Chương 45: Those Who Answer

Zayn stayed silent until the knocking stopped. Not immediately. Not after a minute. A long time. Long enough for his right leg to go numb, for his back to start protesting against the stone, for the blood on his sleeve to dry into stiff flakes, and for the ventilation room to slowly stop feeling like a refuge and become another kind of cage. The knocks kept going through the walls. Three. Two. Three. Three again. Then a rhythm he did not recognize. Sometimes close. Sometimes far.

Sometimes right behind the wall, as if someone were striking with their knuckles directly against his skull. At first, he had tried to tell the real ones from the false ones. Then he understood that this was exactly what the weaver wanted. To wear him down with the act of choosing. So he stopped. He sat beneath the inscription carved into the stone, the dagger across his knees, his gaze fixed on the main entrance, and waited for the mine to grow tired of talking to him. That was the first lesson.

In Rhel-Fosse, even hope could become background noise. When silence finally returned, it brought no relief. Only something else. The certainty that now, if he heard a real voice, he would no longer know whether it was worth believing. Zayn rose slowly. His stomach tightened. His injured arm pulled. The palm sliced open by the rusted ring throbbed all the way into his fingers. The piece of black bread weighed in his satchel like an extremely disappointing joke. He took a swallow of the murky water. Not enough.

Still not enough. But enough to keep going. He marked a second sign on the wall of the ventilation room with chalk, then stopped. The first sign meant he had already come here. The second could mean he was leaving. Or draw something to it. He hesitated. Then drew the line anyway, but not at eye level. Lower. Near the floor. A mark a hurried human might miss, but that he would recognize. He almost felt like congratulating himself.

Then he remembered that being cleverer than a corridor was not yet much of a personal achievement. The main exit sloped downward into a gallery where the air was heavier. The secondary duct still contained the corpse of the serpentine beast. Zayn dragged it by the tail and placed it in front of the opening. Not out of hygiene. Out of usefulness. If something came through there, it would have to move the body first. A corpse made for a poor lock, but in his situation, even a poor lock deserved promotion.

He moved on. The passage beyond the ventilation room led to an old service level. Here, the walls were more regular, reinforced with low stone arches. Rusted pipes ran along the ceiling, some of them still dripping slowly. Small puddles glimmered in the red light of the shoulder lamp he had taken from Harven. Not a real lamp. A cracked shard of crystal, running on the last of its charge. He did not know how long it would last. Probably less time than the problems. At the first junction, he stopped.

To the left, nothing. To the right, two weak values. 4 6 Straight ahead, a single clearer one. 19 Human. Or formerly human enough for the value to still have that texture. Zayn closed his eyes for a second. The obvious choice was to avoid it. A human in Rhel-Fosse was almost never only a human. It could be a trap. A relay. A stolen mouth. Something sewn into a wall with just enough awareness left to sob at the proper moment. And yet a human could also know something. A path. An exit. A mistake the weaver had made.

Zayn went straight ahead. Not fast. He kept to the right-hand wall, stopping at every drip that sounded too loud, sometimes stepping into puddles to avoid stretches of dust where a filament might have been hidden. The 19 did not move. Bad sign. Living things that stayed still in Rhel-Fosse had rarely chosen to do so. The gallery opened into a small mining records room. Broken shelves. Overturned metal boxes. Ledgers blackened by damp.

At the center, hanging upside down from the ceiling by her ankles, was a woman from the Marches. Alive. 19. Her arms hung toward the floor. Her face had gone nearly purple from being upside down so long. Her mouth was not sewn shut. Her eyes were open. She looked at Zayn as he entered. No scream. No pleading. A good sign. Or a finer trap.

"Who are you?" she asked. Her voice was hoarse, but steady. Zayn stayed near the entrance.

"The one asking questions from the ground." She let out a strangled laugh.

"Not a weaver."

"Impressive deduction."

"The things serving it don't make jokes."

"I'm not sure what I do still deserves that name." He examined the room. Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. No visible black marks on the floor. Too simple. So probably elsewhere. Above, the ropes. No. Not ropes. Dried tendons braided with mining wire. Charming. The woman followed his gaze.

"If you cut wrong, the shelves fall." Zayn looked at the shelves. Several were connected to a counterweight system. Old. Rusted. Modified with black hooks.

"And if I cut right?"

"I fall on my head." He stared at her. She added, "But with gratitude." This time, he almost let out an amused breath. Not because the situation was funny. Because a being suspended upside down for probably hours had just judged that cracking her skull might be an improvement.

"Name?"

"Daera. Southern patrol."

"Why are you still alive?"

"Because I kept my mouth shut." Good answer. Excellent, even. Zayn took one step closer.

"It keeps those who answer." The look in Daera's eyes shifted slightly.

"So you saw the inscription."

