ABOVE THE DUNGEON stood a chapel. It reminded me of the Church of Elarm, though it was different in subtle ways. The main hall had two wings that stood off either side, in which great racks stood bearing hundreds of candles. Many of them were little more than stubs, but dozens glimmered, granting a living movement to the shadows that prowled the vaulted upper reaches of the chappel, where black wooden beams crossed in the dark. From these hung several simple wheel-like chandeliers, and more candles.

This chapel had no statue, but it did have an altar. A great white block stood near the head of the holy space, nearly glowing the dark. It swallowed my attention, even as the other wretches took to following the bearded man’s orders. They barred the doors, set to lighting the candles, and then to sorting through the goods heaped against one wall.

Of these, there were too many to count. An entire town’s worth of valuables dragged and piled together without any sense or pretense to order. And that’s exactly what it was.

“Cinderborn.” The bearded man was wearing gray robes now, trimmed with white vines at the neck and cuff. I stood near the stairs, where I had laid Param on a bench. She looked less pained now, but was yet unconscious. “I am Father Iainov. Thank you, for saving us.”

I nodded, not sure what else to say. I certainly hadn’t intended to save them. I had only sought to escape the dark warrens. Finding the captives in the dungeon was a strange sort of providence, if such a thing existed in these darksome bowels.

“Do you have a name?”

I glanced at him, and realized the question was directed at me. “A name?”

“Cinderborn,” Iainov said, inclining his head slightly. “That is not a name. Its a station.”

I thought about that. Harald was a Cinderborn. I had heard that there were other Cinderborn, too, yet I had not considered it about myself. A name?

I shifted Bloodfang on my shoulder. “Cinderborn serves me.”

Father Iainov nodded his head. “As you will. Come, Cinderborn. I would show you something.”

I gave Param a glance. She was as safe here as she would be anywhere else, I thought. The captives had helped me carry her up the stairs and lay her down. They were busy now, sorting out piles of things. Several had donned chainmail coats from the piles, and others had iron caps. Most were buckling on sword belts.

Father Iainov led me to the far wing of the chapel, and up a narrow set of stairs that were tucked artfully from view by a thick cornering pillar. They were so vertical that it felt like climbing a ladder, but before long, we emerged on a platform that ran along the edge of the ceiling. The roof beams, each nearly as thick as a mast, crossed in the dark here. I could see the thick ropes that supported the chandeliers further out. Below, people scurried about like mice.

“This is the Stone of the Vigiliant,” said Father Iainov. “We built it.”

“You built it?” I asked. He was climbing up a real ladder now. I studied it dubiously. I’d seen the quality of carpentry on that door below. It squeaked and popped under Iainov’s weight, but it didn’t collapse. One rung at a time, I followed him.

“With stones carried from the river shore, and trees from the forest. When you have lifetimes, such things are possible.”

“Why, thought?” I asked. Iainov’s pale, gaunt face appeared in the dark above me. “Why? To worship the gods. To lift the spirit and soul.”

“The gods can’t hear us, here. They have abandoned us. Cast us out.”

“One abandonment does not justify another.” Father Iainov held up a finger. “Once, this realm was a quiet place of resting, where souls fell like leaves from the great tree, and came to settle before rebirth. Before it became a lesser hell.”

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“When was that?” I asked.

“Long ago. Come. We are nearly there.” One ladder led to another. We were in a tall steeple now, and the walls were quickly closing in. At the head of the ladder was a small door, which exited onto a tiny balcony. Just enough room for two people to stand.

I gripped the rickety iron railing that girdled the platform. Father Iainov stood beside me, one hand on the ragged-looking shingling of the steeple.

From this height, I could see much further than before. Indeed, I hadn’t had such a good view of the great cavern at all. Even the ruined hill where I had met Param had not stood so high, and that was leagues away across the black sands.

Below us stood a town of winding streets and little buildings. Houses, workshops. It was an unexpected sight, in a place I had come to think of as nothing more than a twisted torturer’s engine. Yet, the signs of life, or something like it, were all around below me. Further out stood a sea of dark trees.

Looking at them, I was filled not with the unexpected comfort of the town below, but a dread. A coldness, a seeping hostility.

“What is that?” I asked, pointing. The forest rose up in staggered tiers, climbing rugged ridges. I could not see beyond it. Even Ulstassi, the white city on the far wall of the cavern, was gone.

“That,” said Father Iainov, “is the Forest of the Children. That is why we built the Stone. It is why my people stay here.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“The Forest is home to souls damned to wander. It was not always so. But this place has become infected. It has fallen under the sway of a great and bitter evil, whose poison seeps into the very stone itself.”

“The Old Liar?”

“Or one of his lieutenants,” Father Iainov said. “The Cinderborn were once hunters of such creatures. But your kind are gone now. And what few remain are…” He shook his head, perhaps unwilling to anger me.

“I did not know anyone was in the dungeon,” I said. The truth felt right. “I didn’t even know there was a dungeon.”

“No,” he said. “But you did not abandon us. And you were carrying the woman. You defended her, even when they came to kill you.” I looked at my feet. He put a hand on my shoulder. Such a simple gesture almost broke my heart, I do not fear to admit. It was warm. Companionable.

“Can you heal her?” I asked, sorting through my own complicated thoughts. “Param, I mean. The woman.”

The priest drew his hand back. “Perhaps. And you should rest as well, Cinderborn. I see the great weight of exhaustion upon you. But I wanted you to see the forest and the village. To know what your bravery bought today.”

I looked out again at the trees. I could feel them looking back at me. I could feel the hate. “It’s awful,” I said. “Why not leave?”

“Because we hope. We raised the Stone to serve as a beacon to the lost. We enjoy a semblance of life they might recognize, coaxing them from their fugue. And we pray to the gods for them, to restore some of what they were.”

“Children,” I said. “That’s what’s lost in the forest.”

“Just so.” He inclined his head poorly. “I believe the Forest is where children who go missing in the woods vanish to.”

I took that in, working it over. “Why?” It felt like a stupid question, but Iainov did not mock me.

“Who knows the cold logic of Hell? To appease some demon’s sickness? Or something else? Perhaps a link between worlds was severed, and it bleeds here. I do not know. But they wander, weeping. The Stone of the Vigiliant stands to draw them in. To give them a new home to replace the one they lost. That is our service, until we are called back to the world.”

I looked again at the forest. Forced myself to really look. And beneath the anger, I felt something else. Fear. Sadness. Longing. I had to look away again, lest it well up all at once.

“Called back?”I said, panting. “No one escapes Hell.”

“Nothing is forever,” said the priest. “The tree grows and withers. The gods rise and fall. Men live and die. Even the stars must fade in their own time. This is what the people of Ulanna taught. The unalloyed truth whispered by the White One.”

That made little sense to me. But it was reassuring. The gods might rise and fall. My knuckles creaked and popped as I remembered the blood shore where I’d died. And the final, parting curse: Ranna always claims her reward. Well, I would claim mine, in time. When you have lifetimes, as Father Iainov had said, such things are possible.

“You give me hope, hunter of wolves,” Father Iainov said, squeezing my shoulder one last time. “Let us see to your friend. And then, I think, we should question the captive.”