The Seared Lands

by Deborah A. Wolf

  Sometimes the scouts set out and did not return at all, or they returned bitten and were put down by their sisters and brothers before the change could take them.

  The lives we had are over. There is no hope for us now but to leave the Seared Lands forever.

  She knew this, felt it in her bones and fingertips, heard it in the empty wailing wind through the passageways. If we brave the shadowed roads, many of my people will perish— but if we attempt to remain here, we will all die. But how to convince her people of this truth, when they had followed in her footsteps the first time and had come so near to ruin at the hands of mere Edgelanders? How could she make her own counselors see the naked truth, when she herself did not yet reach past any of their chins?

  That very afternoon Counselorwoman Lehaila had been caught trying to bolt with the remaining three shadowmancers, and Maika had had no choice but to call for her execution. Now she must, as was her duty, bear witness to the death of a woman whose greatest crime was giving into the fear they all shared. She could almost wish that the Araids would find and kill them all before she was forced to do this thing.

  Counselorwoman Lehaila was dressed in the sky-blue and gold of one who was to be surrendered to Akari. A blue hood covered her head, and golden slippers graced her large feet. Those feet were splayed and strong, in the proud stance of a woman who had run miles in a youth spent in service to her people. In the end, she would have abandoned them, though, and such an offense no queen could pardon. Most especially in such dark days as they faced now. The woman had left her no choice.

  No choice, she repeated firmly to herself as they bound Lehaila hand and foot to the red iron rings that had been set into a cobbled stone courtyard in ancient times, perhaps for this very purpose. She clenched her jaw and widened her eyes to keep them dry, lest the silent, grim crowd see her grief as doubt, and take tears for weakness. I have no choice. She did this to herself, not I.

  Never, she knew, never would those words ring true. There was always a choice, though seldom, it seemed to her, much joy in the choosing.

  When offerings of oil and meat, salt and manna water had been piled around the counselorwoman’s feet, when Lehaila’s weeping children had been led away, Maika took the last few steps to stand by her side. There, finally, she hesitated. She had been advised to give a grand and stirring speech—had been up all day and half the night composing it, in fact—about courage and sacrifice and remaining together as a people in the face of danger. Now that she saw the woman trembling in fear, Maika found she had no heart for queenly words or wise remonstrations.

  Her eyes followed the thick manna-root rope that snaked up the rift walls all the way to the bare, burnt surface of her ancestral lands. Standing here in the Edge, the rifts and canyons and tunnels that made a world for them were much closer to the surface than those in Saodan; Maika could, if she raised her face to the sky, make out the stars high above and the faint bruise-purple edges of a dying night.

  Unbidden a memory came to her of a day, not many years past, when she was small and alone. She had broken her arm in a fall down some stairs. She hurt, and she missed her auntie Yaela, and the nurses found her inconsolable. Counselorwoman Lehaila had come to her rooms, though she was a busy woman with duties to Quarabala and children of her own. Lehaila had brought sweets, and a doll carved of manna root, and a book written by the warrior-poet Maika, for whom she had been named.

  “Forgive me,” Maika whispered to the condemned woman, “I cannot do this.”

  “You must,” Lehaila whispered back harshly. “You cannot turn back now, not if you are to lead our people. And you must lead them, you must. I was wrong and I knew it. It was wrong of me to—” She choked on the words, chest heaving. “Please just… just get it over with. My queen. I am sorry. I—”

  Maika held up one hand, begging the woman to silence. Then she beckoned Tamimeha and her grim warriors forward and they came. The hood was drawn over Lehaila’s weeping eyes, and the end of that long rope fashioned into a crude harness and tied about her torso. Finally Tamimeha kissed the counselorwoman on both cheeks, a formal farewell. She stepped back from Lehaila—they all did—and the rope went taut as unseen hands hauled at it. Like a bird in the stories Lehaila began to rise, slowly at first, twisting this way and that as they hauled her up to the surface of the world, and to her doom.