"Yes."

"Then you already know the useful half."

"The other half?"

"It also keeps those who listen too long." The ceiling cracked. Zayn went still. Daera, on the other hand, did not move. Difficult, hanging like that, but she still managed to make it seem as though stillness was a choice.

"The voices go on until you answer. If you don't answer, it changes. It gives you a voice you care about. A voice that hurts you. A voice that promises something. And if you listen long enough, it finds the thread." Zayn thought of Lena. Of Mira. Of his own voice. Of the messenger.

"What thread?" Daera looked at him in silence. Then her gaze dropped to his dagger.

"Yours." Zayn did not like the answer. Which meant it was probably a good one. He examined the suspension system. Four anchor points. Two real supports. Two traps. The shelves were not only meant to fall. One of them was filled with old mining spikes aimed toward the center of the room. Of course. In a just world, even the furniture would be less aggressive.

"I can get you down," he said.

"What's the price?" He paused. There. A smart person. Not thank you. Not save me. Price. Daera had already understood something about him in less than a minute, which unfortunately put her potential survival above average.

"Information."

"About?"

"Exits. The weaver. The structure." She closed her eyes for a moment. The blood must have been rushing to her head for too long.

"There's an old main ventilation channel on the lower level. It rises toward a sealed vent-mouth under the eastern cliff. Not toward Halbrèche. Outside the walls." Interesting. Very interesting.

"Why didn't you take it?"

"Because I was busy being hung upside down."

"Before."

"Because we didn't yet know the main exit was sealed." Zayn moved to the first real support.

"And the weaver?" Daera swallowed.

"It isn't alone." Zayn froze.

"Details."

"It commands the little things. Uses the living. But it didn't dig all this for itself. Something deeper started moving before we were captured. It is preparing." So the 47 was not the bottom. Just a hand inside the mine. Very good. Perfect. Absolutely wonderful. Zayn inhaled slowly.

"Strength?"

"I don't know."

"Bad habit for survivors."

"I was too busy trying not to get torn open to take notes." He unwillingly acknowledged the quality of that answer. He cut the first real support. Nothing moved. Good. The second was more complex. Cut directly, it would trigger the shelf of spikes. He used a nail to jam the pulley, wedged an old hook between two boards, then sliced into the braided tendon. Daera clenched her teeth. Not a scream. The tendon gave way. Her body dropped. Zayn did not catch her. Not completely.

He just slowed the fall enough to keep her from snapping her neck. She hit the ground with a heavy sound, rolled onto her side, and smothered a groan.

"You could have done better," she breathed.

"Yes." She opened her eyes. He did not apologize. The fall had triggered a small vibration in the floor, but nothing else. The shelves stayed in place. So did the spikes. Daera tried to get up. Impossible. Her legs were numb from hanging, her wrists torn, her face soaked in cold sweat. 18. Her value was already dropping. Zayn looked at her. She was useful. But slow. Too slow. And the important information had already come out. Daera saw the look. No need to read souls to understand some things.

"You're not going to carry me."

"No."

"You can give me a blade." Zayn stayed silent. She gave a dry smile.

"Ah. Even that's too expensive?" He looked down at his dagger. He still had the rusted metal shard. He could leave her that. A poor weapon. But still a weapon. If he gave it to her, she might defend herself a little. Or kill herself before being taken again. Or draw things in by fighting. Or betray him if she lasted long enough. If he gave her nothing, she would remain involuntary bait. One part of him chose immediately. Another, more annoying part remembered that Daera had given him real information.

Not out of kindness. As a transaction. Useful transactions were sometimes worth honoring. Not morally. Strategically. If he ran into other survivors, it was better not to build too quickly the reputation of the one who took the information and then left people with nothing. Even in a demon-hole, image still had yield. Zayn took out the metal shard and laid it beside her.

"If you scream, I'm not coming back." Daera took the shard with difficulty.

"If I scream, it won't be for you." Very good. He turned away. Then stopped.

"The vent channel." She lifted an arm toward a low opening behind the archives.

"That way. Two levels. Follow the cold air. Then the blue marks, not the red. The red ones are recent."

"And the blue?"

"Old. Before it." Zayn nodded. He left the room. Behind him, Daera was breathing too hard, but she did not beg. That made her almost respectable. Almost. The passage beyond the archives descended by a series of metal steps. Here, the air grew colder. More humid too. The weaker values were dispersing instead of clustering, as though even the smaller beasts hesitated to go down too quickly. Bad sign. He found the first blue marks after some twenty steps. Not painted. Carved.

Simple strokes in the wall, probably used by the old miners to indicate ventilation shafts or maintenance routes. They were nearly erased beneath the grime, but still visible. The red marks, on the other hand, were lower. Fresh. Black at the center. He followed the blue ones. The corridor narrowed. Then he heard Daera scream. Not his name. Not help. A short, violent scream, followed by the sound of struggle. Zayn stopped. Daera's value, behind him, flickered at a distance. 18 16 13 Something had found her.

