A Painted Goddess

by Victor Gischler

  No reply. They’d barred the door and left her.

  She pounded on the door again. Harder. “Open this door, you freaks! Swear to Dumo, if I get my hands on you bastard sons of—”

  The water roiled behind her. She turned, backed against the iron door, eyes shooting wide with panic. The water bubbled and foamed like a boiling pot, something rising from the depths.

  And then she saw it.

  The tentacles came out first, thrashing about wildly, spraying seawater and slapping against the walls and ceiling of the chamber. The bloated, hideous body followed, breaking the surface. A hard green shell covered its back. Claws like a crab’s raised high in the air, lifeless black eyes on short stalks. Its oily flesh oozed from the breaks in its carapace where the tentacles grew out. Its enormous maw opened and closed, flashing rows of teeth like spearheads.

  The creature was an ancient sea dweller from depths none had ever seen. When the cataclysm that broke the continent into the Scattered Isles happened, it came up through caverns dark and old into a part of the ruined fortress sealed away from the rest. Maurizan knew none of this. All she knew at the moment was abject terror, and she screamed.

  She tapped into the spirit, the situation snapping into focus, fear subdued as she readied herself.

  The creature swiped at her with a huge claw, and she ducked underneath. It missed her by inches, denting the iron door behind her with an echoing clang. Even as she rolled away, another part of her brain cataloged a score of similar dents in the door.

  No wonder they keep it barred.

  The tip of a tentacle looped around her left ankle and dragged her toward the water. She swiped at it with a dagger, and the blade bit deep. A dark green ichor sprayed from the wound. The beast squealed—a high-pitched, hissing, gurgling sound—and yanked the tentacle back.

  She dodged another tentacle that lashed at her like a whip even as another part of her mind calculated escape. There was no going back. The door was shut and barred and was going to stay that way.

  That meant she had to go forward.

  She launched herself at the water, the monster’s claws snapping above her. She entered the water straight and fast, as if she’d been shot from a crossbow, and swam hard before the creature realized what she was doing. She swam between its crustaceous legs and under its bloated belly and was through to the other side. She glanced over her shoulder and saw a half dozen tentacles making a grab for her but falling short.

  Don’t look back. Just keep swimming.

  But where?

  If she hadn’t been tapped into the spirit, she’d have never had a chance, but her brain scrolled logically through the options. Her earlier explorations had found only dead ends and cave-ins. The beast would corner her and rip her apart.

  That left only one choice.

  And Maurizan didn’t like it.

  She swam with all her speed for the ceiling, a pale flash through the water. The oily ooze from the fish had dwindled to a trickle, but it was still enough to give her pause. She felt the beast coming fast behind her and plunged into the darkness.

  The foul stuff nearly swallowed the light of the orb. She could see only a few feet in any direction. Again, without the perfect calm that came with being tapped into the spirit, the fear of being lost in the dark would have paralyzed her. The disgust would have revolted her.

  Be calm. Think.

  She closed her eyes.

  A current, coming in from the side, cooler and not so foul.

  She swam toward it.

  All of this transpired in a split second. The beast was already crawling back into the crevice after her.

  Maurizan found the source of the current. A crack in the wall about three feet wide. No way the creature would be able to follow, but Maurizan had no idea what might be on the other side.

  Who cares? Something worse than a giant tentacled sea monster trying to eat you? Don’t be ridiculous!

  She darted through to the other side, and immediately the water was cleaner. Her eyes tried to see everywhere at once. Looking for a way out.

  A tentacle followed her through the crack and snaked tight around her waist. She tried to pull away, but the tentacle squeezed. She felt her ribs bend and bruise. She winced with the pain.

  The beast put its gaping maw right up against the crack, rows of razor-sharp teeth exposed. It reeled Maurizan in with the tentacle.

  She struggled, slashed a deep cut into the tentacle that held her. This time the beast held on.

