by J. C. Staudt
“Wasn’t that magnificent?” Kolki asked, a twinge of mirth in her voice.
Lizneth blinked. She could not have said in which instant he was there and which he wasn’t. It was as if he’d scattered into starlight, or splintered into a thousand strands of the tall scrubland grasses surrounding the place where he’d stood. His pets whined and circled the spot briefly before setting off toward the low mountain pass as if in search of their master. A chorus of crickets and desert insects rose around them, and Lizneth realized only then that the night had been silent before. “What happened?” she asked, now unsure whether she had really seen him there at all.
“Are you truly as unobservant as you appear to be?” Kolki asked.
“I’m very observant,” Lizneth insisted. “I’m always noticing things others don’t.”
“Maybe,” Kolki said with a shrug. She turned back down the path toward the entrance to Molehind.
Lizneth followed her, defensive. “I am. I often notice things that aren’t obvious. Subtle things, like the way zhehn look and move when they speak, or tiny details about how they scent, or what their garb says about them.”
“What have you noticed about me?”
“I could tell you were a chabad when I first saw you.” Little did I know then how frustrating you are to talk to, she thought, but didn’t say.
“And since you are so observant, surely you have observed other things about me.”
“Of course I have.”
“Such as?”
Lizneth was at a loss. “You wear bones in your head-fur.”
“Yes, I do. And what have you learned about me by noticing that?”
“Well… I don’t know.”
“What good are your observations if they never lead you toward a meaningful conclusion?”
“I don’t need conclusions. It’s just fun to watch zhehn do what they do.”
“And did you see what the harbinger did down there? No, you didn’t. Although it happened before your eyes, you did not see it. Do you know why?”
“No, but you sound like you’re about to tell me.”
“Because you hold no reverence for the things you do not understand,” Kolki said, without missing a beat. “You are curious, but not inquisitive. You never let your curiosity carry you beyond the outermost layer of things. That is why you miss the important details. It is why you trust too easily and hate too quickly. You judge everything and everyone on the way it looks and scents and feels, rather than on what lies beneath.”
“You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me.”
“Have you not been betrayed by those you’ve trusted? Have you not hated those you did not understand?”
Lizneth considered this. Deequol. Blitznag. Nathak. Morish. Curznack. Zhigdain. Artolo the Nuck. Neacal Griogan. Sniverlik. Even Mama and Papa. All zhehn she had trusted or hated, often at the wrong times and for the wrong reasons. Without understanding. Was Blitznag so mean and spiteful because he enjoyed being that way? Or was he a scared son, so worried about upholding the legacy of his late kehaieh that he would’ve done anything—perhaps often the wrong thing—to hold onto the bazaar his father left behind?
This Kolki was making Lizneth upset; reminding her how mixed-up and naive she was—and had always been. She couldn’t help how little she knew of the world. She had seen so much of it, yet she had only scratched the surface in terms of both its places and its inhabitants. Why was the chabad criticizing her when all she had wanted was something to take away the pain in her belly?
A dusty wind blew over them, sudden and fierce. Kolki covered her face with her crimson scarf and turned away to let it pass. Lizneth, lacking any such protection, threw an arm across her snout and spent a moment coughing to shake the debris from her lungs.
“Listen to the wind,” Kolki said, when the breeze had died away. “See the sky. What do these things tell you about your world?”
“Those lights in the sky… they are the yerl-pashk?”
“Yes. The coming of the world’s anger.”
“Then these things tell me that the world is angry.”
“Why, deepling? Why is the world angry?”
“Because something isn’t right with it, and hasn’t been for a long time.”
“Why should that be of any concern to a deepling such as yourself? You dwell far from the light. Far from the blind-world’s influence.”
“It is the end, they say. The end of everything.”
“Many are quick to proclaim the end,” said Kolki. “Not me. I see a beginning.”
Just then, there was a loud boom, deep and faraway. Lizneth could feel the vibrations of it in her feet. All went silent for a moment. She was about to speak when the ground shuddered beneath them, sending the rocks and pebbles on the path into a shaking frenzy. The tremor ceased after a few seconds.
