by Matthew Cook
I glance over and see Lia take his retractor, just as the man sags away from the table. His puts his hands over his mouth, and coughs. Lia struggles to hold both instruments, her eyes riveted on the bloody scene before her.
Rath pulls the tiny form from the sack. It fits into his cupped palms, a still mass of pale white, slicked with fluid. He brushes his thumb across one end of it, and I see delicate features emerge from behind the veil of blood. The bridge of a nose. The small jut of a brow.
The baby looks like a statue. A statue made of bone.
"Rath, what—” I begin. I do not know what I expected from Napaula's baby, but this is not it.
"I read of this happening, sometimes,” Rath says dreamily, cradling the small fossilized form. He gazes down on it, love radiating from his eyes. “Sometimes a woman becomes pregnant, but the baby fails to grow in the womb. It attaches to a convenient organ and tries to grow from there."
"Such a babe ... cannot possibly live,” I say, struggling to understand him. My attention remains split between what is happening here, in the outside world, and the labor of keeping Napaula's heart beating.
"Of course not,” Rath says with a smile. “It's only a matter of time before it dies. But sometimes, when the babe expires, it is too far along to be expelled, or absorbed. So, to protect itself, the mother's body does the only thing it can: it wraps the stillborn fetus in layers of bone, until it poses no more threat."
"So the babe has been dead for decades?” Lia breathes.
"I'm afraid so. Dead, but not departed, eh, Kirin? Somehow, Napaula's love kept the child's soul from moving past the vale and into the next life. She held it to her through the force of her love and her will. That makes her very much like us, doesn't it?"
The enormity of his words shocks me, threatening to unhinge my knees. How long has the dead child's soul been trapped inside of Napaula's flesh? Decades, as Rath says. Decades of darkness, and quiet, and the sound of its mother's voice, crooning a lifetime's worth of lullabies.
I imagine it, slumbering, like Napaula said, as the years reeled past. Wanting—yearning—to move beyond the vale but trapped in a prison of flesh and blood and bone by its mother's will and her terrible love. Sleeping as its body was cocooned in layer upon layer of bone until its very flesh was like stone, all the while listening to the sound of its mother's crooning song.
I remember my own son's shade, sitting on the bed beside his dead body. Remember his bottomless hunger, and fierce desire to be reborn. Doing so would have been an abomination, in every sense of the word, but even still, I was so tempted. So very tempted. I almost gave in, and allowed him to come back. I wanted to. Gods help me, I wanted to so very much.
The memory neatly undoes me, and I feel a wracking sob burn through my chest. If I could, I would weep, but my body is paralyzed, the greater part of my will sent outside my trembling flesh.
Gods, what has Napaula done?
I frown as I watch Rath gaze at the baby. A thought occurs to me. “You ... knew,” I pant. “You knew what we would find."
Rath nods, never looking away from the tiny from. “Yes."
"But ... why?"
Rath meets my eyes. I see the light of madness flickering in them like black fire. “Think about it, Kirin: what power must such a thing contain? What wisdom does a decades-old soul possess? It is older than everyone in this room, save its mother. Far older. The energy which animates our creations comes from souls only recently set free from their mortal shells. What could be accomplished, if one were to use a soul like this one? Can you imagine the power such a thing could bring? We could create a weapon of such immense force that the Mor cannot hope to stand against it."
It would be powerful, indeed. But mad. Completely and irrevocably mad. You must not allow him to possess such a thing, I hear in my mind. Sister, it seems, has returned. If I could, I would shout for joy. Instead, all I can do is struggle to keep the old woman's heart alive.
"No...” I whisper. “No. You ... cannot. Must not."
"Put the child down. Now.” Lia barks. I glance aside, and see lightning flickering in her eyes. It has never been more welcome a sight. She raises one hand, letting the retractor slip to the floor with a clatter, and points it at Rath.
Tell Lia if he will not give it up, she must kill him, my sister says. She sounds stronger now, as if she is rediscovering her voice. He must not be allowed to have it.
