The Border Keeper

by Kerstin Hall

  A crunching, splintering sound was all the warning they received. Eris yanked Vasethe onto the bridge just as the tunnel cracked, and a torrent of razor-edged glass thundered down behind them. A shard sliced into the back of Vasethe’s calf. Lanesh, only a few feet ahead of them, was almost pushed off the bridge as the water gushed over him. Eris’s hand shot up and the crab froze, teetering on the edge. She drew him back to safer ground.

  Water poured over the edges of the bridge, but they were out of its reach. Eris nudged a flopping lightfish with her foot, sending it tumbling into the darkness below. Vasethe’s vision steadied. He could breathe more easily here.

  Behind them the water slowed, like it was thickening, coagulating, and closed the entrance to the wistweed passage.

  Chapter Eight

  NO ONE GUARDED the rusted gates. The air whistled around the edifice and was sent swirling into the abyss. Up close, Umbakur looked larger still. Windowless, blunt, hewn from stone, and dropped into the sea. A shiver ran down Vasethe’s spine. Lanesh placed his claws into twin holes bored through the surface of the bridge, and the doors swung open.

  “Welcome to Umbakur,” he said.

  As they crossed the threshold into the fortress, the interior brightened. Flames sprang to life along the length of the narrow hall.

  With a juddering whine, the gates shut behind them. The air smelled of sweat and fear. Strings of yellow paper lanterns hung from the damp-mottled ceiling, each scrawled with words in old alphabets. Vasethe’s brow furrowed. Woven tapestries covered the walls, dampening sound, but he could still hear screaming. Intermittent, distant, emanating from deeper within.

  “The guest quarters are this way. Once the tides change, we will be able to continue,” Lanesh said.

  “Thank you for your help,” said Eris.

  Lanesh waved his pincers. “It was gracious of you to save me on the bridge,” he replied, “although next time, I would ask for you not to.”

  “Noted.”

  “Please excuse me; I am expected by the Census Taker. If you head to the right, you should find your rooms.”

  Eris turned to Vasethe, who was staring at the lanterns. “Come on, you’re bleeding on Buyak’s nice, clean floor.”

  He glanced down and saw that the gash in his calf still weeping. From far above them, he heard a shriek.

  Eris raised the corner of a tapestry to reveal a slender, high-peaked archway. She stepped through and motioned for him to follow. “I should to return to Ahri. Just for a few hours, to recuperate and check on the shadowline.”

  “Will our vessels be safe here?”

  She pursed her lips. “It would be an incredible breach of etiquette for Buyak to allow harm to befall an acknowledged guest. Let alone me.”

  “And yet, the lightfish.”

  The guestroom was warm and low-roofed and contained six narrow pallets. A mural covered the wall behind the beds: a silver-eyed god in a robe of purple feathers, his hands cupping his ears. Egrets surrounded him, their wings spread like fans and their slim necks bent in deference. The tips of their feathers were leafed in gold.

  “Ordinarily, I would have concealed my body in the borders between realms.” She frowned. “But I am not sure your vessel could withstand that. Besides, we would need to find a channel to cross.”

  “I could wait here.”

  “Stand guard, you mean.” She gestured to a pallet. He sat. “The longer you remain in Mkalis, the more the bonds to your true body will fray. Stay long enough, and the surrogate vessel will start to leave hooks in your soul. They will drag you back here, and you will unravel.” She rolled up the leg of his pants to look at the injury. “Your conscience will fade, but it won’t be death in the real sense. So, what’s left of you will permanently linger in this realm, never to be reborn. A ghost.”

  Eris spat into her hand and pressed her palm to the cut. Her eyes flashed red, and Vasethe’s leg jerked.

  “We have only been in Mkalis for a few hours,” he said. The cut burned, then itched. He tried to keep a neutral expression. “Would the hex revert to me in your absence?”

  She raised her gaze and looked him straight in the eyes. “I can stop it from reverting. So, if you want to stay, then stay. It’s your decision.”

  Her eyes were so black that they seemed to absorb light. Vasethe experienced a strange kind of pull this close to her, like he might be falling forward , like currents were dragging him from the shore.

