by JA Hutson
Bell takes her father gently by the elbow. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” she says, guiding him inside. Deliah and I share a look and follow.
The interior of Poz’s home more resembles a warehouse than a residence. The space is large and open, with high ceilings. The smoke has mostly dissipated, but tendrils of it still slither along the floor like hazy serpents. A long table cluttered with all sorts of alchemical and scientific apparatus is in the center of the room, and whatever mishap just occurred looks to have been centered here. From the shards of glass everywhere, Poz must have had Fortune’s own luck in avoiding getting cut.
“Please sit,” Poz says, motioning us towards a corner of his laboratory where there is a collection of overstuffed divans and chairs surrounding a mother-of-pearl inlaid tea table. It looks incongruous in this space, like something that might be found in the drawing room of a very old and very rich great aunt.
Bell helps her father into one of the chairs and then takes a seat on a nearby footstool. Deliah appears a moment later, having found a clean wet cloth somewhere among this devastation, and hands it to the old man.
“Thank you, my dear,” Poz says. He wipes at his face, but just seems to smear around the grime. Then he sets the filthy cloth in his lap and smiles broadly at his daughter.
“I was so worried with you over the mountains in Zim, my dear. Of course I trusted Talin here to take care of you, but who knows just how long these ridiculous hostilities will persist?”
Bell lays an affectionate hand on her father’s knee. “What happened, Papa? Why did the Purple Emperor come over the Wall?”
Poz shrugs. “What common man can hope to understand the machinations of the powerful? One moment we are at peace, and the next, war. I heard no rumors of discord between Ysala and Zim.”
Bell catches my eye and frowns. I can imagine what that means, and Poz seems to confirm what we’re thinking a moment later.
“My neighbor Mistress Garples has a son that serves in the Trusts at the right hand of the Baron, and he claims that this is some sort of religious war. A holy man whispers into the ear of the emperor.”
The Prophet. He must have somehow discovered that Valyra had been spirited away to Ysala by the Contessa. His attempt to kidnap the weaver from the Umbra with the Swords and Shields of Zim failed, and so this time he is leaving nothing to chance.
“The Zimani want something in the city, Mistress Garples insists. It’s widely held that there was a deadline to turn it over, and that this is nearly passed. An attack, most seem to think, is imminent.”
Bell gestures at the destroyed laboratory. “And this is what you’re doing in your final hours?”
Poz pulls on his charred whiskers. “The Trusts have asked all the scientists in the city to find some advantage for our armies. I was concocting a novel form of explosive based on my observations and experiments with glitter.”
Bell groans in dismay, and I feel a little pang of fear at the mention of the dangerous substance.
“It’s too bad you destroyed what we brought out of the black sand desert, Talin. It would be quite useful right now.”
“Only useful if we want to deny the emperor by blowing up the city,” Bell says
Poz blinks at his daughter through his begrimed glasses. “I’ve missed you so much, my dear.” He runs his fingers through his hair, raising a cloud of dust. “Now, I have to know what happened to you while you were away. As delighted as I am to see you, I would humbly suggest you egress by means of the same ingress by which you arrived and flee as far as you can before the emperor gives the order to assault the city walls.” Frowning, he gazes around his destroyed laboratory. “It seems no miracle weapon is forthcoming, I’m afraid.”
Bell squeezes her father’s knee. “Papa, I will tell you everything, I promise. But I have to go with Talin right now. This war . . . I know what started it, and maybe that means we can bring about its end. There’s very little time, though.” She stands. “If we fail and the Zimani attack . . . stay inside. They want something very specific, and I doubt they will murder innocents. They do call themselves ‘Grand and Enlightened’, after all.”
Poz purses his lips, and for a moment he looks like he is going to try and argue with his daughter. Then he sighs and nods. “I want you to stay here with me, my dear, but I know I can offer scant true protection. If you think you have some way of averting this looming disaster, by the Pen you must try.” He leans over to embrace her fiercely. “Be safe, my love.”
