Raven Nightshade's Arc

Chapter 6 of 8

The maker did not rise. Raven stepped closer across the cold floor. The gray cloth shifted with each slow breath beneath it. She had crossed the sea and the traps to reach this figure. Now she needed the one thing it held: why the curse existed, and how to end it at the root. But she had come with empty hands. "You let me down here," Raven said. "Why?" The figure lifted its head. An old face showed under the hood, pale and calm. "Because you cannot hurt me," it said. "No blade. No fire. You came with nothing I fear." It watched her without worry. "Ask your questions. I will give you nothing." Raven's claws pushed against her palms. She wanted to lunge. But the maker was right. She had no leverage, no threat that meant anything here. She pressed anyway. "The buried people. The fog in my land. Who made the curse?" The figure only smiled and said nothing. Each silence hit harder than a blow. A cold current brushed her ankles. Raven glanced up. Mist poured down the stair in a slow wall. Armin descended out of it, his gray robe damp, his dark eyes fixed on the maker. He owed Raven his help, and he gave it without warmth. "I know this one," Armin said. "He taught the first curse. He taught it to me." The maker's calm cracked. "You," it breathed. "You were supposed to be gone." "He fears you," Raven said, quick. "That's the leverage." Armin raised one hand. The mist thickened around the maker, tightening like rope. "I know what you buried, and how," Armin said. "I know the words you fear spoken aloud. Answer her, or I speak them." The maker thrashed against the fog and could not break it. "Enough!" the maker gasped. "The root is not here. The curses all trace to one crack, one wound in the world. Someone opened it long ago and feeds it still. Stop the feeder, and every curse dies. That is all I have." Above them, ice light flared. Lyra reached the bottom step, palm flat to the wall, purple eyes sharp. "He's telling the truth," she called down. "His heart doesn't jump. And there's more below him. Another stair." Raven looked at the maker, pinned in mist. "The feeder. Where." "Down," the maker whispered. "Always down." Then his slow heartbeat stopped. The cloth sagged empty. Armin's mist fell away. Raven stared at the collapsed cloth. She had her answer at last. The curse had a source, a living feeder, and a stair sinking toward it. But the one voice that knew the way was gone. She turned to the black mouth in the floor. Whatever fed the curses waited there, and now nothing stood between her and it but the dark.