by J M D Reid
He knew it for a treacherous lie. Killing never was. Oh, plunging a knife into a heart or cutting off a head took no more effort than swinging an ax to fell a tree or wielding a hoe to weed a field, but the weight lingered. A man didn’t think about the tree he felled for firewood to keep his family warm or the field he furrowed to provide food.
But the man he killed . . .
Ōbhin thought about it over and over and over, an echo trapped in the cave of his thoughts resounding time and time again. Sometimes, it was worth it. Necessary. Would Dualayn’s death be another echoing in him?
Near noon, Bran gasped, “The trees! They’re really red!”
Ōbhin looked up to see the same oaks and alders and spruces they’d ridden through, only now their barks looked leached from brown to white and their leaves stained by violence. The brush held the same scarlet hue.
“This is amazing!” the boy shouted, ripping off the first oak leaf he rode past. He held it in his hands, marveling over it.
*
“So many rubies were used in Koilon that I think their essence has leached into the soil, affecting the plant life,” Dualayn was saying as they traveled through the Red Heart of the Forest.
Avena rolled her shoulders as she sat between Miguil and Ōbhin. She had to hone her anger against Dualayn. She had spent many years living with him, respecting and even loving him as her father. He would have been her father-in-law. If she wasn’t careful, she would forget what he’d done to her. She’d fall into old patterns, wanting to hear what he had to say, to learn from him.
She seized the pain of the betrayal. He had violated her as surely as if he’d crept into her bed in the dark hours of the night. At least then, she might have fought back. She’d been helpless, at her most vulnerable. Unconscious, entrusted into his care.
The sickest part was the sincerity in his voice. He believed he’d done something marvelous to her. Given her a gift. That she should be happy to accept what he’d done to her. He’d done it out of love. Because he cared for her. A sick, twisted, perverted love. It nauseated her stomach because a part of her wanted to forgive him. The part of her that cared for him. Loved him. It shone with brilliant Green. She refused to accept it.
She would not forgive what he’d done. Even if he apologized with sincerity, she wouldn’t. Couldn’t. He made her body an enemy. Something she couldn’t trust any longer.
She couldn’t let herself weaken around him. If she became vulnerable near him, what was to stop him from doing the same again?
She stared ahead at the woodcutter’s path moving through the crimson woods. Bran rode at the lead, his head snapping around in awe. Dajouth wasn’t much better. He’d found a red-stained wildflower, some sort of daisy which had lost its usual yellow. He had it tucked behind his ear like a youth out courting.
“Didn’t think there were enough rubies in the world to do that,” Fingers muttered. “The lost city is truly beneath us?”
“Truly,” said Dualayn. “The rise and fall of the land around us are probably the remains of buildings covered up by detritus. The eons can bury cities, turn streets into catacombs. This city was badly damaged by the Shattering and what I can only translate as darklings, but they sound more diverse than our mythology suggests. Darklings of Water. Darklings of Fire. Darklings of the Night and of the Earth. Like that. Perhaps they do not even refer to darklings, but it is the best word for it I can decide upon. Something evil. Dangerous. Interlopers.”
“The enemies of the devas,” said Avena. Devas were the heavenly beings who served Elohm and fought against the darklings. They were led by Reylis, the Archon-Supreme of the Devas. Avena suspected the White Lady was the Archon-Supreme. Raya was so similar to Reylis. She had white hair and exuded a presence of Honesty. Yet she worked with that dark sorcerer, Dje’awsa, and had hired Grey’s crime syndicate.
Avena absently rubbed at her forehead. It tingled for a moment, perhaps in memory of the kiss Raya had planted there at their last meeting the morning after Ust’s attack. Thinking of Raya led her mind to those dreams of being a white-haired woman. Of having a lover and witnessing some cataclysmic event.
Was it really the Shattering? Did I dream the moment the Black invaded our world and broke reality? Were you there, Raya?
She’d been meaning to talk to Ōbhin about it but hadn’t found the right time to. She wanted to be alone with him, and though she’d spent one night in his bed, that had been out of fear of her body failing. She yearned to share her Red with him, but marriage was also important. A swearing of oaths, a promise. It was special.
