The Thousand Names

by Django Wexler

  Feor sucked in her breath. “The Thousand Names,” she said, very quietly. “We have guarded it since the time of the kings of Khandar. The naath are inscribed there, to be read by the faithful when Mother judges them worthy.” There was a touch of awe in her voice. “I have only seen it once before, when I read my own naath.”

  “Where was that?”

  “Another cave, in Ashe-Katarion. Even among the priesthood, few knew of it. The Redeemers tried to find it, but could not.” She sounded uncertain. “Mother must have brought it here from the city.”

  Winter remembered a heavy cart rumbling toward the city gate on the day of the great fire, and nodded grimly.

  “She warned us that the Church would stop at nothing to gain it,” Feor said. “The minions of Orlanko have schemed against us for decades, and the Black Priests for centuries. They would take the power of the Names for themselves.”

  “I thought there were no more Black Priests,” Winter muttered.

  “They are hidden,” Feor said, with dogmatic certainty. “But still powerful.”

  Something flashed nearby with another horrible glass-cutting whine. Feor spun.

  “Onvi!”

  She ran into the smoke, forcing Winter to hurry to keep close behind her. Statues loomed to either side, wraithlike and monstrous. Ahead, light flared, and as the mists parted, Winter grabbed Feor by the collar to keep her from sprinting right into the open.

  Onvidaer stood in a fighting crouch, shifting his weight, ready to spring. Opposite him was a young woman it took Winter a moment to recognize—Jen Alhundt, the Ministry of Information liaison. What the hell is she doing here? Everything she’d heard about Alhundt, in spite of her title, said that she was a nonentity. And that she was sleeping with Captain d’Ivoire, though that hardly seemed relevant. But . . .

  She was smiling, a toothy wolf’s grin. And Onvidaer seemed wary. He feinted one way, then the other, then jumped almost straight up in a catlike pounce that took him over Alhundt’s head. She slashed her right hand vertically, and a wave of distortion fanned out, passing through space like a ripple across the surface of still water but with a sound like it was tearing the air apart. Onvidaer somehow twisted in midair, and the surface of the thing missed him by inches. He reached for her, and Alhundt’s other hand came up, palm out. A wall of sizzling white sparks crackled into being where the two were almost touching.

  Some trick of momentum held them there for an instant, a perfect still life in the wildly shifting light of the effervescent pinpricks. Then Onvidaer was hurled away. He struck one of the statues hard, his momentum tilting the stone giant into a slow but unstoppable fall. Onvidaer bounced away before it hit the ground, vanishing amidst the grinding crunch of stone and clouds of billowing dust.

  Alhundt’s attention was elsewhere. Following her gaze, Winter caught sight of Captain d’Ivoire peeking out from behind another statue.

  “I wondered where you’d gotten to,” Alhundt said, turning toward him.

  Winter managed to drag Feor back into cover before they were seen. The girl had gone stiff, her hands curled so tightly that her knuckles stood out as white spots under her gray skin.

  “It was her,” Feor said. “It was always her. Not your colonel. The minion of Orlanko.” She screwed her eyes tight. “How could she hide what she is?”

  “The Concordat are good at hiding,” Winter said. “Listen. I saw the captain down there, and the colonel might be with him. There’s got to be something we can do to help. Can Onvidaer beat her?”

  “No.” There were tears in Feor’s eyes. “He is a brave fool to even try. She holds one of the Great Powers. We have not dared such an incantation in centuries. Not even Mother.”

  “What about . . .” Winter waved a hand, trying to take in Feor, the library of steel tablets, the cavern full of ancient mysteries. “There has to be something!”

  “I cannot. I—”

  The screech of another shower of sparks drew Winter’s attention back to the battle. Onvidaer attacked Alhundt again, with as little effect as before, but the captain took advantage of the distraction to make a run for it. Winter could see another blue-uniformed figure with him. The colonel?

  Alhundt spun. Another rippling wave flashed out, chopping a chimpanzee statue off at the knees. It toppled toward the two men, exploding into fragments somewhere between them and obscuring her view with a roiling cloud of dust.