  “I’ll stay,” he said.

  Eris nodded. “I won’t be too long, but call out my name if anything happens. I will come.”

  She straightened. Vasethe breathed out softly, still off-balance. A memory—the shadow of a memory—troubled his mind. Something important. Something lost. It slipped away.

  Eris took the pallet furthest from the archway. She lay on her back and closed her eyes. A strange stillness settled over her, and after a while, her chest ceased to move.

  Vasethe flexed his calf. No pain; only a thin white scar to mark the injury. He stood, tested his weight on the leg.

  “Sorry,” he murmured to Eris.

  The corridor outside was deserted. Vasethe moved soundlessly, inspecting the lanterns. The cuneiform symbols were smudged and untidy but had similarities to Linish letters.

  Each lantern bore a different message. Vasethe thought they might be confessions. Strange confessions, admissions of mispronouncing a certain name, of having grey eyes. Vasethe’s knowledge of the language was too limited for full understanding, but again and again, the word for “forge.”

  The tang of molten metal burned in his mouth.

  He reached a stairwell, paused, then headed up. The tapestries here were woven from darker threads, earthy browns and deep greens stitched into stiff geometric patterns.

  Ahead, he could hear voices.

  “—anything of that nature before. We must assume the creatures reacted for a reason.” A purring, genderless voice. “My lord is no doubt aware.”

  “No doubt.” A female voice. “I imagine the keeper is displeased. This probably wasn’t the reception she anticipated.”

  They drew closer. Vasethe lifted the edge of a tapestry and ducked inside the archway behind it.

  “I believe His Radiance will make the appropriate apologies.”

  “I think that will depend on the circumstances of their reunion. Buyak’s spine is flexible, but only up to a point.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting he would bow and scrape, Your Grace.”

  The couple passed the tapestry. Vasethe held his breath.

  “He will do as the situation demands. If he can avoid a premature altercation with her, I believe he will. Similarly, if he can feign innocence, or at least ignorance, he will.”

  “Wise is the Lord of Fluttering Wings.”

  “That is subjective.” Their voices grew softer as they walked down the stairs. “‘Shrewd,’ I would say, is more accurate.”

  Vasethe exhaled slowly and edged out from behind the tapestry. The corridor was empty once more. He glanced towards the stairs, then shook his head and carried on.

  The sounds of movement and activity increased as he moved deeper into the fortress. There were fewer wall hangings here, and the décor was more utilitarian. Bare black walls gleamed, hard crystal catching the lantern light. Through the archways, he could see a series of similar rooms, all unoccupied. The same mural on the walls, the same egrets and the same metal-eyed god. Buyak himself, presumably. Sticks of incense rested in glass bowls at the god’s feet; their smoke curled lazily upwards.

  Vasethe came to a junction and turned left into a smaller passageway. Someone—or something—was moaning; he followed the sound. It struck him as strange that none of the rooms had doors.

  The sounds of pain came from within the next room. He slowed to a halt outside the archway and pressed his back to the wall. Steeling himself, he peered around the entrance.

  The creature lay curled in the corner, its eyes fixed on the ground. Limbs were missing and
mangled and out of place, and low, persistent moans emerged from the bloody remains of its jaw. With every whimper, Vasethe could see the raw fluttering of its exposed larynx.

  It did not react to him. Even if it was capable of movement, it could never have posed a threat. Too broken. The emptiness of its eyes transfixed Vasethe. Blank, like the gaze of a doll.

  The creature moaned more loudly and Vasethe. He stepped through the archway. Buyak’s eyes bored into him from the mural.

  The creature did not so much as twitch when Vasethe knelt beside it. Ribbons of skin swathed its spine, the glint of vertebrae visible through the gore. Which rule had it broken? Vasethe gazed up at Buyak. Had it lied? Had it used the wrong honorific, wandered somewhere forbidden? The god remained silent.

  Vasethe reached out and touched the creature’s head. No response. Whatever sentience it had possessed was gone. He cupped the base of its head, supported the weight of its skull as warm blood oozed over his fingers. With steady hands, Vasethe twisted to the right.

