“They’re your leaders?”
She nodded. “The oldest and wisest among us.” Gyre was certain he detected a sarcastic spin on the words. “The heads of all the families who remain in Refuge. They decide any matters that affect the city.”
“And you’re hiding us from them?”
“We are… delaying our report.” Elariel cocked her head. “My master says we need to discover what you know. He commanded me to heal you so you could speak to him.”
“Ah.” Gyre shifted to the edge of the table and stretched his legs. “I suppose I should thank him.”
“I would… wait.” Elariel’s ears drooped again. “He may decide the best way to obtain the information he needs would be to render it from your living brain.”
There was an uncomfortable silence.
“Or he may not!” Elariel said, with a forced smile. “He is unpredictable. But now that you’re awake, you will have to go and see him.”
The state of Gyre’s clothes gave him some idea of what the rock ingestor had done to his body. They were practically shredded, ripped and torn as though they’d gone through a spiked mangle. When he asked Elariel if the ghouls had anything that might serve, she shook her head.
“I fashioned those”—she indicated the shorts he was wearing—“when I remembered how odd you humans get about your coverings. Are they insufficient?”
Gyre assured her they were perfectly adequate. They were a little large for him, but he managed to retrieve a mostly intact belt from the wreck of his gear. In the process, he investigated the remains of his pack, but his stash of alchemicals had either been confiscated by the ghouls or destroyed by the journey. Both his knives were missing as well.
Not that it matters. Gyre had no illusions that he would be able to fight his way out of the Tomb, if it came to that. Elariel had escorted him out of the room he’d awoken in, and just on the short trip to where she’d stored his gear he’d seen a dozen constructs. They weren’t the spiked, stone-lined guardians from up above, but many of them were large and powerful-looking, and presumably more martial versions weren’t far away.
Not all the constructs were humanoid, either. Smaller things trotted on four legs or hopped like rabbits, and even tinier varieties hummed through the air on delicate, multicolored wings. They all had a similar look, their bodies built of striated black muscle laid over metallic bones that poked through at the joints, like anatomy models no one had bothered providing with skin. Some had specialized limbs, sporting knives or hammers or more complicated tools whose function Gyre couldn’t begin to guess.
The complex they were in seemed to be mostly small rooms set off of long, winding corridors. The floor was covered in gray-green stuff that he initially thought was carpet but on closer inspection turned out to be some kind of plant, sprouting myriad fine, hairlike stalks that were soft on his bare feet. The walls were smooth, polished stone, and every so often light-patches gleamed on the ceiling, bright to his adjusted eyes but probably invisible to a normal human.
Doors were oval metal slabs, and they opened themselves at a tap from Elariel. Gyre nearly jumped the first time this happened, but when they went inside the room, he saw the door itself was a construct, with hinges of black muscle.
The Tomb. It was overwhelming, and Gyre tried to discipline his thoughts. Call it Refuge. He wondered how far underground they were. The air felt fresh, not too warm or cold. No wonder the ghouls don’t bother with clothes.
“How many of your people live here?” Gyre said as they walked.
“Oh, hundreds,” Elariel said. “Hardly a city by your human standards, I know. But we live longer than you do.”
“And—”
“We had a conversation once before, didn’t we, about how the less you knew the safer you’d be? Perhaps you should keep your questions to yourself.”
“Just this one, then,” Gyre said, hurrying a little to keep up. “What does Naumoriel want with me? It can’t be coincidence that the only two ghouls Kit and I know are the two that found us here.”
“No coincidence,” Elariel said. “My master is”—her lips worked briefly as she translated—“Sovereign of the Exterior, you would say? King of the Outside, maybe. His assigned area of responsibility is everything that lies beyond the boundaries of Refuge.”
“That sounds like an important job.”
“Most of the Geraia would rather tear out their own fur than go near it. It carries very low… mmm, you might say ‘social standing,’ but it’s more complicated than that.” Elariel’s ears twitched in a manner that Gyre was starting to recognize as something like a chuckle. “My master is considered strange, by our standards. Possibly insane.”
