A sharp huff from Ryber, though Stix couldn’t gauge if the frustration was aimed at her or at the voices.

“Listen,” she began, “about what just happened. I should never have made that deal with Kahina. You were right, and now the prisoners…” Stix trailed off. Ryber wasn’t listening, and not because she was angry—though she had every right to be—but because she was absorbed in exploring the room. As if none of the chaos from the Ring had just happened. As if she didn’t have a charred shirt or several braids singed at the edges. This was a new realm, new knowledge, and she was a scholar to her core.

“I’ve heard of these places,” Ryber murmured, awe rounding her words. “The Six made them. Secret spots where the Exalted Ones wouldn’t find them … And oh.” She clapped her hands to her mouth. “Come look at this.”

Though Stix really didn’t want to stand—her breaths were sharp and fast, her heart the dominant sound within her ears—she straggled to Ryber’s side, to where a stone relief filled one wall. It looked identical to a relief in the capital of Lovats, in the under-city that had first triggered the wretched voices to rise.

“Lady Baile,” Ryber said. “Noden’s Right Hand. A saint in Nubrevna. A saint in Saldonica. The Paladin of Water.” She swiveled toward Stix. “You.”

Stix ran her fingers over the relief, exactly as she had only a month ago, when the voices had first started speaking and the memories had first started rising. This relief was in better condition than the one beneath Lovats. Water had not weathered this limestone, and no fungus called it home.

“Though we cannot always see,” Stix murmured, “the blessing in the loss, strength is the gift of our Lady Baile, and she will never abandon us.” Those were the words beneath every relief in Lovats, where Baile stood with a trout in one hand and wheat in the other. Her fox-shaped mask speckled with stars, and a moon passed over her.

They were not the words here. “Three rules has she,” Ryber read. “Our Lady of the Seas. No whistling when a storm’s in sight, six-fingered cats will ward off mice, and always, always stay the night for…”

She paused. For here the words were different than what was written elsewhere. “For Baile’s slaughtering,” she finished.

“Slaughtering,” Stix repeated. “Slaughter Ring.” She frowned at the relief, but Ryber had read it accurately. It said slaughtering instead of Slaughter Ring.” What does it mean?” She glanced at the tabby, who of course did not reply, and Ryber merely shrugged, a helpless movement. “Still no voices?”

“Of course not.” Although Stix wasn’t sure she needed them. She could sense, all on her own, that something critical was here—the missing shard to finally give her the full picture.