Heaven's Needle

by Liane Merciel

  She saw the mountain’s heart glowing ahead. A gust of wind, hotter than any forge’s breath, came sighing down the tunnel. It ruffled her hair and dried the sweat on her brow. Asharre winced, bowing to its force. She knew that when she reached the source of that blistering heat, she would die. Worse than die: she would lose her soul. But she could not stop herself from walking toward it. She had slowed from a run, but her legs refused her frantic commands to stop.

  “Help me,” she cried to the dead. “Help me!”

  Row upon row of hollow-eyed skulls stared back at her mutely. Their jaws creaked with their efforts to break free of their cursed silence. The hands hanging from the ceiling trembled; the finger bones laced into the floor shook. But all that escaped from them was an endless hiss, meaningless as the mutterings of the tide.

  The glow did not brighten as she drew closer. It became hotter, crueler, hungrier … but never brighter. A sense of inexorable evil, nameless and older than time, pressed down on her. And still she could not stop.

  “Listen,” one of the skulls exhaled. She didn’t know which one spoke; it was already behind her, lost to the darkness, by the time it managed to force out the words. “Listen, and we will keep you from the Mad God’s maw. Take my hand. Take … it …”

  “Which hand?” Asharre asked, twisting her head back as her feet kept dragging her forward.

  The skull made no answer. But all around her, the hands began rattling, clattering against the ceiling of bones and twitching their fingers through the suffocating air.

  She reached up and seized the nearest. As their hands touched, living flesh against dead, dreamed bone, Asharre felt a shock of recognition. Memories flooded into her mind. Not hers—not of any life she could have imagined. They were older, starker, ripped from the edge of despair. They overwhelmed her. It was like standing on Spearbridge again, but the torrent of memories came faster, whirling in a blizzard of images she could not begin to comprehend. Horrors, but also glimpses of hope, and a circle of sigils drawn in flame. Protection.

  Asharre faltered, but the skeletal hand would not let her fall. It dug its bony fingers into her palm, drawing blood. The jolt of pain slapped her back to her senses; the strength of the dead kept her standing. And the hand stopped her, finally, from going on.

  “Thank you,” she mumbled. Then the tunnel and its memories were breaking apart, spinning away into emptiness, and she was awake.

  Blood pooled in her palm.

  Asharre stared at it stupidly. Then she swore and threw back her blankets, keeping her hand cupped so the blood wouldn’t spill out. She hobbled out of the Rosy Maiden and flung it into the street.

  Four deep wounds punctured her right palm. Asharre ran her good hand through her hair, struggling to remember. The dream had already receded in her memory; she could barely recall what she had seen or felt in it, aside from a lingering disquiet.

  There had been bones. She was sure of that much. There were bones, and they had … she had … reached for them, hoping for salvation. But the details melted away like frost on a spring morning. Her other nightmares had lingered long past waking; this one, the only one she wanted to remember, was already gone.

  Asharre scowled and wrapped a strip of blanket around her hand, knotting it over the palm to stanch the bleeding. What dream left wounds? It was impossible. Yet the proof lay throbbing in her hand.

  The injury made her clumsy, and by the time she finished making tea and porridge for breakfast, she was in a foul temper. Evenna was unusually late to rise, which worsened Asharre’s mood. She wanted to be out of Carden Vale. But until Evenna woke, they could not go.

  The sun crept steadily upward, and still Evenna did not come down. The Illuminer hadn’t missed dawn prayers once during their travels, but it was halfway to highsun and she was still abed. Finally, her patience stretched to snapping, Asharre stalked upstairs and threw open the Celestian’s door. “Wake up!”

  Evenna mumbled and thrashed, but didn’t stir. Scowling, the sigrir strode to the Celestian’s bed. And, upon reaching it, stopped cold.

  Sweat soaked Evenna’s raven hair and plastered her shift to her body. Her legs were strangled in her sheets, swollen to an angry purple; as she flailed in the grip of her nightmares, the knots tightened even more. Heat radiated from her skin so intensely that Asharre, standing at her bedside, felt as if she was next to a furnace.

