by James Comins
"Stay close," he whispered as clay broke open and bedrock split in a totally non-liquid way. They were a double bullet of life in the middle of a song-powered earthquake. Far beneath the surface now, they continued plunging further into the shattering shale. Loora had her own kind of power; she was the chieftain of not making terrified whimpers as she rocketed forward inches away from solid stone. She could pretend she wasn't scared. The temperature was breathtaking.
Closing her eyes, she tried to distract herself by reconstructing the events after her angry song outside the Spriton hut. Aughra had come out to tell her Cory was dead. Then she . . . what? Did she stand up and go in to look? Must have. She tried to visualize the appearance of her clothes . . . her long, lightweight gray morning coat. A heavy long-sleeved patterned work jacket, brown and orange with black stitched shapes. A man's dull blue undershirt that covered her tummy. Baggy two-legged skirt tucked under her shirt, since only dresses were appropriate for a little lady. Sitting in one of the narrow walkways, her back against that sturdy wooden hut. Knees up, hands clasped together under her knees. Did she look up at Aughra or straight ahead? Not sure. Her next memory was of Cory's unresisting head lolling in the hands of Uncle Embling. No, it wasn't Embling, it was that boy, what was his name, Meter who had lifted the head. No, it couldn't be, because he had said, "He just fell," across the room, so it must have been Embling. Or Aughra, but why would she? There was no way to get a fix in her memory on who had lifted Cory's head. All she could remember was the flick as it fell, the shut eyelids motionless and yielding. She couldn't remember who had lifted him . . .
The memory was gone. It was as if her mind had stopped recording for awhile. It had shut off. Empty.
But as she began delving further back in her memories, she found all the images of Cory--his facial features, his clothes--starting to dim, to fade. What shape was his nose? What color was his shirt? All of her memories were disappearing, as if sapped by saboteurs. Cory . . .
Gone.
Somewhere in her breast, she found a shard of love. It was all she had of Cory. And she despaired.
Exploding mortared stone busted into a black room, followed by steaming clay-water and she and Yrn and a vacuum-release of thickly powdered vapor. Loora and Yrn both struck their heads on stone and Loora felt her whole body and neck shiver with the impact. It hurt. The room she had shot into was freezing, puddled and wet and utterly lightless. Yrn seemed shaken by the hard landing, and Loora groaned and began extricating herself from the tangle of limbs. As dust and the faintest of friction-light faded, she breathed and slowed herself and began untying her wrists and ankles.
"More ssssstrangerssssss . . ."
Falling back, taking the bindings and Yrn with her, Loora screamed.
* * *
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, NOTHING CAME OUT?" the Emperor roared.
The Slavemaster stood his ground. In a disciplined mind, a mind where tasks were either done or undone, there was no room to be intimidated. The Chamberlain failed in the task he was given. The Slavemaster told the Emperor so, adding that the purple crystal no longer shone. Predictable fury followed. The Slavemaster stood still and accepted a beating from the punishment club. There was, he knew, nothing he could do to improve the situation, so he absorbed the Emperor's anger in silence.
"FIND ANOTHER SHINING CRYSTAL," the Emperor screamed.
"Your majesty--there isn't--only skekTek--"
"FIND ANOTHER SHINING CRYSTAL," the Emperor repeated.
"Yes, liege." The Slavemaster didn't hesitate to depart.
There was only one other shining crystal that the Slavemaster had ever seen. Somewhere in the black twist of his memory, in the places he had prudently closed off, the places where the screams he had created became unnecessary and unsatisfying, in the utter swamp of his soul was a memory of purple light. The purple light tasted the same as that liquid Podling essence he had licked off the floor. There was a dark curtain over the memory, as if it had only been a dream, but the source of purple light--the Dark Crystal--skekTek--bug--his Blade of Dominance--some sort of vicious dance--the Slavemaster shook himself and hurried back to the kennels. He needed to sit, to clear his mind, where he would not be observed.
Reuel's son was returning from his rounds. The Slavemaster stopped him and brought him to a leather-walled room-of-silence and began to speak.