“Wonderful,” Gyre muttered.
“Monitoring the boundaries of the city is among his tasks, naturally. So he was the one who noticed your approach.”
“Along with… whatever you were doing before?”
Elariel blinked, and her ears drooped. “Yes. Of course.” She tapped another door. “In here.”
The door, swinging open of its own accord, revealed only a very small room shaped a bit like an egg, big enough for three or four people to stand uncomfortably close together. Gyre looked at Elariel curiously, and she gave him a mischievous grin.
“Just get in.” Her ears twitched again.
Gyre stepped over the threshold, cautiously. Elariel followed, then turned around to face the way they’d come, tapping the door to close it and then stroking a complicated gesture on its surface. A moment later, the bottom dropped out of Gyre’s gut as the whole tiny room began to rise.
“It’s a—” Elariel said something in the ghoul language, ears twitching wildly. “A lifter. It’s just taking us to the top of the tower.”
“You might have warned me,” Gyre said.
“I might.” Elariel’s lip quirked.
A few moments passed in silence, and the feeling of acceleration faded. The door opened again, now facing a small antechamber, blocked off from the lifter by a spray of what looked like the fronds of ferns, stretching from floor to ceiling.
Elariel said something in her own language, then added, “I have brought the human Gyre.”
Naumoriel’s rumbling voice came from beyond the ferns. “Leave him. Attend to the other until I summon you.”
Elariel answered with a liquid warble, then stepped back into the lifter. Her ears were drooping again, but she managed a half-hearted smile.
“Good luck,” she whispered, before the door closed.
“Gyre,” Naumoriel said. “Come here.”
Gyre hesitated, but there didn’t seem to be anything to be gained by refusing. He found a gap in the ferns and pushed his way through, into a larger room beyond.
It was a big, circular space, floored with the same carpet-like plant. One wall was taken up by what looked at first like panels of pure darkness. Even with the nighteye, it took Gyre a moment to realize he was looking at windows, and even longer for any details to resolve. He got the sense of vast shapes, tall and slender, marching back into the darkness in irregular ranks. Here and there, tiny pinpricks of light gleamed, barely bright enough to throw shadows. There was a sense of motion, though it was too dark and distant to make out details, like looking into the teeming mass of an anthill.
“So, boy,” Naumoriel said. “You have found your ‘Tomb.’ What do you think of it?”
The old ghoul sat in a chair by the window. Or not a chair, Gyre realized as he turned, but a chair-shaped construct, moving precisely on eight jointed, spindly legs. It rotated to face him and glided forward, keeping absolutely level, so that its occupant was not disturbed. The room around him was full of odd structures, tables with multiple levels and complicated armatures, standing columns of crystal-strewn stone that could have been art projects or unknown arcana. The cluttered space put him in mind of Lynnia’s workshop.
“It’s not what I expected,” Gyre said honestly.
Naumoriel’s chair stalked closer. The old ghoul
’s gray fur was patchy, but his huge eyes were disconcertingly intense in person. The plate that covered part of his chest shifted as he breathed, the tendrils connecting it to his flesh pulsing in unison.
“You expected a ruin you could loot,” Naumoriel said. “It’s all your kind have ever been good for, picking at the leavings of your betters.”
Gyre inclined his head in acknowledgment. Naumoriel snorted.
“And yet you knew better,” he said. “Kit must have warned you what would happen if you found us.”
“She did,” Gyre said. “But she came here and was allowed to return alive.”
“Under unique circumstances.”
“I thought I would take the risk.”
“Why?” Naumoriel gestured upward. “Going through the sun-lovers’ trash wasn’t enough for you?”
Gyre hesitated under the gaze of those dark eyes. Whatever he said, it would be a gamble. But just being here is a gamble, and everything’s already on the table. Might as well raise the stakes.
“Because I want to destroy them,” he said. “The Republic, the Order. I want to break them once and for all.”
Naumoriel cocked his head, waiting.
