by C. M. Hayden
“Care to deal me in?” Taro asked conversationally.
Sikes picked up the King of Clubs and placed it into one of the piles. “It’s a one player game.”
Taro watched Sikes sort the cards for a moment. “You must be hungry. I could bring something back from downstairs.” Sikes nodded but did not speak. After a long pause, Taro asked the question that had been on his mind since they left Endra Edûn. “What did they do to you in there?”
Sikes sat the cards down. “I killed him, Taro.”
“Mr. Mathan,” Taro said somberly. “I know, I was there.”
Sikes looked up with wet eyes. “You were?”
“I can’t say I blame you for it. If things had been different, I might’ve done it myself.”
Tears swelled in Sikes’ eyes, and he ran his fingernails down his cheeks. “He was defenseless. He was old.”
“He baited and provoked you,” Taro reassured.
“It didn’t matter,” Sikes said, trying to get his breathing under control. “I was going to kill him anyway. I was so angry. Nothing else mattered.” His gaze drifted toward Vexis. She was still hard at work on the bed, fiddling with the dowsing compass. “How in all the gods below did you get involved with her again? She’s vile.”
“I can hear you,” Vexis said with a sing-songy hum, not taking her eyes off her work.
“More than you know,” Taro said to Sikes. “But I’d make a deal with Nuruthil himself if he could track down Nima for me.”
“I’m glad there’s something left for you,” Sikes said.
“There’s plenty left for you, too,” Taro said. “We’re going to take you to your grandmother in Helia—”
Sikes picked up the cards and began aggressively sorting them, as if throwing down each card took a tiny bit of anger away. “My grandmother hated my mom and hates me even more. Always said I should’ve been thrown in the river the day I was born to my do-nothing, jackass father. I can’t go back to the Magisterium, I can’t go back to Ashwick, and I’d rather die than go back to the Carcerium.”
“Don’t say that. Sikes, Nima needs us, if nothing else.”
“No, she needs you.” Sikes placed the last card into the right-hand pile. “Don’t beat yourself up too much, Taro. If nothing else, you got me out of that hellhole for a little while. I really didn’t want to die in there.” He smiled weakly. “If you really are headed down for food, could you bring me something warm? I haven’t had a good warm meal in months.”
Taro slipped out of the room and shuffled down the stairs. It hadn’t been long since they’d arrived, and the tavern was just as packed but was now considerably quieter. On a small stage opposite the bar counter was a young bard playing a set of reed pipes. Occasionally, he’d take it from his lips and mouth a few silly words to a song that sounded as if it was of his own making. It wasn’t half bad, but not quite half good either.
Prim and proper, Madam Brine,
Sets up shop on Third and Nine,
Goods for sale but not for keeping,
Velvet curtains not for peeping,
Rooms-a-plenty built for two,
Girls undressing just for you.
Judge’s wife is Lady Grine,
Frequents shop on Third and Nine,
Paying ’em to keep their quiet,
Just enough so she can buy it.
Judge he vows to clean up crime,
Raids the shop on Third and Nine,
Catches misses with a harlot,
Half her age named Susie Scarlet.
Years they pass and Madam Brine,
Still has shop on Third and Nine,
Susie Scarlet’s moved around,
Richest whore in all the town.
The piper finished his song and bowed with a flourish. The drunken patrons clapped and a few tossed coins in his direction. He waited until the applause had stopped before going to pick up the money, as was polite. During the downtime, Taro went to the counter and one of the waitresses approached him.
“Food or ale?” she asked.
“Food. Enough for three.”
She glanced back at the hearth. There was a small fire with a cast-iron pot hanging over it. The savory smell coming off it overpowered even the strong taint of alcohol with aromas of rosemary, pork, and seasoned beans. “We’ve got some lentils brewing. Two pennies will cover meals for three,” the waitress said sweetly. “And if you’re interested, Sir Leorin is going to be up soon. He always tells a good story.”
