Chapter 5: The Night the Ring Was Not Surrendered

The stairs down to the foundation were narrow enough that they descended in single file, Calder leading, his torch held low so the light pooled at their feet rather than reaching ahead of him. The stone here was older than the citadel above — older than Malachar's occupation of it, older than the Covenant's knowledge of this place, cut by hands that had not thought of either Malachar or the Covenant because neither had yet existed to be thought of. Wren ran her fingers along the wall as she walked and felt the cold come up through her palm and into her wrist, and she thought of the warmth she had felt through the satchel's canvas and felt grateful, obscurely and incompletely, that the comparison was now abstract.

The air changed two landings down. Not colder — warmer, in fact, but with a warmth that did not comfort. It arrived in the lungs the way the smell of iron arrives, with the understanding that it is also the smell of blood, that these two things are indistinguishable until you know which you are smelling.

Brokk, behind her, made a low sound of professional assessment.