by Neil McGarry
The tunnels she now traversed were drier than the sewers, filled not with the scent of sewage but of dust. Her footsteps did not splash but scraped grittily against ancient stone, worn smooth by generations of feet, back in the days when the Domae ruled the city. It was strange to think that Jana’s people had once called Rodaas their home but were now treated as interlopers. Down here, she was the foreigner, and the last time she had trodden these paths the dead themselves had risen in protest. She shivered to remember it. There was no need to pass through the chamber of shattered bones, but who could say that one of those things had not escaped Castor’s blade and was roaming these tunnels in search of the blood that had called it back to life?
She wished Castor and his blade were with her now. When she’d dismissed him she’d felt full of self-righteous assurance, but now, winding her way alone through long-forgotten Domae tunnels, she wished she’d done more to persuade him.
She pushed that thought aside, along with images of the walking dead roaming the tunnels in search of her. She did not need a case of the screaming horrors, not now. She sent a quick prayer for Mayu to protect her from the dead, but she thought — blasphemously — that she would have felt more comfortable relying on Castor’s blade. But he was gone, perhaps forever. Duchess looked at the scab on her finger and prayed that her bloodletting in the Lady’s garden had been enough. It would have to be.
The passage widened, and she sensed that there was a great space ahead. She tucked her map into a pocket and pressed onward. The way turned, the ceiling rose up and up, and the right wall vanished, until the tunnel became a narrow path that ran along the lip of a great cliff. She held up her light but could see neither the ceiling of the tunnel, nor the bottom of the drop. There was only the way forward and the pit. The Ossuary, she knew, whence had come the baron’s dagger.
Creeping along the edge, she thought suddenly of that night of wine and merrymaking, and the cards Jana had laid out. The Fool, one step away from disaster. She took a breath to steady herself and followed the path, staying as far from the drop as possible. Her anger and her need for vengeance felt very far away. As far away as sunlight, and air, and all the world. A bone-chilling cold rose from the depths, and even though she could not see it, she knew the mists lay below. She’d known it from the first time she’d heard of the Ossuary.
The fog is rising, Adam Whitehall had prophesied.
“Mayu protect me,” she muttered hoarsely, and dim echoes of her prayer whispered back at her. The path branched before her, the left fork running along the lip of the pit and the right descending into its very depths. This was where Darley and Finn had gone, searching for treasures. How had they dared? Hadn’t they sensed what she knew lay below? But then no one was afraid of the fog the way she was, no one except her father.
The fog is rising, her father had said.
Jana had asked who watched Duchess from afar, thinking girlishly of a secret admirer, but the cards had revealed a romance darker than any she could have imagined. He Who Devours filled Duchess’ dreams, just as she filled His.
She paused at the head of the path leading down, taken by a sudden madness. “I’ve come,” she said.
Come, come, come, her words echoed back from below.
“Who are you?”
You, you, you.
In the stories the hero always had three wishes. Jadis had asked her three questions. There were three imperial cults. She drew a hand across her brow, wiping away sweat like icewater. She didn’t know why a third try would matter any more than the first two, and yet by the logic of raised hackles and tingling flesh, she knew that it did.
She thought of Castor, who had left her here, alone above the void. She thought of his uncertainty, his old life, his old name. And she thought of her own.
“Who am I?” she called out at last. This time her words did not echo, but instead fell into the pit like coins dropped onto thick cloth. Her question slipped into darkness, and nothing returned.
She wrapped her arms around herself and tried to catch her breath. There was nothing here. Nothing below. Nothing.
She had just started to move along the path once more when she heard the noise. She stopped, turning, trying to find its source. Then, certain, she turned again to the gulf beyond the cliff. Somewhere, deep below her, a hollow voice in the darkness, like a breath of wind on a winter’s day, answered.
Fool.
She lurched backwards against the tunnel wall, nearly dropping the lantern in fright as the voice echoed again.
Fool.
Tears sprang to her eyes and horror iced her blood and the voice came once more.
Fool.
