Françoise knows where she's going: all she has to do is retrace her steps of the dream, to follow the streets until they widen into a large plaza; to walk between the six kelp-eaten statues that guard the entrance to the palace, between the gates torn off their hinges by the onslaught of the waves.
And then she and Gaetan are inside, walking down corridors. The smell of mould is overbearing now, and Françoise can feel the beginnings of nausea in her throat. There's another smell, too, underlying everything, sweet and cloying, like a perfume worn for too long.
She knows who it belongs to. She wonders if the goddess has seen them come—but of course she has. Nothing in Ys escapes her overbearing power. She'll be at the centre, waiting for them, toying with their growing fear, revelling in their anguish.
No. Françoise mustn't think about this. She'll focus on the song in her mind and in her womb, the insidious song of Ys, and she won't think at all. She won't...
In silence they worm their way deeper into the cankered palace, stepping on moss and algae and the threadbare remnants of tapestries. Till at last they reach one last set of great gates—but these are of rusted metal, and the soldiers and sailors engraved on their panels are still visible, although badly marred by the sea.
The gates are closed—have been closed for a long time, the hinges buried under kelp and rust, the panels hanging askew. Françoise stops, the fatigue she's been ignoring so far creeping into the marrow of her bones.
Gaetan has stopped too; he's running his fingers on the metal—pushing, desultorily, but the doors won't budge.
"What now?” he mouths.
The song is stronger now, draining Françoise of all thoughts, but at the same time lifting her into a different place, the same haven outside time as when she was drawing the pattern on the beach.
There are no closed doors in this place.
Françoise lays both hands on the panels and pushes. Something rumbles, deep within the belly of the city—a pain that is somehow in her own womb—and then the gates yield, and open with a loud creak.
Inside, the goddess is waiting for them.
The dream once more: the rotten chairs beside the rotten trestle tables, the warm stones under her feet. And, at the far end of the room, the goddess sitting in the chair on the dais, smiling as Françoise draws nearer.
"You are brave,” she says, and her voice is that of the sea before the storm. “And foolish. Few dare to summon Ys from beneath the waves.” She smiles again, revealing teeth the colour of nacre. “And fewer still return alive.” She moves, with fluid, inhuman speed; comes to stand by Gaetan, who has frozen, three steps below the empty chair. “But you brought a gift, I see."
Françoise drags her voice from an impossibly faraway place. “He's not yours."
"I choose as I please, and every man that comes into Ys is mine,” the goddess says. She walks around Gaetan, tilting his head upwards, watching him as she might watch a slave on the selling-block. There's a mask in her hand—a mask of black silk that seems to waver between her fingers.
That legend, too, Gaetan told her. At dawn, after the goddess has had her pleasure, the mask will tighten until the man beneath dies of suffocation—one more sacrifice to slake her unending thirst.
Françoise is moving, without conscious thought, extending a hand and catching the mask before the goddess can put it on Gaetan's face. The mask clings to her fingers: cold and slimy, like the scales of a fish, but writhing against her skin like a maddened snake.
She meets the goddess's cold gaze, the same blinding radiance that silenced her within the dream. But now there's power in Françoise—the remnants of the magic she used to summon Ys—and the light is strong, but she can still see.
"You dare,” the goddess hisses. “You whom I picked among mortals to be honoured—"
"I don't want to be honoured,” Françoise says, slowly. The mask is crawling upwards, extending coils around the palm of her hand. She's about to say I don't want your child but that would be a lie—she kept the baby, after all, clung to him rather than to Stéphane. “What I want you can't give."
The goddess smiles. She hasn't moved. She's still standing there, at the heart of her city, secure in her power. “Who are you to judge what I can and can't give?"
The mask is at her wrist now. It leaves a tingling sensation where it passes, as if it had briefly cut off the flow of blood in her body. Françoise tries not to think of what will happen when it reaches her neck—tries not to fear. Instead, as calmly as she can, she extends the envelope to the goddess. When she moves, the mask doesn't fall off, doesn't move in the slightest—except to continue its inexorable climb upwards.