  The bones gave as easily as a bird’s. One sharp snap. The creature stopped moaning. Vasethe laid it down and gently closed its wide, empty eyes. In death, its body seemed to shrink.

  “I hope you will find a better life in Ahri,” he murmured.

  The lantern at the door flared with a whoosh, then ebbed and extinguished. Vasethe glanced up but could see no one there. The lantern swung back and forth, touched by a breeze.

  He wiped his hands on the floor and stood. Time to return to Eris.

  He retraced his steps, back down the corridor and then the broader passage, then stopped.

  The stairs were gone.

  He ran his fingertips over the smooth surface of the wall. Ancient, impenetrable. Cold. Vasethe paused for a moment, then turned and retreated down the passage.

  Mkalis geography is flexible.

  From every cell, Buyak watched him. When new sounds of moaning commenced, Vasethe did not investigate their source. The scent of creosote and ash drifted through the air. It grew stronger.

  A different set of stairs, leading downwards. A draft ran icy fingers through his hair. He descended.

  The next corridor was darker; there were no lanterns, and only the thin light from the floor above illuminated Vasethe’s way. The walls were black mirrors, casting a cascade of thousands of reflections of his vessel. It was the first time he had seen his surrogate body’s face, and he paused, struck by the strangeness of his eyes. In shape, not unusual, perhaps larger than his real ones, the skin around them smoother. But his irises were uncanny; a ring of blood red, swirling like clouds.

  He shook his head and advanced down the passage.

  Over here . . .

  The voice in his head was soft. It passed like a stray thought, something quickly forgotten. He almost failed to notice it, but the whispering persisted.

  This way.

  Vasethe stiffened as he perceived the tugging sensation around his chest. He took a step backwards and a wave of dizziness caused him to stumble.

  “Dammit,” he muttered. His thoughts moved as if through thick sand, and he reached out to stabilise himself against the wall.

  His hand met another.

  Vasethe’s head jerked up and he locked eyes with his reflection. Red eyes, burning. Hungry. Slowly, slowly, a smile spread across his reflection’s face. Its grip tightened.

  Recovering from his shock, Vasethe tried to wrench his arm free.

  “Eri—” The name did not escape his lips.

  The world went black and wind roared in his ears like a hurricane. Someone was laughing and the sound shook him to his core. A thick and viscous substance lurched and pressed beneath his skin, the sensation abhorrent, leeches squirming through his flesh. He could not see, could not move, could not make a sound.

  Confess.

  The voice was like those of the faceless monsters in the wistweed passage, and this time, Eris could not save him. The smell of molten metal overwhelmed him.

  The forge.

  The knowledge came to him from nowhere, but he knew that his soul would be consumed, not a death but an unholy, endless bleeding into the most forbidden, debased, vile . . .

  “It’s not your time.”

  Vasethe’s lungs flooded with air. He clutched his throat. The rushing in his ears stopped, the crawling of his skin stilled. He retched and opened his eyes.

  “Are you hurt?”

  He was back in the guest quarters, lying on a pallet. A woman stood above him.

  Without meaning to, Vasethe glanced towards Eris.

  The woman followed his eyes. “Don’t worry; she’s still sleeping,” she said. “But not for much longer, I’d imagine. The tides are changing.”

  With shaking arms, Vasethe raised himself into a sitting position. “Did you save me?”

  “I brought you back here. You should be more careful, wandering around on your own. Especially with your guardian indisposed.”

  The woman was milk-skinned and green-eyed. Waves of bone-white hair flowed over her bare breasts, down to her waist. She wore a shimmering skirt that pooled on the ground at her feet. Something about her reminded Vasethe of Eris.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  She did not acknowledge him but turned, and suddenly she stood beside Eris. Vasethe had not seen her take a single step. She leaned over the border keeper, studying her face.

  Vasethe struggled to his feet. “Have we met before?”

  “How could that be, Ahri-dweller?” she said distractedly. Her hair brushed Eris’s cheek.

  “I’m not sure. But your face seems familiar.”

  The woman looked at Vasethe in amusement. “Perhaps in another life.” She ran a finger along the length of Eris’s jaw; a gentle, almost affectionate gesture. Her nails were long, green.