"I'm afraid I can't do that, Mistress Cho.” I see his eyes flicker, glancing over her shoulder. I follow his gaze, and open my mouth to shout a warning. Too late.
Eddard's club whistles down, burying its cruel head in Lia's auburn hair. She folds with a choking gasp, her eyes rolling back as her knees let go, sprawling on the stone floor.
"No!” I scream, struggling to extricate myself from Napaula's body. I feel the old woman's heart racing, fluttering like a panicked bird in the cage of her ribs. The bleeding I have been so carefully controlling begins to flow once more from her opened belly.
"I'm very sorry, Kirin, but you know I must do this. The Mor will not stop until one or both of us are dead. Even then, they might not stop. We must defeat them, once and for all, here and now, or we will never be safe. I had to be sure Napaula survived long enough for the babe to be taken from her, lest its soul follow her across the vale. I thank you for your excellent work. I could not have done it without you."
He picks up the bloody scalpel from the sheet and moves it over the now-empty sack. I follow it, and see the veins there all stem from a single, massive vessel, thicker than my thumb.
With a deft motion, Rath severs it completely, letting out Napaula's blood in a fountain of crimson.
I wail as Napaula's life sprays across her still body, across the sheets and the padded table. The jet throbs in time with her racing pulse. Napaula lies motionless, paralyzed by the medicine Rath has given her.
Her heart stops.
Rath drops the scalpel onto the bloody sheets and turns away. Eddard steps forward and swaddles the baby in a clean cloth. The pair of them head for the door leading out to the catacombs.
I freeze, torn. If I extract the blood magic from Napaula, she will certainly die. If I do not, Rath and Eddard will escape. My eyes flicker down, to where Lia lies on the dusty stones. A trickle of red spreads out from beneath her head, but she is still breathing. As I watch, her eyes flutter, as if she is struggling to wake.
The sour smell of human waste fills the air as Napaula's bowels let go. She is dying. She would already be dead if not for the magic infusing her.
No. I cannot allow her to die. I promised her. So many promises have I broken. So very many. Damn the cost; I will not break this one.
Rath and Eddard slip from the room and out into the darkness beyond. I must let them go, for now. But I will find them again. Whatever it takes, I will find them.
I close my eyes and plunge my attention and will back into Napaula's body. The heart first; it must beat, or all else will not matter. I focus on the tendrils that thread around and through it, then send a bolt of my lifelight down the connection and into the still organ.
It spasms, then begins beating once more. An instant later, a wave of fatigue rolls over me, dimming my sight. I watch it for a few moments longer, waiting for its beating to grow even. As I watch, the redgold of my own life glow smoothes the frantic pulsing. Her blood once more flows.
But she is still losing too much blood from the severed vessel that Rath so deftly cut. I command the magic to extend a tendril up into its many branches, threading them back together at the source of the cut. Using my secret eye for vision, I lower my hands into her belly and gently move the severed ends together with my fingers.
The blood magic winds through the sliced edges, lacing them together. As they do, they draw cells from their places along the vessel's walls, the many threads restacking them like bricks in a wall, almost faster than I can follow. Their dance is elegant and immensely complex.
As I watch, the magic k
nits the edges of the damaged vessel, much as they did with Captain Garrett, until, moments later, it is smooth and whole once more. I feel a surge of pride, only slightly diminished by a sensation of weakness. Always it is like this when I bend the red magic to my will.
I turn my attention to the gaping wound in her belly, and my newfound optimism falters. Compared to the sliced vessel, it is a vast chasm, titanic and irreparable. I do not have the strength, not after restarting her heart.
My sight grows dimmer, and I sway. My head feels so light, as if it will blow away like dandelion fluff at the merest breeze. A memory comes to me: the girl in the flowered dress, outside the iron fence guarding the cranes beside the Northwatch Cliffs. I remember the way that the maddened horse's shadow fell over her, just before its iron-shod hooves reaped her life. Remember the sound of snapping bones and her last, plaintive cry. I could not help her.
No. No more death. Not while life still remains in my breast. Even if it kills me, I will not let Napaula go. Let us journey together across the vale if that is our fate, but if she is to die, I will die with her, and we will walk the lands beyond this one hand in hand.
