The Silvered Serpents

by Roshani Chokshi

  Zofia had not anticipated this. Enrique had figured it would be empty. Who was inside?

  “I was told to consult with them,” said Zofia.

  The guard stared her down for one moment before sighing and stepping aside. Zofia moved past them, down the long, narrow, dark hallway. Inside the grotto, silence met Zofia. Many of the lanterns had been removed, throwing the grotto into darkness. The leviathan lay chained to the ice, Forged metal straps crisscrossing its neck and propping its jaws open.

  “Hello, David,” said Zofia.

  The leviathan thrashed, and small fissures of ice spidered out around it. The sight of the chained machine angered Zofia, but it was the silence of the grotto that confused her. The guard had said someone else was here, and yet it was empty. Perhaps they had made a mistake.

  Zofia placed one of her lanterns at the entrance to the leviathan. When she touched its metal lip, she felt it thrash, frothing the lake water around it. A pang of pity struck her as she stepped inside, holding out one of her phosphorous pendants for guidance. She thought the leviathan would be cold, but inside its mouth, the air turned humid and damp.

  When she peered over the edge of the staircase, she glimpsed a red, wavering glow. The light unnerved her, nearly causing her to stumble backwards when a new image flashed through her mind: the faces of her friends and family. She thought of Séverin, how he walked as if he carried so much more than his own weight. She thought of Laila’s liveliness. Of Enrique’s asymmetrical grin and Hypnos’s glossy eyes. All of it was light. From her father’s tutelage, she knew that light belonged to an electromagnetic spectrum. The light the world perceived belonged to the visible spectrum, which meant there was light humans could not see. But Zofia wondered if they could feel it all the same, the way she could sense sunshine against her closed eyelids. Because that was how friendship felt to her, an illumination too vast for her senses to capture. Yet she did not doubt its presence. And she held that light close to her as step by step, she ventured down the stairs.

  Five …

  Fourteen …

  Twenty-seven …

  At the end of the staircase, she saw the room in full glow. Fifty-seven bare shelves stretched down from the ceiling. One water-damaged rug spread across the main space. In the corner on her right, Zofia recognized a podlike capsule containing one steering wheel and two seats. A built-in escape mechanism. Across the ceiling, she recognized a Mnemo bug projection, which showed the ice grotto she had just left. She could not recall such an apparatus in Hypnos and Séverin’s recorded notes.

  All of those observations paled before the source of the heat she had felt the farther she walked down the stairs. On a raised, stone altar, hundreds of waxen red candles burned brightly. The red light spread across the sculpted stone faces of the nine muses leaning over the altar. It did not make sense to leave the candles burning. She had seen a similar situation in the past. It could be a gesture of sentimentality, one that she recognized from the time her neighbors left candles beside the family elm tree when her parents died. Perhaps this was meant for the girls who had died. But then she noticed the writing on the wall …

  Zofia lifted her pendant, scouring for signs of the symbol along the altar. But the lemniscate was not here. The closer she moved, the more the writing on the wall became legible:

  WE ARE READY FOR THE UNMAKING

  “Unmaking?” repeated Zofia aloud.

  The word reminded her of the last time they had seen writing on the wall.

  TO PLAY AT GOD’S INSTRUMENT

  WILL SUMMON THE UNMAKING

  What did it mean?

  A glint in her peripheral vision caught her attention. A small object had fallen near the base of the altar. She bent down, picking it up off the floor—

  It was a golden honeybee.

  Zofia had not seen a honeybee pendant quite like that since the catacombs where the doctor opened his arms and let the Fallen House members flood the Paris catacombs. Panic zipped through her veins. She needed to warn the others. Zofia stepped backwards, but her foot slipped on the step, and she slammed into … someone. For a moment, all she felt was the rise and fall of their breathing.

  Instinct took over.

  Zofia dropped to a crouch. The ground beneath her turned damp and slippery. Her foot skidded as she leapt to one side, sending her crashing to the floor. Zofia clawed at her necklace, desperate to grab her incendiary device when a cloth-covered hand clamped over her mouth and nose. An ether-like odor tinged with sweetness filled her nostrils, and her eyes began to close.

