by Scott Hale
After leaving the Bear, Vrana entered the Archive, greeted the librarians Lyre and Gul, who did the same from behind their masks of cat and hawk, and let the cool air of the building wash over her. The place smelled of knowledge, a scent not unlike the dusty odor found in the faded pages of ancient novels. Vrana marched toward the back of the building to a shelf from which she took a small book on grave digging. She brought the book to the center of the Archive and placed it in an empty spot on a shelf dedicated to Psychology. Small, imperceptible grooves locked the book into place. Requirements satisfied, she left the Archive, but not before taking a torn piece of paper from Gul’s outstretched hand.
Outside, the village teemed with life: Tired harvesters shuffled in from the fields as stoic watchers converged in the center, carcasses and artifacts slung across their shoulders. Even the children joined the homeward march, kicking up dirt and swinging their wooden swords while they boasted their bravery. Vrana ignored them, and when they’d gone, she snuck behind the Archive and followed the path there, to the four nondescript five-foot statues that stood at the path’s end and the mountain’s beginning.
She unclenched her fist and read the symbol on the paper: an “A” from the English alphabet. On the first statue, she pushed in a rectangular plate on its side. She moved to the second statue, analyzed the shape of the paper itself, which was also a hint, and pressed another plate at the statue’s base. The third statue she skipped, and the fourth she activated with the twist of a key wedged into a crack along its exterior. A soil-covered plate slid back. Vrana descended the ladder beneath it into the earthy darkness.
She didn’t know the location of the other tunnels, and the effort she had put into learning the mechanics of entering this one killed all further curiosities. Glowing stones filled the tunnel with pulsating waves of soft amber light. Vrana didn’t know if their placement was natural, but she was thankful for them all the same, as the tunnel often crossed vast chasms of black space towards its end point at Kistvaen’s base.
It was not a long walk, no more than half a mile, but occasionally Vrana heard voices in the dark, whispery and wet, making the trek seem as though it were ten miles. She minded her footing as she crossed the thin slice of stone that acted as a bridge over unseen waters below it. She had long since lost track of the amount of times she’d traversed this hazard, and yet she always felt an unease when she came to it, for this is where she most often heard the sinister sounds.
Nothing yet, she thought to herself, pausing to press her hand against one of the glowing rocks and stealing its warmth. Maybe I ought to try one of the other tunnels, she mused with a smile. Vrana pulled her hand away, and while she rubbed its heat against her neck, she felt her arm begin to tighten. Her wounds from the Horror of the Lake throbbed and pushed outward as though they meant to be free of her skin. Tempting whispers told in a vicious tongue filled her mask with sordid promises, each utterance a blow to her skull. She broke into a sprint and ran the rest of the way, the voices fading along with the bridge behind her.
“Out for an evening jog?” The shape ahead spoke, his words echoing from his silhouette farther up.
Vrana stopped to catch her breath. She picked up the closest rock and hurled it at Aeson.
He ducked; the rock soared over his head. “What was that for?”
Vrana glanced at Aeson and the Corrupted skull that he wore as his mask and then passed beside him, into the Inner Sanctum. Another wall, one created by her people, split the Sanctum in two and housed behind it the delicate and dangerous treasures of the past.
Vrana fell onto a bed of pillows and stared hard at Aeson from behind her mask. He stood unmoving at the entrance, his skull drenched in candlelight. Sometimes she forgot he was of the tribe, and sometimes she wondered if he felt the same. The first cramped partition, where they were staring at each other like mortal enemies, was his home. She was likely his first visitor this week, because Aeson had no family—only Vrana, the elders, and the familial tradition that saw him confined here—imprisoned here—among the bones of the earth.
“What happened?” he asked as she absently ran her hands over the wounds.
“Where do I begin?”
“Well…” He sat down beside her. “Now you have the scars you’ve always wanted. They do look tough, I’ll give you that.”
“They’re not quite what I had in mind,” Vrana said, adjusting the weight of her mask. “How goes things down here? Are the elders remembering to feed you?”