Choking back a shriek, she stumbled forward, one hand on the wall to keep her from missing her step in the darkness. She broke into a run, and although her footsteps raised echoes on the stone, behind her the darkness said no more.
* * *
When she reached the gate that would let her back into the sewers, her hands were shaking so badly she dropped the picks she’d fumbled from her pouch. She let them lie on the stone and leaned against the bars, grasping the cold, dirty metal with both hands and trying to steady herself.
“It was nothing,” she whispered in the dim light of her lantern. “There was no voice. It was just an echo. An echo.” But of course a word unsaid could not echo. Fool. Jana had said he represented innocence, and ignorance, and instinct. Every instinct she possessed told her to forget what she had heard. She clutched the bars more tightly to steady herself, and after a long moment her heartbeat began to resume its normal pace. She had a job to do, she told herself, one that did not involve dissolving into a frightened mess over an echo. An echo.
She crouched, recovered her picks, and bent to the lock. The internals were crusted with rust and dirt, but a few squirts of oil from the small vial she’d bought loosened them up, and in a moment there was a gratifying click.
His like does not have a place in the world, but is fated to forever travel amongst the others, with no certainty, no home. The most blessed...and the most cursed.
She shook her head once more. After the horrors of the pit, the stink of the sewers was almost welcome. She hefted her lantern and moved on. There was work to be done. Meadowmere Manse awaited.
Chapter Twenty-Three: Keeping faith
Garden District was, to most Rodaasi, a dream, a paradise set atop the great hill like a crown. The lights and bells of the palace dome could be seen and heard in every quarter and in every quarter they spawned fantasies of wealth, power and position. Even on the wettest, foggiest evening, no mist dared mar its hallowed and stately beauty.
Duchess, of course, had never been there, and it somehow seemed only proper she should arrive by crawling out of a sewer.
From her maps, she knew she had emerged at the very bottom of Garden, and yet the imperial palace still loomed over her, a dark bulk against the stars, towering over the district just as the district towered over the lower city. How enormous must it be, to fill so much of the horizon and yet still be so very far away? And it was far away; although on maps Garden might appear small, it was actually nearly as large as the Shallows and Wharves combined.
The cool evening air was a pleasant change from the stifling stuffiness of the tunnels, and the breeze dissolved the caul of fear she’d acquired in the Ossuary. Moving from shadow to shadow over smooth paved stones of many colors, and past trees and flowerbeds, she made her way towards Meadowmere Manse. The Meadowmeres were an ancient family, long in tradition but short on gold, which is why Cassius Meadowmere had wed an Atropi from what was then Low District. She’d brought a goodly amount of money to the marriage, along with her two sisters, who were by all reports as unpleasant as they were ill-favored, but faced with financial trouble Lord Cassius had little choice but to take them in. The arrangement benefited both sides: the Atropi’s business thrived on the connection to such an honored name and House Meadowmere was ensured a steady flow of florin. Lord Cassius was long dead, but
his widow and her sisters remained at Meadowmere Manse, still a source of income and, if rumor were to be believed, a constant trial to the children of his marriage. For some reason the Widow Meadowmere was still known as an Atropi, and by now many had forgotten she’d ever been anything else.
The main estate house was a large stone building surrounded by a wall that had seen better days. In many places the mortar between the stones had nearly crumbled away with age, which meant she should be able to scale the ten-foot high barrier easily enough. She crouched and rooted through her backpack. She should divest herself of as much as possible before entering the estate, for the night promised to be uncomfortable enough without extra weight on her back. The only items she might feel safe discarding were the small lantern and the extra lamp oil, since she did not plan to reenter the tunnels tonight, if ever. She would not need either again...if Lysander kept to his word. She wavered, caught between her faith and her fear.
In the end, she kept the lantern.
A pair of blackarms came around a bend, following the wall, like their fellows in Scholars District each carrying a lamp and a club. Duchess faded back around the corner, tucking her hands into her sleeves and bending her face away from the light. The pair passed her hiding spot without pause and continued onward, disappearing from view. She released a pent-up breath. She was lucky this area was not patrolled by Whites, who were twice as alert as any blackarm ever dreamed of being.