“The Order did this.” Gyre tapped his ruined eye. “They destroyed my family. They dragged my sister away and turned her into one of their soldiers. When I started, that was enough for me to hate them, but it’s worse than that. In the name of keeping humanity safe, they put their boot on anyone trying to make a better life. We have bound ourselves to a corpse, and the Twilight Order is the shackles.” Gyre spread his hands. “I want to set humanity free.”
“Bold words,” Naumoriel mused. “But Elariel tells me a single one of their centarchs sent you scurrying for cover.”
“Of course,” Gyre said. “The Order claims the moral high ground, but behind all their pious bleating are the centarchs and the Legions. The Chosen are gone, but as long as their heirs hold their weapons over the rest of us, who can stand up to them?” Genuine anger crept into his voice. “They say they have the right to rule, out of a duty to keep the rest of us safe. As though we were children, inferior, just because we weren’t born with whatever special trick that lets the centarchs touch deiat.”
Naumoriel remained silent, waiting. Gyre took a deep breath.
“I went looking for the Tomb because I thought there might be something here that would tip the balance in favor of ordinary humans,” he said. “The stories of the war say that only the Chosen could use deiat, but anyone could learn dhaka. I thought…” He shook his head. “Instead of the Tomb, I found Refuge, but my goal hasn’t changed.”
“Oh, how young you are.” A very slight smile crept across the old ghoul’s face, showing a line of pointed teeth. “And how ignorant of the true history of things. But now that you know our secrets are not simply lying around for the taking, what makes you think we have any use for you or your plans?”
“You must hate the Order, too,” Gyre said. “After what you did to the Chosen, the war—”
“Lies,” Naumoriel spat, suddenly rigid with fury. “The sun-lovers struck first, as they always did. My people wanted nothing but to be left in peace.”
“I believe you,” Gyre said. “All we know of the war comes from the Order. But there are stories of hunts and purges of your kind, even as the Chosen dwindled. At Deepfire—”
“They found our defenders too brave, our power too formidable,” Naumoriel said. His eyes got a faraway look, as though they were looking through the walls to the distant city. “But they dared not simply leave us be. Instead they broke the mountain around us and killed more of my people in one night than survive in the world today. And then they sent their slaves to hunt the cowering remnants through their own tunnels. The Chosen.”
“Elariel told me most of your people aren’t interested in anything happening outside Refuge,” Gyre said, watching the old ghoul carefully. He felt as though he were inching across thin ice, with a bottomless cold depth beneath him. “But you’re different, aren’t you? You sent Kit out into the world for a reason.”
“Don’t presume to know me, boy.” Naumoriel’s chair lurched sideways, turning abruptly. “I have little use for your kind at the best of times. You and Kitsraea have already failed me once.”
“If it’s the Core Analytica you need, I can get it for you. Give me the power to confront the Order, and I will do whatever you require.”
“Give you the power.” Naumoriel sneered. “How much would you sacrifice for it, human?”
“I’ve spent years searching for this place,” Gyre said. “I came here, knowing it would probably mean my death. I abandoned my life in Deepfire, whatever security I had.” He closed his eyes and saw Yora’s face. Sarah’s, Harrow’s. “I let my friends die.”
Naumoriel beckoned with one hand, and Gyre hurried after him as the animated chair stalked across the room. It came to a halt beside a long, low table, almost like a bed. It had neatly rolled strips of silvery cloth attached to it, and Gyre took a moment to recognize them as restraints.
“And if I were to tell you that is not enough?” Naumoriel said. His voice was quiet.
“Then I would say,” Gyre said, struggling to keep his voice steady, “that I would be prepared to offer whatever was required.”
There was a long silence.
“We shall see, human.” The old ghoul leaned forward and stroked the table. With a clicking, whirring sound, insect-like limbs spidered out from underneath it, unfolding in a horrible ballet of steel and dark, pulsing muscle. They were tipped with spikes, and grippers, and exquisite little knives in a hundred varieties. Naumoriel looked at them like a doting father at his children. “We shall see.”
