The Divine Cities Trilogy: City of Stairs, City of Blades, and City of Miracles, With an Excerpt From Foundryside

by Robert Jackson Bennett

  “I…I think it was a test of some kind.”

  “Yes. It was just like most of Kolkan’s miracles, which were usually quite punitive. Through pain, through pressure, the miracle was meant to coerce human beings into becoming strong, and pure—but the standards were set so high that no human ever actually passed this test. The pain was too much—they either failed, or perished. Until you came along, that is.

  “When you touched the stone, Sigrud je Harkvaldsson, it was a curious moment in your life. You hated yourself. You hated your failures, your impetuousness, your brutish thoughtlessness. These things, you felt, had cost you everything. So you did something the Finger of Kolkan did not expect—you embraced it. You invited it. You felt you had earned its pain. And in doing so, you defeated it.

  “The horrid miracle in that stone was not prepared for this—when Kolkan made it, in his utter ignorance, he did not tell it what to do if a mortal actually passed the test. So the miracle, being small and simple, made an assumption: the being that had just defeated it had to be no one but Kolkan himself. So it changed: it migrated to you, thinking you to be its maker. And ever since, it has been bound to you, worshipping you, giving you many things and altering your very reality. And it has changed in turn.”

  She sits, reaches out, and snatches Sigrud’s left hand. Though he’s much larger than her, he finds he can’t resist her strength.

  She points to his palm. “Do you see? Do you see this part?” He can’t see what she’s pointing to, but she keeps talking. “Punishment. Excoriation. Despair. And through these elements, power. This miracle takes what pain is inflicted upon its bearer, and transmutes this into furious, desperate, righteous anger. A mechanism of terrible retribution. But you knew this already, didn’t you?”

  Sigrud sits hunched on the log. The warmth of the fire is a distant memory.

  The pot of tea begins to bubble. Olvos reaches forward, plucks it off its hanger, and places it on the log beside her. “Sigrud je Harkvaldsson, you are a person who has held his torments very close to his heart,” she says. “You believe, somewhere deep inside of you, that such pain gives you power—perhaps the power to inflict a crude justice on the world, retaliation for all the wrongs that have been done to you. From suffering comes might. And the miracle, which slavishly worships you, rewards that hunger for suffering with all the tools it has available. It is trying so very hard to give you what you want. And the miracle will allow nothing to violate this—not death, or age, or the Divine itself. The miracle is like a jealous lover, preventing all others from touching you—and you encourage it.”

  “You’re lying,” says Sigrud softly.

  “Am I? How many times have you been injured yet recovered? How many times in your life have you fled civilization? How many times in your career with Shara did you hide in isolation, drifting at the edges of society? And why do you know how to do a great many nasty things, Sigrud, more than anyone else alive?” She smiles bitterly. “I know. It is because everyone else died learning them. Perhaps it’s luck that Shara found you, or maybe it’s fate. Working with her put your dark blessing to somewhat good ends. It made you the perfect operative. Such people live very short lives—except for you, of course. What an exception to every rule you are. And at what terrific cost. You survive, yet have no hope. Only torment.”

  “It…It rewrites reality,” he says quietly, “to punish me?”

  “Yes. That is its nature. That is what it thinks you want. In your secret heart, Sigrud je Harkvaldsson, you think yourself terrible and pure in your despair. You believe you reflect the cruelty of the world back upon it, and you think this just. This dark blessing is simply giving you the fuel you desire.”

  There is a long silence.

  “Then…my daughter, Signe…Was her death…” He looks at her, trembling. “Was it natural? Or was it yet more punishment?”

  Olvos is quiet. Then she finally rumbles to life, saying, “It is…difficult for me to see that. The miracle often nudges reality very, very slightly. And there were many Divine currents alive and raging in Voortyashtan. But you feel it was punishment, don’t you? You feel that, because you are a man who has done so many wrongs, it was justice for you to lose the best thing you had ever produced. Don’t you?”

