The Unspoken Name

by A. K. Larkwood

  With a burst of effort she managed to slip out of the trap, and disarmed him with a lucky side step. His sword clattered on the tiles and she kicked it off into the distance. She forced him back, grabbed his head in her left hand, and cracked it against the pillar like an egg against the edge of a bowl. He went down. She didn’t have time to see whether he was dead.

  Qanwa was going to do something to Shuthmili. She was only a few feet away from the barrier.

  “Oh, no—!” said Shuthmili. She didn’t seem to be talking to Qanwa. Csorwe snapped round to see Tal, dodging past her. As she’d fought with the Warden he must have looped around the throne room and come up behind them. Of course. He didn’t care about Shuthmili—he barely knew who she was. He only wanted the Reliquary. And now the only thing between him and Oranna was the barrier.

  “I told you, Csorwe,” he said, turning back with a skull-like expression of triumph. “Whatever you do, you know I’ll beat you.”

  “Stop!” said Shuthmili, still stuck to the pillar, but he didn’t even hear her.

  Tal threw himself at the barrier. He passed through as easily as if it were a film of soap, and the final curse-ward detonated with an eruption of red smoke. There was a flash and a noise like cannon fire. Csorwe leapt back automatically, tasting blood at the back of her throat, as the light obliterated her vision.

  When everything stopped flickering, Inquisitor Qanwa had been flung back several yards and lay prostrate. Tal was flat on his back on the floor, shaking. There was blood running from his nose, tracing a contorted path up over his cheek.

  As often as Csorwe had wished Tal would get what was coming to him, she found that this was not enjoyable in the slightest.

  Shuthmili drew slowly back from the pillar and brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. It left a smear of ash across her face.

  “Csorwe—” she said. Her voice was terrifyingly shaky and uncertain, and she was swaying slightly. She must have been touching the curse-ward when it went off. Csorwe ran to her, wrapping an arm round her waist to hold her up. On the ground, Tal sighed and went still.

  “Csorwe, be careful—” said Shuthmili. “Be careful—she’s waking up—”

  “Oranna?”

  “The Lady…”

  19

  The Chrysoprase Door

  THE LIGHT IN THE hall of Iriskavaal is the colour of a dying ember. A petitioner kneels before the altar, crouched over the chalice, shielding it. Her bones ache. Her veins are empty, draining slowly into the cup. Her life burns low. Even now she does not look away.

  Please, Lady, all I ask is this. I have offered you everything I have. The blood of my servant. My body, my blood, my breath …

  She is weeping. A teardrop runs down her cheek, holding in its facets the red light of the dead sun and the green glow of the chrysoprase door. It falls into a chalice that already brims over with her blood. The surface ripples.

  All I ask is this. Where is the throne? Where is the earthly mansion, if not here?

  The Lady of the Thousand Eyes answers.

  * * *

  Over Shuthmili’s shoulder, Csorwe saw the green stone slab begin to light up. At first, nothing but points of light, smaller than candle flames. The points clustered and spread until the whole stone was glowing, glowing and moving, with a liquid fire like—

  —like a Gate.

  Oranna rose up from where she was standing like something returning from the grave: bent and boneless, remembering in slow sequence how to operate the pulleys and counterweights of her sinews. Her head was bowed, and her arms hung loose at her sides.

  Gradually, as though the strings that bound her were tightening, she straightened up.

  “I … I see you’re all here,” she said, to nobody in particular. She picked up the Reliquary, tucking it into a pocket. Csorwe let go of Shuthmili’s waist, moving unconsciously toward her. “This is quite a reception. But I’m afraid … I’m afraid … it seems I have to go.” She turned her back on them and stumbled toward the new Gate.

  Csorwe broke into a run. There was the Reliquary, there for the taking. She was so close. “Shuthmili, come on!”

  No reply. She turned back. Like a wave rising from the sea, Qanwa Zhiyouri had come up out of the shadows. She had Shuthmili. The Inquisitor had one hand clamped over her mouth, and the other held a knife to her throat. Her face was rigid with anger.

