“That story won’t hold up forever,” Raek pointed out.
“It doesn’t need to.” Ard thought of his studies in the Mooring. Maybe he was close to uncovering the true meaning behind the Great Egress. “I just need a little longer.”
“Cinza and I will start working out the details of the story,” Elbrig said. “We can brief you in the morning.” He strode away, keeping one hand over his missing ear so the crew wouldn’t notice anything amiss.
“Raek?” Ard scanned the deck one more time just to be sure. “Where’s Quarrah?” He was afraid to hear the answer. Afraid that this little hang-up with Lyndel had put her over the edge. Driven her away yet again.
“She’s not on the ship,” Raek answered his searching eyes.
Ard felt his spirits fall, stomach turning with something more than just his food poisoning. “Do you think we’ll see her again?”
“Oh, we better,” said Raek, looking starboard toward the dark Ennoth. “But she’s only got until dawn to steal the Moon Glass.”
Quarrah lay on one of the flat-roofed Trothian homes, giving her arms and legs a break from the endless swimming. Of all the nights to try to steal a Moon Glass… The Ennoth was completely flooded, both of the Moon Glass shards would be in use inside the Ucru, and the Leeward Pride would set sail at dawn whether she was onboard or not.
By now, Elbrig would have gotten Ard safely back to the ship. The disguise managers thought it a little overambitious to couple the rescue with the theft, but what choice did they have? After tonight, they’d never get a Lander ship within a half mile of the islets. Lyndel would spread the word of Ard’s release, and the Trothians would be more guarded and vigilant than ever.
Quarrah stared at the massive red orb in the darkness above her. It was always a majestic sight, the Moon seeming to fill the entire sky. It was no wonder the Trothians worshiped it. Lying on the roof of the house, Quarrah felt like she was on the top of the world. Without the thick smoke and looming buildings of Beripent, the sky looked incredibly vast. Out here, she could almost hear the Moon, grinding so slowly past the net of stars above.
Although she couldn’t see them with her naked eye, Quarrah imagined the red rays of the Moon streaming toward the distant summit of Pekal, the growing population of dragons absorbing them into their huge scaly bodies to shield the world from the sickness. She thought of the poor Bloodeye man she had stolen for Lord Dulith’s sick purposes. What had taken him and his friends so high into the mountains? What had been his final thoughts before the madness had broken his mind and twisted his body?
There was a cure. The Metamorphosis Grit didn’t work once the Bloodeye had reached the final stage, but Quarrah had intercepted that man earlier. If she had been carrying Meta Grit, she could have saved his life.
Saved his life, or simply altered it beyond recognition? Would the man have transformed like Gloristar—his body enlarged, skull turned to thick red glass, and his eyes ablaze with an inhuman light? Would he have become a Glassmind?
A family of Trothians swam past, laughing and splashing. If she’d sat up, she would have seen them clearly enough, their naked blue bodies illuminated in the red glow of the Moon. But Quarrah stayed on her back, regulating her breathing, hoping to go unnoticed. With their enhanced ability to see the energy of all things, Quarrah wondered if they could even see her breath pluming up from the rooftop.
The family passed harmlessly and Quarrah waited until their splashing had faded into the distance before refitting her cork nose plugs, pulling the breathing reed over her mouth, and sliding off the roof into the chill water.
She had dressed for the occasion, wearing a tight sleeveless shirt and pants that were cut off so her bare legs would move easily through the water. She had her belts, loaded with her usual compliment of Grit. Knowing she’d be in the water, Quarrah had opted for wax-coated Grit pots instead of her stealthier teabags.
She was glad she had followed Raek’s suggestion to swipe the nose plugs and breathing reed from a Grit processing factory. The items, designed for submersion in the liquid Scouring Pits, allowed her to stay very low in the water, just her eyes and forehead above the surface.
She swam slowly and cautiously, no longer pushing herself now that she’d reached the cover of the half-submerged houses. Someone with a less astute sense of direction might have been disoriented in the flood, but Quarrah maintained a course that she knew would take her to the Ennoth’s center.