Bell is quiet as we rush through Ysala towards where the spires and crenellations of the richer districts are picked out against the night sky. The cobbled streets here are broader than the tangle we’ve just emerged from and also well-lit by sputtering lamps. Trust warriors patrol in greater numbers, eyeing us suspiciously as we hurry past.
“Are you all right?”
Bell glances at me, and I can see the emotion roiling in her. “He needs me,” she says. “I know he’s a grown man, and my father . . . but without me he’ll eventually hurt himself. You saw his laboratory. He’s the most brilliant and the most foolish man I’ve ever known. And even if he doesn’t blow himself up, there’s no way the city walls will hold . . .” Her words trail away as she wipes angrily at her eyes.
“There must be a way to appease the Emperor. I was there, in the Zimani court – he did not seem an unreasonable man. If we rescue Valyra and leave the city and make it known to the Emperor or the Prophet that she’s not here, there will be no reason for them to attack.”
I hope. Bell nods at my words, looking only half convinced.
She leads us to an intricately wrought copper gate, beyond which a broad avenue cuts through a vast sculpted garden. Fizzing glowspheres are strung upon the wires that flank this approach, eventually disappearing into a rambling old mansion hunched in the dim distance. The manse of the Gilded Lynx Trust.
Guards with silver cats pinned to their tunics cross their halberds as we approach. Their eyes widen when they realize a lamias is among us.
Bell steps forward and puts her hands on her hips. There’s no trace of how upset she was not long ago. “We need to see the Contessa,” she says imperiously.
The guards share a quick glance. One of them swallows nervously. “She said she don’t want to be disturbed.”
I pull from one of my bags the folded note Fen Poria left for us after she vanished with Valyra. “We have an invitation.”
The guard who spoke takes the note tentatively and moves a few steps to the left so that he stands at the edge of one of the light puddles. His lips move as he reads what it contains – I can only imagine most of what the Contessa wrote is lost on him, but it does quite explicitly invite us to her manse. When the guard finishes, he walks back towards us and hands me the note. Without a word he moves to unbar the gate, and after a moment of stunned surprise his compatriot joins him.
As we traverse the length of the long avenue leading up to the manse, I briefly worry how Xela will find her way through the gate, but I shouldn’t have been concerned as while we’re climbing the steps up to the mansion’s ornate doors she suddenly emerges from the darkness. The Trust warriors standing beside the entrance shout and scrabble for their weapons, but she quiets them with a wave of her hand.
“Kellin. Valash. You know me.”
“Mistress Xela,” one of the guards stammers, ducking his head. “Welcome back.” Without tearing his eyes from the shadowdancer he raps frantically on the door. It’s wrenched open moments later by a cross-looking, beautiful boy with porcelain skin who I vaguely remember as the castellan from the first time I visited the lair of the Gilded Lynx.
“What?” he snarls, and then he sees us standing on the threshold. He gapes at us, then recovers and offers a slight bow. “Ah. I see. Master Talin, the Contessa has been expecting you . . . though not so late. Nevertheless, she is very interested to receive you.” He snaps his fingers and an even younger girl materializes beside him. “Go inform the mistress that Xela and Ta
lin have returned.” She scurries away, and the castellan sweeps out his arm, inviting us to enter.
The last time I was in this manse, the boy led us down dark-paneled hallways lined with glowering portraits, and the Contessa received us in her glass-enclosed garden full of exotic blossoms and colorful beasts. This time we descend wide stone stairs that spiral surprisingly deep beneath the house, the way lit by blue-flamed torches, until we emerge into a huge vaulted chamber. Perhaps this was once a crypt or a wine cellar, but now it is filled with countless statues: they are mostly human and life-sized, but rather than depicting moments of heroic conquest or deep introspection, the figures have been captured in pain and fear. Some of them have their arms raised as if to ward away some doom descending from above, others are cowering, and a few are even writhing on the floor or curled up like they are protecting themselves from a beating. In the center of the chamber a space has been cleared, the other statues pushed back so that one can be isolated from the rest. It’s a girl on her knees, her palms pressed together in front of her as if she’s begging or pleading for mercy. Circling her is a woman in a smock smeared with stone dust, her long black hair with its streak of white tangled and matted with sweat. She’s holding a hammer and a chisel, and she glances up as we reach the bottom of the stairs.