Aeson spoke through his teeth. “Are they remembering to loosen your chain when they let you out?”
Vrana cocked her head. “At least mine isn’t wrapped around my neck like a noose.”
He laughed and shook his head. “Who told you?” he asked.
“About the third trial? Bjørn,” Vrana said, flicking Aeson’s arm.
“How’d he find out?”
“Don’t let his manly exterior fool you. He can gossip with the best of them.” Vrana stopped for a moment, her eyes fixed on Aeson’s. “What would you have me do?” She took his hand and squeezed it.
“I need something from Ødegaard’s…” He trailed off, already feeling Vrana’s gaze tighten on him. “I didn’t know they’d make it your third trial, Vrana, I really didn’t.” He stammered through his words. “But—but I’m glad it’s you. I know you’ll do it right! I’m sorry.”
Vrana imagined her fist colliding with Aeson’s mouth. For someone who rarely interacted with others, he was especially skilled at turning the tide of a fight in his favor with just the right amount of sincerity. She looked at his face, or what little could be seen beyond the skull, and wondered if he ever roamed the village under a different guise, a different name, observing that which the old documents lacked and practicing it to a mastery for moments such as these.
She released his hand. “I thought we were friends. I know things have changed, but last time I checked—and maybe I need to check again—but last time I checked, friends usually do their best not to have the other one killed. I mean, I probably need to check again. Who knows what’s happened since I last checked.”
“If you say ‘checked’ one more time, I think I just might vomit.” Aeson stood up and stepped toward the avalanche of books and parchments against the partition. “It’s not what you think, Vrana,” he said as he cleared away the mess to reveal a desk. From a drawer he pulled a frosted glass bauble and a dagger bound in linen, both of which he discarded to the floor. “Here!” he exclaimed, shoulder-deep into the drawer. He rose up and began unfolding a square piece of paper, a map. “You can’t leave with this, but it’s better than going in blind.”
Vrana stood up and took the map, a blueprint of Ødegaard’s Hospital, and winced as her wounds began to ache once more. “If it’s not what I think, then why are you showing me this? I’m not supposed to see this.”
Vrana looked at the map intensely and committed every room, hallway, and staircase to memory, despite knowing that most of them would have now fallen to decay. On the fourth floor, the laboratory had been circled, the ink still wet on the paper. “What’s in there?”
“Research, a cylinder from a sealed room I’m certain hasn’t been opened in a very long time. At least, that’s what the watcher said.” He paused and cleared his throat. “I told the elders I needed it—there was a journal a few years ago that mentioned what was inside—but I didn’t know they’d send you. I’m grateful, because I know you can do it, but…” Aeson rambled incoherently for a moment, shrinking under the burning gaze of the Raven. “You know, I’ve never heard of anyone proving the stories to be true.”
Vrana interrupted and said, “Aeson, you’re trying to convince yourself, not me.” She gave him the map and took one final look at the Inner Sanctum and the wall guarding the room beyond, where death slumbered in vials and metal shells. “Don’t you ever worry about those things going off down here?”
“Better down here than up there.”
“I don’t think so.�
�� Vrana sighed. “I don’t blame you for this, but I definitely like you less for it. I want something in return when it’s done.”
He followed her to the mouth of the serpentine tunnel. “Of course, anything you want.”
“Good, because it will be something you don’t,” she said. The darkness of the tunnel swallowed her whole as she walked the hidden corridor back to Caldera.
CHAPTER V
Vrana was exhausted when she returned home from the Archive, so much so that she forgot to ask her mother for another mixture of Dreameater to hold the nightmares at bay. Blix followed Vrana into her room with the intention of being a nuisance, but he found that he could not rouse her from her slumber with even the most painful of pecks.
While it had been fatigue that brought Vrana’s head to her pillow, her dream kept it there. She stood in a rubble-filled field, the blades of grass that came up to her chest infused with the light of the grave sky above. Ghostly tendrils of smoke curled around her, like the fingers of phantasms beckoning her forward to unhallowed plots. Vrana shivered and wrapped her arms around herself to soften the bite of the wailing wind. She leaned forward on the tips of her toes to have a better look at her surroundings, and before she knew it, the ground began to move away from her, the shackles of gravity no longer keeping her down.
