by C. E. Murphy
When a serpent of impossible length and breadth slithered free of the torn earth, Margrit laughed, then shoved her hands against her mouth as though she could push the sound back in. There would be a serpent; of course there would be a serpent. She could hear the hysteria in the laugh she tried to swallow, and dared not follow her own thoughts too closely for fear of finding madness in them. She knotted her hands more tightly, and realized something cut into one palm.
A sea-serpent chess pawn floated a few centimeters away when Margrit opened it, caught in the current its make-sake created as it swam. The tremendous serpent circled her and her companion, watching them as it wound around time and time again. Its great length putting Janx’s dragon form to shame: it was as though it had been born at the beginning of time, and had grown slowly, constantly, ever since. It had too many, or too few, colors to name, all of them shimmering and changing as the creature made a whirlpool of itself around Margrit and her guide. They were turned in its vortex, unable to meet the monster’s eye with their own.
Its miniature representation floated away, just out of Margrit’s reach, insignificant beyond words in comparison to its model. The carving looked like the toy it was; the real serpent looked like a limbless dragon, broad-snouted with wide-set eyes, a Norse carving come to life.
“Oh.” Margrit’s voice cracked even on that single word. “Oroborus. My God.” She heard more fervency and devoutness in her near prayer than she’d ever heard in her life, and wondered what her mother, her father, her kindly priest at her church, would think of that. Her chest ached, delight borne from someplace so deep within her she had no idea where it began. It stole her breath, stole the form she’d been given and left her dangling in the water as a mere mortal, ordinary human. Warnings whispered that she should be frightened, she should be drowning, she should be crushed, she should be dead, and none of it, not one of those true and dire thoughts, could unman the consuming, heartbreaking joy that welled inside her.
She stretched her hands out, not so much daring to touch the monster from the heart of the world as in worship, felt more deeply than she had words for. “My God, look at you. Thank you. Thank you for letting me see you.” She caught the tiny chess carving and held it up in her fingertips. “This is for you,” she said impulsively. “We do remember. Even humans. We do remember.” That the serpent in her personal mythology was most often passed off as a thing of evil seemed shallow and absurd in face of the great Leviathan. That it had offered the path to knowledge seemed the important part.
The serpent’s swirling vortex slowed as it brought its head in to examine the chess piece. Its eye was taller than she was; taller than herself and her guide put end to end. Margrit had no way to give words to the creature’s size, only that it dwarfed any living thing she’d ever imagined, and that she thought the earth’s molten core would look small in its coils. It studied her and her gift with inexpressible calm, then with great and slow deliberation, opened its mouth.
It did so very carefully, as if aware that it would suck Margrit, her guide, everything around them and half the ocean’s water in if it were to do so quickly. Even with its jaws barely parted, its gaping maw was cavernous, so dark and huge it couldn’t conceivably be something alive, but had to be some new-born formation torn from the ocean’s bed. Margrit hung in the water, frozen in bewildered incomprehension before realizing the vast serpent was accepting her gift. Trying not to laugh with terror, she kicked forward and very, very cautiously dropped the chess piece into the serpent’s gum beside a tooth so large it reached a vanishing point when she craned her neck to look up at it.
With a delicacy that belied its size, the serpent dipped its tongue—forked and unbelievably long—into its gum, wrapping it around the minuscule carving and flicking it back into its throat. It swallowed once, an action that slid along forever, then, with what seemed to Margrit to be incalculable amusement, flicked its tongue a second time, this time at her.
The world spun head over heels, and she opened her eyes in Grace’s council room to find she was soaked through and through, and that she held nothing at all in her hand where the chess piece had been.
SEVENTEEN
THE SILENCE IN the audience chamber was as impressive as the crushing pressure of the ocean depths. Biali, still across the table from her, stared wordlessly at her clothes. He looked as he had before their journey into memory: scarred and angry, but now also confused. Margrit stood up, water spilling down her thighs to puddle at her feet. “What the hell happened to me?”