  It vomited a cloud of black sludge at her. It was so vile that Maurizan almost lost her hold on the spirit. The beast squeezed harder. She felt a rib crack but set aside the pain.

  She went back to work on the tentacle with the dagger, but instead of slashing, she began to saw through it. The creature thrashed on the other side of the crack in fury and pain. Stonework fell away, the crack widening, the monster’s maw working as it pulled Maurizan closer.

  Now. It’s got to be now!

  She sliced completely through and kicked hard, swimming away, the limp remains of the tentacle falling away.

  The beast thrashed with rage and frustration, but she was beyond its reach.

  She kept swimming, found herself in a long hall. It might have been any hall in any ordinary castle except it was filled with water. Sooner or later she’d need to release the spirit. And that meant she’d need air to breathe. If she just kept swimming in one direction, maybe she’d eventually—

  The orb’s glow flickered and dimmed.

  She held up the sphere, squinted at it through the netting. The tiny fish within swam sluggishly now. Half of them had gone dark altogether. She shook the orb like she’d seen the Moogari do, but that made it worse. The exhausted fish stopped swimming entirely.

  The light went out.

  Leaving only the cold and the dark.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The sword was magnificent, expertly forged, flawless, and obviously magical. It was a priceless prize fit for royalty.

  At the moment, Alem was using it to knock fruit out of a tree.

  He’d built a small fire in the mouth of the cave, slept fitfully. The next morning, his clothes had dried. He’d put them on and buckled his new sword and scabbard around his waist and headed up the hill. He’d thought to get as high as possible and have a look around.

  He’d paused near the top when he saw the fruit hanging from a high limb, red colored and fuzzy. It had looked sweet and edible, and he’d been starving.

  Now he’d shimmied out on a limb and was swinging the sword, trying to knock the fruit loose. He’d seen similar fruit being sold in the bazaar when he’d been in the Red City, and his mouth watered at what he imagined they’d taste like.

  Even if the fruit tasted like cheese left out all day in the sun, he still planned to eat it. He was just that hungry.

  Alem swung at the fruit again, the tip of the sword just missing where it hung from the branch. He scooted farther out on the branch. It creaked beneath him. He held his breath.

  Please. Don’t. Break.

  He connected this time, and a clustered bunch of the fruit fell to the ground. Alem blew out a sigh of relief. Now just to back down the way he’d come and—

  Alem turned his head, looked out over blue water. He hadn’t realized he’d come this far up the hill, and from his vantage in the tree he could see down the other side and also to the next island not far away. It would be an easy swim if he wanted to get there.

  Frankly, it wasn’t much of an island and maybe not worth the trouble. He had edible—he presumed—fruit here and fresh water and a cave for shelter. The island across the narrow channel looked like the point of an old man’s hat sticking up through the water, circled by a thin band of white beach. The island humped up gradually until the very top, at which point it shot up unnaturally straight, as if the hill had suddenly grown a large chimney. The more he looked at it, the stranger it seemed that a rock formation would be so symmetrical. He supposed that in the wid
e world nature would occasionally . . .

  Alem squinted at it.

  It’s a tower.

  It was close enough to glimpse the stonework even through the creeping vines and moss.

  Alem shimmied back down the tree as fast as he could without falling and breaking his neck.

  “Some more of this wonderful wine, please.” Brasley gestured to his empty glass.

  One of the copper-haired women with the milk-white skin smiled and bowed and refilled Brasley’s wine. She spoke not a word of Brasley’s language, but a gesture to an empty glass was clear enough. They seemed delighted to serve.

  Brasley was delighted to let them.

  Dinner had consisted of perfectly prepared roast chicken, rice, and a long green vegetable Brasley had never seen but turned out to be tasty enough. Where they’d been hiding chickens these past centuries was anyone’s guess. The servants simply disappeared behind their doors that led somewhere behind the walls, and then they’d return later with wine or food or warm bathwater or whatever the guests desired.

