“Not the front door,” cautioned Huiln. “We’ll enter through the garden.”
Embedded between the restaurant and the gallery was a tiny fenced arboretum. Huiln led them through the gate along a snaking flagstone path flanked by scraggy trees mingling with marble statues arranged by the sculptor in ascending orders of complexity, from stone trees crafted to blend in with the garden plants, to the docile boars of Kreona, to the vulgu, a deadly predator hunted to extinction, so that its last representation outside of the mythic imagination likely only existed in the garden. By the copper-banded gallery door were statues dedicated to the goblin deities, the subject that at last exhausted the sculptor’s stamina, for while Irutak’s effigy had eleven tentacles, they bore nowhere near her full complement of one hundred and fifty-four fingers, and after a handful were snapped off, perhaps by tourists, their small group now had more fingers between them than the goblin goddess.
Leading them between the tentacled mountain goddess and a spider sculpted with a ring of eight goblin faces for its eyes, Huiln stepped into the gallery. It was not entirely desolate, as it was peopled with life-size sculptures of the great races of the Five Worlds: humans, elves, dryads, goblins, and giants. The sculptor made the curious decision to craft these representations from coins and glue, which ranged from a life-like facsimile of King Merculo made from stacked gold—so that there would be no chance of slighting Kreona’s liege—to a hulking copper-coin giant stooped under the low ceiling.
“The truth is the opposite, of course,” said Eurilda acerbically. “Goblins, even kings, are a dime a dozen, and we giants are a rare coinage even on Nymerea.”
No one commented on this observation, as that would require pointing out the obvious: creating a giant from copper coins was an insanely expensive undertaking, and using gold would have caused a recession. Realizing the giantess was not her usual rational self, Khyte gave her a wide berth, as he was no doubt the cause of this shift toward instability.
When Eurilda gazed at the statue for an uncomfortably long time, it was Kuilea that answered: “Let’s not forget why we’re here.”
“Of course not,” said Eurilda.
“Then show us to the furrow, and let us take our leave of wretched Nahure,” said Inglefras. Though the dryad was Merculo’s cringing-but-complacent hostage only yesterday, now she issued a cocksure order to the one she feared most.
“By your leave, Your Highness,” said Eurilda, talking out of the side of her mouth. “It’s here: under a ton of copper coins and glue.”
The others stared, speechless at the monstrous sculpture. “So it’s under the giant?” asked Huiln.
“I’m not in the habit of repeating myself.” Eurilda sighed and sat on a bench.
“What are you waiting for? Shrink it into oblivion!” said Huiln, raising his voice.
“It’s not that easy. Though the artist united the coins, it is still not a singular item. Even though one spell might cover a number of surfaces, this statue has tens of thousands of surfaces. Casting dozens of spells at once is beyond even my capability.”
“When you shrink yourself, your clothes, boots, and even your pack, shrink,” said Khyte.
“Despite a few accessories, there’s still a singular entity to target. With so many coins, who’s to say which is the target, and which the accessory. Really, Khyte, that was a dumb question—you may as well have asked why your eyeballs shrink with the rest of you.”
“Now that you mention it …” said Khyte comically, then held up his hands as if to ward away her dark look. “I’m kidding. I have no interest in magic.”
“We’ll have to push it,” said Kuilea.
“That’s easier said than done,” said Huiln, “unless our giant moves this one.”
“As a giant, I might bring the floor or ceiling down, or I might be spotted and the watch summoned. It’s not only dangerous, it’s unnecessary, because we don’t have to lift it, only push or drag it ten feet.”
“It’s either that or solvent, and picking it apart piece by piece,” said Huiln.
“You’re joking,” scoffed Eurilda.
“I am,” admitted Huiln. “We’re lucky to have the gallery to ourselves. Let’s finish this before the dinner crowd trickles in to ogle the coins.”
Khyte and Eurilda, being the largest and strongest, set their shoulders against the stooped copper giant’s waist and pushed, while the other three pulled at its outstretched calves. Only Inglefras hung back, her eye-blossoms widened and bemused.
