In a Time of Treason by David Keck

said Deorwen. On the floor, a collection of litter marked what must have been someone’s campsite. “These are candle ends. This is no place to stop.”
    “Maybe it is only a storeroom after all,” ventured Lamoric. “We know nothing else.”
    But their party was surrounded by cells, Durand was sure—places to put a man away so that he’d never be heard from again. There were no pretty carvings. Some spots had been rudely walled in.
    He hoped Ragnal’s whisperers would never hear of the place.
    “In any case, let’s hope the path goes straight on,” Heremund grunted. “I wouldn’t like to have to root through these holes.”
    F INALLY, A DOOR appeared: the passage’s ending. This was no improvised addition to the tunnel. Sinuous lines adorned its marble surface: the Eye of Heaven blazed above a Creation full of elegant trees. A pair of idols flanked the door: the Warders of the Gates of far Heaven. In the stories, the Warders wore coats they’d improvised of iron nails. The carver had chiseled every one.
    “Is there some magic formula we must say?” Lamoric wondered.
    Durand raised his rushlight for the others to see, and they all came closer, Deorwen setting a hand on his arm.
    “Perhaps there is, but I think there’s a handle as well,” said Heremund. “Just here.” An elbow of copper jutted from a tear of green verdigris.
    “Just as well,” Lamoric decided.
    “A little room again, I think,” Durand said and took the handle, feeling big cogs turning under his fist. The door broke free. No light. With the rushlight high, he peered through the widening crack, not knowing what eyes might be on the other side.
    And eyes there were: empty skulls stared back at him. Papery corpses. The room beyond was heaped with bones.
    “What’s wrong with you?” asked Heremund.
    Sucking a breath through his nose, Durand said, “There’s no one here. I can’t see if there’s a way through.”
    With no way around, he pushed straight in, climbing onto the sagging, crackling heap. Swimming, nearly, as dry things slid from their winding sheets and yellow grins rolled against his chin.
    A plain bronze door beyond the ossuary opened at Durand’s first touch. It might have been another panel in the walls. Durand summoned the rest on, and once free of the ossuary, the group stepped into a chamber of massive pillars where the air hung thick with beeswax and balsam.
    Lamoric slapped dust from Deorwen’s dress. “Perhaps we were better off to leave the courtly costumes home.”
    “All of those people. They were priests and rich men,” Deorwen said. “I saw amulets.” Tangled in neck bones and ribs. “There was a fat sapphire on one hand. I think the priests have been moving bones here from tombs and graves. If it is like most cities, there is no room to bury within the walls unless space is made.”
    “My skin’s alive,” said Lamoric. “Like the fleas are marching over me.”
    “This will be the crypt under the high sanctuary,” Heremund said.
    Durand saw a score of great sarcophagi within the range of their light, the first traces of a vast arc that must circle the whole of the high sanctuary, below the floor. You could wind a good horse, riding from side to side through the dark. Feet rested on hounds, eagles, and Powers. Royal feet.
    Lamoric spun.
    “This is where the new kings must keep their vigil, yes?”
    “Aye,” said Heremund, “I reckon so. ‘Three days under stone,’ they say before they’ll crown ‘em. It’s here somewhere that a crown prince bides that time in darkness.”
    “They have all lain here. All the kings of twenty centuries,” whispered Lamoric. “We should be struck dead for trespassing in this place. I am surprised that we have breathed this long.”
    “Ain’t too late,” said Heremund.
    The floor was chased with sweeping symbols, arcs and rays of gold. The intersecting curves circled a shape cut at the chamber’s heart: it could have been the shadow of a tall man upon