The Book of the Night

by Pearl North

  Stories were made of words, and words were made of sounds. Song and Story. Hilloa’s sticks were still vibrations, no matter what you called them. It was all rhythm, movement, life. Strings of words, thoughts, intentions, and wishes all wound together to form sinuous vines which in turn formed everything. They were songlines, the Name of the Ocean, the Last Wind of the World. They were the fabric of existence.

  Only something was wrong with them. They had gaps in them, and in other places they had thickened where more had been added that did not belong. Breaks, scar tissue. He focused on one of those breaks and very nearly fell through it, into another dimension entirely. He glimpsed it in the distance: a flat desert plain and a great metal sphere. He clung to the edge of a letter, one in a language he did not recognize, his hands screaming. He used the pain as a rope, to connect with the other half of the broken letter, making up the portion that had been erased. The effort left him exhausted, drained of more than just strength. But it wasn’t enough. The rents were everywhere. If he tried to mend them all he would die.

  Everything shook and he opened his eyes. He had been crawling, all this time. Back in his body, the pain of his hands was overwhelming. He gasped. Tears ran down his face and dripped onto the ground. Where they landed, green things sprouted. Kip’s story was coming true. He had made it so with the pen. Was that better because it was a story that was already told in this world, or worse, or of no consequence either way?

  Ahead of him he saw Haly and Clauda at the end of the line. He was almost there. He glanced behind him. Flowers and grasses grew in a trail behind him. He came at last to the end of the line. There was the rock that would be his sacrificial altar, and beside it stood Thela, dressed in the red robe of the Destroyer, with the scythe in her hand.

  19

  Sacrifice

  He knelt before Thela and she lifted him up. She kissed him and held him close. “Your gift will bring prosperity to the whole land.”

  Over her shoulder, Po saw a trail of flowers and vines sprouting up where he had crawled. He didn’t want to die, but at least this time her words were not just symbolic. He lay down upon the altar stone, his eyes meeting hers as she raised the scythe.

  The world flickered to its negative image again. A thunderclap rang out and an arc of argent fire split the sky. At first it looked like a winding arc of lightning running from horizon to horizon, but then the fissure widened, pushing back the darkness on both sides. Thela looked up and her mouth opened in shock. “Stop!” shouted Haly. Turning his head, Po could see her running toward them. Over her shoulder she called out to Clauda, “Get Nod.”

  The plants he had brought to life with his tears withered and died. Haly was acting like Haly again. And behind her, there was a disturbance and he heard Selene yelling something he could not make out. Everything that had been written with the pen was unraveling. Which meant he did not have to obey Thela, either.

  The scythe whistled through the air and Po rolled to the side. The blade missed his neck but he felt a sharp pain as it nicked his cheek. “Lie still!” yelled Thela.

  Po jumped to his feet. Over her shoulder he saw three robed figures striding down the slope of the valley toward him. Amid all the reversed hues, they alone looked normal. Their robes were brown, their faces tan—three faces he never thought he’d see again.

  Thela set the scythe aside and pulled the pen from her robe.

  Po plowed into her, knocking them both to the ground. As they fell he saw the pen fly from her hand.

  She landed on his right hand and he blacked out from the pain. When he opened his eyes again, he was on his back, on the altar stone. She stood above him with the scythe, and beyond her, the sky was tearing itself apart. The scintillating line of lightning had widened to a river, ever growing, the argent light pushing back the darkness on both sides. Rain fell, but it was not rain. Flakes of paper drifted down, like ash or snow. One landed on his nose and he briefly saw the word “and” before it crumbled to dust.

  Thela raised the scythe. “Don’t worry, Po,” she said. “Your sacrifice will put all this chaos to an end. I’ve written that it will be so.”

  Po tried to roll away but she was standing on his arm. He closed his eyes. He heard a clatter and a scream, and felt a piercing pain in his shoulder. His shoulder?

  “Yammon’s tonsils, Jan, you almost killed him yourself.”

  “Sorry. My hand slipped.”

