She was is will be
moon mother tiger stone water woman wolf tooth sickle claw winter
human goddess more
falling, fallen.
The goddess tumbles to the desert floor, the goddess lies broken and bleeding in her many parts, and if she is always everywhere then she is always here, she is always dying, always the Craftsmen’s hands are inside her pulling out gobs of flesh, seizing her parts to force her story to their service. Her wings are flayed and she burns and—
—something is wrong—
Tara, for Tara was still, is still, here, felt terror larger, older than herself.
The goddess strained. She had built a hidden redoubt, a community of faith formed into a pocket through which Tara might pass and remain intact, but that pocket was in danger—
The moon that is a mirror of itself cracked and monks and mountains and sitters and spinners scattered all askew—
* * *
Matt didn’t recognize the ragged man as Corbin Rafferty until he spoke, until he shouted Ellen’s name over the silent market. His hair was matted, his beard tangled, but he pointed toward her, accusing. “Ellen, get down from there, what the hells are you doing?” and spinning to see the crowd, “What the hells are you all doing? Don’t you see what’s happening up there? We have to get safe.”
Ellen was afraid, and the crowd shook. Whatever was happening here, with the goddess, Matt was only on its edge, but Ellen stood at its center, and as she came apart so did the web she’d knit from these people—like a whirlpool in a sink stopped when you replaced the plug.
He ran to Rafferty. “Corbin, stop it. You don’t know what’s happening. Calm down.”
The eyes that stared up into his were sharper than he remembered Rafferty’s eyes being, and the hands that gripped his outstretched arms stronger, too. “Matt, that’s my girl. Don’t you step between a man and his family,” with man and family spat. “Ellen! We’re going home.”
Matt forced Corbin against the wall.
But when Corbin’s back touched the bricks, he snarled and went limp. Matt lost balance, stumbled forward. His nose struck Corbin’s forehead. Bone crunched. Corbin kicked Matt in the knee. He started to fold, refused to let himself. Caught Corbin around the waist with one arm. An elbow crashed into his shoulder, and again.
“Ellen, get down from there!”
“No,” she said.
“We are going home. Now.” So loud, so shrill, his voice was almost breaking. “You listen to me.”
“Stop it,” Claire said.
* * *
The demon that rode Umar made him blend with alley shadows and observe the Market Square, the gathered congregation of this little goddess, lending her their faith so she might perform miracles.
A girl stood on a dais before them, and the Lady of the Moon was with her. Through her ran a path to the goddess’s heart, to freedom. All he had to do was seize her, and drink.
The demon tensed Umar’s legs to run.
Then the shadows turned jade.
A thin man stood in the alley mouth. He wore a gray goat’s beard and mismatched clothes, and behind him—or in place of him, as if he cast a brilliant shadow or were himself the shadow cast by a greater form—rose an ibis head in green. The thin man’s cheeks were wet.
The mind the demon rode named the figure: “Hasim.”
“Do not speak my name,” Hasim said, “with his tongue. You debase it.”
The demon made Umar move, fast.
Hasim’s light moved faster. The ibis struck. Its beak passed through Umar’s chest, but did not pierce. It clutched the demon like a frog and drew it screaming from Umar’s body into the strange cold world where these fleshlings lived. Exposed, about to die, the demon fled—seeping through small holes in this alien world back to its own.
Umar opened his eyes. Hasim’s light stung them. They embraced, and kissed. Umar’s shoulders heaved once, a sob that strangled itself.
“It hurt,” Umar said.
“Not anymore.”
* * *
Claire, dependable Claire, the iron prop on which Corbin leaned, advanced upon him, full of rage. He released Matt, and sought the wall for support.
“Claire,” he said. “Ellen doesn’t know what she’s doing. We need to help her. Where’s Hannah?”
“Hannah,” Claire said, “is safe with Mr. Adorne’s family. Ellen is where she needs to be. We are not yours to order. We aren’t your kids anymore. You haven’t let us be for a long time.”
“Claire, the girls don’t know. The moon, she’s lying to you all. They need help.”
