“Yuuli d’ğreskja ne olvi ti njel,” Oliver asked, his voice no more than a dry croak, “yag ol-ishi nda póveş ne njel i pyókett shema ol anoora?”
He felt the telltale tug of magic in his intestines, the cramp of muscles, and he waited. He waited for something—for anything—for his sister to emerge from the rubble, for a feather to fall from the sky, for a knock to roll across the landscape like a heralding call. He waited for anything to give him hope, but nothing came.
Nothing came, and he crumbled.
His sister was dead then.
The knowledge wasn’t a sharp pain. It was like a coldness had taken nest in his ribs. It was hollowing. He pressed his face against his hands, every muscle from his lips to his stomach pulled tight. He couldn’t breathe.
“Yuuli d’ğreskja ne olvi,” he whined high through his teeth, “póveş njel znóktinnen’nė. Vilkoowei alleintinaddeş ne njel ti hkalfâ fen bjaa. Vilkoowei— Vilkoowei—” He dug underneath his high, stiff collar until his hand closed around the warm silver pendant at his throat. Sobbing, he stroked his numbed fingers over the point of the miniature dagger again and again, until his fingers ached, until his throat clamped down on the winter air, until his eyes stung and his teeth hurt and he had no more begging left in him, and then he recited the names of the Four Saints in repeat, gasping them, mouthing them, his lips taut and body trembling. Holy Peytr. Mother Kjeveta. Father Nicholais. Lady Liliana. Holy Peytr. Mother Kjeveta. Father Nicholais. Lady Liliana.
His litany broke. “No. No, I can’t—” he said. “I can’t do this. I can’t—”
You have to, he yelled at himself. For her. You have to live for her.
Wandering through the ruins of Lindennacht, Oliver focused on the taste of morning thick in his mouth. There was leftover blood and bile, too. The tip of his tongue was hard, healing over, and he rubbed it against the slick backs of his teeth.
All around him, his city was a skeleton. Stray walls protruded from overflowing debris. They were grey and crumbling, their windows without any glass. A building here or there still stood, though crooked now. A few street lanterns had survived along what Oliver decided must be Grand Avenue, one of the only streets clear enough for him to walk down on this side of town. Near a leather suitcase and a silver candelabra, Oliver found the remains of a light-skinned infant and the leftovers of a wooden idol—a large imitation of Saint Kjeveta’s dagger—the unstained oak splintered and covered in dust, wet at the edges, its garish blue paint peeling. Caught in the wind, a dandelion-yellow sheet of newspaper darted past Oliver before slapping against the side of a carriage with a collapsed front end. The smudged headline—DÓMINEŞ KÅLNE JÓMHKITI VYIAKSTAD-OSNASTEDT LOTTERAT, LOCAL FISHERMAN WINS STATE LOTTERY—blared out like an accusation before the paper slipped down and dissolved in the dirt-browned seawater that was leaking through the street. The carcass of a tabby cat washed past Oliver’s shins along with what he discovered by touching them using his good hand were a couple of human incisors. After that, he pulled his hood down tighter, tucked his frozen-wet hand into his pocket, and went back to surveying the damage around him, eyes always reaching for something worse than what they’d settled on.
Lindennacht was the only home Oliver had ever known, but it was never going to go back to how it had been. He knew that. The chances it would be rebuilt at all were slim. He would never attend another speech by Mayor Ossberg at City Hall. He would never buy another loaf of bread from Antonio’s in the plaza. He would never jog along the docks again in the mornings or fix Mrs. Vander’s sink next door—never march another patrol with his brothers the Lindenwatchmen. He felt like his limbs had been sawed off, but he kept stumbling down the street anyway, over piles of rocks and wood. Ahead, at the intersection of two wide streets, there was a lone linden tree, its bare branches trembling in the wind. When he reached it, he stopped, leaned against its grey bark, and tried to gather his thoughts.