Mustn't think about it. She knew the consequences when she drew her pattern in the sand; knew them and accepted them.
So she says to the goddess, in a voice that she keeps devoid of all emotions, “This is what you made."
The goddess stares at the envelope as if trying to decide what kind of trap it holds. Then, apparently deciding Françoise cannot harm her, she takes the envelope from Françoise's hands, and opens it.
Slowly, the goddess lifts the sonographs to the light, looks at them, lays them aside on the steps of the dais. From the envelope she takes the last paper—the diagnosis typed by the obstetrician—and looks at it.
Silence fills the room, as if the whole city were holding its breath. Even the mask on Françoise's arm has stopped crawling.
"This is a lie,” the goddess says, and her voice is the lash of a whip. Shadows move across her face, like storm-clouds blown by the wind.
Françoise shrugs, with a calm she doesn't feel. “Why would I?” She reaches out with one hand towards the mask, attempts to pull it from her arm. Her fingers stick to it, but it will not budge. Not surprising.
"You would cast my child from your womb."
Françoise shakes her head. “I could have. Much, much earlier. But I didn't.” And the part of her that can't choke back its anger and frustration says, “I don't see why the child should pay for the arrogance of his creator."
"You dare judge me?” The goddess's radiance becomes blinding. The mask tightens around Françoise's arm, sending a wave of pain up her arm. She fights an overwhelming urge to crawl into the dirt. It doesn't work, because suddenly she's kneeling on the floor, with only shaking arms to hold up her torso. She has to abase herself before the goddess, before her glory and her magic. She, Françoise, is nothing; a failure, a flawed womb. An artist turning to science out of greed; an engineer drawing meaningless blueprints; a woman who used her friend's feelings for her to bring them into Ys.
"If this child will not survive its birth,” the goddess is saying, “you will have another. I will not be cheated.” Not by you, she's saying without words. Not by a mere mortal.
A wave of power buffets Françoise, bringing with it the smell of brine, wet sand and rotten wood. Within her, the power of the goddess is rising—Françoise's belly aches as if fingers of ice were tearing it apart. Her baby is twisting and turning, kicking desperately against the confines of the womb, voicelessly screaming not to be unmade, but it's too late.
She wants to curl up on herself and make the pain go away; she wants to lie down, even if it's on slimy stone, and wait until the contractions of her belly have faded, and nothing remains but numbness. But she can't move. The only way to move is towards the algae-encrusted floor, to grovel before the goddess.
Gaetan was right. It was folly to come here, folly to hope to stand against Ahez.
Françoise's arms hurt. She's going to have to yield. There's no other choice. She—
Yield.
She's a womb, an empty place for the goddess to fill. She has been chosen, picked out from the crowd of tourists on the beach—chosen for the greatest of honours, and now chosen again, to bear a child that will be perfect. She should be glad beyond reason.
Yield.
The mask is crawling upwards again—it's at her shoulder now, flowing towards her neck, towards her face. She
knows, without being able to articulate the thought, that when it covers her face she will be lost, drowned forever under the silk.
Everything is scattering, everything is stripped away by the power of the goddess, the power of the ocean that drowns sailors, of the storm-tossed seas and their irresistible siren song. She can't hold on to anything. She—has to—
There's nothing left at her core now, only a hollow begging to be filled.
And yet ... and yet in the silence, in the emptiness of her mind is the song of Ys, and the pattern she drew in the sand; in the silence of her mind, she is kneeling on the beach with the dagger still in her hand, and watching the drowned city rise from the depths to answer her call.
Slowly, she raises her head, biting her lips to not scream at the pain within her—the pain that sings yield yield yield. Blood floods her mouth with the taste of salt, but she's staring at the face of the goddess—and the light isn't blinding, she can see the green eyes dissecting her like an insect. She can—
She can speak.