“Shouldn’t we try a stealthier approach?”
“Only the statues have eyes on us,” said Huiln. “For now. Like I said, we can’t afford to take our time.”
“But once we’ve moved it, anyone will see the trapdoor. Won’t they come after us?”
“Not all the way. There are high ceilings in the catacombs.”
“What?” shouted Kuilea, letting go of the calf. While they had only just begun to push, Eurilda groaned in frustration.
“Were you not listening to my story?” grumbled Huiln.
“Enough listening. Enough talking. More pushing,” said Eurilda. “Anyone who doesn’t start pushing will be wadded up in my pouch with Azuri.”
Inglefras sniffed but clutched the metallic leg, but Kuilea grumbled as she leaned onto the statue. “Who’s Azuri? Your dung beetle? Your pet rock? Your imaginary friend?”
Eurilda’s eyes were already shut, and her hissing teeth snapped tight in the grueling effort, and Kuilea’s glower ebbed in her own exertions. When these first labors proved too shy, the cumbrous sculpture seemed to lean into Khyte, leaving the imprint of one copper buttock on Khyte’s face, and Eurilda so mashed against the metal that she whitened, then flushed red, then spattered them all with sweat. The sculpture wobbled and scooted an inch at a time as they strained and groaned against its tremendous weight. After they moved it two feet, their victory over the coins seemed certain but grueling until the first round of diners wended their way through the exhibit.
When Eurilda hissed “Heave!” they gave a shove so mighty the figure jumped a foot, then teetered, and in the glacial expanse of the moment it struck the floor, Khyte glimpsed the exquisite stained glass of the sculpture’s face. Glue crumbled, wire filaments burst asunder, and stained glass shards, cascading coins, and larger clumps hammered against them and the distressed amateur art appreciators. One of the copper stacks socked Huiln in the head, tearing his scalp and crumbling his exhausted scowl into a numb, slack expression as he struck the floor chin-first with a low moan.
The diners ran from the gallery, yelling for help. Eurilda stooped next to the stricken goblin, but not to render aid; rather, she ran her fingertips along the tiles to spring the trap door with an audible click.
Kuilea knelt next to Eurilda and held her wrist to Huiln’s face. “He’s barely breathing. What do we do?”
“Help me with this,” grunted Eurilda. Having pried the lip of the secret door, she struggled with the weight of the solid stone until Khyte knelt beside her, and they strained together.
“Khyte, what are you doing?” said Kuilea. “Look at him.”
“We can’t take him,” said Eurilda. “You can either come to Ielnarona, or face Merculo.” When Eurilda spoke the arcane syllables that put gravity in abeyance, Khyte felt his own limbs lightened as well.
Kuilea’s face was twisted with contempt and disgust. Then she stood, her face composed again, and drew her sword. “You will help us, Eurilda.”
“Good bye, Kuilea.” Eurilda seized Inglefras’s hand and leaped into the trap door, her cloak fluttering as they wafted through the dimly-lit chasm.
Kuilea turned to Khyte, her chin quavering. “Help me.”
“There’s no time,” said Khyte. “Come with us, and we’ll come back for him.”
“They’ll kill him and take our lands!”
“The king
may pardon you both. You’re kin.”
“I can’t leave him!”
Khyte was torn, but could wait no longer: if Eurilda overpowered Inglefras, they could be lost to him quickly in the catacombs. Though there were many things to say, he had no time.
“Follow me, Kuilea,” he said, then jumped through the trap door.
Chapter 8
The Catacombs
Khyte descended through the stale, silent air, and landed on a titanic wine cask, his boots thudding on its wooden staves before he leaped onto the dusty wine cellar floor.
Inglefras threw her arms around Khyte and embraced him with surprising strength. In the dim light from an ensconced torch, her face looked harder and less womanly. He despised himself for leaving Kuilea, not because he loved the goblin, but because loving the dryad made him love himself less. He was giving up friendships he had cultivated for two years, and for what? A few moments of excitation had made him disloyal, and he hated himself for it.
