The Crosser's Maze (The Heroes of Spira Book 2)

by Dorian Hart

  Kell gave him an incensed look. “What a horrid notion.”

  “Then forget I suggested it.”

  “How soon could you repair my furniture?”

  Ivan looked around his workshop, piled up with projects in various stages of completeness. “Would two weeks be soon enough?”

  “Assuming I can keep my dining room from becoming a wrestling pit, it should be.”

  “Then have your boys bring over the pieces. Maybe I’ll get to them sooner if the repairs seem easy enough, but no promises. I’ll take six drams now; you can pay the rest when I’m done. I’ll send you an estimated total once I’ve assessed the damage.”

  Kell handed over the coins and turned to leave.

  “Kell. Do you have a moment?”

  Ivan’s voice had something new in it, something strange, reticent.

  “Is something the matter?”

  “No, I…I don’t know.” He paused, bit his lip, and glanced nervously at the floor. “Kell, do you ever wonder about this place?”

  “You mean your workshop?”

  “No, I mean the city. Calabash. And about what we’re doing here.”

  Kell frowned, confused. “I suppose. I’m still trying to figure out the different races of people who live here. And I wonder if another public house will appear as the wall moves back, cutting into my business—”

  “No, not that. Not that sort of thing.”

  “Then what?”

  Again, Ivan took a few seconds gearing up to speak. “Do you think about where you were before Calabash?”

  “Of course not!”

  “I know I shouldn’t, but…we must have come from somewhere. My studio and your inn, we know they appeared just over twenty cycles ago, at the same time as we did. But that means…shouldn’t that mean we were somewhere else before?”

  Kell couldn’t believe she was hearing this. “Ivan, there’s no point to those questions. Why would you think to ask them?”

  “I…It’s just that I…I’ve had these thoughts. Fleeting thoughts. As though all the details of a life before Calabash were locked away in my mind, but the door is opened just a crack. Sometimes I even think we knew each other during…whatever came before, and that—”

  “There was nothing before! Nothing that mattered. We are citizens of Calabash, the most splendid city ever to exist, and we do our part to make sure it runs smoothly. You should not even think about those things, let alone talk about them.”

  Ivan looked so worried, so bleak, she couldn’t maintain any real anger. “Perhaps you have taken ill. Sickness is rare in Calabash, I am told, but it is not unknown.”

  “Maybe. Never…never mind. I’m sorry I said anything. I should keep my mind on my work.”

  “Which is excellent,” said Kell. “I am lucky that we are in such close proximity—though I hope I do not need to use your skills with any regularity.”

  “I am always at your service,” said Ivan, somberly.

  Out on the street, Kell felt as though the chandlery stared at her back, plotting. She seldom saw the person who worked there, a reclusive little woman, but it was not the proprietor who caused this odd discomfort. It was the shop itself, as though the building were a creature that might reach out, open its front door, and swallow her up. She couldn’t even bring herself to turn around, to give challenge to its façade. She hurried back to the Sands of Time and returned to her room.

  Sitting on her bed and gazing out the window, watching pedestrians walk along Ruby Avenue, Kell’s thoughts turned to the odd nature of the City Vitreous. Calabash was doubtless a curious construction; every few cycles its great curving glass wall shifted outward, the newly-opened space filled in by an inexorable expansion of its houses, roads, shops, parks, museums, and pubs. That first morning the wall had been directly behind the Sands of Time, and the terminus of Ruby Avenue had been directly outside her door. In the twenty cycles since then, it had shifted back eight blocks, the nearby space filled in largely with homes, but also with a jeweler, a pastry cook, and a milliner.

  Not that the wall moved every cycle. Some cycles it remained where it was; others, it would move back by varying degrees. It never contracted; buildings never vanished. Why would the most splendid city in creation ever grow less?

  Of course she must have had a life before arriving in Calabash, but she couldn’t imagine anything less relevant. Likewise, plenty of mysteries remained regarding the city itself: who had built it, how the wall moved (and what might be on the other side of it), who had written its laws (which were few, and which she knew by heart), and why no one in it could die. But dwelling on those mysteries was a fool’s errand, an irresponsible waste of time and effort. Kell was the owner of the Sands of Time, an instantly prosperous public house, and it was her sole responsibility to see it operated efficiently.

