The Portal and the Veil

by Ted Sanders

  And now the Mordin began to cry out in pain. With every swing at the deluge of blades, they took a hundred cuts, fine and piercing. Their clothes tore open, and the flesh beneath, blood pouring from a thousand little wounds—hands, arms, faces. The silver cloud of blades began to turn red. April squeezed her eyes shut, but she could still see. Arthur was watching the slow slaughter, dancing on the ground and croaking raucously. She pushed his sight out of her mind.

  It went on forever. April realized she had her hands slapped over her ears. Slowly . . . slowly . . . the cries of the Mordin began to fade. Soon there was only a single voice, gurgling, and then it too went quiet. The only sound left beyond the coursing pulse of her own heart was the glassy rattle of the sa’halvasa.

  She opened her eyes. The three Mordin lay motionless under the hanging, swirling hive of blades, their bodies strewn across the stained floor.

  No one spoke. Neptune stared, expressionless. Jessica grasped April’s hand and pulled her into a hug. April let her.

  “Thus is the Warren protected,” Mr. Meister said softly.

  Arthur, calmed now, began to walk toward the fallen Mordin. April turned to watch him. The sa’halvasa still hovered, and she almost called out to him. She knew he was in no danger, but . . . she just didn’t want him anywhere near any of this. For one horrible moment, she thought he might be wondering if he could find food out there in the carnage. Ravens would eat anything, she knew, and Arthur certainly wasn’t above a bit of carrion—far from it. But to her relief, she felt no such interest rolling around in his mind. He was only curious, and satisfied.

  And then suddenly he stopped. His satisfaction vanished. He cocked his head. Then he spread his wings and let out a series of furious cries.

  Rrawwwk! Rawk! Rrawk!

  Hurt. Chase. Stab.

  “What’s happening?” Neptune shouted.

  An explosion like a train collision rocked the very walls. The far end of the hall burst into a cloud of dust and debris. Before it even settled, a golem writhed in like the striking neck of a dragon. Dark shapes poured in around it, a dozen Mordin or more.

  They were coming.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Sil’falo Teneves

  HORACE COULDN’T MOVE. NO ONE SPOKE.

  Sil’falo Teneves, Keeper of the Starlit Loom itself, came into the Proving Room as if carried by the wind. “Council,” she said with a nod.

  Brula stood up. “Sil’falo Teneves. We are glad you here. We called for you some time ago.”

  “So I heard,” Falo said, glancing at Dailen. “My apologies. No doubt you simply wanted me to greet our new guests. I trust they have passed your little tests? Surely they are free to roam Ka’hoka now—with your kind permission, of course.”

  “Lies have been told, Sil’falo Teneves,” said Brula. “The Council is displeased.”

  “As it should be,” said Falo, her voice growing sharp. “Lies should not have been necessary.”

  Horace tried to think of words. Any words. They were talking about him. The Fel’Daera. And here was the Maker herself, defending the very act that had allowed Horace to become a Keeper in the first place. He felt he should say something, stake his claim, but he had no idea where to begin.

  Ravana leaned in. “We were told that the Fel’Daera had been destroyed.”

  “So I recall,” Falo said. “It was I who told you.”

  “Why did you tell us that lie?” asked Ravana.

  “Why should I not have? Had the Council learned that the Fel’Daera still existed, you would have insisted that it be brought here, for safekeeping. To languish in the belly of Ka’hoka.”

  “It would have been the Fel’Daera’s rightful end,” Brula said.

  Falo turned to Horace, gesturing with a graceful sweep of her long arms. “This is its rightful end. Do you deny it?”

  Horace all but quivered at the words, bursting with a pride and a fear that couldn’t possibly be named. Rightful end.

  “You left the Fel’Daera with the Taxonomer, to seek a new Keeper,” Brula accused. “After what happened to the last?”

  “I did. And that new Keeper has been found. A Paragon—the first the Fel’Daera has ever known.”

