by Ted Sanders
“Like a watch?”
“No, it won’t have hands. I don’t think. But it’ll have markings around the edge.”
April turned toward him, arm outstretched. “Like this?”
In her palm lay a gold disk two or three inches wide. Horace hurried over.
The astrolabe.
Horace took it from her and held it close. This was nothing like Mr. Ludwig’s astrolabe. Or it was, but far more beautiful, infinitely more complex. This one had multiple layered plates, each one made of thin, sweeping arcs and carefully crafted curves, so that he could see the other disks beneath. Each plate was made of a different material—gold, silver, a white that looked like porcelain, a rusty red metal Horace couldn’t identify. The back plate—the mater, Horace thought it was called, upon which the celestial sphere was engraved—was made of obsidian, with golden arcs carved precisely through it, a warped spiderweb.
April bent over it. “Don’t tell me you understand that.”
“I’m supposed to, aren’t I?” Horace said. “But no, I don’t. Not most of it, anyway.”
“And it tells time? But how?”
“I don’t really know,” Horace admitted, peering closely at the intricate device. “I’m not even sure it’s working. Or maybe I have to make it work?”
And then abruptly, silently, the astrolabe’s many plates began to spin.
Horace almost dropped it in surprise. But he kept watching, and slowly certain things began to make sense. The earth’s horizon and the stars above it. He recognized many of them by names—Altair, Deneb, Polaris. And now planets, Venus and Mars, and Jupiter too. The white plate was for the moon, he realized now, and it spun round swiftly, carrying a tiny white disk that waxed and waned just like the real moon.
“You’re seeing this, right?” Horace asked April.
“I’m seeing it,” April said, her voice breathy with wonder. “But I have no idea what I’m seeing.”
“It’s setting itself,” Horace said. “It doesn’t make time, like Mr. Meister said. It’s setting itself to here and now.”
“To you, you mean.”
Horace’s eyebrows went up. He’d been thinking about the astrolabe since leaving Ka’hoka, bothered by what he’d been told. The problem was there was no such thing as absolute time. Time was always relative—depending on speed, on gravity. Depending on the observer. And yet Mr. Meister had said the astrolabe couldn’t be sped up or slowed down.
“To me, right,” Horace said softly. “Me here and now.”
“It’s like your pet watch.”
The spinning plates of the astrolabe began to slow, zeroing in on the present like a missile. Summer . . . July . . . mid-month . . . a Monday . . . late evening . . . ten thirty-two . . . seventeen seconds. The astrolabe seemed to settle Horace’s hands, becoming heavy, finding the precise time down to the millisecond—down to the microsecond, levels where time’s march was a blur, even to Horace. The motion of the plates resolved, locking to the flow of time as Horace was experiencing it. Most bizarrely of all, all the while, the Fel’Daera seemed to resonate with the astrolabe happily, to gather the astrolabe’s groove like a kind of lullaby, an immovable comfort. And Horace himself felt . . .
Sure.
“What’s happening?” said April. “I feel like something’s happening.”
“Nothing,” said Horace. “I don’t know. It’s good. This is good.”
“Can it get you through the Mothergates?”
“Yes,” Horace said, not even caring that he had no idea what the inside of a Mothergate was like.
“Then let’s go. Gabriel should be back now. Where are we on cricket time?”
Horace found the time effortlessly. “Fifty-seven seconds until the first batch. One minute forty-six seconds until the second, at the top of the shaft.”
“Perfect,” April said.
Horace put the astrolabe in his pocket, where it sat like a stone. They went to the door, opening it cautiously. Somewhat to Horace’s surprise, the Gallery’s long hallway was right there.
“We’re clear,” April said, her eyes far away. They let the door shut behind them. Horace dropped his jithandra back into his shirt, snuffing out its light. The door vanished.
They hurried quietly down the hallway, back to the opening to Sanguine Hall. As they approached, April said softly, “Oh! And there’s Gabriel. You know, I’m beginning to think crickets are underrated.”
Horace saw nothing, but April walked confidently over to a patch near the crumbled wall and stuck out her hand. Her hand disappeared in a ripple of shadow. A moment later, with a soft tear, the humour came down, revealing Gabriel, dark and silent.
