The Cipher

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  Master Whittier just stared. He glanced at Lucy and Marten and recoiled, finally noticing their strange eyes. He looked back at Digby.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Trouble.” The sergeant slid a look to Lucy, but didn’t elaborate.

  Whittier tapped his fingers on his desk, and then stood abruptly. “Come with me. Are there more of you?”

  “Sent for the cap’n to bring troops. He’ll be here soon.”

  “I’ll send Harbine to escort them.”

  He took them back to the outer office and sent his master clerk trotting off. “This way, please.”

  It would have taken a pack of bloodhounds and a month or so of seeking for Lucy to find her way through the meandering maze that led to a cluster of musty storerooms beneath the throne room. They contained a spectacular quantity of paintings, sculptures, musical instruments, tapestries, weaponry, and innumerable other riches piled haphazardly. The customs inspector in her longed to catalog and organize it.

  Master Whittier stopped outside a plain door and inserted a heavy brass key in the lock. Majick made Lucy’s nose tingle. The door was warded against unauthorized entry. It opened into a dark stairway. Whittier put a finger over his lips and crept upward with Lucy right behind. Sergeant Digby drew his sword with a quiet chiming sound. Marten followed suit. There was a small landing at the top of the stairs, illuminated only by cracks of light slipping between the heavy draperies walling off one end. Squabbling voices sounded from the other side. Lucy’s mouth hardened as she recognized one. Sharpel.

  She went to the corner where the drapes met the wall and pushed them open a hairbreadth. The invaders stood on the dais behind the two thrones. Or rather, behind where the thrones ought to have been. The massive chairs had been tumbled to the floor and smashed apart. Immediately Lucy recognized why. They were made of blood oak. Though how anyone could have figured that out, she didn’t know. The thrones were gilded with complex inlays of enamel and precious stones. Until they’d been smashed, not a single speck of blood oak could have been seen. Even she had not recognized what they were, though she’d once even been allowed to sit on one, and her cousin William had dandled her on his knees when she was a child.

  She saw him now, lying on the floor, bound like cord-wood and gagged. Queen Naren was behind him, also bound. Her eyes were closed and she wasn’t moving. A bruise spread across her forehead. Clustered on the floor in the center of the room was a group of terrified men and women, a mix of gentlefolk and servants. Stacked in the back against the wall was a pile of bodies from which emanated trails of blood. There appeared to be twenty or thirty altogether, and most wore the livery of the Crown Shields. Lucy pressed a hand to her lips.

  Sharpel stood at the foot of the dais on the opposite side from Lucy, arguing with a slight man with straight, silky black hair that fell loosely to his hips. His skin was dark, his eyes yellow. A pattern of alternating red and black dots ran along his brow bone and his cheekbones just below his eyes. Additionally, there were two triangular slash marks in black on his left cheek, and a pattern of scars on his forehead and chin. Jutras. She glanced around the room. There were sixteen of them. Small, dark-skinned, with black hair and yellow eyes. Both men and women. Each shared the same loose, flowing hair-style and tattooed dots around the eyes, but the ritual scarring and additional facial tattooing were quite different. Four guarded the main doors, and two more pairs guarded the side entrances. Others circled watchfully around the prisoners. And the last waited until Sharpel finished his diatribe before speaking quickly in a soft, unrelenting voice.

  The words made no sense to Lucy. The language was disconcertingly musical and guttural at the same time. The Jutras man gestured emphatically at the prostrate king. No, Sharpel was Jutras too, she reminded herself.

  “There is nothing I can do about the Pale,” Sharpel said loudly. “There is no majicar alive who can. Uniat and Cresset will protect us,” he said with a slight bow of deference.

  Lucy’s hand knotted on the thick velvet drapes. They didn’t know the Pale was restored. Which meant they didn’t know that a very powerful majicar was nearby. She had the element of surprise.

  The long-haired Jutras man began to speak again, switching unexpectedly to Celwysh. Lucy was startled at how fluent and elegant his mastery of Crosspointe’s language was.

  “If it is true that the Pale is beyond repair, then we have failed. But we will not go without honor.”