  “I hate that you’ve made me do this,” said a familiar voice. “But I know you’ll understand, my dear.”

  29

  ENRIQUE

  When it came to silence, Enrique always thought to fill it.

  He’d thought that for something to be powerful, it needed sound to match in the same way a background growl of thunder turned the lightning ominous. Or the way words peeled off a page and spoken, gave them a new heft and weight.

  The first time he had been chosen as a speaker for his debate team, he had been flattered. People trusted the weight of his words even when his topic of interest—Universal Stories: A Defense of Filipino Folklore—hadn’t first seemed to grab any of his escuela secundaria classmates. All night, he prepared for his speech, his nerves practically fizzing. He’d even attended morning mass and prayed that he didn’t get tongue-tied. But moments before he stepped onto the podium, a classmate handed him his lecture.

  “What’s this?” Enrique had asked, confused.

  None of the writing looked familiar.

  The classmate laughed. “Don’t worry, Kuya, we did all the work for you.”

  “But…” said Enrique, limply holding up his own speech.

  The classmate waved it away. “Oh, don’t worry about that.” His classmate lightly patted his cheek. “Your face will do all the convincing. Now get up there!”

  Enrique remembered the cloying warmth of the theatre, his fingers leaving damp presses in the paper, and the audience exchanging smirks or looks of pity. Did he want to be heard for his face or philosophy? Or did he merely want to be heard? Cowardice chose for him. He spoke, reading off the page. Later, when they handed him the award of first place, Enrique went home shamefaced, shoved the trophy under the patio, and never whispered a word of it to his parents. Years later, he could not remember what it was that he’d said.

  But it didn’t really matter.

  Enrique thought of that moment now as he analyzed the treasure before him. Maybe for the first time, he was doing something that mattered. The key to saving Laila’s life could be—had to be—here. And none of it required speech. Only the silence of keeping his head down, his face away from the light.

  Enrique looked at the door, then back at the table. That was the second time he’d done that since Zofia had left for the ice grotto twenty minutes ago. He told himself that was just because he didn’t like being alone and the work went slower without her. And yet, he had to admit that he liked glimpsing the world through her eyes. It was like a curtain drawn back to reveal the slender, mechanical mechanisms holding up the stage, a world he didn’t know how to see.

  Enrique reached for another artifact. There were only three more treasures left on the table. A jar of feathers, a small and rusted harp with dull metal strings, and a handful of long, oval masks covered with cold, Forged flames. Enrique was about to reach for the harp when he heard a sharp knock at the door. He frowned. It was too soon to be Zofia. And though he needed the help, he wasn’t ready to see Hypnos. Thinking of him—or rather, the disconnect between what he wanted and what they had—was like touching a fresh bruise.

  “Hello?” he called out.

  “It’s me!” said a familiar voice. “Ruslan!”

  Enrique wiped his hands on his smock, then went to open the door. Ruslan stood in the doorway, holding a plate of food in his one hand, while the other, as always, lay in a tight sling across his chest.

  “Yo
ur hair looks very rumpled,” said Ruslan, casting a critical eye over him. “Troubling thoughts, perhaps? Or a lack of a comb?”

  “Both.”

  Ruslan raised the platter. “It looks like the Midnight Auction got delayed, and I thought you might want some food and company?”

  Enrique flashed a tight smile. Truthfully, he didn’t want to waste a second that could spare Laila pain. And if he was going to work with anyone, it was Zofia.

  “That’s kind of you,” he said.

  “… but not particularly wanted?” prompted Ruslan, his smile tugging down. “It’s quite all right, I understand. I figured once I saw the state of your hair, which, forgive me, is exquisitely dismal—”

  “No, please,” said Enrique, remembering himself. “Come in. You have every right to be here. You’re the patriarch who commissioned the expedition, after all.”

  Still, Ruslan didn’t move, and Enrique had a sudden feeling that he had said precisely the wrong thing.

  “I would rather rely on the strength of my personality than my privilege,” said Ruslan quietly.

