by Sara Wolf
Lucien hands us each a plain brown robe, and we pick four less-infested corners in which to throw the robes on over our clothes, much to Malachite’s groaning dismay. Fione shows us how to fasten our copper tool-laden belts around our waists so they look natural. But then Fione and Lucien begin to argue about something called the “caliper axis,” until Fione sharply reminds him we aren’t trying to disguise ourselves as royal polymaths, after which he falls silent.
With our hoods up, the four of us step into the streets of Vetris and head for the looming obelisk of the Crimson Lady. Our nerves sizzle in the air—Lucien closing and opening his fist, Fione, cane close to her side but hidden beneath her robe’s folds as my sword is, practicing what I remember her calling her “normie” walk. Even Malachite grinds his jaw anxiously. The closer we get to the Lady, the more and more lawguards begin to crop up. Most leave us be, uninterested in a few polymaths out for a stroll with their hoods up—a common enough occurrence. Finally we face down the front stairs of the tower herself.
Fione mutters to us, “I’ll be the one talking. Follow my lead.”
I give her a mock salute, and she flashes me a little smile—one of her real ones—before sinking farther into the shadows of her hood. We follow on her heels, the four lawguards flanking the stairs moving for us only when we reach for the door.
“Whoa, one minute.” A lawguard holds up his hand. “Archduke Gavik said there were to be no further visitors tonight. We’ve got enough bodies working in here.”
“There’s been a leak in the storage units.” Fione’s voice is startlingly deep, different. “We must let our superiors know as soon as possible!”
The lawguard sniffs, his eyes roving up and down our tool belts like he’s checking for something. “Sorry, not happening. The storage unit fellows can take care of it.”
“The storage unit fellows are knocked out from the mercury’s gasses,” she says sharply. “All seventeen of them.” The lawguard looks taken aback. Fione doesn’t relent. “So unless you’d personally like to explain to Archduke Gavik why his entire supply of white mercury has gone up in smoke overnight, I suggest you let us through. Now.”
“Y-Your hoods—”
“We inhaled the smoke, too. Our eyes are sensitive to even moonlight because of it. For Kavar’s sake, let us in, before we pass out with the details of this leak still in our heads!”
The lawguard starts, saluting suddenly and pressing the door open. Fione darts through with all the alacrity of a house cat, and we follow. Her strides are huge and fast, never slowing as she leads us through stone corridors and rooms of hissing copper machinery over which scores of polymaths are bent. Finally, she slows in a stairwell, removing her hood and clipping the same copper rod I saw Gavik use to amplify his voice during the purge to her belt. Is that what made her voice sound so strange? She points to a steel hatch.
“That’s it.”
“Are you sure?” Lucien asks.
“Reasonably,” she snarks. “I’ve pored over the blueprints for this place for only six months.”
“How—” Malachite starts. “How do you know so much about white mercury containment and stuff?”
“Why are your eyes glowing red?” she fires back. “You first.”
I peer just enough to see beneath his hood—Malachite’s crimson eyes glow gently, as if lit up from within by some inner fire, his pupils thin.
“Beneather thing during full moons,” he lilts. “What’s your excuse?”
“My uncle’s an arsehole.”
Malachite nods, impressed. “Fair enough.”
“If you’re done, we should go,” Lucien mutters, dagger-eyes darting about. “Standing in any one place for too long goes against my personal beliefs.”
Fione fishes a ring of keys from her tool belt and looks up at Malachite and Lucien. “Keep watch.”
She kneels at the hatch, fiddling with the lock as she tries each key.
Malachite suddenly hisses, “Bogey coming west. Get that thing open.”
“I’m trying!” Fione grits out.
“Try faster,” I singsong.
“Vetrisian blueprints don’t exactly have key-to-lock ciphers on them,” she argues, shoving a gold key in the lock.
Lucien never takes his eyes off the polymath approaching, his hand moving slowly to the hilt of his sword under his robe as he murmurs to Malachite, “Remind me to change that when I become king.”
Malachite groans and fingers his serrated dagger on his hip. The droopy-eyed polymath is already shooting wary looks our way. Middle-aged, greasy-haired, and ready to blow the whistle on us. A danger.
