Libyrinth

by Pearl North

  They seemed to sense her presence, gathering around her like curious children. But every time she tried to get a really good look at one of them, it shied away, only to come closer again when she focused on a different one. Understanding quickened her heart. They wanted to come to her, not the other way around.

  As time passed the shapes became more distinct, resolving into curving, swirling lines like the ones on the outside of the wing. In her excitement Clauda reached out with her mind and tried to touch one of them, to see if she could bend it. Pain sliced through her, hot and cold, and the line broke. She suddenly found herself facedown on the floor of the wing’s cabin, paralyzed by a full-body muscle cramp.

  “What did you do?” Ymin Ykobos scolded her even as she massaged Clauda’s limbs. “You tried to manipulate the flow, didn’t you? I told you keep your eyes closed. Don’t interfere with the flow lines. Stronger minds than yours have tried to master them, and failed, and always with the same result. Even the heir had difficulty at first. Many a time I had to treat her for going too far too quickly with the flow lines. They are not tools to be operated, nor powers to command. They command us. We are their tools. Remember that the next time.”

  Clauda managed a nod and a hoarse croak of assent. Ymin and Po worked on her for another half an hour or so, and then Ymin asked the statue for permission for Clauda to enter once again. The statue opened.

  “Now remember, leave the lines alone,” admonished the adept as she pushed Clauda backward into the all-welcoming warmth.

  Immediately her tremors stopped. Comfort and warmth spread through her exhausted body and the flow lines appeared, more vivid than ever. But this time, instead of imagining herself reaching out to touch them, she imagined letting them touch her. The swirling, curling threads wound around and into her, meeting her nerve endings and melding with them. Ecstasy consumed her like a replenishing fire, awakening an almost unbearable awareness. She was no longer Clauda, kitchen scrub of the Libyrinth. She was a great golden curve of living metal, a wing poised for flight. She’d known pleasure before, but never anything like this.

  The experience was all-consuming. She did not know how long she remained in contact with the flow lines; she was only aware of a time during which gravity was a small, inconsequential thing, and she yearned for the sky. And then, too soon, it was over and it wasn’t until she was back in the litter and being carried out by Po and Ymin that she remembered her mission.

  You are so much better now,” said Ymin the following morning after examining her. Clauda didn’t need to be told. She felt better. Worlds better. She could sit up, as she was now, in her bed, with her robe on. She could also stand, even walk a few paces about the room, all on her own. She was free from pain and all but the most minor tremors. It was almost enough to overcome her fear for Selene and Haly, her guilt over Scio, and her grief at having missed her second opportunity to steal the wing.

  Ymin smiled happily as she set the kettle on the glow warmer for tea. “I think we can go back to traditional treatment methods for you now,” she said.

  Anxiety spiked through Clauda, causing her to gasp. But she really was better; she didn’t have to fight off a seizure at those words. Still, she felt hollow with dread. “Are you sure? So soon?”

  “Yes, unless you have another relapse. It is as I suspected. You have a very sensitive nervous system. It responded quickly. It’s really just a matter of retraining your energy pathways now. They’re no longer in trauma—just out of practice.”

  Clauda fought back tears and reminded herself that she was supposed to be happy about this news. Belatedly, she replaced her stricken expression with a smile. “That’s wonderful,” she said. Her voice was faint.

  Ymin frowned. “Aren’t you pleased?”

  “Of course I am. I just . . . I . . .” Her mind raced. “I can’t help but wonder what will happen to me now.”

  Ymin drew herself up and nodded, her frown deepening. “Oh, that. Don’t worry. I’ve told the queen that even in the greatest extremity, you never once revealed anything suspicious. Whatever Scio’s activities were, you were not involved and now she knows that.”

  Clauda, her stomach in knots, nodded. “Oh. That’s good.”

  Ymin smiled at her and nodded. Her expression took on a sad quality. “In any event, the device won’t be available to me anymore after tomorrow, so your recovery is timely.”