  “Damn it, Marcus!” Jen shouted.

  She spun back toward Onvidaer, but he was on her before she could face him, crossing the flagstones separating them so fast he was a blur. His hand grabbed for hers an instant before the field of sparkling light appeared. The incandescent magic washed over him, but he managed to hang on, flapping away from her in the supernatural pull like a flag in a stiff breeze. Alhundt screamed and brought her other hand around in a wild swing. There was a horrible tearing sound, and blood sprayed across the flagstones in a wide arc. Onvidaer shot across the room, to land somewhere in the mists. Alhundt collapsed to her knees, cradling her wounded arm.

  This time Winter wasn’t fast enough. Feor darted beyond her reach, headed in the direction Onvidaer had flown. Winter spat a curse and followed.

  • • •

  They found him where his flight had intersected with yet another statue. This one had had scorpion pincers, but not much else was apparent, since Onvidaer had hit it hard enough to blow the stone into a spray of a thousand fragments. Winter watched in stunned disbelief as the Khandarai youth struggled to his feet. Any normal man would have been the consistency of gruel after that impact, but Onvidaer didn’t even seem bruised.

  He wasn’t entirely uninjured, however. Alhundt’s swing had taken off his left arm, just below the shoulder, with as neat a cut as a surgeon had ever performed. He had his other hand pressed against the stump, but bright red blood was leaking between his fingers and dripping in a steady patter across the floor.

  “Onvi!” Feor pulled up short as she realized what had happened. “Heavens above—what are you doing?”

  He was getting down off the plinth, stumbling like a drunk, his previous grace gone. Winter stepped up behind Feor, who stared in wide-eyed horror.

  “Going . . . to fight her,” Onvidaer said. His breath was ragged. Up close, Winter could see he hadn’t come through the collision entirely unscathed. His bare skin was covered in tiny lacerations, and a hundred small cuts wept blood. “Mother . . . wants her dead.”

  “Mother wanted me dead,” Feor said. “You’ve done enough, haven’t you?”

  “You don’t understand. She’s one of them.” He coughed. “The Black Priests. The minions of Orlanko. We can’t let her have the Names.”

  “But you’re not going to stop her!” Feor shouted. She was crying freely now. “You’re just going to die. Onvi, you don’t have to!”

  He managed a brief smile. “Mother’s . . . orders.”

  “Then why did you spare me?” Feor sobbed. “What was the point of . . . of anything?”

  “Didn’t have a choice.” He shuffled closer, and Winter tensed, but he only bent awkwardly and kissed Feor on the forehead. It left a bloody smear. “Mother was wrong then. But she’s . . . right this time.”

  “But—”

  “Feor. Listen.” He shifted his grip on the stump of his arm, blood falling like heavy rain. “I can’t stop her. Maybe . . . hurt her. Distract her. A little longer. But you can.” She met his eyes, and Winter could see something pass between them. “You understand?”

  “But . . .” Feor glanced over her shoulder at Winter, then back at Onvidaer. “I understand.”

  “Good.” He coughed again. “Take care. Little sister.”

  Then he was gone, running back toward Alhundt so fast there were yards between where one drop of blood splashed the floor and the next. Winter stood awkwardly behind Feor, not knowing what to say. The girl had her arms crossed over her stomach, head bowed, as if she wanted to shrink in on herself and disappear entirely. Winter tentatively
put one hand on her shoulder, and Feor flinched at the contact. After a moment she relaxed and let her arms drop.

  “Feor?” Winter said. “I didn’t follow . . . all of that.”

  “He’s gone to buy us some time,” Feor said. There was the slightest tremor in her voice, held tightly in check.

  “Time for what?”

  “I can . . . help. We can.” Feor looked up at Winter, her eyes still wet. The tears had cut clean lines through the grime and powder grit on her cheeks. “You wanted to help your colonel, didn’t you? You trust him?”

  Winter nodded uncertainly. Feor drew in a deep breath.

  “Even if it’s . . . dangerous?”

  Winter nodded again. Feor wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, smudging the grime across her face, and exhaled slowly.