“I’ll catch up to you,” I whisper to Lucien and Malachite. “Just make sure the rest of you get down there.”
“What are you planning, Lady Zera?” Lucien narrows his eyes. I wink at him, and start down the hall. I peel my hood off slowly, using every trick I’ve learned since coming to court to make my smile irresistible. This guy’s a polymath—not a royal one—so the chances he knows my face and the title that goes with it are slim. I pout my lips and bat my eyelashes at him, imagining for the briefest moment he’s the prince behind me, instead. I know I’ve got him when he trips a little on the hem of his own robe. He’s distracted—and now for the final touch. I stumble, thrusting my not-insignificant chest into the polymath’s shoulder and catching myself on his arm. I smile up at him and fake being winded.
“Oh gods, I’m so sorry. This is my first week here, and I’m just not used to walking these halls quite yet.”
The man goes red in the face, stammering, his eyes roving over me, over the soft V shape where his arm presses between my chest. “Y-You—I didn’t—I’m sorry…”
“Don’t be sorry,” I simper. “It was my fault. I’m such a clumsy idiot.”
Behind me I hear a half-choked protest and the closing of a metal hatch. Utter silence follows. Good. The others must’ve gone down. The polymath’s eyes rove behind me, and I quickly tighten my grip on his arm.
“I’m still so lost in this place—could you show me where the washrooms are, by any chance?”
“W-washrooms,” the man manages, clearly not experienced at speaking to women. “Yes. This way!”
So enthusiastic is he that he strides off, quickly and furiously, and I laugh to myself before turning to the metal hatch and climbing down. Fione waits, locking it behind me the moment my foot reaches the ground. Lucien won’t meet my gaze, instead ferociously staring at a nearby torch. Malachite smirks at me.
“So? Did you suck the poor man’s soul out of him before or after he was done drooling on you?”
“No one,” Lucien mutters, “is doing any sucking.”
“I know your parental humans never told you this, Lucien,” Malachite drawls. “But it’s all right to be jealous. Perfectly natural, even.”
I laugh, biting my lip when Lucien’s dagger eyes meet mine for a split second. Fione clears her throat.
“If you’re all done being severely adolescent, I’d like to get moving. Malachite, you’ll be leading the way. Stay to the west of the room, and look for a door without a keyhole.”
I squint, the darkness beyond the few torches nearly impenetrable. Malachite sighs, running a hand through his hair.
“That’s why you brought me—not just for my outstanding muscles.”
“Congratulations, you figured it out,” Fione agrees. “Now let’s go.”
She instructs us to make a chain, Lucien holding on to the back of Malachite’s robes, myself holding on to Lucien’s, and Fione holding on to me. We move forward slowly, the gentle red glow from Malachite’s eyes all I can see in the oppressive darkness. The hiss of distant, unseen machines echoes eerily.
“They keep it dark to dissuade intruders,” Lucien whispers softly to me. “The celeon guards see perfectly well in the dark. Gives them a distinct advantage.”
“Cheaters,” I whisper back, and even though it’s dark I swear I see him smile, my heart locket skipping at it. He’s
so close I can feel his body heat seeping into me, keeping me warm. For a split second I wish it was only him and me, here, in the dark.
ThE beTTeR tO tEaR hiS heaRt fRoM hiS bEauTifuL chEst, the hunger sneers. For once, it’s right. This darkness is so all-encompassing. If I could just get Lucien alone somehow, I could take his heart as swiftly as a mongoose ends a viper.
As we pass a torch, I faintly see Malachite’s long, sharp ears. If he could hear me snipe in a crowded pub from thirty feet away, he can surely hear anything down here. Especially a blade being drawn on my end. Once again, he ruins everything. If he wasn’t so charming, I might start to hate him for it.
“Hide,” Malachite whispers, Lucien crouching as he does. I quickly bend my knee, the four of us taking shelter behind what feels like a large metal barrel. The sound of someone breathing heavily comes closer, a faint panther-like growl laced in between every breath. Heavy footsteps, a pause, the sound of huge amounts of air being taken in by a large nose. The heart shard in my locket goes cold—it won’t matter if the celeon can’t see us, they have an excellent sense of smell. We’re done for. Surely we’re done for—
“Baudur,” a rough voice calls out, so close it makes me jump. “Did you eat livers again?”