  “Paragon or no Paragon, you endanger us all. Your abomination—”

  Falo held up a hand, her spidery fingers curling elegantly, silencing Brula. She glided toward Horace, her haloed eyes brimming with light. “My abomination, yes,” she said, almost fondly. “My greatest mistake.” She walked right up to Horace and bent down before him, gazing first at the Fel’Daera and then into his face. The Fel’Daera seemed to hum, trembling with a power as pure as falling snow. “I believed you would be Found,” she said to Horace. Her breath smelled like freshly split wood, like honey, like every clean and honest thing. “And so you have. Are you frightened?”

  “I . . . yes,” Horace said. “But I don’t know why.”

  “All this talk of abominations. Lies and destruction and mistakes. It’s been over a hundred years since I forged the Fel’Daera. A long time, one might imagine, to live with regret.”

  “And have you?” said Horace, wanting to hide the box away, but finding himself unable to do so. “Have you lived with regret?”

  She smiled, radiant. She took his wrist, and guided the hand holding the Fel’Daera toward its pouch. He slipped the box inside, grateful for reasons he couldn’t begin to explain.

  “I have not spent a single day wishing my creation back,” said Falo. “Least of all this day.” At the Council’s table, Brula cleared his throat unhappily.

  Chloe leaned into Horace. She couldn’t take her eyes off Falo either. “I think she likes you,” she whispered hoarsely.

  Falo laughed. “We Makers are not supposed to like, or even approve. No more than parents are supposed to have a favorite child. But even the most impartial minds are anchored to the heart.” She gripped Horace by the shoulders warmly, her hands so large that it felt like a hug. “I knew you from the moment you first laid eyes on the Fel’Daera, Keeper. But I do not know your name.”

  “Horace. Horace Andrews.”

  “Well met, Horace Andrews. The honor belongs to me.”

  Horace’s eyes fell to the large oval pendant that hung from Falo’s neck. Not much bigger than a bar of soap, it was so black it was almost unseeable. The Starlit Loom was about this size, he knew, smaller even than the Fel’Daera. But this couldn’t possibly be it. This was not Tan’ji.

  “Falo, please,” Brula said impatiently.

  Falo ignored him. “All will be revealed in time,” she said to Horace kindly, as if reading his thoughts. She turned to Chloe. “And you, Keeper. I have never seen your Tan’ji before, but I can recognize a scion of the Starlit Loom when I see it. Will you introduce yourselves?”

  “Chloe Oliver. This is the Alvalaithen.”

  “Well met, indeed. Never in my memory have two Paragons come into our halls on the same day. These are rich times.” She stood up straight, turning to the Council. “If we are finished here, I would very much like to walk and talk with our visitors. There is much I would discuss with them.”

  “There is much we would discuss with you, Sil’falo Teneves,” said Brula, lowering his brow.

  “What is there to discuss, Mal’brula? Do you wish to debate what cannot be undone?” Falo gestured back toward Horace. “Or do you seek to undo it?”

  Teokas and Ravana leaned back from the table, gasping and murmuring softly. Go’nesh swung his heavy head toward Brula.

  Brula looked pained, surly. “We do not unmake the bond, Keeper,” he said. “You know that as well as anyone.”

  “Better than you, I sometimes think.” Falo turned back to Horace and Chloe. “Will you walk with me, Keepers? May I speak with you more?”

  Horace nodded. Chloe said, “You absolutely may.”

  Brula rose, his fists planted on the table. “At the very least, we would hear what you have to say to our visitors, Falo,” he said.

  “Come
to my chambers, then. All are welcome, as always.” Brula didn’t move. His expression suggested that going to Falo’s chambers was not very appealing. After a moment, Teokas stood up and left the table.

  “I’ll come, Falo, if I may.”

  Falo smiled. She bowed to the others and said, “Thank you, Council,” then glanced back at Horace and Chloe, seeming to suggest they do the same. They did so, awkwardly. Ravana bowed. Go’nesh nodded. Brula twitched.

  They left the Proving Room then—Falo in front, Horace and Teokas behind, and Chloe and Dailen bringing up the rear. It was a relief to be out of there, even if Horace wasn’t sure exactly how much they had proved, especially to Brula.

  As they moved through vaulted, light-filled halls, Horace was embarrassed to discover that he was embarrassed to be walking beside the beautiful Teokas. It was hard not to let his eyes drift to her. He decided she moved like a mermaid, which made no sense. Just as he was beginning to desperately hope she wouldn’t talk to him, she did.