It’s the Contessa. She’s not wearing her white mask, but I remember what she looked like from when she had revealed herself after the Marquis had been swallowed by the Cleansing Flame. Her piercing silver eyes find mine, and a slight smile curves her mouth. Then she returns her attention to her work, examining the statue she has been chiseling with a critical eye.
“Welcome,” she says loudly, her voice echoing in the great chamber. “Though you are late.”
I stride towards her through the maze of suffering stone figures, my boots ringing upon the tiled floor. My hand is on the hilt of my sword, and I glimpse shadowy figures keeping pace with me as I approach their mistress.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t have locked the door behind Fen Poria,” I say through gritted teeth, emerging from the statues and halting at the edge of the cleared space.
The Contessa brushes back a lock of dark hair that has fallen across her face. She takes the measure of my anger and shakes her head ruefully.
“If you knew yourself as I know you, you’d have done the same. In fact, I would not have been unjustified in putting a crossbow bolt through your skull the first time you came here.”
Deliah and Bell appear beside me. Xela is nowhere to be seen, but I’m sure she’s lurking.
“So why didn’t you?”
The Contessa taps the statue beside her gently with her hammer, cocking her head as she listens to the sound it makes. “Because the amnesia you claimed to have was so convincing.”
“That’s because it’s real,” I growl.
“And lucky for you, as it’s the only reason you’re still alive.”
“I wronged you.”
The Contessa’s brow draws down, as if she is considering this carefully. “No, not truly. I always found you rather intriguing, to be honest, if a bit brooding. Or perhaps I’m confusing you with your brother – you two were always inseparable.”
“My brother?”
The Contessa leans closer to the statue again, as if distracted by something she’s suddenly noticed. “Yes, Talin.”
That hits me like a blow to the gut. “Talin is my brother’s name?” So it’s true.
“Of course,” the Contessa murmurs, laying her hammer on the stone cheek of the maiden. “He’s your older brother. A famous warlord of our tribe – you grew up in his shadow. You were his shadow, in truth. When you introduced yourself as him I thought at first you’d had some breakdown and were trying to become him. Imagine my surprise when, after speaking with the weaver months later, I realized you adopting his name was all just some incredible coincidence.”
“Where is she?”
“Valyra? She is safe. Though if Ezekal and his Zimani puppets decide to attack, I don’t hold out much hope for her staying that way.”
“Take me to her.”
“Very well,” the Contessa says, then strikes the cheek of the statue sharply. The stone cracks, and a chunk sloughs away, tumbling to the floor. Beneath is smooth pink flesh. Another precise tap and a larger fragment fractures; the Contessa digs her fingers under the edge of the piece and tugs, and the face of the statue pulls away like a mask coming off. A girl’s flesh and blood features are revealed – her eyes are closed, her lips slightly parted.
“Tainted saints,” Deliah whispers as the Contessa slaps the girl lightly on the cheek. The poor soul’s eyes snap open as if she’s suddenly been startled awake. She takes in what’s around her, her gaze finally alighting on the Contessa. Then she starts to scream.
The hammer and chisel fall to the floor with a clatter. Brushing her hands clean, the Contessa strides in the opposite direction.
“Come,” she calls back to us over the girl’s rising hysteria. “We have much to discuss.”
The anguished cries fade as we follow the Contessa through a warren of small passages. Eventually these terminate at an ancient, iron-banded door. The stone in this section of the catacombs seems older, more rough-hewn, as if the manse above was built upon the bones of a much older structure. The leader of the Gilded Lynx glances back at us with an unreadable expression, then with a theatrical flourish she swings the door wide and motions for us to enter.