"I—am—not—your toy,” she whispers. Every word is a leaden weight, a stone dragged from some faraway place. “The child—is—not—your—toy."
She reaches for the mask—which is almost at her lips. She feels the power coiled within the silk, the insistent beat that is also the rhythm of the waves, and the song that has kept Ys from crumbling under the sea—and it's within her, pulsing in her belly, singing in her veins and arteries.
The mask flows towards her outstretched fingers, clings to them. It's cold and wet, like rain on parched earth. She shakes her hand, and the mask falls onto the ground, and lies there, inert and harmless: an empty husk.
Like Ys. Like Ahez.
"You dare—” the goddess hisses. Her radiance is wavering, no longer as strong as it was on Douarnenez. She extends a hand: it's empty for a split second, and then the flickering image of a white spear fills it. The goddess lunges towards Françoise. Out of sheer instinct, Françoise throws herself aside. Metal grates on the stones to her left—not ten centimetres from where she is.
Françoise pushes herself upwards, ignoring the nausea that wells up as she changes position. The goddess is coming at her again with her spear.
Françoise is out of breath, and the world won't stop spinning around her—she can't avoid the spear forever. The song is deep within her bones, but that doesn't help, it just adds to her out-of-synch feeling.
The spear brushes past her, draws a fiery line of pain on her hand. She has to—
Behind the goddess, Gaetan still stands frozen. No, not quite, she realises as she sidesteps once more, stumbling, the nausea rising, rising, screaming at her to lie down and yield. Gaetan is blinking—staring at her, the eyes straining to make sense of what they see.
He raises a hand, slowly—too slowly, damn it, she thinks as she throws herself on the floor and rolls over to avoid the spear.
It buries itself into her shoulder—transfixes her. Within her, the pattern she drew on the sand is whirling, endlessly.
The pattern. The dagger. She fumbles for it, tries to extract it from her pocket, but she can't, she's pinned to the ground. She should have thought of it earlier—
"Your death will not be clean,” the goddess says, as she withdraws the spear for another thrust.
Françoise screams then. Not her pain, but a name. “Gaetan!"
His panicked heartbeat is part of the song within her—the nausea, the power shimmering beyond her reach. He's moving as if through tar, trying to reach her—but he won't, not in time. There's not enough time.
But her scream makes the goddess pause, and look up for a split second, as if she'd forgotten something and only just remembered. For a moment only she's looking away from Françoise, the spear's point hovering within Françoise's reach.
Françoise, giving up on releasing the dagger, grasps the haft of the spear instead. She pulls down, as hard as she can.
She expected some resistance, but the goddess has no weight—barely enough substance to wield the spear, it seems. Françoise's savage pull topples her onto the floor, felling her like harvested wheat.
But she's already struggling to rise, white arms going for Françoise's throat. At such close quarters, the spear is useless. Françoise makes a sweeping throw with one hand, and hears it clatter on the stones. She fumbles, again, for the dagger—half-out of her pocket this time. But there's no time. No time...
Abruptly, the white arms grow slack. Something enters her field of view—the point of the spear, hovering above her, and then burying itself in the goddess's shoulder.
"I don't think so,” Gaetan says. His face is pale, his hair dishevelled, but his grip on the spear's haft doesn't waver.
Françoise rolls away from the goddess, heaving—there's bile in her throat, but she can't even vomit. She finally has her dagger out, but it doesn't seem like she will need it.
Doesn't seem...
The goddess hisses like a stricken cat. She twists away, and the spear slides out of her wound as easily as from water. Then, before Gaetan can react, she jumps upwards, both arms extended towards his face.
The spear clatters on the ground. Françoise stifles the scream that rises in her, and runs, her ribs burning. She's going to be too late—she can't possibly—
She's almost there, but the goddess's arms are already closing around Gaetan's throat. There's no choice. There never was any choice.
