by D. P. Prior
He glanced at her and she captured his gaze, studied him with unnerving seriousness.
“Theurig gave it to him.”
Snaith scoffed. “How do you know?”
“Just do.” She arched one eyebrow then turned her back on him.
And Snaith was left wondering about his parents, wondering about the Weyd and Theurig and all the things he thought he’d known.
THE HAND OF VILCHUS
Maybe she shouldn’t have said anything. Perhaps it was better if Snaith didn’t know what Theurig had done to Vrom. But Tey hadn’t been able to help herself. She’d known exactly what Snaith would infer from Vrom’s murder, that he’d connect it to what had happened to his parents. And she’d been all too aware the knowledge would lock his mind in a spiral of anguish. Snaith had hurt her with his comments, talked down to her like she was an imbecile.
[Remember the relic I told you about, buried beneath the Copse?] the Shedim said, intruding upon her thoughts. [You have only this night. It is time to focus.]
Oh, I’m focused, Tey thought. On how to be rid of you.
Her hand dropped to her maimed leg. She reassured herself the crone’s knitting needle was still there, embedded in the numb flesh. If the creature within her let slip where it hid, she’d no qualms about stabbing herself to kill it.
[It is necessary for Snaith to see the Hand of Vilchus,] the Shedim said. [Show him.]
“How?”
From behind her on the tumulus, Snaith said, “What’s that?”
[This burial mound you sit upon: it is the place. The Hand lies beneath.]
“Fine,” Tey said, rolling to her good knee. She pushed down with a hand and lunged to her feet.
“Tey?” She heard Snaith stand. “Tey, what are you doing?”
[But do not touch it,] the Shedim said. [Not yet. One look, then leave.]
“What’s the point of that?” Tey said.
“What do you mean what’s the point?” The frown on Snaith’s face when she turned confirmed he thought she was mad. “Who are you talking to?”
[The point is that Snaith will think on it, set the Hand before him as a goal and standard. That when the time comes, he will have steeled himself against the dread it evokes, like a beast grown used to the fire. He is necessary, Tey. You cannot do this alone.]
“Course I can’t. I’m crazy, remember?”
“What?” Snaith said. “What are you—?”
“Shush.” She put a finger to her lips, cocked her head as if she were listening. “Spirits.”
Snaith stiffened. Turned a slow circle, peering into the dark. “But Theurig said—”
“Superstition. I know. But do you believe him? Do you believe anything he says?”
[Five paces to your right,] the Shedim said. [Place your palm on the ground. I will guide you.]
“Like you did with my scars?” Tey muttered, measuring five lurching steps.
The Shedim didn’t answer.
“What spirits?” Snaith asked, coming to stand beside her as she lowered herself awkwardly to the grass. “The ancestors? You can hear them?”
“Theurig lies,” Tey said. “Just ask your parents.”
Snaith flinched, as if she’d slapped him. But like her father’s slaps with her, it did the trick and shut him up.
She pressed her palm against the earth. Instantly, she felt a vibration traveling through the grass. It weakened when she moved her hand one way, strengthened the other. Fine tremors ran up her fingers to her wrist. As the vibrations built in strength, shocking pulses shot through the bones of her arm, then settled into a pleasant heat deep in the marrow.
[Dig,] the Shedim said.
She began to scrape away earth with her fingers. “How deep?”
[A few feet only.]
“Tey,” Snaith protested. “This is—”
“Sacrilege? Punishable by death? Are you scared, Snaith? It’s all right, you can tell me.”
He glared at her, and in that narrow-eyed look, Tey saw the truth of things. It wasn’t love he felt for her. It was need, pure and simple. And he was no savior, as he imagined. A prod here, a poke there, and he’d strike her same as her father had, then rather than steal her essence, he’d sate his lust. And then she’d have to kill him. Lock his essence within her. Add his seed to the bubbling well at her core. Or were those crazy thoughts? The Witch Woman’s? Surely not the Shedim’s: it had implied that whatever task it had mapped out for her could only be achieved with Snaith’s help.