  He knew those voices. The pressure on his arm was gone. He sat up. Jan and Baris each had Queen Thela by one arm, and Hilloa knelt by his side. All three of them looked normal, unlike everything else. Thela struggled in their grip but they did not let go. Jan wrested the scythe from Thela’s hands and threw it to the ground.

  Po looked at Hilloa. She reached out and touched his face. Her hand was warm. “You’re back,” he said.

  She smiled. “We thought we found you, and got caught by Thela, but now … here we are.” She frowned. “Where are we, anyway?”

  Po couldn’t answer her. He pulled her to him and held her tight, burying his face in her hair. He breathed in the smell of her. She was alive.

  “No! It’s mine!” cried Thela. Hilloa pulled away and Po looked up to see Haly holding the pen and Thela struggling in Jan and Baris’s grip. Thela broke away and threw herself at Haly. She wrapped her hands around Haly’s neck, choking her. “Give it to me.”

  Po picked up the scythe, ignoring the agony that lanced up his arms as he used his fingers to grip the haft.

  The women rolled over and over. His grip on the scythe was clumsy. He was just as likely to do Haly harm as Thela. He dropped the implement and wrapped his arms around Thela, crying out as the struggling bodies bumped and bashed his barely mended bones. He pulled Thela away and held her tight as she struggled. His arms were wrapped tightly around her rib cage. He was taller than her, and stronger. It worked. Haly got to her feet, breathing hard.

  “No!” Thela fought and kicked and writhed as Haly stepped back, holding the pen. “You abomination!” Thela screamed at him. He had no answer for that.

  The ground beneath them shook. Po stumbled. Thela landed a foot hard on his instep. He gasped and she broke free and lunged at Haly, who was a few paces away, examining the pen. “Look out!” shouted Po, and leaped after Thela.

  Haly dodged to one side. Thela tried to swerve to grab the pen from her but Po collided with her before she could turn. Thela went tumbling toward the altar stone. The ground shook again and she fell. Po grabbed for her but his hands, which had endured a great deal already, simply could not grasp her in time. They clutched at empty air. There was a horrible, slicing, crunching sound and the blade of the scythe poked out the front of Thela’s robe, blood dripping from its blade.

  Thela stared at him, astonished. She reached for him and he went to her.

  “Ithalia.”

  She blinked and gave the faintest of nods. “I can see now. If I could just have stayed Ithalia.”

  He nodded. Footsteps crunched behind him and he saw Selene standing there. “Mother.”

  Po moved aside and Selene took her mother’s hand. “I’m sorry,” said Thela. “I didn’t understand, but now … now I see…” Thela stared at Selene until the light went out of her eyes.

  Selene dropped her hand and turned to Po.

  “I’m sorry, Selene, I—”

  She shook her head. “No. Not another word of apology from you.” And then she grabbed him, held him tight, her tears damp against his shoulder. “Seven Tales, we almost killed you.”

  The ground beneath them heaved and they fell to their knees. “We’re all going to die if this keeps up,” he said.

  “What is it? What’s happening?”

  He was about to try to encapsulate everything he knew about the pen, but that was when Clauda showed up with Nod.

  The creature took one look at Po and pointed at him. “He must finish what he began.”

  Haly, Clauda, and Selene all looked at Po.

  “I don’t know
what he means,” he said.

  “Mend the letters,” said Nod, “and destroy the pen.”

  A shiver ran through Po. He stared at Nod. “I can’t, there are too many. It hurts too much. I’ll—”

  “Nod will help.”

  Would Nod prevent him from dying? Po doubted it. Haly, Clauda, and Selene were looking between Po and Nod. “What are you talking about?” said Selene.

  Po didn’t want to explain it to them. He wasn’t sure if that was because they’d ask it of him also, or try to talk him out of it. He reached out and put his hand on Nod’s head. He tried to breathe with Nod. Nod did not breathe, but the kinesthetic trance came over him all the same and he knew that what they all saw as Nod, whether plural or singular, was really just the extrusion into this plane of existence of a much, much larger being. If this could be done, Nod would make it possible.