Françoise throws the dagger.
She sees everything that happens next take place in slow motion: the dagger, covering the last few hand-spans that separate Françoise from the goddess's back; the hilt, slowly starting to flip upwards; the blade, burying itself at an angle into the bare white skin; blood, blossoming from the wound like an obscene fountain.
The goddess falls, drawing Gaetan down with her. Françoise, unable to contain herself any more, screams, and her voice echoes under the vast ceiling of the throne room.
Nothing moves. Then the goddess's body rolls aside, and Gaetan stands up, shaking. Red welts cover his throat, and he is breathing heavily—but he looks fine. He's alive.
"Françoise?"
She's unable to voice her relief. Beside him, the goddess's body is wrinkled and already crumbling into dust—leaving only the dagger, glinting with drowned light.
Within her, the symphony is rising to a pitch—the baby's heart, her own, mingling in their frantic beat. She hears a voice whispering, the Princess is dead. Ys is dead. Who shall rule on Ahez's throne?
Once more she's lifted into that timeless place of the beach, with her pattern shining in moonlight: every street of Ys drawn in painstaking detail.
At the centre of the city, in the palace, is its heart, but it's not beating as it should. Its valves and veins are too narrow, and not pumping enough blood—it cannot stave off the rot nor keep the sea from eating at the skeletons, but neither will it let the city die.
And it's her baby's heart, too—the two inextricably tied, the drowned city, and the baby who should have been its heir.
She has a choice, she sees: she can try to repair the heart, to widen the arteries to let the blood in—perhaps Gaetan could help, he's a doctor, after all. She can draw new pathways for the blood, with the same precision as a blueprint—and hope they will be enough.
She wants the baby to live. She wants her five months of pregnancy, her loss of Stéphane, not to have been for nothing, not to have been a cruel jest by someone who's forgotten what it was to be human.
But there are skeletons in the streets of Ys; crabs and shells scuttling on the paved stones; kelp covering the frescoed walls; and in the centre of the city, in the throne room, the dais is rotten—to the core.
She hears the heartbeat within her, the blood ebbing and flowing in her womb, and she knows, with absolute certainty, that it will not be enough. That she has to let go.
She doesn't want to. It would be like yielding—did she go all that way for nothing?
But this isn't about her—there's noth
ing she can offer Ys, or the baby.
She closes her eyes, and sees the pattern splayed on the ground—and the heart at the centre.
And in her mind she takes up the dagger, and drives it up to the hilt into the pattern.
There's a scream, deep within her—tendrils of pain twisting within her womb. The pattern contorts and wavers—and it's disappearing, burning away like a piece of paper given to the flames.
She's back in her body. She's fallen to her knees on the floor, both hands going to her belly as if she could contain the pain. But of course she can't.
Around her, the walls of the palace are shaking.
"Françoise, we have to get out of there!” Gaetan says.
She struggles to speak through a haze of pain. “I..."
Gaetan's hands drag her upwards, force her to stand. “Come on,” he says. “Come on."
She stumbles on, leaning on his shoulder, through the kelp-encrusted corridors, through the deserted streets and the ruined buildings that are now collapsing. One step after another, one foot in front of the other, and she will not think of the pain in her belly, of the heartbeat within her that grows fainter and fainter with every step.
She will not think.
They're out of Ys, standing on the beach at Douarnenez with the stars shining above. The drowned city shivers and shakes and crumbles, and the sea is rising—rising once more to reclaim it.
Then there's nothing left of Ys, only the silvery surface of the ocean, and the waves lapping at their feet. Between Françoise's legs, something wet and sticky is dripping—and she knows what it has to be.
Gaetan is looking at the sea. Françoise, shaking, has not the strength to do more than lean on his shoulder. She stares ahead, at the blurry stars, willing herself not to cry, not to mourn.
Interzone Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine #222 Page 10