Mother of Slag

by Timandra Whitecastle

  He gasped and reeled, crouching down to wait out the nausea that washed over him.

  The same shape.

  The same size.

  He had been forced to look into an exact copy of these wells in a completely different setting. In the desert temple of Shinar. Every day. On the balcony of the chambers Suranna had assigned to him, he had stood and looked down helplessly, to watch Nora suffer and die of heat and thirst in a dry cistern. For a split second, he thought he saw her hunkered down there, in this dark and dank prison, naked and hurt, hair wild and eyes red.

  But she wasn’t there. Of course she wasn’t.

  She was the Blade now.

  His shoulder flared up with pain.

  And the Blade was far away, probably laying waste to some other city. And he was here, in the Temple of Water. Crippled, hurting, yes, but still alive and safe.

  But the cisterns.

  Arrayed in exactly the same way.

  The same shape as these.

  The same size.

  He choked.

  The air in here felt stifling, dense.

  The temples.

  They were all the same.

  All the temples had been erected to the gods millennia ago, so long ago, not even the wights remembered when. And yet. They had been built with parallel structures. Even the hot baths beneath the Temple of the Wind had this same outlay. To catch and conserve water. A practical function of wightish construction that had been misused by humans to catch other living things instead.

  He mustered the cisterns again, his jaw set against the sick feeling, and he knew.

  The ancient priestesses of Neeze had captured their goddess’ sea daughters here, trapped them in these cisterns. And for whatever purpose they did this, it still scared the gjalp outside from coming here.

  He considered going back to them, but instead he found himself walking onto the raised shelf and making his way to the door.

  Onwards.

  Something was urging him onwards.

  Was it curiosity?

  Was it simply the need not to dwell on these dark thoughts anymore? To not revisit the memories trapped in his mind? The touch of the bloodwitch, Lin, during the ceremony had shaken something awake within him and it would not relent, would not let him languish and give himself over to wasting away in the comfort of a pipe of kif.

  Keep busy.

  Keep moving.

  Keep on pushing through.

  Until something had to give.

  The door—its wood warped and rotting away from decades of neglect—gave way to a forceful kick.

  A gush of sucking wind ripped him forward. It rattled through the hole he had made in brittle wooden boards, as though the sea chambers had been holding their breath and now exhaled explosively.

  Beyond, daylight pierced his eyes, which had grown accustomed to the darkness within.

  Diaz wrestled with the remaining boards, making a gap large enough for him to wriggle through, and stepped out into the most enormous stairwell he had ever seen.

  As he looked up, he saw a circle of gray sky far, far above his head. It seemed that the entire mountain had been hollowed out over centuries, maybe even millennia, so that from the cup of the volcano’s crater at the top, sets of stairs and landings spiraled down down down, below the water level of the ocean crashing against the rock outside, ending at the bottom of the cavern, nearly fifteen stories below where he stood. He stepped out onto what looked like one of many stone balconies jutting out from the landing the door had opened onto. It was roofed over and supported by slender columns carved beautifully with reliefs of the goddess Neeze’s black-eyed face. A small altar had been built onto the broadened landing here and a statue of Neeze as the Mother, smiling, her four arms spread wide to welcome her many children. But her arms had been struck off and lay in shards at her feet. Broken hands filled with fish and shells and strands of kelp. Her features had been defaced. Two grooves had been chiseled into her limestone cheeks, so that the paint of her eyes had bled down like black tears.

  He turned away from her maniacal grin and shuddered.

  The wind was chill, sweeping through the stairwell from above, and yet not stirring the dark water below. Diaz took a sip of water from the sacrificial bowl placed before the statue’s feet, just below an opening in the tiled roof so as to gather the rain.

  It tasted brackish, but it was sweet and he drank it from the cup of his hands. His stomach rumbled. Quenching the terrible thirst and filling himself with water made him realize how hungry he was, and he struggled to remember when he had last eaten.

  No wonder he felt so weak.

