Even Ceric Windrider had his limits, unfortunately, and he didn’t have much more hope to stay nourished.

  That’s why he rationally considered which of his body parts he should eat, should it come to that. Clearly he couldn’t eat a leg, because there was no way he’d make it out of here on one leg. But he hated the idea of eating an arm too. And he wasn’t sure how much that would hamper his ability to properly cook it.

  ‘Q: Is there food down in these catacombs?’

  ‘A: Hope is like food. You will starve without it.’

  True. Ceric could not afford to lose hope, because he was already starving. He’d gotten so lost in the veins of the catacombs that he’d spent two nights in their miserable depths.

  He wished he’d brought bread or dried meats.

  Famished, hands trembling from hunger, he turned to the Nightwriter’s latest entry.

  ‘Q: Will I ever make it out of here?’

  ‘A: Believe in yourself or don’t. Either way, you’ll be right.’

  He’d have to think about starting a fire, too. There was a draft running through the catacombs.

  Ceric was in the middle of stretching the limits of human ingenuity when he felt a chill run down his back, and watched a shadow run past his lantern.

  No man or creature cast it. The shadow existed on its own. And Ceric was certain this shadow must have produced his grandfather’s voice.

  “Come back!” Ceric shouted hoarsely. “Don’t play games with me!”

  It was strange, the way it showed up when his lantern was close enough. When it was in the darkness, there was nothing at all; but caught in light, the silhouette was so defined that Ceric couldn’t help but look behind to see who was casting it. He’d even waved his arms behind him to see if there was an invisible man.

  Down one vein, into another, the chase went on, until Ceric was gasping for breath.

  The shadow was waiting patiently in the glow of his lantern. And there, Ceric really did feel a draft. He heard the low whistle of air flowing through a narrow spout.

  It looked like any other brick wall. But when Ceric turned his head to hear the whistle better, it felt like someone was blowing cold air into his ear.

  Duly anxious and unstoppably intrigued, the intrepid explorer came closer and closer until he unknowingly stepped on a pressure plate.

  With a rumble as loud as an earthquake, a section of brick slowly rose up, leaving a crawl space slightly wider than his shoulders, and about two feet high.

  Legs shaking, Ceric swallowed whatever fear he had, since he’d already eaten up all his hope. And laying prone on the ground to crawl through, he forgot all about the shadow in the light of his lantern, which had finished its job and scurried away.

  Passing through the cathedral’s corridors in search of Ciecout, Ailn and Kylian paused to gaze at The Saintess and the Wolf. It was, after all, considered Noué Areygni’s master work—and a portrayal of the eum-Creid family’s progenitor.

  Ailn, like everyone else, found himself captivated by the painting. To his eyes, Saintess Celestia had distinctly vulpine features. Despite her petite chin, she had this softness about the cheeks, and her half-lidded gaze lent her playful smile just a hint of slyness.

  Put more bluntly, he wouldn’t have expected such a lofty figure to be portrayed as such a foxy lady.

  “So, this is the silver wolf of the duchy?” Ailn asked. “I never asked you about all the kids wearing wolf masks and handing each other snow flowers.”

  “The wolf is the reincarnation of Saintess Celestia’s husband and the city’s founding ancestor—Neifflor eum-Creid,” Kylian said. “Or so the tale goes.”

  “Er, a reincarnation in her own lifetime?” Ailn asked. The word ‘reincarnation’ of course meant something quite different to him than Kylian. “Is the painting metaphorical, or…”

  “Saintess Celestia’s epithet is the evanescent,” Kylian said, gesturing to the chapel which also bore it. “Between Celestia and Neifflor, the most famous vignette is when the Saintess laughed at the thought that Neifflor would be able to remember her in other lifetimes. The two were watching the wilt of the gelé primevère, which uniquely begin in spring.”

  “...Pretty cold of her,” Ailn said.