  “Forgive me, my queen!” she wailed. “Forgive me!”

  Maika made herself stand and watch as Lehaila rose to meet Akari, refusing her eyes the comfort of darkness, refusing her heart the comfort of a turned cheek. When Lehaila reached the surface she would be free to cut her bonds with the small knife tucked into her waistband and run, though it would do her no good; dawn would bring her death by fire. Or she could choose, as was more usual, to end her own life by the blade instead.

  There is always a choice, Maika reminded herself. She clenched her fists till the nails dug into her palms, as if sharing the condemned woman’s agony might somehow absolve some small portion of her crushing black guilt. She made hers, just as I have.

  The crowd roared in horror as Lehaila made her choice: she plunged to the ground wailing, clawing at the air as if she might catch it, bright blade of her knife falling before her like an omen. She had chosen neither death by fire nor by the blade, but had sawed through the rope as it hauled her to the surface. She hit the ground with such a sound as would haunt Maika waking and sleeping for whatever time remained to her. Lehaila’s bright life burst forth to spray upon the stones, splattering Maika’s robes and staining her golden slippers a dull red. The horrified crowd of witnesses gasped, or wept, or turned away. Many of them glanced at their queen as they did so, with looks of respect, of awe, of fear or anger or a combination of the emotions of which human mouths are too small to speak or hearts to fully encompass.

  Maika stood sick and stunned, whispering to Lehaila that of course she forgave her, that of course she would not do this terrible, unthinkable thing.

  The young queen did not return to her temporary rooms immediately after the execution, but wandered listlessly down the corridors of the ancient city, trailing her fingers along the gritty walls and sneezing at the stone dust. She was trailed by a handful of Iponui, their painted bodies glowing dully against the gloom. There were no torches here, no kitchens or dancing rooms; the Edgelanders seemed to lack the imagination necessary to build a life of comfort for themselves, preferring instead to leave the world as drear and joyless as they found it.

  “Your Magnificence?” A warrior whom Maika did not know jogged up from the group.

  “Yes?” Maika did not stop or turn her head to either side, but continued to stare straight down a long and narrow corridor half filled with the rubble of recent earthquakes. A chill wind caught at her ankles, and she suppressed a shudder.

  “Are you… are you well, my queen? Would you not care to return to your rooms and rest? If you are unwell, I can send a… a healer, an Illindrist—”

  They think me weak, Maika thought. Too weak and too young to fulfill my duties as queen. The idea saddened her, but her tutor Aasah would have said that the illusion of power is power, so she continued forward as if she knew where she was going.

  “No,” she said. “I wish only to commune with my ancestors, to be blessed and cleansed by their presence. You may leave me.”

  “But your—your Magnificence—surely some few of us should remain with you—”

  “I said you may leave.” Maika cut her eyes sideways at the woman and allowed her irritation to show. “Who would dare to attack me as I speak to the shades of those queens who have gone before me? Would you?” She shook her head fractionally and increased her pace, letting the woman fall behind her. Let them whisper, let them think me mad. Maika had no time for their political games. The Iponui drew back, muttering among themselves.

  Maika turned a corner and was alone at last. She took a long, shuddering breath, finally allowing herself to feel the fear which had gnawed at her heart since Lehail
a had been brought before her, and since she had sent the woman to her death. Though she had spoken of the ancestors only to rid herself of the warriors’ presence—she truly wanted nothing more than to be left alone so that she could have a good cry—the desire rose in Maika to do just as she had said; to call upon the spirits of her ancestors, brave queens who had survived much worse than this, and beg their intercession. As the notion took hold of her, Maika’s steps quickened till she was nearly running. She ran from the guilt and horror of Lehaila’s execution, and ran, so it seemed to her, toward a desperate hope.

  It did not occur to Maika, for she was still young and new to the ways of the world, to wonder whether she was following the desires of her own heart or the lure of a greater will.