The intimacy men and women shared was something that she didn’t think should be so easily traded away else it would lose its value.
Should I give him my promise? She’d given her Red to Chames on that wonderful afternoon, her blood full of the heady strawberry currant. If she slipped into Ōbhin’s room again, when she wasn’t afraid of her body, she knew where it would lead.
Was she ready to commit to Ōbhin? Was he ready to commit to her?
She glanced at him. He still wore the black gloves, but she knew he was striving towards polished light. She told herself, once my mind is repaired, we can talk of promises and futures and dreams.
“See, there it is,” Dualayn said. “That’s the largest gem I’ve ever encountered. The ancients could create gems, Fingers. That is why they had so many rubies here. In fact, this might be the place where they manufactured that particular gem. Something about a, ‘Harmonic confluence with the Realm of Absolute Flame,’ which is my best translation.”
“Wait,” Bran said and heeled his horse ahead. He craned his neck. “Is that a solid ruby?”
“It is,” Dualayn said.
Avena peered through gaps in the crimson foliage to glimpse the crystal pillar. It thrust at an angle out of the earth in the clearing where they’d excavated into Koilon. The ruby pillar had always intrigued her. It seemed impossible. Too large to be real, and yet it was. Ten cubits in length and who knew how much more was buried.
“Though it is crooked now,” said Dualayn, “it once thrust erect and upright. Called the Ruby Lodestone, perhaps. Or the Ruby Guidestone may be a better translation of Old Tonal. Tricky word to translate. They used the root for magnetism in the word for it, but I do not think that is what it meant. It was supposed to provide guidance through the Harmonics of Reality.”
“What are the Harmonics?” Avena asked, staring at the pillar, a tingle of awe rippling through her at seeing the impossible artifact again.
“The immaterial through which the Eight Primary Tones vibrate, child. As well as your thoughts. It also has something to do with the Warding holding back the darklings.”
Avena nodded and then realized she was slipping into her old behavior. She piled sandbags around her soul to keep the floodwaters of familiarity from weakening her anger. She would not forgive this man and accept his violation no matter how much the Green in her heart begged.
The trees broke around them and the clearing emerged, their old campsite appearing. The mound of dirt from their earlier excavation now had tufts of red grass growing across it. There was no sign of Ni’mod’s body, though she could see the rusting half of his strange, hooked blade lying in the grass. They hadn’t buried poor Ni’mod, the Bloodfire who’d guarded them.
Ust hadn’t allowed it, impatient to leave.
She glanced at Ōbhin sitting beside her. He’d killed Ni’mod in the fight. The scar on his left cheek looked paler than usual. He’d shed his past of being a bandit and the crimes he’d committed while lost in dark fog, but here was a reminder. How would he react?
She nudged her shoulder into his. He glanced at her and she smiled, warm and reassuring. His gloved hand tightened on hers. He gave a slow nod and a long exhale. She saw, or so she hoped, acceptance in his eyes.
“The hole is still uncovered,” said Dualayn. “Good, good. And I don’t think any of the villagers we hired have come back to disturb it.”
“They w
ere frightened enough being here,” Avena said. Dualayn had dismissed them once they’d found the Recorder. If Ust’s bandits had attacked hours earlier, would there be more innocents dead?
Probably, she thought, not sad at all Ust had died.
Ōbhin said, glancing at the sky, “Let’s set up camp and ready the ropes. At first light, we’ll descend.”
*
“I have maps,” Dualayn said as they sat around the campfire after their supper. The tents were set up; Avena had her own while Ōbhin was sharing one with Dualayn. Bran, Dajouth, and Fingers had brought lean-tos for themselves. The skies were clear. Ōbhin doubted there’d be rain anyways.
“What I have pieced together of the layout of Koilon before this present cataclysm. I do not know how much use they will be, but . . .” Dualayn pulled out of a satchel two rolls of parchment. He handed one to Avena and the other to Ōbhin. “I did not prepare more. But this way you two can see I am not holding back.”
“Very considerate,” she murmured and unrolled hers, her brow drawing down.