“What is it, Khyte?” Her thicker voice was no less sweet—not sugar, but dark brown honey. While his affection for Kuilea or Eurilda looked into the image of longing reflected on the sweet surface of love, Inglefras was a fierce pull into a dragging, churning undertow. Khyte hated himself for the self-inflicted wound called lust, the piercing two-edged sword of yearning.
“They’re coming after us. Snap out of it,” said Eurilda. “She’s not even flesh and blood.” When the sorceress seized the dryad’s hand and half-dragged her past the barrels, Khyte—only then realizing he held a drawn sword in answer to Kuilea’s bared steel—sheathed it and followed.
Would he have killed the goblin woman? It made him feel better to think that he didn’t abandon Kuilea, but saved her from the throes of his conscienceless passion, which might have cut her down. What had made his career as a killer and a thief pleasant was the constant reassurance of his arbitrary but limited moral compass, and when the dryad magnetized his wavering needle, he felt increasingly lost as his formerly fixed points of friendship and loyalty blurred.
“You know less of dryads than he does,” said Inglefras. Behind the last wine barrel, there was a crevice, which due to a trick of the dim light, looked much too narrow until you were right next to the five foot fissure.
“I’m sick of your preaching,” said the giantess. “Save your breath. Do you even breathe?”
“You said I’m not flesh and blood. What am I then, planks and nails?” When they stooped to crawl through the crevice, the dryad panted in the stale air, which lent credence to the plant woman’s claim to flesh and blood.
“Don’t know, don’t care, don’t try me. I’m tempted to build a stable out of you, since you’re so determined to keep Khyte.” Eurilda snorted. “Tending to beasts would be a more honest occupation.”
“Princess isn’t honest enough for you?”
They stepped into corridors so uniformly gray as to seem white, as there were no other colors for context, only a dour glimmer that emanated from the catacomb walls. The monotone gray was bedazzling, not unlike snow blindness, and as Khyte sought vainly for directions, his fingers scraped along the grainy stone. Though the walls looked like smooth quarried stone to his blurry vision, they felt as coarse as mountain rock.
“You said it, not me.” said Eurilda.
“Have a care. You’re speaking to royalty.”
“At this moment, your life is in my hands,” said Eurilda airily. “And on Ielnarona, it will be my word against yours. Our word against yours, as Khyte isn’t so besotted to say anything causing my harm.”
“Eurilda, stop,” said Khyte.
“Why should I?”
“You can’t trust me. I’m love-drunk, Eurilda, and these may be my last honest words in the lie my life is becoming, so heed my words. However”— here he gestured at the bewildering grayness—“you are right that our lives are at your mercy in this baffling gray. If you hate her and believe me a fool, all the more reason to be free from us. Take Inglefras home.”
“Khyte, though I bear you no ill will, morals are not for vermin, but for giantkind. To hate her or despise you for your enthrallment would be to think you either good or bad, and only giants can rise so high. A tree is a tree, a rat is a rat, a human is a human, and a dryad is a dryad, and none of these things are giants. If all things were equal, good and evil would be one, and I could be neither; if I were not myself, and myself alone, it would be all too easy to see through your eyes, to excuse your weakness, to sympathize. Though sympathy slides into vice and vermin holes, that I can own a wild dog without becoming one bodes well for your future, Khyte.”
“Khyte is not a dog,” said Inglefras. “You can’t use transitive logic only when it suits you. Calling anything property, rather than seeing it for what it is, corrupts the logic of identity.”
“Did you call me a dog?” asked Khyte. Though he believed himself enlightened by the dryad’s influence, he had a long way to go to discourse at the level of either the princess or the sorceress.
“Could I call you a weed without it being too much of a stretch, Inglefras?” Eurilda laughed. “You’re right, though—I’m too much of a poet for my own good. And you’re too smart for your own good.”
Hearing the threat, Khyte drew his sword, and in his other hand, the enchanted dagger taken from Sarin Gelf. While the bright metal couldn’t hold an image in the merchant’s dim storefront, in the catacombs its sterling reflection absorbed the unnatural gray.