  The ground shook again and another arc of lightning joined the first, quartering the sky now. “He must hurry!”

  Po nodded. “Put him on my back,” Po told Clauda, getting to his hands and knees.

  “But your hands!” said Haly.

  It didn’t matter. The pain was now so constant, he hardly noticed the slicing sensation as his fingers touched the ground. No, he still did not want to die, but at least this was for something more than a queen’s ego and a nation’s pride. Po breathed with the world and gave her broken body his pain, his blood, his love, and his life.

  * * *

  Haly watched as Po, on his hands and knees, closed his eyes and began to crawl. Nod rode on his shoulders, carrying the pen. It was the oddest spectacle of all the many bizarre things she had witnessed that day.

  At first, whatever they were doing seemed to have no effect. But gradually the tremors in the earth ceased and the sky began to close up again. And then the light returned to normal.

  That was when they noticed that other things were returning as well. The lushness of the land, for instance, and something else much more troubling. Haly caught herself thinking how appropriate it was that Po gave himself to the land like a true Barley King. She started and grabbed Selene by the arm.

  Selene returned an equally horrified look. “I just thought that I should spend the rest of my days creating a perfect statue of my mother, in gold, and carry it about from village to village so all might revere her.”

  Clauda glanced between both of them. “The changes Queen Thela wrought with the pen are reasserting themselves now that the destabilization is being mended.” Haly looked about at the assembled crowd. Many people were looking torn, confused.

  A chill ran through Haly. “Where are Baris, Hilloa, and Jan?”

  They looked about, but could not find them.

  “Nod,” she shouted, and ran in the direction of Po’s hunched form.

  If anything, the vegetation around Po, and wherever he had been, was the thickest of all. Vines and shoots wrapped around his arms and legs, continually being uprooted and sprouting again when he moved.

  Nod glared at her as she approached. “She must not interfere!”

  “But Nod, everything the pen wrought is coming back.”

  “Yes, well, if beasties do not like what they write then perhaps they should choose some less permanent place to experiment.”

  “But it wasn’t us, Nod. It was Queen Thela. It was all Queen Thela.”

  “Huh. She does not know as much as she thinks she does.”

  “You’re right. But please, can you just … undo what she wrote? Can you do that?”

  “You’ll make the land barren again,” said Clauda.

  “But we’re losing who we are!”

  “You want to retain your true nature?”

  “Yes!”

  “Very well, then.” Using both hands, Nod wrote with the pen, “The things Thela Tadamos wrote with her pen will not change the basic nature of those they concern.”

  “That’s … is that…?”

  “That’s better,” said Selene.

  Nod lifted the pen again.

  “Nod, what are you—”

  “If beasties keep tinkering this boy will die for nothing. Is that what she wants?”

  “No!”

  Nod wrote, “The pen no longer exists.”

  And it was gone.

  “Wait!” cried Haly. “Hilloa, Baris, and Jan! Where did they go?”

  “They’re gone,” said Selene. “Gone.”

  “That’s done now,” said Nod. “No more back and forth. He is almost finished. Not so many gaps left now, but he needs Nod’s help and Nod can only do this from the outside. No getting back in again, either. I must go while there is still space.” He looked up at Haly. “Thank you for my story.” And with that, he became smaller and smaller, until he disappeared.

  * * *

  This was the last of the repairs, and Po was at the end of all that he had to offer. He reached across the gap in existence with splintered fingers and pulled the ends of the broken strands together. As they joined, he felt the Song, once more in tune, thrumming through the whole of being. He let go, and let it take him.

  20

  Journey to the Bottom of the Libyrinth

  Haly, Clauda, and Selene gathered around Po’s prone body. He lay on his stomach, arms outstretched, barely visible amid the lush vegetation that sprang up all around him.

  Haly turned to Selene. “Fetch Adept Ykobos, will you?”

  Selene nodded. How pale she looked, how drawn. Haly supposed they must all look like that, haunted by the things they had done under Thela’s rule.

