The Unspoken Name

by A. K. Larkwood

  “Don’t need,” she said.

  “Exalted Sages, Csorwe, drink. I’m not letting the man sew up your face while you’re awake.”

  “No,” said Csorwe. “Leave it.”

  Sethennai eyed her, clearly doubting her reasoning. Whether it was the pain or the drug, she could not make her mouth move fast enough to explain properly. She had always been a plain thing. If she had earned her adult tusks she had earned this too. Some part of her, she noted with a little click of recognition, relished the idea of being marked, the way the hilt of her sword was notched for her fingers.

  “Leave it,” she said again, and this time Sethennai didn’t argue.

  * * *

  Csorwe woke in the darkness, and for a few unending moments couldn’t remember where she was or what had happened to her. In her dream she had been trapped somewhere, pinioned and unable to escape. Now even the sheet covering her was too heavy, but somehow she couldn’t throw it off.

  After a while, someone came into the room with a lamp. The light obliterated her vision, but she recognised Sethennai’s silhouette and his footsteps.

  “Hush,” he said. She realised she must have been crying out. “What’s wrong?”

  She couldn’t explain, couldn’t really move her lips to form words.

  “It’s all right,” he said. He sat down in the chair by her bed. “We’re almost home, Csorwe. You did this for me.”

  She still couldn’t get out from under the sheet, but she began to understand and remember where she was. The bedclothes were wrinkled and damp from thrashing around, and the room smelled of sickness. She wished someone would brush her hair and bring her a warm towel to wash her face, as Angwennad had when she was a little girl, but even half delirious she knew she couldn’t ask Sethennai to do these things.

  “It’s all right,” he said again, in a low, soft voice, as though addressing a frightened animal that threatened to bite. “You’ll be well soon. In Tlaanthothe you’ll have your own room in the palace, looking out over the gardens. We’ve spent too long out in the desert. The city is more beautiful than you can imagine, I promise.”

  She closed her eyes again, and tried to lie still, focusing on the voice, even if she couldn’t make sense of the words.

  “In the city there are flowers everywhere,” he said. “Flowering vines and aloes and fruit trees. There is a fountain in every square, with clear flowing water. We’ll be safe there, with the Siren watching over us. Once we’re inside the walls none of our enemies can reach us. We’ll be unconquerable.”

  When she woke the next morning she didn’t remember very much of this, only a flash of light in the darkness and a fading vision of fountains.

  * * *

  Sethennai left the boardinghouse one night soon afterward, and came back the next day, buoyant with delight and unable to settle in any one spot.

  “This is astonishing,” he said. “I’ve had my ear to the ground and it looks as though no one suspects it was us who killed Psamag. Not even remotely. Morga thinks Olthaaros sent you, and Olthaaros thinks she’s covering up the fact that she killed him herself. I had worried we’d lost the element of surprise, but instead they’re all chasing each other’s shadows. This means we can still pick our moment. Absolutely wonderful.”

  “What about Psamag’s amulet?” said Csorwe, cringing inwardly because she hadn’t even considered the element of surprise. However pleased Sethennai seemed, she still felt she’d failed in some respects.

  “They don’t seem to have noticed it’s gone,” said Sethennai. The amulet was hanging around his neck, and bounced whenever he gestured, which was often. “Our way should be clear. I have a few more logistical questions to resolve and then Olthaaros can find out what’s coming to him. Assuming you wouldn’t rather stay behind and rest?”

  “I’d rather break my other arm,” said Csorwe.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” said Sethennai. “You’ve done an excellent job and you deserve to see the results.” He stretched, tipping his chair back, and beamed, with a sunny warmth that made Csorwe briefly forget she was in pain.

  For the next few days Sethennai went out to his meetings, or sat muttering over his books. Csorwe ate soft foods and wondered what was coming next. Tlaanthothe seemed like a real prospect at last, and she was realising how little she knew about it, for all Sethennai spoke of it as home.

  For one thing, there was the Siren. Csorwe hadn’t thought much about that. Only now did she begin to fully consider the fact that entering the city would mean coming back into the presence of a god. She remembered how the presence of the Unspoken had felt. Csorwe had no way of knowing whether Sethennai’s goddess would be anything like that.