  “Let her go,” said Csorwe. Shuthmili drummed her heels against her aunt’s legs, trying to shout despite the hand clamped over her mouth.

  “You are under arrest,” said Qanwa. Her eyes were bloodshot, and a dark stripe of blood trickled from her nose to her chin.

  “Let her go!” said Csorwe.

  “Sheathe your sword now and things will be much the better for you,” said Qanwa.

  Seeing the knife so close to Shuthmili’s throat, Csorwe obeyed, but Shuthmili was still wriggling for all she was worth. Csorwe took a step toward the Inquisitor. Qanwa was just one woman.

  “No, I think not,” said Qanwa.

  She removed her hand from Shuthmili’s mouth long enough to pull out a pair of silver bracelets, and snapped the first one-handed round Shuthmili’s wrist.

  “No!” said Shuthmili, trying to bite her. “I don’t—”

  Painstakingly, but without gentleness, Qanwa slid the other bracelet onto Shuthmili’s other wrist. At once Shuthmili went still and rigid, slipping down in Qanwa’s arms as if the Inquisitor had caught her fainting.

  “Let her go,” said Csorwe. She couldn’t think. There wasn’t time to argue. Oranna was bent over and staggering, but she had already reached the steps to the Gate. “I know what you want to do to her!”

  “You ignorant girl,” said Qanwa. “Was this intended as an errand of mercy? In that case you have done Shuthmili the worst possible favour.”

  “I know what the tether is. I thought she was your family!”

  “If you have corrupted her she will face far worse than the tether,” said Qanwa, then broke off, movement catching her eye.

  Csorwe followed her gaze and saw Oranna, struggling up to the Gate, every step painfully halting. She was taking the Reliquary away with her. If there had been more time—if she had been more careful …

  Shuthmili’s eyes were still open, fixed on Csorwe but impassive and expressionless as the mask of a Quincury Adept.

  If the Qarsazhi thought Shuthmili had broken faith with them they would kill her. Do you know how my people execute rogue mages?

  Oranna stood before the Gate. She was about to pass out of Csorwe’s reach, again, perhaps forever, taking the Reliquary with her.

  She could let Oranna go. She could kill the Inquisitor and take Shuthmili and run.

  And how long would they have? she wondered. How long would it take Oranna to open the Reliquary? How long before the Unspoken One came up from its Shrine? There would be nobody to save her, or Shuthmili, when it did.

  She had made this mistake before. There would never be another chance to put it right. A few days’ friendship set against everything she owed to Sethennai—she remembered the warmth of Shuthmili’s hand, less than an hour before—but Sethennai had taken her hand once too …

  She could not forget what she owed him, or what was at stake. She turned her back on Shuthmili, and followed Oranna through the mirror.

  * * *

  Infinite darkness, thick and rustling, like drifts of black feathers. The sense of stairs descending. At the bottom of the stairs, a lantern burning in a bracket, illuminating rough-cut stone with an oily, glistening light.

  Above them, the Gate blinked out. There was no going back.

  They had come into some kind of cellar. There were other doors up ahead, but Oranna couldn’t go much farther.

  She didn’t move to defend herself when Csorwe caught up to her. She had to struggle for every breath, one after another like a ragged string of flags.

  “Give me the Reliquary,” said Csorwe.

  “No,” said Oranna. “I don’t think
I will.” She propped herself against the wall, the Reliquary clasped in both hands. “Csorwe, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” said Csorwe. If this had been almost anyone else, Csorwe would have knocked her on the head and taken the Reliquary then and there. However, there was some part of her that still baulked at punching the librarian.

  Oranna hauled herself fully upright, licking her dry lips. The Reliquary looked strange in her hands: heavy and ornate where Oranna was so insubstantial and so harmless.

  “You will lay down your weapon,” said Oranna, quietly. Unless you were listening very carefully you might have missed the note of command. “It is too heavy, isn’t it?”

  Did Csorwe really need her sword? It was bulky, ugly, without subtlety …

  “Inflexible,” Oranna murmured. “And unnecessary.”

  Csorwe flinched back, recognising the insidious pressure of magic. Still, she really did want to put down her sword. It was such a weight in her hand.