“I bought your line, Father. I helped you too damn much. I held all this together for you. I shored you up and I kept my sisters weak.”
“Claire!”
“You’re sick,” she said. “You’ve been sick a long time. You need help. You—you don’t get to order her, or Hannah, or me, anymore. This is Ellen’s place. You can’t chase her from it. If you try, I’ll stop you.”
Corbin’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“Matt,” she said. “Watch him. We have work to do.”
She left them, and walked to the stage, where Ellen stood in a ring of light. She took her hand, and the light healed, and the whirlpool turned.
The crowd prayed.
Corbin fell, and watched his daughters lead them.
* * *
—And as fast as the world skewed, it settled back. Tara sped through the goddess’s net. Those were her feet walking the moon road. She found firm footing on—what was this? More than reality. Surreality. The world above.
Whatever it was, she could walk it.
And because it was everywhere, each step brought her anywhere she wished to go—anywhere the moon answered to Seril’s name.
Wait. So I’ve been walking inside you—and you’re under attack in Alt Coulumb—so if you die there, then I—
I don’t know what happens in that case. You’re me at the moment, and I’m you, so maybe you die also. Or you’re stuck out here in god-space. Craftswomen ask too many questions about the unknowable.
It’s not unknowable. Just unknown.
There came a timeless silence.
Where do I get off, Tara asked.
Wherever I want, she answered herself.
Alt Coulumb?
Coming up. But are you sure there’s nothing you’d like me to fix, long as you’re here? A little guilt to absolve? Anger or self-hatred to rub away?
She felt revulsion at herself for even considering, but she heard laughter, too, high and clear.
I was just fooling. But I’m here if you need me.
I know.
Tara turned to leave the moon road, but hesitated, one foot hovering over eternity.
Yes?
Now that you mention it, this suit needs some work.
68
Little was left of Daphne Mains.
The machine built inside her defended itself. Wheels and wards, enchantments and escarpments and demonic intelligences spun against the Blacksuits who swept through the sky, and against one of them in specific, the claw-fingered angel who tore Daphne and was torn in turn. The machine needed more power, more speed, and it burned through Daphne’s shells, recruiting shards of her annexed soul for the war effort. Dreams, nightmares, fantasies, mirror-memories, all melted for the sake of speed.
Observer-Daphne, at the bottom of her mind’s well, felt parts of her she had not known survived grind in the machine.
She thought slowly.
Slower.
Drained of color, judgment, time.
Many hands speared Blacksuits in midair. Hurt them. Trapped them. Flayed the goddess from them. One Suit dove for Madeline Ramp instead of Daphne; Ramp raised a hand. The Suit bounced off an invisible wall.
Thoughts reached Daphne under deep water’s weight, when they reached her at all. The machine moved fast, though. She caught the winged cop around the throat. The cop tore free, bleeding. She caught her
again, one arm, then the next. Daphne grew two more claws, and her fingers sharpened to diamond points, to pierce.
Time went strange.
A voice spoke, over and beside the din.
“Apologies to the court for my tardiness.”
Daphne, inside herself, recognized that voice. Tara.
“Ms. Abernathy,” the Judge said, “you’re late.”
“I was delayed.” She stood outside the circle, on empty air. “I am sorry.”
She wore a suit of nacreous gray, as if pearls had been spun to wool and woven. Moonlight caught in her hair and on the curve of her cheek. She held a briefcase.
“Sorry,” the Judge said, “doesn’t cover it, Ms. Abernathy. Ms. Ramp and Ms. Mains at least comport themselves within the standards of the court—but these creatures entering themselves as representatives, Wakefield sniping from the sidelines, local authorities trying to arrest Craftswomen in my own circle—I won’t let you derail these proceedings further.”
“That’s fine, Your Honor,” Tara said. “I don’t mean to derail these proceedings at all.”