“We thought you might tell us that yourself.” Alban, voice dry to hide concern.
Margrit turned to him helplessly, then back to the others. “I take it I’m not supposed to come back soaking wet.”
“It has never happened before,” Eldred allowed. “What memory did you follow? What words were you given?”
“Words? I—Ah, crap, I forgot all about that part of it. He—it, whatever—didn’t say anything. I don’t even know if it could talk. It probably would’ve vibrated me to pieces if it had.” Margrit closed her mouth abruptly, stemming her babble, then said more carefully, “I had a serpent in my hand. What was I supposed to see?”
“One of my long-lost brethren, presumably.” Janx opened his hands expansively, as if inviting the whole of the room to fall into that category. “One who might perhaps share some salty bit of sea wisdom to guide us all with. One who might tell you if any of his kind still live,” he said more quietly, and more sharply. Margrit’s face crumpled.
“No, sorry. None of that. What about you?” She turned to Biali, water droplets flying with the vigor of her motion. He passed a hand over his shoulder as if he’d brush water away, though she didn’t think she’d sprayed him. Then he opened that same hand, revealing one of the gargoyle rooks.
“I saw Hajnal, who reminds me that there is no greater force than the beating heart. Love conquers all,” he said, bitter growl to the words.
“Or life does.” Margrit dropped into her chair again, squelching, and curled a lip at the coldness of her leathers. “Sounds pretty sage to me.”
“And so it is,” Eldred said. “But your journey must be more fully explained, Margrit Knight. No one has ever come back wet. Where did you go?”
“The heart of the world.” Margrit repeated what she’d said to the siryn male, feeling as absurd to voice it now as she had then. She wanted flippancy in her voice, but instead she sounded as she felt: awed and very, very small. “I met an oroborus who’d let go of its tail, and gave it my chess piece.” She turned her empty palm up again, then let her hand fall. “It didn’t say anything, just ate the carving and sent me back home.”
With her last words she realized the profundity of silence that had fallen over the room, and twisted to look at the tribunal and its audience. To a being, they had the stillness that only the Old Races could accommodate, and of all of them, only Chelsea Huo watched Margrit.
The rest watched Chelsea.
She had risen at some point, perhaps while Margrit spoke, and now stood as if rooted deep in the earth, unmovable, unswayable, her apple-wizened face so neutral as to be terrible. Under that gaze Margrit felt as small as she had beside the oroborus, pinned in place by great weight and age and strength.
Chelsea did not, in actuality, shake herself, though some infinitesimal shudder ran through her and broke the stillness that held her captive. “You saw the serpent at the heart of the world? You offered him a gift?”
“Was that bad?” Margrit’s voice quavered and she cleared her throat, trying to embolden herself. “It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. He—he? He seemed pleased. What—who—is he?” Her palms were damp with sweat, but wiping them on her leather pants would’ve done no good even if the pants were dry. Margrit tried anyway, then hugged her arms around herself, feeling as though Chelsea’s answer might be a headman’s ax.
“He is the Serpent.” Daisani answered when Chelsea’s silence had gone on too long, and drew all eyes to hims
elf by doing so. To Margrit’s astonishment, the vampire sounded very nearly reverent as he spoke, but recalling her own emotional reaction, she understood. “The same who litters your holy books and the same who entwines your healing staves. He is more than one of us, more than one of anything you might quantify. He is the beginning and the end of time, eternal in a way no other thing is. And he never lets go of his tail,” he added more prosaically, which earned a snort from Chelsea.
“He’s never had hold of his tail,” she said briskly, then shot a sharp-edged smile toward Daisani. “But they do say he knows the truth about where the vampires came from.”
Daisani’s gaze narrowed. Chelsea huffed an unimpressed breath, but Janx took attention from them with a murmur as soft and awestricken as Daisani’s own.