Chapter 20
Agathios-Challenger Maya.” Prodominus’ voice was clearly audible in the hall. “Present yourself to the Council.”
Maya looked at Evinda, who was once again on watch outside the Council’s door. The old centarch gave her a nod and stepped aside, and Maya bowed deeply in return. For a moment, she thought she caught a hint of a smile on Evinda’s stern face.
Taking a deep breath, Maya straightened her formal uniform, touched the Thing for reassurance, and opened the door. Inside, the Council sat as before, except that the edges of the chamber were much more crowded with aides and onlookers. Everyone who could contrive an excuse to be here, Maya guessed, had packed themselves in along the walls to see what happened to the upstart agathios who had challenged the centarchate.
And, of course, one of the twelve chairs was empty.
“Kyriliarchs,” Maya said, when she reached the center of the chamber. She bowed again, and waited.
“You have challenged the centarchate, as tradition allows,” Prodominus said. “And in accordance with tradition, the centarchate has answered. The ancient forms have been followed.”
From the Dogmatic wing of the Council, two Kyriliarchs started saying something in low voices. A buzz ran through the onlookers, then cut off when Prodominus raised one hand.
“Your duel with Centarch Tanax Brokenedge was most impressive,” Prodominus said. “There were, however, some… irregularities.”
Maya tried to keep herself under control, but her chest went tight. In spite of generous doses of quickheal and the care of the Forge healers, the gouge on her hip still hurt when she walked, and she held her arm stiffly at her side. Irregularities.
“Some of my colleagues have asked whether the result of the duel should be accepted,” Prodominus said, glancing at the Dogmatic wing. “They question whether Centarch Tanax, once he knew your panoply belt had failed, could have fought at full strength.”
“He offered me the chance to yield,” Maya said. “I refused, and accepted the consequences.”
“Even so—” a woman on the Dogmatic side began.
Prodominus held up his silencing hand again. “The Council questioned Centarch Tanax fully as to his state of mind at the time.”
“And he said he was holding back?” Maya felt
her fury boiling over. Of course. “Don’t you think—”
“Centarch Tanax,” Prodominus interrupted, “confirmed that he fought to the best of his ability, as was his duty to the centarchate, in spite of your vulnerability. He asked that the result of the duel stand.”
The Dogmatic woman crossed her arms, disgruntled, and her companions looked equally unhappy. On the Pragmatic wing, there were quiet smiles.
Maya prickled uncomfortably, her triumph soured by the frustrating feeling of being in Tanax’s debt. No. I shouldn’t owe him for doing the right thing. The exhausting part, she reflected, was that he would probably agree.
“Therefore, as dictated in the founding rules of the Twilight Order and the Inheritance, the Council recognizes your skill and courage,” Prodominus went on. “You are hereby granted the rank of Centarch of the Order.”
I’m… Maya blinked. That’s it? Just like that?
Everyone was staring at her, and she realized she was supposed to speak. Maya coughed.
“Thank you, Kyriliarch. I am honored by the Order’s trust.”
Prodominus continued. “As you know, tradition dictates that new centarchs receive a cognomen from their masters. With Centarch Jaedia’s absence, that duty falls to us.”
Maya tensed again, waiting for the Council to stick in the knife. A highly respected agathios would receive a cognomen held by many centarchs before them, the more prestigious the better. One who was in disfavor might get a ‘virgin’ name, with no prior lineage. She could guess which of the two someone who had challenged the Council was more likely to receive, without a master to speak for her.
To her surprise, though, Prodominus fell silent, and Baselanthus spoke up.
“Jaedia was my own agathios. In spite of what she stands accused of, I have always believed in her. She told me what cognomen she intended to grant Maya, on the completion of her training, and I shall honor her wishes.” He cleared his throat. “The Council names you Centarch Maya Burningblade.”
Burningblade. At first Maya thought she’d misheard, especially since the murmur around the edges of the room swelled to a quiet roar as soon as Baselanthus fell silent. The name was on everyone’s lips. Burningblade.
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