Sightwitch

by Susan Dennard

  This door was not going to open without some kind of key.

  The bell. That had to be the way in, for there was a small belfry over the chapel, just the like one aboveground.

  With my one free hand, I fumbled Hilga’s bell from my belt. The earth shook as the fleshy, grinning Skull-Face clambered close.

  Its shadow slithered over me before I even had the Summoning bell free.

  The Death Maidens simply laughed and laughed and laughed.

  Then the bell was unfastened, and without looking back—yet still sprinting as fast as I could—I clanged it.

  Once, twice. Hard, hard. A peal that rippled outward until the chapel bell answered, loud enough to drown out all that chased behind. The sound split my brain, and relief erupted in my chest.

  If I kept running, I would make it out of here.

  Except that the door was not opening. I was almost to it, yet the blue light still glowed and the carved wood had not budged an inch.

  I rang the bell harder; the main bell tolled once more.

  Still nothing happened.

  Three paces from the door, I shoved all my strength and terror into my gait. I slammed against the wood.

  It didn’t move.

  Harder I pushed, but to no avail. The bells were not working, and now the monsters had reached me.

  I whipped around, back pressed to the door. It was so much worse than I’d feared. Skull-Face leaned down. Its skin writhed as if worms crawled underneath, and its smiling mouth parted to show …

  Nothing. Nothing at all but darkness.

  Slithering beneath the beast’s belly were the Death Maidens, their arms raised and claws grasping.

  “Ryber, Ryber, Ryber.”

  I dropped the bell. Knife, knife—at least if I had my knife gripped tight, I might be able to do a some damage to these monsters before I left the world forever.

  Right as my fingers gripped the hilt, a sound carved through the chaos: a squawk and the flapping of wings.

  The Rook shot down, an arrow aimed for Skull-Face’s eyes.

  The monster roared, then reared back, one hand leaving the ground to swat at the Rook.

  But the bird had already looped aside and now flew for the Maidens—who no longer sang, nor laughed, nor reached for me. Instead, they heaved at the Rook and screamed with voices too high-pitched to fully hear.

  I had one breath, maybe two, while the monsters were distracted.

  I would not waste this gift.

  Whirling about, I grabbed the bell and started clanging once more. Meanwhile, my eyes—my Sight-less, pall-covered eyes—swept over the door. Up, down, side to side. There had to be a way to get through.

  Skull-Face’s hand crashed down to the earth beside me. The world shook and I finally saw what I needed. Just as I’d thought before, this door wasn’t going to open without some kind of key.

  A key like I currently held: my Sightwitch Sister knife.

  In a clumsy thrust of speed, I slid the blade into a thin slot. Blue light flashed and the amber on the hilt flared gold. Then a squeal like metal on metal erupted, and with it came the groan of ancient, unwilling wood.

  The door creaked wide; only darkness waited beyond.

  I didn’t care. I didn’t think. I simply sprang forward, shouting for the Rook to come on.

  Then I was through, spinning around while the Death Maidens hurled toward me. Skull-Face no longer smiled but only screamed and screamed and screamed.

  When there was nothing but a sliver of light shining through the closing door, the Rook darted through. A flap of wings, a gust of familiar must to briefly erase the stench of rot.

  Half a beat later, the door rattled shut. Darkness and silence took hold.

  I was finally inside the mountain.

  Y2786 D302

  MEMORIES

  It has been six months since Lisbet and Cora became my wards, and six times we have gone to the Sorrow to meet their father. We had to bundle up today, for the air was brittle and sharp. Sister Xandra says first snow will come tonight.

  He was bundled up as well, his black soldier’s tunic layered over wool. Otherwise, he looked as he always did, and he acted as he always did. Except … something about him was different today.

  Or perhaps I am the one who has changed. Certainly I grow weary from the war, from the rebellion.

  All I know is that when our eyes met over Lisbet’s head today, as he embraced her tight, I felt the winds shift. Like the click when my key opens the workshop door, something moved inside me.