  With Olgen acting as interpreter, they’d confirmed to the best of their ability that guests and servants were indeed the appropriate words to describe their relationship with the white-skinned women. They each had been shown to their rooms. The women had poured hot water for baths. Brasley had even had his clothes laundered and his boots shined. All requests to the servants went through Olgen, who often had to try half a dozen times to get the translation right, but eventually the servants understood.

  By the time the servants brought dessert—some strawberry pastry lighter than a cloud—Brasley’s glass needed filling again.

  “We’re not on vacation, you know,” Talbun said to him from the other end of the table.

  They’d been served dinner in a formal dining room, long table, chandelier with miniature versions of the light globes hanging low and casting soft lighting over the meal. Thick and exotic rugs beneath them. A half dozen of the servants stood along the wall, waiting to cater to their every whim. The platters were silver, as was the cutlery. The wineglasses crystal.

  “I notice you didn’t say no to the wine,” Brasley said.

  Talbun hunched over her end of the table, scribbling on a piece of parchment with a quill. She answered without looking up. “This wine is so I can tolerate you.”

  “Yes, very amusing,” Brasley said. “You can at least come down to this end of the table and insult me to my face like a civilized person.”

  “This is where the servants put the place setting.”

  “Will you just come down here?” Brasley insisted.

  The wizard sighed and stood, snatching up her wineglass. She made to gather her quill, inkwell, and papers, but a servant rushed forward, placed the items on a tray, and followed Talbun to the seat at Brasley’s right.

  Olgen looked at Brasley expectantly, like a puppy hoping to be tossed a piece of rawhide. His place setting was in the exact middle, equidistant from Brasley and Talbun.

  “Yes, you too,” Brasley said. “Come on, then.”

  Olgen shuffled down to sit on Brasley’s left.

  “See?” Brasley said. “Now we can talk without shouting across the room at each other.”

  “Uh-huh.” Talbun was back at her scribbles.

  Brasley squinted at the parchments. “What are you doing anyway?”

  “I’ve been working with Olgen on ancient Fyrian,” Talbun said. “It’s close enough to modern Fyrian, I think I can get the hang of it. My inflections were all wrong, though.”

  “And you’re still conjugating incorrectly, milady,” Olgen said.

  Talbun looked up at him, eyes narrow, mouth tight.

  “Uh, but you’re improving rapidly, milady,” Olgen added hastily.

  Talbun frowned, drank wine, and returned to her parchments.

  “Not that the language lessons aren’t fascinating, but shouldn’t we be talking about how to get out of here?” Brasley asked. “I’ll admit I’m quite content for the moment, but this place will seem like a posh prison soon enough.”

  When they’d asked about a way out, the servants had indicated they should go back to the lifting platform that had brought them up in the first place. When Brasley explained—through Olgen—that the lift had been wrecked (leaving out he’d been the one to wreck it) the servants had only returned a blank stare. Apparently they hadn’t been instructed in how to deal with such contingencies.

  Brasley had the bright idea to follow them into one of the side doors that opened into the wall, the ones they used to fetch wine or food or perform other servant duties. Attempting to do this caused the politest uproar Brasley had ever seen. One of the white-skinned women had placed herself directly in front of him, shaking her head even as she bowed obsequiously. The message was clear: I am so so so terribly sorry, but you can’t go in there. Trying to walk around her had summoned another of the servants to stand in front of him, and when Brasley had switched directions to circle around her the other way, a third appeared. Ten minutes of trying to dodge around them had produced a dozen of the women, all shaking heads and bowing and muttering prefabricated apologies. Unless he wanted to hack a path through them with his sword, he wasn’t getting through the door. Brasley wasn’t yet ready to get that extreme.

  Brasley had ordered Olgen to plead their case in a number of different ways, but the answer was always the same. The little doorways were for servants, and Brasley wasn’t a servant. Olgen eventually became flustered, straining the limits of his ancient Fyrian, and Brasley had given up.