But Snaith didn’t need to know that. Not now. And he also didn’t need to know she’d seen right through him, judged him to be just like every other man.
“I’m sorry, Snaith. I see things. Hear things. I thought you knew. There’s something down here. Something buried.”
“But Theurig… The Weyd…”
“If the Weyd is what he says it is, you’ve nothing to worry about. Fear is the product of your lingering superstition. Isn’t that what he left us here to get rid of?”
It struck her how much she sounded like Theurig. It was like she was playing a role, and knowing so only made her feel even emptier than normal. Is that all she was, a mimic, creating personas that skimmed and swirled about the gaping hole at her center? She bit down on her lip to stop from whimpering. It was hard not to break the skin and steady herself with the salty taste of blood.
She’d dug only a few inches down, but already the ground was too hard to make much progress.
“Are you just going to stand there?” She shot a look of frustration at Snaith.
“Fine,” he said. “Move over. Let me dig.”
“I’ve a better idea,” Tey said. “Head down into the trees. See if they left a shovel.”
“A shovel?”
“Wooden handle, iron spade? You know, to dig with.”
Snaith raised a finger, as if he were going to make some cutting remark, but instead he puffed out his cheeks and shook his head.
As he hurried down the bank, Tey called after him, “And don’t go falling in any graves.”
She lay back against the grass and watched the clouds scud across the face of the moon. Something about the recklessness of what she and Snaith were doing calmed her, made her feel more alive. It wasn’t lost on her, though, that this is what the Shedim wanted her to do. One look, then leave. Was that because this Hand of Vilchus was dangerous, or simply because the Shedim didn’t want them to have it? Not yet. Not until they were ready. Like a beast grown used to the fire.
Snaith returned with a shovel. “There’s a shed full of them down there. And the graves… there must be hundreds. Most of them just bumps and rises in the earth now, covered over with grass and wildflowers. Who do you think it was, Tey? The elders? Sorcerers from other clans?”
“The parents, most likely,” Tey said. “It’s their responsibility.”
“No,” Snaith said. “They wouldn’t.”
“You’d be surprised.” She wouldn’t have put it past her father.
Snaith had trouble using the shovel with only one working arm. In the end, Tey had to get up and help him. She held the handle and he stamped the spade into the ground. Together they removed the soil. Before too long, the shovel hit something hard. They dug around the spot till they had a pit two feet deep. In the moonlight they could see patches of grey stone.
Snaith got down on his knees and scooped out dirt with his good hand, while Tey leaned on the shovel and tried to catch her breath. Within minutes, he’d uncovered a slab the size and shape of a window.
“There’s no way we can lift that,” Snaith said, dropping down to his haunches like it had all been a waste of time.
[Cut yourself,] the Shedim said. [Spill your blood on the stone. Our blood. The portal will know me.]
Tey hitched up the hem of her dress, felt about for the end of the crone’s knitting needle embedded in her flesh. Snaith was watching with horror as she drew it out amid a satisfying spurt of pus.
[Not just anywhere,] the Shedim said. [
Away from the weave of your pattern.]
“Tey, your leg,” Snaith said. “The vile.”
“So what if it festers? I don’t care. Do you?” She did care on some level, but she was feeling witchy once more, and she liked how that made her fearless.
Rolling up her sleeve, she studied the scars in neat lines and rows that reached midway down her forearm. But now her secret was out. Now it no longer mattered if she cut lower, where her sleeve did not cover.
Away from the weave of your pattern. Why? In case she messed it up? Stopped it from working? Her scars were for the draining of essence from others. The Shedim had confirmed that much. What difference would another cut make? What would the Shedim do if she disobeyed? Or if she cut deeper? So deep she might bleed out and die?
The needle point hovered over the vein in her wrist. Wavered. No reaction from the Shedim. An anxious look from Snaith. Then she brought it to her palm and stabbed. Raked the tip across her skin. The sting was so familiar, she barely even flinched. Blood welled in her cupped hand, and she let it splash onto the slab.
Her blood, and the Shedim’s—closer to her than she was to herself.
