She was dry soon. The fire, nice and merry now, would not last for much longer. The storm still showed no indication of abating, if anything, it had only gotten fiercer. Maya imagined Frozen Bombay getting devastated, then blinked the vision away. She looked again at the passage leading within, and then saw something on a wall. It was a few feet away, on the inside, and Maya struggled to see it in the flickering firelight. Something scrawled on the wall. Gingerly, she picked up a part of her former stick, the burning end held up, and crept towards it.
Things await, seeker, for those that not know
Seeing only you but you, who do you follow?
A chill went down Maya’s spine. A rhyme of sort, scribbled by someone who could still be here, in the caves she had never explored. She wasn’t safe here. But where could she go? The storm outside was a death sentence, like the sea. She was unarmed except for the makeshift torch, she was naked. On the other hand, Seeing only you but you seemed to her like a reference to the mirror. Maya took a second, took a deep breath. She could be reading too much into it, the mirror was all that had been on her mind. But then again—
Maya went back and wore her wet clothes. She hated it, the soggy cold clothes, the water chilling her again, but she was not walking into the cave unclothed. Bloody hell. Picking up the torch again, she took gentle, cautious steps towards the cave’s interior. So far, so good. Only a tunnel, no rooms as such. She kept a keen eye on the walls, and found another message soon.
Enter, enter, seeker, neither trap nor bait
Yesterday perhaps too soon, tomorrow too late
A trap. Was she walking into a trap? Her survival instincts screamed at her to leave it alone, to wait by the entrance until she could leave, come back later with a bigger torch and more sharp objects. But somehow, Maya had this nagging, inexplicable feeling that the storm would not stop until she had explored the cave. It made no sense, so Maya stopped thinking, giving her eyes and ears the boost they needed.
There was no sound here except for water trickling somewhere and the crunching of her boots. The hurricane’s howling receded as she walked into the depths of the earth, the path gradually leading down. A sudden, sharp bolt of pain on her leg. Maya gasped and looked—a huge leech, large as a rat, had attached itself to her thigh. She screamed and swore and yanked it off—it hurt—and briefly looked at the ugly bastard in her hand, swollen and throbbing, its circular mouth ringed with sharp teeth, before slamming it to the floor and squishing it noisily with her heel.
An angry red wound had appeared on her thigh. Maya examined it gingerly. What was she doing? She should get the hell out of here, head back. No, she shouldn’t. No leech would stop her from travelling through the cave.
The roof got low as she progressed, so low at times that Maya had to walk in a hunch. There were puddles of water here. And more leeches in the water and on the walls and the roof, waiting eagerly for her. She jabbed at them with her torch and stamped on them as she walked, calling them colourful names. Then another message.
Many have entered the hall of the dead
Many have died here, many have bled
Maya pushed on. There could be no ‘hall’ here, not in this claustrophobic nightmare place. She would be glad to get some more space though, just to walk straight. But the roof, almost laughing at her, got even lower, giving way to a crawl space.
‘Oh, no way I’m going down there,’ Maya muttered, pausing. She poked her torch in the tunnel. Wet walls, roots emerging from the ceiling like curtains, no leeches that she could see. ‘Why did he choose this goddamn place?’ she spoke out loud. Her voice echoed up and down the tunnel. Silence. Moody contemplation. Then Maya got down on all fours and crawled in. She felt boxed in and immediately felt panic rise, but she fought it, taking long deep breaths as she shoved the torch forward and kept moving. The tunnel turned left, then right, and Maya kept going, feeling like the last girl in a horror film, having dreadful thoughts of the walls collapsing and burying her alive, or cold wet hands grabbing her from all sides. Anything was possible here. No. Deep breaths. Keep going.
The opening came soon, but it felt like hours. The torch couldn’t have burned for hours. She looked at its weak light and hurried up her pace, crawling out of an opening and getting to her feet. A room, a room miles underground, a room cramped. A room dark. She looked around, cautious. A small earthen bowl on an equally small stand. She crept to it, and noticed wood inside. Dry, dry, ages old. A lamp, thank God. She dipped her torch, and the wood caught. Her surroundings lit up.