When all was clear, she donned her pack again, rubbed her hands together, and turned to the wall. The gaps between the stones were easily large enough for her questing fingers, her arms were much stronger since working with Tyford, and in no time she was crouched atop the wall. She smiled grimly. Even the cranky Nerrish could not complain about this performance. From her perch she could see the estate more clearly: a three-story manor house surrounded by an expanse of grassy lawn and flanked by a few smaller buildings; stables, and servants quarters, perhaps. And there, in the farthest corner of the estate, lay her quarry: a slender tower, sixty feet high with a pointed roof. Ivy festooned its walls, in the dark seeming like a hand that had sprouted from the ground to grasp the structure. Light came from the windows of the upper-most level. She only hoped that the Atropi’s vigil had not yet begun.
She lowered herself until she was hanging by her arms, and then dropped to the grass below, flexing her knees to lessen the impact and the noise. The sisters’ famous dislike for animals should ensure there were no guard dogs, but there would of course be guards, which were equally as dangerous. She slid across the grass like a shadow, moving towards the tower.
The door was heavy wood, studded with iron, locked...and no match for her skills. It opened smoothly to reveal a small circular room, lit by torches in iron sconces bolted to the walls. Woven tapestries of gold and green and ivory hung here and there, swaying gently in the night breeze. The room was empty except for a staircase spiraling up along the interior of the tower and a mosaic of colored stone on the floor, depicting a fiery wheel. For Ventaris, she guessed, closing the heavy door behind her and kneeling to re-engage the lock. It would not do for the Atropi to find the way open. She listened for a long moment for any noise from above and heard nothing. Taking a deep breath, she began to climb.
She walked up and around until she came to the top floor, the only room in the tower other than the entryway. Circular and perhaps twenty feet across, the chamber was softly lit by candles hung from the rafters or set in tall, claw-footed holders of black iron. There were four windows, evenly spaced, each open to admit the cool evening air. Incense burned in censers set here and there, filling the air with a sharp, clean scent. The walls were covered with tapestries depicting scenes of leaping fires and slanting beams of light. Three large, overstuffed chairs were set in a rough triangle in the center of the room around another fiery-wheel mosaic in the floor. Each chair was flanked by a small table, black iron like the candle-holders, and each bore a cup and saucer. Atop the wheel mosaic sat a low pedestal, and it was there, she imagined, the dress would rest while the Atropi kept their vigil. Always within their sight, and inaccessible even if Naria of the Dark should come back from the grave to pilfer it.
When Gloria Tremaine had told her of the Atropi’s ritual, she had scarcely been able to believe it. “They sit up all night and watch a dress in a box?”
Tremaine had shrugged. “True believers do strange things. But, yes, they stay up through the night, reflecting on the work they did that year and planning the next year’s labors.” Her eyes twinkled with mischief. “From the moment it is folded into the cask until it is presented to Violana herself, that dress is never out of their sight.”
Seventh bell rang out from the palace. Time to get herself hidden. If Tremaine had told it true, the Atropi would arrive within the hour. There were shadows here and there in which she might crouch, but even with the favor of the gods she could not go unseen for hours. Thanks to Tremaine’s informants, there was no need. She moved to a window, placed her right foot on the sill, and pushed off, hands reaching for the nearest rafter. With a smooth flex of muscles she pulled herself up until she was sitting on the beam. A year ago she would not have been able to do that, she reflected, pleased. She edged along the rafter towards the center of the room directly above one of the hanging candles. Anyone looking up would see only the glow of the flame and not the young woman huddling above it. She hoped.
Moving carefully, she eased off her pack and rooted inside for the quilted padding she’d purchased from a man in Trades who supplied the armorers. Intended to ease the weight of plate and mail, the cloth should serve to make her perch a bit more comfortable. She’d had it dyed black, of course, along with the leather thongs she used to lash it into place against the rafter. Then she settled down to wait.