Livers. Can he smell that on me? A second celeon voice echoes from a good distance away.
“They were cooked in goat butter. What do you want from me?”
The first voice near us grunts. “A friend who has better taste in Avellish food.”
The second voice laughs, a half screech and half purr. The heavy footsteps pass us, growing faint. Lucien stands, and I stand with him, following Malachite along the wall.
Malachite hisses softly, “Here. The only door with no keyhole. Be quick about it—the celeon are patrolling clockwise.”
I feel Fione’s hand leave my back, the sound of her fingers fumbling against the wall, and then tiny clicks replacing it. Malachite’s red glowing eyes dart around, the only thing I can see in the dark.
“Do you need light to solve that puzzle-lock?” Lucien murmurs.
“No,” Fione answers. “It’s a touch-sensitive one—bumps instead of numerals. Uncle wouldn’t compromise the dark security down here just for his comfort.”
“Can the celeon not see the light from your eyes?” I ask Malachite. He chuckles.
“I’m closing them most of the time.”
“And you keep walking?”
“I can tell where I’m going without seeing. This is home for me,” he insists. “The darkness, the stone. It’s where we thrive.”
“I guess that’s why they call you Beneathers,” I muse. He chuckles again.
“Bene-Thar.”
“What?”
“Our word for our people, the Bene-Thar. It means ‘the ones with blood-eyes.’”
“But, we call you Beneathers—”
“Because when humans and Bene-Thar first met, that’s what they thought we were saying when they asked what we were,” Malachite scoffs. “Hilarious, isn’t it?”
“And you never bothered to correct them?”
“Oh, we tried,” he assures me. “But it’d spread too far by then. The name has its uses; if an outsider says it the upworld way, foe. If they say it like we do, friend—Fione, not to rush you or anything, but you really have to hurry.”
“There!” She quietly celebrates the sound of something heavy opening. Cold air rushes out to meet us, and we press into the enveloping chill. It’s slightly less dark in here, in that I’m finally able to see my own hands in front of my face. The thud of the door closing behind us makes me jump.
“There may be booby traps,” Fione says clearly, holding up a copper-and-crystal tube and clicking another nutcracker-like tool from her belt over it. Light flickers on the end of the tube, illuminating the crystal on the end with pure white brilliance. It reveals a long, mossy tunnel. “Malachite, you go first.”
“I’m not exactly an expert on your uncle’s traps,” he points out. Fione shakes her head.
“You have the best reflexes of us.”
Lucien’s snort is loud. “No—that would be me.”
“I haven’t had the pleasure of fighting Malachite yet,” I chime in. “But the prince speaks truth—he’s very quick on his feet.”
“Don’t be stupid, Lucien,” Malachite insists. “I’ll go first.”
“You told me that’s what being young is all about,” Lucien walks in front of us with all the careful calculation of the thief Whisper. “Being stupid, taking chances.”
“Not when you’re the last heir to the throne! Move behind me,” Malachite barks, trying to shoulder him aside.
“You move behind me!” Lucien insists, doubling his speed. Malachite easily catches up with him, and Fione and I desperately try to keep up with this war of pride.
“Slow down!” I call. “You’re going to set something off—”
If they do, and Lucien dies to such a trap…
YoU couLd stEaL hIs hEarT aNd vAniSh inTo thE daRk whiLe thEse pAthetiC moRtalS mOurn, the hunger cackles even as my heart locket squeezes at the thought of Lucien dead, of his handsome face lifeless…
There’s a crunch beneath Malachite’s boots, and the two boys look down slowly. Bones—the ground before them is littered with old, yellowed bones. Lucien bends and inspects them.
“I think these are cow,” he announces. “Deer. Some dogs.”
I swallow, hard. This is a familiar sight, something I’d seen in the woods near bear caves or wolf nests. “This—this is a den.”
“Den?” Fione purses her lips at me. “What do you mean?”
