by Pearl North
The pain of the blow on her injured cheek brought tears to her eyes. Haly blinked them away and watched as Michander took from the case a small, square patch of material. She could just make out a symbol on it: two winged serpents twined about a staff. She’d heard about these from some of the late-period Earth texts; dermal patches used to deliver medicine.
“Behold the mark of Yammon,” said Michander. “In the name of our holy prophet, who delivered us from evil, I place upon this child, Isabel daughter of Giselle, the mark and ward of his protection.” He peeled a piece of white paper from the patch and then pressed the patch to the child’s back, where it adhered. “May Yammon protect you and sustain you and make you strong. By the word of our savior and his song eternal.”
It was a vaccination of some sort. It made sense. A child who received the mark of Yammon would survive common childhood illnesses like spotted fever and wasting sickness that would kill a child who had not received the blessing. By making the inoculation a baptism rite, the Eradicants ensured that these simple people would become ardent followers of their cult.
Michander lifted the infant, who had not uttered so much as a whimper, and handed her to a woman who might have been the daughter of the crone who had greeted him. As one, the villagers broke into song, “Children of the Word, Singers of the Song, accept our humble welcome, good servants of Yammon. Sacred mark of truth, make our children strong, protect the blameless babe, and deliver us from wrong. . . .”
After the song, tables were erected in the village clearing, and a feast was held. A goat was slaughtered and roasted, and steaming platters of pulse and oats were brought forth. Haly was seated between the villager who had struck her and Vinnais, her hands untied so she could feed herself. The food was simple but filling, and she ate gratefully.
As she shoveled buttered oats into her mouth, Vinnais turned and eyed her. “You don’t mind taking what they have to offer, then, even if you Libyrarians won’t share your knowledge with them,” he observed.
Haly blinked. She’d never even considered that before. Clearly the Eradicants, who possessed knowledge only dreamed of by the Libyrarians, shared it freely with the common folk.
Vinnais lifted an eyebrow and nodded at the expression on her face. “That’s why we’re going to win,” he said.
In the afternoon of the day after they left the village, Michander called a halt at the edge of a vast crater. It had been the site of some great explosion, the heat of which had turned the sand to glass. Haly, sitting in her usual spot in the back of the wagon, still with hands and feet tied, blinked in the bright glare of the reflected sun. Michander, Ithaster, Vinnais, and the others stood in solemn silence, staring out at the great bowl of glass. “Iscarion’s folly,” muttered Michander before ordering them to resume their march.
The following evening they finally reached the Corvariate Citadel; a vast collection of domes and arches rising up from the plain. It was far larger than the Libyrinth, at least the above-ground portion of the Libyrinth, but built along similar lines: nested domes and tall spires, the latter of which were connected by delicate archways. Where the Libyrinth was cast in tan sandstone, the Citadel was gray. And it glowed. It seemed infused by its own constellation of light, emanating from behind walls, winking through windows. She turned to Vinnais and said, “What makes all that light?”
“These,” he said, holding up the Egg from the vault. “The Corvariate Citadel has twenty Eggs.”
“Twenty-one, now,” added Ithaster.
It was not until they approached the vaulting steel gates that the true size of the place bore in upon her. The outer walls stretched up past the limits of her vision, and the iron doors of the main gate, which groaned open after a brief exchange between Michander and the guards at the outer guardhouse, were taller than the dome of the Libyrinth’s Great Hall.
Seeing the grandeur in which her enemies lived, fresh despair washed over her. How could the Libyrinth ever withstand them? All they had was the Libyrinth’s walls and the goodwill of Ilysies and Thesia—goodwill bought with the coin of knowledge—and now that frail garment was tearing. Maybe they would have been better off to do as the Eradicants did—ally with the peasantry. Thesia no longer existed to protect anything. How long would Ilysies stand?