Vrana floated with trepidation through the gray Void, over black mounds and rattling woods. The fog was too thick to see much more than a few feet in front of her. Picking up speed, she tried to slow herself down, but she found her body unresponsive, indifferent to the damnation towards which it glided. The Void contracted, pulled her inward, and pushed her downward. Through the air and the fog she tumbled, stomach in her throat, to the wasteland below.
Vrana’s eyes watered as she plummeted through a noxious cloud of gas. Bracing for impact, she threw her hands out, only to pull them back as her body jerked upwards. Thorn-choked valleys and boiling craters passed beneath her as she hurtled towards a hill on the somber horizon. There, she saw a small house grown out of the hill’s crest, candles burning against the soot-covered windows.
“Oh no,” Vrana said softly as the front door creaked open. The young boy she’d saved was standing behind it, his father’s bloody heart in his tiny hand.
She forced herself to turn away from the house, doubling over as she did so from terrible cramps in her side. Behind her, the Witch waited, one finger outstretched in cruel judgment. Vrana strained herself to speak, but before she could find the words, she was falling once more, flailing wildly as she plunged into a yawning pit wreathed in millions of black flies.
All the air blew out of her lungs as she slammed into the bottom of the pit, and all the flies that waited there flooded her mouth and filled them up again. She wheezed and wept, and as she beat her chest, she saw through the swelling death an Ashen Man standing nearby. He looked upon her with contempt, raised his arms over his head, and willed his minions onto her, into her, and by their master’s decree, they ate at her mind and at her dream, until her mind went dark and the dream was no more.
Vrana told her mother everything, and her mother said nothing in response. Adelyn had spoken with the watchers, and neither she nor they could account for what was happening to her daughter. Desperate for an explanation, Vrana went to Aeson for help, and with a look of consternation, he told her he would consult the records of the Inner Sanctum for clarification.
“Maybe you should put off the third trial,” Aeson suggested as Vrana took one last look at the blueprints of the hospital. “You’re going to have to sleep on your way there. No one will be around.”
“I know I should,” Vrana interjected, dropping her head against his shoulder, “but you know I can’t.”
On the commencement of her third trial, Bjørn stopped Vrana at the outskirts of Caldera and returned the ax, which looked untouched (“You should bring a bow, girl,” he mumbled). She brought the Skeleton’s key with her, although she didn’t hold out much hope that she would find a use for it. The people of the village laid out food for the journey, and Vrana took what she could carry in the four satchels at her side.
Adelyn saw Vrana off with a kiss and a hug and slipped two potions, one green, another yellow, into her pocket. She told her daughter she would see her soon, and though Adelyn’s mask hid her face, Vrana knew she spoke these words with tears in her eyes.
It would take four days traveling northwest from Caldera to reach the hospital. A horse could shorten the journey, but it would draw unwanted attention that would have to be answered with violence. The field warmed her feet, and the forest smelled fresh, as it always did. The sounds of the village died away, and so did Vrana’s sense of comfort. The other trials had been different, for they were frequently discussed and hardly varied between the participants involved. The third trial, however, was unique, and it most often served an immediate need of the tribe, making its requirements impossible to predict.
Toward the end of the first day, near the continent-spanning highway, the Spine, a crimson glint from a hollowed-out tree caught Vrana’s attention. Inside, she found the leathery corpse of a man whose throat had been slit, the chain of the necklace he wore wedged into his wound. Vrana bit her lip as she worked the piece of jewelry from the man’s neck. Holding it up against the sun, she saw that the red gem it bore was held within a silver tangle of worms. It felt heavier than it appeared and irritated the palm of her hand, as though she were allergic to the metal.
“You’ve no use for it,” Vrana said, dropping the necklace into a satchel, “and it probably wasn’t yours to begin with.” She smiled at the hypocrisy of her own statement.
