by Greg Hanks
“Fine,” Balien answered after setting his spoon down politely.
“Getting your schoolwork done?”
“Yes.”
“And what are you doing for food?”
“Mostly fish. And you.”
“And Vush does not short you? I know he can be cold sometimes.”
“No. He is good to me. He did not like my brother.”
“What about—”
“Ardvos,” Naon interrupted. “Can he eat?”
Ardvos smiled. “I was just checking in, Nay-pop.”
“And I am grateful,” Balien said. “Thank you, Ardvos.”
Ardvos looked at Naon for approval. She nodded.
“You are welcome, little one.”
Balien let the table silence continue. A question stirred within him. When it looked like Ardvos had finished his soup, Balien sat straight.
“Ardvos?” he asked. “How did you get your crownbone—”
“Balien!” Naon snapped, elbowing him.
Ardvos smiled at Balien for a moment before putting a gentle hand on Naon’s arm. “It is fine, Nay-pop.”
“But you have never told me,” Naon said, shocked.
“Perhaps it is time,” Ardvos said, lacing his fingers. “I keep forgetting how old you two are. It is not much of a story anyway.”
“We will not tell anyone, promise,” she said.
He adjusted his bowl and glass. “Before I came to Mengsha’ron, I was Head Steward in Oro’nath.”
“Whoa,” Naon exclaimed. “Really?”
“I washed blankets, cleaned dishes, swept the rugs, and maintained order throughout The Weeping Tower.”
“Oh,” she said, deflating.
“The Weeping Tower,” Balien said excitedly. “That is where Quar’on lives.”
“You served Quar’on?” Naon asked incredulously. “You knew him?”
“We all serve Quar’on, do we not?” There seemed to be some sarcasm in his tone. “But no, I did not answer to Quar’on directly.” He glanced at Naon before saying: “I served the Sage Zexl.”
“Who is that?” Naon asked through a mouthful of uppas.
“The Sage is the one who communes with Orothaea, Nay-pop. Do you not read the books at school?”
“I know of the Sage,” Balien said.
“I know you would, Balien,” Ardvos said, smiling. “If this popper would take half the time she uses for sparring to read books, oh, I do not know, the whole world would explode.”
“I read books,” Naon argued.
“Drone instruction manuals do not count,” Ardvos said. “But I am very proud of you.”
Naon rolled her eyes. “Will you please just tell us what happened to you?”
Ardvos’ face went neutral. “There is really not much to it. I wish I had an exciting story for you. I was accused of something I did not do.” He shrugged, but both Naon and Balien could tell the shrug did not effectively rid him of emotion. He spoke quickly, not making eye contact. “They found me guilty anyway. They cut off my crownbone and sent me away.”
Naon cursed. “They cannot do that.”
“Please, Nay-pop, not that dirty language.”
“What were you accused of?” Balien asked.
Ardvos stared at the table’s floral centerpiece, entranced. He smirked self-depreciatingly and took a sip of his juice. “Loving someone.”
The teenagers shared a confused look.
“But of course, it was not true,” he said quickly, standing up. “People make mistakes. Better finish your dinners.”
“Why would loving someone—”
“I am afraid no one will ever hear the rest of that story, popper. Now finish your meal, please.” He started washing dishes, his back turned to the kids.
Neither of them wanted to finish. Naon stared at the table, mindlessly poking at the dregs in her bowl.
“I mean, why would you want to tell us if you do not—”
“Naon,” Ardvos admonished. “Please.”
Balien focused on his soup.
After they had helped Ardvos clean up, Naon and Balien returned to her room. When she finished packing, she opened her window and threw the bag onto the grass outside. As she was going for the door, Balien stuck the jar of miffron out in front of her.
“You could at least do this for him,” he said.
Begrudgingly, Naon swiped the jar and took a pinch. She cupped the leaves into her mouth, giving Balien a dead look.
Ardvos was reading a book in his big armchair when the kids came into the kitchen.
Naon said: “We are going to spar.”
“All right,” Ardvos said. “You know your curfew. Please try and keep it.”