  Enrique softened. He looked back at the table full of artifacts and sighed. Perhaps Ruslan could be of help. Séverin used to be strict about who was allowed to assist them, but these days Séverin was a ghost who couldn’t even muster the interest to haunt them.

  “I could use the help,” said Enrique.

  Ruslan gave a little hop of joy and then followed Enrique inside.

  “What are you examining?” asked Ruslan, eyeing the table.

  Enrique pointed at the symbol he’d found on the muses’ palms and the outside of the box they had mistaken for The Divine Lyrics:

  “That’s what we’re looking for, but on one of the other objects,” explained Enrique. “I think it might be the actual symbol of The Divine Lyrics. The book that Séverin and Hypnos found was hollow, so perhaps it’s not a book at all? Or a book inside of a book? I’m not sure.”

  Ruslan seemed to absorb this carefully. “You think it may not be a book? Why?”

  “Well, the word itself was an incomplete translation,” said Enrique. “As far as we know, we only have the letters: THE DIVINE LYR to explain what it is … which may not be a full picture. There’s certain iconographical missteps that keep leaping out to me, but I don’t know what it means. For example, all the muses in this room are carrying broken objects, which was identical to what we saw when we followed the Tezcat portal to Istanbul. We know the Lost Muses guarded The Divine Lyrics, and we know their bloodline allowed them to read the book. Perhaps that’s what connects the paintings in Istanbul and”—Enrique crossed himself—“the dead girls in the grotto. Their hands had been removed, perhaps as a nod to restraining their power from, I don’t know, holding the book? Turning its pages? It’s still unclear to me, but it demonstrates restraint of power—”

  Abruptly, Enrique stopped. He felt a twinge of self-consciousness when he spoke. He didn’t normally talk that long before most people told him to stop. Laila never did, of course, but he could always tell when she grew bored because her gaze went unfocused … and then Zofia. Well, actually, Zofia always leaned forward. Zofia always listened.

  “I apologize,” he said quickly. “I sometimes get carried away with my thoughts.”

  He looked at Ruslan, and saw that he was rapt. The sight was deeply humbling.

  And deeply awkward.

  “Er, if you want to help, could you start by picking up the objects on the far right side of the table to look for the symbol?” asked Enrique. “Some of them are a little dirty and need to be cleaned beforehand.”

  “Oh, of course!” said Ruslan, hopping to the table once more. He reached for the jar of feathers.

  “I must say, I’m always a little shocked to hear you speak … You’re so eloquent that it’s, um—”

  Dazzling? Awe-inspiring? wondered Enrique. He puffed out his chest a bit.

  “Confusing,” said Ruslan.

  Well, never mind.

  “Confusing?” repeated Enrique.

  “A bit, yes. I heard about your meeting with the Ilustrados in Paris—”

  Enrique froze at the mention. All over again, he remembered standing in the auditorium, the empty table and the cooling food. The way every sound outside the hallway brought a shock of hopeful nerves.

  “—something about not feeling up to the task of lecturing; although, it was very kind of you to send each of them a check,” said Ruslan, shrugging. “I thought perhaps you’d just been nervous, or perhaps not as eloquent as you’d hoped, and that’s why you cancelled the meeting.”

  Enrique felt rooted to the spot. “I never cancelled that meeting.”

  All this time, he thought no one had cared. But that wasn’t the case. Someone else had cancelled for him. Someone who had enough money to pay off the Ilustrados; who could speak on his behalf; who knew him well enough to know exactly what he wanted.

  Séverin.

  Enrique wished he didn’t remember how Séverin had flung himself between the troika fire and Enrique. He wished he didn’t remember the day that Séverin introduced him as the new historian of L’Eden and promptly dismissed anyone who spoke out against him.

  Without meaning to, Enrique’s hand moved to his heart. Whatever bruise Hypnos had left on it was nothing compared to the break he felt now. The secret snap of the heart where certainty crumbles. He’d always known a part of Séverin had died when Tristan was murdered, and Enrique had mourned them both. But at least Séverin was here, and though he was a shadow of himself, there was always the chance he would find himself once more. Now Enrique knew that he’d been holding out hope for a ghost.

