The Hour of the Crow

Chapter 9: The Amulet of Doom

After one week spent in the darkness of the underground tunnels, armed with a compass and a map of the city, Arran could have retraced the route from Zohra's house to Onshra's temple blindfolded. His ears picked up no sound save for the steady dripping of sewage down the arched walls and the much louder splashing of his boots in the pools on the ground. The silence bore an atmosphere of tension mixed with dread, but Arran welcomed the nervous adrenaline like an old friend. It would help him focus.

The only reason he knew he had arrived at the temple was the subtle engraving of a crow, Onshra's animal symbol, on the ceiling. A torch sconce had been fixed onto the wall, very convenient, and he placed his own torch in it. He grabbed the ladder, which screeched and shook under his weight, and climbed until he had reached the stone slab.

During his earlier observations, he had asked himself more than once why a priest of the god of death would have needed a private entrance to the ancient tunnel system, and whether the current High Priest was still aware of its existence. Regardless of the reason, Arran was grateful for it. He raised the lid, scanning the room for possible witnesses. After confirming the coast was clear, he pushed himself up. He slid the slab back in place without making a sound.

One might wonder why he hadn't chosen to enter the temple through the front door. After all, the Silver District's great pride was open to visitors throughout the entire day and night, with the only exception being the Night of Silence at the end of each year. The god of death and final judgment had no business interfering with festivities that celebrated a new beginning.

The reason why he had taken the detour was that the backroom bordered the rearmost part of the temple, where Onshra's mighty statue soared above his subjects. Embedded in the god's black-and-gold breastplate sat the object of his interest, a glowing dot of purple whose energy rose the hair on Arran's arms even from this distance.

Arran slipped out of the backroom and cloaked himself with his magic simultaneously. No one was watching him; the priest on night duty stood near the temple's center, talking to Primsharah's devout. Arran sneaked closer to the statue. At its base, he craned his neck to gaze at Onshra's strict, sculpted features. Despite his religious skepsis, a sense of foreboding settled on his skin like a shroud. He shivered. Did he imagine the look of disappointment on the god's face?

He blew a lock of his hair out of his eyes in what might have been a scoff. This was not the right time to repent of his sins, not when he was about to add the worst one of all to the top of the already impressive pile. His fingers brushed the rough fabric of his special gloves as he fished them out of his pockets and shoved his hands inside them.

The subtle tingle of magic made his blood rush through his veins. Its faint buzz in his ears blocked out the background noise of whispered prayers and words of reverence. Arran closed his eyes and took a deep breath, filling his lungs with oxygen until they nearly burst.

He was ready.

He was tall enough to climb onto the pedestal without the help of his gloves. A quick backward glance to check whether his spell still worked—just a precaution—and then he jumped up to grab Onshra's shin, dangling from the god's leg like a naughty kitten. He made a face and started climbing.

It's just a statue, he reminded himself. As long as you don't touch its balls, you're going to be just fine.

And then, Does this thing even have balls?

He banned the blasphemous thought out of his head before lightning would strike him from the sky. An anxious giggle bubbled up in his throat, but he swallowed it back down. Gods, he was trembling. Why was he trembling? He wasn't losing his nerve now, was he?