Ōbhin opened his own. Though Lothonian used a similar alphabet to Qothian, a few letters were different and there was one they didn’t have in his own language; it was still difficult for him to read. They used the letters to represent different sounds from Qothian, their words looking strange compared to how they sounded. But he deciphered most of it. A building labeled “Grand Library” was circled. A second, “Hall of Communications” lay to the east and south. There was a sketch of street layouts, other buildings that were labeled with strange names like “Flame Manufactory,” “Wave Resonance Beacon,” “Hall of Illumination,” “Crystal Sheriff Hall,” “Hall of Assemblage,” “Hall of Markets,” and “Offal Reclamation.” He could puzzle out some; Hall of Assemblage sounded like some sort of government building, but he didn’t know how you could manufacture flame. The Flame Manufactory lay to the north of the Grand Library by a point marked, “Ruby Guidestone.” The Wave Resonance Beacon was south of there, a medium-sized building. Offal Reclamation rested on the edge of the town.
“I have marked what street names I could decipher that appear to be by the buildings,” Dualayn continued. “I hope there will be signage once we’re underground to help us out. If you look carefully, I wrote the names in Old Tonal and with the very characters they used.”
Ōbhin noted the finer script beneath.
“I cannot wait to find the Hall of Communication,” Dualayn said. “Imagine being able to speak across the world. To converse with my friend in Democh without having to wait half a year for his response to reach me. It’ll revolutionize things. Knowledge will be at everyone’s fingertips.”
Ōbhin studied the Hall of Communication. It was a large building, dominating what looked like a square. It was near the Hall of Assemblage, the Hall of Illumination, and the Crystal Sheriff Hall. Ten or so blocks of travel, if the map could be trusted. It wouldn’t take long above ground, but below it could be days of exploring.
“We need to be wary of loose stones and weak ceilings,” Ōbhin said, looking up from the map. His gaze turned to the darkness. To the excavated hole. Memories of his time trapped beneath Gunya hovered on the edge of his awareness. The deep black, the thick dust, the earth shaking from aftershocks. “We need to be careful not to bury ourselves in there.”
“Yes, yes, and mark our path,” Dualayn said. “I have spent some time ripping up old shirts into strips of cloth. We should leave them in suitable places to help guide us. One knot means we went that way. Two knots to indicate that it leads to a dead end. I think that should help us keep from getting lost and covering ground we’ve already searched.”
Avena gave a slow nod. She drew up her knees to her chest and stared into the fire.
The weight seemed to press down on all of them. Tomorrow, they would venture into the black earth. Even Bran’s enthusiasm seemed muted. He picked at the lace of his boot. Ōbhin’s chest rose and fell with deep breaths. They were venturing underground with two people he couldn’t trust.
And he didn’t know who one of them was.
It wasn’t long before they began peeling off to find their bedrolls, Avena first, Bran shortly after. Dualayn crawled to the tent and soon his snores echoed. Fingers drifted off then Dajouth threw his flower into the fire and crawled into his lean-to.
Alone, Ōbhin stared into the dying flames as he leaned against a stump. He found himself sinking into sleep. Into dreams. They were blurred, a mess, a replay of what had happened in the mines over two years ago. He plunged the knife into Taim’s chest over and over and over again. The shock in the plump prince’s face never failed to add new cracks to Ōbhin’s soul, letting the filth of guilt seep in and stain him from the inside.
Where the polishing cloth could never reach.
He woke up as dawn lightened the horizon, his eyes sandy. He would have to make better choices this time. For Avena. For himself. He couldn’t keep cracking his soul. He would splinter himself beyond even Avena’s skill to repair.
I guess you get to live, Dualayn, he thought. Fix her. Give her a life without fear of losing control of her body, and you’ll walk away alive.
With a grunt, Ōbhin stood and started rousing the others.
Chapter Nineteen
Thirteenth Day of Patience, 755 EU
The diamond light swung from his hip as Ōbhin descended the rope into the ruins of Koilon. His black gloves rasped over the rough hemp. A dry scent filled his nose, old dust, a smell not unlike entering a study which had been empty for a few seasons. The rot of paper long since disintegrated away. The dancing light illuminated ghosts of shelves rising around him, covered in the moldering remains of knowledge lost to the ravages of time. A thick layer of gray dust coated the floor, disturbed with footprints, preserved traces of Dualayn’s last expedition.