  The Séverin he knew was gone.

  “Enrique?” asked Ruslan. “I’m sorry … should I leave? Did I say something wrong?”

  Enrique pushed aside his thoughts.

  “No, not at all,” he said, returning his focus to the objects. “It’s merely been a while since I’ve thought of the Paris talk. No matter.” He met the other man’s eyes. “Please stay.”

  He would let himself think of Séverin’s betrayal when all of this was over. Too long, he had forgiven Séverin his temper and his coldness … but this. This, he could never forgive. Enrique set his jaw and reached for a new object.

  “Is that a harp?” asked Ruslan, lifting an eyebrow.

  “No,” said Enrique, studying the shape. He looked behind him to Calliope, the muse of epic poetry. In her hands, a broken golden instrument.

  “It’s a lyre,” he said.

  The lyre didn’t look like other treasures. For one, it was of a metal he didn’t recognize, with etchings along the side. The strings, which normally would have been cat gut and thus disintegrated by now, looked metallic. He tried to pluck one of the strings, but it was stiff and intractable, hard as concrete. A hum gathered at the back of his thoughts as he slowly rubbed the surface of the lyre with a clean towel until the metal shone. There … etched into the left side appeared a symbol:

  Enrique hardly breathed as he lifted the lyre, gently taking it to the box shaped deceptively like a book. The lyre fit perfectly within the hollowed space. And just like that, the images fell neatly into his head. The reason all the women’s hands were cut off. It wasn’t for turning pages … it was for playing an instrument.

  “It was never The Divine Lyrics,” breathed Enrique. “It was always the divine lyre … a mistranslation. The words had gotten cut off and everyone thought it was a book, but we were wrong. That’s why everything we’ve found keeps referring to it as an instrument of God.”

  No sooner had he spoken than he remembered the words painted on the Istanbul portal …

  TO PLAY AT GOD’S INSTRUMENT

  WILL SUMMON THE UNMAKING

  Unmaking …

  Enrique looked once more at the statues of the muses. The broken objects in their hands. He thought back to the paintings in Istanbul … the way every painting showed a Forged object crumbling apart in the hands of the goddesses of divine i
nspiration. All this time, they’d known what they were searching for held the secret to the art of Forging … but what if that secret was not how it could create … but how it could destroy. And that meant that Laila, endlessly chasing what she thought would save her, was running straight to her death.

  “Oh no,” said Enrique, snatching back his hands as if merely touching the object would summon destruction.

  He needed to find the others. He looked to the door. Where was Zofia? Surely she should have been back by now. And then he felt a shadow cross over him. Before he could turn, before he could even speak … the world turned black.

  30

  LAILA

  One hour before the Midnight Auction …

  In eleven days, Laila would die.

  Maybe tomorrow, she would feel fear, but right now fear felt out of focus and far off, like something glimpsed beneath layers of ice. Maybe deep in her heart, she had always known it would end like this. Or maybe she had lost the ability to feel anything other than regret. Not that she wouldn’t live longer, but that she hadn’t lived enough. She should have stayed at L’Eden even if it hurt, because then at least she would have had more time with those she loved. She should have baked cakes and shared them with friends. She should have stayed even if it meant seeing Séverin … perhaps especially so.

  She should have, she should have, she should have.

  That mantra sped through her veins, bloomed into her pulse until her heart sang with it. Laila curled her hands into fists. Eleven days of life. That’s all she had. These precious coins to spend as she wished, and she did not want to do it alone. She wanted to be with the people she loved. She wanted to hear music, to feel light across her skin. To step out on the ice and watch her breath plume.

  Laila would meet death standing.

  Earlier, she had made herself dress for evening, but she had skipped dinner entirely. Only now did she realize that not once had her Forged necklace of white diamonds tightened with a summons. Séverin was lost to himself. Perhaps he thought finding The Divine Lyrics would be the truest vengeance for Tristan, and now his guilt only thickened in his blood and forced him away from the world. Or perhaps … perhaps he thought nothing of her absence. He would never know that death raced toward her.