by Layton Green
“The fire is real!” she called out, from the other side of the pit. “I tossed in a cloth and it ignited.”
“What do we do?”
“Travel the perimeter and search for an opening. We might have to suffer a burn to survive.”
Will glanced down. Ten feet of pole remained below him. He did as Mala suggested, leaping from pole to pole along the perimeter, dropping a few more inches with every jump. Halfway along the wall he was exploring, tucked behind the wall of flame, he saw a set of tight spiral steps.
“Mala! The exit!”
She vaulted across the spiked poles faster than he thought possible, then threw a dagger at the staircase. It clanged off the stone. No illusion. Yet the flames appeared to extend all the way to the steps. Would they burn to death before they reached the top?
“Do you have a potion of fire resistance?” Will shouted.
“You’d know already if I did. It’s a ten-foot leap. Can you make it?”
The staircase extended all the way to the bottom of the wall of blue flame. He couldn’t tell if there was anything beneath it. “I think so.”
Mala snarled. “Bloody sorcerer king.”
Just before she jumped, Will had a sudden thought and yelled at her to stop. “Do you have any rope?” he called out.
“Of course.”
“What about your expandable stick?”
“Yes.”
“Give them to me.”
“Why?”
“Do it.”
She complied, extracting a coil of rope and a six-inch jade rod from her largest pouch. She shook out the rod to a length of six feet. “Whatever you’re doing, it best be fast.”
Will refrained from looking down. He knew they had seconds to spare. Heart thudding in his chest, his fingers flew across the rope, tying it to the bottom of the rod. The lower they dropped, the less margin of error he had to jump for the staircase. But he didn’t trust the sorcerer king and his too-obvious exits.
Holding the rope in one hand, feet clamped onto the pole, Will lowered the stick into the abyss. It dropped three feet below the end of his spiked pole, then five more. He started to lose faith in his idea. Yet how could there be a bottomless pit in the middle of a pyramid? Was it a trap carved out of stone by magic and running through the other levels? A rip in space-time?
Or just a devious red herring?
The stick reached ten feet down. Still nothing. If he slid any farther, he might not be able to make the jump to the staircase.
He let himself slide a few inches farther down the metal pole. Just before he reached the point of no return, the jade rod struck a solid surface.
“It hit!” Will said.
“I heard nothing.”
“The illusion must be soundproof. Like the entrance on the surface.”
“What if it’s another ruse? Spots of congealed magic, designed for just what you’re doing?”
“What if it’s not?”
“We have to choose, Will the Builder. The fire or the pit. Now.”
He looked at the spiral staircase shimmering through the fire, the promise of a quick climb to freedom luring him in like a siren’s call. Below him was nothing but faith and the gnawing suspicion that the staircase was a trap.
“I choose the path less traveled,” he muttered, and leapt into darkness.
Moments later, he landed on an invisible but solid surface, jarring his knees. The illusion of a bottomless abyss remained beneath his feet, causing him to sway with vertigo.
“Let go!” he shouted, releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His voice rang clear, but he realized there was a soundproof veil between him and Mala, and she couldn’t hear him.
As he waved frantically up at her, she finally let go and dropped through the air, landing on the invisible platform with him. Her eyes went wide as her feet found solid ground amidst the illusion of an abyss. “You’re brave, Will the Builder. Rash but brave. Why did you choose to jump?”
“The staircase felt wrong. Hidden enough to draw our attention, but a little too convenient. Why’d you choose to follow me?”
“Because you’re usually right,” she said, then pointed behind him.
He turned and saw, twenty feet away, the bottom portion of a translucent crystal staircase visible beneath the wall of blue fire. Feeling her way in the darkness with the jade pole, testing every step like a blind person, Mala led the way to the bottom of the steps.
The staircase felt firm. They climbed side by side and, while they couldn’t see through the blue fire to the chamber of spiked poles, they could see far enough inside to make out the set of spiral steps they had first seen. It lay directly within the fire. Just before they finished the ascension, Will gripped Mala’s arm and pointed at the top of the staircase.