  He smiled then—an expression I’ve never seen him wear. And though it was a sad smile, for grief still weighs heavy and likely always will, it was a smile all the same. One that eased the tired lines creasing around his eyes.

  Beautiful eyes. Brown in some lights, bright green in others.

  How have I not noticed before?

  Then he said, “I have missed you.”

  I know he spoke to Lisbet at his waist and to Cora, who danced circles around him. Of course he spoke to his girls.

  Yet he looked at me as he uttered those words, and fool that I am, I did not look away.

  Instead, I dared to pretend, for half a heartbeat, that the words were meant for me.

  Even now, hours later, I cannot forget them.

  And I cannot forget his eyes.

  LATER—8 hours left to find Tanzi

  Thank the Sleeper I did not lose my lantern. Without it, I would be lost.

  Though fans of luminescent foxfire glow at each intersection, the roughly hewn tunnels beyond are darker than I ever knew possible. Even on a moonless night, there are at least stars to guide you. The Bat, the Hound, the Iris—as reliable as Thread-family. But here, there is nothing. No Firewitched sconces, nor even a basic torch.

  It is so quiet I can hear my own heartbeat. I can hear my own blood, a rushing sound that pulses and booms. At first I found it unsettling; now I find it a strange sort of comfort. The topsy-turvy world of the mountain might make no sense, but at least my body has not betrayed me.

  Yet.

  The only other sound is the drip-drip of the hourglass and the Rook’s pattering wings whenever he leaves his roost upon my shoulder.

  Twice, I have hit cave-ins that block the way and have been forced to turn back. Thrice, the Rook has taken flight off my shoulder to sweep down some blackened hole, only to croak mere moments later in a way that says, “No passage here.”

  And once, a tremor rattled through the mountain, shaking loose so much dust and scree I was certain the tunnel was collapsing around me.

  But it wasn’t, and the quake passed in an instant.

  I am so grateful the Rook is with me. Without him, I would be lost.

  Perhaps I might even be dead.

  I don’t know.

  I have prodded and poked at my memories of the lower Crypts. Illusions—surely they were all illusions. It is the only way that having the Sight might allow one to pass. Seeing and recognizing that something is not really there.

  Or maybe it was all real, and those beasts are simply guardians of the Crypts, ready to attack any Sister who does not belong.

  When I ask the Rook—in soft whispers, for everything in this place demands quiet, he only purrs and nudges his beak against my face.

  LATER — 7 hours left to find Tanzi

  The mountain has changed. No more slinking tunnels but a proper passage. Square and with a familiar motif running along the walls at shoulder height.

  It’s the same design sewn along the sleeves of a clear-eyed Sister’s silver tunic. It’s the same design carved along the fountain of the Supplicant’s Sorrow, on the dolmen in the Grove, and around the rim of the scrying pool too.

  I’ve seen it my whole life and read thousands of Memory Records, yet I still don’t know what this motif means or where it comes from.

  As I walked, I ran my fingers along the grooves etched into the stone, and so preoccupied was I by the sudden structure, the clear marks of humanity, that I did
n’t notice the gradually growing roar not until I felt it trembling through the rock.

  Water. A lot of it.

  “Is there a river?” I asked the Rook, and he ruffled his feathers in acknowledgment.

  Sure enough, 213 steps later, I reached it. The water’s churn masked all other sounds and cut straight across my path, much too violent to cross. And also much too wide.

  “Blighter,” I muttered, lifting the lantern higher and squinting. Far to my right, a waterfall crashed down, bursting from a hole in the rock tens of paces above.

  Behind the waterfall stood the exit. Exactly like the square-shaped hall I’d just abandoned, the path forward continued precisely where I could not go.

  For half a breath, defeat settled over me. A sense of hopelessness as icy as the water misting off the river. I had taken the only path forward, and now it seemed to end.

  But I gritted my teeth, fingers tightening around the lantern, and cut right. There had to be a way across. The Summoned Sisters came this way, didn’t they?

  Probably.

  Maybe.

  Either way, it was my only option forward.

