by Scott Hale
Blix appeared to consider investigating it but chose to fall asleep instead.
“That is where the weak-minded go to die,” Lucan said with disdain.
Deimos steered the horses away from the Spine to what Vrana could now see was a tower. In its shadow makeshift homes had been erected from wood and stone and animal hides. At its base, twenty-five or so Corrupted worked the soil with pickaxes and shovels. They dug with an intensity that made them indifferent to the blisters and boils on their hands, faces, and feet. The tower was constructed from a metallic material, but its smooth, achromatic surface gave off no reflections. A small boy brushed against it as he handed water to his mother and yelped as the tower’s heat seared his skin.
“Do you see?” Deimos turned to Vrana. “There are no doors, no windows. There is no way in.”
Vrana took her horse by its reins and led it around the tower, searching every inch of it for any evidence of an opening. Deimos had been right: There was none. On the other side of the squalid dwellings, she found even more Corrupted, some asleep on their beds of grass, others awake, nursing drinks from stone cups or bared breasts. They paid Vrana no mind. She was not a threat.
“I don’t understand,” Vrana said as she rejoined the group. “What are they doing?”
“The land was higher here, but they dug it out,” Deimos said, scratching his neck. “They believe their god is inside. They toil in the day, searching for the entrance to heaven. At night, they say the tower speaks to them in whispers. There are many bones beneath us: They bury the dead and useless here as tribute.”
Vrana looked at Lucan, who only shook his head. He tapped Serra on the back, and together they headed toward the Spine.
“Are they part of the same religion as the missionaries?”
“Same god, different practices,” Deimos said, his horse trotting up beside Vrana’s and nuzzling it. “They, the Scavengers, would sooner kill each other before working with Penance.”
“They don’t fear us?” Vrana watched an old woman in a dirty white dress cut into the carcass of a dead squirrel and suck on what fell out.
“They are in the presence of their god and are doing his work. They have no reason to be afraid.”
“And the elders don’t find them to be a problem?” Vrana asked incredulously.
Deimos laughed and the two of them joined the others at the road. “I’ve asked the same question. They are more of a threat to themselves than we could ever be, or so the elders have said. But when supplies are low, they raid Geharra and the Heartland, for they’ve no coin to spend. Isn’t it funny how the holy make the best rapists and murderers? If the elders would only say the words…”
Lucan cleared his throat. “I think the elders are just waiting to see if they do find an entrance, so that they themselves can take what’s inside.”
Serra grunted in agreement, his toothy maw stained with blood from the battle. He seemed to linger on the tower for a moment, and then he grunted again and took the lead, putting some distance between himself and the others.
“What’s wrong with him?” Vrana asked Deimos.
But it was Lucan who spoke, his words hardened by hatred. “This is where we found him, where they cut out his tongue so he couldn’t say no.”
Vrana felt a chill radiate through her body as she watched Serra disappear over a hill wreathed in golden grass. “He’s not human, is he?”
“No, but he told me once he had been born in one of their hospitals,” Deimos said, kicking his horse to quicken its pace. “I think you’re familiar with it.”
CHAPTER XIV
Vrana let out a groan of pleasure as her bare feet sank into the sand. Her skin became a story for the blind as the icy water filled in the place where she stood. She watched with excitement as the ocean tumbled over itself, each wave fighting the other to be the first to the shore. She couldn’t blame the sailors of ages past for thinking the sea infinite, for even now she found herself entertaining the notion.
It pained her to have this experience without her mother and Aeson nearby. In the Old World, the humans had telephones to communicate with each other. Vrana wished she had one at this very moment, to call her mother in her basement and Aeson in his, to hear their voices once more before she entered the empire of the likely dead. To mark the bittersweet occasion, she searched the coast for components, found Wormwood roots winding out of a pitted rock—“What a strange place to grow”—and turned back the way she’d came, toward the cliff she’d descended to be here.
