In the precious few moments of respite they experienced after she and Maly had killed the last of the monstrosities in Sami Suttar’s basement, a truth had wormed its way into Emah’s mind:

She had, without a doubt, been poisoned.

Her mouth was dry as a bone. Emah felt hot everywhere and couldn’t seem to stop sweating. Her hands trembled slightly, the same tremble that threatened her legs and back. For a moment, her vision blurred, as if she’d spent the night carousing in a local tavern.

She assumed it had been that creature’s quill, the one it had launched at them like crossbow bolts. The place on her shoulder where it had embedded was an angry red sore, and searingly painful to the touch. The ratfolk priest had two of the things protruding from its body, and Emah guessed that it wasn’t the impact of the quills that had killed it, but the toxin.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t dwell on it now. No sooner had she taken stock of her symptoms than Maly gasped and pointed with one dagger. The shambling, rotting, scaled creature with the fish head was stirring despite its many grievous wounds. Worse: Emah noticed the bones of the child-sized skeleton and the maggoty pulp of the quill-thrower also quivering, like ripples in a pond of something lurking beneath.

“Damn it all to the Nine Hells,” she swore, and planted her feet. “What are these things?”

“Demons, Destiny says,” Maly whispered, wide-eyed and frozen at the creatures’ movements.

“Okay,” Emah exhaled, then swayed on her feet. She shook her head to clear it. “So how do we kill them for good?”

“He… hasn’t answered me,” Maly scowled. “He’s been silent. I don’t know.”

Abruptly, Kami stepped forward and hammered a fist onto the rising demon. It went down in a heap, unmoving. They were all silent, Emah holding her breath. One heartbeat. Two. Three. And then the rotting, scaled demon began to stir.

Maly whimpered in frustration and kicked the scattered bones further apart. The other two demons felt a long way from reemerging as threats, but the fish-headed monstrosity was unrelenting.

Emah cast her blurred gaze around the room, mind working slowly. Sweat fell into her eyes and off her chin. She released one hand on her sword to wipe her face with the back of a glove. That done, a thought struck her.

“The box!”

Kami stared at her in the dim basement light. “What of it?”

“I don’t know,” Emah gritted her teeth. “The priest did something to summon them from the box, right? So can we put them back?”

Kami hammered another fist down upon the rising demon. It stilled momentarily.

“But how?” Maly asked, her voice higher in pitch and closer to hysteria than Emah had ever heard it. “What, we just put the hand back in the box and shut it?”

“I don’t know!” Emah barked, then swayed. She wiped her face again. How had it already gotten coated in sweat? “Do you have a better idea?”

She felt herself rapidly succumbing to poison, so a lengthy debate was out of the question. Instead, while Kami stood over the fish-headed demon and Maly sputtered in surprise, Emah stepped forward, sheathed her blade, and scooped the mummified hand from the dirt floor of the basement. She intended to, with her next step, grab the bejeweled box and shove the macabre trophy inside.

Emah never got the chance.

The world around her blurred and, quite suddenly, she no longer felt on the verge of collapse. The trembling of her limbs and feverish burn within her abruptly vanished. Even the dull ache of her ribs was gone. Emah closed her eyes, straightened, and exhaled a long and even breath. She felt herself again, better than she had in weeks.

“Ah, another one, and so soon,” a pleased, male voice said.

Emah snapped open her eyes. The low-ceilinged basement had been replaced by what she somehow knew was a vast underground chamber even though its perimeter disappeared into darkness beyond her perception in all directions. The air was cool and wet. In front of her, perhaps ten strides away, was an ornate throne of gold, encrusted with jewels. The seat itself emanated light in a broad halo around it. Emah thought that it all reminded her of something, the throne and light, but she couldn’t place it, so distracted was she by the dizzying change of scenery and her newly revitalized health.

Upon the throne sat a man.

He was entirely ordinary, old enough to be a young grandfather, with an average build and pleasant face. His short, dark hair started high on his forehead and grayed at the temples, becoming completely white across his jaw in a close-cropped beard. Emah had trouble immediately placing his family origin, though he was probably Mescan by his olive coloring, full lips, and dark eyes. He wore a flowing, colorful shirt and well-made, stitched pants. Emah didn’t see any weapons on the man, and his posture showed interest rather than threat.

Still, she drew her mother’s sword. “Who are you? Where am I?” she demanded.

“I assure you,” the man chuckled, finding her display somehow charming. “That won’t be necessary. There is no fighting here, only negotiating. So,” he raised his full eyebrows. “What are you offering?”

Emah faltered, confused. “What am I… what?”

“Oh!” the man sat back, surprised. “You’re here by mistake! I see! Oh! Please, please: Spare no details. Where were you when you opened the box and touched my hand?”