"The emperor has ordered me to enter skekTek's chambers with a Pod slave and force it to stare at the Dark Crystal. You will perform this task. Use something to focus the light. No one must observe. Use the small one from the Balgertown harvest. It's expendable."
"Yessir. If skekTek should protest . . .?" said Reuel's son.
"See that he has no opportunity. I'm sure you'll find a way."
The Slavemaster ran an admiring hand over the systematic scars on the Gelfling's face, then sent him away. From out of the room-of-silence, skekNa sidled to his unadorned bedchamber, laid across the broad wooden plank he used as a bed, and rested his head on the cupped stone he used as a pillow.
SkekNa dreamed of screams both satisfactory and necessary.
* * *
"Just about got it."
Click.
Doesn't matter how long it takes, iffn you get the fing done, Gobber'd say.
Time to get away from these screaming maniacs.
* * *
"Larantine and tamtail bones . . ."
SkekTek returned to his labs. He imagined a tripwire made of light; it would permit him to know precisely when the Slavemaster left the kennels and could be calibrated to differentiate between wandering guards and the Slavemaster himself. Probably too complicated; the simplest solution was often the best. Perhaps he would send the remains of his white-eyed slave to watch over the entrance and beat skekNa at his own game. Yes. It would require some eye surgery, of course, but that would be simple enough. SkekTek assembled his tools and bolted the slave back to the vivisection table. Soon he would know all of the Slavemaster's rhythms. And he would strike.
* * *
"Woss . . . woss . . . I fink I heard someone shoutin' . . . woss . . ."
Hadn't left this puddle-muck tunnel yet, had he? Sittin' on somefing bouncy. Gobber sat up and peered into the darkness. His eyes weren't adjusting right. Still dark, although there was a bit of that worrisome blue light shining out of his chest, why--
"Lemny!" he exclaimed and tripped on some sort of stick--
"It ssstaysss ssstill, we carry it to a glasssssmaker, we know where. The Netherssssspiral."
That didn't mean much to him. His head hurt like scamperin', whooo. A glassmaker, yeah. He needed to find a glassmaker. Two clear refracting lenses. A week to save Lemny.
Gobber looked down at a pair of crouched shuffle-footed Gelflings who were carrying him on a canvas stretcher. Nice of them to bring him closer to a glassmaker, even if they gave him the bleatin' scallywaggles with their crouchin' and shufflin'. Had a good nap, now back to the search--
"Sssstay on the litter, ssssave your sssstrength."
Their eyes were enormous, bigger than the palms of their white-pale hands. Like two watery moons lookin' up at you. The words began to filter through. Save his strengf? He was as strong as a dozen Gelflings, he'd walked far'ver than the legendary Wandering Pod-Planter of Arlebat-Grim in his day, he was--
He was getting tired just keeping his eyelids open.
"You'll--you'll take me to a glassmaker, will you? I'd be much in your debt. Iffn I had a bit more strengf I'd--"
"The Starblindnesss takes your sstrength. We will ressscue the Crabbit if you fall."
He tapped the litter beneath him. "How can I fall--"
"Shhh, ssstill your voice."
Gobber closed his eyes and immediately felt stronger. Sleep was still near, but he felt as if he'd been sleeping for monfs on end, and didn't eck'specially want to drift away again.
A voice from down the corridor: "Tasfrasss, bring the ssick one. There are more vissitors."
"They causssed the exp
losion?" one of the litter-bearers called out.
"There isss a break in wall buttress 983, but it can be closssed. Dusst everywhere."
"Who broke the wall?"
"Ssstrange ones."
* * *
"Best be quick, urNol. Each toll is a toll lost to us."
"I'm still not sure what use a herbalist is supposed to be at the Castle of the Crystal. The land around it has been drying up for trines. There hasn't been any sap for months. There may not be any plants left."
"Always plants. Thra renews itself."
"And those awful brutes will probably tear me to stalks and stems if they find me--"
"They can't tear you to anything. There is a connection. Walk faster, we're almost close enough."
"Motion has never been good for me, Aughra--"
"Here."
The flouse held onto urNol's forehead. Aughra and the Mystic broached the treeline and stood on a ridge overlooking the rich valley of Lost Vale. The far end of the valley led up to a misty wetland in terraces; waterfalls poured unclean brown water down from the rim of the Swamp of Sog. A road--hardly call it that!--blundered down along one leg of the terraces, intersecting them. By foot it would take athletic days to climb.
