The cylinders were nearly as tall as Csorwe herself, and when she reached out to touch them they turned on their spindles as though the mechanism had been lately oiled. The clay was rough and cold, snatching warmth from her fingertips.
“Imagine how it must have been,” said Sethennai. There was a note of longing in his voice, which faded as he went on. “But I don’t know what she’s playing at. I’ve been here already. I combed this place years ago for record of Pentravesse, and I’m certain I didn’t miss anything.”
“Have you never been wrong, Belthandros?” said a voice from a balcony high above.
Csorwe had hoped she would have time to compose herself before this encounter. She hadn’t imagined Oranna would take them by surprise.
The librarian leant on the balustrade, looking down at them. She was wearing the yellow habit of the House of Silence, with the hood down and the sleeves rolled up to the elbow.
She looked exactly as Csorwe remembered her, except that now Csorwe had seen enough people to know how to place her. She had soft features and a rounded figure, and in repose she would have had a floating, unearthly prettiness, like a swan seen from a distance. Up close, when you could see her eyes and the sardonic twist of her mouth, you remembered that a swan could break your arm.
Sethennai, of course, betrayed no sign of shock. He laughed. “I don’t admit to my mistakes any more than you do. Shall we come up to you, or will you come down to us?”
“I’m occupied,” she said. “Come up, if you must.”
“I should have remembered how you feel about sinking to my level,” he said, steering Csorwe toward another walkway that sloped up to the next floor.
Up in the gallery, Oranna had set out her books and papers on a canvas sheet under one of the shelves. To judge from the volume of notes and sketches, she must have been here for some time.
Oranna looked Csorwe up and down. Csorwe was newly grateful for her clothes and her sword and even her embarrassing Blue Boars haircut. There was not even a trace of recognition on Oranna’s face.
“My assistant,” said Sethennai, as if that resolved the matter. “I’m surprised the Prioress let you go,” he went on, leaning against the balustrade. Oranna made no answer. She had returned to the nearest cylinder, and seemed to be reading it by tracing her index finger over the characters. “Unless you’re here without leave,” he added. “A devotress of the Unspoken in the stronghold of its ancient enemy.”
“Sangrai will forgive me when I bring back the Reliquary,” said Oranna without looking up. “And this world is no longer anybody’s stronghold.” She pursed her lips between her tusks and turned the cylinder back as if she’d missed something.
“Risking the wrath of the Unspoken for a myth?” said Sethennai. He knelt over the canvas to inspect her drawings.
“You know as well as I do that it’s real,” she said. “Intact and extant, if you remember.”
“Well, it’s not here,” said Sethennai.
“Because you couldn’t find it?” said Oranna. She was still looking at the cylinder, but Csorwe could tell she had stopped turning it. “I see.”
“You wouldn’t have written to me if you weren’t interested in what I had to say about it,” he said.
Csorwe was suspended between relief that Oranna didn’t really seem to have noticed she was there, and embarrassment that she had to witness whatever was going on here. She had never heard Sethennai talk to anyone like this, or anyone dare to respond in kind.
After a long pause Oranna spoke again. “Why shouldn’t it be here? Iriskavaal was Pentravesse’s patron, was she not? It’s known that he visited Echentyr before its destruction. Some of my sources suggest the Reliquary was created here.”
“Even so,” said Sethennai. “The Reliquary has been stolen and moved and hidden a dozen times in a dozen worlds since its creation.”
“So we’ve heard,” said Oranna. “But what if we were wrong? I’m not too proud to admit it’s possible.”
“That’s absurd. It couldn’t have survived the cataclysm.”
“I don’t see why not,” said Oranna. “It would have been within Iriskavaal’s power to spare it.”
“It was within her power to spare the Echentyri, too,” said Sethennai.
“The Echentyri defied her,” said Oranna. “Pentravesse was loyal to his death. In any case, hear me out. The account of the first appropriation of the Reliquary is over twelve centuries old, and it has always been taken for truth. But I have a new, contemporaneous source which suggests it was an invention.”