  “If it is true, Glaquis?” Sharpel’s nostrils flared as he lifted his head, his lip curling as he stared narrowly down his nose. “Are you suggesting that I am lying? Or misinformed?”

  The other man smiled, his teeth glittering white against his walnut skin. “I think that you should not be picrit vendri. But we who are kiryat will not permit your failure to stop us. You are correct. We will pray to the gods. But we must have sacrifices.”

  Lucy hardly saw him move. His hand darted out, splaying against Sharpel’s chest. Glaquis muttered a long string of words in a quick staccato. He took his hand away and Sharpel dropped to the floor, unmoving, his eyes staring at the ceiling. The Jutras wizard squatted down, pushing the merchant onto his back. He smiled, saying something in his own language, then stood, calling loudly to his companions. They quickly cleared the floor, dragging the prisoners to a huddle near the shattered thrones. In the center, six of the Jutras, led by Glaquis, began some sort of ritual. They peeled away their clothing, naked except for yellow breechclouts. Their bodies were heavily scarred, the patterns stunning and somehow menacing.

  They gathered in a circle, facing outward. In unison, they began chanting. The words were soft-edged and musical. Each said something different. Their words en-twined around one another in a complex braid. As they spoke, each began walking an intricate pattern on the floor. Wherever they stepped, a pale gray line followed. They crisscrossed, weaving in and out in a stately dance.

  Their movements were lithe and fluid. The gray lines darkened where they crossed and recrossed. Lucy became aware of majick gathering. It filled the room like a cloud, and wherever it came from, it was nothing she could touch. Fear prickled down her neck. What were they planning? Could she stop it?

  After half a glass, the men stopped, standing equidistant around the edge of their creation. It was like a snowflake inscribed in the floor, the gray lines crossing so often that they’d become black. The Jutras stood silently for the space of five breaths, and then spun in place, and began again. This time they traced a larger pattern around the outside of the other. Their words changed, turning guttural. They stomped their feet, shouting the prayer, if prayer it was. Their skin gleamed with sweat as they tromped. The lines that followed them were dark red, swooping and sinuous. They reminded Lucy of the pattern a snake’s belly made across the sand.

  At last they finished, ending with thundering feet and sharp clapping hands. Then silence descended. They stepped back, dropping to their knees and pushing forward, foreheads pressed to the floor, arms spread wide. After several minutes, Glaquis rose. He motioned for his men to carry Sharpel and the king before him. Sharpel remained unmoving, stiff as a board. The Jutras man propped him like a rake against a garden wall. William struggled against his ropes, making angry sounds behind his gag. Glaquis pulled it away.

  “Will you restore the Pale?” he asked. “Or do you wish me to offer you to the twin gods?”

  “I can’t restore the Pale,” the king said. His red blond hair had gone gray and thin over the years. His skin was ruddy from being outside. His face was set, a bruise blossoming on his left cheek, his mouth swollen and pulpy. “I wouldn’t if I could. I’d rather throw my people on the mercy of the gods than let you put them under the lash.”

  Glaquis shook his head. “Uniat will take pleasure in washing his hands in your blood. Cresset will taste your bravery sweet on her tongue. We rejoice to offer such a noble sacrifice. But this one—he has failed. Uniat will torture his soul until the forevertime ends in chaos. He will not forget that f
ailure is betrayal.”

  He glanced at the prisoners. “With such sacrifice, Uniat and Cresset will hold us in their hands until the demon storms pass. They will guide us safely back off the Mourning Water, and your land and people will torment us no longer.”

  He returned to his place on the outer edge of the pattern. Lucy watched in fascinated horror as a long red knife materialized in his hand. The blade was as long as her forearm. It hooked at the end, resembling a tooth. He held it flat before him and bowed over it. Then he grasped Sharpel by the hair. He said something in Jutras, and the power clouding the room condensed sharply. Lucy gasped. Glaquis raised the knife and began to slowly carve away Sharpel’s face, all the while chanting. His knife was sure and deft as he sliced away chunks of bloody flesh. He flicked them onto the prayer pattern. Where they landed, they sizzled and soon the smell of cooking meat permeated the room.

  Sharpel’s forced stillness was dreadful. He did not scream or struggle. Lucy could almost feel pity for him.