Maya let out a gasp. The walls weren’t wet here, they were stone, covered with scribbles. There was a table made out of rocks, and there was a bed in a corner, a bed made of twigs and branches, with ancient, tattered cloth pretending to be a bed sheet. ‘What the hell?’ Maya whispered, heading towards the table, a giant slab of rock, kept low and next to the bed, a giant slab of rock with a grisly decoration.
Human skulls, grinning in the firelight. Eight of them, neatly arranged in a single line. Her blood froze. She looked around again, at the entrance, at every shadow. But Maya was alone. The skulls reminded her of the horrific Ancients, but these hadn’t talked. Yet. She observed the skulls with growing curiosity. Humanoid, dusty and old—at the very least no one had been cleaning them. There was a knife behind the skulls, a very curious looking blade. It was curved, wickedly so, and had symbols etched into the steel. It looked dull to her, and she left it alone. For now.
The walls were full of scrawls. There was one which caught her eye first, written in the same format as the ones she had been following.
So now you see Seeker, now you see just fine
To cross the looking glass, add your head to the line!
It was hardly poetry, but it was chilling. Maya closed her eyes, opened them again, and read through the other messages.
HOW DOES ONE DO IT?
It is a mirror. It reflects. Must I reflect too?
This is my tomb, welcome to my tomb.
I give you my soul. I give you all.
Don’t be mad, mirror! Please!
Tuesday. Time to cut off another finger.
The writing got progressively shakier, dirtier. Thankfully, it wasn’t written with blood, rather etched into the rock with some sharp object, probably the knife. Maya went through every single message for some sort of a clue. The eight people here had wanted to become Shades. They had failed to pass the mirror test. But there was one person who remained, one person who had arranged the skulls here, one person who had either crossed the mirror or was still on the island. This last survivor—he or she could have fallen off a cliff or been devoured, but that was too much of a chance to take. There was nothing useful among the writing, nothing other than a study of how these men and women had lapsed into insanity, and how difficult the test was. Maya, deep in thought, looked around one last time and prepared to leave. There was nothing else, no diary (she felt her conscience pinch), nothing more to help her. She went back to the knife and picked it up. It was blunt as she had thought, but she would soon rectify that. It was a weapon at last, a real weapon she could plunge into flesh.
Before leaving, she took a moment and looked at the skulls. The anger flared. ‘You have died here, all of you pathetic people,’ Maya spoke out loud and then paused, giving the skulls a chance to retort. Nothing. She continued. ‘But I’m not dying here, not like you sorry lot. Why the hell would anyone stay down here anyway? You dumb animals, it was probably the lack of air here that killed you.’ Then it passed, the pure rage of this trip leading to nothing at all, of these inanimate skulls that could not speak. ‘Oh, and thanks for the knife, I guess,’ Maya muttered, and ducked into the tunnel.
26
The last thing Gray pictured himself doing was going exploring in the night, all by himself, but Death had something to do with his courage. The threat had jarred him, but it had also given him the armour of an eventuality. How long could he possibly run from Death anyway? If the Horseman came for him, he woul
d come wherever Gray was. Be it the middle of the night, be it dawn. Gray could not run any more—the Horseman clearly knew where he was, and Gray did not have wings.
He was carrying an unconventional weapon as he made his way down the tower—one of Zabrielle’s ghost swords. The Demon had bewitched it to give out bright light.
Gray had insisted on being alone—whatever lurked in this fort, whatever it hid, it could not be worse than Death itself. He wanted some time to himself, and when Fayne suddenly went missing, he insisted that he and Zabrielle split up and search for the assassin.
Strange thoughts fluttered through him. Things he hadn’t done, things he would probably never get to do. Thoughts of life, thoughts of death. Thoughts of what came after. Life seemed short, the ring on his finger seemed heavy. His chest was hurting incredibly, the flesh wound his father had left. Gray dimly thought of how the poison had been countered. Daan had never replied to his accusation. Shade magic, probably.