  My ancestors will know, she thought as she ducked beneath a low arch and wound her way through dust and rubble. The dawn had come, searing the land high above, and though unlit by torch or fire or magelight the path was clear enough for Maika to follow. Surely they will know the way. Surely if I ask, help will be given.

  The others would perhaps assume that she had gone to the ancestors to seek forgiveness, but Maika told herself— again—that her soul bore no guilt. Lehaila had tried to save her own hide, and in so doing had imperiled not only those shadowmancers she had persuaded to flee, but whatever thin hope there was of saving her people.

  Lehaila will be the last of us to die. I will save all of my people, she thought, to the least and last of them, to the newest and weakest of suckling babes, to the tiniest white-haired grandmother. This time, there would be none left behind. Whether they wished to join the exodus or no, whether Tamimeha attempted to forbid her or no, Maika was queen of Quarabala, and her will would become truth. I will lead my people to safe lands, she vowed in the halls of her ancestors, or I will die trying. Die trying.

  Die trying.

  Die trying.

  A whisper stalked the narrow passageway like the echo of her own thoughts, or the laughter of some ancient and awful thing. It surprised Maika, jolting her from the tranced daze through which she had run and causing her to stop short, nearly tripping over her own feet. She stood bent at the waist, gasping for air and trembling as if she had run for hours.

  When Maika came back to her senses she found herself staring at a wall inlaid with a silvery spider’s web so bright that artisans might have laid it into the stone that very day. Beneath the symbol was etched a name: Na’eth. Illindra’s web, she thought, studying the gleaming web. This was a holy place, once. Aasah had showed her such a symbol, when she was very young, and had told her what that name meant. Indeed, he had warded her eyes against the glamour which would have hidden it from ordinary folk and had instructed her as to what a queen might do, had she courage and a desperate need.

  Her palm where it had touched the web stung, and her stomach felt queasy. There was magic here, dark and sticky; a deadly trap. Maika knew that she should turn back and run all the way back to the rooms in which she was housed, but her feet refused to move. She swallowed the bile of growing terror. Knowing the magic was there did not make it easier to withstand.

  Touching her fingertips to thumbs she linked her hands together in the symbol of Illindra’s unity and pressed them to the web’s center. That portion of the wall into which the web had been set slid silently back a pace, the magic still fresh after these many years of men. Maika took a shuddering breath and then stepped forward, into a narrow passage, dark and deep and secret.

  The passage led only one way, for a short distance, and ended in a smooth round chamber with a small arched doorway in the far wall. Directly before her, the thin and wavery light of an ancient mage-torch revealed the statue of a woman, stern-faced and lovely, with hair in tidy locks that extended nearly down to her feet. She was armored as if for war. At her belt she wore six knives, the hilt of each fashioned after some bird or animal the likes of which Maika had never seen. A lyre was strung across her shoulders, her booted feet were set shoulder-width apart, and both hands were held up, palms out toward Maika, in a clear warning.

  Go back. Do not pass.

  But pass she must; if Aasah’s teachings were true, this sorcerer’s path—for such ways were used only by those blessed of Illindra—might reveal to her some power or tool which would help lead her people to safety.

  Maika edged around the statue of the ancient queen, wondering if perhaps this was some ancestor of hers whose name had been written in the dust of time. Drawing a long, shuddering breath, she hunched her shoulders forward and stepped through the narrow doorway, pausing only to snatch up the mage-torch. It brightened at her touch, giving off a wavering red light which did little to dispel her dread.

  When he had told her of Illindra’s silvery web and what might lie behind such a symbol, Aasah had given her a warning.

  “Old ways lead to old things,” he had told her, “and many old things are best left undisturbed.”

  Maika continued down a path trodden by who-knows-what and who-knows-whom in ages past, looking neither to the left nor the right. It grew narrow and wild, as the stone beneath her feet rough. The walls and arching ceiling closed in and the air was sharp with secrets and the spores of dark fungi. A sudden right, and then right again, and without warning the passageway opened into empty space over her, and under her, and to either side, as if some great thing had taken a big bite out of the flesh of the world and left a jagged void.