The Herbalist sang a low note. Aughra sang a higher note. The flouse cheeped. As the rock ridge rippled and faded and rumpled and transformed, Aughra wondered whether Raunip had secreted the crystals somewhere safe. Patting her flat, unsatisfying face, she and the gentle Mystic and the flouse stepped onto the new patch of unstable turf and surfed perilously down into the Vale.
* * *
"Rian!" Lemny hissed, peering around the corner of the labs and carrying his shell in two claws. "Open the door, Rian. Bloom it to blossoms, where are you?" The weight of his shell was not small, but his back felt free and floating. Now that the shell had snapped off, there was no real strict need for it, but he felt naked and raw and exposed, plus sentiment, nostalgia, call it what you will, well . . . he wasn't throwing it away, not when he had a chance to slip away quietly, repair it, just a few doors to open, perhaps that buzzard hadn't locked this one . . .
"Rian!"
Leaving his shell on the floor, Lemny began mountaineering up the face of the door, finding no easy lever to pull, only a simple bar handle and a lock not dissimilar to the one that he'd just spent tolls unlocking. Muttering something about leverage and bigger creatures discrimmalatin' against smaller creatures, he braced a leg cluster on the wall and held himself up with his claws and tested the lock. The door moved a fair distance at his pull, but that clever engineer Skek had built a mechanism that pulled it right back shut again. Needed someone of size to get past the mechanism, even though it wasn't locked.
Rubbing his small eyes in misery, Lemny stepped just outside the path the door would make when it opened, and waited.
There was a small stone on the floor, unswept, and Lemny took it and passed the time carving the sandstone walls.
* * *
"Billows of . . . and the stars . . . blinding . . . invaded by skekNa, I've been invaded . . . larantine sap . . . twenty measures to one gallon of rendered . . . melting point of resin . . . it's in my way, it's all in my way, quite very . . ."
"HmmmmmMmm."
The Pod slave stood motionless at his side, its eyes sealed behind crystals, so that it could see some light and color and motion. SkekTek's fingers teased the recently sewn-up neck of his reward robes and found his beak still moving by itself. Mental strain, it must be. The Chamberlain came into skekTek's view.
The slave's head trained on the Chamberlain, drawn to the Skeksi-shaped blockage in its light intake. SkekTek had already prepared it for its task. The Chamberlain would probably confuse it, skekTek imagined. His eyes met the Chamberlain's.
"So sad to hear you're no longer among the Emperor's favorites," the Chamberlain mused, smiling oilily and clasping his long hands.
Knew nothing of this. Said so. Quickly to the kennels, past him, strike him, melt away, make excuses!
Mental strain . . .
"Hmmmm. Yes, he's disappointed in you. For your little bright thing to go out like that--?" the Chamberlain clucked his beak disapprovingly. "It was only strong enough to enslave this one here."
"Little bright--the crystal. Gone out. You had it stolen from me," skekTek said. Strike him! "Gone out," he repeated.
"Preoccupied?" the Chamberlain asked. "Are you maybe angry that you've failed our Emperor? Angry--or satisfied? Plotting against him, are you? Hmmmmm. I know that look VERY well. Plotting against our Emperor. I'll have to let him know, of course. It would be treason not to."
SkekTek's throat seized and he lost his breath and nearly lost his feet beneath him, but he suppressed this and coughed harshly, as if he had meant to. Then he said, "Good. Tell him. You're sure to arouse only the deepest suspicions." Momentarily blind, skekTek stumbled past the Chamberlain, shoving him quite unnecessarily, and blundered forward down the corridor, tripping and regaining his feet more than once. The slave hurried after, occasionally bumping into walls.
The kennels. Quickly! Stop waiting. Punish him. Punish the Slavemaster! Do it now! Never permit him to re-enter the labs. He will take it away from us.
The light. The glorious, sizzly, beautiful light.
Liquid life.
* * *
Somewhere in a newly opened clearing in Dark Wood, at the base of a valley, a sapling twined up with insane colors glittered once in the shafts of sunlight that had broken through the canopy for the first time in centrines.