Emah kept her sword in one fist and took a cautious step backwards. “Your hand?” she narrowed her eyes.

He followed her gaze and looked down. Confusion creased his brow for a heartbeat and then he barked out a full-throated laugh. He clapped his two hands together and rocked in his seat with glee. “Oh! My, my! You truly are here by chance! How wonderful!”

Emah had had quite enough of this madman, she realized. While he tittered, she edged further back, away from the glow of the throne and into the graying gloom of the cavern.

The man suddenly sat up straight and barked a sharp warning. “Ah! Go no further, my lady. Come back to the light, now,” He licked his lips, genuine concern on his face. “You won’t like what lurks in the darkness.”

As if in response to his words, something brushed her back. She spun, blade up defensively. Emah squinted and peered, but she could only make out the faintest of details. What she glimpsed, though, terrified her: A squirming, writhing mass of what looked like bloated tentacles, moving in a living wall just beyond the light. It was either one massive creature or an enormous pile of smaller ones, shifting and overlapping to make her mind reel. As far she could see, the darkness was filled with undulating tentacles.

She yelped in surprise and horror, stepping back towards the throne.

“There’s nothing but pain beyond the light,” the man said gravely, all humor gone from his voice. “Come closer, please. The only way out of this place is negotiation, and we can’t negotiate until you understand the terms. Come, come.”

Emah frowned. Once she had taken several steps away from the darkness, she could sense nothing but the two of them. Everything beyond the light was simply still, silent shadow.

“Please,” the man repeated. “This must all be overwhelming for you. Come closer and speak with me and all will be made clear.”

Sword gripped tightly, she moved within several strides of the man. Close enough, she reasoned, to impale him if needed but far enough away to not appear able to do so.

“Good,” he smiled, exhaling with relief. “Now, let’s start over, shall we? I am Salo Jaena. What is your name and from where do you hail, my dear?”

She frowned. “Emah. I’m from Oakton, within the Kalee Empire. Where am I now?”

“Oakton,” Salo mused. He smiled with white, straight teeth. “You know, I’ve met one other man from there! Two visitors before you, in fact.”

“Was his name Sami Suttar?” Emah asked.

“It was!” the man clapped his hands in surprised glee. “Do you know him?”

“I do not,” Emah said cautiously, her mind still stumbling frantically over this impossible situation, trying to fit the pieces together into something that made sense. But Emah Elmhill was first and foremost a scholar, not a warrior. Despite herself, she was intrigued. “We—my companions and I—found the box with your…” she cleared her throat. “Hand in it within the abandoned Suttar home.”

“Ah, I see. Yes. Poor Sami was unwilling to make a deal, I’m afraid. I thought sure it would work with him, but he was more of a collector than a giver. Shockingly stubborn, that man.” He must have seen Emah’s face scrunch in confusion, because he quickly added. “But enough of that. It’s not important. So, what then? You found the box, opened it, saw the hand, and… picked it up?”

“What? No!” Emah shook her head. “The box had been spilled open, the hand lying next to it and the body of a ratfolk priest–”

“Ratfolk?” Salo raised an eyebrow. “Ah, my last visitor, yes. They don’t call themselves that, of course, but it’s an apt description from one’s point of view.” He smiled encouragingly. “But I interrupted you, please. What next?”

She licked her lips. “There were… demons there. In the basement and standing over the box and body.”

“The First Three, yes.” The way the man said the words, it was a title rather than simple description. “Xapha, Kavac, and Vakal, if I’m not mistaken. Interesting that you identify them—quite correctly, I might add!—as demons. You must have had a force of warriors like yourself to still be alive. Ah, and I’m seeing it now!” He looked up and made a grand gesture with his hands. “The demons defeated, you stooped to retrieve the mysterious hand and box! A blink later, and here you are, Emah. What an unfortunate turn of events for you! Most who seek the box do so deliberately. Yet here you are with a monumental choice you never intended to make. Such tragedy! The stuff of poems and theater, truly.”

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me again, sir,” Emah scowled. In the brief pause that followed, her ears strained. Nothing but silence, except their echoing voices.

“Yes, yes of course. So now we reach the agonizing decision you must make. The box is called the Raft of the Nine Gates, and it is ancient. No one I’ve spoken to knows its true origin. Yet, when opened, it demands an offering.” He opened one hand, palm facing her. “Provide something of true sacrifice, that is most dear to you, and you gain power.” He opened his other hand with the same gesture. “Fail to do so, and, well…” Salo shook his head, his face mock sorrow.

“And it releases demons,” she finished the thought.

“Oh, it’s much worse than that, I’m afraid. The supplicant dies, of course, but the demons look to ruin the entire community as well, wiping it from existence. Whole cities have fallen to the Raft’s vengeance.”

