Descending into the Pit of Thorns invited a rush of warm air. It was infused with rot and the pressing stink of close, unwashed flesh. Dewer breathed the reek in sharply as he reached the bottom of the winding staircase and stepped down into the entranceway, taking a flickering torch from a rusting wall sconce. He may have been known throughout Joria for re-building Armoria, but the creation of the Pit had given him the most satisfaction. Winding for more than five miles beneath the city and stretching out to bore into the rocky bed of the Thet itself, the Pit was a burrowing stone web that twisted and split into so many passageways, even the Pit Masters could get lost on occasion. No one but Dewer knew how big the labyrinth really was, or the true reason for its construction.

  Brandishing the torch in one hand, Dewer strode beneath an archway and began making his way through the maze of thick brick and dripping rock. His footsteps echoed loudly. Placed at intervals along the walls on either side were the iron-bound doors of cells, so thick those imprisoned within had no hope of battering them down and escaping. The cells were bare and cold, devoid of light and constantly damp. This was the first level of the Pit, reserved for those whose crimes deserved a punishment more severe than a simple whipping in Coin Square. Murderers and would-be revolutionaries were left to scream into the dark with only a thin scattering of mouldering straw for comfort.

  Dewer paused before turning into the next corridor, lingering at the door of a cell he knew well. The changeling caged within was infamous amongst the Salt Swords, caught with a blade jammed against his throat as he slept. No one else had ever come so close to ending him.

  “Louella,” he called softly. “How are we this morning, Louella?”

  He moved closer to the roughened wood of the door and pressed one eye against the narrow slit cut into the top. The complete lack of any natural light made it difficult to see inside but his eyes soon adjusted and he was able to make out the changeling’s shadowy form, huddled into a corner of her straw mattress. The mattress was a rare luxury, something she had earned by servicing the less upstanding members of the Salt Sword guard entrusted with the care of common prisoners.

  “I see you, Louella,” he tried again. “You know how I react when I am ignored.”

  The shape on the mattress turned, climbing to its feet and pattering across the floor towards him like a large, wild-haired rodent. Louella stood on tiptoe against the other side of the door, her clouded, slightly bulbous eyes framed within the slit.

  “My Lord.” Dewer was never sure if he had truly broken this woman, or if she was constantly mocking him. “I am fair this morning. As fair as a blushing daisy on a clear summer’s morn. I have been walking with the koskin, skipping upon the fragrant riverbanks of the Weeping River. I asked a little fluttering fellow if he would lend me his wishes, but he snapped at my fingers and shit in my hair.”

  “I think you will find the excrement in your hair was deposited by the rats who scurry across your face while you sleep.”

  Louella slammed her fists against the door in a vain attempt to startle him. “They’re my friends. Even the one who ate my toe. He will take me dancing when the moons turn.”

  “I am afraid, lovely Louella, that the moons have already turned. The Changing of the Moons took place over a week ago. Aikana shines upon you now, child. Not that you can see her violet brilliance. Not that you will ever see it.”

  The manic glow faded from Louella’s eyes. In the cold, silent shock that followed, Dewer fancied he could hear the breath catch in her throat. She stepped away from the door, slipped back into the lightless cave of her prison cell.

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  He moved away, the corner of his lips twitching as he fought a smile. “Give my regards to the rats.”

  Dewer turned into a further six corridors and descended two long flights of stairs before stopping again. The cells in this part of the Pit were much further apart. He was standing at the end of a long, echoing corridor, thrusting out from the city to end beneath the sea. Despite the thick walls—oozing with something black and viscous this deep down—the weight of the seawater could be clearly felt. It was a dense, claustrophobic feeling that prickled the back of Dewer’s eyes and made his ears ring.

  The door of the cell before him was magickally sealed. Dewer held the only key, forged into a thick gold ring set with a perfectly translucent ruby. He passed his hand over the door and the heavy lock clicked open, allowing it to swing slowly ajar. Dewer pulled it all the way open and stepped inside, sweeping his thick cloak back from his shoulders with a flourish.

  “Good morning, Prince Elgot.” He spoke into the freezing air, his words turning to an icy steam that bloomed from his lips. The inside of the cell was so cold, the walls shone blue and glassy beneath a thin sheen of ice.

  “Lord Dewer,” returned a deep voice from the gloom. “What an honour it is to receive you.” The voice was devoid of all emotion but Dewer knew his prisoner was being sarcastic. He had come to expect it.

  “Apparently, you have friends in the city.”

  Dewer moved his torch to illuminate the room. Elgot, or Prince Elgot as Dewer insisted on calling him because he knew just how it rankled, was sitting cross-legged on the floor. His face was a mask of calm, his long, silver hair lying lank across his bare shoulders. The man’s back and chest were crisscrossed with long-healed scars and ugly welts raised by the whips of Dewer’s Pit Masters.

  “Did you hear me, Frost Prince?” Dewer tried again.

  He retrieved the charred eye amulet from a pocket inside his cloak and threw it at Elgot. The man caught it without looking up, although his eyes flickered briefly when he realised what it was.

  “I knew you would recognise that. Your people made it, did they not? It would appear you are not the only Asrai to have ventured out from the Wastes.”

  “You found this here? In the city?”

  “Yes. Where else would I have found it? I certainly did not make the horrendous journey to your frozen waste of a homeland just to retrieve this little trinket.”

  Elgot’s pale eyes darkened. He closed his fingers over the pendant in his hand. The Asrai’s hatred for him was so intense, Dewer could feel it in the air between them—a heavy, electric surge that only dissipated when Elgot closed his eyes and forced himself to take two deep breaths.

  “I want to know what the purpose of that ugly bauble is,” Dewer said. “I want to know why it was brought into my city.” He moved closer, brandishing the flaming torch like a sword.

  “Why don’t you ask one of your pet druids? Surely the Crimson Order has some flashy magick they could use to reveal the amulet’s secrets?”

  Dewer stared at him, the icy stream of his breath becoming a furious plume.

  Elgot laughed. “You don’t want anybody to know about this. You are afraid the amulet’s former owner will find out you are looking for them. Do you fear the Asrai have infiltrated the Crimson Citadel? Maybe they have members among the Salt Swords, too. They could at this very moment be bunking in a dormitory mere floors away from your own bed chamber. Do they plan to murder you, do you think? Perhaps in your sleep? Do you believe they will have more success than that babbling changeling you keep upstairs?”

  “Enough.”

  Dewer dropped the torch to roll and hiss across the stone floor and rushed at Elgot, punching him so hard in the face the bones in his knuckles protested and cracked. The Asrai fell backwards. Dewer leapt on top of him, crushing his chest beneath his weight until he was unable to move.

  “How dare you talk to me that way.”

  Dewer’s face was so close to Elgot’s, he could smell the rank, musty tang of his breath. His nose was broken and bloody, the skin around it already beginning to purple with a deep bruise.

  “Why are you so afraid of us?” Elgot managed. “The Asrai have little interest in the affairs of Armoria.”

  “Lies, lies, lies,” Dewer hissed.

  He struck Elgot across the face, catching his right eye with the full force of his open palm. Elgot grunted with pain. He struggled to free himself, his wounded eye blooming a livid red against the pale ice of his skin. Dewer wrapped long fingers about his neck in response, slowly tightening his grip until the Asrai relented and lay still.