  Clauda fought to breathe against the weight of grief and guilt that was pressing down on her. She’d failed everyone. She slid down on the bed and put her head on her pillow. “I’m tired,” she said. She stared at the books on the bedside table: Volume I of Queen Belrea and the Wing of Tarsus and The Book of the Night in disguise. She’d failed. She took Theselaides from the table and held it to her, then turned to face the wall so Ymin couldn’t see her face. Scio was probably dead because of her. Selene soon would be, and Tales only know what was happening with Haly. What was wrong with her? She’d been in the wing twice! She’d failed.

  She trembled and felt that familiar pins-and-needles feeling in her hands and her feet. For once she welcomed the pain. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Clauda closed her eyes and let all the thoughts she had not permitted herself rush to the front of her mind at once.

  Haly is being tortured, she thought. All of this time, while I loll about the palace, my best friend is enduring horrible agony—everything that happened to us in the vault and more. Things I can’t even imagine. Not to mention that she’s probably been raped any number of times by now.

  And Selene. Selene will die. In her mind’s eye Clauda saw her lying on the floor of the Great Hall, blood spreading in a pool all around her, her great dark eyes staring up, vacant and dead.

  The tingling in her hands and feet grew stronger. It was working, but she couldn’t afford to stop now.

  Selene will die because I was unable to help her. I was supposed to come up with the other half of the plan and I’ve failed. And Scio. Scio is dead because of me. And who knows what Thela did to her before executing her. Surely she was questioned and tortured, and it’s my fault.

  Even what I’m doing right now; it’s half-assed. How is Ymin going to get me into the wing tonight? What if Sergeant Bilos has recovered? What will she tell the guards? It’s a guess. That’s the best I can do for my friends; a lousy guess. And what if I’m wrong?

  Fire raced from Clauda’s fingertips to her spine and back again. Even with her eyes closed, she saw the gray flies clustering around her.

  I’m never going to see Haly or Selene again. And the Libyrinth will be destroyed, and it’s all my fault. I pride myself on being such an accomplished gossip, and yet I did nothing while my friends suffered and died.

  She heard someone approaching the bed and she smelled the familiar lavender and camphor smell of Adept Ykobos, but she couldn’t open her eyes. The fire in her limbs was replaced by numbness as her muscles started to lock up.

  And if I hadn’t opened my big fat mouth and put ideas in Haly’s head, none of us would have ever left the Libyrinth in the first place. Haly wouldn’t have been captured by the Eradicants, Selene wouldn’t have been sent to her death. My uncle and my father and my mother wouldn’t die in the destruction of the Libyrinth. Everyone I’ve ever known and loved is going to die and it’s all my fault.

  The next thing Clauda was aware of was the jostling of the litter as she was carried on it, covered by a blanket. The disguised Book of the Night was still clutched in her arms. They’d been unable to pry it from her grip. Good.

  “Will we be able to get in, Adept?” It was Po’s voice.

  “I don’t know,” said Ymin. “We’ll say it’s Sergeant Bilos again and hope for the best.”

  They came at last to the cavern entrance. “Are you awake?” Ymin asked, leaning over the litter.

  “Yes,” Clauda’s whisper was hoarse.

  “Make a lot of noise, as awful as you can make it.”

  Clauda moaned and wailed and thrashed about, careful not to dislodge
the blanket or lose her grip on the book. She arched her back and threw back her head and made the grunting, barking noises that had so humiliated her when she’d been aware of them in the past.

  Ymin knocked on the door.

  “Who’s there?” said a voice on the other side.

  “Adept Ykobos, with Sergeant Bilos, for treatment,” said Ymin.

  The door opened. Clauda saw the vague form of a woman in the white tunic of a soldier. Ymin took a step back. “Sergeant Bilos!” she cried, and Clauda knew she was not describing her, but addressing the soldier.

  “Who’s that?” said Sergeant Bilos.

  Clauda threw off the blanket, leaped from the litter, and ran headlong through the door. She swept past the guard before the woman could react. Behind her she heard the clatter of the litter hitting the floor and more footsteps, but she didn’t dare look to see if Po and Ymin followed her or if the guard was giving pursuit.

  She reached the wing unimpeded. She placed her hand on its side and risked a look behind her. Po was almost upon her, followed by Ymin, and then Sergeant Bilos, disentangling herself from the litter as she ran.