All the while, Snaith watched her, barely harnessed repugnance on his face.
She returned the needle to the fleshy sheath of her injured thigh. Snaith swallowed so thickly she thought he was going to be sick. Then she ripped a strip off her shawl to bind her palm, and waited. Waited to see what would happen.
A muffled whir. A series of clicks. Her heartbeat skipped then pattered against her ribs. A low hum. A hissing, rasping breath, and then a sharp crack as the slab split down the middle and both halves slid back into the earth of the tumulus.
Green light spilled out from the shaft bored into the heart of the mound, not sheer, but at a steep gradient. The light came from emerald veins that webbed the black stone walls.
“The Hélum Empire built this?” Tey asked.
Snaith frowned at her. “Hélum?”
Did this mean the Empire had magic? Real magic, that made doors open at the spill of blood, and stones that lit up the dark?
[They would not know how. This place was old before their insipid race and yours ever climbed out of the trees. Before they had the Seven to mold them.]
As Tey’s eyes adjusted to the eerie glow, she could make out granite steps descending into the shaft.
“Theurig lied,” Snaith whispered, so close to her ear she could smell his sour breath. “About magic. He lied.”
Tey was as in awe as he was. All her life she’d known she had a talent, known there were things lurking in the dark, but nothing had ever shown itself before, not the power of her scars, not the monsters under her bed. But then the Shedim had appeared in her waking dream, and now this. Did Theurig know? Had he set foot inside the burial mounds of the ancestors? Had he any clue what lay within?
A shiver ran through her as she dragged her bad leg toward the top step. Snaith caught her by the arm, shook his head. He swallowed his distaste, but could do nothing about the way his cheek twitched. Then, surprising her, he went first, offering his back as support so she could lean on him and take each step slowly with a hop and a scrape. He felt stiff beneath her touch. Angry. Explosive. Barely able to tolerate her proximity. It left Tey feeling infectious. As if she, not Bas and Jennika, had contracted the rot.
Every footfall, every scuff, every breath returned muffled from the depths. The air was dank, thick with must. Dust motes swirled in the lime radiance coming off the walls. Cobwebs draped from the slanted ceiling.
Down they went, deeper and deeper, until Tey was sure they had gone below the base of the tumulus and halfway to the Nethers. They paused for breath, the knee of her good leg sore and starting to swell. Neither of them spoke. It didn’t feel right, somehow. The dead might hear.
Finally the steps ended at an arch that opened onto a corridor just wide enough for them to walk side by side. No green glow here, just a violet sheen that suffused the brickwork—grey bricks, not black; so pale they were almost white. And they were adorned with pictures, entire scenes painted onto the stone.
Tey reached for Snaith’s hand, felt something gnarled and twisted; realized it was his maimed one. He started to pull away, but she tightened her grip on the claws of his fingers. Her witch-born curiosity had left her. She was a girl once more, frightened of the unknown.
Snaith wrenched himself away from her. The rejection stung. Brought tears to Tey’s eyes. Stung even more when he abandoned her and moved to examine the wall.
Tey bit her lip bloody till her quivering stopped, till she located the Witch Woman’s strength in the coppery taste that coated her tongue. She turned her back on Snaith, lost herself in the images on the opposite wall.
The paintings formed a narrative of some kind that progressed one scene into another. The backdrop was intricate whorls of foliage—a forest or a garden. Here and there were buildings and monuments: triangles and squares, towers whose tops were lost in a cloud-covered sky with specks denoting rain. Branikdür, then. An artist with a sense of humor, or realism.
“These figures…” Snaith said.
Tey glanced over her shoulder. The same as on her side: slender, loping, elongated heads, featureless and black.
“Shedim,” she said. Hundreds of them, swarming over the land.
“Not just them,” Snaith said. “What about these others?”
Tey crossed to his side of the corridor and looked where he was pointing. In one vignette, Shedim with lightning, flaming whips, and sparking staffs were herding much smaller beings toward a void of swirling darkness.
[Evil once banished grows anew in other forms,] the Shedim said. [The Hélum Empire is but a child on the stage of this world.]