  As the ritual dissection continued, the majick began to swell. It soon became difficult to breathe, the majick pressing against them like a heavy weight. Lucy pushed back at it, but with little effect. Her power was too weak. Like throwing an apple at a ship to divert it. She didn’t dare try to draw on the grove again. It might damage the Pale. She had to find another way.

  Soon Sharpel’s skull was bare of skin, flesh, and hair. A few bits of meat clung to his cheeks and nose, and he still retained his eyes, which were full of dreadful horror and agony. He was absolutely grotesque. Lucy could not look away. Her stomach bucked and churned and bile spilled onto her tongue. She swallowed hard, breathing through her mouth so that she wouldn’t smell the burning flesh.

  Suddenly Glaquis raised his knife over his head, shouting something. Then he sliced open the vein in Sharpel’s neck and pitched him forward onto the prayer wheel.

  The collected majick pulled back again, condensing tighter and tighter. It sucked the air out of Lucy’s lungs and she could not find another breath. She gasped helplessly. The Jutras surrounding the circle began to chant again, pounding the floor with their hands. Suddenly the majick dropped, crushing Sharpel’s dying body. Bones cracked and crunched. His flesh and organs squelched. Blood sprayed into the air and spurted out of his body in every direction. Still the majick pressed down, squeezing every drop from his body, the prayer pattern absorbing it like a sponge.

  Lucy could not contain herself. She retched, covering her mouth to quiet the sounds. The seneschal did the same.

  Then suddenly the dreadful pressure and drag of the majick lightened. It hovered in the room, dense and waiting. Already the next victim was being cut from the herd of prisoners. It was a matron of middling years with heavy jowls and fingers that glittered with rings. But it was the person sitting next to the woman that caught Lucy’s horrified attention.

  Keros.

  What was he doing here? But she knew. He’d been trying to warn the king for her, and because of it, he was going to be sacrificed to the bloodthirsty Jutras gods.

  She turned to Marten, her voice taut. “We have to stop this.”

  Already the second bloody ritual had begun. She felt the majick condense with the first shouted word. This time the drag was stronger. It made her teeth ache, sending nails of pain up to skewer her eyes.

  “The storm’s rising. Can you bring it faster? Stronger?”

  Understanding flickered across Marten’s face. He nodded, retreating to the wall. He sat cross-legged against it, turning his face upward. Lucy watched, helpless to do anything, wanting to urge him to hurry.

  Footsteps sounded quietly on the stairs and the captain of the guard stepped up onto the landing.

  “What’s goin’ on here?” he demanded in a low growl.

  Sergeant Digby explained, his body tense and angry. His hands were bunched into fists. The captain peered out through the curtain, then spun back around, his long face white.

  “Why don’t she scream?”

  “Majick,” Lucy whispered.

  “We gotta stop them mother-dibbling bastards.” He sounded more angry than hopeful. “We can send for majicars. There’s a couple healers in the south wing.”

  “There’s no time.”

  “Just who asked you? Who in the depths are you?”

  “Lucy Trenton.”

  His mouth fell open and he slapped for his sword. Digby caught his arm.

  “She fixed the Pale.”

  The captain stiffened. His teeth dug white dents into his lower lip. He nodded. “All right. What do you want to do?”

  “There’s a Chance storm rising.” She slid a glance to Marten. “It’s going to be a big one. When it gets here, I’ll use the power of the sylveth it carries to attack.”

  “Storm won’t hit for hours. They’ll all be dead by then.”

  “It will be upon us soon. Very soon,” Marten said dreamily. The loose tendrils of his hair floated about his head on an invisible current.

  The captain started at the sound of Marten’s voice, eyeing him narrowly. Lucy put a hand on his arm to get his attention.

  “When I attack, you need to get the king and queen out. Get them to safety. And then the rest.”

  The captain nodded. “I’ll bring some men up and send the rest around to bust in the other doors.”

  He disappeared down the stairs, reappearing within a minute, followed by a dozen dour-faced men. He lined them up. All was ready. Now she needed only the storm.