The great iron doors clanged shut behind them and the stillness of the plain was replaced by thrumming activity. Thousands of people and beasts, hauling carts of lumber, stone, grain, and vegetables, passed up and down the broad avenue and smaller side streets, as well as across the bridges that spanned the distances between buildings. The air was filled with the competing melodies of countless songs, combining to form a discordant symphony. Haly smelled smoke and sweat, dust and dung. The streets were paved with gray slabs of stone.
The domed buildings on either side—some no larger than the huts of the village, others rivaling the the Libyrinth in size—were decorated with carven spirals, lines curving, undulating, lending everything an aqueous, shifting appearance. Haly wondered at all the people who were abroad at this hour. She said to Vinnais, “It must be at least the hour of the Fly by now, and yet the streets are filled with people. When do they sleep?”
“They sleep when their shift is over,” he said. “When we were slaves, we worked in shifts. When the Holy Prophet Yammon freed us, we kept the custom, because it is more efficient. But now everyone has adequate off-shift time for sleeping, eating, praying, singing . . .”
Haly lost track of his words as the building at the end of the avenue came into view. Surrounded by a large plaza, a collection of domed towers rose up, higher even than the city walls. There were seven of them, the one in the center the tallest of all. And they were interlaced with connecting archways. As they neared it, Haly saw that a great face was carved into the tower nearest to them in such a way that the arched entranceway formed a gaping mouth. “What is that place?” she asked.
“Your destination,” he replied. “The Temple of Yammon.”
The cart lurched through the gates of the temple into a courtyard that was practically a city unto itself. Everywhere she looked there was activity, all going on by the light of the brilliant white lamps set in the walls of the courtyard and strung overhead on wires. They pulled past a group of men and women unloading lumber from a sledge under the supervision of a black-clad priest and came to a halt before the broad steps that led up to the temple proper.
“Ithaster, see to the wagon,” said Michander. “Hephaestus and I will take her to the dungeon.”
They ushered her up the steps and across a vast echoing hall. She caught a glimpse of tall pillars and an intricately carved dome before being bundled through a doorway to a narrow passage that led to a staircase leading down. The sparse light here was just enough to guide them down the stone steps to an even narrower passage, damp and rank and lined with iron doors.
Hephaestus produced a key and unlocked one of those doors to reveal a cell. Without ceremony, or explanation, Michander shoved her through the door and shut and locked it behind her.
Clauda in Ilysies
Clauda shivered in the cold mountain mist and pointed her horse’s head to follow Selene’s beast. Sheer rock walls jutted up around them. She could see little of the narrow pass down which they crept, for the clouds were low this morning, cloaking them in an icy vapor that found its way into her bones no matter how many blankets Selene heaped upon her.
At least she could sit her own mount today. Just as Selene had said, the tremors were lessening. Her grip on the horse’s reins was strong, if a bit rigid from the cold.
They were on the far side of the pass, having spent the last two days negotiating a narrow, icy trail through the snowbound heights. Just as well that she’d had to ride with Selene—warmer, and less chance of her inexperience causing a misstep that could send her and her mount plunging down the mountainside. She wanted to get to Ilysies, sure, but not that fast.
By midafternoon, they reached the foothills and began following a little
stream that splashed and burbled merrily among boulders now liberally scattered with scrub and wildflowers. The clouds lifted and the bright sun grew warm on Clauda’s face. The air smelled sweet. Clauda caught sight of a small green lizard sunning itself on a nearby rock. The lizard saw her, too, and with a swish of its tail it disappeared.
“Clauda, come here,” called Selene, who sat her horse on a rise where rock gave way at last to earth. “Look,” she said, pointing as Clauda came up beside her. “Ilysies.”
The land gently sloped away below them; a long, gentle expanse of green, threaded through by their companion the stream, which wound down the valley to meet a mighty river. All along the river were fields and dwellings, more and more as the river made its way to the blank blue vastness of the ocean, and then, just before the sea, hazy in the distance but picked out by the bright hot sunlight, the graceful spires and brilliant white walls of Ilysies, like the cake Clauda’s mother Hepsebah had made for Griome’s sixtieth birthday—the grandest thing Clauda had ever seen, until now.