* * *
Tara looked at Daphne. It was hard to do that without letting the tears come. She could see what had happened to her now the wards were engaged, the enchantments woken, the demons risen from their slumber. Metal glinted through gaps in Daphne’s skin, and glyphwork Tara could barely comprehend. The parts of Daphne their old teacher hollowed out were filled with weapons and golemetric clockwork. The demons that wore Daphne’s face, many-armed, sharp-toothed, and glyph-inscribed, held two of Tara’s friends by the throat.
“Sorry, Daffy,” she said, and opened her briefcase.
“Ms. Abernathy, you are seconds from being held in contempt.”
“I’ll use those seconds wisely, Your Honor. Seril stands in Her own defense. I wouldn’t dream of interrupting a case in such an advanced stage of debate. I am here only to submit relevant documents to the Court of Craft.”
Ramp seemed tense. Tara liked that.
“Give them to me.”
The deal, calligraphed in Tara’s own hand, signed in Altemoc’s blood, floated past hovering gargoyles, to the bench. The Judge cleared her throat, produced reading glasses from her breast pocket, donned them, and scanned the deal.
“Speaking of irregular, Ms. Abernathy.”
“I understand your hesitation, Your Honor, but I assure you the document’s legitimate.”
“No payment involved?”
“Altemoc’s Concern has an unorthodox structure, Your Honor. They do not seek repayment from the direct beneficiaries of their dispensations.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I, really, but the fact remains: that document represents a transfer of assets from the Two Serpents Group to the Church of Seril Undying.”
“Very well,” the Judge said, and a spring unwound between Tara’s shoulder blades. “Ms. Abernathy, how are you supporting yourself outside the circle? You aren’t strong enough to fight Alt Coulumb’s interdict by yourself.”
She allowed herself a smile. “That brings us the next matter I wanted to discuss. Your Honor, Ms. Mains, dear guests”—that last addressed to the skyspires arrayed around them—“I’m afraid you are all trespassing.”
* * *
The fight’s pause let Daphne-under-shells think again, let her reclaim her mind from the machine. She felt a sudden tension when Tara spoke, the grinding of ill-meshed gears, the music of a dying engine.
The Judge frowned. “Go on.”
“Your Honor,” Tara said, “those assets represent airspace rights over Alt Coulumb, which have been the subject of tangled courtroom challenges for fifty years. You see, the sky above Alt Coulumb belongs to Seril. Kos claimed it after She died, but the King in Red of Dresediel Lex registered a competing claim based on salvage rights from Seril’s presumed corpse. With this transfer, that salvage claim has been formally relinquished; the King in Red’s airspace rights devolve to Seril. And now”—and the grin Daphne knew Tara thought she was hiding grew wider—“now Kos has dropped his competing claim.”
Lightning stripped and squared the circle. Thunder rolled.
“Your Honor, Seril Undying owns these skies, and She doesn’t care for your presence here—or the spires’ either.” Light trailed Tara’s finger as she gestured toward the crystal towers.
“Are you threatening the court, Ms. Abernathy?” The Judge’s voice was the voice of ages.
“Not at all. In fact, I believe the Lady is offering these spires’ owners, and the court itself, temporary tenancy agreements as we speak. Some might call the rent She’s demanding extortionate, but wait until we put this space on the open market. Trust me: the Alt Coulumb real estate market is absurd, and my client now holds rights to several hundred cubic miles of fresh territory. Ms. Ramp. Ms. Mains.” The moon pulsed with rage. The bonds that held the gargoyles shattered; their stone healed. Their eyes were bonfires within gems. The Blacksuits in midair unfroze, and the healed hosts of Justice assembled in arrays. The cop slipped from Daphne’s claws as if she were made of light. “If you’d like to continue your assault on my client, feel free. She’s feeling a bit more battle ready at the moment.”
What answer could Daphne give, or the machine outside her? The court itself acknowledged Seril’s rights to the sky. Easier to move the world without a lever than fight the court from within.
Tara had won.
But Daphne heard slow applause and recognized Ramp’s voice.
“Neatly done, Ms. Abernathy. But would you please refrain from declaring premature victory? It’s a bad habit.”
The machine in Daphne moved again.