  “Help me?” I asked the Rook as I swung my lantern left, right, searching and searching.

  A huff of air in my ear—undeniably annoyed—and the bird hopped off. In four easy flaps, he crossed the river and glided to a stop beside the exit.

  Useless.

  “Thanks.” I flung him my fiercest glare. Then I stalked back the way I’d come. I fell into a rhythm, moving in time to the constellation skipping song we all learned as children.

  Four times, I went up and down the rough riverbank, water sinking deeper into my exposed skin and hair with each pass.

  It wasn’t until the fifth pass, as I was aiming away from the falls, that I realized I had the right idea—but the wrong rhyme.

  I wrenched about, light spraying wide, as the words unfolded:

  It was one of the stranger Rules that Tanzi used as proof in her argument against them. I had always thought it meant I had to stay sharp and aware of my surroundings at all times.

  But maybe …

  In long lopes, I hurried to the waterfall, then craned my neck to glimpse behind. Right there, impossible to see unless you knew where to look, were stepping-stones.

  After tying the lantern to my pack and verifying all my tools were still in place on my belt, I sucked in three deep, bracing breaths.

  Then I jumped. Water pelted against me, numbing my limbs. Mist clouded my vision, and for a terrifying moment, I thought I’d missed the stone entirely.

  But no. There was solid ground beneath me. I was still, somehow, upright.

  I had to swipe water from eyes again and again before I could even see the next rock, and I took at least ten more steeling breaths before I felt confident enough to make the leap.

  Hop, hop, skip, skip. Four stones in total before I reached the other side.

  There, the Rook waited. He paused his preening just long enough to glance at me, an expression of such deep boredom I couldn’t resist marching over to him and shaking.

  Water sprayed.

  He hissed and clacked, skittering back. And I laughed—my first laugh in …

  Goddess. I can’t remember the last time I laughed. And it felt so good. A light warmth to fizz in my chest. Even as the Rook catapulted onto my shoulder and nipped at my ear, I couldn’t stop giggling.

  I had made it.

  I had evaded the monster of the Crypts. I had crossed the storm. Now I was moving forward once more.

  Just under six and a half hours to go.

  LATER — 6 hours left to find Tanzi

  My delight over my progress was short-lived. Soaked through from the waterfall, I was all too quickly freezing. All too quickly shivering.

  To make my bone-chill worse, ice took hold of the landscape. Hoarfrost at first, a white glaze to coat the stone and mask the wall’s design. Then came icicles, spiking down from the ceiling. Some stretched so low I had to stoop and swirl around them. Shortly after that, there was no stone left. Just a slippery, glistening expanse that tinted my lantern’s light blue.

  I was cold. Colder than I’ve ever known. My fingers turned to clumsy bricks. I had to stop sketching in my diary. No more drawing each bend and curve in the halls, each rise and step or intrusion of ice. Instead, I marked numbers of steps and turns.

  One hour passed, one flipping of my hourglass, yet it felt like days I tromped forward. One stumbling footstep to the next, counting, always counting. Even the Rook on my shoulder and the pack on my back became distant, forgotten things.

  The halls were too cramped to risk a fire’s smoke, so I tried jogging to stay warm—and to gain speed—but after falling twice and almost twisting my ankle, Sister Rose’s voice came scolding through my mind.

  “Rule 10, Ryber! Rule 10! What does it say?”

  I’d been racing for a seat beside Tanzi in the dining hall. I’d tripped; my bowl of stew had sprayed.

  “It’s the Rule of Meticulosity,” I’d answered while sopping up stew with my tunic.

  “Exactly. And it does not merely apply to our work, yes? There is never a reason to rush. Wherever you are trying to go will still be there, even if it takes you longer to reach it.”

  Sister Rose had been right that day in the Convent. Tanzi would have waited for me no matter how long it took me to fetch my stew.

  But would she wait now? Could she?

  “Doesn’t matter,” I hissed, toddling back upright while the Rook watched. “If I hurt myself, I’ll never reach Tanzi or the other Sisters. Rule 10. Rule 10.”