Vrana climbed the starved bluff slowly, muscles still exhausted from the battle outside Nora. The fog over the Elys was thick, obscuring all that didn’t fall directly within arm’s reach, and it seemed even thicker along the cliff. She’d asked Deimos if this was normal, and he’d said that it would soon pass. It had been Deimos’ idea for Vrana to see the ocean, and given the weather, the idea appeared to be more of a quick test than an act of kindness.
“It’s not that interesting,” she heard Lucan shout through the murky, white air. “Deimos is starting to get antsy, and you know how he is. Up with you. Strange things live here in the Elys’ fog.”
Vrana grinned, stopping for a moment on a sturdy foothold. She cursed the beak of her mask; it kept scraping against the rocks. Blix tore through the air, his vision apparently unhampered by the fog, and in an unusual display of helpfulness, he began to leap between ledges, aiding Vrana in her ascent.
“You’re only doing this because Deimos told you to,” she said to the bird, her hands grasping the slick stones. “Dad would have a heart—”
A hand reached through the pale miasma and closed around Vrana’s. Her stomach lurched, and her foot slipped loose from the bluff. She called out to her companions, but there was no response. Her mind immediately went to the daggers, which were fastened tightly at her side. With one shaking arm, she held onto the cliff, while the other felt for the Cruel Mother’s talons. She yelled again, and then her body went limp as the hand weakened its grip. Her limbs scrambled for stable footing as another hand descended upon her.
“Deimos!” she cried.
Someone grunted. Serra peered over the edge. He shook his head at Vrana as he hoisted her up to solid ground. She brushed the dirt from her armor and kicked off the sand that had dried on her feet. Blix scampered over, taking up residence on her shoulder with a fat, wriggling worm in his mouth. She tried to look into Serra’s mask to see his face, but even in the daylight, there was only darkness.
“I’m sorry,” Vrana said, feeling foolish. “I thought… I don’t know what I was thinking. Thanks Serra.”
The fog cleared away in the midday sun, and what it left behind was perhaps more awe-inspiring than the ocean itself: Geharra. Even at a distance, the city’s expanse was breathtaking. It was built upon a gradual slope, tilting upwards as it followed the landscape, until it was checked by a haggard mountain range. A massive wall encircled the entirety of the sprawl, with smaller walls sectioning off portions of the city from the inside. Domed towers and threatening spires rose out of the miles of stonework, while great golden and azure buildings with intricate flying buttresses demanded one’s attention. Along each side of the ancient city, two green rivers flowed, the western pouring into the foamy sea, the eastern into the southern cradle.
“I had no idea,” Vrana said, shouting over the turbulent waters ahead. “They should not have kept this from us. What are the others like?”
Lucan slowed his horse, falling back beside Vrana. “Just as impressive, if not more so, I think. Eldrus is greater in size, the architecture unlike any I’ve ever seen: black stone, precisely cut, with an air of sterility about it. I’ve only ever spied Penance from a distance, from the mountains it hides behind; ghostly were the buildings, nearly indistinguishable from the falling snow.” Lucan slipped some food into his horse’s mouth.
Vrana nodded. “And our village, Alluvia, that’s east of here.”
“Yes,” Deimos said with a hint of despair. “If we
’d the time, I would take you there. What did Nora tell you that night in the library?”
“She heard the waters had turned bitter in Geharra. She sent people to the city, but they never returned. Nora seemed to believe this has been going on for a while.”
Deimos contemplated for a moment. “Each city is different from the other,” he said, changing the topic entirely. “Geharra is not unlike our own village, choosing representatives to make decisions for its people. Eldrus is a monarchy; though, this may change: All but one of the royal family of Eldrus was murdered two years ago.”
Deimos paused, slipping into his thoughts, the muscles in his forearms flexing. “The leaders of Penance are chosen by their god, as well as those who were chosen before them. They scheme from their self-inflicted isolation.” He began to breathe heavily through his nose. “The missionaries were not the first I’ve seen; there were others, before the disappearances, and after as well. Penance wants to become a part of the world again.”
“When he gets like this, we could push him off his horse, and he wouldn’t notice,” Lucan mumbled, leaning into Vrana.
“No, I would notice,” Deimos said flatly. “I am saying this because she needs to know and because the leaders of Penance have always looked upon Geharra with disdain.”
