by L. Penelope
“Our lives are not always what we think they are,” the Breath Father continued. “Our histories are oft tainted by memory.”
“So what am I supposed to do?” she breathed.
“If you cannot have faith in yourself, have faith in those who believe in you. The ulla, Mooriah, Murmur. They understand something about your potential and the need you must fulfill.”
“And if I disappoint them?”
“You disappoint them if you fail to try. That is what they are asking of you.”
She fished the stone from her pocket, still pulsing icily inside its wrappings. “And this? What does it do?”
“The Song of an ancient Nethersinger—it is mighty indeed. Its creator, a man named Yllis, poured a desperate intention into it—love and fear and strong desire—all of which increased its potency beyond the original Songbearer’s ability. And over the centuries, fed by death and time, that power has grown beyond anyone’s imagining. Once you unleash what it holds, there is no going back. You have only to touch it to release its fearsome force into this world and become a goddess of death.”
“I don’t want to be a goddess of death.” Dread welled within her at the thought.
The Breath Father nodded sagely. “Then you are wise not to use it. In the hands of the careless, the unworthy, or the reticent, the death stone is more dangerous than even an army of wraiths.”
Relief warred with disappointment. Part of her had hoped … What? That the stone would allow her to be the hero instead of the villain for once? She tried to shake off the dismay. But who could gainsay the Breath Father? He’d called her wise to avoid the death stone’s power.
Slowly, his figure retreated back toward the far edge of the lake. “Your path is your own, Kyara, but remember what I have said. Balance is the key to the universe. It is all we truly need, and you must find it or create it both within and without in order to succeed. The scales require a sacrifice. They are waiting.”
The steam began to retreat, reversing its course as if it was being sucked back into the water. The man of air and mist joined with it to sink down beneath the surface of the once-again tranquil lake.
The intense sense of power retreated with him until she no longer felt it constricting her. She turned to find that she was no longer on an island in the middle of the lake but once again at the entrance to the Origin caldera. She retreated on shaky legs, hoping she could find her way back, but for the moment, not caring if she did.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Dance with unhalting steps to share
your joy.
Offer it to the ground.
Stamp the soil down.
And let it echo across the land.
—THE HARMONY OF BEING
True to her word, Zeli told stories while they traveled across the country in the great mechanical walker. Stories of the land of Varten’s father, a place he’d never seen and hadn’t really thought much about before. But he hung on her every word.
She painted a picture of a childhood that was so different from Varten’s as to be unrecognizable. She did not speak of her parents or of losing her Song—except for a brief mention that it had happened when she was just six years old.
Mostly she spun tales of walking barefoot around a picturesque lake near her home, enjoying the quiet moments of sunlight on her face in between chores, the taste of kinnifruit juice dribbling down her chin or the pies and tarts the staff would share after some big celebration or other, when food was unusually plentiful.
He wondered at the spaces between her stories, the things she left out. There was no talk of school, though she’d learned to read and write in order to better serve her mistress, a girl of the same age who sounded as selfish and spoiled as any Elsiran aristocrat. (And people thought their two races were so different.) She did not speak of having friends or time to wander and play and cultivate her own interests. She talked around so many topics that Zeli’s Lagrimar was a tapestry full of holes.
The Tinker was largely quiet as he operated the vehicle, shining a sweeping light out before them to illuminate the countryside at night. Varten had a thousand questions he kept inside, not wanting to interrupt or bring up things that may be painful. He was happy to listen and imagine what it must have been like, growing up the way she did.
She talked until her voice grew raspy, and then she fell asleep. At some point during the night, her head slipped onto his shoulder. He was wide awake, holding himself very still, eyes closed, not wanting to jostle or move her. Enjoying the weight of her against him, but knowing he did not deserve the simple act of trust.
He must have also fallen asleep at some point because when he next opened his eyes, sunlight streamed in through the tinted glass and Gilmer City rose up before them.