  And how was it going to be, when they finally encountered Olthaaros? She wondered whether he would back down when he realised Sethennai was back in full force. Sethennai was very confident that things would go his way, but Csorwe couldn’t help remembering his fight with Akaro. She wasn’t in good shape to help him if something went wrong. This was why she hated to be ill or injured. You were left too much time to speculate, rebounding from one unknown to another like a rubber ball that got faster and faster as it went.

  In her most optimistic moments, she hoped Tlaanthothe might be rather like Grey Hook. Sethennai gave the impression that it was cleaner and prettier, but there would still be new territory to explore—interesting food to buy at the market—more languages to study, maybe. And she would still be useful to him, now he knew she could be trusted with a task on her own.

  At last she could walk again without wincing, and it was time to leave.

  Csorwe tried not to look at the fortress as they approached. Once they were down in the caves, she had plenty to distract her, starting with keeping her balance one-armed.

  They reached the cavern with the curse-ward, and the stairway reaching up into the fortress. Sethennai stopped to investigate the wards. He probed at the wax with a pencil, leaning frighteningly close. He had Psamag’s amulet around his neck, but Csorwe still had to clench her good hand to stop herself from dragging him away.

  “Crude but effective,” he muttered. “That’s Olthaaros all over.”

  * * *

  They emerged into Tlaanthothe on a perfect spring morning, just after dawn. A warm breeze was blowing, carrying heat from the Speechless Sea, and they came up a hidden stair into a cluster of plane trees in the middle of a formal park.

  The old brocade on Sethennai’s horrible coat gleamed like choppy water in the sun. He wore a ragged scarf over his hair, and he walked with a stick. He was already wearing his gauntlets, partially hidden inside his sleeves.

  “Oh, my city, I missed you,” he said, under his breath, as they emerged from the shadow of the trees. “Exalted Sages, how I missed you.”

  A change came over him, like the sun coming out, as they entered the city. He looked somehow more vital, more lively, more and more delighted with the world and everything in it, more suffused with power and self-confidence. Under his rags, his eyes were bright with joy. Perhaps this was what it meant for him to come back to his goddess.

  Tlaanthothe was indeed very much quieter and very much cleaner than Grey Hook. Outside the park, the boulevards were empty, peopled only with polite rows of obelisk cypresses. Despite her apprehension, Csorwe smiled when she saw there were fountains playing in the squares, just as Sethennai had promised.

  “Where is everyone?” she said. She was wrapped in an equally threadbare cloak, with the hood pulled low over her face.

  “It’s early,” said Sethennai. “Or perhaps they know a change is on its way, and they’re staying at home.” He smiled again, with a glimmer of menace that made Csorwe gladder than usual to be on his side.

  They picked their way down Broad Street, doing their best to look unremarkable.

  At the top of Broad Street stood the School of Transcendence, a grand edifice of white marble and copper verdigris, with a pointed dome like a closed water lily. Two armed guards stood at the door
, dressed in the jade-and-ivory colours of the city, and one of them stepped forward as they approached.

  “Now, then,” he said. “You’re going to have to move along. There’s no begging in Broad Street.”

  Sethennai came up the steps to meet him. “I am the lawful Chancellor of Tlaanthothe,” said Sethennai. “The usurper Olthaaros Charossa deserves none of your loyalty. Stand aside.”

  The captain’s eyes widened with fear and recognition. His mouth opened, shaping several different sentences before settling on “Never!” His hand went to his sword. “We will never—”

  Whatever he had intended to say came to nothing. Sethennai gave an offhand flick of his wrist—his gauntlets hissed—and a rent opened in the air, six feet tall, distorting everything around it. The captain faltered and his sword froze in mid-swing. Something was coming out of the opening in the air, something with long-pincered jointed legs, tearing the opening wider as they came. Csorwe watched with awful clarity as they seized hold of the captain, pulling him into an embrace like a lover’s. The man screamed, a brief thin sound, and the legs curled around him and dragged him into the tear, which closed as though the man and the legs and the scream had never been.