He could catch the Eastline at the next station and take the train through the Lindenfels. He could even stay aboard well past that and cross the state line. Vyiakstad-Schwesslingborn might have survived the wrath of the wolf—and there was always Vyiakstad-Lichhölm on its other side if it hadn’t. And if the destruction happened to branch out that far, he could stay on the train to the very end of its line, where it bridged over the river-border that separated eastern Fjorde and western Normany. Take his refuge there. His mother had a few distant cousins in the Norman countryside, though he had no idea in which province. If he went, though, he could find work there, start over—
Rubble crashed a dozen yards off underneath the quiet gurgle of seawater in the street. Oliver froze. He stared at the linden branches’ swaying shadows that were striping the floodwaters near his ankles, and with his breath held in his lungs, he listened. Silence persisted.
Then suddenly—just when Oliver decided the noise must have been nothing—a growl ripped through the air, followed by a short, raspy bark. A second bark followed, and then another.
Hollowsouls.
Oliver gritted his teeth. There would be no making it out of Lindennacht, not with those beasts sniffing through the ruins. They would find him with ease.
So come. Oliver sneered. Find me. You barged into my home. You separated me from my sister. You’re the reason she’s dead. He shoved forward from the tree, drew his pepperbox, and cocked its hammer with his forearm. Better yet, I’ll find you. And when I do, I’m going to blow every single one of your fucking heads off.
“You hear me?” Oliver screamed, his voice tearing through the city and echoing down the streets. “I’m going to fucking kill you!” He kept yelling, even as he stomped in the direction of the growls. It was only when the growls stopped sounding that he stopped shouting. He paused in the middle of the empty street.
It took a handful of minutes for the hollowsouls to slink through the debris and surround him. Oliver watched dozens of the monsters crawl across piles of broken stones on all fours and rise up on their hind legs. He watched them leap out of windows, scale down walls, and stare at him from their vantage points on cracked roofs. Water splashed behind Oliver, at his sides. Masked sunlight glinted off their slick grey bodies.
Oliver didn’t move. Something told him he shouldn’t. Something told him he should close his eyes, and so he did—he did and he pictured the hollowsouls bleeding, writhing, crushed in the streets, nothing more than another batch of bloated corpses bobbing in the water. He ground his teeth together until his jaw ached. He wanted to reach inside these monsters’ chests and rip out their hearts. He wanted to bite through their throats.
You’re the reason she’s dead, he thought, and I’m going to make sure you suffer for it.
“Vwóllek,” he spat.
Pain shredded his abdomen.
When he opened his eyes, the hollowsouls unleashed a ghastly, ear-shattering wave of shrieks. He could feel their bones snapping like they were under his fingers. He could feel the warmth of their blood and balled his fists. With sickening cracks, under some invisible form, their chests crushed inward like paper, and blood poured from their nostrils and glassy eyes. Every hollowsoul he saw—body after body after body—they crumbled and crashed to the ground, against rock and water and debris.
He stood there until they all fell, and when at last he looked down at his hands, he realized they weren’t shaking anymore. They weren’t shaking even a tick.
TOWERED PRINCESS
_______________________________
Ten thousand seas in one vast ocean,
Then add ten thousand, more!
Until unending’s the horizon
And on and on forevermore!
A universe in every drop;
Ten billion lives in that!
You can drink and drink and never stop,
But you’ll never see the sand.
Oh, you’ll never see the sand!
excerpt from a shanty on the anatomy of the Infinity, origins unknown
THE GRAND REALM OF THE
INFINITE
THE RANDY STOOL, MARTYR ROAD, NORTHERN LUTANA,
CAPITAL CITY-STATE OF THE ONE COUNTRY
Artysaedra rolled her eyes when her su-lanah strolled into the pub, his appearance accompanied by a dramatic clap of what had to be winter thunder. She lowered her wards with an idle thought directed at the multiverse. It heeded her command.
Spotting her, Naliah perked up and hurried over, and she put her wards back in place behind him.