  Sigrud stands. He’s too furious to do the trick with the sword, so instead he pulls out his knife. He holds it just above his left wrist, which he extends above the fire. “I’ll…I’ll cut it off!” he snarls. “I’ll cut it off and be done with it!”

  Olvos shrugs. “Then do so.”

  Sigrud lowers the knife. He grits his teeth, readying for the blade to bite into his flesh, to saw at the bone—yet he hesitates.

  “You can’t do it,” says Olvos. “The miracle will not be gotten rid of that way.”

  Sigrud shuts his eyes, weeping. “I’ll do it. I will. I will!”

  “You won’t,” she says. “This is not a matter that will be resolved with the marring of flesh. You are a creature of constant warfare, Sigrud. You have made a weapon of your sorrow. You have put this weapon to terrible use for many, many years. Only when you set it aside will this miracle release you. Only then will you have any chance of freedom. Freedom to live and die as a normal, mortal man.”

  Sigrud bows his head and lowers the knife. “So until then…I am cursed to keep living, keep suffering.”

  “Probably. You are very hard to kill, Sigrud. You can take abominable punishment. But you are not immortal. If you were to, say, jump off a cliff, or catch a bullet in your skull, I doubt the miracle could do much to save you. And a true Divinity could kill you if they really wanted to. I could do it now, for example. But I won’t. I try very hard not to intervene in such things. It’s not prudent, not anymore.”

  “Can you remove the miracle?” he asks.

  She glances at him. “I could.”

  “Then…will you?”

  She lifts her pot of tea and takes a long slurp. “I just said why I would not. Because my interference is not prudent.”

  “Not…Not prudent?” says Sigrud. “Not prudent? This, this curse is ruining my life, destroying me! Will you not give me aid, will you not save me?”

  “No,” she says firmly. “No, I will not. You are asking a very dangerous thing of me, Sigrud. For me to flex my Divine will is no small thing. It would make me vulnerable to a number of mortal influences. When I intrude into the world, when people notice me, pay attention to me, believe in me, I…change. Shift. Conform to their beliefs. That is extraordinarily, extraordinarily dangerous, especially right now. One sole Divinity on the Continent, with nothing to keep me in check? I won’t allow that. That is why I left the mortal world in the first place.”

  “But it is just one little miracle,” says Sigrud. “Surely it would be no more than swatting a fly?”

  “To destroy the work of another Divinity takes great effort,” says Olvos. “Almost as much work as it would take to harm or even destroy another Divinity. And the greater the effort, the more vulnerable I become.” She slowly looks up at him. “And that is partly why I will not intervene to help Shara and Malwina.”

  It takes him a moment to process what she said. “What?” he asks.

  Olvos sips at her cup of tea again.

  “You will not help?” he asks. “You won’t fight him?”

  “No,” she says. “No. I will not.”

  “But…But he’s killing them,” says Sigrud. “Nokov wishes to destroy them. He wishes to, to bring final night to all the world!”

  “I know that,” says Olvos softly. “He’s done horrible things. Many, many horrible things. And I’ve told you one reason why I will not intervene. But you of all people should understand the other.” Her orange-red eyes are wide and sad. “You’ve lost a child. Even if they had done horrible things—could you bear to take your child in your own hands, and destroy them yourself?”

  Sigru
d stares at her. “You…You mean…”

  She sighs deeply, and suddenly she looks very old and tired. “Yes,” she says. “He is my son. Nokov is my son.”

  * * *

  —

  Ivanya tries to focus as she pilots her auto through the streets of Bulikov. She hasn’t driven in the city in years, so she jumps the occasional curb. Taty sits beside her in the passenger seat, grimly staring ahead.

  Every block or so, Ivanya asks the same question—“You’re sure?”

  Every time, Taty gives the same answer—“No. But I know it’s true.”

  Finally they come to the Seat of the World. It’s a mostly empty space, as the original temple was completely destroyed in the Battle of Bulikov, and the remaining park stands as a monument to the tragedy.

  Taty and Ivanya park and climb out. “Where?” asks Ivanya. “What do we do now?”