  “Tell me, Keeper,” she crooned, somehow making the word “Keeper” sound like the dearest pet name. “What did you think of Brula?”

  “Brula? Oh, uh . . . he seemed a little . . . tightly wound.”

  Ahead of them, Falo laughed. Teokas glittered down at Horace. “Brula does much for us here,” she said. “His intentions are good.”

  “I’m sure that’s true.”

  “But also, he is a complete turnip, and I prefer not to be around him.”

  Now it was Dailen’s turn to laugh.

  “Turnip,” Chloe said dryly. “Good one. . . . Hey, not to make this about me, but what’s a Paragon, and why am I one?”

  Dailen said, “A Paragon is the ideal Keeper. The perfect match, if you like. Someone so supremely suited to their Tan’ji that only they can realize the full potential of his or her Tan’ji.”

  “Stop, I’m blushing,” Chloe teased.

  But Horace didn’t know about any that. Perfect. Ideal. Supreme. Is that what he was supposed to be? He reached out for the Fel’Daera at his side. It didn’t seem to have much to say on the matter.

  “Are you a Paragon?” Chloe asked Dailen. She sounded almost hopeful.

  “If he were,” said Teokas merrily, winking back at him, “he’d still have all sixteen of his lives left.”

  Dailen frowned and sighed. “They’re not lives, Teokas. Please don’t call them that.”

  Teokas whispered loudly down to Horace. “He’s afraid if he loses another, he’ll forget how to dance.”

  Horace tried to imagine what Altari dancing looked like. Not a lot of dancing happened at the Warren. He wondered if Teokas and Dailen danced together, and to what strange music.

  “Paragons are rare,” Falo said. “I’ve only met five, before today.”

  “Including yourself?” Dailen asked.

  Falo bobbed her head, as if conceding the point. “Six, then. But I have always known myself.”

  They walked on. The place was enormous, many times the size of the Warren, it seemed, and much grander. He felt a stab of guilt, thinking it. What was happening at the Warren now? Had the others gotten away, and were they safe in the Great Burrow? Something about Ka’hoka, he thought, was making that place and even those people—his friends, his allies—seem faraway and foggy.

  As they walked, Horace noticed even more open stares now, often for Falo. Some looked at her with awe, others with something that looked more like anger. They passed a few more humans, too, including a girl who looked to be about Joshua’s age. A transparent sphere the size of a beach ball rolled along the floor ahead of her, obviously Tan’ji.

  Falo stopped at a rough-hewn opening in the wall, speaking inaudibly to a thick-limbed Altari who stood there, as if on guard. A huge green ax Tan’ji hung at his side. The guard nodded, and Falo led them into a natural cave, the first one they’d seen since the cavern above the Well of Giving.

  “Looks like we’re headed to the boonies,” Chloe said, but in no time at all she was proved wrong.

  At the far end, the natural cave opened into a magnificent scuplted vault, no wider than a house but as tall as a skyscraper, chiseled from the bedrock and lined with what seemed like black marble. The chamber rose hundreds of feet overhead, the walls curving away gradually until they were lost out of sight, away and above, buried in a soft ocean of white light that poured down from the heights. Horace tipped his head back, his mouth open, full of wonder.

  At his side, Chloe was doing much the same. “What is this place?” she breathed.

  “We do not name it,” Falo said. She led them across the smooth stone floor, to a towering set of double doors, twenty feet high at least. Gleaming white, they’d been polished so smooth that Horace could see a faint reflection of their little group. The upper edge of the doorway was shaped almost like a crown, an inverted arch, dropping low in the middle and rising into high narrow points at the sides. There were no handles or knobs.

  “You’re not a queen, are you?” said Chloe, looking up at the doors.

  “Oh, goodness no,” said Falo. “Far from it. These doors aren’t for me. I only keep my chambers here to be near the Veil. No one else wants them.”

  “The Veil of Lura,” Horace said, remembering the name.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “It’s through these doors?”

  “The Veil is everywhere,” said Falo. “It surrounds you even now. But here behind these doors, the Veil is made manifest. It can be seen, touched. Parted.”

  “And what does the Veil do again?” Chloe asked.