He stayed still. His hand tightened around the dagger. He could go back. Maybe help her. Maybe kill whatever had attacked her. Maybe gain something. Or waste time. Get surrounded. Go back toward the weaver. Die for a transaction already completed. 13 10 Daera screamed again. Then a metallic sound: the shard he had given her striking something. She was fighting. A little. Zayn looked ahead. The blue corridor. The cold air. The possible exit. Behind him, Daera. Useful already used. Still alive. Potential bait.

Potential debt. The choice presented itself. This time, he did not even pretend to dress it up. He kept moving forward. Daera's scream muffled behind him. Her value dropped again. 7 Then: 4 Then nothing. Zayn did not stop. Not because he felt nothing. He felt something. A slight discomfort. Not enough to turn around. That was perhaps the most honest part: he was not empty. He had simply learned that some discomforts weighed less than a useful corridor.

At the bottom of the descent, he came to a half-torn metal door. Behind it, the air really moved. Cold. Free. He entered. The main ventilation channel was immense, wide enough for a low cart to pass through. Ancient turbines slept in the walls, covered in dust. Several were broken. Others still turned slowly, driven by currents coming from deeper fissures. The sound was almost soothing. Then the values appeared. Not small. Not numerous. Three, in the middle of the channel. 24 26 33 Humans. Standing.

Zayn immediately backed behind a pillar. Low voices were speaking farther on. Not stolen voices. Real ones. He slipped into the shadows and watched. Three men in ash-gray cloaks stood near a side grate. Not ordinary soldiers from Halbrèche. Not prisoners. They wore cloth masks, hooded lamps, and one of them held a sealing tablet. Ashes. Here. In the lower channel. The strongest one, 33, was speaking:"The weaver isolated him. The others are higher up. We recover the subject if he exits through the channel.

Otherwise we seal it and report failure." The subject. Zayn felt a clean coldness pass through his chest. So it wasn't just the demon. Someone on the human side had foreseen that the mine might separate him. Or wanted to use the separation once it happened. The second man asked, "And if he's contaminated?" The first answered, "Then we bleed him before he talks." Charming. The third, the weakest, laughed nervously.

"They say he's not even at thirty." Zayn felt his expression close. He had 30 now. A small correction. Very important to his pride, utterly useless to his survival. Three men. Armed. Organized. Stronger than him individually, for two of them, but not absurdly so. And most importantly, they did not know he could see them. Zayn stepped deeper into the shadow. The possible exit lay beyond them. The side grate might lead outside. He could wait. Circle around. Observe. Or strike. Not out of rage. Not only.

These men were not passersby. Not servants. Not weak messengers. They had come for him. To kill him or take him. And they had values. The 24 moved off to check a side conduit. Mistake. Zayn followed without a sound. In the side corridor, the Ashes man raised his lamp. Too late. Zayn drove the dagger into his lower back, yanked it backward, clamped one hand over his mouth, and guided him to the floor to keep the noise down. The man struggled. Stronger than a messenger. Less than a real knight. Zayn struck again.

Under the ribs. The value flickered. 24 15 6 He waited a second. Not out of pleasure this time. So the body would stop without noise. Then he cut the throat. [Soul strength absorbed: +1] Current soul strength: 31 Just one point. But this time, the gain had a different taste. Not because the target was worth more. Because it was a human enemy who had come to treat him like an object to be retrieved. He searched the body quickly. A short blade. A sealing sigil. A small black vial. A length of fine rope. At last.

A rope. So the greatest treasure in this mine was neither water, nor light, nor soul strength. It was a rope. Zayn almost felt like thanking the dead man for his logistical contribution. Almost. He dragged the body behind a broken turbine, took the blade, slung the rope over his shoulder, then returned to the channel. The other two were still talking. They had not noticed. Not yet. Zayn looked at their values. 26. 33. He no longer had to flee immediately. Not yet able to overwhelm them.

But close enough now to think in angles. And that thought, in the cold of the channel, gave him a slow satisfaction. The weaver had isolated him. The Ashes had wanted to recover him. Daera was dead behind him. Harven too. The others were far away. And for the first time since his fall, Zayn did not feel merely hunted at the bottom of Rhel-Fosse. He felt himself learning the terrain. A terrain where voices lie. Where humans wait at the exits. Where every living thing is a threat, a tool, a resource, or all three.

He tightened his grip on the dagger. Then he smiled in the dark. Very slightly. The two Ashes men still did not know that they were no longer merely hunters stationed at the exit. They had just entered a mine with something that was learning far too quickly what could be done when nobody was watching.