It dead-ended at the stone ceiling.
“What do you bet you can’t see the stairs we’re on from the spiral staircase?” Will said.
“Queen’s Blood. Burned alive with the real exit a jump away.”
Will swallowed.
They emerged from the crystal stairs into a cavernous jungle made of naturally colored limestone. In every direction, as far as they could see, trees and animals and insects stood frozen in time, carved with a precision that made him catch his breath in awe. Macaws clustered on the branches of a ceiba tree, tarantulas poised on the forest floor, jaguars peered out from hidden vantage points in the foliage, iguanas basked in an artificial dusk light whose origin, yet again, remained unknown.
Will turned, gawking at the epic forest. He rapped on a few trees to make sure they weren’t real. Twenty feet overhead, a canopy of limestone vines and branches hung from the ceiling. “Is it like the first level?” he wondered out loud. “An entire jungle frozen in time?”
“I don’t believe so,” Mala said, equally awed. “I believe this is the creation of geomancers and artisamancers—teams of them—working for who knows how long. The scale of this . . . it boggles one’s mind.”
“Yiknoom knew how to make an impression,” Will muttered.
Remembering the lethal traps they had encountered, he and Mala crept through the grotto, wary of the slightest sound or movement. Nothing stirred, and they reached a solid limestone wall. They backtracked and tried the opposite direction. Before long, they heard the faint sound of rushing water, and eventually the jungle broke to reveal a broad underground river lined with banks of rose-colored sand. In the distance, the steady roar of water suggested the presence of a waterfall.
Will bent to let the pink sand sift through his fingers. It felt cool and soft. “Crushed limestone?”
Before Mala could reply, Mateo and Selina strode out of a different section of the jungle, looking weary but unharmed. Will rushed to greet them. “Did you fall into a pit?” he asked. “With spikes and a wall of blue fire?”
“Aye,” Mateo said, a little sheepish. “I tried to reach the side, but was so exhausted I slipped off the pole and landed on the bottom.”
“And lucky for me,” Selina said, “that particular trap was not designed for mages. I flew down and tested the bottom, though not before I contemplated flying through the fire to reach the false staircase. A devious trap. And my magic is almost spent.”
A moan came from behind them, followed by the sound of someone crashing to the ground. Will and Mateo exchanged a glance. They rushed into the stone forest, Mala and Selina right behind them. A hundred yards away, Gunnar lay crumpled on the ground, his leg bent at an awkward angle and much of his body covered in blistered burns.
“Tried to jump . . . to the staircase,” he gasped. “Too weak to make it. Fell through the fire to the floor. Broken . . . leg. I crawled up the stairs.”
“That fall saved your life,” Mala said, cradling his head. “Will—bring a potion!”
“There’s less debate when it’s someone you love, I see,” Selina muttered. “Tamás warned me you were selfish.”
“I’m practical,” Mala snapped. “He can’t go o
n like this.”
Will handed Mala the last healing potion, ill with worry for Gunnar. She slowly poured the viscous substance onto his broken leg and the worst of his burn wounds. Gunnar stopped her with the bottle half full. His leg had reset, but the blisters on his arms had only partially healed, and he looked exhausted to the point of delirium. The man had reached three levers all by himself, Will remembered.
Though relieved the big warrior would survive, Will’s ears still rung with Selina’s words. Someone you love.
“Everyone—look!”
He turned to find his cousin pointing at the river, where a long blue canoe had drifted into sight, close to the bank and heading in the direction of the waterfall. The sides of the wooden vessel were covered in runes, the raised stern and bow fashioned to resemble the head and tail of a serpent.
“The way to Xibalba,” Mala murmured. “In Yiknoom’s day, the Mayans believed Xibalba could be reached through an underground river that plunged into the deepest cenote in the world.”
“According to legend,” Gunnar said, still grimacing with pain, “a giant water snake would ferry dead souls on the journey.”