“Do you really?” said Sethennai. Behind a thin veil of irony, Csorwe could tell he was interested. His ears twitched like a cat’s.
“In The Record of Isjesse,” she said.
Sethennai frowned. “Isjesse is incomplete. I’ve read the fragments and there’s nothing about—”
“You’ve read some of the fragments,” she said. From the pocket of her habit she withdrew a slim leather case, opened the catch, and held it out to Sethennai, although she wouldn’t actually hand it over to him.
“Oranna…,” he said.
Csorwe had been keeping her distance, reckoning that she probably wasn’t needed here, but she heard the warning note in Sethennai’s voice. His frown deepened, and his ears were drawn up tight against his skull.
Inside the case was a rag of wrinkled papyrus, about the size of Csorwe’s palm, covered in minute, pale handwriting.
“I’ve seen this,” he said. “I never translated it, but someone tried to sell it to me, years ago. It’s a trick.”
The caution in his voice made the hairs on the back of Csorwe’s neck prickle. She couldn’t understand how, but they were in danger. She slipped away from them, glancing down toward the concourse below. How many other entrances were there? They were connected to the higher galleries by other walkways and bridges, but the only access to their gallery from below was the way they had come.
“More fool you,” said Oranna. “I have translated it. And I have consulted with the Unspoken. It is genuine.”
“I don’t doubt it’s genuine,” said Sethennai. “But it’s a trick. It’s from Olthaaros Charossa’s personal library in Tlaanthothe. I could never work out why he released it. But it’s clear now that he intended to lure me here.”
Oranna’s eyes narrowed momentarily with anger. “Of course it’s about you,” she said.
“Yes,” said Sethennai. “And I can see that’s very irritating for you. Believe me, I’m extremely irritated with myself for paying any attention to your letter in the first place. But there isn’t anything we can do about it now. Olthaaros must have a watch on the Gate. We are not safe here. We may have very little time to prepare ourselves.”
Csorwe couldn’t see any sign of intruders on the other galleries. They hadn’t seen any other footsteps, or heard voices as they entered, but then they hadn’t imagined they would be followed.
She peered over the balustrade. There, at the main entrance of the Royal Library, a cloud of dust was forming, like the mist at the foot of a waterfall.
“Sir,” she said. “Look!”
“Ah. Very little time at all,” said Sethennai. “Olthaaros is here. Or one of his henchmen.”
“May the Unspoken eat your heart while you still live, Belthandros,” said Oranna, sweeping her books and papers into a bag. “Who is Olthaaros?”
“An old friend of mine,” said Sethennai.
“Well,” she said, hoisting the bag onto her shoulders. “Since you’ve thoroughly ruined my work here, I think I’ll leave the two of you to your reunion.”
“I take it you no longer want to collaborate,” said Sethennai.
Oranna laughed, bitterly. “You don’t know the meaning of the word,” she said, and stalked away. Despite everything, Csorwe felt a small measure of relief to see that Oranna was leaving. Whatever her claim on Sethennai had or hadn’t been, it was over.
Oranna leapt with surprising nimbleness onto a higher walkway, and from ther
e to one of the arc-bridges, which crossed the concourse from above. There must be a way out higher up. So it wasn’t too late to escape if they had to.
“Should we go after her?” said Csorwe, as Oranna’s footsteps died away and the hem of her yellow robe vanished in the upper stories. She didn’t say Should we run? because she knew Sethennai would not.
“No,” said Sethennai. “I want to see this. I want to see who this is, and what they have to say.” It wasn’t often that he was so direct about his intentions. He was already pulling on his gauntlets.
Below, in the concourse, the dust cloud rolled toward them, swelling outward and upward. They began to hear the noise of it, a sandpapery hiss. The dust roiled like a mass of leeches around some central moving point, a dark speck at the heart of the storm.
“Csorwe, get down,” he muttered, stretching and clawing his hands.
She crouched obediently, peeping between the balusters. Sethennai knelt beside her.
The dust subsided. At its heart was a man in a black wide-brimmed hat. He walked out to the centre of the concourse, and stopped. He looked around. Csorwe imagined him sniffing the air.