  She should be dead with a fever that hot. Asharre had seen enough sickness during her travels with Oralia to know that. But Evenna was very much alive, if delirious. Her lips moved in a stream of mumbled gibberish, and she lashed her head from side to side, whipping the pillows with sweat-damp hair. Her fists yanked at the sheets as if she were trying to rip the cloth apart, or trying to rip herself free.

  The violence of the Celestian’s dreams was almost as disturbing as her fever. Asharre wasn’t sure what the right treatment might be—her sister always relied on holy prayers for the most serious ailments—but she had to do something.

  Lacking any other ideas, she took the most direct course. She retrieved a bucket of water and dumped it over Evenna’s head. Only after the water splashed across the Illuminer’s head and blankets did Asharre wonder: what was it, again, about the water? Something she was supposed to remember … some prayer, perhaps … but too late now.

  The Illuminer jolted up, spluttering. She wiped straggling hair from her face and stared at Asharre, coughing up the water that had gotten into her nose. “What was that for?”

  “You slept late. We should have been on the road hours ago.”

  “I … oh, my.” Evenna pushed the sheets away. She gaped at her bruised legs in confusion, looked at the window and the lateness of the day, and winced. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. I had … bad dreams.”

  “What dreams?”

  “There was a forge, and it … it burned bones.” Evenna touched her temple. “It was so vivid, but I can’t remember anything else. Just the forge, roaring as it burned human bones. For some reason I thought it was important, desperately important, to pull them out before the fire consumed them. I was about to brave the flames to take them …” She rubbed her hands over the wrinkled sheets, then frowned at Asharre’s bandaged palm. “What happened to you?”

  “An accident.” The sigrir opened and closed her hand to show that it wasn’t seriously damaged. “You can look at it later if you like, but we have no time now. Get packed.”

  Evenna’s fever faded with her dreams. Once she came downstairs, she seemed fine, apart from a slight stiffness to her step. An hour later they were on the road. Asharre’s hand had stopped hurting by then, and the wounds didn’t seem to impair her use of it, so she paid it no more mind. Evenna had her own troubles; she was just as happy not to let the Illuminer fuss over the wounds.

  They picked their way through a broken section of the mossy palisade, following the tracks of the mule carts that had carried coal and ore down from the mountains for decades. No carts were on it now, and neither man nor beast watched them go.

  Greening emptiness surrounded them. Young thistles dotted the pastures, opening needle-tipped leaves to the sun. The ditches and walls that guarded the town’s northern side had eroded to gentle, grassy slopes.

  It was a peaceful walk, and might have been a pleasant one if the silence hadn’t been so oppressive. Not a single bird skimmed the clear blue of the valley’s sky; not a deer slipped through its trees. Other than the two women, the only things moving in the world were the coils of smoke spiraling lazily over Devils’ Ridge. Past them, the Shardfield glittered like the massed spear points of an army.

  They didn’t talk. Evenna, exhausted by her fevered dreams, walked with her head down and her footsteps dragging. Asharre simply didn’t have much she felt like saying. Her thoughts wandered to Heradion: had he made it out of the mountains alive?

  He was the clever one, escaping while he could. She should have done the same. She should have forced Evenna to leave. It was pure hubris to think she coul
d protect the Illuminer in Shadefell; even if they found Aurandane, or convinced Gethel to help them, how could she guard against magic or creeping madness? Easier to cut down the sun with her sword.

  But she’d promised to do her best by the Celestians, and she’d sworn to protect them as her own clan, so she was bound to do all she could.

  Her injured hand throbbed suddenly. Asharre grunted, balling her hand into a fist and relaxing it until the pain went away. It didn’t take long. Despite the depth of the gouges and her use of the injured hand, the bandages had yet to show any stain of blood. The wounds must not have been as severe as she’d thought. That was a relief. She couldn’t protect anyone with her main hand maimed.

  They reached the eaves of the forest on the north side of the valley by sunset. Evenna raised her hands in prayer to the dying sun while Asharre paced back and forth along their path, fists clenched at her sides.