“Well met, Keepers,” he said.
“You made it,” said Horace. “Did you find what you were—”
Suddenly April lurched at Gabriel. Fervently she bent in front of him, practically sniffing him up and down like a dog. “What is that?” she demanded. “What do you have?” She put her hand to her temple, pressing the Ravenvine against her skin.
Horace was at a loss. “What are you doing?” he asked.
April ignored him. She slapped Gabriel’s chest. “What is that?” she hissed. “It’s . . . terrible. It’s a terrible thing that’s been done. Why do you have that?”
Gabriel looked stricken. “I’m sorry,” he stammered. “Mr. Meister warned me, but I did not think—”
“It’s alive,” April said. “And not alive. I need to see.”
Horace watched, bewildered, as Gabriel revealed a rod, long and thin. It glinted faintly. April grabbed it from him and whirled away. She fumbled in the collar of her dress, freeing her jithandra. As its mossy green light poured into April’s hands, Horace saw.
A transparent cylinder, a foot long and two inches thick. Inside it, a fish, black as coal. Or something like a fish, almost an eel. Finless and thin, the black fish nearly filled the cylinder. It swayed gently, pulsing, as if swimming in an endless current. It was alive in there, with no room to even turn around. Horace stared, hardly believing it.
He had seen this before.
April gazed at the fish, silent. Horace thought she might be crying. He had first laid eyes on the fish the day he became a Keeper, in the House of Answers, where the fish had been offered to him—or at least, he thought it had. It had been in the Of Scientific Interest bin, along with the Laithe of Teneves, and the Fel’Daera itself. He’d forgotten it in the rush of the Find that came right after. But as Horace looked at the fish now, the same swell of pity that had risen in him that day rose again. And whatever sick dismay he was feeling, he figured April was feeling it a hundred times as hard.
“So old,” April said. “A thing can’t be this old. And what is it . . . how is . . . ?” She whirled back to Gabriel. “Explain this. I can’t hear it properly. Is it the glass? It’s thinking something. But why can’t I hear it?”
“I do not know.” Briefly Gabriel touched two fingers to the corner of one milky eye. “I cannot see it, Keeper. I have only been told that it is alive.”
“Alive,” April muttered. “Not alive. Something in between. Why would you do this thing?”
“I did not. And would not. It is fleshwoven, and that is forbidden.”
“Oh, but you’ll just keep it around anyway. You’ll go on a secret mission to get it back.” She thrust the cylinder at Gabriel, striking him in the belly. He took it from her, gently.
“It was Sil’falo Teneves who asked that it be retrieved,” Gabriel said. “This Tanu is ancient, older than Falo herself.”
“Is that supposed to be reassuring?”
“April,” Horace said, not at all sure what to say.
She turned to him. “I mean, am I supposed to be reassured by that?”
“You’re supposed to be upset, just like you are. But I don’t think Gabriel knows any more about the fish than we do. And it must be important somehow, if Falo wants it.”
“So I am told,” Gabriel said. “But I do not know why. I am not even s
ure that Falo knows why.”
“You’re bringing it back with us,” April said. “It’ll be riding with us.”
“Yes.”
She nodded. She wiped at her face. She dropped her jithandra back beneath her collar, as if she didn’t want to be seen. “Fine,” she said. “Fine. But just know that it’s talking to me, okay? Or trying to. I’m not even listening, and it’s talking to me.” She poked herself in the temple. “And as soon as we’re out of here, I’m taking the vine off.”
Gabriel bowed slightly. “Every Keeper does as every Keeper must.” He hesitated a moment, and then said, “I’m sorry, April.”
“We’ve got to go,” Horace said. “The crickets are back. Not cows.”
April shook herself out, like she was shaking off a dream. She smoothed her dress briskly and then stepped past them into the bottom of the shaft. When she reached the ladder, she glanced back. “Tangles or no tangles, did you ever think maybe the Mothergates should die anyway?” she said. And she put her foot on the ladder and started to climb.
And then she stopped.
“Wait,” she said. “Wait.” She hung there, her head cocked. Without even seeing her eyes, Horace knew she was listening through the vine. Was it the fish again?