The city was at the edge of a large lake, partially bordered by mountains. Leggsy rounded the far side of the lake, traveling between its sparkling green-blue waters and a busy roadway. The metropolis they approached was much larger than Rosira, but unlike in Melbain City, giant buildings didn’t poke out across the skyline.
This place was constructed differently. Spread out across the north of the lake, the structures were lower, six to ten stories for most, with many shorter than that. Snowcapped mountains loomed up behind it to the north and even the air inside of Leggsy had cooled considerably during the trek.
Though they hadn’t used roads for most of the trip, as the vehicle approached the city, the Tinker was obliged to merge onto the highway. The streets were clogged with people evidently headed into Gilmer City and toward the Rumpus. They traveled at a snail’s pace, along with everyone else, but soon enough the highway turned into a wide avenue bordered by brightly colored boxy buildings painted in vibrant blues and yellows and reds. Some were brick, some stone, and others of a material Varten had never seen before, solid, yet porous with odd striations in it.
“Ye’ll want to get to the city center,” the Tinker said, eyes alight. “That’s where everything happens. I’ve a spot to set old Leggsy down that isn’t too far away.”
His “spot” was actually the flat roof of a wide building, painted a shade of green that did not occur in nature. Leggsy climbed the structure easily and then hunkered down into its resting state, where its legs were jumbled and looked like nothing more than a junk heap.
This time, they climbed out the top hatch of the contraption and then down a ladder bolted to the side. Once they were all firmly settled, the Tinker got his bearings.
“City center is down there, just past that domed building. I’m going to head over to my favorite pub, out of the madness and whatnot. All that’s for young people.” He grinned and Varten wished they didn’t have to part. There was something so warm and calming about his manner, his strange accent, even his metal ear.
“We can’t thank you enough,” Zeli said. She knelt to where Ziggy stood at her feet, wagging his articulated tail. “And I will miss you, too.” He yipped, and ran up to give her face another licking for good measure.
“Thank you,” Varten said, holding out his hand. The Tinker enclosed it in a warm grip and shook.
“I hope ye find what yer looking for,” he said, eyes twinkling. “If it’s anywhere, it’ll be in the Rumpus.”
A wooden staircase led from the roof to the ground, five stories below. They climbed down with Lanar bringing up the rear. He had been quiet for the entire trip, barely saying a word, to the point that Varten had nearly forgotten the man was there. Now his expression was so occluded Varten wasn’t sure if he was still angry or completely indifferent.
The feeling of deep shame returned as they stood on the corner, saying their good-byes and then watching the Tinker’s retreating form. Zeli peered up at Varten, her concern more evident than ever. He dug up a smile for her and then turned in the direction they were supposed to go. “We’d better get started.”
Lanar’s silent presence was starting to become oppressive, now that the Tinker’s kindly energy was no longer a distraction. The
man followed slightly behind them, arms folded behind his back, and every time Varten turned to glance at him, he wore a dark expression—somewhere between ponderous and irritated.
He’d come for the Rumpus, same as they had, and he didn’t owe them any explanations. But Varten wondered all the same what his goals were and why his censure had hurt so very much the day before.
Zeli was unusually chipper as they crossed the street, moving in the direction of the thickening crowd. Though she’d spent hours talking the evening before, she remarked on the city, the buildings, the weather, and the vehicles as they drew nearer their destination.
A great horn sounded and the excitement around them grew palpable. People picked up the pace and soon they were surging forward like a wave on the sea, carried along by the rest.
The horn blew again and the chatter rose to a deafening level. Zeli looked at him and something inside him awoke with excitement. It sounded like the Rumpus was about to begin.
* * *
Varten had expected decorations—streamers or balloons or flags flying for the celebration. But the large square at the heart of Gilmer City, packed to the stuffings with people, wasn’t adorned in any way. The staccato blasts of moments ago were now quiet and the gathered celebrants contracted, moving closer and closer together, shifting with anticipation. Soon a pregnant hush dropped over them.