  All this happened within a few seconds, and Sethennai let his arm drop to his side. His brow glittered with sweat, and his hands trembled. He didn’t have to say anything else. There wasn’t much you could add.

  The other soldier stared at the place his captain had been, then dropped his weapon and put his hands up.

  Sethennai swept past him to the great bronze door of the School of Transcendence. He knocked three times, each knock reverberating around the square with the sound of a great bell. His gauntlet sparked like a hammer striking an anvil.

  Sculpted in bas-relief on the door was the shield of Tlaanthothe: a cup borne up by two bronze horses whose hindquarters tapered into the bodies of fish. At the first knock, their fins and crests flared in alarm. At the second knock, they slithered away from the cup, sinking back into the door as though retreating into underwater caverns. At the third knock, the door’s resistance broke and it opened, soundlessly, into darkness.

  The inward chambers of the School of Transcendence were vast, cold, and still. Fine shafts of sunlight filtered down through apertures in the vaults above. This place was even quieter than the still city outside, and even emptier. Csorwe and Sethennai trooped down the grand entrance hall toward another set of high bronze doors. These doors were cast in the likeness of banks of thorns, impenetrable and thickly barbed, with no sign of a handle or keyhole.

  Out of the shadows darted a small group of people, unarmed and frightened. All of them were Tlaanthothei, and the points of their ears were drawn up high and taut, flicking occasionally. Leading them was a woman in long pleated robes. The others seemed to be her servants. At the sight of Sethennai, most of them squeaked and fell back, but the woman drew herself up and stepped forward. She was a gentle-looking person whose face was creased with laughter lines, but she showed no sign of softness nor amusement as she approached the wizard.

  “Niranthe,” said the wizard, matter-of-fact.

  “Sethennai,” said the woman, in the same tone of voice, as though they were meeting on a matter of business alone. Then her resolve cracked and something like desperation showed beyond it. “Safe passage,” she said. “You promised safe passage for the household and a place for my son.”

  She gestured to the young man by her side.

  It was Talasseres Charossa.

  Csorwe bridled, digging the nails of her good hand into her palm. Talasseres looked past her as though they’d never met before, and up at Sethennai. It took all her restraint and a lifetime’s experience of waiting quietly at the sidelines not to throw herself at him.

  “So,” Talasseres said. “You’re here to kill my uncle.”

  “Is that going to cause trouble between us?” said the wizard conversationally.

  Talasseres’ lip curled in what was perhaps meant to be a cynical expression. Drawing back from his teeth it looked more like a snarl. “No,” he said.

  The wizard made no answer, only nodded his approval. “The door, Niranthe?”

  She stepped forward and passed her hands over the surface of the door without touching, then pricked the palm of her hand on one of the thorns. The blood disappeared as if the interior of the thorn was a hollow needle, and certain of the vines retracted with a metallic slithering sound. The door split down the middle and stood ajar.

  “Safe passage,” said Niranthe urgently.

  “Yes, yes, of course, and a position of favour for your son,” said Sethennai. He sounded relatively calm, even entertained, though such anxious prodding usually aggravated him. “That was the agreement. I do not need to be reminded. Where is Olthaaros?”

  “We’ve hardly seen him. He’s been shut up in his study for weeks. I haven’t spoken to him since Talasseres returned.”

  “He must know I’m here for him by now,” said Sethennai.

  “He knew you were coming. He went into the Inner Chapel,” said Niranthe. “He’s preparing his defences. He believes the Siren will take his side.”

  Sethennai laughed. “Perhaps I shouldn’t speak ill to you of your brother, but it does amuse me that the man has spent so long refining his art, soaking up all the power that abides in Tlaanthothe, and understands so little. Less than nothing. Niranthe, please, feel free to go. You and your household are under my protection.”

  Niranthe and her flock moved out toward the door. Talasseres stood where he was, his fists clenched at his sides and his chin raised in defiance.

  “Tal!” said Niranthe. “Quickly!”

  “I want to stay,” he said.

  Niranthe looked from her son to Sethennai, bewildered then indignant.