The Trothians had formed into large social groups, occupying any significant stretch of open space, which left the densely constructed neighborhoods a navigable maze of cover. And it certainly helped that most of the people were distracted with their chants or trying to catch a fish in a game of gras oronet.
It was just past midnight when she finally saw the Ucru. The domed building rose more than ten feet out of the water, smoke wafting skyward from an opening in the top. There was no door or windows, but she saw something that looked like a covered ladder leading to the high opening.
Between the Ucru and the house where Quarrah now hid was a wide stretch of water occupied by hundreds of Trothians. They filled the space around their religious building, the water shallow enough that many of them stood chest deep. How was she supposed to—
A cheer went up from a group of Trothians nearby. Quarrah squinted, cursing the dim lighting and her poor vision. But she could see that one of the women was holding a fish the length of her forearm. It wriggled and bucked as she held it aloft. When the applause of her peers died down, the woman lowered the fish through the red glare on the water’s surface and released it.
The glare!
Vorish had said that the Trothian vision was hindered by the reflection of the Moon. If Quarrah could stay underwater the whole way, they wouldn’t be able to see her. The distance was much too far to hold her breath, but she might be able to angle the breathing reed to draw air. Hopefully, the reed itself would blend with the flotsam of twigs and leaves—even some unsecured belongings—that she’d seen adrift all night.
Working quickly, she used two replacement reeds and some extra forming wax to triple the length of her breathing tube, making sure there was a watertight seal over the seams. She made a couple of experimental dives, adjusting the angle of the long reed so the opening was behind her head. She sucked water once, but managed to blow it out through the end of the reed without surfacing.
Okay. This was going to work. Quarrah took a moment to get her bearings, sighting toward the Ucru, gauging the distance. Then she ducked underwater with barely a ripple.
Lit with penetrating red Moonlight, it was like another world under the surface, with so many Trothian legs between her and her destination. For the most part, they swam in place, legs kicking lazily to tread water. But as she swam closer to the Ucru, the water grew shallower with the incline of the sand.
The Trothians were mostly standing now—except for some of the little children who couldn’t reach. Navigating between them was getting tighter, too.
One of them sidestepped directly into her path and she threw out her arms, frantically paddling backward. At the disturbance in the water, his hand plunged down, grasping blindly mere inches in front of her face.
Sparks! They think I’m a lucky fish! And this was suddenly a life-and-death game of gras oronet.
Quarrah touched her bare feet down on the sand, remaining bent in half to keep her torso below water and her breathing reed up. The desperate fisherman gave up, and Quarrah heard boisterous laughter from his friends as he withdrew his empty hand.
She resumed her route to the Ucru, skirting the group and trying to keep her bearings. She didn’t need to swim now that she had her feet in the sand. It was definitely slower to move bent over like this, but it gave her better control among the crowd.
She was almost there, just squeezing between two muscular men. Suddenly, one of them grabbed the unnaturally bobbing reed, yanking her breathing tube out of the water. It came apart at one of the wax seams, Qua
rrah’s mouth instantly flooding with seawater. She lunged forward, swimming with both arms outstretched until she touched the side of the Ucru. Holding tightly to the wall, she raised her face above the surface, spitting the water and gasping fresh air.
It seemed she was the lucky fish tonight, because nobody noticed her against the Ucru’s wall. And the covered ladder was only a few feet away. She ducked under the water once more, palming along the wall until she felt the first rung. Peering up, she saw that the ladder was little more than simple wooden slats nailed to the arched frame of the Ucru dome. But the whole ladder was enclosed in a vertical tunnel made of bent twigs and a covering of tanned hides.
Quarrah hoisted herself into the tunnel, the wooden slats of the ladder feeling warm to her bare feet and hands. Concealed like this, she didn’t have to worry about being spotted as she ascended the side of the Ucru.
She got her first whiff of the smoke about halfway up. It was acrid and caustic, not at all like the typical smoke of a hearth fire. Sparks. Were they burning garbage inside this structure?
By the time she’d reached the top of the dome, Quarrah’s head was spinning. The ladder led to a circular opening no more than five feet across. The Moonlight that spilled down was quickly choked out by the haze of gray smoke, making it impossible to see anything below. But Quarrah noticed a rope descending into the dome.