  Maika paused on the threshold of a dark place. Her breathing was fast and raggedy, her heart bounced around inside her like a child’s ball. Her voice trembled as she called out, “Na’eth, it is I.” For so were named all the daughters of Illindra whose ancestors had fallen to this world from Illindra’s web in time long lost, and with whom the Kentakuyan queens of Quarabala claimed ancient friendship.

  For what seemed like a very long time there was no answer, no noise save the blood pounding in her ears, nothing to see save the dark and the trembling torchlight. Then came the wind whispering down the passageways, thin and dry as cobwebs. It rose in volume and passion, shishhhing and shusssshing and swirling with noises like words.

  Closer, closer the wind howled, and Maika realized that the air was not moving; her torchlight never wavered but for the shaking of her hands. It was not the wind at all, but the whispering of Araids, and they were coming for her.

  Maika shuddered as the light of her torch picked up a faint gleam, there and gone and there again. Glittering orbs bigger than her hand, her head, in clusters and rows and circles they appeared, steadied in the irresolute light, and approached. There was a noise like swords and knives clashing, and the gleam of light on cold metal as three lesser Araids crawled into her circle of light.

  Monstrous they were, taller than many rooms, wider than doors, red-and-black striped legs gleaming metallic and hard with living armor. Their eyes twitched horribly as they focused on her, mouth parts moving as they considered the savor of her human flesh. Each had raised a pair of brass-haired legs and were rubbing these against their abdomens. This was the source of the not-wind sound she had heard.

  The Araids spoke in whispers.

  Whispers and death.

  “It is I,” Maika said, and it came out as a squeak, courage failing as it always did. This time, she knew, there would be no reprieve; this time she would be eaten by these spiders made of swords. “It is I, Maika, queen of Quarabala. I am come to speak to Na’eth.”

  At the mention of that name, the three monstrous forms rose up, forelegs waving madly, whispering and chittering. One of them, the largest and most fiercely striped, scuttled forward, needle fangs longer than her legs poised to strike—

  “Hissssst. Hissssssst. Ach, my children, be still. Be gone. Na’eth would speak with this small beast.”

  The voice that rolled across the void was no wisp of wind, no hairy scratching, but a low rumbling growl like sweet water rushing over rocks. The three Araids froze as if they had been turned to stone, and then with a scuttle and a scrape and one last lingeri
ng glance backward they were gone.

  Maika could not help it. She dropped to her knees, and then to her face in the dust, shaking from lock to toe in the grip of black terror. When the cold wind came, she cried out, and when one foreleg as big around as a child reached out to touch her hair, she wept.

  “Hisssst, hisssst, little humanling. Ach now, ai now, no need for that. Na’eth will not eat you.” Laughter like fire through parchment. “Not this day. Not for many days, perhaps, perhaps.”

  Maika lay trembling in the dirt, unable to stand.

  “Enough, humanling. Rise with courage and face me, if you would call yourself Kentakuyan. Tell me why you have come to tempt the hungers of my children, and why I should not let them eat you.”

  Maika dragged her knees across the rock, forced her splayed hands to push her body upright, and at last stood on shaking legs. “I have come,” she said, “because I need to help my people. The Araids of the deep came for us with their Arachnists and reavers, so I have led my people here to the Edge. But we were attacked and now we are trapped. We do not have enough shadowmancers to lead all my people across the shadowed roads and into the green lands, and I… I have no power of my own.”

  Here her courage failed. What she thought to beg was forbidden, it was sacrilege. She screwed her eyes tightly shut.

  “Ahhhhhh, humanling. I know what it is you would ask. You wish to see.”

  Maika drew a deep breath, the deepest she had ever taken. She stilled the shaking in her knees, the quivering of her heart, and reminded herself that she was a queen. She opened her eyes and looked up, up.