  He looked up into the sky once more, then down into the dark water of the pool.

  It did not reflect the sky above.

  Most stairwells he had seen in this temple were built as a practical but architecturally pleasing solution to store drinkable water in the middle of an ocean. Some had a large opened top and graduated sides of terraced stairs that met at a relatively shallow depth. Artificial ponds, lined with frescoes and mosaics, small niche altars and statues. But a few had a structure similar to this one—a narrow circular shaft, protected from direct sunlight by a full or partial roof, and ending in a deeper, rounded well.

  This one, though, was on a scale that seemed determined to leave an inerasable mark on the face of the earth, albeit hidden inside an extinguished volcano.

  And—he craned his neck—he could see no roof. No crumbled ruins of one either.

  So.

  Why did the stairwell, grand as it was, not fill with rainwater?

  The pool below, shaped in a ellipsis like the Goddess’ almond shaped eyes, was not overflowing. Indeed, the black water seemed untouched, and as he stared into the depth, listening to the soft keening noise the wind made through the empty arches on the dozen balconies, he noticed that he couldn’t seem to look at the water directly. Only when his gaze slid off it and onto the green stone inlay around it, or the last flight of steps that led to it, did he catch a fleeting image of the inky blackness.

  Odd.

  He walked down the flights of stairs, slowly, deliberately, pausing often at the protected balconies, keeping an eye out for vessels filled with rainwater, and slaking his thirst.

  When he had nearly reached the bottom, he saw that the ground level with the well led into a small sheltered space drowned in shadow. He could make out another altar, table-sized, and without a statue, but with a narrow channel leading from it to the pool. Next to it lay a heap of discolored rags, a broken ribcage protruding from it, yet another victim, like the ones above, of whatever disaster had happened here.

  Another door led out behind the altar. It stood ajar, the wood bloated with moisture keeping it half open. Here was an unguarded way he could follow into the temple. It would be the sensible thing to explore the chambers beyond and find storage cellars, perhaps, seek out clay vessels that had once been filled with grains or flour or oil or honey, and would have kept, unopened. And yet, when he glanced into the darkened corridor beyond he had no urge to follow it.

  Something else drew him.

  Diaz turned back to the pool, and padded around it, disconcerted by the effort it took to look at the black surface and not hurl himself headlong into it. It rested smoothly against the sea-glass flagstones encasing it, like tarnished silver in a mirror of jade. Like the pupil-less black eye of a wight lady, her skin a radiant olive green.

  The wights said that the Temple of Water was the center of the world, and that all other temples were built aligned to it. They said that the Nessan Sea was the eye of the world. A vast circular ocean, enclosed by landmasses all around it, yet with only one island raised in its middle.

  Here before his feet lay the heart of the ocean, the heart of the world, and with the sacral silence pressing in on him, Diaz felt at home. At peace. He had never been so in tune with himself outside of meditation before. If there was a place of healing, he thought, this was it.

  He crouched at
the side and dipped his fingers into the water.

  And yanked them back out, instinctively with a hiss of pain.

  The water was scalding hot. As he cradled his hand against his chest, doubled over, he saw a delayed ripple move languidly over the black surface from where he had disturbed it. He scrabbled back, the echo of his own pain bouncing back upon the many steps, and held up his hand, half expecting to see his fingers hideously disfigured. Boiled. Cooked. Melted away.

  And yet, they looked normal.

  The inky black water was slick upon them still, painting dark swirls onto his skin, reminiscent of the tattoos that began from his wrist up.

  Without thinking, he touched his fingers to his mouth and tasted the liquid.

  Salty.

  Warm.

  Bloody.

  It singed his tongue and set his mouth aflame.

  He gasped, keeled over, and knocked his head on a stone step.

  Chapter 26

  Blackness took him.

  He was swimming in the ocean, powerfully stroking the water with both arms. He swallowed the salty water, and it burned his tongue like acid. Get out of the water. That’s what he needed to do. Get out of it. He turned towards the shore but it was gone. There was only blue around him. He swam in the eye of a storm.