Tey shrugged in answer of Snaith’s question.
“Keep going?” he said.
A surge of anticipation in her blood told Tey the Shedim was anxious for them to get on with it. She nodded and took the lead this time, lunging with her good leg, scraping the bad behind her. On both walls the fresco grew denser with Shedim, and there was no more sign of the little people. Obviously, when they’d gone into the darkness, they’d not come back.
The pictures culminated in a monstrous Shedim either side of the corridor, gangly arms following the curve of the archway at the end, fingers interlacing above the keystone. Beyond, there was only… nothing.
“Like the dark the little people were ushered into,” Snaith said, peering over her shoulder.
Tey flinched at his sudden closeness, then chastened herself for being caught off guard. This time she donned her witch nature like a coat, and without a second thought limped across the threshold.
The light from the corridor died. Blackness swallowed her. She tried to step back, but something blocked her way. Snaith, coming through behind her. She turned, took a death-grip on the front of his shirt. Quick, sharp breaths lodged in her chest, never reached her throat. Cold sweat formed on her forehead, her arms, ran down her back. It was empty and she was lost. Empty and lost. Empty—
“Tey,” Snaith said. He pulled her head against his chest. His heart pounded a fierce tattoo, but it was steady. “Look!” There was awe in his voice.
Tey whimpered, pressed herself into him, absorbed his warmth. She steeled herself against his rejection. How long before he extricated himself from her? Before he struck her for coming so close?
“What is that?” Snaith said. Gently, he turned her around.
A pinprick of crimson winked out of the darkness. Tey watched it, mesmerized. Such a tiny light, yet it consumed all her attention. Nothing else existed.
She pushed herself away from Snaith, before he had a chance to reject her. The red light called to her, and she went to it, lurching across the empty space. She could hear Snaith following—the soft tread of his boots, the faintest rasp of his breath.
For four hobbling steps, all she saw was the red light, the all-pervasive dark. Another step, the scuff of her bad leg following, and then a se
cond light appeared, this one green, blinking at twice the rate of the red. A whir and a click, a racing hum, and one after another, tiny lights winked into existence: violet and blue, amber, silver, golden, each radiating a hazy corona, touching, connecting, melding into one startling, brilliant burst of white. Tey shielded her eyes against its blinding flare. When she looked again, it had settled back into a living, vibrant, sheen.
A sheen in the shape of a hand.
She continued toward it, and she saw it rested upon a bony knee. A skeletal arm extended away from the hand. Closer still, and she made out a form seated upon a throne of copper. Even closer, and she could see it wasn’t human.
“A Shedim,” she whispered.
Snaith said nothing, but his fear was palpable.
[Vilchus,] the Shedim said inside her. [The Named, the Revered, the Architect. Look, and do not forget.]
Silhouetted by the pearly glow coming off the hand, Snaith reached out to touch it.
“No!” Tey cried, pulling him back. “Just look. Don’t touch.”
To her surprise, he obeyed.
“It’s a gauntlet,” he said. “A right-handed gauntlet, like they say the Vanndyr wear.”
“It is alive,” Tey said, feeling the truth of her words in the slither of her veins. The Shedim said nothing to contradict her.
She took in the giant figure on the throne, its cracked and brittle bones, the elongated skull with pinpricks of black where its eyes should have been. Standing, it would have been half again as tall as Snaith. Even her Shedim in its cavern of coal hadn’t been quite so imposing.
She edged nearer, running her eyes over the thorax, the complexity of its ribs. A dark patch on one temple stood out from the rest of the skull. A cavity, cracks radiating out from it. The site of a trauma, a blow. She reached out to trace the fracture lines. The instant her fingertip met bone, static thumped through her arm and she staggered back. Snaith lunged and caught her before she could fall.
In the silence that followed, Tey became aware of a low, pulsating hum coming from the Hand of Vilchus. The Hand’s radiance alternated between pearly white and a prismatic shimmering of every color imaginable. It began to rotate upon the arm it was attached to, unscrew itself from the wrist.