A point of consciousness, reawaking.
Sister.
* * *
"We're looking for ur-Kalivath, sir," Loora said. She was still less than thrilled to be a diplomat rather than a mechanic. Talking. Grr.
Water dripped from sodden moss on the ceiling. There was no light this far underground, excepting a vague blue glow in the distance, far fainter than a candle. Light Sickness in the dark.
Cory was dead. Loora's hands shook, once.
The person she was talking to was low to the ground, probably very short, and had a hissy lisp. Sounded Gelfen, or she'd have guessed it was a Crabbit or some other short, chatty creature. None of these crouching Gelflings had the Light Sickness themselves, so who did?
"Conclave of the Myssstics. Not far from here, side to sside, but up, up, up."
"Yes," said Yrn. "I couldn't change direction once we departed, so we aimed here." He still seemed wobbly and unsteady, and leaned on Loora, who had finally taken all the bindings off. He placed his one working hand on her shoulder, the same way Cory used to. It was tempting to shrug him off and be alone, but Yrn wanted support.
"How does it travel through ssstone?"
"Landswimming," Loora said quickly. "Can you show us how to get to the--"
"Netherssspiral is the way up. We go there oursselves. You have no blue light."
"We're lucky," said Yrn.
"We essscort a Beanface who pourss water from his eyess. He has the Sstarblindness. He will die ssoon, we can ssee it."
"Take us up," Loora said sharply. "We can maybe save him."
"Only hoursss away," the crouched figure hissed. "Sstill, we'll take you up. Take the Beanface to ur-Kalivath. Sswiftly enough and we might give him a chance to live."
The blue light broached a corner, revealing a sagging white canvas rectangle lit blue. On it a lumpy flogg-faced Podling reclined. He wore several torn black coats, several ragged black pants, and a small flat black hat. The blue light leached through the holes in his clothes, casting fuzzy-edged splots of light.
" 'ello," said the Podling, opening his star-rimmed eyes sleepily.
Faces of four foreign Gelflings also came into focus: eyes like white pairs of moons, thin mouths, ears like drinking cups, wrapped in colorless cloaks. They were bent double, their legs squatting and deeply muscled, and the two who were not carrying the stretcher kept their thin arms crossed under their cloaks, making them look strangely armless.
&n
bsp; "You're Grottan," sniffed Yrn. "Trashpickers. Nasty practice."
"Funny," one of the crouched Gelflings said, "we think picking trash off trees isss far more disssgusting, Missster Ribcage."
"Yrn, don't reply. Sir, where are we going?" said Loora.
"Only a few buttressessss away. Come."
* * *
"Tomorrow you will report to the labs and repeat everything you saw. In the meantime, stay quite very silent and do not let them see you."
A strange mood filtered into skekTek's thoughts. It was a mood he could not recall feeling ever before in the centrine and more that he could remember. It was a new mood, and his calculating mind began processing it carefully, deciding whether he had room for it within his intellect.
Impatience.
A dour, demanding impatience. An inability to concentrate, a pacing-around, a neediness for--for--for whatever it was that he needed. Somehow skekTek wasn't sure what his brain was asking him for.
He paced in the green light outside the heavy door to the kennels, glaring at the angled beige walls that came to a trapezoid at the low ceiling, checking the secreted camouflaged slave with its glittering faceted eyes standing motionless except for difficult, blistered, sniffing breathing. Oh yes, it had a crawly chewing its face from the inside. SkekTek positioned the slave further back into the narrow alcove, so that shadows would cover its flickering, gemmed-shut eyes, one black and one green. The eyes glittered anyway. SkekTek scowled and felt impatience unfurl like a new sheet of rolled metal. There was no time! He had to--to--
Shaking his head, as if knocking a drip of rainwater from his ear, skekTek found himself standing in a green-lit--yes, the Slavemaster--he was trying to--where--
SkekTek hurried out of the winding corridors, up shallow steps and through a gallery whose long row of narrow, pinched windows overlooked the red tapestries and stone throne of the Great Hall. Hopefully he would not be noticed--
"SKEKTEK!" roared the Emperor.