  The next several cycles passed as efficiently as one could wish, thank the Autarch. Tables were full, the wine, ale, and cider flowed freely, and Carab’s food was excellent and oft commended. Telly suggested a number of tweaks to the prices of food and drink and thought it would be worth trying to negotiate a better deal with the butcher.

  After six cycles of the wall staying put, it moved back six whole blocks the morning of the seventh. The new space between the Sands of Time and the wall included a wide tree-lined park with a long narrow lake stocked with fish, and a dense row of houses occupied by goblins. The goblins arrived with fishing rights and a row of storefronts, which could possibly cut into Kell’s profits, but she wasn’t terribly worried. Calabash’s economy had a way of working itself out.

  Each night, when the light had faded to black, Kell fell asleep satisfied and woke the next morning full of energy, untroubled by dreams. The only hiccup in her peaceful life was that insidious chandlery across the street. Something illicit must be going on inside, but she had no desire to investigate. It wasn’t her business, however she felt.

  Eight cycles after the brawl, she went to visit Ivan again to see how the repairs of her table and chairs were coming along. She kept her head down, avoiding even a glance at the chandlery, and hurried into Ivan’s studio.

  “Tomorrow,” he said, without even looking up from his work, auguring holes into a short plank.

  “Excellent. Thank you. I’ll send Dar and Carab to pick them up.”

  Ivan finished drilling the last of a row of holes and looked up. “Late afternoon, I’d say. Anything else I can help you with while you’re here?”

  “No, I…” She trailed off, thinking. “Actually, there is one thing.”

  “You name it, I can build it. Or fix it. Or pretty it up. What do you need?”

  “It’s not—it has nothing to do with carpentry. It’s about—have you ever noticed anything strange about the candle maker next door? Anything sinister?”

  Ivan frowned. “Can’t say that I have. Theriza has always been kind to me. I’ve bought wax from her for some of my metal tools, and she doesn’t aim to make a single dram off of me. Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know. It’s that when I look at her shop…” She sounded silly, felt herself flush. “Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing. I’ve never met Theriza. Perhaps I should talk with her.”

  “I’m sure she’d like that,” said Ivan. “She’s old and loves to chat with customers.”

  Kell nodded. “I’ll send my boys over tomorrow before dinner. Thanks for the quick work.”

  Ivan returned to his augur.

  Was she being foolish? She had nearly convinced herself of it by the time she had reached the curb in front of the Sands of Time. But something tickled the back of her neck, sent a shiver through her shoulders. She turned resolutely and stared back at the simple storefront.

  Ruby Avenue Chandlery, proclaimed the sign above the front window. It was from that sign that the feeling of wrongness emanated, its thick black letters painted in an oddly stylized fashion onto a slab of wood. She couldn’t tear her eyes from it. The sign burned in her mind like a candle scorching her skin, but
still she stared, stared at it until tears coalesced at the corners of her eyes.

  Ruby Avenue Chandlery.

  Ruby Avenue.

  The letter v in Avenue was painted as a black triangle. It flared up in her sight as though someone had set it on fire, as though the triangle were a brand being pressed against her forehead, her eyelids—

  Sweet merciful Ell! Her Seer Dream! She had been standing on this very street, had realized the chandlery sign showed her the symbol of Ell.

  It all came back to her in such a rushing confusion of memory that she sat down right there on the curb, hands pressed to the sides of her head. She fought not to black out. Details of her life, people she had known, places she had gone, deeds she had done were a kaleidoscope of images and recollections that couldn’t be sorted out. For an unknown time she sat at the edge of the street, rocking back and forth, waiting for her brain to quiet.

  Eventually it did, calming bit by bit, her memories sifting themselves into a coherent order. Her name was Morningstar, a priestess of Ell, and she was on a quest with several others, searching for the Crosser’s Maze. They had been traveling through a jungle. There had been a hut, a green light, and some potent magic had transported them here, to the city of Calabash.

  The City Vitreous! They had found it—or had been brought into it, which served the same purpose. All of them had been transported; her employees in the Sands of Time were her companions from Horn’s Company. And all were trapped, living ants in amber, somehow in thrall to Calabash.

