell. That’s where our monster comes from.”
Cricket’s white face filled with awe. She shifted her magical flame from one palm to the other, then reached out to touch the wall. But her hand didn’t go through it the way the water did. She looked oddly surprised. She dipped her fingers into the water, then touched the wall again.
“It’s real,” she gasped. “But where’s it going?”
“Into Gahoreth,” said Malator.
“How’s that possible?” I was neither awestruck nor afraid. All I felt was baffled. “You know this place Gahoreth? You’ve heard of it?”
“It’s a place where souls go after life,” said Malator.
“I thought souls go to their own death place. That’s what Minikin taught me. You said so, too. Like Cassandra in the apple orchard. You never said anything about them going to hell.”
“Not hell,” said Malator. “Like a hell. That’s the best word for it. The souls trapped in Gahoreth aren’t in their resting places. They’ve been stolen. Taken to Gahoreth.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.” Malator turned back to the painting. “The monster perhaps.”
Cricket was busy studying the picture. She traced her finger over a bit of writing beneath the image of the beast. Her lips moved while she read.
“Cricket? What’s it say?”
“It’s name. It’s name is Crezil.”
“Crezil?” I looked closer at the writing. “All those words for that? What else?”
“I don’t really understand it, Lukien. It says Kasdeyi Orioc. Or Oriox. Something like that. The words don’t mean anything though. They mean like. . Guardian Slave. Kasdeyi is an old Akyren word for a guardian or even a lighthouse. Oriox means slave.” Cricket read again, stringing the whole thing together, “I am Crezil the guardian slave. I’m sorry, Lukien. That’s the best I can figure.”
“Malator?” I called. “What do you think?”
Malator didn’t answer. He cocked his translucent head, examining the creature in the painting. It didn’t look like the one we’d seen, but something made me sure this was it. A guardian. A slave. I tried to unravel it.
“It guards the tomb,” I suggested. “The Akyren kings summoned it, maybe.”
“Or they thought they summoned it,” said Malator.
“What’s that mean?”
“A creature like this Crezil doesn’t guard a tomb. It doesn’t even belong in this world.” Malator pointed at the painting. “It belongs there. That’s its world. Gahoreth.”
“Then it’s the guardian of Gahoreth,” said Cricket. “You think so?”
“A guardian and a slave,” I said. “But a slave to who? Or what?”
“The ruler of Gahoreth, presumably,” said Malator.
“That doesn’t help. Who’s the ruler of Gahoreth, then?”
Malator didn’t answer.
“We’re just guessing,” I grumbled. “We’re wasting time. Diriel’s army is on its way. We need to get to Isowon.”
I turned to go, but neither Malator nor Cricket followed. Both were still enthralled by the painting and the disappearing river.