In a cave under a mountain, a doctor pressed his back against a corner of his cell and stared into nothing. He had scratches all down his back from the rocks of the cavern floors. His fingertips still throbbed from when he''d tried to claw his way back out, and the iodine stung like the very devil.


    "Better than Crossing the Balkan Mountain in January," he told himself.


    At least there was no snow. No mud or bombs. Nobody was shooting at him. Just silence and cool, absolute darkness. Andrei might as well close his eyes as open them.


    What good was light to him now? No need to plan or run. Andrei had been well and truly caught. Just not by the right people.


    Was a hissing collection of trogladytic cultists better than a court martial? Was it better to be sacrificed to some pagan god or cleanly executed?


    The devil you know, Doctor, or the devil you don''t?


    Andrei had been given a basin of hot water, a cloth, a bowl of bread and milk, and a bundle of clothes. Doing the appropriate things with the first two had used up maybe a half an hour. Now the rest of the night stretched before him. The rest of his life, however short that might be.


    He reached for the clothing. Groping in the dark, Andrei first found the undershirt and drawers, which seemed to be cotton as modish as any found in Paris. Under them, however, lay a voluminous, ankle-length robe, and a broad woolen sash to hold it tight, like the vestments of a monk or a dervish. The robe was lined with felted wool, but its outer covering was some coarse, papery fabric that rustled loudly with even the slightest movement. Andrei understood why when his fingers found the slippers. Their soles had been pierced by an arc of metal tacks. Wearing these clothes, Andrei would click with every step and rustle with every gesture.


    That was all. There didn''t seem to be any fox-fur cap included in Andrei''s kit. Maybe you only got one once you''d sacrificed somebody to Hades.


    What would these people do to him? Why do any of this to a runaway physician? Why march Andrei across a continent, kill his patients as quickly as he fixed them, chase him up a mountain, and imprison him in the darkness? What next?


    Andrei sank to the chilly floor, pulling his knees closer to his chest, and stared at his hands.


    He frowned. Rotated his wrists. Wiggled his fingers. Was his skin glowing?


    In green and purple blotches. That can''t be healthy.


    Andrei closed his eyes. No difference. The bruise-colored outlines continued to wave against the blackness.


    He opened his eyes again, again to no discernible effect, and traced up the green and purple outlines of his arms and shoulders. His waving hands stood out much more clearly than his unmoving torso. When he breathed, though, there was his chest, clear in his non-sight. When Andrei stretched his legs and wiggled his toes, he could see them right through his slippers. The corner of the cell''s bed, however, failed to reveal itself until Andrei''s kicking leg whacked it.


    Ow! So. No preternatural senses, then. Andrei was only hallucinating.


    A man could always feel where his own body was, and he could remember the general positions of the few items in this room. Starved for real light, Andrei''s brain helpfully confabulated vision for him. Why should that lie make him feel better?


    How many times have you told a doomed patient that he would recover?


    Andrei hissed out a breath through his teeth, and the walls of his cell seemed to brighten.


    Lies and hope. What was the difference? When these cave-Thracians told him that if he passed their tests, they wouldn''t kill him. What did that even mean? Would they only torture him to insanity? Crown him emperor? Put him to work polishing the idols and sorting the snakes? Or whatever work it was that cultists needed done.


    And what work do you need to do, Doctor?


    Andrei blinked, and green and violet wheeled. He''d said he''d take these people. He''d entered their house, certainly, and there was sickness here for him to cure.


    He pulled his knees back up to his chin. There was no point in thinking about medical ethics. What Andrei needed was to work out a way to convince them to let pass their "test" and live. Did they need a doctor in this mountain? Or did they already have one?


    Ask instead if they need a god.


    "Shut up." The walls of the cell rang with his voice. They seemed very close.


    Andrei stood with the convulsion of an insomniac and groped along the wall until he came to the bed he''d kicked. Now, along the bed to explore the opposite wall.


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    He had made three dozen laps around the cell when something clicked in the darkness. Wood scraped against stone and the breeze on Andrei''s face shifted. Someone had opened the door. He turned to face it, breathing hard, trying to remember what he''d planned to say to his captors.


    "What do you mean to do with me?"


    "I would have that this was already clear." The voice seemed to come from a long way up, as if a goblin clung to the ceiling. It spoke in Russian.


    "Oh," Andrei said. "Nikolai Igorevich. Look, I don''t suppose you''ll drop this idea of ritually sacrificing me and just join me in my escape? Two sons of Russia together, eh? Making a break for freedom?"


    An aggravated pause, followed by "No." The very darkness seemed to scowl.


    Andrei essayed another try. "Is this how you treat a guest? So as to make him want to run away? I''m a doctor who could be useful to you, not a sacrificial victim."


    "We are all victims in the end, Andrei Trifonovich. And in the end, use can be found for all of us, as well." Nikolai chuckled, pleased at his own insight.


    Andrei nodded. So much for the hope that he''d been wrong in his first estimation of Nikolai''s character. High priest of Pluto or not, the man fit a mold. He reminded Andrei of his youngest brother.


    The family''s plan was for the boy to study agriculture, but somehow he''d fallen in with the Narodniks. After Andrei''s intervention and certain other disasters, his brother had left both his friends and his university to become a monk.


    At the time, Andrei had breathed a sigh of relief. His youngest brother had a tendency to follow, to find people to worship. Now, Andrei wondered what might happen if ever his brother was so unfortunate as to be elected abbot.


    "How about breakfast, then?" he asked. "Fatten me up before you pop me into the oven?"


    Note thisDoctor: he thinks you worth frightening


    "You have come to us as a gift, Andrei Trifonovich, but it is left to us to determine the nature of that gift. We must hone your shape. Cut away the worldly clay so that the divine metal may ring true. Only then can we hear your resonances."


    "Comforting," said Andrei.


    "I see." Andrei squinted into the pitch-blackness. "I understand, in any case."


    You''re in for a surprise, priest.


    Ah, thought Andrei, a lie.


    you, Andrei Trifonovich, do the same for—"


    Un-descent, right? So, I''ll have to, what, let Persephone go?"