“Though you’re much better with a sword, Khyte, you’re no match for me,” Eurilda said coolly.
“I know. As a giant, you could crush me, and as a sorceress, you could destroy me. But I can stab faster than you can conjure, and if you undo your diminishment a hair faster than I slash, these catacombs will be a tight fit.”
When Eurilda scowled, Khyte worried, for he shouldn’t allow time to think to one so much better at thinking. But if they didn’t want to go back and take their punishment from King Merculo, they needed the furrow, and to find it, they needed Eurilda’s guidance.
“You’re right, Khyte.”
Khyte couldn’t believe his ears. “Forgive my asking, but is that a surrender or an apology?”
“It’s an apology—for sharing Uenarakian views, when they are abstract and difficult to understand.”
“For us smaller beings, you mean.”
“Though I wasn’t apprenticed to a wizard, I had many tutors,” said Inglefras. “It sounds easy to me, like most lies: Giant morality applies only to giants, and through the logic of identity, you rationalize denying the privilege of identity to those that are not giants. You’ve made morality into a potted plant, grown only by giants, and cultivated only for the good of giants. It’s like praying to an idol in a closet, and just as the gods do not inhabit your wardrobe alone, so common sense and goodness are not the exclusive domain of the giants.”
Eurilda composed her face into a serene mask before continuing: “While I would expect Khyte to reduce sublime mysteries to the merely sensible, I speculated you might know better. This is a dream of the king of gods, the Lord of Disbelievers, who exists in a state of perpetual abnegation, denial, and illusion. The Divine Atheist tears down and devours, and we oppose him in all things. Though we drown in the dream, we die when he opens his eyes,” Eurilda’s faraway look made it seem that she quoted or paraphrased from memory. “As the Divine Atheist eats the heart of all things, our gods command us to consider and have compassion. And as only the gods of giants are wide-awake, and we are made in their image, only the giants hear the truth.”
“Don’t respond, Inglefras,” said Khyte. “Her mind is not only made up, but laying traps, so you can’t debate these things.” He hadn’t moved his eyes from the giantess, who would only want a moment to enspell him.
“This is a poor place to stall us, if that was my goal.”
“I don’t care what your
goals are,” said Khyte. “Take us to the furrow.”
Instead of answering, the giantess simply did as Khyte asked. Inglefras tailed a few steps behind Khyte, who followed Eurilda through the catacombs’ blinding gray. Short of making Eurilda walk backward, he couldn’t be sure the sorceress wasn’t mouthing spell syllables, so he shadowed her closely, his sword point nearly pricking her shoulder blades. As there were no visible markers, it seemed she led them by memory alone.
Gray tunnels gave way to gray corridors so blurred that they seemed natural formations, though these faint lines were uniformly linear. These passageways emptied into a monotonous gray cavern so enormous that Khyte couldn’t tell where the walls ended and the roof began. While the unending gray brushed everything, including themselves, with a deathly pallor, the utter silence was eerier. The only tones that broke the hush were their own breaths and footfalls.
Khyte was taking in the immense, lusterless hollow when he realized he had forgotten about Eurilda, and turned to see her approaching the opposing rock wall.
“You don’t need to keep me under guard,” she said. “I would never kill you, Khyte. In fact, you’ve given me a few things to think about. The most important of which is in your hands.”
“What? Your fate?” Khyte hoped that sounded convincing.
“No, dolt. That dagger! Where did you get it?”
Khyte hadn’t examined the dagger since he unsheathed it. As he looked at it now, it seemed an all-new marvel. Formerly, the dagger’s pristine reflection was uncannily unable to hold an image, but now it retained the catacomb gray, and scudding shadows dimmed the illuminated metal. He had never been cowed by the magical arts, but the dagger’s twofold nature set the steel in his resolve shivering.
“It’s beautiful,” said Inglefras, “but our reflections are much distorted.”
“That can’t be us,” said Khyte, “as it only reflects light, and doesn’t hold images from the world around it. But I do see faces.”
A Spell Takes Root Page 16