These priestesses must be pretty agile if this is the only way in and out, she thought. As much as she hated the idea of lowering herself into the unknown, Quarrah knew she couldn’t stay here all night, leaning over the opening and breathing the heady smoke. If Vorish had been right, there would only be two priestesses below—one looking through the resident piece of Moon Glass, and the other using Lyndel’s shard.
It was awkward to maneuver from the covered ladder onto the rope. The smoke brought a sudden bout of coughs and Quarrah felt like she might as well have announced her arrival with a shout. The rope was knotted at regular intervals, her bare feet finding good purchase as she slithered downward.
In here, the air was hot and astringent from the gray haze. It stung her nose and made her throat feel raw. She dangled fifteen feet above the dry sandy floor as the dome’s interior came into focus through the smoke.
Directly beneath her rope was a smoldering fire, its coals providing enough glow to light the interior of the Ucru.
Lyndel was down there. She was lying on her back beside the fire, unmoving, a piece of red Moon Glass gripped in one hand, which rested limply at her side. Another Trothian woman, identically dressed, lay across the fire from her, a second Moon Glass clutched loosely over her chest. Both women appeared to be staring up at Quarrah, but strangely, they showed no signs of noticing her.
Maybe they’re asleep, Quarrah thought. It was the middle of the night, after all. If she moved quietly enough, she might be able to pry one of the glass pieces away and get out without disturbing anyone.
Blowing out a breath against the pervasive smoke, Quarrah lowered herself another few knots until she felt the heat of the fire directly beneath her. She reached out an arm, pumping it back and forth to give her some momentum on the rope. Once it was swinging like a clock pendulum, Quarrah let go, dropping to the soft sand at Lyndel’s feet.
Now that she was closer, Quarrah saw that their eyes were open, staring flatly upward. Not asleep.
Dead.
There was blood everywhere. How had she missed it from above? It pooled in the sand, making a crimson paste beneath their heads. With a wave of nausea, Quarrah saw the lines across their throats. Clouds of black flies buzzed on the gaping, gory wounds, and the smell of rotting flesh suddenly assaulted her.
“I’ve been waiting for you, Quarrah,” a voice said from behind. It was a voice she had known her entire life. And one she had tried hard to forget.
She whirled around and saw the woman crouching against the wall of the Ucru, a dripping blade dangling casually from one hand.
Quarrah opened her mouth, trying to eke out the woman’s name. But it wouldn’t come. Another word fell from her mouth—one she didn’t like to say.
“Mother.”
Jalisa Khailar rose slowly to her feet, tossing the knife from one hand to the other. Her knuckles were red, and the front of her tan tunic was splattered with the blood of the priestesses. But she looked so much the same. Wild, unkempt hair, crooked teeth, foggy look in her bloodshot eyes.
“You didn’t come home,” her mother said, voice small. “When I got back from the market… you were gone.”
Quarrah shook her head, fighting tears that flooded to her eyes. “You…” she whispered. “How did you find me?”
“I looked for weeks,” she said. “I waited. But you didn’t come home.”
“No,” said Quarrah. “It was you who didn’t come home that day. Or the next. Or the week after that.”
“You abandoned me.” Jalisa took a step forward. “I was delayed at the market, that’s all.”
Quarrah choked on a sudden sob. “I didn’t think… you were coming back.”
“But I did,” her mother said. “And you were gone. I needed you, Pockets.”
Pockets.
It was a name only her mother had called her. A name that showed how this woman saw her daughter—nothing more than an extra pair of pockets to hold her stolen goods.
“I didn’t…” Quarrah gasped. “I didn’t need you.”
It was why ten-year-old Quarrah had waited only a week for her mother to return. Jalisa Khailar had been gone for stretches longer than that, but Quarrah had wanted an excuse. Any excuse to be free.
Her mother’s face began to contort in anger. Quarrah was transported to a helpless time almost forgotten. She felt every fiber of her body tighten to weather the coming blows.
“You wretched little twit,” Jalisa spit.