“There!” Lucien points. Fione holds her crystal light up higher, and Malachite says something in Beneather none of us know, but all of us intrinsically understand. A swear. A prayer. There, in the pale white light are the massive, moss-chewed bones of a serpentlike creature curled around itself, crowding the tunnel. Each rib bone is bigger than an entire ox, each claw taller than me, each tooth the width of my thigh. It throws eerie, bladed shadows on the pipe’s walls. It’s wolflike skull lies on its crossed forearms, as if it put its head down to rest in its final moments.
“Valkerax,” Malachite breathes.
15
Bones
Like Memories
My mouth goes drought-dry, my hands shaking. A valkerax, here of all places?
“I’m not a religious person,” Malachite confesses, his voice on the border of panic. “But what in Kavar’s bleeding eye is your uncle doing with a valkerax skeleton?”
“It lived here, clearly.” Fione swallows, jolting into motion. “Someone…fed it.”
“Someone like your uncle?” I ask.
“The bones are old,” Lucien muses, approaching it without a single ounce of fear. “Five—maybe six years? And the marks here—” He rests his hands on the ribs, where ragged indents carve through the bone. “Someone killed it with something sharp to the heart. A stab from a sword or a halberd.”
He takes Varia’s sword out experimentally and thrusts it into the grooves. To our surprise, the blade fits perfectly. Lucien sheathes his blade and retreats to me. I point at the skull.
“What’s that, there?” In the bone of the forehead is carved a very distinct symbol—not accidentally done in the least. Malachite narrows his glowing blood-eyes.
“That’s— But that’s impossible.”
“What is it?” Lucien barks.
“That’s the Beneather method of marking a valkerax kill. Someone knew of our traditions, or a Beneather was here.” He breathes, then begins looking around the walls of the pipe wildly, digging at the moss layer. “There have to be runes around here somewhere.”
“Runes for what?” I ask. Lucien is so close, and Malachite is frenzied, distracted. My hand fondles my blade’s hilt. I could do it now—dO iT nOw—carve out the prince’s heart and retreat into the darkness before either Fione or Malachite could react. Follow the west wall out, quickly and quietly, the celeon guards be
damned. No—they’d find me. It’s too risky. I need to locate a better exit first.
“The runes hold the valkerax in—like a cage. They’re the only things that can,” Malachite insists, his scratching revealing jagged carvings in the metal pipe’s walls. “Here! ‘Torvanusin, first of his name, charged with guarding the valuables of the Man Without Mercy’…there!” Malachite pulls more moss away, voice rapid, excited. “The runes begin incomplete, and etch themselves in with the cause of the valkerax’s death when they die.”
“That sounds like magic,” I muse. Malachite nods.
“Old Vetrisian magic—from a thousand years ago, when humans and witches still worked together to seal the valkerax away.” He points at the last few etchings. “There’s his death; ‘he was killed in an act of mercy by the Laughing Daughter.’”
“Laughing Daughter?” I whisper. “Man Without Mercy? What are these odd names?”
“The valkerax aren’t like us,” Malachite insists. “They’re old, older than anything else in the world. They can see a living thing’s true self, and they call us by our true self names. It’s….a hard concept to explain to an upworlder.”
Beside me, Lucien goes stiff. Fione looks to him sharply.
“You know something, Your Highness.” The prince knits his lips. Fione strides up to him, apple-cheeked face deadly serious. “The Laughing Daughter? You know who that is, don’t you? Tell me.”
“It’s none of your concern,” Lucien says softly.
“Of course it’s my concern! Tell me!” Fione roars. All three of us step back at the tone of her voice, the fury echoing down the pipe. “It was Varia, wasn’t it? She did this. She knew about this thing down here, and she killed it. To what, anger my uncle?”
Lucien keeps his face pure granite, Fione snarling—her eyes full to the brim with tears.
“She’s dead, Lucien! I saw the pieces of her. You saw them. We buried her together. She’s never coming back. The fact she killed this thing doesn’t change that!”
“I’m aware,” the prince manages tersely.
“Then stop. Just stop,” Fione grits out, “with that hopeful look in your eyes.”