  A wave rose and submerged him. Below the surface was quiet, though, so very quiet. But dark. And the darkness swallowed him.

  A sting around his ankle made him cry out. Something like a tight cord was pulling him farther underneath.

  Deeper and deeper he was pulled, far deeper than he had ever gone, and even as he struggled with the tight tentacle wrapped around his ankle, it slithered up his leg, unwanted, uninvited, and yet and yet and yet…

  He couldn’t open his mouth.

  His voice was gone.

  He opened his eyes and saw the darkness around him, an abyss of black, filled with stars. A ring of gjalp surrounded him. His ears and head burst with sound, as the gjalp watched him writhe in their grip. Intense pain and pleasure. This is all he knew. Their eyes as black as his, their song his father’s tune. A stream of air bubbles escaped from his lips. They hovered around him, their long tentacles holding him fast, exploring him, smothering him, tightening around his chest.

  One of them slid against him, latched onto him, then another, and another, their warmth seeping into him, their frantic heartbeats pulsing against his naked flesh. He saw himself mirrored in their dark eyes and did not like what he saw.

  A warrior. A fighter. A killer. Covered in tattoos. Covered in scars. Covered in fear.

  He was rank with it.

  All his life.

  He hid the fear of being unwanted.

  He hid the fear of being rejected.

  He hid the fear of being himself, and buried it deep. So deep.

  He has been on the wheel all his life, and never by his own volition, but now the spinning storm was slowing. Now it ground to a halt.

  “Nothing withstands water. Nothing will alter its way,” they chanted and their chorus was deafening. Louder than the storm, louder than the rush of blood in his ears.

  Diaz struggled to breathe.

  His body begged for air, begged for release, the pull of the currents too strong for him to master. He sobbed. He laughed. He fought.

  Around him the press of bodies, throes of ecstasy, pleasure along the sharp edge of pain. Faces form. Hands reach. Lips part.

  “I never wanted this,” he screamed, voiceless. To be alone.

  He didn’t. He hadn’t.

  He didn’t hear himself cry.

  He bit his tongue until blood ran between his teeth, salty and hot like tears. Like the sea.

  He closed his eyes, turned inward this is meditation this is meditation and heard his father hum a mermaid song while chopping firewood. His mother calling from their home. A flash of softness across his father’s face. It had been so easy for them to love one another. Why had it been so easy?

  He dodged as he felt a whistle of air streak by him. The spear thudded into the rock where he had just been sitting. Three wight scouts sneered when they saw that they had missed him.

  “Diaz.” His name the ultimate insult. “Not fit to live.”

  He drew his sword.

  The cold flagstones of the Pilgrim temple. The hushed voices and furtive glances he received as other initiates walked by, whispering among themselves. The Code was who he was now. The Code was all he was. Stand separate. Remain distant. A garment of restraint that fit him too well.

  Suranna, smiling, the way she used to. “Come,” she said. Her tentacles of endless want caressed his skin on the outside and within.

  “I love you,” she said.

  She lied.

  “Stay here with me,” she said. “Always.”

  It hurt.

  Oh gods, it hurt too much.

  He fought the cords that bound him harder, his lungs on fire now.

  Nora.

  Death.

  The side of her face burned; her hand was shriveled and black. Her head bald in patches of weeping red sores, and on the other side, her hair had grown out, fell into her face. The goddess Lara. His goddess. Her eyes soft.

  “You don’t need me, Diaz.” She smiled as he lost his arm to her grip. Watched her smile as she tore him to pieces, and devoured him, bit by bit. “You never did. You need to see the fine master you already are, and then you have to be that man as hard as you can.”

  Be that man as hard as you can.

  There.

  It’s that easy.

  Easy.

  And that hard.

  Chapter 27

  The door Diaz slept propped up against was dragged open with a loud creak that woke him.

  “There you are,” the elderly lady called Lin said with a wry smile. “Back again like a stray cat.”