  “It’s all right,” said Sethennai. “Let him stay. If he’s going to work for me then he may as well learn my methods early on.”

  “You won’t let him come to harm?” said Niranthe.

  “I suppose you’ll just have to trust me,” said Sethennai.

  Talasseres didn’t ignore Csorwe. To ignore her he would have had to notice her in the first place. His eyes slid past her, and her broken arm, and her mutilated face, as though there was nothing in the world but his mother and the wizard. Then he fell in line.

  A position of favour? thought Csorwe in disbelief. But then, she hadn’t told Sethennai exactly what had happened in the fortress—how Talasseres had cost Csorwe her tusk and nearly her life.

  Beyond the door of thorns was a library, almost as large as the serpents’ library in Echentyr. The marble floors held maps of the stars inlaid in gold. They passed globes of a hundred worlds and busts of a hundred scholars, and came to the Inner Chapel, which was sealed with another bronze door.

  Though flanked on either side by graceful statues, this door was not grand. It was rather low, so that Sethennai would have to stoop to enter, and it was very, very heavy. There were grooves in the floor, making three concentric semicircles that spread outward from the door. Here Sethennai paused.

  The statues on either side of the door were two old Tlaanthothei philosophers, Csorwe supposed. A man with a high-domed forehead and a magnificent beard, and a woman whose hair fanned out above her head like the crown of an umbrella pine. They both had expressions of ferocious curiosity. Each of them held a golden chalice between their folded marble hands. Sethennai took the first chalice and poured what it contained into the outermost circle in the floor.

  “Brine,” he said, setting the first chalice back into place and taking the next. “And this is oil of myrrh.”

  The smell of the oil of myrrh spread through the antechamber as he poured it into the second circle, heavy and bittersweet. “I hope you’re taking notes, Talasseres,” he said. He had never explained any of his art to Csorwe before, and she felt a stab of jealousy, as instant as it was unworthy. “Salt water is the sacred substance, that which was corrupted. Oil of myrrh presents as an offering of the ri
chness of the earth, the passing glory of that which is mortal. And last—” Sethennai fumbled in his coat pocket and withdrew a teardrop vial, sealed with wax. “The three wards are completed by that which has been long dead. Bone dust from Old Ormary, before its fall.” He prised off the seal and began sprinkling the dust into the third groove.

  “This opens the door, sir?” said Talasseres. Csorwe seethed, and tried to suppress her anger, fully aware that it was the wrong time for it. This was supposed to be the moment of Sethennai’s triumph. She would deal with Talasseres Charossa later on.

  “Oh, not at all,” said the wizard. “The door is not locked. The three wards prevent what is within from escaping. The goddess at the heart of my city is not to be underestimated. If we had time I should have preferred thrice three wards—brine and blood and gold, myrrh and camphor and balsam, bone and ash and dust—but this will serve.”

  Csorwe followed the wizard into the Inner Chapel. The chapel was of bare stone, and it had the damp chill of a cellar. It was lit by a single suspended oil lantern, swaying on a chain. The shadows shivered as though the room was immersed in deep water.

  Standing on a dais at the centre of the room was a great shard of dark crystal, twenty feet tall, smooth and jagged. It gleamed in the rippling light as if wet. It looked as though it had been splintered away from some larger whole: near the top, it was thin and sharp enough to be translucent.

  It was incongruous. More than incongruous. This was something that had pierced through into the ordinary world. Around the stone, every particle of dust was stilled in its motion, floating on the air. Csorwe remembered the texts of her childhood: The Unspoken One stands with its kin beyond the circle of the world.

  There was a god in the stone. Bound within it, as the Unspoken Name was bound in its Shrine. Now that she knew, Csorwe thought she could sense it, as you might sense another person in the dark by their breath. It was quiet, but it watched, and it waited.

  Standing before it, like a child before an indifferent adult, was Olthaaros Charossa. He was gaunt and bald and clean-shaven, dressed in an austere grey robe. More of a contrast with Sethennai would be hard to imagine. Olthaaros’ ears were flat against the sides of his head, and he was concentrating so hard on the stone that he did not turn to look at them.