The interior is surprisingly well appointed: a comforting fire blazes in a cobbled hearth, sending waves of heat rolling over a scattering of plush chairs. Valyra leaps to her feet as we enter, nearly upsetting the tray of sweets that had been placed on a low table.
“Talin!” she cries, rushing over to enfold me in an embrace.
“Valyra, thank the gods,” I murmur.
She pulls back, looking me up and down. “You haven’t changed since I last saw you,” she says with a quizzical expression, her hand drifting to a cut on my cheek that must have happened during my fight beneath the Umbra. “But that was so long ago.”
“Not for us.” It has been, in truth, less than a day for me since I saw her last.
“I’m interested about that,” the Contessa says, gliding into the chamber and gracefully seating herself in a chair. “I expected you months ago. What was the delay?”
“We . . .” My words trail away as Fen Poria saunters into the chamber through another door. The feral smirks at me and flops down in a chair, her leg thrown casually over one of the ornate gilded armrests.
“You,” I say coldly. “You betrayed us.”
The feral shrugs, picking at something between her teeth. “Never was really working for you, kesabi.” She gives me an infuriating smile as she flicks away whatever she has dug out.
I take a menacing step toward Fen Poria, but stop as the Contessa clears her throat loudly.
“Fen Poria was in my employ, and as you can see Valyra has not been harmed.”
This is true. Valyra beneath the Umbra had been disoriented, as if she was trapped in a waking dream. Xela had claimed that the monastery of the shadowdancers had such an effect on those who dwelled within it.
Now the weaver seems much better. She looks like the girl I opened my eyes to in the clan hold of the Coppers. The one that saved my life. Her eyes are bright, unclouded by whatever had been tainting her.
I turn back to the Contessa. “Why did you kidnap her?”
She pours herself a glass of wine from a silver decanter on the table. “I did not trust you,” she says simply. After taking a sip, she watches me from over the rim.
“Why?”
“Because I know you, Alesk.”
That name again. It is what the silver-eyed stranger called me when he visited me in the mucker’s barracks. The one who claimed to be my brother . . . and the true Talin.
“That’s not his name,” Bell says uncertainly, taking the last of the seats. Deliah moves behind her, resting her hands on the gilt frame of the
chair. There is no sign of Xela, but I know she’s around.
“Oh, but it is, child,” the Contessa says, swirling her wine. “As I said, Talin is his brother’s name. The weaver here called him that because his sibling was a famous warrior – so famous that even after centuries his legend was still being told among the survivors of our world.”
“Our world,” I say softly. “So you also fled from the Shriven.”
The Contessa fixes me with her silver eyes. “Yes. We share the same tribe, though we’ve splintered somewhat since arriving here.”
“Tell me everything.”
The Contessa is quiet for a moment, watching me closely. I can tell that much is churning behind her gaze, as if she’s deciding what secrets she should impart. Finally, she sighs and sits back.
“Since you know nothing, I must start at the beginning.” She takes another unhurried sip, swallowing slowly. Then she closes her eyes and begins to speak. “You have seen the red wastes, I know. But the world we came from was not always like that. Terithia, we called it. Once it was lush and green, like this one. There were oceans and forests and flowers. It was not a perfect land, of course. But it was alive.”
Her eyes open again, and it seems like she is staring at something very far away. “There were thirteen tribes in our world, separated by the colors of their eyes: Iron and Copper and Gold and Obsidian and so forth. Each tribe had a special duty that was unique to them – for us Silvers, we were the caretakers of the doorways between the worlds. We forged the keys that opened the paths and controlled access to our sister realms. I was a Mistress of the Keys, one of five. Ezekal was a Master. There were three others, but they did not survive the Winnowing.”
“Ezekal,” I say slowly, remembering the bearded man with the stormy eyes. “You mean the Prophet.”
The Contessa frowns. “You may know him as the Prophet, but the only god he believes in is himself. He knows devils are real, though.” She takes another sip of her wine. “We all do.”