  Haly herself remembered acting the haughty queen, ordering around those nearby her—particularly the men. Oh, Tales, Gyneth—she looked about for him, but before she could find him, Selene had returned with Adept Ykobos.

  The adept’s robes were stained with blood. Haly guessed she’d been trying to revive her fallen queen. “Thela is dead,” said Ykobos, confirming Haly’s surmise.

  Haly sighed, unable to prevent the rush of relief that coursed through her at those words.

  “What of Po?” she asked. “Is he alive?”

  Ykobos knelt beside his prone form. She placed one hand between his shoulder blades and closed her eyes. Seconds later her eyes sprang open again and she pulled her hand back as if burned. “Mother,” she murmured, standing.

  A tremor shook the earth and they all fought for balance. Ykobos stared at Po, alarm etched in the arch of her brows.

  “What?” said Selene. “What is it?”

  “Po,” said Clauda. “Is he…” She broke away from Haly and knelt at his side. She reached out to touch him, to roll him over.

  “Don’t!” cried Ykobos.

  “Why?” said Haly. “What’s going on, Adept? What did you feel?”

  Ykobos crossed her arms and tucked her hands in her armpits, as if she could block herself off from the world. “He’s deep in trance. It’s not like anything I’ve ever encountered before. He’s … connected with … with everything. The whole world.…”

  The sky flickered again and the ground trembled.

  “He’s holding it together,” she finished.

  “Holding it together?” said Selene. “What does that mean?”

  “It means what it means,” said Ykobos. “He’s enmeshed with an energy structure the size of which I’ve never encountered before. I think it’s the whole world.”

  “Thela’s use of the pen weakened the fabric of existence,” said Clauda.

  “And Po’s using his own energy to strengthen the fibers,” said Selene.

  “Or at least prevent them from unraveling entirely, yes,” said Ykobos.

  “But he’s just one boy,” said Haly. “How can he survive that?”

  “Nod is helping, right?”

  “But Nod was weakened, too.”

  “What if they both fail? How can he survive?”

  Ykobos stared at her in stony silence for a moment. “He won’t. And when he dies, the world will die with him.”

  Clauda shook her h
ead. She stared at Haly, a crease between her brows. “He’s not going to die. If the pen weakened the fabric of reality, and Po’s now holding it together, then that means we have to find a way to strengthen those fundamental structures again.”

  “That’s easier said than done,” said Haly. “We don’t even know what those structures are, let alone how to fortify them if we did.”

  But Clauda knew what they were.

  “This world was made by the People Who Walk Sideways in Time,” she said. “One of their own devices broke it. What can be broken can be mended. We’ll fix it and then he can let go and come back to us.”

  They all stared at her. No one wanted to point out the truth. “We’re not the People Who Walk Sideways in Time,” said Haly. “Such things are beyond us.”

  If possible, Clauda’s expression became even more fierce. “For shame! The Ancients were once ordinary people—Earth people. With the same body of knowledge at their disposal as we have, they figured out how to harness universes and create new worlds. Nothing is impossible unless we let it be,” she said, and headed off toward the Libyrinth.

  * * *

  Selene sat on the western edge of the community, beyond the fields, where scattered rocks dotted the low hills. She stared off into the undulating, barren landscape. If it weren’t for Clauda, Selene might just do herself and everyone else a favor and walk out into the western plain, never to return.

  Her guilt over Po was a bottomless well, but what she hadn’t expected was the searing sense of loss at her mother’s death.

  Regret dogged her every step. Time and again she imagined herself pushing Thela aside before the blade could pierce her heart, and then Thela, looking up at her in gratitude.

  It wasn’t so far-fetched. Before they had wound up on opposite sides of Thela’s quest for power, she’d often shown affection for Selene.

  And Selene had rebuffed her. Now, every unanswered letter, every cold, resentful retort came back to haunt her. And to think that once she’d thought Thela’s absence would set her free.

  “Hey, cut that out.”

  It was Clauda. Selene turned and raised an eyebrow, trying to look innocent.