With the last of my fading sight, I look down at Lia. I want to bring the memory of her with me, holding it inside my heart and mind for as long as I can. In the vision imparted me by my secret eye, her life glow is fierce, and steady, despite her head wound. She is young and so very strong, the patterns of her life shining like molten gold in her veins. A thought occurs to me.
I must. No time to rethink, or doubt. I wish she were awake, so I could ask for her permission, but there is no time. No time.
She would give it, were she able. She will understand, my sister says. I pray she is right.
"Forgive me, love,” I whisper.
With a thought, I command the blood magic to flow inside her.
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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Lia groans, stirring against the chill stones. How much time has passed? The candles all still burn; they look no different. Not long, I pray.
I turn and look at her, struggling on the floor. Lia's blue eyes slide open. They are ringed with deep purple bruises, as if she has been beaten. She moves to rise, then flinches, flopping back to the stones.
"Don't try to get up,” I croak. “You have a head wound. Probably a concussion. You're lucky Eddard's club didn't catch you square, or it would have killed you."
"What ... what did you...?” she begins, lying on her side, eyes closed. “I remember trying to hold Napaula's incision open, after Eddard got sick. Then I heard a noise, behind me. Someone struck me."
"Eddard,” I confirm. “He must have faked his illness, then picked up the club while you were preoccupied."
"Bastard,” she groans. “I remember lying on the floor, trying to wake up. I needed to help you. Then you...” She frowns. Her eyes open, the blue irises filling with horror. “Then you sent the magic ... I remember you sending it ... oh, gods. Putting it inside of me. It was inside of me.” She drags her hands across her belly, as if feeling for traces of corruption. Her spare frame shudders.
"Lia, I'm sorry. I had no choice,” I plead. “Napaula was dying. I had to do something. I didn't have anything left to give her—"
I feel my strength returning. I should be exhausted, unable to speak, let alone move. Did I take a portion of the lifelight I channeled from Lia for myself? Such was not my intention, but...
I struggle to my feet, pushing up the unyielding wall. The room spins as I regain my feet, pirouetting gracefully around my head. I hold the stones and breathe deeply until the fit passes.
Cautiously, afraid of what I will find, I step towards the bloody table. I peer at Napaula's still form.
The wound is closed. All that's left is a pale scar, running across her belly from hip bone to hip bone. She breathes easy and deep, snoring softly.
Napaula is asleep.
I look at her with my secret sight. The patterns of her life tell me the tale.
The sickness that exists throughout her body has spread. Without the baby's unnatural vitality keeping it in check, it is multiplying at an alarming rate. Golden power flows through her veins: it is the life I drew from Lia and sent down through the tendrils of the blood magic. It bolsters her. But it cannot last.
Satisfied Napaula is in no immediate danger, I move to Lia. I kneel beside her, then probe at the edges of her head wound, ignoring her hissed protest. With my secret sight, the hairline crack in her skull is obvious. As with all head wounds, there is much blood, caked in her tousled curls. I move to face her and see with relief that both of her pupils are steady and even, both the same size.
"Lia, I want you to wait here, and help Napaula when she wakes. Take her home. Try to make her comfortable, if you can. Then I want you to rest."
Lia's weary eyes meet mine. She frowns. “What is it? Is Napaula in danger?"
I nod. “She'll die. Everything I did ... everything we did, was just temporary. She always knew she was dying, and all I wanted to do was give her the chance to see her son's face before she passed. I swore to her that she would, and now I've broken even that promise."
"Where are you going?” she asks.
"I must find Rath, and keep him from doing something terrible."
She nods, and struggles to a sitting position. “Then you should go. I will attend to Napaula. We will make our way home."
"Lia, I'm so sorry for all of this—” I begin. Lia's bark of laughter silences me.
"Sorry? Sorry?” She looks up at me, and I see the lightning arcing behind her eyes. “Speak not to me of sorrow. I have had my fill."
"Lia, I—"
"Go!” she screams, turning away.