  Calabash. If Shreen was correct, the maze was here, somewhere in this strange expanding city.

  She forced herself to calm down, to think practically. The first order of business should be breaking the others from whatever thrall Calabash held over them, restore them to their right minds. But how? For her the symbol of her church had done it, and perhaps the Seer Dream that had presaged this moment. Would similarly emotional symbols do the trick for the others?

  Grey Wolf first. Ivan. This time, when she crossed the street, she offered up prayers of thanks to Theriza and her shop placard.

  “Did you forget something?” Ivan asked upon seeing her.

  Maybe just hearing his name would be enough. “Grey Wolf, yes, I did.”

  “Grey Wolf? What?” He narrowed his eyes but showed no sign of recognition.

  “Ivan, sit down. I remembered something very important we need to discuss.”

  “All right. As long as it won’t take too long. The table was easy, but I pushed your chairs in front of some other jobs I’d gotten sooner, and now I’m half a cycle behind.”

  “No, I hope this won’t take long at all.”

  “Fine. What’s on your mind?”

  “Ivan, does the name Grey Wolf remind you of anything?”

  “No. Should it?”

  “What about Ivellios?”

  Grey Wolf flinched as though the word had bitten him, then shook his head. “Why are you—”

  “Listen to me. Listen very closely. Your birth name was Ivellios, but you prefer to be called Grey Wolf. You come from a country called Charagan on the world of Spira, and we were friends, seeking an item called the Crosser’s Maze. You wondered yourself, several cycles ago, about your life before Calabash. Do you recall it now?”

  Morningstar was certain she had gotten through to him. He fixed her with an intense stare, as though trying to burn through the façade of reality that was Calabash and see his true identity behind it. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture she had seen him make many times.

  But what he said was, “Get out.”

  “But Grey Wolf—”

  “Get out! That’s not my name! I am Ivan, a carpenter on Ruby Avenue in the city of Calabash, the most splendid city ever to exist. The Autarch would have you beheaded if he heard that kind of talk. I should never have said anything the other day. Leave my studio! Now!”

  She fled.

  Was it the method that was poor, or had Grey Wolf been the wrong person to approach first? She herself had been jarred free by a visual symbol, but she had nothing to show Grey Wolf that might serve the same purpose. And the Ellish symbol on the chandlery storefront had been nagging at her for many cycles; perhaps it would take just as long to bring her friends around, even assuming that verbal reminders would suffice.

  Morningstar returned to her room on the second story of the Sands of Time. Abruptly, and with a dawning horror, she realized that it had been weeks since Horn’s Company had been transplanted into Calabash. Had it been nineteen days? She tried counting back the cycles but couldn’t be certain, and was a cycle the same as a day back home? Calabash had no sun. It could be on another world entirely.

  Previa would tell her. Morningstar sat on the edge of her bed and willed herself into the Tapestry.

  It wasn’t there. Calabash had no Tapestry. In the time since Morningstar had arrived, she recalled not a single dream. Where the dreamscape should have been, there was only a void, a black blot that ought to have been ablaze with sleepers and their dreams. She felt vertiginous, as though she had gone blind in one eye and couldn’t see the world properly. Being denied the Tapestry was as devastating as not knowing how much time had passed outside of Calabash.

  Once more she steadied her breath. She couldn’t afford to wait days or weeks to snap her friends out of their reverie. She’d just have to try harder, and she knew a good place to start. Inside the Sands of Time, Tor and Ernie cleaned up from breakfast—an easy task, as the morning meal attracted few customers.

  “Dar, can I see you upstairs in my room in five minutes?”

  “Sure!”

  While Tor hurried to finish sweeping the floor, Morningstar walked quickly to the back office where Aravia tallied the pub’s accounts.

  “Kell, how may I be of assistance?”

  “Can you set your books aside long enough for a quick meeting in my room upstairs?”

  “Is there something wrong with talking here?”

  “I would prefer my bedroom. Three minutes. It won’t take long.” One way or another, that will be true.

  Aravia, with Pewter on her shoulder, was on time nearly to the second, and Tor, wonder of wonders, was early. Morningstar dragged an armchair across the room and left it facing the bed.