  Lucy went to the curtain, standing between the captain and Digby. The woman was taking longer. There was more of her to cut away than Sharpel. What was left of the merchant spy lay on the prayer circle, a dried journeycake scarcely more than an inch thick. Lucy bit the inside of her cheek at the horror of it. She wouldn’t have wished such a death on anyone. Becoming sylveth spawn would have been preferable.

  “Why don’t she scream or fight or somethin’?” one of the soldiers growled, his throat working.

  “Majick,” Digby muttered, echoing Lucy.

  She felt the power of the sylveth gathering. It was clean and bright, like moonlight. It whirled up around Crosspointe on the wings of a gale wind. Marten pulled it into a coil until the entire island sat in the eye of a massive storm. The sylveth spun through it, pulling more and more out of the air and the sea.

  The power was immense.

  For a moment, uncertainty shook Lucy. Panic unraveled along her nerves. What if she couldn’t manage the power? Or what if it wasn’t enough? And then another fear struck her. What should she do with it? How should she attack?

  And then there was no more time to dither. Glaquis peeled the last of the woman’s face away and sliced through her vein, shoving her forward onto the prayer circle. Once again the wizards beat the ground and the accumulated majick descended, crushing the body flat, her bones turning to powder beneath its force.

  They took Keros next. He did not go easily. He used his hands and feet, striking out with majick bolts of fire. He killed the Jutras guard who held him, but Glaquis deflected his attacks without effort, setting a palm on his forehead. Just like that, Keros’s revolt was over. He went limp. He would have collapsed to the floor, but Glaquis grasped him by the hair, dragging him to the edge of the prayer circle. He raised his knife in the air, beginning the chant again.

  Lucy could wait no longer. She opened herself to the power of the sylveth hurricane. She imagined a herd of angry Koreions. Help me, she said. Kill!

  Her majick burst from her. Six great sea beasts filled the hall. They swept down on the kneeling priests and snapped them in two. One clamped its maw on Glaquis’s head and shoulders, eviscerating him with its claws. The Koreions snatched and tossed, playing tug-of-war with the Jutras like dogs with rags.

  The Crown Shields rushed in, ignoring the carnage and the terrifying beasts, and dragging out the terrified, weeping prisoners. They pulled them down the stairs. Queen Naren remained motionless. Lucy didn’t know if it was a spell or worse.
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br />   The Jutras died easily. But the prayer circle and the blood majick did not.

  Lucy walked out from the drapery to stand in the middle of the butchery. The collected power felt angry. It was still hungry. It had been cheated. It wanted death. It wanted worship.

  She didn’t know what to do. It would not remain quiescent long. If it was not fed, she had little doubt it would go hunting. But how to get rid of it?

  For a grain she heard Errol Cipher’s annoyed remonstrance when she’d asked about making a new Pale: Conjure it, majicar.

  Could it be so easy?

  She centered herself and gathered the power of the storm, holding it tight. She focused her mind on what she wanted, fixing it exactly in her mind. And then she let loose her will.

  Filaments of raw sylveth unraveled in the air. They did not come through the Pale—Lucy created them using the power of the storm. They fastened on to nothingness, crisscrossing and weaving in and out in a lace web. It grew denser, the spaces in between growing smaller and smaller. Back and forth they wove, up and down. Soon a shimmering cloth made of raw sylveth floated in the air. Lucy held it tightly, readying herself. Then she lifted it, wrapping it around the mass of roiling Jutras majick.

  When the two met, Lucy felt its touch on her skin like a vat of carrion. She screamed. She screamed all the screams that Sharpel had choked on, all those the woman could not voice. They were there inside the mass: the agony, the dreadful fear and horror as the knife sliced their faces away, as it peeled them down to the bone, as their veins were cut and their blood was crushed from them like juice from grapes, feeding the Jutras gods.

  The pain was unbearable. But Lucy was too angry to let it stop her. Rage untied her reason. Her body collapsed, writhing, letting go of her bladder and bowels. But her mind remained relentlessly focused on its task. She would not let another soul die; she would starve this bloody hunger to death. She closed the Jutras majick in a pocket of sylveth. Then she pushed.

  Slowly the mass collapsed. The shimmering ball shrank smaller and smaller, until it was the size of a head, a fist, an eye.