Shadows stretched and shortened in the green glow of the ghost sword. Gray looked down all the floors as he descended the tower, but there was no sign of Fayne. He exited the tower they were staying in, and entered the street outside. There was something beautiful about the walled city in the light of the moon, and Gray walked, observing and lost at the same time. A rustle of fabric in the silence of the night—Gray spun around and saw nothing. There was a jharokha above him, and something seemed to be watching him from within. All Gray could see, however, was black.
Fayne wouldn’t hide from him. Gray walked away, into other places, hoping to randomly bump into the assassin. Fayne loved heights, he would most probably be on the rooftops, not places Gray could really scale and check. He kept walking, the glowing sword showing him the way. It did not take him long to realise that he was being followed. Whatever it was, it had been watching from the balcony. Gray walked faster, and now he heard the rustle of clothes again as his stalker sped up. He ducked into an open doorway without warning and held his breath, dimming the sword’s light with a learnt word. Then he waited, peering at the street outside.
The girl crossed soon, the little girl. Gray paused, and then started following her. She was clearly looking for him; Gray saw her peer into every single alley, consider every fork as she walked. Finally they came to the large square in the middle of the city, and here she paused in the moonlight. She stood, head hung down, looking disappointed—Gray had almost revealed himself, demanding answers, when she started off again.
She led him to the fort, deeper and deeper, through rooms and rooms without light. Gray travelled in darkness too, as stealthily as he could. Then he lost her. She must have taken a sudden turn. He looked for her, as quietly as he could—he was in the mouth of a long corridor, one with several exits in its stretch. He crept into several rooms, in and out, before he saw the light. A doorway, and light beyond.
Every room had more than one exit, this being a fort, and Gray looked for another entry to the room. He skirted around and found a small window. It was open.
The little girl sat inside, on a pedestal. She was facing a wall, one which had several holes in it, small black holes scattered in random order. The girl was chanting something under her breath, and before her was a basket laden with dark objects. Something was underway, some sort of a ritual—Gray had been right about the place. He gripped the sword tighter and watched.
The girl finished the chant and waited. For what? Gray waited too, until she spoke to him. ‘It is rude to be a voyeur, traveller. Join me.’
Gray froze, considered slipping away, or making a run for it. But it was a little girl, and she had been polite. ‘Why were you following me?’ he asked from the window.
‘You walk in my city, Gray. My city. I have every right to have you followed.’
‘One of my friends is missing,’ Gray said. ‘I was looking for him.’
‘Fayne of Ahzad is hungry,’ the girl said. ‘He looks for nourishment. He left you of his own free will. He will find nothing here—I remain the only one with blood pumping through my veins, the blood he so desires.’
Gray walked to the door and stopped there. ‘He will not harm you while I’m around. How do you know about him?’
‘Join me,’ she said, patting the empty pedestal next to her. Gray hesitated. ‘I will not harm you either, I give you my word.’
Gray sat, looking at the girl nervously. She looked normal in every way, and she looked back at him in patience, in a sort of understanding. ‘You know everything about me too, don’t you?’ Gray asked, knowing his secrets were now hers.
‘Why do you pretend to be a cripple?’ she asked.
‘I am one.’
She shook her head. ‘You have much left to understand.’
Too many people had told him that of late. Gray shrugged.
‘The Horseman Death will arrive by dawn,’ the girl said slowly. ‘He rides fast, leaving sandstorms in his wake. Fury rides with him.’
Gray relaxed. She already knew. There was really no harm in talking. ‘I don’t stand a chance. Not unless you feed the Alabagi now, and we make a move.’
She shook her head. ‘They only listen to morning. Even then, there is a strong chance that some will spot you and come after you.’ She looked at Gray again. ‘Your odds are not good. The second Horseman, Famine, comes from the north. They mean to trap you here.’
‘Is there a way?’ Gray asked, a touch of desperation in his voice.
‘The house of kings is old,’ she said. ‘We have upheld one trait over the years, one trait that the songs about us still carry. Bravery, bravery unheard of, even in the face of death. Look.’
