by Dorian Hart
A half hour later, with the sun so low they had pulled out Aravia’s light-rods to help them see, Horn’s Company had followed the old woman’s instructions and wandered into a terrible place. No people lived or did business here, nor had they for many, many years by the look of things. The narrow shattered roads cowering beneath tall abandoned buildings had led them into a tiny plaza littered with bones. Some were animal bones, but plenty of them were human, including a little mound of skulls that appeared purposefully arranged. The warm air filled Kibi’s nose with a smell he was just as happy not to recognize. A few dark streaks of old spattered liquid were splashed up against the walls of the buildings.
Dranko picked up a cracked skull—not one of the human ones. Maybe a dog? “Lovely place. I bet the houses are cheap. We’d even have a view of the palace!”
It was true; a last bit of sunlight shone on the topmost turret of the Empress’s castle, lighting it up like a beacon. They could see it in the far distance, their view of it squeezed between two ancient buildings. As Kibi watched, the sun dropped another inch and the distant limestone gleam went dark.
“I don’t see an angel,” said Ernie, holding up his light-rod. “This must not be the place.”
“But we’re close,” said Tor. “We must be.”
“Stick together,” warned Grey Wolf. “Let’s keep moving.”
By the time they found what they sought, the shadows had darkened and thickened into a deep, gloomy dusk. Unseen things skittered about, always gone when one of them pointed a light-rod at the noise. It was hard to understand how a place could have such a powerful feeling of abandonment and watchfulness at the same time.
Before them was a stained statue of an angel, a marble figure that time and desecration had robbed of its splendor. It stood in the center of a small dry fountain. One of the wings had snapped from the angel’s back, and strange symbols had been scrawled on its arms, legs, and face. It was a noble creature, abandoned and left here to die of erosion and loneliness.
Their seven light-rods illuminated the plaza but filled the place as much with shadows as with light, and as Horn’s Company swept them back and forth across the walls and ground, it created a disturbing illusion of motion.
“This must be it,” said Grey Wolf. “Tor, let’s see the map. Dranko, you and Ernie keep your lights on the approaches. Everyone else, lights on the paper.”
They spread the map on one of the few unbroken flagstones. The answer was plain enough.
“That circle in the middle is the angel fountain, and the big arrow might be pointin’ to the door to the shrine.”
“Yes,” said Aravia. “I surmise that the arrow pointing off the circle indicates the direction that angel is facing. If that’s so, the entrance to the shrine is…” She shone her light-rod onto one of the derelict buildings. “…there.”
In a loose huddle they crossed the plaza, lights shining every which way to catch anything that might be sneaking up on them. They were in a pretty dreadful spot: no weapons, poking around in the most dangerous part of Djaw after sundown, and lit up like a bonfire for whatever lurked out in the darkness.
At the far side of the plaza, they arrived at a boarded-up building. They shone their lights through the gaps, revealing empty rooms choked with dead debris. Kibi could see some more old bones scattered on the floors. Nothing looked like it might belong in a godly place, even a god as reviled as Dralla.
“This can’t be it,” said Dranko. “I think someone led us here for a reason, but finding the shrine of Dralla wasn’t it. Stay sharp.”
“Look here.” Kibi pointed a few feet to the right. It was right odd to him, a featureless stretch of wall, no doors or windows, just stone. “This here wall’s got some stains and chunks out, but it ain’t quite the same type as what’s around it. It’s newer construction that someone did a hasty job a’ makin’ look older. I’d stake my reputation on it.” No buildings rose on the far side of it; perhaps it protected a park or large yard. He put his hand on the stone.
Beware, Kibilhathur.
Hm. Well, that was both a good sign and a bad one.
Why?
But the wall had nothing more to say.
“I think this is it,” he said. “The wall thinks it’s a bad idea for us to go through, but hells, we knew that already. This whole errand is a right bit a’ stupidity.”
“Can you get us to the other side?” asked Grey Wolf.
“Guess so. Just give the word, and I’ll see if the stone feels obligin’.”