She wanted to stay there forever, just drinking in the sight. There was so much of it, and all of it miraculous. The green land, green as she’d never known land could be; the fantastical city like something out of a hummingbird’s dream; and beyond all of it, the ineffable ocean, hiding all of its secrets in its depths. Her heart pounded with a wildness somewhere between fear and elation, and she would have sat her horse until the sun went down, taking in her first sight of the sea, but beside her, Selene gave a wild whoop and charged her mount down the slope, howling joyously and lifting her arms up to the sky. Clauda, her heart leaping, spurred her mount after her and the two of them galloped down the gentle land, the moist heat of the sun-warmed grass embracing them as they laughed and lifted hearts and hands to the glorious all-giving sun.
If her first sight of Ilysies took Clauda’s breath away, the smells and sounds of the city, once they were within its walls, threatened to rob her of her wits. The numerous winding streets were thronged with people dressed in every form of garb imaginable, from the fitted waistcoats and trousers of Thesia to the flowing tunics sported by a ruddy-skinned people whom Selene informed her came from across the sea.
The abundance of goods for sale in the teeming marketplace was enough to break her heart, thinking of the winter months when the Libyrinth must subsist on turnips, onions, and pulse. Selene took the reins of Clauda’s horse and led her along, after she’d blocked traffic twice and inadvertently knocked over a watermelon stand. Watermelons, she marveled, craning her neck to peer regretfully behind her as they left the marketplace and started down a broad avenue lined with white walls and ornate gates. She’d only seen a watermelon once before in her whole life.
At the end of the grand street stood the palace, an enormous complex of buildings surrounded by high, whitewashed walls that glowed pink in the setting sun. Before the gilded gates stood a phalanx of scowling guards dressed in white tunics and pantaloons, heavy rifles in their hands.
“Vorain!” Selene called out as she dismounted and approached the formation. “Is your father still selling himself in the marketplace? I could use a good lick and I don’t want to spend too much.”
“Princess Pointy-head!” The biggest woman Clauda had ever seen hurtled toward Selene and enveloped her in a bear hug. Clauda blinked and looked at the rest of the guards. They were all women. She looked back at Vorain, who had released Selene and now held her at arm’s length, beaming. “Bountiful Mother, it’s good to see you. I didn’t know you were visiting. What’s the Libyrinth like?” A slight frown replaced the grin and a line of worry formed across Vorain’s broad forehead. “You look thin.”
Selene laughed off her old friend’s concern. “I see you’ve made captain. Congratulations.”
“Ah, I’ve been in charge of this bunch of sag-bottomed walruses for well on five years.” She turned and saw the other guards shifting restlessly and craning their necks to get a look at Selene. “Corliss, Beatrice, stop standing there like a couple of sunstruck gooney birds and open the gate for Princess Selene!” She signaled the elegantly slender watchtower that stood just behind the outer wall.
“Vorain,” said Selene shaking her head, “don’t announce—”
But Vorain was already bellowing, her hands to her mouth. “Lieutenant Patakis, sound the trumpets for the arrival of her gracious majesty, daughter of our magnificent queen . . .” Clauda didn’t think it possible, but as the gates opened, Vorain’s voice grew even louder. “The Libyrarian Selene!”
From that moment on, Clauda was caught in a whirl of ceremony and solicitude. As trumpets skirled from atop the inner wall, grooms in white leather breeches ran across an open yard the size of the Great Hall back home. They were bare-chested, both the men and the women. She looked down from the dizzying sight of the trumpets gleaming red in the setting sun, into the equally dizzying depths of a pair of brown eyes. A girl about her own age, fine-boned like Selene and athletically slender, took the reins of her horse from her hands, and smiling, led her toward the inner gate.
When Clauda stumbled dismounting, Selene told the inner gatekeeper she’d been injured by a mind lancet. Clauda was immediately swept up in a flurry of gauze-draped attendants. Selene disappeared behind a froth of sleeves as they whisked Clauda to a small but sumptuously appointed room, with a soft bed draped with red and purple silks, and a glow warmer on a small pedestal in the center of the room.