“Whatever it is, it’s about to disappear,” Will said, stepping towards the bank and eying the canoe.
Mala gripped his arm. “Selina’s magic is spent. Gunnar is barely conscious. We haven’t slept in days. If we do not rest, we won’t survive the next trial. We have to trust the canoe will appear again, or there is another way forward.”
“She’s right,” Mateo said, approaching on Will’s other side. “We have good visibility on the bank, and there are no obvious threats. Does it not almost feel as if we’ve been given a place to rest? Perhaps a final reprieve?”
“An entire artificial jungle in which to contemplate the magnificence of Yiknoom Uk’ab K’ahk,” Mala said grimly. “And dwell on the impending descent into Xibalba.”
Will sank to the ground, too exhausted to argue. “What do we know about the mythology of Xibalba?”
“The name means ‘the place of fright.’ ”
“That’s lovely. What else?”
Mala flicked her eyes at Gunnar. He accepted a flask of water from her, managing to lean on an elbow as he spoke. “The Mayans believed the underworld was a place, just like the surface of Urfe, with its own cities, forests, trials, and monsters. I don’t know much more, except Xibalba was ruled by five powerful Death Lords named Pus Master, Bloody Claws, Bone Scepter, Skull Devourer, and Blood Gatherer.”
“Gunnar,” Will said with a swallow, “you can stop talking now.”
Fifteen minutes after the serpent canoe disappeared from sight, an identical vessel appeared at the opposite end of the river, drifting slowly into view. They came at regular intervals, on and on and on, validating Mala’s theory. The party watched the procession in silence, knowing they soon would have to embark on the next leg of the journey, descending into the madness of the sorcerer king.
After a cold but filling meal on the sandy bank, Will walked to the river’s edge and peered inside. He could see through to the rocky bottom, twenty feet below. After probing the river with his sword, he removed his shirt and splashed water onto his face and chest. Somehow, the temperature in the grotto stayed warm and humid, making the river a pleasurable wash.
Before he finished, Mala approached with her wavy hair unbound, removing her pouches and sleeved vest as she walked. Will tried not to stare at her ridged stomach or the copper swell of her breasts beneath her leather halter-top. Two more scars, longer than the vertical scar marking her forehead, crisscrossed beneath her left ribcage.
She walked right up to him and reached around to place her hands on his back, her hair brushing his chest. The neutral look in her eyes belied the comfortable, almost intimate, nature of her touch.
“Your scars,” she said, “were not there before.”
“From the tusker lashes. Yeah. Those hurt.”
The proximity of her scent, sweat and leather from the journey, the faint trace of sandalwood and cinnamon from her perfume, coursed through him like a drug.
He wanted to ask if she remembered the flight through the constellation maze, her arms wrapped around him and the question she started to ask. He wanted to tell her how he felt, but his pride, wounded from her rejection on a moonlit night beside the sea, led him in a different direction. “You never told me what happened with Zedock’s majitsu, when you disappeared.”
“Ah, Will the Builder, perhaps one day we will exchange tales from the past.” She removed her hands and gave him her signature smile, mocking and sure. “And perhaps not.”
“Is that right? And what will that depend on?”
She turned her head as she took off her boots and stepped in the water, lips still upturned, violet eyes teasing. “Whether or not we return alive, of course. Or was there something else you had in mind?”
Instead of answering, Will met her gaze and reached up to gather his chin-length hair into a ponytail and squeeze the water out. Even without flexing, he could feel the muscles rippling in his chest, back, and arms.
She laughed as she turned to wash her face, her last gaze flicking approvingly over his physique.
The party collapsed into a tight circle to sleep. Will took second watch, after Mala. She awakened him by tracing a finger across his cheek and then his lips, slowly, savoring the touch. Or so he thought—when he opened his eyes, she was squatting beside him with an indecipherable expression on her face, and he realized he had simply been dreaming of her touch.
She bid him goodnight and lay down next to Gunnar. Will turned away with a hollow feeling in his chest.