  Not to be so easily thwarted, Brasley then waited until none of the servants were around and attempted to open one of the doors himself. It was impossible. When the doors were closed, they blended in perfectly with the rest of the wall, no crease or seam to be found. The door might as well not have been there at all.

  “The point being that eventually with enough time and wine these odd, pale creatures will start looking good to me, and I’d like to be gone from here before that happens.” He drained his glass and noticed the servants no longer waited for his signal to refill it again.

  So they can learn. Noted.

  Talbun frowned at him. Sometimes she appreciated his sense of humor. Other times . . . not so much.

  “Getting out of here isn’t the priority,” she said.

  “It’s my priority,” Brasley insisted.

  “No. It’s not.” She fixed him with one of those iron glares. “Rina sent you to help me. We haven’t done what we came here to do yet.”

  Brasley rolled his eyes. This again. “And that would be . . . ?”

  “That’s what we’re here to find out, isn’t it?”

  Brasley quickly gulped wine before he said something to piss off the wizard. He knew he’d had too much. Usually he was a jolly drunk, but felt himself going in a disgruntled direction this time. Somewhere in the Great Library—maybe—there was a tattoo that did . . . something. How had he been roped into this fool’s errand?

  “We still have the same problem either way,” he said. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Well, the servants consider us guests, not masters. They’ll only obey commands in that context,” Talbun said. “They were created to serve the wizards.”

  “You are a wizard,” Brasley pointed out.

  Talbun paused in her scribbling, sat back, and crossed her arms. She frowned again, but this time in thought, not displeasure. She nibbled her bottom lip, thought some more. “You talk so much, I suppose it shouldn’t be a surprise that you’d eventually stumble across a good idea.”

  After the women had captured him and taken the final component, Knarr had been taken to a small room. Chair. Waste bucket. A narrow cot. A window, too high up and too small to crawl out of. It was a damn sight better than the dungeon cell he’d expected, but he was still definitely a prisoner.

  One last delivery and he would have had the gold and that would have been it. He could have picked up the rest of his money where it lay hidde
n and headed south to warmer climes. He’d always wanted to see Sherrik, although he’d heard the rumors along with everyone else that it had been sealed and would soon be under siege. But maybe he could still catch a ship to the Red City. His gold would go far there. Perhaps he could even sail all the way back to his homeland in the Southern Scattered Isles.

  Not that he remembered anything about it. He’d been an infant when his parents had taken him north. His father had been accepted as a novice scholar at Tul-Agnon—an honor nearly unheard of among the Southern Scattered Islanders. And when Knarr was old enough, he’d been accepted too, had even lasted quite a while before they expelled him.

  He probably should have spent more time studying and less time learning the best way to fence stolen artifacts from the Great Library.

  Still, it was good money.

  Except now he’d been caught, and just because he hadn’t been tossed in the dungeon yet, didn’t mean it couldn’t happen any time. He had a pretty good guess why he wasn’t there already. They might have questions about the item they’d confiscated from him and wouldn’t feel like tramping all the way down to the dungeon to ask.

  He sprawled on the bunk. He got up again and paced. He looked out the window.

  The view was of a tall stone tower broken apart at the top. The “prayer tower,” the locals called it. Tavern gossip had it that the top had been torn to pieces by some winged beast but the duchess had single-handedly driven the creature away.

  Drunk talk. Obviously.

  He waited. And waited some more.

  At last the door swung open. It was one of those Birds of Prey and two more behind her, swords dangling from belts. Some dumb part of him said They’re only women and thought maybe he could push past them and make a run for it. A smarter voice in his head reminded him he’d met too many dangerous women in his time.

  “Come with us,” she said.

  Knarr followed the women through the castle. He recognized they’d taken him to some nicer wing, probably where the nobles lived and worked. Maybe he was being taken to the duchess for pronouncement of sentence, although the same gossipers reported she wasn’t in Klaar at the moment.