  “I am your boss, and I am asking you to trust me. Telly, please sit in the chair. Dar, you sit on the edge of the bed facing Telly.”

  “Why?” asked Tor, even as he sat.

  “You’ll know in a moment.”

  “You have piqued my curiosity, certainly,” said Aravia.

  “Good. Now, I want you each to look as hard as you can into the eyes of the other, until I tell you to stop.”

  “Truly?” asked Aravia. “What an odd request!”

  “Truly,” said Morningstar. “Just do it. The reason will become clear in just a moment.” Ell, please let this work.

  Tor and Aravia stared at each other. She hoped that might be enough to spark a revelation but didn’t expect it. After ten seconds of both of them fidgeting awkwardly and blinking their drying eyes, Tor whispered, “What’s supposed to happen?”

  In for a chit. “Dar, Telly? Your real names are Tor and Aravia. My name is Morningstar. We all come from a place called Charagan, and we are on a very important errand for the wizard Abernathy.” She took a deep breath. “And you two are in love with each other.”

  Neither of them moved, but Pewter began to purr, loudly. An expression of profound confusion came over Tor’s face, followed by a comical widening of his eyes and then a broad smile.

  “Aravia! Yes! Aravia, it’s me, Tor. And…” He shot an embarrassed glance toward Morningstar. “And I am in love with you. Don’t you remember?”

  Aravia still hadn’t moved. She stared fiercely at Tor as though straining to remember a forgotten secret. Pewter frisked around her ankles. Tor and Morningstar both looked at her expectantly, and finally, after a good half-minute more, she jumped out of the chair.

  “Silver is speaking into
my mind! No…not Silver. Pewter. And you are…oh, gods, Tor!” She leapt from the bed and stood before him, reached for his outstretched hands, twined her fingers into his.

  “You’re back!” Tor exclaimed.

  Aravia kept hold of Tor’s hands, but her eyes unfocused, became distant. Morningstar feared for a moment that Calabash had regained its hold on her, but then she spoke.

  “Poor Pewter. Whatever attuned our minds to Calabash was not configured to account for an intelligent cat; his intelligence was suppressed. He still maintained an empathic bond with me, but I felt nothing for him beyond a normal human affection for a pet. Thankfully his acumen has returned along with my realization of our situation.

  “My immediate hypothesis is that we are in what Master Serpicore calls a pocket dimension, or sometimes a pocket reality. Whatever was on the table in the jungle hut transported us here. Gods, the power of the enchantment necessary for all of this must be immeasurable, without even considering the magic that replaced our conscious identities. I would love to understand how all of this works—but we do not have time to explore this place’s magical underpinnings.”

  “No, we don’t,” said Morningstar. “I don’t have any good sense of how long we’ve been here, and I don’t know how to find out. I’ve been cut off from Previa and the other sisters.”

  “Every world’s time runs differently,” said Aravia. “We know, for instance, that time runs slower on Volpos, where Naradawk is trapped, than it does on Spira. Until we get out, there’s no way to know how much time is passing back home.”

  “So it’s possible,” said Tor, “that no time at all will have passed when we get out of here.”

  “That would be the most optimistic outlook,” Aravia agreed. “Alternatively, a hundred years could have gone by on Spira.”

  Morningstar glanced out the window. “There is no point in wondering. Our first order of business should be freeing the others. I’ve tried Grey Wolf, but nothing worked; I don’t know any emotional trigger that would jar him loose from this city’s hold.”

  “Then let’s try Ernie,” said Tor. “I’m sure we can figure something out.”

  In the end it took about half an hour to free the staff of the Sands of Time from the strange mind-bending thrall of Calabash. For Ernie, a description of the Ventifact Colossus (and the carpet-flying heroics that led to its death) was sufficient. Dranko took a longer time; they spoke to him of Mokad and Praska, but that only evoked a reaction similar to Grey Wolf’s, an agitated insistence that they were talking dangerous nonsense. Even exhortations to recall his channeling of Delioch’s power were insufficient. Tor had the idea to try prompting Dranko to recall his terror when staring down the Blood Gargoyle, and that, either alone or in conjunction with their other efforts, had restored his identity.