  The Rook warbled his agreement before reclaiming his spot on my shoulder. Then, in a rare display of affection, he rubbed his beak on my jaw.

  “You’re not so bad yourself,” I murmured, and off we went once more.

  On, on, on. Cold, cold, cold.

  Until at last, the hallways changed shape … then gave way entirely.

  I had reached a cavern.

  It was like being inside a glacier—I can think of no other way to describe it. Bluish light diffused the space, though where it came from, I could not say. Perhaps Sirmaya Herself, but certainly not the sky. Larger than any floor of the Crypts, the cavern stretched for as far as I could see.

  As did black lines. At first, I thought they were cracks. Yet when I stilled my chattering teeth long enough to examine more closely, I found veins of pure darkness wefting through the ice.

  I had no inkling what they might be, and I was too cold to much care.

  A ledge crooked out from the frozen wall. It did not look safe. A single false move, and I would fall straight down to a death of shattered bones and frostbite.

  However, right was the only direction to go, so right the Rook and I aimed. We were achingly slow, too slow, and the quicksilver taunted me with its ceaseless drip-dripping.

  I was helpless to move faster, though. So cold had I become that each planting of my foot felt like someone else’s foot. I heard the heel land—and I saw the heel land!—but I certainly didn’t feel it.

  All I wanted was to stop. To lie down. To sleep.

  In the deepest recesses of my mind, I knew this was a sign the cold was killing me. That to slumber would be my end.

  Were it not for the Rook pecking my cheek every few minutes, I probably would have given in to Sirmaya’s final sleep forever.

  The quicksilver was halfway through the hourglass when I saw a platform perhaps forty paces ahead and wide as the observatory. I could stop there. I could build a fire and escape these grasping claws of drowsy death.

  Moments blurred past. Drip, drip, drip.

  I reached the platform.

  Tears sprang to my eyes as I stumbled for the center. Fire. I just wanted a fire. The Rook took flight, winging toward a pile of rags against the ice wall. Only with him gone did I realize how much heat he’d been emitting.

  My pack fell to the stone with a loud thwack. Dust puffed up, or perhaps frost. I didn’t
bother to examine it closely because I could not have cared less.

  Fire, fire, FIRE. Nothing mattered beyond getting warm.

  I heaped out three Firewitched matches, each the length of my forearm. I’d never used them before, but I’d seen Sister Ute do it often enough in the kitchens, singing, “Smack the dough and pound the dough, hammer it and knead it,” the whole time.

  “Ignite,” I whispered.

  The magic answered in a flash of light, a crack of sound, and then heat. Blessed, beautiful heat to cascade over me.

  Slowly, as the quicksilver gathered in my hourglass, I thawed, all while Sister Ute’s song tickled against my brain over and over.

  Smack the dough and pound the dough,

  Hammer it and knead it.

  Pies and tarts and bread with jam,

  Who wouldn’t want to eat it?

  On the third sing-through I realized I was rasping the words aloud—and I also noticed the Rook making a fuss behind me.

  He clicked and hissed, so with my hands still hovering above the fire’s warmth, I glanced back.

  And straight into a pair of gray eyes.

  A man’s eyes.

  I screeched. Then almost tipped into the fire. Arms swinging, I stayed upright just long enough to lurch around … and then hit the floor with a painful thump.

  Before me, the pile of rags had unfurled into a very tall, very pale man covered in black oil.

  “A fire,” the man said in Nubrevnan. “How excellent.”

  A man. Standing in front of me. Filthy skin, pale hair, speaking Nubrevnan.

  I would not have been more surprised if Tanzi had suddenly appeared. In fact, that would have been a thousandfold less surprising than this.

  My fingers moved for my knife. Poor defense against a man so large—and he was large, all shoulders and long limbs—but I would take what I could get.

  His hands shot up defensively. Even his palms were dirty. “I won’t hurt you. I just want the warmth.” His voice was rough as an avalanche. He motioned to my fire. “May I?”

  “No,” I said flatly. Then I unsheathed my knife and thrust it out.