Dreadgod (Cradle Book 11) (4)
The crystals in the manacles recorded each declaration, and each time Suriel still expected Ozriel to express defiance or contempt. Instead, it was as though he’d changed completely since only minutes before.
He shivered as the last command settled on the manacles. “These buzz every time. It’s not pleasant. Like my soul is filled with bees.”
In addition to the seals Makiel had just placed on the Reaper, the manacles themselves were like a shining beacon to any Abidan. If Ozriel did manage to circumvent the restrictions, conceal the manacles, or remove them, the Spider would sense it instantly.
But this was the man who had hidden from the rest of the Judges for centuries, and that was supposed to be impossible.
Therefore, if they wanted to keep him under control, there was one more step they had to take.
“Now, you will finally do your job,” Makiel said. “Under supervision.”
Suriel transported herself down directly to the Seat of the Accused, and she brushed her hand over the cage to remove it. Ozriel gave her a beaming smile and bowed over a Cradle salute: fists pressed together.
The crystal-and-iron manacles on his wrists had only a few links of chain hanging from them each, and weren’t secured to anything; their restriction was symbolic and conceptual, not physical.
“I worried the old man would go with me himself,” Ozriel said. “Gratitude.”
The resemblance to Wei Shi Lindon reminded Suriel of his disguise and twisted her stomach. “Stop it,” she said.
“Reinforcements from Sector Eight have been denied entrance into Sector Seven,” the Spider announced. “Judge support after the next few minutes will be insufficient.”
Ozriel looked around the room and clapped his hands together. “So…where are we going?”
1
Lindon walked through the empty rooms of Eithan’s hut aboard Windfall.
Eithan rarely spent a night on the cloud fortress, and his house was minimal compared to Lindon and Yerin’s, or even Ziel’s. It was only a handful of sparsely furnished rooms, and Lindon sensed nothing of significant power inside.
Even so, he inspected the place physically. It didn’t take him long.
Aside from spare sets of clothes, bolts of silk, and a set of brushes and combs, Eithan hadn’t left much behind. Some soaps and creams made by refiners that Lindon was sure had benefits for the skin or the hair, a handful of letters with uninteresting contents, and several pairs of scissors of varying sizes.
Everything meaningful must have been kept in Eithan’s void key or his soulspace, because the most interesting thing Lindon found was a bottle with a handwritten label that read ‘For Lindon’s hair.’
Taking stock of Eithan’s belongings like this hollowed out Lindon’s stomach. The bed was made, and the home was in good order—not to mention spotlessly clean—but he’d left a hairbrush sitting out and a water basin half-filled.
Eithan had expected to come back.
Some part of Lindon had been hoping that Eithan had planned for this contingency, that he would have left a secret inheritance behind in the event of his forced ascension.
But he was gone. He hadn’t even left a Remnant behind.
At least, not here.
Dross gave a disturbing giggle. [The darkness claims us all when we least expect it. Destruction comes even to the Destroyer.]
Lindon left his cloud fortress and flew out into Sacred Valley. He could feel the labyrinth stretching beneath him, now as connected to him as his limbs. Samara’s ring crackled blue, very differently to the light it had given off while he was growing up, and the stars were distinct overhead.
Only an hour or two ago, those stars had been destroyed.
Lindon had survived one of the most frightening days of his life, but he couldn’t afford to rest yet. The Monarchs would be coming for him soon, if they weren’t already. If the Dreadgods hadn’t all been awakened today, and if the world hadn’t just witnessed an apocalyptic battle in the sky, Lindon suspected the Monarchs would have captured him by now.
Still, the hourglass had been turned for Lindon. His first task was clear: he needed to take stock of the labyrinth.
It would be one of his greatest weapons against the Dreadgods and the Monarchs both. And Eithan had said it would help him fix Dross.
[We’ll see,] Dross whispered. He seemed to delight in the prospect of Lindon’s failure.
Which was one of the reasons why Lindon wanted him restored.
Lindon could get used to the new Dross, if he had to. It was just that he shouldn’t have to. Dross hadn’t transformed willingly, he had been damaged by over-drafting himself for Lindon’s sake. If Lindon were stronger, more competent, smarter, then Dross wouldn’t have changed in the first place.
[It is the eternal tragedy of the mortal. Always, there is something just out of reach.]
As Lindon drifted down in front of the Nethergate, the giant stone door carved with the image of the Slumbering Wraith, he wondered if Dross had just said something wise. Lindon didn’t have to focus to open the door; it slowly ground open in reaction to the presence of the labyrinth’s master.
Lindon strode inside, past the outer rooms that were locked in their permanent configuration, until he reached one of the brown stone rooms that made up the labyrinth proper.
“Move,” Lindon commanded.