Underneath his hat, he wore a metal visor, and he was dressed all in black, black petals of hide and tarred metal from neck to ankle. They flapped and clinked as he walked.
Csorwe kept low, watching hungrily, as though by seeing she could keep the situation under control. The truth was that she had no idea what might happen. Olthaaros was the only person Sethennai ever admitted had beaten him. She clung to the balustrade, digging her nails into the stone.
“I can help,” she said, pushing away her fear. It was no use to her now. She couldn’t be afraid. “I have my sword.” Never mind that she had only ever used it for practice.
“I know,” said Sethennai. “But you must run, if it comes to it.”
“It won’t come to it,” she said, staring up at him. Knowing that something might happen to him was one thing. Hearing him admit it was another.
“Olthaaros is not a merciful man—”
“I don’t care,” she said. “I won’t run. You know I won’t.”
“Belthandros!” called the man in black, before Sethennai could answer. He was looking up at the gallery. He knew exactly where they were.
Under his breath, Sethennai gave a soft bark of laughter, and seemed to relax.
“Couldn’t even be bothered to turn up yourself,” he muttered. Then he stood up and leant his folded arms on the balustrade.
“Akaro,” he called. “How nice to see you. Are you taking my side at last?”
“Taking your side?” said Akaro. He sounded younger than Sethennai. Perhaps much younger. He scanned the pattern of galleries and seemed to spot the walkway. “Come down and face me.”
“How tiresome,” said Sethennai, loudly, before turning back to Csorwe. “I can handle this one. He’s an idealist. Stay here. He won’t hurt you.”
Sethennai unfolded himself languidly and went down to meet him.
“I suppose Olthaaros has sent you,” said Sethennai, standing at the bottom of the walkway.
Akaro looked away. “Olthaaros is the Chancellor of Tlaanthothe, the leader of my city, my mentor, and my friend. Yes. He sent me to find you.”
“Olthaaros was my friend,” said Sethennai. “My friend, my student, and my colleague. Just like you. He wanted Tlaanthothe, so he betrayed me and sent me into exile. And now he has sent you to murder me. That seems a little vindictive, don’t you think? I am doing my best to live a quiet life. Olthaaros already has what he wants.”
“He knows you’re still looking for the Reliquary,” said Akaro, miserably. “Sethennai, he only let you live because you said you’d given it up.”
“If he believed that then he’s much stupider than I thought he was.”
“It’s dangerous,” said Akaro. “Look where it’s led you. Look what Iriskavaal did to her own people! Echentyr is dust, and Ormary is gone. That knowledge is better lost. She was a monster, and Pentravesse was nothing but her puppet.”
Sethennai laughed. “Wise words from Olthaaros’ most devoted mannequin.”
“Don’t do this. Come with me,” said Akaro. “If I tell him you came quietly, and—”
Sethennai laughed again, and Akaro looked more miserable still. “You do know that Olthaaros sent you because he knew it would hurt you?” said Sethennai. “He could have sent any one of his attack dogs. He could have tried sending Psamag, and wouldn’t that have been entertaining. But he knows you were loyal to me. He’s testing you. He wants to know just how low you’ll sink for him.”
Akaro’s shoulders slumped, but Csorwe wasn’t fooled. He was already falling into a fighting stance. He had no weapon she could see, but a wizard didn’t need one. She prayed Sethennai had spotted what he was doing.
“You must know how deeply I regret this,” said Akaro.
“No more deeply than I regret your stubbornness,” said Sethennai. “It’s a shame. I thought you were cleverer than the rest of Olthaaros’ circle.”
“I hope I can prove equal to any in courage, at least,” said Akaro thickly, as if on the verge of tears, and he took a step toward Sethennai, and raised his hands. A wave of force threw Sethennai back, but he caught himself in time and landed on his feet, hitting the ground with a twist that threw a wall of dust up in Akaro’s face.