  The door to the wing irised open and Clauda leaped through. She went to the statue, rushing through the incantation she’d heard Ymin make: “Mighty Queen, mother of Ilysies, blessed, brave Belrea, open for your daughter, bathe me in the light of your righteousness.” She kissed the statue on the forehead, lips, and belly.

  Po climbed inside the wing just as the statue was opening. Clauda turned so that her back was to the streaming light. He didn’t try to stop her or pull her away. He reached through the doorway and as Clauda fell backward into the light she caught a glimpse of Ymin, climbing into the cabin.

  Now all Clauda was aware of was a warm glow surrounding her. The fear, tension, the rush of the chase were gone and she was in a space of light, supported effortlessly by the millions of tiny tendrils of illumination inside the statue in the wing.

  The waving lines and spirals appeared to her, and she let them in. It was even easier than it had been before. They soaked in and wound through her and she became one with the wing.

  It wanted to fly, and so did she. Together they heard the mouth of the cave like the call of infinity. Gravity let go and they rose smoothly off the floor of the cave and glided through the mouth, out over the ocean which was now an undulating mass whose crests were the taste of salt, and whose hollows were the bite of wind, and all of it blue with the ebb and flow of life. And above was the sky; a great emptiness that smelled like joy and sounded like freedom. And it was blue, too—the blue of flying.

  The First Redemption

  They reached the Libyrinth at dawn on the seventh day of their journey. The sun tinged the dome and spires of the ancient library with pink and gold, and Haly remembered the morning of the Eradication. The banners atop the spires fluttered in the wind like the flames that had devoured Charlotte and Wilbur. How solid those curving sandstone walls had seemed to her then, but now she knew they could be disintegrated by a single blast from the Horn of Yammon, which loomed at the back of the procession. The Libyrinth, which had been her whole world, was not even as big as the Temple of Yammon, a small, frail thing compared to the great fortress of the Corvariate Citadel.

  The Singers and their entourage circled the domed structure. Haly and Siblea got down from the elephant and the palanquin was lowered to the ground. Orrin stood at the front gate, waiting for them. Siblea and Michander led her to him. The old man looked her over critically. “Mmm,” he said and looked at Siblea. “Where is her hood?”

  The Redemption hood. It was a black head covering, trimmed with gold ribbon around the edges. She had seen Gyneth pack it before they left the citadel.

  Siblea went into the palanquin and opened the clothes chest. Fearing he would discover Nod, Haly held her breath. But Nod was not there. Neither was the hood.

  “I am sorry, High Censor,” said Siblea. “It is not here. He turned to the subalterns, gathered nearby. “Gyneth, did you pack it?”

  “Yes, Censor.”

  “Maybe it is at the bottom,” said Michander, and he joined Siblea in rummaging through the chest. Haly bit her lips to keep from laughing at the spectacle.

  “Enough!” said Orrin. “Forget about the hood. We will do without it.”

  Siblea and Michander shut the chest, straightened their robes, and led Haly to the front gate. For a moment there, she’d had the mad hope that they wouldn’t go through with this—that they’d turn back due to insufficient headgear. But no, of course not. Orrin himself raised the great ring on the door and let it fall. It made a sound like the earth cracking in half.

  Though the Libyrarians must have spotted them a long way off, it was some time before the window in the door opened. Haly could just make out Griome’s face as he shouted, his voice thin on the ever-present wind of the plain. “What do you want? You were just here three weeks ago!”

  Three weeks? Was that all it had been?

  “We are here for The Book of the Night, borne here by your Libyrarian Selene,” said Michander. “The time of the Redemption has come, and we will not be turned away.”

  “There is no Book of the Night,” countered Griome. “I gave you the map to the vault. If you did not find it there, then it does not exist.”

  “Do not lie, Griome,” said Orrin. “We know the book was recovered by the Libyrarian Selene. We know she has brought it here. If you do not admit us, we will unleash this multitude upon you, and if they cannot overwhelm your battlements, the Horn of Yammon will turn the Libyrinth to dust and we will sort through the rubble to get what we want.”