Lucan cantered forward and planted his horse before Deimos, stopping the procession. Vrana looked to Serra, who only shrugged. All at once, with a snort of gratitude, the horses dipped their heads to the ground to feast on the grass.
Lucan ran his fingers across his pincers as a wise man would through his beard. “I’ve no love for Penance, but this is your land, Deimos. You know all of its secrets. Yes, they scheme, but they are also on the other side of the world. I know of no incantations that would do what has happened here. Not even the spellweavers are so talented.”
“Lucan,” Deimos said quietly, “I have not seen these parts in three months.”
Vrana felt her throat constrict, her heart flutter: Nora had told the truth.
Lucan laughed, cocked his head, and then slumped in his saddle, taken aback. “Where have you been, brother?”
“Mourning at the edge of the world.”
They rode to the gates of Geharra in silence, though Vrana felt that she was the only one who didn’t understand why. A weakly muttered “Oh” from Lucan’s lips told her that Deimos’ inaction was not only excusable but, in some ways, expected. A short embrace between Serra and the Bat told the fledgling Vrana there had been a tragedy. But just as Deimos himself was a mystery to Vrana, so, too, was his plight; for no attempt was made, not in passing nor broken whispers, to bring it to light. A stronger woman who was confident in her abilities may have demanded an answer, but Vrana, despite the blood on her hands, was not that woman. Not yet.
“Vrana,” Deimos said finally as they crossed an elevated bridge over the verdant marshes, “look to your left.”
He’ll tell you when he wants you to know, she thought to herself, and then did as he asked.
At first, she didn’t see what he had expected her to—the foliage was thick, teeming with life—but then, there they were, in the shallows and the western river, fifteen in all: reptilian creatures covered in green and blue scales, with elongated heads beset by the black jewels that were their many eyes. Their bodies had a hint of humanity in shape and were covered in a sinewy substance not unlike a spider’s web. Some plaited this mucous material across the surface of the standing waters; while others ignored it, choosing to crush the bones of unfortunate fish with their unhinged jaws. If not for the calmness of her companions, Vrana would have thought she had stumbled upon perhaps the cruelest of the Witch’s creations.
“What are they?” she asked, watching with fascination as the creatures ambled out of the pools, arms heavy with soft, glassy orbs.
“The Merfolk; they are new to this world,” Deimos said over the clap of the horses’ hooves on the groaning bridge. “In the Old World, these creatures called the sea their home. More creatures, like them, will return should science remain stifled.”
“The life of a sailor must be a lonely one,” Lucan mused. “Beautiful is not the word I would use to describe them.” He nudged a snickering Serra. “There,” he said, suddenly sounding quite concerned, “on the ramparts.”
Vrana squinted, spotting what appeared to be a white dog with a black face atop the daunting wall. “That worries you?”
“That is a cursed wolf,” Lucan said, straining his neck as the animal padded out of sight. “An ill omen, if you believe that sort of thing.”
“My mother said they had died out,” Vrana reminisced, her voice fading under the surging rivers.
“Death does not die,” Deimos said solemnly, “nor does It need the Black Hour to make Itself known. Come. We may already be out of time.”
CHAPTER XV
The massive front gate was a lattice of corroded metal, raised high enough to allow a body to move under its jagged teeth. Beyond, Geharra stood silent and imposing, with no signs of life or any indication of what had taken it. Vrana volunteered to cross into the city first, all too aware of the fate that befalls those who go last in the horror stories of old.
“The air is so clear,” she said, pressing her hand against the light breeze.
“The calm before the storm,” Lucan groaned as he joined her.
Serra and Deimos followed, swords clanging against the ground as they went under. Inside Geharra, the light of the sun seemed weakened, leaving the buildings in an otherworldly glow. Vrana’s heart trembled and stomach turned—a mixture of awe and unease. Dried leaves chattered as they skipped down the empty cobblestone streets, into wilted gardens choked with weeds. Battle-scarred cats and foaming dogs leapt and padded about their newfound kingdom, eying Vrana and her companions with hungry intent. Doors swung back and forth on their hinges, giving glimpses of dinner tables still set with food and belongings yet to be pilfered. Never had she felt such a terrifying loneliness before. Even the buildings buckled under its weight, backs bent like the old men and women who hold daily vigil at the graves of those whom they had loved and lost forever.