“There’s something above,” she said. “In Sanguine Hall. A bad smell. I think it’s brimstone.” She dropped to the floor, coming back to them, her eyes hazy. “Mordin. Two full hunting packs, at least. And there’s a . . . bear? A wolf? It’s carrying a bright light. And wait . . .”
Horace looked up. At the top of the shaft, a trickle of green light danced across the ceiling.
“A crucible,” he whispered.
And then something worse. Music, pouring down from above. It crept across his skin like fingers.
Ingrid’s flute.
Gabriel grabbed Horace’s hand. “Run,” he said. “Out the front.”
Horace snatched up April’s hand. The jar of crickets slipped loose. The humour bloomed from Gabriel’s staff and erased the world just as the jar shattered on the ground.
They ran.
“Out the front?” Horace said into the gray, as Gabriel dragged them on. He led them at a quick trot, knowing that Horace and April would struggle to sprint full-out while blind. “Through the Great Burrow? But aren’t there Riven there?”
“Judging by the sounds I heard earlier, yes. Plenty. But no Ingrid, and no Kolfirin.”
“The crucible dog?” puffed Horace, struggling not to stumble. “But you can protect us from the light. You’ve done it before.”
“Ingrid knows we’re here,” said Gabriel. “Even if we got past them, there would be a pursuit. One we would not escape. There’s only one way we can separate ourselves from the Riven now, and it’s through the Great Burrow.”
Vithra’s Eye. The Nevren. If they could get across the water, the Riven would be unable to follow.
They ran. They were running blind, Horace knew, Gabriel unable to see what lay ahead of the humour, and April all out of crickets. But Horace trusted Gabriel to take whatever cautions he could.
“Stay tight,” Gabriel said. “Watch your step.” Horace knew they were now navigating the narrow bridge that crossed the deep chasm of Maw. Nerve-racking, but at least the Maw’s raging wind couldn’t be felt in the humour.
“Steps,” Gabriel said a half minute later, and they began mounting the Perilous Stairs. Horace’s legs burned. Behind him, judging by her grip, April seemed to be moving strong. If anything, Horace felt like he was slowing the group down.
And then a growling roar filled the humour. A Mordin. Gabriel yanked his hand away, and there was a brief, distant scrape of scuffling feet. Then a howling, angry scream, suddenly cut off.
Someone lifted Horace’s hand again. “Watch your step,” said Gabriel. “I’m told it’s a long way down.”
Up they went until at last they reached flat ground. Gabriel steered them sharply to the right. “Wall,” he said, releasing Horace. Horace let go of April and felt for the wall. He slumped against it, heaving. From here, he knew, it was a straight shot through the stone forest of the Great Burrow to the shores of Vithra’s Eye.
“This won’t be easy,” Gabriel said. “I know my way, every inch of it, but—”
April’s voice popped out of the gloom. “Bird,” she chirped.
“What?” said Horace.
“Birds, I mean,” said April. “Outside the humour. They’re here. They’re alive.”
She must have meant the birds from Mr. Meister’s office. Somehow some of them were still alive—much to the Riven’s dismay, no doubt.
A hand swatted at Horace, grasping. April. He took it. “Left!” she cried. “Go left.”
They sprang from the wall and hurried on, with April and her birds as guide, half sneaking and half running through the Great Burrow. From the sound of it, the Riven were everywhere. Horace was almost glad he couldn’t see it. Twice he heard the distant hiss and pop of a Ravid materializing somewhere in the humour—the Riven knew they were here. But Gabriel kept them safe.
“Rocks here,” said Gabriel. “From when the keystone collapsed. We’ll have to climb.”
The collapse of the keystone, Horace knew, had been the Warden’s last defense against the invading Riven when the Warren fell. And judging by the huge pile of jagged rock he clambered blindly onto now, it had been a mighty collapse indeed.
They made it over the top. Horace fell and scraped his arm, but April’s firm hand pulled him to his feet. They stumbled on until Gabriel brought them to a halt.
“They’re coming,” he said heavily. “Some of them are already in the humour. The water is just ahead. Step out and start across while I hold them back.”