“Sir Leorin?” Taro said. It couldn’t possibly be the same storyteller from Lower City. He waved off the comment and slipped the waitress the money. She returned some minutes later with a tray. On it were three bowls of bean and bacon soup, three warm round loaves of barley bread and creamy butter, and a few slices of hard white cheddar.
“Just return the tray to the kitchen when you’re done,” she added.
Just as Taro was going to pick up the food, the front door of the tavern opened and, sure enough, Leorin entered. It really was him: the long white beard, the crooked staff, the wobbling legs. He entered at a snail’s pace, greeting several patrons on his way to the stage, and sat on a stool.
He cracked his bones, licked his dry lips, and ruffled through the many pockets on his trousers until he found a long pipe. He blew through it to clear out the old tobacco, and packed a fresh bunch into the end.
“Does anyone have a light?” he asked, his haggard voice pitching.
One of the sailors came up and struck a match for him. The old man puffed and got the pipe going.
“I thought you didn’t smoke,” the sailor said.
“A doctor in Endra recommended it,” Leorin said. “Says tobacco is good for the sinuses.”
“Pretty sure he was talking out of his ass,” the man retorted. “You’ll get the black lung if you keep that up.”
“I’m knocking on the Great Ship’s door as it is,” Leorin said, hacking out a cough. He straightened himself as best he could and gave the room a once over. It went dead quiet. “For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Leorin. Truth teller, soothsayer, and teller of a thousand tales. The best way to keep me talking is to keep me fed.” He set out his tray onto the counter ritualistically. “And the best way to keep me fed is to put money in the tray. Don’t be shy. This’ll be my third stop tonight, and still I have two to go.”
Taro kept out of sight. He wasn’t exactly on a first-name basis with Leorin, and no doubt the old codger saw thousands of boys his age every week; but he didn’t want to draw any attention to himself. Silently, Taro moved to slip up the stairs and out of sight with the food. Just as he turned the post he caught a bit of Leorin’s story and paused on the creaking step.
“—and of Vexis, whose name rests heavy on the tongues of Endrans. Her blackened soul tainted and corrupted every mind in Endra Edûn. I saw them dive into madness and turn against the Sun King in a froth. I saw in her eyes the inner turnings of the Void. It was like peering through a beautiful stained glass window but knowing that on the other side is a ravenous beast.” Leorin cracked his thin knuckles and took a sip of ale between smokes. “I looked into those bright green eyes and saw Nuruthil himself waiting behind them, ready to consume all the world.”
“I heard some men the other day sayin’ Vexis fixed the Arclight,” a man said. “He said that the Magisterium framed the poor girl, illness and all, to use her as a scapegoat.”
“Balderdash,” Leorin said dismissively. A few flakes of smoldering tobacco drifted to his feet. “Make no mistake. Had she not been stopped, I have no doubt she would’ve killed every man, woman, and child in Endra Edûn. The world is safer with her under lock and key. They built a custom prison just for her, too, full of wards and hexes, guarded by harpies and faeries.”
“Harpies and faeries?” the man said flatly. “Did you get the strong ale by mistake? Oy, bargirl, you slip him some of that Celosan Red?”
Leorin waved him off. “Ah, believe what you want.”
; “You said you were going to tell a story,” another man said. “If you’ve got one, let’s hear it.”
“I’m gettin’ to it,” Leorin snapped. “But understanding Vexis is essential. You might’ve heard of her, but I learned recently from a friend of mine—a warder in the King’s Guard—that Vexis is none other than the daughter of Valros the Usurper. You might know him better as ‘the Shahl.’ Perhaps understanding him will help you better understand her.”
Chapter Eighteen
The Long Dream
Now, for those of you who don’t know, ‘shahl’ is an old rank in the Helian Church of the Mast. It’s not used anymore. Some years ago there were five shahls, leaders of the faith and holy men beyond reproach. In those days the Church of the Mast still held great sway in the politics and culture of Helia. They used to call it one of the three pillars of civilization, the other two being the Emperor and the farseers.