  “All right,” she said. “Then come with me.”

  • • •

  They retraced their steps to the edge of the cavern, where the enormous steel tablets lay against the wall. Before, Feor had been filled with sacred reverence, reluctant to approach the things. Now she ran along the line, periodically stopping to stare at the lines of dense script. She stood on tiptoe, peering up into the gloom, then shook her head and moved on.

  Finally, close to the end of the row of metal slabs, she stopped. One finger traced a long line of script, her mouth working silently. When she reached the end, she looked up at Winter.

  “There’s something here that can stop her. I think. It hasn’t been used since long before I was born.”

  “Can you read it?” Winter said.

  “It’s not that simple,” Feor said. “Naath are jealous things. Mine would not tolerate another power in my body, and the conflict would certainly kill me if I tried.”

  “But—” Then Winter got it. “You can’t be serious.”

  Feor nodded grimly.

  “But . . . me?” Winter shook her head. “I’m not a—a wizard, or anything like that. I don’t even think I can read this!”

  “Only those of us who have been trained can read it,” Feor agreed. “But you don’t have to. You only need to repeat what I say, exactly. Then, when we reach the end . . .” Feor’s fingers ran across the marks on the tablet. “The last words of the spell are viir-en-talet. You have to remember that. I will guide you up to that point, and then you complete the naath yourself.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then you can confront her.” Feor looked away. “If you survive.”

  “Survive?”

  “Naath are not for the weak. The power coils around your soul like a serpent, and those who are not strong enough may be crushed by its embrace. I think that you will be strong enough, but . . .”

  “You’re not certain.”

  Feor nodded, still not meeting Winter’s eyes.

  There was a long silence. From somewhere out in the mist came the shriek and rip of magic.

  “Viir-en-talet,” Winter said. “Am I pronouncing that right?”

  • • •

  “Sit down,” Feor said, “and close your eyes.”

  Winter obeyed, resting against the cool surface of the metal. She leaned her head back and tried not to think.

  “Repeat what I say. Do not open your eyes. And whatever happens, do not stop before you have said the final words. Do you understand?”

  “I understand.” Winter’s mouth was suddenly dry.

  “Very well.”

  Feor paused, then started to intone the odd words of the language of magic. She spoke slowly, emphasizing every syllable. There were no pauses or breaks, just a continuous stream of sound. Winter repeated each word a moment later. “Ibh-jal-yat-fen-loth-see—”

  Suddenly she felt monumentally silly. It all seemed like an enormous practical joke, Feor’s earnest voice running through volumes of nonsense words carved into steel by some long-ago shyster. Certainly Winter didn’t feel anything, no more than she had at the Prison, repeating the Church hymns and prayers by rote.

  If this doesn’t work . . . If it didn’t work, she had no idea what she would do. Hell, I don’t know what happens if it does work. There was no kind of a plan. She was running through a fog, one hand waving blindly in front of her, hoping not to crash into anything solid.

  Her thoughts had wandered. Winter hesitated, even as Feor went on. Was that “shii” or “su”?

  Pain lanced through her. Not the dull ache of her bruises or the hot agony from her side, not any of the fuzzy signals that reached her from the pile of meat, bone, and gristle that she called her body. This was sharp, silver pain on a level she’d never known existed, needles tearing into her essential self. It was everywhere at once—ripping at her stomach, clutching around her heart, driving in through the back of her skull—but she knew somehow that it was in none of those places.

  She wanted to vomit. It took an enormous effort of will to fight down her gorge and gasp out the next word.

  “Shii.” The pain abated, a little. Her memory offered up each word only after a fight. “Nan. Suul. Maw. Rith.”

  She heard—a million miles away—the drone of Feor’s voice slow down. There was no time to be thankful, no time for anything but the next word.

  As though the spikes of pain had shocked her into a greater awareness, she could feel the naath now. It wound around her like a great black chain, drawing tighter and tighter with every link she added. It was in her, under her skin, inside her bones, binding itself to an internal essence Winter had never even known she possessed. She realized, in that instant, that she would never be rid of it. How could she be? The chains were tightening until they were as much a part of her as her hands, her feet, her tongue. The thought brought a sudden panic, but this time her voice didn’t stumble. She could feel what would happen if she stopped, as well—the chains tearing away, ripping great chunks of her with them. There was no choice, not now. Finish or die.