But Quarrah didn’t have to take it this time. She was grown. She was strong. She was ten times the woman her mother could ever be.
Jalisa lunged with the dagger and Quarrah sidestepped, pushing her weapon aside. Her mother’s arm felt so frail beneath the tunic sleeve, and her elbow buckled with surprising ease. She fell on her face, and Quarrah heard the soft squelch of the knife as it plunged into her mother’s stomach.
“Sparks,” Quarrah muttered, staggering backward, blinking against the tears and smoke in her eyes. “Oh, blazing sparks.” She dropped to Jalisa’s side as the woman sputtered on her own blood. Carefully, Quarrah rolled her mother onto her side, drawing back at the grisly sight of the wound in her torso.
Jalisa Khailar’s hand slipped from the hilt of the knife. She reached up, fingertips drawing lines of red across Quarrah’s cheek as she caressed her daughter.
“My… little girl,” she rasped. “Point into the Homeland.” Her hand dropped heavily to the sand. Her eyes glazed.
Wait. Not just glazed. Her eyes were changing, turning red, filling with blood. Moonsickness? How? What was happening? They were glowing now. Like Gloristar’s.
Quarrah scrambled backward as the knife pushed itself free of her mother’s abdomen, hovering in midair. But this weapon was unlike any Quarrah had ever seen. The blade was thick red glass, like a shard broken from a piece of Agrodite Moon Glass. The handle was little more than a tapered tang wrapped in thick rawhide, stained with her mother’s blood.
Transfixed by its appearance, Quarrah reached toward the floating blade. But before she could touch it, the weapon dissolved into red smoke, quickly mingling with the haziness of the Ucru.
Jalisa Khailar’s body suddenly convulsed and Quarrah saw dozens of spindly black legs reaching out from the wound in her stomach. Then at once, thousands of spiders erupted from her mother’s dead body, flowing onto the sand like a black wave.
Quarrah screamed, falling backward, landing dangerously close to the fire. The embers crackled, the rush of wind from Quarrah’s fall breathing new life into them. Flames leapt up, orange and yellow with hints of blue. But there was something else in the fire. Faces
. Yawning faces caught in the mad, silent screams of a Bloodeye.
Quarrah stumbled to her feet, dancing away from the spiders and kicking sand across the coals. The priestesses were burning more than wood. Quarrah could see a blackened lump that looked like a withered potato balanced carefully atop the coals.
Something Vorish had mentioned suddenly came racing back to her mind. The priestesses who spent the night in the Ucru breathed a special smoke that supposedly awakened their minds to visions from the gods.
This wasn’t real. Her mother’s body, the glass knife, the spiders… It was some kind of hallucination—a far cry from a godly vision.
Quarrah coughed against the smoke. Lyndel and the other priestess were still alive. A second look proved that there was no blood on their bodies. Their eyes were indeed open, but they seemed to be in some kind of meditative trance.
She took a step backward and a giant snake dropped from above, coiling itself around her arm. She struck at it, crying out in fear and confusion. Part of her knew that the snake was nothing more than the rope she had used to climb down, but her mind was unable to separate the delusion from reality.
She drew a small knife from her belt and slashed at the reptile. Quarrah felt the blade bite into her own arm as it severed the snake, which fell writhing into the fire.
The very air of the Ucru was poisoning her. She needed to grab one of the Moon Glasses and get out. But Lyndel was now one of four priestesses lying on the sand, and Quarrah’s head was reeling.
She lunged toward the nearest, tripping as her hand touched the leather-wrapped edge of the red glass. The piece pulled free of Lyndel’s grasp, skittering across the sand.
When she moved to find it, the entire interior of the Ucru changed. The walls became reflective red glass, casting her image in both directions ad infinitum. She reached for the piece of Moon Glass on the floor, but it turned to sand in her grasp, a mere apparition.
She had to get out of here. This wasn’t a vision. It was a nightmare. Maybe the Trothian constitution meant their reaction to the smoke was more meaningful—or at the very least, less severe. Or maybe Quarrah would soon slip into a catatonic trance like Lyndel and the other priestess.
The Last Lies of Ardor Benn Page 16