Helia may not have had the wealth or magical affinity that the Endrans enjoy, nor the lush lands of the Celosans; but one thing the desert contained plenty of were secrets. Vast, ancient secrets from the oldest ages of Arkos. Back when our kind was little more than the spark in the eyes of Mother Sorona. Many secrets of the Old Gods were lost beneath the sands, and retrieving artifacts from the desert ruins became commonplace.
The old farseers viewed the ruins as curiosities that needed to be uncovered, while the shahls views them as sacred sites to be respected. Holy ground, as it were. Ultimately, the farseers had the ear of Emperor Rutharan and, ultimately, more power than the Church. For years the faithful and the pragmatic lived in a tense truce. That is, until the Emperor fell ill.
“I do not feel well,” the Emperor said one evening. Fetch Farseer Klavine, I require medicine.”
Klavine was his serpent-tongued advisor; a hideous man with a heart like a lump of black coal. After his examination, he provided the Emperor with medicine and sent him straight to bed.
And the Emperor slept and dreamed of fire and war.
The next day came and the Emperor felt all the worse. His hair began to fall out and his limbs began to tremble without cause.
“Fetch me Farseer Rynthos, I require medicine.”
Rynthos was loyal, but a dear friend, and could not bear to reveal the extent of the Emperor’s illness. He knew there was nothing that could be done, but nevertheless provided the Emperor with medicine to help him sleep. Though he despaired, he knew the Emperor had heirs to carry on his line, and in this he saw hope.
And the Emperor slept, and dreamed of fire and war.
The next day came and he felt all the worse. His vision had left him, and his skin flaked and peeled. One farseer after another he called to him, but none could stay his ailment. With no hope left, he appealed to the Old Gods.
The Emperor journeyed to the temple-city of Nir Daras, the city of the Haleryia. In all my years I have not seen its likeness constructed by mortal men. As many columns as there are islands to the east. So many candles beside the great altar that by the time the Veiled finish lighting them, they must start again for the first candles will have melted away. Ten thousand times ten thousand candles, one for each prayer to the Old High Gods.
The Emperor set a prayer candle before the feet of each of the gods.
Before the feet of Amín the Cartographer, he asked for the gift of sight.
Before the feet of Irenim the Shipwright, he asked for a cure for his affliction.
Before the feet of Terithoth the Quartermaster he requested a reprieve from his mortal sins.
Before the feet of Lorendamu the Helmsman he asked for more time in his short life.
Before the feet of Sarona the Navigator he asked, should he die, that his progeny be blessed with children to carry on his name.
And the Emperor slept on the marble steps of the shrine and dreamed of fire and war.
In the coming years, the Emperor continued to deteriorate. His flesh withered, and his voice could no longer carry. When he learned that his eldest son had perished in battle at the Red Citadel, he despaired. When he learned that his youngest daughter had died in childbirth, he wept. When he learned his newborn granddaughter had fallen ill and died that very night, he fell into rage.
He cursed the gods and ordered Nir Daras burned and the fields salted, so that not a strand of grass would grow there for a thousand years. Despite his weak and languid body, he entered the temple beforehand and warned the shahls inside to leave and escape death.
“Do not do this!” cried Valros Andurin, Shahl of the East.
“The gods are cruel and cold,” the Emperor said weakly. “They curse me to suffer.”
But there was darkness and cunning in Valros’ heart, and he saw a terrible way to save his beloved temple.
“Not all,” Valros said. He led the Emperor to the hidden sixth shrine deep beneath the ground. In this place there were no candles, no prayers, only darkness and silence.
“It’s vengeance you seek,” Valros whispered to the Emperor. “Speak your piece to Nuruthil and he will hear you.”
And the Emperor laid his soul bare before the reach between worlds, and he felt invigorated. And he saw that the right eye of the statue had turned to crystal glass and glowed with black fire. The Emperor reached up and took it, and all at once his eyesight returned, his bones strengthened, and he stood in amazement.
“How is this possible?” he exclaimed, holding the dark crystal high.