“Not a word about the gown, Staatvelter,” Artysaedra said before Naliah could say whatever was on the tip of his tongue. His mouth snapped back shut. If it wasn’t a comment about her clothes, it would be a comment on how she was sitting here drinking at eight in the morning. She threw back the last of her spiked hot chocolate and scrunched her nose, setting the wooden mug back on the pub table. Too much bite. She’d definitely added too much Lutanan whiskey to what had already been in the drink when she’d ordered it, though she was a long way from drunk. All the alcohol did was make her feel warmer than she already was lounging in The Randy Stool, a fine establishment of torn jacquard wallpaper, lopsided tables that sent tumblers sliding to the floor, and a weird carving by the door that looked like a bear except it had human tits. There was a sweltering fire cracking away in the moldering fireplace in the corner, and too many noisy bodies were packed in the dim room. The place reeked of stale piss, blood, cedar, bitter hops, and the cigarillo smoke the air was hazed with. Artysaedra was tempted to go sit on the alley stoop in the snowstorm just to feel the cold against her cheeks.
Naliah pulled out a chair and sat next to her. He didn’t have on his Guardian asa like she did—a heavy silk monstrosity with intricate frogs and two layers to it, her gown black with silver embroidery and beading that decorated the hems, wide belt, and belt drape. No, Naliah was wearing his street clothes, the kind from his home Realm and not hers: silk slippers, loose trousers, and a double-breasted shirt with a stiff collar and sleeves cinched at the cuffs. It was tattered and grey.
He looked like a peasant, she thought, the image only belied by the gold watch hanging from his throat. Still, he was eye-catching: shorter than her by a head, but built of nothing but corded muscle. Handsome whether he was smiling or not. A foreign beauty Artysaedra had heard her more insalubrious acquaintances call him on card nights when Naliah couldn’t join. Your little seed-eyed ox.
Naliah reached up and waved a hand toward the barkeep, but the potbellied man busting out of his velvet frock coat—one Mr. Miggs—kept milling about behind the bar and didn’t notice him.
“Wards, Staatvelter,” Artysaedra said, and let them slip a bit. The air around their table shimmered before snapping back into place with only the slightest distortion to it, cigarillo smoke passing through the barrier unhindered. The ward made no noise, even if Artysaedra dialed her demonic hearing up to full strength.
“Either you’ve gotten better at that or I’m getting worse,” Naliah said, rubbing at his nose with a forearm and sniffing. “I didn’t even notice you put it up.”
Artysaedra pulled out her flask from where she’d wedged it between her stomach and wide silk belt. “Not noticing is sort of the point of a ward, you cad.” She twisted off the cap and took a swig. “Don’t want anyone bothering us. About had my fill of it today. Pardon me, Princessa. Praise be to you. Would you bless my child, Your Holiness? Can I touch your hair? Will it cure my gout?” she mocked, emphasizing the brogue in her speech just because she knew Naliah hated it when she did. His home had a much gruffer accent, and he didn’t have an ear for many others. Only years of practice had attuned him to her accent and a few comrades’, but there were still encounters where Artysaedra watched confusion dawn in Naliah’s eyes like horror, where he couldn’t understand anything a stranger was saying. It was hilarious.
“Stars forbid anyone be nice to you, Sae. You’re the only person I know who hates to be worshipped. Men in Anderton would jump at the chance.” Naliah rolled his eyes. He grabbed the flask from her hand and sniffed it, grimacing. “What is this vile crap?”
“The piss of my enemies,” she said, and snatched her flask back from his hand. “Leave off. I don’t judge you for the leaf-water shite you drink.”
“Tea?” he asked, face twisted. “Are you talking about tea? What’s wrong with tea?”
“What isn’t wrong with tea? It’s like fucking dirty water. I’ve drank purer shite from a puddle in the Back Alleys. Tea’s worse than that fermented fish oil candy or whatever the hell it is that your people eat.”
“I do seem to recall that one of your delicacies is lamb and fried maggots.”
Artysaedra puffed up in mock-affront. “Lamb and fried maggots is my lifeblood, you heathen.”
With a ripple of laughter, Naliah swiped a hand over his mustache and beard. “What am I going to do with you?” His slanted brown eyes were soft, illuminated by the burning sconce on the wall. Their gaze burrowed down into the vulnerable, soft parts of her that she often forgot existed, and she cursed herself.
You could certainly bend me over this table and I wouldn’t stop you, she thought. Isn’t that a fucking riot? She’d imagined it often enough, what his prick would feel like inside of her.
Artysaedra took another sip of whiskey to smother the warmth growing in her stomach with a different kind of warmth. “You could burn me at the stake,” she offered instead. “I’m sure that’s what Mother wants.”