  She had to do more. The young Blessed was faultlessly devout, but that wouldn’t protect her any more than it had Oralia or Falcien. The sigrir could not fail again. This was her last chance, the opportunity fate had given her to atone for the mistakes of her past. She needed to find something that could shield the Celestian.

  But what? Long after Evenna’s prayers ended, Asharre sat by their campfire, sharpening her sword and searching for an answer. The circling winds bore a breath of sulfur and smoke down from Devils’ Ridge, and the scent followed Asharre into her dreams.

  She stood beside Falcien’s pyre, cinders stinging her eyes and the heat of the flames on her face. In the dream Evenna was not there. As Asharre watched the fire rise over the body, feeling renewed grief and shame at her failure, the dead man sat up on his burning bier.

  “You have no time to mourn,” he said. His voice was not as it had been in life; when he opened his mouth, she heard only the rush of flames and the crumbling crack of charred bone. Yet somehow those sounds held the meanings of words.

  “Yes,” Falcien said, chuckling at her surprise. Embers glowed at the back of his throat when he laughed. Part of his arm had burned through completely; she could see the dule tree through the gap between the bones. “There is meaning in the crackle of fire, the fall of leaves, the ripples of a lake. If you know how to read those things, the world holds no secrets. Here, with my help, you can understand them. Awake you cannot … yet. But you must learn to read them, quickly, if you are to survive. You don’t have much time. If you haven’t learned before you reach Shadefell, you will die.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you have no magic, and your companion’s faith blinds her to other tools. Only by seeing the danger can you avoid it … or warn Evenna in time to fight it.” He spread his hands wide, cupping an invisible bowl. Flames, fueled by his flesh, leaped up between Falcien’s blackened fingers. The center smoothed into a wavering sheet, like a mirror of beaten bronze, while smaller tongues of fire danced about the edges.

  In that strange mirror Asharre saw herself and her companions walking through the desecrated chapel of Carden Vale. This time she caught glimpses of meaning in the lay of the rubble at the chapel’s door and the papers that skittered around their feet. It was like seeing the pages of a book in a language she had just learned to read—but the vision moved on before she could take any meaning from them. She wanted to stop the images and understand what the ruins were trying to say, but she had no power over the dream.

  Asharre watched as Evenna and Falcien entered the chapel and dipped their hands into its ever-flowing bowl, touching wet fingertips to their brows and breasts in ritual obeisance. With the aid of the fiery mirror, she saw now that there were worms of corruption swimming in that bowl—tangled strands that looked like murky lakeweed and wrapped itself around their fingers when they touched the water. The black worms burrowed into their heads and hearts when the two Celestians made their gestures. Soon they were out of sight, vanished beneath skin.

  “So you see,” dead Falcien said, closing his hands and shattering the image, “we invited the corruption in without knowing. If we had been able to read the signs, if we had been able to see … I might have been spared. If you learn to find the patterns soon enough, Evenna might yet be. If you can follow them and find Aurandane.”

  “The solaros guessed rightly? It is in Shadefell?”

  Falcien exhaled. A stream of sparks poured from his nose, burning his septum to a crumbling wall of cinders. “It is there. The sword is hidden behind shadows and snares; it is no accident that the Sun Knights of old could not find it. But it is there. With my help, you will be able to evade the traps that ring it and carry it out safely. I will lay a trail of scales for you to follow … like the Storm Queen’s daughter finding her way back to the sea.” His mouth twisted at the last words, making a smile that looked more like a grimace. The corners of his lips bubbled and burst.

  “I do not know that story.”

  “No? It isn’t important. Listen to me, and learn the signs. Knowledge will keep you out of Maol’s traps.”

  “Unless this is the trap.” But as soon as she said it, Asharre knew that was wrong. It was Falcien’s appearance that was corrupted, not the man’s message. The Mad God cast a shadow into her sleep, turning his victims into mockeries of themselves in an attempt to frighten her away from heeding their warnings. By that deception, Maol meant to steal the one weapon she might use against him.

  “If this is a trap,” Falcien said, his teeth cracking apart in the heat, “you would be right not to trust me. But I think you know the truth.”

  Asharre nodded hesitantly. A tiny voice of doubt piped at the back of her mind, but she crushed it ruthlessly. They needed this. “What must I do?”

