Larc could not disguise her terror as she walked down the increasingly warm Spiral Tunnel, flanked by Flame Officers. They could kill her at any moment, simply reach out and end her life. She had not even been so afraid during the attack on Iskalon, or the later attack on the burial chamber. Then, she had been surrounded by other Icers, by Warriors. Now, she was utterly alone and her life was completely at the mercy of Flames who had murdered countless Icers. And the heat was growing, making her stomach churn, her head ache, and her heart weak.
The Spiral ended and the tunnels leveled out. They widened into brightly lit halls with tiled floors and lime-washed walls. Common Flames, dressed in drab furs and skins, bustled past, leading their slaves, eyeing Larc and her escort nervously. Larc kept her gaze straight ahead as the Officers guided her through the maze. Further in, the costumes changed, and Noble Flames clad in gaudy clothes of precious metals and gems stopped and watched her with curiosity, as if she were a strange animal they had never seen before. But curiosity turned to recognition on some faces, followed quickly by anger and hatred. Though Chraun had initiated the war, some of these Flames had clearly lost loved ones to it, and their blame would rest on the only Icer at hand—her.
Larc tried to reassure herself. Medoc had not killed her emissaries; he had sent them back with an agreement to meet, so perhaps he would not kill her, either. But he had lied before. He had implied at their last meeting that Stasia's surrender would purchase reprieve for the rest of Iskalon. It had not. Then again, Stasia's idea of sending the people into the Outer Tunnels had not been what Medoc expected or desired.
The Flames led her through a crowded tunnel, full of color and noise and bright light. The smell of food, even the Flame’s scorched stuff, made Larc’s mouth water. She kept her eyes straight ahead, hoping her sudden desire not only for food but for this kind of normalcy did not show on her face. People in alcoves along the tunnel were selling goods, just like an ordinary day in the Market of Iskalon. Most of their customers were common Flames. Ordinary people, going about their business. Here and there a Noble shopped with a large entourage of scantily clad slaves. Larc saw pale skin on a few of them, and knew they were Iskaloners, perhaps captured in the fall of the lake, perhaps taken since.
“Ice Fairy!”
Larc turned to see a common Flame in a leather scale dress, hands on her hips, glaring at her. “You killed my son. I hope the King gives you what you deserve!”
It took Larc a moment to realize the woman was speaking generally; her son had died in the war, and Larc was the only available Icer to blame. Anger choked her as she thought of her father, and her brother, still missing—perhaps dead at the bottom of the lake. She had lost so much, these Flames had destroyed her whole world, and they dared blame her for the war? Before she could open her mouth to speak, however, the cavern began to echo with the shouts of other Flames.
“Murderer!”
“Lava is too good for you!”
Larc did not understand half of the epithets that followed, but she understood their tone. Her guards slowed as if they relished giving the people a chance to abuse her. Sweat dripped from her brow, filled with the grime of weeks without a bath. She tried to quiet the thud of her heart, to channel the anger and hatred that the Flames aroused into energy for the debate ahead. She thought of the meeting as a council, where Medoc was the assembly and her job was to convince him that her side was the correct one. What did she know, what could she use to tempt him to her cause?
It came down to the lake. For some reason, it was crucial to Medoc that the Icers be returned to the lake, under guard or free. He had indicated as much to her at their meeting in the burial chamber. The lake was the key, somehow. What did he want from it? Was there something the Flames had lost there, something that he needed returned but did not know how to find? Larc could not imagine what would possibly be so important. But for some reason, Medoc needed Icers. Whatever he wanted, it was something Flames and humans could not do.
By the time they had crossed the wide Market Tunnel, Larc was shaking. She was not sure she could trust her legs. The Guard led her along without sympathy, briskly now, through quieter tunnels. More Officers, in sturdy steel plate armor, ignored Larc completely and saluted her escort. The air here was scorching, and sweat ran in rivulets over her skin. A thick metal portcullis loomed in the tunnel. Squaring her shoulders, Larc took a deep breath, stilled her nausea, and prepared for what might well be her final debate.