Varten wasn’t sure which way to look. Zeli was on his left, her hand clutching his shirt so they wouldn’t be separated. She was at least two heads shorter than him and definitely couldn’t see anything all the way down there. Even at his height, he could barely tell what, if anything, was going on, but he noticed some people riding on the shoulders of others for a better view.
“Get on my shoulders,” he said, “maybe you can see what’s happening.”
She looked shocked at first and then peered down to her dress, but finally nodded. Varten knelt and helped situate her. Her skirt was wide enough to accommodate the position without being immodest. When he rose, now supporting her slight weight, she towered over the crowd.
“There’s a platform, down at the end,” she said. “And people are gathering. They’re wearing … masks and costumes. I think they’re dressed as animals.”
Varten looked around him; others in the crowd were straining to see. Many smarter people had entered the buildings surrounding the square and were hanging out of windows or on rooftops. All appeared to be dressed normally, there weren’t any strange costumes on display in the audience at least.
“They’re doing some kind of pantomime,” Zeli continued. “Some are dressed as hunters with bows and arrows. And then there’s … Well, I’m not sure. A woman dressed in gold…” She trailed off.
Shouts and laughter rang out. People had climbed on top of trash cans and scaled lighting poles to see the antics on the stage. Those with a good view of the proceedings cheered and applauded. On the top of a nearby roof, Varten’s roaming gaze was caught by a still figure among all the motion. A young boy of Zeli’s complexion with a cloud of unruly hair stood there. Instead of facing the stage, he was looking down at the audience. From this distance, Varten couldn’t tell what the child was staring at so intently.
Zeli wobbled and he held her legs tighter. “Sorry,” she said, laughing. “The bear has caught the woman in gold and now one of the hunters looks like he’s trying to negotiate with it. They’re doing a sort of dance, he keeps tripping and falling.”
The crowd erupted in laughter again. When Varten looked up, the boy on the roof was gone.
The play lasted a few more minutes. The woman in gold turned out to be a bride who married one of the hunters. The animals removed their masks and revealed themselves to be kings or gods or something, Zeli wasn’t sure, but the others knelt before them. When it was over, the horn sounded again, and a man began speaking through an intercom system blasting over the square.
They could not understand him as he spoke in Yalyish, but the excitement of the crowd grew and grew. Soon everyone was cheering and shouting and they were pushed forward again, moving to some unknown destination.
Varten helped Zeli back to the ground and held her hand as the packed people surged. “Let’s try and get off to the side,” he shouted. She nodded and they pushed their way to the sidewalk to pause in front of a row of buildings. They’d lost Lanar in the press at some point.
“I think that must have been the opening ceremony for the celebration,” she said, breathless after the exertion of negotiating the mob.
Music began and the celebrants started dancing. People, who before had been dressed in trousers and shirts or simple dresses, produced multicolored scarves and capes and wrapped themselves in them, transforming the already rowdy crowd into a writhing riot of colors. Varten and Zeli pressed themselves into the doorway of a bright blue building, watching the audience turn into a party.
“Which one are you here for: the Bride Hunt, the Game Hunt, or the Quest?” a voice said from behind them in Elsiran.
They spun around to find the building’s door open, and standing inside was the boy Varten had noticed on the roof. He was all of eleven and wore a heavy woolen sweater and thick trousers a few sizes too big. He was a little disheveled, but in the way of children who aren’t fussed over too much.
“I-I don’t think we know what those are,” Varten answered.
The boy stepped forward, looking eager to explain things. “The Rumpus has three kinds of participants—four if you count the spectators, but I don’t. Some are here to find a husband or wife. They wear yellow or gold hunas and join the Bride Hunt.”
Zeli leaned forward. “Huna, I do not know this word.”
He grinned and made a flipping motion with his hand. “Those are the scarves and capes—they’re made specially for the Rumpus and each color has a meaning.”
Varten looked back at the passing crowd. There was quite a lot of yellow and gold on display.
“The Game Hunt started as a true hunt for boar and wolves and bears in the countryside,” the boy continued, “but the Rumpus grew too big, and the animals too few, so now it’s a scavenger hunt.”