Here the blinding white of the outer palace gave way to a comforting stonework gray, warmed with voluptuous wall hangings and cushions. At the doorway her entourage abated somewhat, leaving Clauda in the company of a boy and girl who could have been the brother and sister of the groom who’d taken her horse. Before she could protest that she needed to be with Selene, that they both sought an audience with the queen on a matter of the utmost urgency, these lithe and elegant creatures had her undressed and sitting in a steaming tub of sage-scented water. They scrubbed her clean and then installed her in the bed, which was warm and soft, and without doubt the loveliest bed Clauda had ever met. Smiling, her doe eyes slanting with amusement at Clauda’s dumbstruck expression, the girl handed her a cup of steaming something, which Clauda sniffed and discovered was mint tea.
She was thirsty, and it would be rude to reject such determined and well-wrought hospitality—a poor beginning to her acquaintance with these Ilysians.
She’d drunk about half the cup when a woman entered the chamber and bowed low. “With your permission, Clauda of Ayor, valued servant of the princess Selene,” she said, “the House of Tadamos has great skill in the art of kinesiology. I, Adept Ymin Ykobos, have learned from childhood at the hand of my grandmother, herself the heir of a tradition going back to the time of the Ancients themselves. Will you permit this servant to treat you?”
Clauda blinked and looked uncertainly from the two attendants to Ymin, who was much older and, unlike everyone else she had seen so far, was dressed in a skirt and shawl of blue picked out with green flecks. The effect of the clothing was such that she seemed to blend into the background, while the others, in their whites, with their tan skin and gazelle necks and limbs, stood out vividly in the dimness. Kinesiology—that was massage, she was pretty sure. “Uh. Okay,” she said.
If she had known what would be involved, she would have taken her chances with the occasional tremor, she reflected an hour later, her face mashed into the bed as the gazellelike attendants held her arms and legs in grips of iron, stretching her lengthwise while Ymin played up and down her spine with what she could only assume was a spiked mallet.
“The mind-lancet attack destabilized your core. We have begun reunifying your energy pathways, but it’s an ongoing process,” said Ymin when at last they were done. The adept smelled faintly of camphor and lavender. “You can help that process along with certain breathing and meditation techniques I will teach you.”
Clauda lay on her back, sweating beneath a velvet comforter. In the wake of Ymin’s ministrations, a wave o
f warm lassitude swept over her. The attendants propped her up with pillows, and gave her more mint tea.
When she had drained the cup, Ymin took it from her. “Close your eyes,” she instructed, “and visualize yourself as a tree. Your spinal column is the trunk of the tree, and all your nerves stemming out from it are branches and roots.”
A tree? Clauda opened her eyes and raised a skeptical eyebrow at the adept, who frowned. “Kinesiology is most effective when the patient is an active participant in her recovery. Close your eyes, please.”
Clauda obeyed her.
“Imagine your roots spreading all the way down through your feet and beyond them, through the floor and down into the ground—deep into the ground. Take a deep breath and imagine that you are drawing warm, golden, healing energy up through your roots, all the way up and through your spinal column trunk, and up, up, into the branches spreading out through your arms and neck. Exhale and release the energy through the leaves and twigs at the crown of your head and the tips of your fingers. Release the energy into the sky.”
Maybe there was something in the tea they had given her. Clauda actually felt as if she had roots and branches.
“Now breathe in again and draw the warm, healing light of the sun down through your leaves and branches. Draw it down to your trunk and exhale, releasing the energy through your roots, deep in the earth. You are a circuit, connecting earth and sky. With each breath you reinforce your connection with the above and the below, and you solidify your own internal energy pathways, which are a part of that great circuit.”
Within the space of a few breaths, Clauda felt a deep sense of calm and well-being all through her body. Maybe it wasn’t just the tea.
“How do you feel?” asked Ymin.
Clauda opened her eyes, almost surprised to find herself still sitting in the bed in her chamber and not atop the green hillside she’d been imagining. “Good. Um. I don’t know . . . more solid than before?”