Ōbhin reached the bottom, heavy boot crunching on the fine powder. More drifted through the air, stars orbiting an aimless pattern through the space illuminated by his lantern. He adjusted his backpack full of food and supplies before plucking his lantern from his belt. He held it up and peered around. His nose tickled, a sneeze building, eyes watering.
Something scurried in the darkness, black-furred body vanishing into a pile of gnawed leather.
“Ōbhin?” Avena called from above.
“Come on down,” he said, not seeing any danger. Not sure there would be any.
The rope swung at the edge of his vision. Avena descended next, her trouser-clad legs wrapped about it. She wore her fighting clothes, one of Bran’s old shirts tucked into her sturdy, canvas pants. Thick-soled boots rasped against the fibers. Emeralds sparkled on the earthen gauntlet vanishing into her right sleeve. A binder swung on her left hip, thumping into her leg. She landed in a puff of desiccated books, the fine dust swirling around her feet.
To his delight, she planted a quick kiss on his lips.
“I’ll be fine,” Dualayn said from above. “You don’t need to tie a rope about my waist, Fingers.”
“Just wanted the joy of droppin’ you the last few feet and seein’ you soil your britches,” Fingers answered, a pleased rumble to his voice. “Not hurt you, but . . .”
Bran burst into laughter. “He’d squeal like them pigs they take into the cannin’ factories. Big ol’ hogs, all afraid.”
“Your mother would not be pleased with such sentiments coming from you, young Bran,” Dualayn said.
“I’m supposed to take advice on right and wrong from you?” The boy laughed again. “Get down the rope before I volunteer to lower you. And I got skinny arms.”
Dualayn grumbled something. The rope shook again as the old man groaned. Ōbhin ignored the complaints and moved through the library. The floor sloped at an angle that deepened the farther north he moved. Through gaps in the dust, he could see gray stone beneath his feet. It was all one piece, cracked in places, but he spotted no joints where stone met stone. It had a smoothness, obvious even with the pits gouged into it. There were traces of a fine
carpeting in spots, the edges gnawed ragged.
“What is this stone?” Ōbhin asked.
“The ancients called it cement,” said Avena. “Made of crushed limestone and gravel. They poured it into the shapes they wanted.”
Ōbhin shook his head in amazement.
Dualayn grunted as he reached the bottom of the rope, his lantern shedding more light. Bran descended next, chortling in delight, his voice echoing through the room. Ōbhin grimaced at the thick cobwebs stretched between the shelves before him.
A loud clatter exploded through the room. He whirled around to see Bran leaping away from a shelf crashing to pieces in a burst of dust. The boy thrust his hand behind his back, his padded gambeson flexing about his body.
“Do not destroy things more than they already are,” Dualayn said, his voice pained. “All their great books . . . All their works of knowledge . . . All lost to time’s rotting touch and the Black-cursed rats. You can see their runs along the edges. Generations of the foul things have nested and devoured it all. If the ancients hadn’t encoded their wisdom in the Recorder . . .” He shook his head and wiped at his brow. “And that assumes it held everything. There could be priceless knowledge contained in the droppings of a rat who died centuries ago.”
Avena stood before a pile of rotted wood. It looked to have been a table once, now collapsed. “We found the Recorder here,” she said. “It was placed, we think, in the center. Though it’s hard to tell.” She looked around. “The walls had crumbled along the south, and there is a gap in the floor to the west.”
“Where did you spot that exit?” Ōbhin asked, peering through the gloom. The spiderwebs spread across the shelves made the world misty beyond. Thick clumps of dust clung to the strands. The desiccated corpse of a small rat hung in one.
He shuddered. How big are the spiders creeping through here?
“That way,” she said, pointing before her. “That dark shadow is it.”
The floor had half-collapsed in the direction she pointed, bowing in the middle and then rising back up to the wall. An opening lay in the wall marked by a frame of rusting metal; a portal leading to deeper darkness. Ōbhin batted away cobwebs before him, the dusty silk clinging to his gloves.