Deimos led Vrana up the stairs of the gigantic wall that protected Geharra, stopping a quarter of the way to orient her to the city. They had entered through the Southern Gate, where most lived. The Western Gate was smaller, meant for access to the dockyard; and the Eastern Gate, when it was not being repaired, led outside travelers directly to the center of the city, where the market stood. Despite its name, the Northern Gate was not one but many, and it divided most of Geharra from the opulent edifices beyond it: the mansions built for two that could house twenty; the striking statues of dead royalty carved from rare rocks; the ancient churches on every corner, abandoned and godless.
“The ground is unstable there. None call it home, not even those who could afford to,” Deimos said as they descended the stairs. He gestured to Blix; the bird took to the skies for reconnaissance.
“Why?” Vrana gripped the railing tightly, unready for her adventure to come to an end by way of a misplaced step. “It seems a waste.”
“There is little division between the classes in Geharra. The Northern District is used as a reminder of when that is not the case.” He cleared his throat hard, adding another tiny crack to his sickening mask. “Serra,” he said as they returned to the street level, “you and Vrana will see to the waterworks. If the water has turned bitter, it is there we will find an answer. Lucan and I will check the gathering halls and churches for signs of Penance. If they’ve come, they will have wasted no time with the conversion.”
“Do you think our people are still alive?” Vrana asked, wrapping the faerie silk cloak around her.
Lucan kicked a stone at his feet into the grass. He looked at Deimos and balled his hand into a fist. “Let’s not get our hopes up.” He shook his head at the Bat and brushed past him. “Penance didn’t come here to take prisoners; otherwise, they would’ve captured the city, and we wouldn’t be standing here
like a bunch of fucking morons.” He stopped in front of Serra and sighed. “Take care of the girl.”
Vrana cocked her head. “I don’t need anyone taking care of me.”
Lucan laughed and shook his head as he waved off her complaint. “I don’t want anyone taking you out, because you’re too busy taking it all in. We need good warriors. It’s a compliment. Come on, Bat, let’s go.”
The Piranha didn’t need a tongue to tell Vrana this wasn’t his first time in Geharra. He navigated the streets the same way a beggar would: low to the ground, close to the walls, always choosing some side passage or backyard over the main thoroughfare. He kept his bow near, one arrow in hand, one eye on the rooftops; and by his example, Vrana did the same. Through Serra’s grunts and groans, she quickly learned his limited lexicon. She learned when to stop, when to go, and when to shut up, because her incessant chatting was getting on his nerves. Occasionally, he would pause their journey to the Western District to satisfy Vrana’s curiosity about the city: He pointed to a carpenter’s shop; a babbling fountain; a well that was covered in chalk. He led her to a playground with an overgrown automobile and a satellite dressed in armor to serve as a sparring dummy.
“They know, don’t they? About the Old World? I know they know, but the elders have me second guessing everything,” Vrana said as they turned down an alley.
Serra nodded.
“We abandoned certain technologies because we know better.” She held her breath as she slid through the narrow gap, afraid that, if she were to exhale, she would become stuck. “What’s… stopping… them?”
Without looking back, Serra lifted his arm and pointed to her and himself.
“What happens when we aren’t here to keep the balance?”
He shrugged and grunted: Maybe nothing.
“Do you ever regret killing the Corrupted?”
Serra shook his head and slipped out into an open street. He turned around and took Vrana’s hand and helped her through, her right arm turning red as it scraped against crumbling brick. “Me neither,” she quickly added, brushing off her arm. “What if someone were lost on their third trial and wandered into the North? Not necessarily from Caldera, but I mean, if I saw Geharra, Eldrus, or Penance and didn’t know they even existed… I understand the elders’ reasoning, but the shock of finding out may be just as bad as knowing all along.”
