Before She Ignites (Fallen Isles Trilogy #1)(4)

Another guard laughed. “I bet she threw a fit and tore all her clothes.”

“Or defaced portraits of her enemies.”

“Maybe she had a lover the Luminary Council didn’t approve of.”

They mused for another minute before the fifth warrior spoke up. Altan, another had called him. I called him my nemesis. “The Luminary Council wouldn’t have sent their favorite puppet here without a truly serious crime, like putting the Fallen Isles at risk.”

I tried to focus on walking, but my whole body trembled with fury and shame.

“Whatever the reason she’s here,” Altan went on, “we’re under orders not to discuss it, or her, so forget her name and rank. She’s just a prisoner, like all the others.”

Just a prisoner. Anonymous.

At two hundred steps, the cool air gave way to warmth, growing over the next fifty-seven. (Two hundred and fifty-seven total.) Finally, we reached the bottom, where everything I’d thought I’d known about the Pit evaporated.

The stairwell opened into a magnificent hall, with over a dozen ornate pillars from floor to ceiling. It was so high that a Drakontos titanus would have been able to stretch its neck and wings.

Noorestones lit the chamber at regular intervals along the pillars and carved walls, and shone from immense chandeliers above. Hundreds of tiny stones glowed and glowed.

Altan prodded at my spine.

He was my least favorite guard already, because he kept looking at me. Studying. The others’ jokes were uncomfortable, but his attention was more focused. More menacing.

His face told a story of recent fights, with healing cuts and fading bruises that covered his golden-brown skin. Eleven thin scars marked his right temple, like remnants of a childhood accident. He was handsome in a fearsome way; he had wide cheekbones, a strong jaw, and hard, brown eyes that stayed narrowed under a high brow. Like all the other warriors, his hair was close-cropped, and he wore a leather uniform. Only two iron chevrons were pinned under Khulan’s crossed maces, which suggested he wasn’t important, but there was another pin as well. Some sort of tooth or claw.

“Walk,” he said.

Hot, damp air choked me as I started moving once more. Sweat trickled down my spine, making my silk dress stick to my skin. I couldn’t recall ever feeling so subhuman in my life. What I wouldn’t give for a bath. Steaming, clear water. Shea butter and honey soap. A citrus peel on my face. Orange blossom, jasmine, and shea cream in my hair. The sweet perfume of lala flowers wafting through the washroom.

I hadn’t had a real bath in a decan. It felt like a year.

Huge panels of chiseled figures watched my shameful walk through the grand chamber. With every step, my mind tracked their size (ten paces wide, at least three times as tall).

The first panel showed the seven gods as they fell from the stars, streaks of fire shooting behind them. Darina and Damyan faced each other, toes touching toes as they plummeted toward the waves. Their eyes were bright with eternally locked gazes. Khulan had his great mace lifted, his body twisted toward Anahera, the Destroyer. We passed by too quickly for me to properly see the other three, though I knew their poses from tapestries and other depictions of the Fall: Bopha was always in shadow, even as she dropped toward the sea. Harta wrapped her arms protectively around her great, pregnant belly, loose clothes fluttering. And then there was Idris, bent over in contemplation as he ignored everyone and everything.

Seven gods. Seven islands. Six, if you counted Darina and Damyan as one, which most people did. That made Damina twice as big as any of the other islands. The best. The most important.

At least, that was what I’d always believed.

Between the panels, statues of legendary warriors protruded from the stone, as if they were on the verge of stepping out. Their fists clutched the heavy chains used to lift and lower the chandeliers. They sent me loathsome glares.

Two of my escorts were discussing a card game, completely unimpressed by the surrounding magnificence. “I can’t believe you lost that hand.”

“I shouldn’t have accepted the bet. Batbayar never loses when an extra shift is at stake.”

There was a heavy pause. Here, Daminan men might have accused their friend of cheating, but for Khulani warriors, that sort of comment would mean truly questioning their friend’s honor. Even if it had been meant as a joke, there would have to be a trial, a fight, and at least one demotion.

No card game—extra shift or otherwise—was worth it to these two, so they carried on, keeping any suspicions quiet.

The warriors opened a huge, creaking door and shoved me through it. I stumbled, nearly losing track of my steps, but my feet remembered the impacts—one, two, three, four.

Statues filled the tall alcoves along the new hall. These versions of the gods were marble and limestone and sandstone, beautifully carved and terrifying as they struck one another down, or crushed minuscule humans beneath their feet.

“Look.” Humor edged Altan’s tone. “She’s scared.”

“Probably worried about ruining her dress,” said another.

“It’s already ruined.” Altan prodded my back. “Walk.”

I wanted to shrink up and die, but I walked and kept my eyes on the statues.

Legend said that when our seven gods fell to Noore, humans all over the world perished in wind and fire. The devoted lived, and made their way across the ocean to settle on the Fallen Isles.