Just as eighth bell was ringing out over the district she heard the heavy tower door open, and the sounds of footsteps on the stairs. She slipped on her black gloves and pulled her hood more closely around her face. Two young women, wearing the livery of House Meadowmere, led the procession. One bore a tray of small cakes and a steaming pot, the other several bouquets of autumn flowers. The tray went on one of the black tables, and the bouquets upon the windowsills. Then came a radiant, resplendent in robes of white and gold, carrying a flask and a leather-bound book. Bringing up the rear were three old women, clad respectively in gowns of brown, green and wine red. They all looked mostly alike, and their garments, while plain, were made from fine cloth. The Atropi, in turn, surrounded a guardsman, also in livery, who carried a golden casket that bore on its lid the fiery wheel of Ventaris. They escorted him to the pedestal, where he gently set down the cask and stepped away. The Atropi stood before their chairs, one to each, but did not sit, while the radiant made a circuit of the room, muttering a prayer Duchess could not quite make out. The guardsman and the maids stood quietly by the head of the stairs, heads bowed, as the radiant approached the women. He daubed each of their foreheads with oil from the flask.
“May the Father of All shine his light into your deepest hearts, to banish the darkness, reveal all secrets and expose all lies.”
“We receive His light with joy,” they answered in unison. The radiant then withdrew, and the guardsman and servants followed on his heels. The tower door slammed closed, and she was alone with the Atropi.
The women were not finished with their prayers. They joined hands and stepped to a window, where the breeze rustled through the flowers the maid had placed. “To the East, whence He comes,” the one in green said reverently. She tore off a blossom and threw it out the window.
They moved to the opposite. “To the West, where He sleeps,” said the woman in red, tossing another blossom into the night. Then to the next. “To the South, which never forgets His light,” said the one in brown, dropping a blossom over the sill. Then, at the northernmost window, they all said, “To the North, which awaits His victory.” They put no blossom out the window, but turned and went back to their chairs.
&nb
sp; Green poured tea, and Duchess smelled the slight scent of orange. Red offered a cake plate to the others, and Brown passed out napkins. They sipped and nibbled, and for awhile the only sound was the rustle of wind through flowers. Duchess scarcely dared to breathe.
“A warmer night than usual,” said Brown, setting aside her cake plate.
“Ventaris be praised,” Red replied. “Was it last year that was so cold? Or the one before that?”
“Last year, it was,” said Green, in the tones of a practiced contradictor. “I thought the tea would freeze before we’d drunk it!” The others nodded, and Duchess had the feeling this was a conversation they’d had many times before and would have many times again.
The talk meandered through reluctant cloth factors and shifty customs officers, silk and satin, apprentices and assistants, while the candles burned and wind pushed the scent of flowers about the room. Duchess tried to follow their talk, but soon lost the thread of the conversation. She tried to get a better look at the cask. Was it locked? She saw no keyhole, but from this angle she couldn’t be certain. She could almost certainly tickle the lock, but that would take precious time she wasn’t sure she had. She restrained herself from fidgeting. The weavers were less than ten feet away and might hear any rustle, no matter how slight.
The talk went on and her perch grew less comfortable. Even the thick pad could not entirely shroud the hardness of the wooden beam beneath her. Using a trick Tyford had taught her, she quietly flexed her muscles without moving her limbs, to keep herself from cramping.
Ninth bell rang out, and it was time. Out of her pocket she drew a thick piece of cotton cloth, which she gripped in her teeth while her other hand slid into her pack. Out came the small skin, bulging with water. One day, Jadis had said, not before and not after. Tremaine had told her that on the evening of the Fall, ninth bell signaled the presentation of the dress, and so she must prepare the seeds Jadis had given her now and no later. She was still a bit skeptical — how could seeds, even if they grew in a single day, ruin a dress? — but she was committed. She did not think the First Keeper would betray her, at least not in this. Faith, he had urged, and indeed that was all that was left.