  “Many young children agree with you,” Kylian chuckled. “The legend goes that after Neifflor’s death, as Saintess Celestia mourned at his grave, a silver wolf appeared through the blizzard and lay a snowflower on her lap.”

  “I can see how the tale inspires puppy love,” Ailn said thoughtfully. Then he remembered another question he wanted to ask Kylian. “Speaking of young love—you said that Maribelle girl used to be my fiance.”

  “That’s right,” Kylian said, with a look of hesitation.

  “For some reason you seemed reluctant to talk about it in the shop,” Ailn said.

  “It’s a difficult topic for commoners to be privy to,” Kylian said. “Given that such matters are usually seen as an embarrassment, even a wealthy merchant would find it uncomfortable. Moreover, I wished to give you private counsel.”

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “About?”

  “That… perhaps you should keep it to yourself,” Kylian said awkwardly. “At least from Lady Renea. She—”

  “Keep what private?” the girl in question waved to them from the other end of the corridor. Accompanying her was Father Ciecout. He was carrying a stack of books tall enough to cover his face, but the slouch was unmistakable.

  Renea came strolling their way gracefully, while Ciecout struggled with the weight of the books.

  “Was there something you didn’t wish to tell me?” Renea sounded more curious than upset.

  “We’ll talk about it later,” Ailn said. “What are you doing here?”

  “The cathedral’s library is gigantic, and I have nothing to do around the castle,” Renea said. “And there was something I wished to discuss with Father Ciecout.”

  “Yes, we… hrk… The two of us had a very… edifying…” Ciecout’s arms started trembling.

  “Oh—we should…” Renea glanced worriedly at Ciecout.

  “Just get a guard to do it,” Ailn put two fingers to his mouth and whistled. “Don’t think I didn’t see you there Sir Vogt. I know which peacekeepers are assigned to the cathedral this month. Carry Renea’s books to the carriage.”

  “Er, would you?” Renea smiled diplomatically at the guard who looked grumpy about being called like a dog. Then she turned back to Ailn. “Was there… another crime planned on the cathedral?” Renea asked nervously.

  “Not as far as I’m aware,” Kylian said, peering a bit suspiciously toward Ciecout, who seemed rather blue in the face from exertion and breathlessness.

  “No, I’ve got something better. In fact, you should come along if you don’t have anything else to do,” Ailn said, looking cheery in a way he almost never did. “We actually needed Ciecout.”

  Now it was Renea’s turn to look suspicious. She gave Kylian a questioning look, and he merely shrugged.

  The biggest smiles Ailn usually gave were reserved for moments of petty comeuppance.

  “We’re going treasure hunting—” Ailn began, leading Renea’s eyes to light up with excitement,“—which means we’re heading down to the mausoleum.”

  The excitement drained from her face.

  The four made their way down to the Noué Areygni’s mausoleum, passing through the crypt and ossarium. Kylian and Ciecout led the way, while Ailn and Renea followed close behind—Renea clutching herself and shivering all the while.

  The two of them were talking quietly.

  “Renea,” Ailn arched an eyebrow, “are you scared of skeletons?”

  “I already told you I wasn’t ages ago!” Renea snapped. Sighing, then holding one arm, she started to shiver. “Don’t you remember what happened last time we were here?”

  “...Right. The voice you heard in the catacombs. And the shadow that ran past you,” Ailn said. It felt like their chase in the catacombs had happened like ages ago. “We’re just going to the mausoleum, though.”

  “Does the distinction matter?” Renea mumbled. “They’re connected, because of the tunnels the criminals dug. If that monster comes lurching out of the tunnel, then…”

  Now that he thought about it, her description of a shadow running untethered to anyone casting it—crossing in front of the light—called to mind the illustration at the front of The Book of Hidden Paths.

  In the illustration a woman had switched places with her shadow—and she was screaming in horror.

  “That’s why I was consulting with Father Ciecout,” Renea said. “I thought he might know more about myths associated with the catacombs…”

  Ailn made a skeptical face as he glanced at Ciecout leading the way, who was yelling quite animatedly in his conversation with Kylian.