  “You are tired,” said Oranna. “You have worked too hard for too long. Even you have limits. It is very cold here. You need to rest.”

  All true. Her hand grew numb at the hilt of her sword, and uncurled, and it dropped from her hand. She scarcely heard it hit the ground.

  “I have heard about you,” said Oranna. She tore off the sleeves of her dress and began binding the wounds on her arms. She looked stronger, brighter. They were out of the Maze and back into the living earth, within earshot of the living gods. “Whenever people gossip about Belthandros these days, they talk about his shadow,” said Oranna. “Belthandros’ monster. Belthandros’ stalker in the dark.”

  Oranna bent to pick up Csorwe’s sword from where it lay on the ground. Csorwe could have stopped her, but there didn’t seem to be any point.

  “You’re his bastard child, perhaps, or something he created himself out of dust. I’ve always enjoyed the stories,” said Oranna. “But there’s nothing like the cold light of day to kill a legend. Where did he find you?”

  “In the House of Silence,” said Csorwe. There wasn’t any use concealing it.

  Oranna’s smile never faded, but it glimmered like a candle in a draughty room. Now it brightened to such poisonous whiteness that Csorwe could see all her teeth.

  “Of course,” she said. “Of course it’s you. Of course … and that’s the day he left. Csorwe. And you served him all that time…”

  “I serve him still,” said Csorwe.

  “Oh, no,” said Oranna, laughing with surprise and growing delight. “No, you don’t. You serve the Unspoken One, and you have always done so.”

  “No,” said Csorwe, with difficulty. It seemed Oranna wasn’t going to let her speak unless she wanted a specific response.

  “Belthandros does not believe that the Unspoken One deserves anyone’s worship. Belthandros would disbelieve in the sun if it didn’t serve his own self-regard. But the Unspoken’s power cannot be denied. It served at the right hand of the Abyss. It is as ancient as it is unspeakable, and its hunger is as great as its power. You serve the Unspoken Name and you have done so through all the worlds of the Maze, and you will do so for as long as you live, and perhaps even beyond that.”

  Csorwe could not speak to deny it, and in her own head, any argument sounded thin and unconvincing.

  “Belthandros and I disagreed on many things,” said Oranna. “And particularly on this. Because the House of Silence is ridiculous he thought that so too was the power which we served there. I suppose that by stealing you from the very mouth of the Unspoken One, he intended to make some kind of point. Belthandros has no respect for the gods. He keeps a piece of the Thousand-Eyed One in his chapel, and he thinks it is something that can be owned. He uses her power, but he does not serve her. You may believe that he took you from us because he needed a servant, or because he found you remarkable in some way. You are wrong. He intended to prove a point in an argument with me, which he will lose.”

  Csorwe said nothing. For all she knew, it might be true.

  “Do you remember the day they found you?” said Oranna. “Perhaps not. You were very young. Winter in Oshaar is a cruel time, but it hides its cruelty in beauty. I was there.” Her voice became softer, more distant, and there was a light in her eyes, as if she was looking at something bright and far away. “We found you in a little house out on the hillside. It was snowing. There were many bodies, too many for the house. Plague shall come to the house but thou wilt not sicken. And there you were, sitting in the middle of the floor, untouched. I suppose you must have been two or three years old. The Unspoken One watched over you. You were chosen. You are chosen still. There is no escaping it.”

  “No,” said Csorwe.

  “You know,” said Oranna, “I should tell you something. I don’t believe anyone else knows this, though Prioress Sangrai may have suspected, and Belthandros perhaps guessed some of the facts. You are not the first Chosen Bride to stray. I was chosen, as you were. Twenty-two years ago, my sister went to the Shrine in my place.”

  Her eyes were distant. She didn’t look to Csorwe for a reaction. If she had, she wouldn’t have seen one. Csorwe remembered: We were novices together. She was afraid at first, but when the day came she was quite calm.