* * *
Tara was caught by surprise. So was the Judge. The monster with Daphne’s face pointed, and lightning leapt from her to the paper that bore Tara’s seal, and Altemoc’s.
The document smoked—the bond of ownership unraveling as Daphne attacked the contract, the ownership trail of Seril’s sky. After decades of Craftwork wrangling, how could Kos renounce his claim?
Tara blocked, reinforcing the deal with Kos’s own testimony, with moonlit records in city stone, with the organic glyphs of Alt Coulumb’s streets: the God’s claim assumed His Lady’s death, but She was very much alive. His certainty stood as a wall against Daphne’s spears.
The spears became vines, became water, became worms that wriggled into Tara’s mind. Perhaps the spirit who called herself Seril was not the same as the Goddess who died?
But Tara fought back. Seril’s children testified, with their crystal teeth and their claws and their long memories. And Kos Himself offered surety in flame. One by one, with spiderlong fingers, Tara plucked up the argument-worms and burned them as they screamed.
The machine burned faster. Daphne cut through Tara’s argument: the goddess who fought in the Wars has changed to the point of death. She fought Craftswomen, and now employs them. She ruled, and now she hides. Her body was remade. Her mortal worshippers are gone, or long since converted to other faiths. She was a ghost surviving in a few monsters’ dreams. The being who emerges, reborn, is not the lady who fell at the King in Red’s hands, her blood smoking on his claws.
Blades of Craft pierced beneath the skin of reality, speared Seril Herself, and pried apart the seconds and ages of Her life. All Daphne’s might, all the court’s power, wedged present Seril from Her past.
Tara slipped beneath those blades, blunted them and redirected. Seril has changed, as I have changed, as you have changed, bitwise, slantwise, like the philosopher’s ship. But Her faithful call Her by the same name, and so does Her lover, and so do Her children. And so, by rights, She is.
Tara’s web closed around the blades, and hardened.
But still the machine in Daphne fought.
Seril now is Seril who was before, but Seril who was before is not Seril who is now. Seril is Seril and is not Seril. Tara is Tara and is not Tara. Daphne is Daphne and is not Daphne.
Webs of Craft refle
cted themselves, distorted.
Tara saw the discontinuity too late.
Craftwork logic, spun against itself, made a hole in the wielder’s mind.
And a demon stepped through.
Reflections bubbled in Daphne’s eyes, and the eyes themselves faceted, serrated, grew polygonal and inflated round again. Daphne became a cutout superimposed on the world. Much of her skin was gone, or shredded, but the thaumaturgical implements inside her now frayed, or turned on invisible axes to become writhing glass, devouring their complexity as the world tore.
Daphne’s lips peeled back, and back, and back. The corners of her mouth split to show fangs. In those fangs Tara thought she saw Daphne’s face, or her own, or both their faces melded and forever screaming. A choir sang music no human throats could make.
Tara tried to catch the demon’s edges, see its bindings. There were none. Ill-defined it passed through the portal of Daphne’s broken logic—limitless and hungry.
Cat leapt for it, wings spread. The demon pierced her and she fell. Demonglass caught Tara, skinned the moonlight from her, grew inward. She blunted its assault, defining the claws by their pressure on her skin and so destroying them—but space twisted as the demon overflowed itself, reshaping Daphne’s body to fit its expanded being, so fast it made itself faster.
The gargoyles fought, and Justice. Unreal blades cut down.
The demon grew so fast it seemed to be exploding: glass pierced Alt Coulumb pavement into bedrock, and more glass spread from the wound. A tendril darted left, impaled a nearby skyspire and began to suck. Crystal broke, and flight Craft failed, as the demon asserted new reality. It belonged here. Here belonged to it. Flyspeck Craftsmen fell screaming toward the city. Crystal shards rained down.
Bleeding, burned, caught in thorns, Tara imposed shapes and rules on the demon, but they slipped—it moved too fast for her to trap. Her shields broke. She made new ones. Her skin ripped.
Within her she felt Seril, and with her Kos, the silver light and the deep flame, and both were afraid.
Four Roads Cross Page 40