At the doorframe, she pined. Watching him read. He turned a page, then glanced back up, smiling.
“Goodbye, Ardvos,” she said.
“Remember the curfew!” he called.
Once outside, they collected her things and started toward the sparring cavern. Naon walked ahead. She would not show her face for half a mile.
“Do you think he is telling the truth?” Balien asked once he figured enough time had passed.
“I do not know,” said Naon. “When we get to the city, I am going to find out what really happened. We will have to find the Sage.”
They ran past the sparring cavern, toward Mengsha’ron’s graveyard. A small field barred behind tall stone gates restricted anyone without authorization from the Watcher. Khor’Zon burial was a sacred rite of preservation; any disturbed ground or desecrated shrines were severely punishable. After rounding the graveyard’s corner, they found a grouping of boulders. Two Khor’Zon emerged from the rocks—Melq with his squinty green eyes, and a girl called Oura from their year.
“Hope you brought some deep pockets,” said Melq.
“Is this it?” Naon asked, scrutinizing the boulders.
“We already opened the cellar,” said Oura. Shorter than the rest of them. Huge, gleaming eyes that burned with blue, twitchy pupils. She led Naon and Balien around the boulders to a door that was anchored into the rocks. The small door was indeed open, revealing a hole large enough for them to crawl through.
“How did you find it?” Balien asked.
“The Watcher,” Melq said, chuckling. “We saw him taking crates around the corner of the graveyard, so we followed him.”
“He locks it with this,” Oura said, holding a silver, triangle-shaped key. “But the Watcher is getting old; it was easy.”
“Then we do not have much time before he realizes it is gone,” Naon said, about to stick her legs through the opening.
Melq grabbed her arm. “Understand; we walk out of here with equal portions.”
Naon gave him an impatient look, sarcastic flair in her voice. “Of course.”
Melq followed Naon into the trapdoor. Oura drew a translucent orb from her pocket. When she dropped into the door, the ball glowed white. Balien dropped last.
Ceremonial pillars supported the ceiling, ancient beyond anything Balien had ever seen before. Their shoes scuffled across etched masonry under loose earth, a pathway that led to a series of long, downward steps.
“How old is this?” Balien said, transfixed.
“Who cares?” Oura said, giving the room a once-over. “That ugly stone will not get you rich.”
“Hurry,” Melq said, paving the way.
Balien ran his fingers across the carvings in the floor, watching the light from Oura’s orb give the indentations different definition as she moved away. He tried to make out the shapes of the hieroglyphs before the light faded.
“You want to live here?” Naon called to him.
The tunnel opened to a lofty, circular chamber. Darkened alcoves in the walls. Pockets of menacing blackness against shrieking white light. The air become close, much colder, like silver surrounding Balien’s naked arms. Footsteps and laughter. Oura made crude jokes about the Watcher. Melq jumped onto an antique bannister that had once encircled a grand center pedestal, erode
d and merging with dirt. He balanced across with arms outstretched.
“Here,” Oura said, bringing the light to one of the alcoves. Carved inserts for bodies. Shelves of corpses embalmed in black tarps. “This is the first piece to what we can take.”
“Catacombs?” Balien said. “You never mentioned this place was a tomb.”
“We are under a graveyard, idiot,” Melq said. “I said this place was a yixa hoard, that is all you should care about.”
Balien should have realized that, but the idea of entering a tomb tonight was completely out of his realm of possibilities.
“Show me,” Naon said, her eyes flashing.
“You are looking at it,” Melq said, his voice daring loudness as he jumped to the center pedestal. “Look at what the dead wear.”
Naon and Balien inched closer to the body in the tarp. Pinkish stones adorned the tarp—necklaces, crowns, cinches, breastplates, and body frames.
“Oansh,” Balien whispered.
Oura chuckled proudly. “And it is everywhere.”
“Why is it all still here?” Naon asked, taking a necklace. She held it to Oura’s light. “And who do we know who buys one of Khorsha’s most valuable stones, in bulk, from fourteen-year-olds?”