  Feor’s voice was growing ragged. Winter wondered if she was tiring. She’d been speaking for what felt like centuries. But when the words started to come in gasps, she understood that it was pain she was hearing. The naath drew no fine distinctions between teacher and student.

  The end was approaching. There was a structure to the words after all, Winter could see that now, and they were building to a crescendo. Every syllable echoed along the fibers of her body, making them hum in unison. The agony had transformed into something else, halfway between pain and pleasure, the chains of the incantation wrapping around her tighter and tighter as her voice drew them together to weld the final link. The pressure of the thing was terrible. When she snapped that last link in place, she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to stand it. It felt as though her soul might shatter in a single instant of near-orgasmic relief, leaving the whipping strands of power to thrash like loosed hawsers and demolish whatever was left of her.

  It was terrifying, but there was no going back now. Stop, and the thing would rip her to pieces just the same. Winter mouthed the last few words as Feor fell silent. There was a pause that seemed to last forever, like the moment at the apex of shell’s trajectory, before it begins its terrible descent. In the roiling tumble of her mind, Winter saw green eyes, red hair, a sly grin.

  “Viir. En. Talet,” she said.

  Feor gave a shocked gasp, as though someone had punched her in the stomach. Winter felt the last link snap into place, the shivering tension as the thing squirmed across her, searching for a weakness. Little spikes of pain came and went as the energy squirreled around. Then, as it settled, she became aware of her body again. Her heart thumped so fast she thought it might explode, and her legs trembled and threatened to give way beneath her. She tasted blood in her mouth where she’d bitten her lip, and her jaw ached from tight-clenched teeth. She put one hand against the steel plate for support, finding its surface icy cold against her flushed skin.

  She opened her eyes.

  Feor lay in a crumpled heap at the base of the steel slab, her breathing fast and shallow. Winter automatically knelt beside
her, and nearly fell over herself when she tried to move. Her muscles felt as stiff as the morning after a forced march. She sucked at her lip and touched Feor on the shoulder. The girl’s eyes fluttered open.

  “Are you all right?” Winter said. Feor’s skin was far too pale, her normal gray lightening to almost ghostly white.

  “You . . . made it.”

  “I’m alive, anyway. I think it worked.” Winter could feel something different. The naath had worked its way into her, insinuating itself into the core of her being and sinking down like a toad at the bottom of a pond. It lay quiescent, for now, but she could feel it every time she took a breath.

  “It worked,” Feor said. “You’re alive.” She grimaced, her back arching, and her breath became ragged.

  “What about you?”

  “Don’t know,” Feor said. “Never tried this. Listen. Just . . . touch her. The abh-naathem. Call for the power.”

  “Call for it how?”

  “Will. Just . . .” Feor twisted again, her hands spasming. “Just will it to act.”

  Her breath hissed past clenched teeth, and she went limp. Winter caught her before she slid off the tablet and hit the ground. Her skin was hot to the touch, and her pulse hummed. Her eyes were screwed tightly shut.

  Bloody buggering Beast, Winter thought. What the hell do I do now?

  Chapter Twenty-six

  MARCUS

  Marcus could recognize a tactical stalemate when he saw one.

  Jen stood near where the Vordanai had entered, between two of the statues, where she would have a good view of anyone trying to leave. She didn’t want him getting outside to rally the Colonials against her, but she didn’t dare search for him for fear he might slip past her in the smoke. So she waited, and he waited with her.

  Which would be fine with me, under other circumstances. Given enough time, the survivors of the Seventh Company would organize some sort of rescue attempt. Or Mor and Val will, once the story gets around. No telling how long that would take, though, and in the meantime the colonel lay among the drifts of Auxiliary corpses, his crushed leg trapped under half a ton of stone. Marcus desperately wanted to wait by his side, but he didn’t dare. He couldn’t see Jen from there, and if she got too close . . .