She was motioning towards the wall before them, the wall with the holes. Gray saw something start to reveal itself on the wall. He stared then. A painting was unveiling itself, painted on the sandstone, becoming visible in the fashion of fire revealing a secret letter. It was magic, ink and pain spreading from the centre towards the sides. A mural.
It was the fort. There was an army outside, firing cannons and arrows, a group of men rushing the front doors with a battering ram. Archers and cannons fired back from the battlements, but that was not all. Inside the walls of the fort there was a giant pyre, a large bed of flames. And women in the mural were throwing themselves into the flames. They were burning silently, heads down, becoming cinder, becoming ash, yet more were leaping in. The painting had more than a hundred women figures in mid leap.
‘What is this?’ Gray whispered.
‘We call it Jauhar,’ the girl said. ‘The women of this fort have, on many occasions, seen it fit to give themselves to the fire, rather than face mutilation and rape at the hands of the enemy.’
‘My God,’ Gray said, paralyzed.
‘Our men are brave, but so are our women. There are songs about our men, and about our women. Death over dishonour. Freedom over enslavement.’ She paused, and something slowly emerged from one of the holes.
Gray stumbled back, out of the pedestal, almost falling over backwards in horror. At first it was the fingers, but then the rest of the hand crept out. It was burnt beyond recognition, a mutilated, black arm, skinless, clumps of tissue, muscle, and charred bone. Slender. A woman’s arm.
‘What . . . oh my God . . .’ Gray mumbled as he backed away.
Another arm emerged from a hole, golden bangles melted and fused at the wrist. Then another. Soon, all the holes had arms coming out of them, waving, groping, looking for something.
‘More than forty thousand women have given themselves to Jauhar,’ the girl spoke, getting up on her feet. ‘So you see, Gray, I am hardly alone.’
‘W-What do they want?’
The girl, the Queen, she picked up the basket in front of her and moved towards the arms. She started handing them things from the basket—Gray could not see what these were, but mercifully, as each fist closed around the object, it slowly withdrew.
‘They want me to continue guarding this place,’ she said. ‘I am the last Queen, and I ask for their
guidance in return of this honour.’ She gave the last hand something, and the wall was suddenly empty again. Gray brushed himself to a sitting position against the opposite wall, when there was a grating noise. Two parts of the mural were shifting, and a much larger hole was opening in the bottom of the wall, directly across Gray.
‘No, no,’ Gray whispered.
All he could see within was shadow. Then something was pushed out as Gray watched in terror. A round object. A basket. A grating noise, and the walls closed again. Gray gave out a long sigh of pure relief. ‘I thought—I thought . . .’ he mumbled.
‘I gave you my word,’ the girl said, picking up the basket.
‘What is that?’ Gray asked weakly.
The girl reached within and held something out. It was wet, glistening in the fire, oozing a dark red. ‘Human hearts,’ she said, putting it back in. ‘It’s what the Alabagi eat.’
‘The Heart Eaters. Yes,’ Gray said. ‘So, they give you the means to feed the Alabagi.’
‘I am the Steward. They guide me, they whisper to me all about you, all I need to know.’
Gray nodded, still hyperventilating. ‘My friend, my Demon friend, she believes this place can trap us, stop us from leaving.’
The girl nodded. ‘If you join my service, prove your loyalty with blood, you can be here forever, under my protection. The fort has withstood a million sieges. It can withstand four Horsemen until the end of time itself.’ She paused. ‘You can see a million sunsets and keep your age, never to lose the things you hold dear. It is a choice I would normally give you.’
‘But you won’t?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Because it is not meant to be. Your Web, it says otherwise. I have challenged destiny often, played with Chronos—but not this time. This is different. You are different.’
‘Different how?’ Gray asked.
‘Let me give you an example, Spider Lord,’ the girl said. ‘Have you ever shared a frugal meal with a friend?’
Gray raised an eyebrow without meaning to. ‘Yes, yes, several.’
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