  Horace knew. “It hides the Mothergates,” he murmured. “There is a Mothergate here.”

  Falo looked down at him sharply. For a second, he was sure she would ask how he knew such a thing. He didn’t know whether Falo knew who his mother was—or Chloe’s, for that matter—but he found himself utterly unready to talk about it. To learn who his mother had been then, maybe. Or to explain who his mother was now. And judging by the look on Chloe’s face, she was even less ready to get into that than he was.

  To his relief, though, Falo only said, “There is a Mothergate here, yes. Have you not wondered at all the strength and might you’ve seen here in Ka’hoka? Instruments in the form of weapons. True warriors. And none of it coming to your aid as you’ve fought the Riven out in the world above.”

  “They’re protecting the Mothergate,” said Horace.

  “Guarding it, yes. Others stay for different reasons. But do not judge too harshly.” She glanced at Chloe, who looked ready to unleash a fiery complaint about warriors shutting themselves in underground. “These are difficult times. Even those who know the right path to take struggle to stay on it.”

  Falo stepped up to the towering white doors. On the instant, a huge section of the doors began to glow before her, a perfect white oval standing on end, twelve feet tall. A black seam split it down the middle, growing wider, and the doors swung slowly open, revealing a smooth corridor exactly the same shape and size as the doors.

  “We will not approach the Mothergate today,” Falo said, “but we will be near enough. You may find it takes some getting used to.” She stepped through the doorway.

  Horace followed Falo over the threshold and immediately understood her. Here beyond these doors, the Medium was . . . thick. Busy. Insistent. He couldn’t feel it directly, but the presence of the Fel’Daera in his mind suddenly ballooned, threatening to take over his thoughts. It reminded him of being in the Find, but without the confusion and doubt. It wasn’t unpleasant at all—in fact, it was very pleasant. But his hands itched to take the Fel’Daera out and use it—use the hell out of it, actually—and he wasn’t sure that was allowed.

  Chloe, however, had no such reservations. “Ohhh, man,” she said delightedly. Her face was lit with joy, her mouth as round as her eyes. The dragonfly shone brighter than ever, gleaming, and its wings fluttered so madly Horace thought they might actually lift Chloe into the air. “Are you feeling this?” she said.

&
nbsp; He smiled at her. “I feel it.”

  Chloe let her feet sink halfway into the floor, just the soles of her shoes, really. She began to glide around him in circles, not even moving her legs, just propelling herself somehow via that little union with the floor. “I am like . . . one hundred percent Tan’ji now. One hundred and ten percent.”

  Dailen jogged past them down the corridor. And then another Dailen. And another. Chasing one another. Chloe skated after him, shrieking with glee.

  Apparently, using your Tan’ji was welcome here. But Horace still had no idea what he would even do with the Fel’Daera, with all this extra juice. Instead he just basked in the coursing, comforting presence of the box, content to feel its power.

  Teokas came up beside him, a vision. She elbowed him gently in the shoulder.

  “Some Tan’ji are more fun in the penumbra of the Veil than others,” she said, watching Chloe and the Dailens race past Falo. “I am more like you.” She held out her hand, indicating the round ball hanging from her wrist. Her Tan’ji—Thailadun, it was called. The Moondoor. There was a slit in the ball, Horace realized now. A trickle of light spilled out. He longed to look inside.

  “What does it do?” he asked.

  “Not here. I have trouble controlling it here. Another time, I promise. But perhaps now you’ll understand why Brula the bore didn’t want to come to this place. Could you imagine it? Him and his little bowl?” She laughed merrily, a silver song.

  He couldn’t help himself. “Teokas, how old are you?”

  She laughed again. “Far too old for you, Horace Andrews. By a hundred years, I think. Our stars didn’t align this time, sweet one.”

  Horace thought he would die from embarrassment. He was glad Chloe wasn’t hearing this. “Sweet one.” He’d never hear the end of it.

  Sweet one.

  They caught up to the others in a round room with a high dome. It was dim here, but apparently this was where Falo lived. It was sparsely furnished with enormous chairs—some big and some small. Dailen sat on two of them. There was a table, and a few sets of shelves neatly decorated with strange little objects. Doorways to the left and the right led to other dark chambers.