“No point in waiting,” said Grey Wolf.
“Right.” Kibi placed both his palms flat against the wall.
We gotta get through to whatever’s on the far side. I’d be much obliged if you’d make us a tunnel.
A bit of time passed. Stone was never in a hurry to make up its mind. He could sense his friends gathered around, impatient, curious, nervous, but he focused on the wall.
It shall be as you wish, Kibilhathur. But beware. The stones of this place have long felt the heat of a malign power. Here on the surface, it is greater than you.
Kibi shook his head. I wish we had a choice.
A passage opened in the wall, the newly-set blocks of stone melting away on either side. As he pulled his hands back, something felt strange, a bit stiff, on the knuckle of his left forefinger. A rough gray patch of skin covered a small area on the back of his hand, like a discolored callus. It didn’t itch or hurt, and as he flexed his finger the stiffness eased.
“Good work, Kibi.” Grey Wolf held up his light-rod and led them through the wall.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Could be worse. Could be the Ventifact Colossus’s nose.
Ernie had made that into a kind of mantra, one he used more and more since leaving Tal Hae. The inside of the Delfirian tent. The rush through the Kivian Arch with a spear sticking out of his leg. The ambush in Trev-Lyndyn. All of those were certainly unpleasant spots to be in, but were they any worse than steering a flying carpet almost into the nose of a giant turtle? He took some comfort from the thought, despite suspecting that he was fooling himself. It helped that Tor stood by his side.
A strange thing happened to the light from their rods as they stepped through the gap in the wall. Aravia’s magical radiance became dim, but not in a way that made sense. The rods were just as bright as always in their hands, but a dozen feet out their light abruptly became dampened, as though the darkness were actively pushing back against it, stifling it. It put them all in a bubble of light, limiting what they could see to maybe twenty feet out. Kibi had been right; his opening led not into a building but something akin to a courtyard. Beyond that loomed a troubling black mystery.
The dirt beneath their feet was spotted here and there with sad tufts of weeds. Ernie tiptoed, grimacing, over numerous little heaps of animal scat. Slowly they crept inward, hoping to see something—a building, a person, anything—that could offer a clue about the Crosser’s Maze.
“Keep an eye out for animals,” said Grey Wolf, his voice pitched low. “And stay together. I know we’d search faster if we split up, but the risk is too great. I think we should—”
A terrible howl went up from out in the darkness, somewhere far too close for Ernie’s liking. He inched closer to Tor and sensed the entire group shrink back. As though a dam of horrors had broken, more howls sounded from all directions (including behind them!) along with a ruckus of snarls, growls, hoots, chitters, and squeaks. All around, just beyond their bubble of light, things were moving, leaping, slithering, hemming them in. Ernie grabbed instinctively for Pyknite, his hand fumbling through the space where he’d have liked to feel its grip. He settled for drawing his little knife, woefully inadequate.
The glimpses of the creatures at the edge of his vision were mightily disturbing. Too many eyes, or not enough. Mismatched limbs. Sharp, crooked teeth. Lolling tongues. They put Ernie in mind of the gopher bugs, which made him think of Mrs. Horn. Would she be telling him to stay positive right now?
/> She’d be telling me to run away as fast as my legs could carry me.
The seven of them formed up in a ring, backs inward, knives and light-rods thrust out, ready to repel the attack from the shadows that seemed inevitable.
“Our retreat’s cut off,” said Grey Wolf, loudly so they could hear him. “We’ll have to carve our way out of this, if it comes to it. Be ready to bolt, but wait for my signal. They haven’t attacked yet, and somebody with thumbs built that wall.”
A ridiculous image sprang to Ernie’s mind, of a ten-foot-tall monster with far too many thumbs, egging on this horde of lesser abominations, playing with its food. No wonder Burning Candle had been so put off by the very name of Dralla!
“They’re not comin’ full into the light,” said Kibi. “Maybe we can just back slowly on out a’ here.”
“No!” Grey Wolf’s voice carried equal parts anger and frustration. “Not yet! I don’t want to leave without getting what we came for.”