  “This is it,” Taty says, staring around herself. “This is what I saw, just for a moment. But I’m looking at it from the wrong angle. It was…” She spies something, some landmark, and her eyes light up. “There! Over there! To the right of that tree, I’m sure of it!”

  They sprint off, running through the park, dashing over the concrete paths until finally, just ahead, they see a small, shabby, abandoned tollbooth. Someone is standing outside it, hands and face buried deep in their coat, and they keep glancing over their shoulder at the two women running over.

  As they get closer, Ivanya’s mouth drops open. Because the person standing outside the tollbooth is Taty.

  Well, not quite—this girl isn’t as well fed and her hair is longer, though it’s stuffed up under a boyish cap, and she has an angry look on her face that looks somewhat permanent. But her face, her mouth, her size…all of it is so much like Tatyana it’s dumbfounding.

  Ivanya stops walking. “What in hells,” she gasps.

  “What?” says Taty. “What is it?” Then she looks up and sees. “Oh…Oh. Ohhh, my goodness…”

  The girl glances sideways at them suspiciously, then turns away, as if trying to avoid attention. Taty simply stares at her, thunderstruck by the sight of this girl.

  “Hey!” shouts Ivanya. “You! Hey, you!” She struggles in vain to recall the girl’s name, then blurts, “Malwina Gogacz!”

  The girl freezes. Ivanya can tell she’s debating whether or not to run.

  “You’re in danger!” says Ivanya. She glances at Taty, wishing she would say something, but she’s still staring at the other girl, openmouthed.

  The girl turns around, eyeing them suspiciously as they stagger up. “What? Who in hells are you? What are you talking ab—” Then she sees Taty. Her jaw drops. “What the fuck?” she says softly.

  The two girls stare at each other with expressions of faint horror for a very long time.

  “It’s…It’s like looking in a carnival mirror,” says Taty softly.

  “Enough,” says Ivanya. “Tell her what you told me.”

  Taty licks her lips. “He’s…He’s going to get in,” she says. “He’s going to get into your place you made, and kill all of you, all of you. And Mother.”

  Malwina goes pale. “How did you…You can’t be serious….”

  “We are,” says Ivanya.

  “That can’t be right, that can’t be,” says Malwina. “He can’t…Wait. ‘Mother’? Who?”

  “Komayd,” says Ivanya. “This is Tatyana Komayd.”

  Malwina’s eyes couldn’t possibly go any wider. She steps back and rubs her temples as she tries to take all this in. “This is…This is all too much….How do you know that? How do you look like me?” She keeps rubbing the sides of her head as if the sight of Taty has stupefied her.

  “What do we do?” asks Ivanya.

  Malwina keeps rubbing her head. She looks like she’s about to be ill.

  “Well?” says Ivanya.

  Nothing still.

  Ivanya stamps her foot. “Listen, you,” she snaps. “I’ve got no idea what in hells is going on here, but I know you. You were a patron of my organizations for years. I’ve probably personally paid for your trousers and your bed and your meals and your damned toilet paper dozens of times over. So as bewildering as all this is, you owe me. Why don’t you return the favor and focus a bit, and do whatever it is we need to do to start saving some damned lives, eh?”

  Malwina shakes herself. “How can she know that we’re all in danger? I mean, how?”

  “She just does,” says Ivanya. “Apparently. Trust us on this.”

  Malwina’s eyes dance around as she thinks. “We could go in the back way. It’s dangerous, I don’t want to draw attention to it, but…There’s no other choice.” She sighs. “Fuck it. Let’s go.”

  “Go where?” says Taty.

  “Don’t you know?”

  “Not…not really…”

  Malwina points at the tollbooth. “In there. Come on. Are you with Sigrud? Is that what this is?”

  “Something like that,” says Ivanya.

  “Well. I hope you have some experience with the Divine. If not, this is going to be really weird for you.”

  “This is already pretty weird for us,” mutters Ivanya as they walk into the tollbooth.