At Zeli’s confused expression, Varten translated. The boy watched them carefully, tilting his head at the sound of Lagrimari. He held himself very still. Varten was used to seeing children always in motion—but maybe this stillness was a result of city life.
“What about the Quest?” Zeli asked.
“A hunt for knowledge.” The boy’s eyes grew big and somewhat wistful. “Scholars and seekers from all over the world—all trying to get into our Archives. But it doesn’t let just anyone in.” Pride laced his voice.
Zeli and Varten shared a look. Varten hoped he was keeping the eagerness from his expression. “How do we join the Quest?” he asked.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather head to the Bride Hunt? I think you’d both do well.” The boy grinned again, an action that crinkled the corners of his eyes but did not brighten them. It was a strange smile indeed, full of a weariness odd in one so young. Coupled with the stillness, it reminded Varten of something.
But Zeli had gone stiff beside him, drawing his attention. She was … shivering. Varten placed a hand on her back, drawing her closer and recognizing fear in her expression. She wasn’t afraid of the young lad, but her gaze was troubled and haunted as she stared off at the wall, unseeing. A memory maybe. One of the holes in her tapestry. Something to do with the Bride Hunt?
She blinked and shook off whatever had gripped her. “Thank you for your help,” she said slowly. “I suppose you all grow up here knowing everything about the Rumpus.”
“It’s all anyone ever talks about, nine years out of ten.” The child shrugged.
“What’s your name?”
“I’m called Remi,” he said, sticking his hand out. They all shook and made their introductions.
“And where are your parents, Remi?” Zeli asked. “You aren’t lost are you?”
Instead of answering, he tilted his head to
the side again. “You are Lagrimari?”
Her back straightened and she paused before answering. “Yes.”
But Remi just nodded. Then his gaze shifted to somewhere over her shoulder. Varten turned to find Lanar standing a few paces away, staring. He’d found them—for this Varten was grateful. A familiar face, even one so recently familiar and so aloof, was welcome. True to form, the Lagrimari man stayed a ways off and did not approach. Zeli eyed him warily, evidently not as pleased at his return as Varten was. Remi watched him, too, the way you might watch a stray dog that has wandered into view.
“How do we enter the Quest?” Zeli asked.
“You already have.” Remi tore his gaze away from Lanar. “Follow those in the blue hunas to the Archives. That’s where the challenge is given.”
“You don’t happen to know what the challenge might be, do you?” Her voice shook a little—nerves, maybe. She stood close to Varten, not leaning into his hand, which was still on her back, but not pushing him away, either. He found himself unwilling to move, with her so warm beneath his palm.
“To hunt you must seek, to seek you must find,” Remi answered with a shrug. Then he gave a quick wave and sprinted around them, disappearing into the crowd.
“What a strange child,” Zeli murmured, turning to look after him.
“Well, he was helpful. Sort of.”
“I guess we do know more than when we started.” She shifted back, pushing against his hand, then froze and stepped away, looking suddenly embarrassed. Varten’s palm was unreasonably cold. He shook off the unfamiliar sensation that had invaded—his hand felt numb and tingly—and then began looking for the celebrants in blue.
There were far fewer of them than the marriage seekers, or the red-clad game hunters—he still didn’t know what any of the other colors were for. But he finally spotted a tight cluster of blue scarves up ahead, moving toward a side street.
“I see them. Over there.” He pointed then held out his free hand for her as they pushed their way through the congestion of bodies again. She paused before taking it and hurt strummed through him. But he held on, using his body to cut through the others. His size and height allowed him an advantage and people tended to get out of his way when he nudged, gentle as he could, keeping a firm grip on Zeli. He looked back over his shoulder every now and then to see Lanar following. Had the man mentioned seeking the Archives as well? Neither he nor Zeli had ever mentioned it, on purpose. Maybe Lanar was just trying to keep his eye on them, on him, since Varten had already proven himself untrustworthy.