XXIIIThey took him from his cell in the morning. Finn had passed the night huddled in the corner of the small stone room, its walls running with rivulets of water that fanned out into triangles of green slime. The only light came from a high, barred aperture in the ceiling that he would never be able to reach and would never be able to squeeze through even if he could. He lay there alone, curled up on his side, eyes open. He shivered, from the cold, from fear. He felt hollowed out. His cell reeked of the naphtha soaked into his clothes. His head swam from the fumes, but he had no strength to move.
Now, another of the silver ironclads stood in the doorway, impossibly tall, beautiful to look at. “Stand up. The Inner Wheel awaits.”
“Are you an ironclad?” Finn asked, his voice a croak.
“A s