“You do sneak out of the castle during etiquette lessons. I think she’s entitled to a little stake-burning.”
“I’m a Guardian, not a light-footed little flower.”
“Could have fooled me,” Naliah said, leaning his chair back onto two legs and giving a fanged grin. “Pretty little princess in her pretty little silks. A single scar to her name.”
“Meet me behind this pub and this pretty little princess will make sure you have a couple more scars to yours.”
“Oh, I’m an idiot, Sae, but I’m no fool. You’re a dangerous lady. I’ve seen you fight at the docks without your powers.”
“And you’ve won a nice sum betting on me, too, from what I’ve been hearing.”
Naliah’s eyes widened. His chair tipped, but he flapped his arms to right it. All four feet thudded hard against the floor. “Who squeaked? Was it Nigel? I bet it was Nigel.”
“It doesn’t matter if it was Nigel, my mother, or the Grand Duchess of fucking Ytolla—you can use that coin to pay off my tab,” Artysaedra said, and skidded back in her chair. She stood, tucked her flask back into her belt, and reached over to where she’d propped her scythe against the wall. Mercy’s blade gleamed in the torchlight. She hoisted her scythe against her shoulder, the weight comfortable. “You can also follow me to my unavoidable appointment at Lyonard’s if you’d like. Mother insists I go.”
“I’ll go on one condition.”
“Which is?”
“Your Kjall’a dress has to have hideous purple bows on it like it did last year.”
Artysaedra glowered. “Your face is going to have hideous purple bruises on it after I’m done.”
Artysaedra tried not to stare down at how the slaughter of snowflakes from the winter storm caught in Naliah’s eyebrows, beard, and wavy brown hair, which was knotted on top of his head like a nest. She had to force herself to concentrate on crutching her way through the slick banks of snow that hadn’t yet been cleared from the busy streets, her plight made more difficult by her heavy Guardian asa. She hiked up its hem with her free hand and stamped down on the urge to light the snow in the streets on fire. As satisfying as it would be, she didn’t want the attention.
Around them, the citizens of Lutana were already trying not to stare. Men and women ducked in and out of shops with faltering steps, their velvet dresses, suits, and woolen coats catching snow, their heads homed in Artysaedra’s direction. She could almost hear the formal greetings perched on their tongues. A few city workers paused on their wooden ladders. They were in the middle of stringing bells and purple banners
from the balustrades that lined the elevated streets above her. Those streets were paved on the tops of the connected storefronts Artysaedra and Naliah were walking past. There was a second storey of shops up there, barely visible from where Artysaedra was clomping. The banners flapping overhead were emblazoned with her family’s sigil—a rearing wolf in flame—and gilded with Su’netian rhymes. Bin sah nyalleKal’a was a popular one: All hears my Monarchy’s beloved bells.
Artysaedra grimaced.
She hated Kjall’a. The festival hadn’t been intolerable five hundred years ago, though, back when she’d been just a child. Kjall’a had been limited to just the loyal citizens of the Realm of the Infinity back then. Some of her fondest memories were from that time: eating honey-flavoured snow with her mother, dancing to the winter orchestra with her father by standing on his shoes and holding his hands, releasing flying lanterns under the stars with her brothers with a wish for another year of good fortune.
Now the festival is nothing more than an excuse for the High Realms to kiss ass and pretend they wouldn’t kill my parents in a heartbeat to rule in their places. Artysaedra sneered at the thought.
Kjall’a was supposed to be an anniversary—a celebration of the day the Council had passed down their reign over the multiverse to her parents two million years ago—but all it was now was a chance for the High Realms to delight her parents with obsequious gifts and insincere compliments that ingratiated themselves to the crown. They didn’t love her parents, and they certainly didn’t respect them. The monarchs craved her parents’ seat in the Infinity’s hierarchy but were craven bastards without the military strength to claim it outright. The Council and its power ensured that. Artysaedra wished it were more than just a fear of the Council that kept the High Realms in check. Because you step one toe out of line, and they’ll bring the full power of the Order down on you.
A Shard of Sea and Bone (Death of the Multiverse Book 1) Page 13