  “Listen. Only listen, and learn.” Falcien extended his hand. Broiled flesh sloughed from the blackened bones. She took it, forcing herself to ignore the ugliness. His touch scorched through the bandages on her injured palm, but there was a sweetness to the pain, like the burn she felt after hard exercise. It was a pain that would make her stronger. Euphoria washed through her, drowning that tiny voice of doubt.

  “Wake now,” he said, “wake, and when you return to sleep, we will begin.”

  Asharre opened her eyes.

  The last stars were setting through the western mountains. Sapphire and silver chased the snowy peaks opposite them. It was nearly dawn. The dream had lasted only a moment, yet the entire night had passed.

  She clenched her hand under the bandage. It didn’t hurt. Curious, Asharre unwrapped the knotted blanket.

  The gouges from the first night had healed, after a fashion. Instead of the deep holes, there were only four swollen blisters, red and fat as grapes, where the wounds had been. Four new blisters dappled the skin between them, making a lopsided ring, like two diamonds laid crosswise atop each other.

  Four over four. The thought was vaguely troubling. She’d seen a similar design before, somewhere … but it was of no consequence. She would have remembered if it were.

  The blisters made it hard for her to close her hand, but there was no pain and she could use her fingers, albeit awkwardly. She rewrapped the bandage around her palm and went to check on Evenna.

  The Illuminer was sleeping poorly again. Her teeth were bared in a rictus snarl; her hands were clenched into fists atop her blankets. She’d tossed and thrashed until her sweaty hair surrounded her like a halo of black snakes.

  Asharre shook her roughly. “Wake up.”

  Evenna moaned. Her eyes fluttered open, stark white. Asharre shook her again, harder. The Illuminer sat up, immediately dropping her head into her hands. Her shoulders trembled as she gasped for breath; she dug her fingers into her tangled locks, pulling hard.

  “Bad dreams?”

  “Nightmares.” Evenna shuddered, keeping her face buried between her arms. “I know … I know what we’re doing is important. Lives depend on it. But oh, Bright Lady. I don’t know if I can be strong enough.”

  “You are. We are. We have to be.” And we have more hope than you kno
w, Asharre wanted to add, but it was best not to speak of that until she was sure. Perhaps Falcien would not come back to her dreams; perhaps she had only imagined he’d help. She couldn’t promise anything. Not yet. “What did you dream?”

  “The forge again. It was burning bones, like before, but this time it held a tiny sun in its firepit. On the outside it was all white and gold glory, dazzling, but there was a black seed at its heart. I saw the people of Carden Vale cutting the bones from their own bodies, from their friends’, from their children to feed that fire. They prayed while they did it. They believed that they were serving Celestia’s will by their blasphemy. I saw it … and I knew it was true, even as the vision tried to use that truth to lead me astray.” The Illuminer wound the chain of her sun medallion over her right hand and pulled it tight. Its links bit white lines into her fingers. “The corruption is trying to reach me as I sleep. It’s trying to take me. It might succeed. If it does, if I should fail …”

  “You won’t,” Asharre said, more brusquely than she meant to. “You have your goddess and your faith. You have me.”

  Evenna looked up and smiled weakly, pushing sweat-straggled hair from her face. “Faith is good, but a plan is better. Isn’t that what you said? One must have a plan. This is mine. If I should fall, do one thing for me. Kill me. I can’t allow myself to be corrupted. I can’t … if the Mad God takes one of Celestia’s Blessed … you mustn’t allow it to happen, if I can’t stop it myself.”

  “How will I know?”

  “I don’t know. But you must. Promise me.”

  Asharre shifted her weight uncomfortably, feeling the heft of the caractan press against her back. It felt wrong to give that oath, as if she tempted fate by uttering the words … but that was foolishness. They were dead anyway if they failed. Or worse. Maybe death would seem a blessing then. “I promise.”

  “Thank you.” Evenna stood unsteadily. “I need to pray.”

  “Wait,” Asharre said. “Do you know the story of the Storm Queen’s daughter? The one with a trail of scales?”