“It reads: ‘The slave, born of the infinite Nightwalkers, will set free the power within. The one that harnesses Adoma’s Amulet will have such power as to make a god weep.’ ”

“Oh my,” Baldie breathed, clearly finally understanding the scope of what his friend held. “Oh!” he said with sudden animation. “That’s what the Gargoyle is for!” He glanced over at their prisoner.

“Yes! And he’s not just any enslaved Gargoyle, he’s Kamen’s Gargoyle. Kamen’s creation. I thought if any slave would be powerful enough to unlock the power within this Amulet, it would be one of either Kamen’s or Odjit’s slaves. And since Odjit has no living Gargoyles that I know of at present, this one will have to do.”

“So what do we do next?” Baldie wanted to know, rubbing his hands together eagerly.

“We don’t do anything. I am going to try to get this Gargoyle to unlock the power in the Amulet.”

“And just how are you going to do that?” Baldie sneered, clearly not liking being cut out of the potential rewards, even if he had done nothing to deserve them. Just as his friend had done nothing to deserve them outside of being a thief. “If you get too close to it, it’ll rip your head off. It’s not as though it’s going to want to do you any favors.”

“I know,” Panahasi said with a frown as they both looked over at him. He gave them a dutifully vicious smile for their efforts.

“Well, you better think of something soon. You only have a few days before he’s no longer any good.”

“I know,” Panahasi growled sharply. “Don’t worry, I will think of something. Kamenwati isn’t the only priest with power, you know. I did manage to ambush the Gargoyle and catch him, didn’t I?” Panahasi said, puffing himself up. But it rang very hollow to both Panahasi’s friend and his captive. Probably even to Panahasi himself.

“Never mind.” Panahasi said when his companion still looked dubious. He dropped the Amulet into the box along with the book he’d read from and shoved both onto the table. The action made the lid of the box shut sharply. “I’ll deal with it later. I merely wanted to know if you were interested in being a part of it. But if all you are going to do is judge …”

“No! I won’t judge,” Baldie said eagerly. He held up a hand, palm flattened out solemnly. “I swear.”

“Good,” Panahasi said, seeming to be mollified by his friend’s newfound respect for him. Or what passed for respect. It was more likely he would try to find a way to snatch the Amulet for himself at the first opportunity. That was just how grasping and disloyal these Templars were.

There was a noise at the door and Ahnvil’s keeper came bumbling through in a cacophony of objects and clumsiness. She was not his captor. Merely his warden. She moved forward, approaching him cautiously as she always did, her fear obvious on her face. She was wise to feel trepidation. He had not made things easy on her. She had never actually harmed him, but neither had she aided him in any way except to feed him and tidy his cage. He stood up, his fists clenching, his entire attitude making his body seem bigger than his already massive stature.

“Is it daylight?” he asked, the passing of time so awkward and slow for him in here, shut away from the whims of the sun.

“No. It is turned night,” she answered amicably. She was a mousy little thing, in face and form and most certainly in attitude. She was shy and unsure, especially when she approached his cage.

She was incredibly petite. So small and so thin he could break her with a single swipe of his hand. She moved to the lever on the wall across from him and his entire body went tense, instinctively straining against the action to come. She pulled the lever and immediately, with a grinding groan of machinery, the ends of his chains began to disappear into the wall. They shortened and began to drag his powerful, straining body back toward the solid stone of the rear wall of his prison. He glared at her scathingly, and she turned and hid her face under the length of her hair.

He growled as he stepped back voluntarily, knowing that it was inevitable anyway but it was at least an act of freedom, of choice, however small or disillusioned it might be.

“What is my slop for the day, jailor?” he asked. She seemed to flinch under the reference of her being his jailor. Even though they both knew there was little truth to the matter. She was not the one who had put him here and she was not the one who held him captive still.

She moved back to the doorway to fetch the tray she had been carrying when she’d entered the room, then, with a sense of unease he could feel all the way across the room, she came toward him, her steps small and tight. She was so afraid of him things on the tray rattled softly because her hands, possibly her whole body, was trembling. As she approached the steel-barred door of his room, she hesitated. She had good cause to fear him. Even lashed down as he was he was, still a force to be reckoned with. And no doubt she could feel his hatred toward her as it rolled off him. She’d have to be dense not to be intimidated.

“Mendato dirivitus day-o septoma,” she said at last, unlocking the heavy door and its lock with the spoken spell. She was not afraid of him hearing it, because his kind could not cast magic. Magic had forged his kind into life. And magic, it was said, could not beget magic.

She turned and butted the door open using the hook of her ankle to control it. She entered more quickly now. He could only assume it was because she wanted to get the whole thing over with and the less time she spent in the cage with him the better off she’d be.

She had no idea, he thought with menace. If he could get his hands on her, he’d snap her rotten Templar neck in an instant. She and her kind had taken the one thing, the one thing that he treasured above all other things, and they would pay for it.

They had taken his freedom.

It was driving him insane, being locked away like this. Though it was a very different type of captivity than the one he’d been forged into, this was far worse. Probably because this time it had been his foolishness, once again, that had gotten him in this kind of trouble.

He’d been tracking down another piece of Templar scum, had followed him into a bar, only to make the mistake of being distracted by a pretty girl, a decoy, who had talked to him cheerfully as the Templar bastard had come up behind him and … Well, he didn’t exactly remember what had happened next, but his head sure hurt and he’d obviously lost consciousness.