“Traders in Amanzl would,” Melq said. “My brother lives there. He says they have dozens of traders that go to Oro’nath; The Path of the Heretics begins at Amanzl.”
“The what?” Oura asked.
“I told you already,” Melq said, “it is the road that goes all the way to Oro’nath. Miles and miles, just a single straight road.”
“The Three Heretics built it a thousand years ago,” Balien said. “The stone is mostly the same they used to—”
“I do not care about what stone they used,” Oura jeered. “I came for the yixa, not your obsessions with pointless facts.”
“Pointless, maybe,” Naon said, giving Balien a wry smile, “but Balien knows more than you’ll ever know.”
Oura gave Naon a mocking, thin smirk.
“We are not aged,” Balien said smartly, careful to not sound too omnipotent. He simply wanted to get back to reality. “The traders in Amanzl would either want to investigate where we found it or take it for themselves.”
“Not if the four of us work together,” Melq said. “Over here, there is the second piece to this.”
Balien shrugged at Naon, hoping to ride this to a better outcome. He knew if they were caught now it could mean imprisonment, years of service, or death. But he had nothing to lose. To desecrate sacred tombs was to commit soul arson. Balien could not remember when last he felt his soul.
They followed Oura and Melq to the other side of the room. A cluttered floor with dozens of sealed coffins, much newer than their shelved alcove companions. Ornate wood in golden moldings. Inlaid bejeweled sigils depicting the deceased’s contribution to their community. Some coffins had been stacked against the wall recently; footprints in the chisel-dust floor.
Oura kicked one of the lids off its coffin and held the light over. Naon and Balien looked inside. Black robes, a metal mask with nondescript features, and a rectangle stone tablet lying on the stomach upon which name and lineage were engraved.
“Do you know how much these tablets go for?” Oura said, smiling proudly. “Four-hundred yixa each. On top of the oansh, we are going to be disgustingly rich.”
“Why would anyone want lineage tablets?” Balien asked.
“My brother says there are people who want to use them to steal identities,” Melq said. “It is a lot easier and safer than stealing official records.”
Balien turned to Naon with mild interest. She had an impish grin spreading across her mouth.
“How are we doing this?” she asked.
“One tablet each,” Melq said. “It is easier to hide that way. We put the lids back on and push them next to these.” He kicked the stack of coffins against the wall. Dust and dirt plumed.
“Then we get the oansh,” Oura reminded.
“We should get to work then,” Naon said, giving Balien a jovial tap of commencement.
They removed three other coffin lids and began unraveling the straps that held the lineage tablets to their deceased. Balien had a particularly aspirated body, whose robes had disintegrated, leaving a withered and dry skeletal being. He carefully unwound the twisted bands on either end of the tablet anchors and pulled the tablet upward through the clamped, dead hands. It snagged on a third strap he had missed, but the tablet yielded to no pressure, as sturdy as it was ornate.
Melq and Oura started laughing. They struggled with something until Melq let out a burst of exhausted triumph.
“Aghhh!” he mimicked, hoisting a dead corpse underneath its armpits so he could move the arms a little. “I must have my nourishment! Come, Oura! Give yourself! Give!”
Oura feigned a scared cry and backed away. Balien was still hunkered down, trying to release the third strap of his tablet. He shook his head and chuckled to himself as their cries filled the chamber.
“Put that back!” Naon shouted. Visceral. Truthful. An outcry that betrayed everything about her.
Startled, Balien spun. His eyes focused on the corpse they held. And the whole room burned like the belly of an iron furnace. His mother’s face underneath the shredded black burial robes, dehydrated, ghoulish, but unmistakable. The shape of the closed eyes. The thin hairless brow. The fullness of her lips. The shape of her skull. The memories flooding his mind. His fingertips went bitter. Tongue was numb.
“Uh oh, Naon’s scared!” Oura said, giggling. “Do her next, do her!”
Melq danced Balien’s mother and raised his pitch. “What is wrong, little Nay-Nay? Have you become squished by my terror? Are you too frightened?”
Balien wanted to shout and stop Melq from destroying everything he’d concealed over the past four years. But he remained frozen, wishing the closed eyes of his mother would open again. Just once more.