  “I have it on good word that the priest is a bit of a kook, Renea,” Ailn said. “I’m not gonna doubt your story. But maybe don’t consult with Ciecout.”

  “Father Ciecout is a scholar,” Renea said, her face wrinkling with offense, before she turned away in a huff.

  Presently, they arrived at the hidden entrance for the mausoleum, and Ciecout pressed his finger into the left socket of one of the skulls—third row, fifth skull. The section of skulls swung open, and as they walked in Ciecout made to retrieve something from his vestments.

  They passed through the short tunnel into the mausoleum.

  “Your timing is serendipitous,” Ciecout said, looking quite happy. “It was just this week that the bishop finally approved the purchase of a portable lighting artifact.”

  With a soft pulsing hum, the artifact began to shimmer with orange light. The artifact was clearly a slow starter, because the humming seemed to hang, the artifact flickering on and off.

  “Damn that cheap bishop!” Ciecout cursed quite loudly as he angrily shook the artifact in a vain attempt to hasten its brightening. “Damn him! Dwarven-made?! Clearly not!”

  Perhaps he felt emboldened by how far down they were in the crypt, as Ciecout started to yell out the name of every one of his confreres who had ever wronged him or, in his eyes, unduly received funding he was consistently denied.

  “No one’s yet sealed up the entrance to the lower chamber? They haven’t even cleaned up the sarcophagus fragments…” Renea said, guiltily.

  “My fellows,” Ciecout spat, as he banged his hand against the artifact, “who’d never so much as come down here wish to have the mausoleum itself blocked off! No corpse, no obligation they say! They merely wish to spite me! Because it catches my scholarly interests! If I enjoyed fishing they’d insist we dry up the lake!”

  “Father, are charity and clemency not virtues of your order?” Kylian asked, trying to calm the priest. “You’ll die young from an affliction of the heart at this rate.”

  Ignoring Ciecout’s spiteful paranoia, both Ailn and Renea took a moment to appreciate the mausoleum; they hadn’t had the chance when they were escaping the criminal ring.

  Renea traced the gold chain which ran above their heads. It began from above the entrance they’d come in from, reaching down to the thin base of a torch above what remained of the sarcophagus.

  “As above, so below…?” Renea couldn’t take her eyes off the phrase beneath the torch, biting at her thumb’s nail. “I know that proverb.”

  With its front cleanly sliced away by Kylian, the sarcophagus was now more of an exit than a tomb. Yet, what remained still bore the torch on top. And with its true nature as a doorway to the catacombs revealed, the proverb masquerading as Noué Areygni’s epitaph took on a whole new meaning.

  Renea’s eyes widened. “Those words aren’t from…” She turned to Ailn, realization dawning across her face.

  “They aren’t,” Ailn confirmed.

  Finally, the artifact Ciecout struggled with began to hum with increased pace, and the light eventually became quite substantial. The art in the chamber was quite easy to make out now, and Renea gasped, her eyes immediately drawn to the mural on the right side of the sarcophagus.

  “Lady Renea?” Kylian asked. “Is something wrong?”

  “N-no, it’s just…” Renea’s eyes darted frantically between Kylian, Ailn, and the mural as she fumbled for words. “The art—”

  “There’s a book in the ducal study that features that mural,” Ailn said nonchalantly, lying with ease. “It’s a book that… extensively documents different religions and their art.”

  “Really now,” Ciecout’s voice brightened with hopeful fascination. “Would it be possible to—”

  “The book’s lost,” Ailn cut him off flatly. He stepped closer to examine the mural, realizing there were more differences than he’d first thought. “But Renea and I wouldn’t mistake it. The mural’s a satire of a painting called ‘The Weighing of the Heart.’”

  And that painting had originally been rendered on papyrus in the Book of the Dead—a set of scrolls from Ancient Egypt.