  “Afterwards I became terribly sick. I had studied magic all fourteen years of my life. I owe the House of Silence that much, for nurturing my gift. The magic had corroded and sustained me in equal parts for as long as I could remember, and I knew I would die painfully if I refused to draw on it. But I was afraid that if I called on the Unspoken, it would know what I had done. My body began to destroy itself, and it was only when I realised I was dying that I dared to call upon my patron. The Unspoken had not forgotten me, nor had it forgiven me, but I made it a new promise. Not my death, but my life in its service. They are wrong, in the House of Silence. They are blind. They send us up to the Shrine because it is the only service they can conceive, and they imagine that the god will be angered if they fail to prove their devotion with blood. As if the Unspoken has some particular taste or purpose for the sacrifice of innocents. I promised that I would grow rich in knowledge and power, and I would bring whatever I gained back to the Shrine as my tribute, and I would further the ultimate intention of the Unspoken. This has been my purpose. I suppose Belthandros promised you happiness, when he took you away?”

  No, Csorwe thought. He had only ever promised her the work.

  “You are unhappy because you have relinquished your purpose. Belthandros cannot give you purpose. You are not even a servant to him. You are a tool for accomplishing some end that you do not understand.”

  “What do you want from me?” said Csorwe. She had meant to sound defiant, but it came out more like an offer of service.

  “The demands of the Unspoken One may be delayed, but never forgotten,” said Oranna. “You will come away with me. You will serve a greater power, at last.”

  Csorwe heard the command clearly, like another voice, layered over Oranna’s: You will go. You will carry the sacrifice. You will climb the stair to the Shrine. You will never know doubt, nor fear, nor pain, and you will never be alone.

  “Yes,” said Csorwe, and bowed her head.

  Oranna reached out and brushed Csorwe’s cheek with the back of her hand.

  It was difficult to throw a punch at this angle, but Oranna was not a fighting woman and had not been expecting the blow. Csorwe’s fist slammed into her belly and knocked her back. A poor stance, a weak blow, but it gave Csorwe the chance that she needed. She spun on tiptoe, drove her foot into Oranna’s stomach, followed the blow with another, swift, automatic, methodical. Oranna’s robes tangled her ankles, and she slipped on the damp flagstones and fell flat on her back.

  Csorwe stood over her. In the sharp clarity of the struggle, all she could think of was how to kill Oranna. She could find some blunt object and smash her skull. Then she realised—with a sort of bitter amusement, like the husk of laughter—that her sword was here for the taking. It would be cleaner. If she wa
s Belthandros’ monster, she was not the kind that killed with a bludgeon. She bent down, turned Oranna to unbuckle the swordbelt, and took her sword from the sheath. Oranna lay dazed, hardly moving.

  She was conscious of a distant relief that Shuthmili wasn’t here to see this. She rested the point of the blade at Oranna’s throat.

  There was nobody to hear what she might say in explanation or apology, and it was her own doing. After all, she had left Shuthmili to die. She might already be dead.

  It’s hard to run alone. But you won’t be on your own. Everything she had promised had been a lie. She couldn’t blame that on Oranna. It had all been her own doing. She couldn’t escape from that any more than she could escape her other debts.

  Her sword-hand was numb with cold, clenched so tightly that it no longer felt like a part of her body. Something in her twisted, or came loose, and she fell to her knees. The sword fell beside her, with an empty ringing.

  She was so tired. She felt the days piling up, like snow settling. Not so much at first, and then days became years and the weight became unbearable all at once. She had served for so long. Did it really make so much difference whether it was Sethennai or the Unspoken? Either way, she had come to this.

  Sethennai might want Oranna alive. Or he might not. He could make up his own mind. She had nothing left in her.

  She sheathed her sword and bound Oranna’s hands. She took the Reliquary and slipped it into her pocket. It was done.

  Oranna was still unconscious. Csorwe hoisted her over her shoulders and left the cellar. The rooms beyond were empty. There was no indication of where they were, except that it was deep underground, perhaps the very depths of a huge compound of cellars.

  Csorwe felt nothing. Quiet and hollow as a withered stalk of grass on the point of blowing away. The Reliquary was safe in her pocket. It was just as she had imagined it: heavy, smooth, lightly cracked with age, richly embellished. It might have been a jewellery box or the case of a small instrument.