Will’s shift passed without incident. The stone jungle was as still as a postcard, the river a soothing babble to his right. An hour or so later, he woke Selina, and the sylvamancer disengaged from Mateo with a yawn. Will decided to join her on watch for a moment. There was something he wanted to ask her.
Selina sensed his question before he posed it. “You want to know about lycamancy,” she said, when he sat next to her in the sand.
“I’ve been curious,” he admitted.
She gave a sad smile. “It’s better than being terrified, or prejudiced. The usual reaction.”
“Is it . . . discipline? Something you learn?”
“It’s an innate form of magic. Something you are born with. Though it does take practice—and ideally a teacher—to learn the skill.”
“Can you transform into any animal?”
“Within reason, yes. There are size limitations. And it’s risky. When I transform, I become both the animal and myself. Every hour, every minute, that I remain in an altered state, the harder it is to return to human form.”
“Who taught you?”
“My mother. It tends to run in the women of our family.”
“Is your daughter one, too?”
Mateo had told Will about Lynestra, Selina’s twenty-year-old daughter to whom she had given birth at the age of sixteen. Soon after the child was born, Lynestra’s father had left them to join a ship bound for Catalonia. He had sailed away and never come back.
The sylvamancer pressed her lips together, as if the question made her uncomfortable. “Yes.”
Another of the empty canoes drifted by in the unchanging light. “Are you teaching her?” he asked, sensing a story untold.
She fell silent for a moment. “My daughter has grander aspirations than do I. She’s also a stronger wizard. A year ago, she took the Oaths and enrolled at the Abbey.”
Will looked down, unsure how to respond.
“I know she wanted a different life, but her decision was hard for me to understand. I love my clan and my forest, and want nothing more than to live my life in peace, with my people.”
“I knew a geomancer named Alexander, once,” Will said, toeing the sand at the memory. “He was a good man, with his own views and his own code of ethics. He passed his tests but didn’t join the Congregation. Maybe your daughter will follow the same path.”
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“Thank you for that,” she said quietly. He sensed a finality to her response, as well as a deep sadness, something that went beyond what she had told him.
He rose and squeezed her shoulder. “Good night,” he said.
She reached up and squeezed his hand, as if grasping onto a lifeline. “Thank you for listening,” she whispered.
Will woke feeling stiff but refreshed, thankful nothing terrible had befallen them during the night. It did feel that the peaceful riverbank was a lull before the slaughter, a moment for survivors to reflect on the eternal might and grandeur of the sorcerer king.
After a quick breakfast, the party donned their gear and waded into the river as the next canoe approached. Gunnar tried to hold the vessel in place but found he couldn’t stop it, causing everyone to scamper aboard. Neither the movement nor the weight of the passengers altered the canoe’s course even an inch.
“Selina, can you fly ahead to investigate?” Mala asked, as the roar of the waterfall grew louder. In the distance, obscured by a spray of mist, the river disappeared into a jagged tunnel that resembled the jaws of some giant beast.
After concentrating for a moment, the sylvamancer’s face paled. “The entire river is warded. I cannot access my magic.”
“By the Queen,” Mala swore. “I don’t like this.”
“But this is surely the way,” Gunnar said.
“I realize that,” Mala said. “I just said I didn’t like it.”
The pounding of the cataract grew louder and louder. Will wondered how big it was, and whether they would survive a fall.
“Maybe we should explore the rest of the stone jungle first,” Mateo said, trying to peer into the darkened tunnel. “In case there’s another exit.”
“Good idea,” Will muttered. He tried to dip his hand into the water, but was unable to push through an invisible wall surrounding the canoe. “Except I don’t think we’re allowed to leave.”
The others tried, without success, to reach out of the ensorcelled vessel. No amount of rocking or pushing altered its course, and the five of them were forced to surrender to the inexorable current, pawns on the sorcerer king’s ancient chessboard, unlucky holders of a one-way ticket on a demonic carnival ride that was drifting slowly into the unknown.