I nod and move to the open door leading to the catacombs, grabbing a candle and holder as I pass. I stop in the doorway. “I love you, Lia. I will make this right."
She does not answer; instead, she stares at the floor. The blade of ice in my chest grows colder, twisting savagely beneath my heart. I do not feel like I can take a proper breath. Lia remains silent.
I turn and stalk out into the low corridor.
I kneel, committing Rath's and Eddard's dusty boot prints to memory, then move down the low-ceilinged corridor. At the first juncture, the footsteps turn left. I let out my breath. They are returning the way they came.
I hurry down the passage, pausing only occasionally when other thoroughfares cross my path. Once I assure myself that the dust coating the floor is unbroken, I continue on.
I slow when I approach the place where I saw Rath's sweetling hiding in its niche in the wall, then let out my held breath when I see a scattering of rubble on the floor. It is not there. Rath must have commanded it to follow him when he passed.
What will I do if Rath has left behind some of his minions in the ruined basement? There were so many; he can afford to leave a few to cover his retreat. The blood magic is useless against them, for they have no blood. And I cannot stand against them physically: even a single sweetling is more than a match for my knife.
I shake my head and press on. If he has left a rear guard then I will get past it, somehow. I must.
I turn left and right, following Rath's tracks, and soon I recognize the rough walls leading to the ruined basement. I slow, senses alert. My knife hilt fills my hand with empty reassurance.
I pass through the tumbled wall and hold my candle's feeble flame high. The basement seems empty. The floor is crisscrossed with dozens of clawed tracks, all flowing towards the stairs.
I met out my held breath. Thank the gods. I hurry towards the steps.
I extinguish the candle at the top of the steps. There is light in the sky, a ruddy glow, bright enough to read by. I hear a sound, an eerie wailing. It takes me a moment to place the sound, but when I do, my blood runs cold.
"Oh, no,” I whisper.
I scramble across the crumbled floor, tripping in holes and on half-seen rubble. I must get outside, must see the northern sky.
I burst through the half-open front doors and pelt out into the street. The sky glow intensifies, a brilliant bar of orange, dominating the northern sky. I run to the cross-street and turn my face towards it.
The watchfires atop the Armitage near the Lion Gate are lit. The blaze sends a column of black smoke, shot through with sparks, up into the night sky. Several other fires, up and down the wall, have also been lit.
The wailing is repeated, a sound like a titan's cry. It rolls out, across the City, echoing from the countless buildings. I have heard of this sound, have been trained by my superiors on the wall to recognize it, but I, like every other living resident of the City have never actually heard it, for it has not been sounded in the lifetime of anyone now living.
It is the siren, located in the Arquis Vae. It has been silent for generations. Only in the most dire peril is it to be sounded. Now it sends its warning cry across the sleeping city. Hearing it, in conjunction with the fires atop the mighty wall can only mean one thing.
The Mor are close to breaking through the wall.
I look down. The cobblestones retain no imprint of Rath or Eddard's feet. I cannot track them in such an environment. Oh, gods, what shall I do? If I cannot locate him ... if I cannot stop him. If only someone saw where he went—
I pause as a thought occurs to me. Yes, that might just work, I hear my sister whisper in response. But be cautious. They might kill you out of hand for what you did to them.
"I'll have to chance it. If anyone saw Rath and Eddard, it's them."
I step back inside and collect my long bow and arrows from where I left them, beside the door, then hurry into the dark city streets. I turn left at the first intersection, navigating by dead reckoning, moving deeper into Low Town.
As I move through the abandoned streets, they tell their story to my trained tracker's eye. They are filled with the debris of hasty flight: articles of clothing and abandoned chests. Many of the houses lining the boulevard stand open, front doors swinging in the raw wind.
I can see it in my imagination: countless families, woken by the siren's chilling wail. Seeing the watch fires must have begun a panic. I can imagine them, leaving in droves, streaming towards the main thoroughfares leading south, towards the Northwatch Cliffs. I avoid the larger roads; they will doubtless be choked with panicked, fleeing citizens.