Some little flapping thing tumbled into their illuminated circle, a dark green bat with three legs and enormous fangs. It hissed at them before skittering back into the furious whirl of its kind.
Could be the turtle’s nose. Could be the turtle’s nose.
To Ernie’s left, Dranko looked nervous but determined. To his right, Morningstar was terribly shaken, almost panicked. She whispered, “Goddess of Night, hear my prayer, and cloak us in your darkness.”
Her invisibility! They were outdoors at night, but would it work? And wouldn’t their lights give them away? Maybe the monsters would think they had teleported away and slink back to the darkness.
Goddess of Night, hear my—
“NO!”
The voice was a horrible angry shriek, rising above the cacophony of the monsters. The creatures ceased their frenzied noises, and Morningstar cried out. She fell to her knees, her body trembling.
“No!” Now the voice was quieter, but frighteningly intense. Something walked toward them, something with a shambling, lopsided gait. It moved unevenly into their pitiful circle of light, squeezing through the half-glimpsed horde of monsters as though the swarm gave birth to it. Aravia’s light-rods dimmed further in its presence.
Squinting into the near-darkness, Ernie saw that “it” was a man, a twisted hunchback with ragged, greasy hair and a hideous bulging forehead that obscured his left eye. He leaned on a long thin plank with a splintered edge, as though he had broken off the edge of a door to use as a staff.
“You.” He pointed a bent finger at Morningstar. “You would invoke your Ellish mischief here? Most unwise. Most unwise.”
His voice was far worse than the mindless chatter of his menagerie. Its volume rose and fell, its tone switching from smooth to grating even in the middle of words, as if the man couldn’t control it or didn’t care to. The sound of it struck Ernie’s ears like a spray of glass slivers.
“On your belly, Ellish worm!” He tilted the head of his stick toward the ground, and Morningstar fell onto her stomach as though pushed.
“Stop it!” said Grey Wolf. “Let her—”
“Guests who wish not to be EATEN will be QUIET!” Madness swirled in his one good eye. “Ellish insect, tell me your name.”
“Morningstar.” Her voice was a tormented wheeze.
“Morningstar. How revolting. Now, Morningstar, I want you to apologize. Apologize for blaspheming on Dralla’s beloved soil.”
For a heartbeat Morningstar said nothing, not out of defiance, but because she gasped for breath.
“NOW!” The hunchback lowered his staff further, and Morningstar’s face slammed into the foul dirt. Tor took a step forward, but Kibi put a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m…sorry…I didn’t know…” Morningstar’s words were so quiet, so broken, would the man even hear them?
“Good. But keep your face to the earth, as is fitting. I will treat with your betters.”
He bowed low, propping himself up with the stick, his body bending sideways. “I am Shreen the Fair, Night Master of Dralla. Have you come to offer yourselves as sacrifices? My pets are always hungry.”
Dranko would likely say something sarcastic that might enrage Shreen further, but Grey Wolf stepped forward. He would be no better; his face was red as he looked angrily down at Morningstar, probably getting ready to issue a furious demand that would get them all devoured. “If you—”
Ernie jumped to Grey Wolf’s side and interrupted. “We beg your pardon, Night Master! We’re here because we need to ask you something, something very important. The whole world is at stake, including Djaw!”
Grey Wolf turned and gave him a withering look.
Shreen stumped a few steps closer; the foul smell rolling off him nearly knocked Ernie over. “The whole world? And what might I know that could change the fate of Spira?”
Ernie consciously avoided looking back at Grey Wolf. “We seek information about the Crosser’s Maze. Have you heard of it?”
Shreen the Fair licked his lips; his tongue was as misshapen as the rest of him, a twist of glistening black. Ernie tried not to recoil.
“I might have known,” said Shreen, and for once all his words were quiet.
“Er, might have known what?”
“There is a book of the ancient world,” said Shreen. “Labyrinthine it is called. It is said to hold the key to finding the Crosser’s Maze, an artifact of limitless power and possibility. It is a book full of indecipherable secrets that none have broken. And you are here to take it from me.”