  They keep walking. It takes Ivanya a moment to realize they seem to be walking far farther than they ought to be—the tollbooth was only six or so feet wide, wasn’t it?

  Then she sees it ahead. A small square of blue light, not the right size for a door. But beyond it are…

  Beds. And windows. A huge, grand room that just seems to be hanging there, suspended in the darkness.

  “Okay,” Ivanya says. “That’s weird.”

  * * *

  —

  Tavaan feels it before it happens. With her eyes shut and her hand on the door, she feels it flying up the stairs outside, hurtling through the air, rocketing toward the doors with all its strength…

  The boom is like a crack of thunder. The force of the blow reverberates all the way up Tavaan’s arms and into her shoulders. She doesn’t need to see the doors to know they were nearly blown off their hinges.

  “Shit,” she says quietly. She opens her eyes. “Shit.”

  She can hear the sleepers muttering behind her, the ones farthest from the door sitting up and rubbing their eyes. Being lifted from such deep sleep is no easy thing, and she could help them return to full consciousness—but she knows she won’t have the energy to spare, not now.

  She summons up all of her strength and presses against the doors, holding them in place. She does it just in time, as the second blow comes hurtling at her even stronger than the first.

  The doors crack and splinter, very slightly. Tavaan focuses, using all of her mind to keep them whole. But she knows it won’t last.

  It’s him. He’s here. And he’s stronger than I ever imagined.

  * * *

  —

  “Can you imagine what it’s like?” asks Olvos. “To watch from a distance as your son drifts from family to family. To watch him get captured, tortured, driven mad. To watch him escape through murder and bloodshed, and go on to do terrible, awful things…?”

  “But you could have stopped him,” says Sigrud. “You could ha—”

  She turns to him, eyes burning and fierce. “Look at me. Look at me now. Look upon the burdens of power. Imagine what it’s like to know that if you flexed your will and saved your child, then the belief of this Continent might drive you mad, and so much more would be lost. Power corrupts, Sigrud. It has its own gravity. The only thing you can do is disperse it or isolate it. That’s what I’ve tried to do for so many years. If things go right tonight you will know this full well. But oh, you mortal man…” Olvos shakes her head. “You cannot know how I despise myself. Both for what I am, and for what I’m forced to do.” She wipes her eyes. “It’ll be over soon, though. For me at least.�
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  “What do you mean?” asks Sigrud.

  She keeps talking as if she didn’t hear him. “The last night of hope. It’s been long coming, and long deserved. But such a thought is no solace to me, though, not really.” She shuts her eyes. “Not since I know what Nokov is about to do.”

  * * *

  —

  When Ivanya, Taty, and Malwina all walk into the giant room of beds through what appears to be a large fireplace, Ivanya notices two things right away.

  The first thing she notices is the tremendous rumbling and clanging coming from one side of the room, where there are two large wooden doors that seem to be trembling like they’re in an earthquake. There’s a small girl standing before them, dressed in sleeping clothes and with a shaved head, her hands pressed against the doors like she’s desperately trying to keep them shut—but it’s clear it’s a losing battle.

  The second thing Ivanya notices is that there are people in all the beds in the room, all very young people, and several are stirring and sitting up with an air of a drugged person trying to remember where all their limbs are.

  Malwina looks to the doors. Her face goes from pale to a light green color. “Tavaan!” she cries. “What’s wrong? What’s going o—”

  The girl at the door shouts over her shoulder, “Malwina! Get them out, get them out, get them out! He’s here, he’s coming through!”

  “What!” screams Malwina. “He’s here? I’ll help you!” She starts running over to the doors, but she halts in midair, as if she just slammed into an invisible wall.

  “No!” cries the girl at the doors. “I won’t let you closer! I can’t hold him for long, just get them out, get them out of here!”

  “Tavaan!” cries Malwina. “Please, I can help y—”

  There’s another blow to the doors, which almost seem to shatter, though some invisible force shoves them back together. “Do as I say, damn you!” bellows the girl at the door. Her voice seems to come from everywhere in this place, from the stones and the beds. “Get them out!”