  Diaz rubbed his face awake. He was weak, and after a full day of exploring and banging his head violently, as well as making the long and strenuous journey back to the wide promenade of the bay, he was aching and sore and in a miserable mood.

  “Food?” His voice was particularly raspy today. The single syllable made him wince. He smacked his dry lips. “Water?”

  “Of course,” Lin said. “Follow me.”

  He managed to rise stiffly, groaning, and let her lead him through the winding passages of the temple.

  “We were quite worried when we didn’t find you yesterday,” she said over her shoulder as they walked down another set of stairs. The steps made Diaz’s calves burn.

  He grunted a non-answer.

  “Well, I say ‘we’ but it was more that Jeska was distraught. She seemed quite eager to speak to someone else for a change, but only found your boots and coat on a bench by the bay. I think Mari was pleased at the thought that you had waded into the water to your death, but Jeska … not so much.”

  “And you?”

  She shrugged one shoulder.

  “It might have burdened my conscience if you had truly committed suicide because I wouldn’t let you stay inside the temple, but honestly, I didn’t take you to be that dramatic. In here.”

  She unlocked a door off the long corridor, and they entered a rectangular room filled with the strong smell of dried fish.

  The intensity smacked him in the face, though his stomach growled.

  “Oh I know,” Lin laughed, opening the upper part of a double door that led outside to a secluded, wind-sheltered table and bench overlooking the ocean. “It gets a bit funky in here. We cook and store most things here. It’s convenient. But then again, we’re only three people. If more people came, we’d have to figure out a way to re-open the large kitchens and the refectorium. This seems much cozier. And the view is nice.”

  She handed him a wooden spoon and a bowl, ladled to the brim with a mixture of oat porridge and what looked to be dried shrimp flakes, from a deep-bellied pot hanging over embers. She set a large flask of water on the table, and two cups of steaming tea, then patted the bench with
one eyebrow raised at him quizzically.

  He did not need to be asked twice, and sat down to dig in.

  He ate three bowls of the creamy, salty porridge in the amicable silence, while Lin sat in the watery morning sun, mending a fishing net and occasionally taking a sip from her cup.

  Diaz studied her lined face. Old wasn’t quite the right word for her, though the years, the sun, and the sea had definitely done their work on Lin. The likeness to his old friend Talitha Cumi was in the regal grace of her posture, the tanned skin, and the silver hair. However, Talitha had been a strung bow, always under tension, ready to fire away, and Lin was not. She weathered the storm and rolled with the waves, until her edges had been blunted. Shaped by the sea. Her hands were nimble with the net, used to the work, though her fingers were long and elegant, the knuckles gnarled like the wood of a boat that had seen much use.

  “Do you cast the nets to fish?” he asked between mouthfuls.

  “Not really. Though the folk on the Wards think I do. I have a small room there that I return to every few days. And I often bring in a small catch to sell.”

  “You live on the Wards?”

  “I live here most of the time, and soon there’ll be a day when I finally leave the Wards to never return, except as one of the Ladies. This temple is my home, always has been. And here I will be buried.”

  “But then why live among the sick and ailing? Why not just stay here?”

  She pressed her lips together and stared at the horizon for a long time, then sighed.

  “After the devastation of the Temple, I was the only one left here. Everyone else I knew was dead or drowned or maybe they had escaped the killing frenzy and ran away, never to return.

  “I got lonely at times. Sometimes I couldn’t stand being here. And then it’s good to be around other people, help them if you can. Keeps you grounded. Keeps you sane.

  “And the Wards weren’t always the way they are now. Not as full. They say Arrun has fallen to the Living Blade, and so there are far more people than usual. Three or four times as many, I’d say, all of them seeking healing. A safe place to hide from the storm of change. And yet they bring their weak ones, frailty and disease, and sickness spreads swiftly in the pressing mass. There are those who grow rich on leeching those with little hope. But it was different once. And it was good for me to dwell there.”