This was nothing like the fights Csorwe had witnessed in Grey Hook. It was the kind of thing she had once imagined: two wizards from the ancient world, meeting in a ruin to fight out their grudges. It should have been a wonderful thing to see. But she found herself frozen in place, with the sweat running down the back of her neck.
They fought in silence, with the occasional hiss or grunt of impact, driving invisible waves and blades of force at one another. They moved like duellists without blades, lunging and parrying, but without once touching each other. Black petals and green brocade flashed as they dodged and struck. From the way they mirrored one another it could be a dance, except that the force of each impact rattled the cylinders on their spindles, yards away.
At first the two seemed evenly matched, but she knew Sethennai hadn’t been expecting this and hadn’t had time to prepare himself for the fight. He seemed to be slowing. She remembered everything Sethennai had ever told her about how magic weakened the body and wearied the mind. She didn’t know how long he could last.
If something happened to him—no. She forced herself to confront it. If he died here, there would be nothing for her, even if Akaro spared her life. She would be nobody—worse than nobody—someone who had betrayed her god and failed her master. Who would have her? What would she do?
Unspoken One, she thought. Give him strength. Let him live, I beg you. She was no mage, but she could still pray. She pushed aside her guilt for calling to the god she had abandoned. For Sethennai, it was worth it.
Sethennai struck as though throwing a punch at Akaro, striking sparks where his feet touched the ground. Akaro parried, and lunged back, and just for a second seemed to throw Sethennai off-balance.
And everything became very clear in Csorwe’s mind. There was nothing in the world that mattered but this. She didn’t need the Unspoken One. She had her own sword, and Akaro didn’t know she was there.
Sethennai had told her to stay where she was, and that Akaro wouldn’t hurt her. But Csorwe didn’t deserve to live if she abandoned him now. This was what it came down to. If Sethennai died here she would avenge him or die with him. This was what she had been shaped for. This was the point of her existence.
She drew her sword, rose silently, and crept down the walkway, staying out of sight.
She saw what happened next as slowly and clearly as if it was a story someone was reading to her. Sethennai drew back, clearly mustering power for an all-out attack. Akaro feinted toward him, gliding past at an angle, and Sethennai fell for it. He struck too soon, and Akaro jabbed him in the chest, summoning a shock wave that shook the galleries and brought another hail of d
ust from the ceiling.
Sethennai’s foot slipped on a loose stone and he tripped. Akaro did not miss his opportunity. He kicked Sethennai’s feet from under him, bringing him to his knees.
“Surrender,” said Akaro, breathing hard. “Home—I will tell them at home—I will tell them you cooperated.”
Sethennai gazed up at him, and said nothing. Csorwe crept forward. Her heart raced. Every grain of dust seemed to thunder beneath her feet. The hilt of the sword was warm to the touch. She braced it in both hands.
“Sethennai!” she called, and as she did so she struck, plunging the sword into Akaro’s back, at the place where one petal of armour met another. There was a terrible noise. Akaro gave a broken cry and fell, his limbs shaking and twitching in the dust. Csorwe pulled out her sword and stabbed him again, pinning him down until he stopped wriggling.
He was dead. It was strange that it had been easy. As easy as her exercises. She pulled out the sword and wiped the blade clean. Tlaanthothei had bright red blood, but she noticed distantly that where Akaro’s was pooling on the floor of the library it looked as dull and dark as her own.
Sethennai rose to his feet, straining for breath. He looked at Csorwe and laughed with delight.
“Brilliant child!” he said. “My god. Excellent Csorwe. It’s a shame, of course. What a shame. Akaro was never so stupid when he was my pupil.”
Csorwe didn’t say anything. She wasn’t sure what she should say. Normally she would have wrapped Sethennai’s praise around herself like a fur-lined cloak, but she barely heard what he said. She was vaguely surprised that he was laughing, but perhaps he was glad to be alive.
She had grown up among the dead but she had never killed anyone before. It was hard to make sense of it, to see that this man who had been fighting and talking only a minute before was now nothing more than the skeletal priestesses under the House of Silence. Less, in fact, because he would not rise again.
The Unspoken Name Page 7