“But what if there are Riven on the other side?” Horace cried.
“There aren’t,” April replied, chin tipped into the air, her gaze foggy and faraway. Horace was dumbfounded for a moment, and then he remembered. The owls of Vithra’s Eye. What they knew, April knew. And they knew the way ahead was clear.
Horace squeezed April’s hand, and they stepped out of the humour together. Horace yanked his jithandra free, stepping up to the water’s edge. Behind them, the great rockfall at the mouth of the Great Burrow was unseeable, hidden behind the wrinkle of the humour. Horace turned to the dark water, hesitating.
Only a Warden could cross Vithra’s Eye. But Horace had never done it alone. The Nevren that lay waiting for them over the darker waters had been too powerful for him, too debilitating. But not today. He dipped the glowing tip of the jithandra into the pool. Immediately the water began to gather and rise around it, seething, becoming solid. It turned blue and slick. He stepped onto it, testing his footing, sliding the jithandra farther out. The path held, and grew.
“Let’s go,” he said.
They went, April clinging to his shirt. The path extended, the water firming itself for their passage in the wake of the jithandra. It wouldn’t last forever, this path. Just long enough to let them through.
But what about Gabriel?
They’d made it about twenty feet, the blue path already dissolving back into water behind them, when the humour came down with a roar. There was Gabriel, and a crowd of ranging, groping Riven—Mordin and Ravids alike. Now they saw Gabriel, and turned to him. The Mordin bellowed.
Gabriel ran for the shoreline. But he couldn’t see. Two Mordin charged after him, gaining ground fast.
“Here!” Horace cried, and Gabriel veered toward his voice. At the water’s edge, he leapt. A Mordin swiped at his feet, knocking him askew. Gabriel careened through the air, pinwheeling, clinging to his staff. He landed hard on his knees at the back of the blue pathway, falling, his legs sliding into the water. He cried out in pain, clinging to the slippery blue surface. April reached down, grappling with him, pulling him aboard.
Gabriel’s pant legs were in tatters. The brown skin beneath shone with blood. “Go on,” he gasped. “On.”
Horrified, Horace pressed on, dangling his ji
thandra, carving the way across the dark water. A Ravid suddenly popped into existence at the back end of the trail, mere steps behind Gabriel. An owl darted in from the darkness, swooping at it, screeching. The Ravid stopped to fight back, snarling, and as it did the blue patch it was standing on dissolved, dumping it into the water. The Ravid screamed, splashing, and then vanished with a hiss, reappearing on shore. It danced and howled with the other Riven gathered there. Behind them, Horace saw Ingrid emerging from the Great Burrow at a run. Behind her, a sick shimmer of green light began to grow.
Horace turned his back on them, and on the green light of the Kolfirin. His jithandra plowed through the water. A moment later, a coldness began to clutch at him, though it wasn’t cold at all. The Nevren.
And then suddenly he couldn’t feel the Fel’Daera. It was gone from him, all gone. He was nothing without it, but he made that nothing keep walking, still dangling the jithandra. And whose jithandra was it? What was the point? He had lost something, something important he could not remember, and he did not want to be without it. Not ever. He did not want anything anymore.
Angry cries, far behind now. But he didn’t care, whoever it was. There was no caring. Anger couldn’t touch him. The only thing was to walk, into or away, it didn’t matter. Just walk.
And then warmth. The cries fading now. And suddenly the Fel’Daera bloomed to life again as the powerful river of the Medium once again began to flow. Horace took a great breath—Horace, yes, Keeper of the Fel’Daera. He began to cry.
Behind him, he heard April gasp, and then an exhausted sigh of relief from Gabriel. They were through, all of them. The far shore of Vithra’s Eye was ahead, deserted. Horace could just make out the three archways that stood here, leading up and out, one of them to the Mazzoleni Academy directly above. And owl swept past them, hooting softly. The blue path continued to seethe and grow, until at last they stepped ashore.
Horace collapsed. He extinguished his jithandra and fumbled to pull the Fel’Daera from its pouch. He cradled it to his chest. He felt the astrolabe brooding steadily in his pocket.
“You did it,” April said, gasping down at him, hands on her knees. “We did it.”