“But,” Emah said doubtfully, interested in the fable despite herself. “My companions and I defeated these demons. Yes, they seemed to wish to rise, but we could… we could cut them to pieces… scatter those pieces… keep them from reforming. How could they destroy Oakton?”

“Those were merely The First Three, Emah,” he said with a tone of gentle admonishment. “Then will come nine. Then twenty-seven. Each wave will be three times as large as the next, and each demon stronger by three than the ones before. So it will go until everything the supplicant holds dear is gone. And there the Raft will sit, waiting for another to come along to offer a bargain.”

Emah’s mouth went dry, but not from poison. If what Salo Jaena said was even remotely correct, they would all die. The army of monstrosities would carve into the ratfolk warrens and Oakton alike. Maly and Kami would be gone. Her father. Her mentor. Would anyone survive? She closed her eyes and sighed.

“Ah, I see you working it out,” he said sadly. “Truly, you stand between the death of everything you know and power. There is no middle ground with the Raft.”

“I’m not here for power,” Emah said, frowning.

“I see that. And yet, it is that or endless horror for you and all you know,” Sado’s voice sighed.

Perhaps she was not a scholar, first and foremost, Emah thought. In the same moment, she opened her eyes and thrust her sword forward, into the chest of the man.

It was a well-timed attack and her aim was true. The tip of the blade pierced his breast, exactly through the heart.

Except that the sword passed through Salo Jaena as if he were a ghost. She stumbled with the lack of resistance. He merely chuckled.

“It was worth a try,” he said, smiling wistfully. “I don’t begrudge you the attempt, truly. But I’m afraid there is no avoiding the choice, and there is no killing me. I’ve already said that there is no fighting in this place, only negotiating.”

Emah regained her balance and shouted at the man. “And who are you then? Are you also a demon?!”

He blinked, surprised. “Me? No, no, no. I was a painter!” he said with a wide smile. “Merely an overlooked, poor painter who wished for his work to be recognized. I wanted fame, Emah, which is why I sought out the Raft. Unlike you, I knew exactly what I was doing when I opened the box and spoke with the person in this throne.”

Emah scowled. “You… offered your hand. Your artist’s hand. For power,” she said slowly while he nodded encouragingly. Her cheeks burned with the embarrassment of her failed attack, and for the growing fear at the situation Salo was describing. She still refused to sheath her sword, though. There may yet be a way to fight her way free, she thought, though not with much conviction.

“I did, I did. My most precious possession, and the Raft delivered. I had great fame and wealth until my death, despite my missing hand. And I hid the box so no one else could find it. You see, I worried that if someone else made the bargain while I lived, that the gains it gave me would disappear. Instead,” he shook his head ruefully. “I trapped myself here for hundreds of years, waiting for someone to find my clever hiding place. Truth be told, I’m grateful that the Raft is being passed around now, in this Oakton of yours. Whether it’s you or someone else, I suppose my time on this chair is finally nearing its end.”

“You’re saying that if I make a successful offering… I take your place there?” Emah realized now that the throne looked like the Raft itself, reconfigured into a seat instead of a box. The jewels and gold were the same, however. It’s what she had recognized upon first seeing the throne.

The painter Salo smiled a pleasant, unassuming smile. “Not right away. Only upon your death would you take my place, and then… yes, you would sit here, having this same conversation with anyone else who opened the Raft and touched whatever you’d offered to it. You would provide them the same bargain: Death for them and all they hold dear, or the power to change their life.”

They were silent for a long while then. Salo was a patient audience, studying her face and grinning warmly. Emah glanced at him every now and then, yet she mostly fixed her eyes on the throne. Thoughts crowded and careened off one another, working over what she’d heard.

“And once you’re free?” Emah finally growled. “What then? You’re off to the Nine Hells?”

“Well,” he cleared his throat, gesturing wide. “That’s the unknowable question, isn’t it? If you know what happens to this shade of me, I would truly love to hear it. But alas, I suppose that neither of us are priests, Emah. I’ll find out when it happens.” Salo sighed, shook his head, and then sat straighter. “So! Enough of me. You’ve heard the terms. What do you offer, and what do you seek?”  

For a moment, she wondered what was happening within the basement while this conversation occurred. Was she standing transfixed, with Maly and Kami attempting to shake her out of it? Had she disappeared from the room? Or was all of this happening in the instant she touched Salo Jaina’s hand? Truly, in the last several days she had witnessed so many things she would have deemed impossible. An age of wonders had swept into Oakton.

“Emah?” he asked.

“I have a few more questions,” she said numbly, looking down at her mother’s sword, held firmly in one calloused hand.

In her heart, however, she already knew her offer.

Next: Emah’s choice