  “Don’t—” He took a few steps and his knees buckled. Cool hands propped him upright before he could fall. The woman was taller. He flinched.

  “Careful,” she said.

  “Who are you?”

  “Maybe next time. Look after her for me, won’t you?”

  She vanished and Vasethe crumpled to the ground. His knees hit stone with a painful thud, and he swore. For some reason, his hands were shaking.

  He picked himself up and sat on the edge of a pallet.

  “Eris.”

  She stirred. Her eyes opened.

  “Feeling better?”

  “I never told you I felt unwell.” She sat and pushed her hair back from her face. “What’s wrong?”

  “The tides are changing, so we should probably be ready to move.”

  Her dark eyes lingered on his face. “Onwards, then.”

  Chapter Nine

  LANESH RETURNED MOMENTS LATER. Vasethe tried to conceal his unsteadiness, leaning against the wall. The crab performed a quick bow.

  “I hope that your rest was comfortable,” he said. “Given the collapse of the wistweed passage, I think it would be best for us to take a different route to the mainland. I would like to avoid the risk of further complications.”

  “What did you have in mind?” asked Eris.

  “My lord maintains a friendship with Res Tiba, ruler of the 713th realm, Sower of Bones. I have acquired the relevant permissions via the Census Taker, who is at liberty to grant access to travellers deemed important to Kan Buyak.”

  “Buyak is friends with a demon?” Vasethe asked.

  “Careful, stranger; your knowledge is showing,” said Eris.

  “Res Tiba is said to be worthy of my lord’s benefaction,” Lanesh said, a little stiffly.

  “Given what I know of Tiba, Buyak should be glad that they’re on good terms.” Eris seemed amused. “Crossing through her realm will take us to the mainland?”

  “Yes, border keeper.”

  “Let’s do it, then. Would you tell us the pertinent rules?”

  Lanesh bobbed once and recited without pause: “A duel cannot be refused. A duel must end in death. Do not speak to inhabitants of the 713th realm,
unless to initiate a duel. Do not move in the presence of Res Tiba unless granted permission.”

  “Thank you, Lanesh,” Eris said.

  Lanesh bobbed again. “This way.” He scuttled out through the archway.

  Eris eyed Vasethe as he straightened. “What’s bothering you?”

  “Well, I seem to have been hexed, and I’m not sure I deserved it, and those lightfish were unpleasant.”

  “You know that isn’t what I meant.”

  “It’s probably best to discuss it in Ahri.”

  Eris hesitated and followed his gaze to the mural of Buyak. She nodded.

  Lanesh moved through Umbakur with surety. The dark-walled fortress was quieter now; the screaming had stopped. They rounded a corner and came to a new set of gates. A breeze flowed through the gaps between the metal bars. The sky outside was a rich black, starless and secret.

  “You have blood on your hands again,” Eris said, without looking at Vasethe.

  “Not mine.” The sound of the creature’s pitiful moaning resounded in his mind.

  She did not press the issue.

  They crossed another bridge to a tunnel both wider and higher than the wistweed passage. Although it was difficult to make out details in the dark, the water surrounding the tunnel seemed to possess a teal shimmer.

  “It is not too far,” Lanesh said.

  A cold wind blew towards them, carrying the smell of wet soil and bluegum sap. Vasethe could hear the rustling of leaves, rising and fading like ripples. The blue sheen grew brighter as they walked.

  “Do you take travellers this way often?” Eris asked Lanesh.

  “Only once before, border keeper. On most occasions, it would be the Census Taker who accompanies guests through Res Tiba’s realm.” He paused. “I requested to continue as your guide.”

  “I’m glad,” said Eris.

  Vasethe looked backwards. Deep darkness obscured the tunnel behind them, Buyak’s realm fading.

  The light ahead resolved into shapes and colours. They stepped from the tunnel into the shadow of tall trees. Fine specks of rain misted the air, swirling in gentle spirals as the breeze shifted. The chirrups of unseen birds filtered down from the canopy above, somewhere nearby a stream gurgled. The loose earth was soft under Vasethe’s heels.