“They say he’s the counterpart to the mother of us all. That one can’t exist without the other, and neither of them can die until the end of the universe. No one in the history of the world has ever spoken with him.”
“The mother of us all? There’s a mother of us all?” Margrit came to her feet, her boots and clothes squishing.
“You would call her Gaia. Mother Earth,” Chelsea said with a degree of impatience. “A legend from which everything is born.”
“Her—mother—but—!” Margrit reined in her spluttering and lifted her hands to her head. “And this serpent is her counterpart? What, the death of us all? And I found him in the gargoyle memories? How’s that possible if nobody’s ever talked to him?”
Chelsea rolled her eyes. “Dramatics. First, he’s touched many people through the aeons. Your mythologies come from somewhere, after all. Second, I think it’s clear you went well beyond the gargoyle memories, Margrit. No one returns from those adventures drenched in seawater or missing items they took with them into memory. It’s a psychic journey, not a physical one. However.” Her voice sharpened and Margrit came to attention, feeling young and small all over again. Chelsea repeated, “However,” more gently, and smiled. “Insomuch as anything can be, the serpent is the truth at the heart of everything, and if he accepted a gift from you, you’ve been honored beyond any other living being in this world.”
“Oh,” Margrit said faintly, and all the other questions that had been raised fell away. “Does that mean I win?”
Even Biali conceded, grudgingly, that it did, and Margrit left the tribunal chambers to the argument of what wisdom was meant to be derived from her experience. Grace led her back to Alban’s room, where Margrit dried herself and changed into her own clothes, now that the protective leathers were no longer needed for fighting.
Grace was still waiting when Margrit emerged, toweling her hair dry. The tall vigilante was more swollen and bruised than Margrit: she’d caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror, and Daisani’s gift was doing its work. By morning she doubted she’d see any marks left from their battle. Grace noticed it, as well, and looked sour. “Vampires.”
Caught off guard, Margrit laughed. “The worst thing about living in Santa Barbara.”
Grace’s bruises creased with confusion and Margrit waved it off. “Never mind. I’d think you were the right demographic to have seen—Well, never mind. Are you okay?”
“I’ll heal. Didn’t know you had that much fight in you.” Grace gestured toward the hall and took the lead, much to Margrit’s relief. She still hadn’t spent anything like enough time in Grace’s domain to know where she was going, though at least a few hallways were beginning to look familiar.
“I didn’t know I had that much fistfight in me, anyway. I kind of wish I still didn’t know.”
“Sometimes it’s good to know how far you’ll go.”
“Yeah? How far will you go?”
Grace paused outside the chamber door, leaning on the handle as she gave Margrit a light smile. “To the edge of heaven, so I can earn the kiss of angels, love. And yourself?” She pushed the door open, ushering Margrit in before she could reply.
The air within the meeting room felt like Janx’s alcove often did, as if it had a personal grudge and intended to hold Margrit back. Margrit caught a quick sharp breath, gaze skittering from one face to another as she tried to ascertain what she’d missed. Biali scowled furiously, arms folded against his thick chest; Alban looked poleaxed, his own gaze roving from one member of the tribunal to another. The selkies and djinn whispered amongst themselves, while Janx and Daisani eyed each other as if one had done something unspeakable, and the other didn’t wish to speak of it, but couldn’t let it go. Behind Margrit, Grace let go a soft whistle. “Wonder what we missed.”
“Enter, Margrit Knight.” Eldred’s dark, chocolate voice rolled over her and Margrit scurried forward, feeling as though she’d turned up late for an important test. She bobbed her head, nearly cutting a clumsy curtsy when she came in front of the tribunal, then bit back a laugh at her own nerves.
“Sorry if I—”
“Silence.”