“Certainly not!” said Ernie. “We are not here to steal. We only want to look in the book or buy it from you.” He belatedly wondered how many miracs they still had from Dranko’s opal.
“Such nobility.” Shreen’s unstable voice made it impossible to gauge his sincerity. “But I have bad news for you. A month past, someone else paid me a visit, someone who lacked your scruples. She took Labyrinthine by force. It seems that interest in the Crosser’s Maze runs high this season.”
Grey Wolf shouldered in front of Ernie. “Who took it from you? Do you know? Tell us!”
Shreen quirked his neck to aim his head at Grey Wolf, then pointed his thin plank at Morningstar, still prone, her face mashed into the ground. “Making demands in your situation seems poor judgment, don’t you think?” Morningstar shifted her body but couldn’t take any pressure from her face. She groaned with pain, eyes shut tight.
Ernie jumped in. “Please, Night Master. We do not wish to offend, but our journey just to find you has been long and difficult. Would you be willing to share the name of the thief?”
Shreen’s mouth bent into something like a smile. “Better. Better. Oh, yes. She called herself Lapis.” His voice dipped down to a whisper, then rose to a sudden shriek. “And she dared to wield her power here, in my shrine! Dralla will see Lapis fed to her children before all is done!”
Lapis! All of this effort spent and wasted, crossing Kivia in search of this place, only to have been beaten. And by a month! What hope had they of catching her, when she knew her destination while they stumbled ahead blindly? It wasn’t fair!
Aravia spoke up for the first time since entering the shrine. “Can you tell us what was in the book? A transcription would be preferable; we can leave you in peace and crack its secrets ourselves.”
“Please,” added Ernie. Aravia always sounded imperious, and if Shreen forced Morningstar’s head any lower, her nose would break.
Shreen lifted his stick and pointed it at Ernie’s chest. “You. You seem the only one here interested in showing me due respect. Until I say otherwise, I wish that only you speak for your sorry rabble. The rest of you shall remain silent.” He thrust his bristly potato-shaped chin at Morningstar. “Unless you wish me to cave in her skull.”
Ernie gulped. What had he done? What could he do? Without even turning his head, he could feel Grey Wolf’s eyes on him.
“What is your name, little man?”
“Ernest. Ernest Roundhill.”
“Ernest
Roundhill. A weakling’s name. Are you a weakling, Ernest?”
What kind of answer did this creature want? He almost answered “yes” on instinct but checked himself. A weakling would never have made it this far. “I don’t consider myself one, no, but that’s a judgment I leave to others.”
Shreen made a grunting noise, impossible to interpret. “Ernest, your friend asks if I could recite to you what was in Labyrinthine. I cannot. But do not despair! There is nothing in that book that would have helped you.”
“But—”
“Long has that tome been in our vault, penned centuries ago by a heretic afflicted with lunacy. Lapis came to seize it full of confidence in its aged riddles, but she was mistaken. Oh, yes, very much mistaken. I allowed her to take it, knowing it would send her into a maze of pathways, all of them wrong.”
Was that good news or bad? Good, in that Lapis wouldn’t get her hands on the maze, but bad in that the only narrow thread of hope they had was that Aravia could find a way to track Lapis despite her head start. Now it looked as though the archmagi’s one meager clue had led them only to a nasty dead end.
“But…” Shreen graced him with that repulsive smile. “I believe we can still help each other.”
“You…you do?”
“Indeed. Ernest Roundhill, the location of the Crosser’s Maze has been a secret handed down through generations of Night Masters. It was never written down in a book that a thief might walk off with. No, I have it right here.” He tapped his temple with a claw-like finger. “Pity poor Lapis. All she had to do was ask. Would you like to ask, Ernest Roundhill?”
Ernie inhaled sharply as hope was rekindled. “Yes! Please, Night Master, would you share with us the location of the Crosser’s Maze?”
“I would. And that is how I can help you. But I said we could help each other. If I tell you what I know about the maze, there are two things I would like in return.”