  There was a pause as Griome looked out upon the sea of humanity that surrounded the Libyrinth in every direction, and upon the vaulting curve of the horn. His eyes flicked to Haly’s with an unreadable look, and he opened the gate and let them enter.

  “The first hour of the war between Kalgan and Foundation”; “The calm of the night was broken by a roar of thunder, and something smote the water”; “The courtship display of the male Common Goldeneye looks much like an avian slapstick routine.” The voices of the books flooded in upon her, a multitude even greater than that which surrounded the Libyrinth. Only these were voices without bodies—defenseless.

  Led by Orrin and Siblea, Haly stepped inside the Great Hall. All around the edges of the hall Libyrarians stood with their backs to the shelves, a human barricade between the Eradicants and the books. Haly spotted Palla, Jan, Peliac, and Selene. Everyone but Clauda. Even Kitchenmaster Sakal was there, holding a cast-iron cooking spit in his meaty hands. If it was possible, she missed every one of these people more in this moment than she had the entire time she’d been gone. A sob broke through Haly’s reserve and she wanted to run to Palla and hide in her robes, but she stayed where she was, and though the room wavered from the tears she could not stop, she allowed herself to be maneuvered to a position directly in front of the console and facing the main gate.

  Haly, Siblea, and Orrin were followed by Gyneth’s chorus carrying the palanquin. Behind them came Michander and a chorus of twenty soldiers, and then a chorus of twenty memorizers. Gyneth’s group set the palanquin down midway between the central console and the southern alcove, to Haly’s right. The Chorus of Memorizers bolted the gate shut once again and stood before it in rows three deep, ready for her recitation. Michander and his men took up positions in a loose ring about the hall, their rifles trained upon the Libyrarians and servants.

  “Where is the Libyrarian Selene?” demanded Orrin.

  “I am here,” said Selene, stepping forward with a book in her hands—a book with a green cover. “I am Theselaides, and these are my words,” it said. In spite of everything, a wave of relief swept over Haly. Selene had switched the books. Oh, clever Selene.

  Selene gave her a reassuring smile as she stepped up to Orrin and handed him the book. He turned to Haly, a bright smile taking ten years from his face. “The Redemption can begin,” he said.

  T
hey all stared at her. The Singers were waiting for her to recite The Book of the Night. Only this wasn’t The Book of the Night. What would they do when she began to recite Theselaides to them? Well, and they had never read The Book of the Night, so how would they know the difference?

  In fact, she could say anything she wanted to. She could just make it all up. Did she dare? She’d dared a great deal already. Why stop now? She took a deep breath, opened her mouth, and said, “I am the Literate Iscarion, and these are my words: We have overthrown our masters. On this day, the first day of our nation, my brother Yammon has led us to victory and the Corvariate Citadel is ours. Our time of darkness is over. Everywhere, the Righteous Chorus celebrates. All but I, who labor here to bring the light of this day into the future, for you who are waiting.”

  She paused as the first tier of memorizers moved to the back, muttering her words and casting them into song, and a fresh row of Singers faced her, awaiting the rest of her fabrication. Selene stared at her, mystified. Orrin looked expectant; Siblea, of all things, looked proud. And she caught sight of Gyneth, standing with Thale beside the palanquin, his eyes shining. She swallowed and plunged on, wondering how long she could keep this up. “I know this time will not last. Our people embrace in the streets as one, but it is the fate of all lasting joy to become commonplace, and soon the old enmities will rise again. Already there are those who whisper to my brother against me, painting me a would-be master, greedy and hoarding of knowledge. I would have taught reading to Yammon and all the others long ago if time and the Ancients had permitted it.”

  Orrin grew restless. He exchanged glances with Michander, who readjusted his grip on his rifle.

  “But now all will learn. I will seize this peace, temporary as it might be, and I will make of it all that I and Yammon and the Song and the Word can. We have some Ancients still alive in the building that will become our new temple, and I have volunteered to question them. Much as the thought of taking up the masters’ tools sickens me, I insisted I be the one to do it, and do it alone. I will write down what they tell me. But I will not speak their words, for if the secrets of the Ancients can only be known by reading, then surely all will eagerly learn to read.”