“Put her down, or I will break your neck,” Naon said.
“No,” Melq said, dropping the playful accent. “What is wrong with you?” He backed up, still holding the corpse.
“That is Balien’s mother!” Naon shouted.
Melq’s indignation ceased, and he glanced at Balien, then Oura. He looked at the corpse he held to see its features more clearly.
“So what?” Oura said, a little snicker. “It is not her. Not anymore. Who cares? It was years ago. My mother’s been gone for six.” She cackled as Melq used the corpse’s hand to wave at Naon. “Time to get over it.”
Balien’s eyes drifted. Blood pumped his fists. In his mind: the slashing, the stabbing, the screaming, the cursing. The red splatter. A lifeless, jerking body. But the floor was so much more comfortable to look at, less claustrophobic than Oura or Melq’s faces. Why could he not stand up and face them? Why was he letting this happen?
“I care,” Naon said sternly. “Put her back.”
A haughty, cruel sneer crossed Melq’s face. “Make me.”
Naon didn’t react. She looked between Oura and Melq with no emotion, no intent. Then she turned around to look at Balien, who seemed to be in a catatonic state. While her face was concealed from the other two, it revealed its true malice. Balien knew that face. A face that was in every moment before raw animalism took over. In that split-second Balien wanted to call out to Naon, to reach out and stop her. He was as helpless to stop her as he was to stop Melq.
Naon threw her lineage tablet at Oura like a frisbee. The stone detonated against her face, knocking the girl onto the floor. Melq threw Balien’s skeletal mother at Naon. Naon caught the body as gently as she could and laid it on the coffin nearby. Melq tackled her at Balien’s feet.
Balien jumped. He watched in horror as Naon overpowered Melq. She smashed his head into the stone floor numerous times before popping her fists into his face—two powerful anvil strikes. She growled as if sparring, but a more primal, shockingly authentic, rage-filled outcry. Melq was dead. The blood confirmed it. Soa
ked hands, shaking hands. She looked up at Balien. He backed up, eyes glued to his mother’s deformed body.
“Balien,” Naon said desperately, out of breath, trying to decide where to give her attention. Wet hands smearing the coffin, the dirt floor. Her eyes watered. She tried wiping her hands on Melq’s coat. Failed spastic attempts. Frantic, she rose to reach out to Balien. “I . . . I am so sorry. I did not expect . . . I did not want . . . ” A chain of curses. Gulping breaths of an accused.
He shook his head vigorously and collapsed. Against the bannister he stifled sobs, recalling the event four years ago.
Naon grabbed him with her stained hands and squeezed.
After a few moments, Balien’s memory broke free of its own demise.
“You killed them!” he shouted, horrified. He pushed her away.
“I . . . I had to do something!” she tried. “Seeing him do that to your mother . . . Balien, they d-deserved it.”
“What are you saying?” His voice cracked. Kept his eyes from his mother. “Do you feel nothing?”
Tears fell from her eyes. Little diamonds of vulnerability.
“I feel everything!” she shouted. The catacombs reverberated. A wave of nausea hit her. “Sick. I f-feel dizzy. I became something else. It happened faster than I could . . .” She cupped her face. “What am I going to do? Help me, Balien! Help me!”
He looked at her, their faces both puffy and red.
“Y-You . . .” Balien breathed. “You became him. You turned into my father.”
“No!” Naon yelled, spit flying. “I w-was honoring your mother! Balien, please . . . I did not think it would . . . I just . . . snapped. P-Please do not look at me like that.”
“You are a murderer. You are a murderer.” His eyes went shock wide. “Naon.”
She looked at Melq’s smashed face, voice masked with snot. “But your mother . . .”
Balien saw the loss in Naon’s face, the strained eyes of no resort, the hand-cupped elbows, the goosebumps. He saw Seen’ai four years ago. Balien hadn’t been there for his older brother. Seen’ai had needed someone. Balien was only ten. How could he have dealt with it? How could he have been there for Seen’ai when no one was there for him? Naon stared at Balien. Desperate. Withering.