“It is through the power of Nuruthil that you have your sight, your step, your health. He holds the keys of death and Charond. But the oldest of the Old High Gods demands recompense for this gift.”
“I swear it,” the Emperor said, “and you, sir, shall have a place in my court at my side so long as I live, for you speak for the gods. Your word and will shall be as my own.”
The Emperor was good to his word and lived many years after, and always the Shahl stood beside him silently, carefully. At the age of seventy the king was happy to see his grandchildren grow. As the ages of eighty and ninety passed him, he felt the creep of old age tearing at his body. As the years continued to pass his body failed him completely and he lay on his deathbed, waiting for the Great Ship to take him. At one hundred and ten his children had died and his grandchildren were aged, but he lingered.
In his stead, and without his heirs ever able to take the throne, Shahl Valros ruled. His every word was law, and as the Emperor languished in his chambers, he sat at the foot of the imperial throne and did as he pleased. Unable to move and hardly able to speak, the Emperor did not see Valros for many years. When the Shahl did visit him, the Emperor summoned the strength to ask why he’d been cursed so.
Valros spoke without pity or remorse. “Your prayers were answered. Your heart laid bare. Your years have come to you, but your hubris will cost you dearly, for you dared to demand something from a god. Your soul will linger in this realm in darkness and in doubt for all eternity. Your body will be your prison, and I the sole ruler of Helia. I will purge the wicked, and make this empire pure and holy.”
And the Emperor could find no sleep. Not then, not now, and still he waits to this day in a shell of spent flesh. The Shahl rules as if he were emperor. But the true ruler remains alive, bound forever in his mortal coil.
But they say he no longer dreams.
Chapter Nineteen
Candlelight Prayers
By the time Leorin finished his story, the food Taro held was lukewarm. Taro slipped up the stairs and back to his room where he found Sikes asleep with his back to a dresser and his cards strewn about the floor. Vexis looked as though she was in the last stages of reassembling the dowsing compass.
Taro shook Sikes once by the shoulder and set his food beside him. The boy groaned, blinked twice, and seemed somewhere halfway between sleep and lucidity.
“You should eat,” Taro said. “You’ll need your strength for tomorrow.” He sat Vexis’ meal on the bedside a fair distance from the map and compass.
She glanced at the f
ood. “Sorry,” she said, not looking up, “my stomach’s a bit upset. Something down the wrong pipe, I think.” She snapped the frame back into place and shook it beside her ear, as if she was listening for something.
“I think it’s ready,” she said. Her eyes snapped to Taro. “Something the matter?”
It was at that moment that Taro realized that he was staring. More than that, he was searching. Searching her eyes and trying to see what Leorin saw. He thought back to his encounter with Kadia Andurin, when he’d looked into the eyes of a god. The feeling was overwhelming. This was nothing like that. Vexis may have been a monster, but she was a wholly human one. He briefly considered asking her about her father, but dismissed the idea for the time being. She wasn’t one to answer questions with much specificity, and if she thought she was being grilled, she’d be even less helpful.
And it was, after all, irrelevant to Taro’s mission. Crazy or sane, evil or not, he needed her…for the moment, anyway.
“Does it work?” Taro asked.
“I think so,” Vexis said. She laid the compass in front of the map and took her measuring splinter. “It’s been a while since I’ve had to retune it. These compasses were originally designed to find sources of magic in the Helian desert—ruins, artifacts, that sort of thing.”
The hand of the compass spun around in a complete circle. Vexis scrunched her face as if distressed, and tapped the side. The hands wobbled momentarily, but they stayed at their locations.
Using the map and splinter of wood, Vexis traced her way from the marker indicating Endra Edûn and followed it, once again, all the way to Helia Edûn.
“I thought you said it was tuned to find the other parchment?” Taro said.
“It is.”
“Is it broken?”
Vexis shook her head. “No, it’s working. Both the paper and Kadia are in the same place.”
Taro stared down at the paper. “That’s quite a coincidence.”