Margrit swallowed hard enough to hurt her throat trying not to repeat her apology. She still had the towel clutched in both hands, giving her the silly but reassuring idea that everything would be all right. Eldred waited on her for long moments, clearly expecting his edict to be broken, but Margrit remained quiet, and the djinn and selkie whispers died away. Margrit regained some measure of composure, familiar enough with gimlet-eyed judges to be comfortable in Eldred’s imposed hush. Finally the silence grew sufficiently profound that even Janx and Daisani broke off their wordless exchange to pay heed.
Eldred, with the art of a showman, held his place and the quiet to the breaking point, waiting until Margrit, at least, fidgeted internally, though she didn’t let it seep through physically. Then, sonorous and deep, he announced, “The trial is ended—”
“What?” Despite her best intentions, Margrit’s voice shot up. “I only went to change clothes! I haven’t stood the third—”
“Margrit.” Alban spoke from behind her, soft and calming. Margrit knotted her hands in the towel and set her teeth together, forbidding any more words from escaping. Eldred glowered at her until satisfied she wouldn’t interrupt again, then started over.
“The trial is ended. We demand tests of strength, of wisdom and of compassion. Of these tests two are decided at the heart of the tribunal, and we name those two as strength, gone to Biali’s champion, and wisdom, gone to Alban’s. But for the third, the trial of compassion, we must look beyond our trials and determine the larger actions of our combatants.
“Margrit Knight has, at great risk to herself, taken Alban Korund’s place in this trial. Why have you done this?”
“Because it’s wrong not to fight for what’s right,” Margrit replied, then winced at the rhymed phrasing. Eldred, though, nodded acceptance, so she pressed her lips shut against trying for more eloquence.
“Biali’s champion should not have won the battle of strength. Why did she?”
Margrit shot a guilty look toward Grace, whose expression remained neutral beneath the bruises. “Because I threw the fight, Your Honor. Eliseo Daisani gave me a sip of his blood a while ago, and I heal faster than any human should. Grace couldn’t hurt me enough to win, but she wasn’t going to betray Biali’s honor by not trying. I wasn’t going to let her kill herself on the moral high ground.”
Eldred nodded a second time. “And why are you part of these proceedings at all?”
“What, beyond Alban throwing himself on his sword? Because he needed help a few months ago, I guess. Because he asked me to help clear him of the suspicion of murder.” Her answers had none of the polish of a prepared ending argument, and the lawyer in her cringed at how raw and inexperienced she sounded. But once more, Eldred nodded.
“And are you willing to have these answers, these memories, recorded for our histories, so that we might all feel and see their truth?”
Margrit blinked. “Sure. What do I have to do?”
“You’ve joined our memories. The process of us entering yours is somewhat different.” Eldred broke off, glancing at Alban
. “Unless the exchanges have gone both ways?”
“No.” Alban shook his head, as though the deep, rumbled word was insufficient. “She’s been an inactive participant in our joinings.”
Scarlet leapt up Margrit’s neck to burn her cheeks, tears of laughter and embarrassment and half-real offense carried on the heat. She knew what Alban meant, but couldn’t help taking it wrong. Beneath blood rushing in her ears she heard Janx chuckle. “What a dreadful thing to say to a lady, Stoneheart.”
The weight of two dozen Old Races’ gazes landed on her. Margrit’s blush grew hotter and she clapped her hands over her cheeks, wishing she had the skin tones to hide such furious color. Unable to command a full voice, she croaked, “You’re not helping!” to the dragonlord, who laughed aloud.
“Do forgive me, my dear. I only thought to chide our friend for his careless words. Pray continue,” he added brightly to the silent onlookers, and after shooting Margrit a pained look of apology, Alban did.
“It’s been much as any sharing of memory with one who is not a gargoyle, save that Margrit seems to be susceptible to my unguarded thoughts. That, I think, is unprecedented among the Old Races.” He hesitated, waiting for correction, but Eldred urged him to continue. “Her memories have been closed to me, as would be any of theirs,” and with the word he gestured, including the other Old Races with a circle of his hand, “if I wasn’t invited to explore them.”