Feeling exposed and hearing footsteps, Vrana retreated back into the forest, behind the curtain of vines that hung from the trees like loose strands of hair. The entire area looked like an oil painting, deceptively coherent from a distance but, up close, chaotic and alive with points of color. Grumblers grumbled as they passed beside her; three inches from the ground, their black eyes were always fixed on their feet, making sure that they never stepped on their long coats. Above her, birds called to one another in a hundred different languages, their feathery shapes dark fangs against the sky. Vrana dipped her hands into the stream that cut through the trees and splashed the water under her mask, against her face, startling the starving leeches waiting idly in the shallows.
On the second day, she woke to a gray-sky morning, well-rested and clearheaded. She ate some of the food she had with her, caught a rabbit by chance and ate that, too. In the afternoon, she came to a small pond where a naked man sat, fishing its sparkling waters. The Corrupted was gaunt but proud, and seemingly indifferent to the observable fact that he would be dead in the next few days. Vrana was uncertain as to whether she should kill the man, and the man appeared uncertain as to whether he should run or wait it out. Later, after she left the Corrupted, Vrana decided it had been unwise to have let him see her and live to tell others of her kindness. But when she returned to the pond, he was gone, with a dead fish as an offering where he had once sat.
On the fiery dusk of the third day, Vrana descended into a ragged ravine and made camp in an alcove behind a wall of roots. The journey was beginning to take its toll on her. She had not rested well since leaving Caldera, afraid that if she slept too deeply, the Witch would drag her back into the Void. Vrana sighed, tried to convince herself the nightmares were just the result of the toxins her mother had spoken of, and set out her supper for the evening.
By nightfall, she felt a little better; her stomach was a little fuller and her mind a little calmer from the yellow potion given to her by Adelyn. The ravine howled and hissed as she worked her body into a smoothed groove. With no fear of being found by the clashing wildlife, she let her heavy eyes close.
And then the screaming started.
Vrana jolted awake and pushed herself harder into the groove. Her hand found the ax before her mind willed it. An endless scream poured through the opening of the alcove and scraped at her fortitude
. The shadows outside massed and moved with malevolence, spilling across rock and boulder like ink. Laughter filled the alcove, and somewhere in the ravine, an infant wailed and wept.
Vrana didn’t need to hear anymore to know it was time to leave.
She came to her feet and gathered her belongings. With both eyes fixed on the space before her and her resources in her periphery, she didn’t expect what came next: teeth, pointed and long, biting down hard on her calf. As she twisted her head toward the source of the pain, light flooded the ravine, and what little was left of the night was burned away by the day. She held herself tightly, gritting her teeth; the wounds from the Horror of the Lake ached as though they’d been reopened. Something’s wrong, she thought, her joints stiff, her stomach empty; the hair on her legs and underarms was more than just stubble. She looked down at her calf, where the faint outline of teeth could be seen on her skin. How many hours have passed?
On the fifth day, Vrana found the hospital. It looked as though it had burst through the ground, a cancerous protrusion of cement, wood, wiring, and glass. When the wind passed through it, a groan escaped its blown-out doorways and windows. She recalled the map Aeson had shown her in the Inner Sanctum, walked around the property once, and found the former irreconcilable with the latter. A blanket of glass shards crunched beneath her feet as she returned to the entrance. Broken medical beds sat sunken into the ground, covered in ivy and bird nests. Dirty bed sheets tied to one another dangled from the fourth floor window to the first. Strung across the front doorway were a series of blood bags, drained and dried out. Vrana passed below them with caution, into the hospital, ready to kill.
The reception area was bathed in flypaper light, and the air that circulated it was filled with particles of dust and loose bits of floating debris. Benches sat askew, their seats caved in and covered with dirt. Busted computer monitors lay face up on the linoleum floor, water-stained papers clinging to their plastic shells. At the far end of the reception area, an elevator shaft sat open, its doors retracted and its cables snapped. Vrana had seen most of these things before in books from the Archive, but even in their state of decay, they made her feel dizzy with excitement.