“What was that?” Lizneth asked, startled. She had never felt the whole earth move like that before. There had been tremors, yes, but they were never so severe underground. The sensation made her dizzy. Suddenly the cliff felt entirely too high. She began to fear it might tilt and cast her over the side. She sat down, but even that didn’t feel low enough, so she lay on her side and curled up into a ball, hugging the ground and wishing she could attach herself to it.
Kolki stood over her, peering down curiously. “That, deepling… was a beginning. A beginning, trying to bring itself into being. Now, stop this frippery and get up. I’ll find you something for this problem of yours, if you’re going to be dramatic about it.”
Lizneth rose to her feet, taking it slow. Every inch further from the ground made her feel dizzier. She followed Kolki toward the entrance to Molehind, gripping the sidewall of the cliff and stumbling along with her eyes at her feet.
Before they arrived, another gust of wind swept over them. The force of it sucked Lizneth away from the wall, and for an instant she was sure she would topple over the edge.
Kolki’s hand clamped down on her upper arm. “Follow close, and come quickly. The winds are moving in.”
By the time they reached the cave, the dust was swirling so thickly around them it was hard to see. Lizneth choked out a few cloudy coughs, keeping one step behind Kolki. The chabad shook herself before entering her hut, spreading a fine brown mist over the platform. Lizneth did the same, though the remaining dust was starker against the white of her fur.
Kolki pawed through her things and came up with a small glass bottle, half full of yellow liquid. “Here we are—wait, no,” she said. She snatched up a vial filled with clear liquid, uncorked it, and poured its contents into the bottle. “There. That’s what we needed.” She held it out.
Lizneth took it. “What does this do?”
“It will make you sick,” said Kolki.
“But I don’t want to be sick.”
“You don’t want to be pregnant, either. So drink it.”
“This will… end my pregnancy?”
Kolki nodded. “All your worries gone.”
“Well, I don’t know…”
Kolki yanked the bottle away from her. “First you’re sick. Then you’re pregnant. Then you don’t want to be. Now you can’t decide. I’ll save this for someone who can.”
“No, I want it. I just—I didn’t mean what I said before. Not that I don’t want to be… pregnant. Just that I can’t bear the thought of Mama and Papa knowing.”
Kolki snorted. “You and every other nestling who’s ever bred before leaving home. You think your parents don’t know what happens to a growing young doe when she gets to be your age? They were as young as you once.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Seems to me you could use a good reminder or three.”
“Could not. I just don’t want to disappoint them, is all.”
“Too late for that now, isn’t it?”
“I don’t think so,” Lizneth said. “Why do you say that?”
Kolki held the bottle out to her. “You’ve seen something tonight that n
ot many in this world will ever get to see. An emblem of our time. A harbinger. Think well on it, deepling.”
“How can I think on it if you won’t tell me what it means?”
“If you would only think as I’ve shown you, you would not need me to tell you what it means.”
Lizneth was too frustrated to deal with the old windbag any longer. She wasn’t getting anywhere with her, so why keep trying? She swiped the bottle from the chabad’s hand and tucked it into the pocket of her chinos. “That means nothing to me.” She made it as far as the beaded curtain before Kolki stopped her with a sharp chitter.
“Deepling. Look further. Look deeper. Not at what you see or scent or touch, but at what you feel. What carries you where no tangible thing ever could.”
“Goodbye, Kolki. Thank you for the medicine.” With a resigned huff, Lizneth pushed through the beaded curtain and left the chabad and her hut behind.
On her way to the lower platform where her siblings were playing with their cousins, Lizneth took out the bottle and turned it over in her hands. The liquid that had been pale yellow before was a thin brown color now, murky, with specks of something floating inside. She was so enthralled by the change she didn’t look where she was going, and someone bumped her as they moved past. The cylindrical bottle slipped from her fingers, rolled to the edge of the platform, and plummeted off.
She rushed to the railing in time to see the bottle bounce off the thick hempen rope of the handrail below and roll out of sight along the platform, still intact. She darted to the ramp and raced down, fighting her way through the many ikzhehn crowding her path. She caught sight of the bottle rolling across the planks before an unwitting ikzhe kicked it in the midst of his stride. The bottle spun end over end and skidded down a shallow staircase to a lower platform. Lizneth swore and raced after it.
Lizneth found the bottle resting against the side of a mud hut, snatching the tiny glass vessel before it could go any further. When she turned back toward the platform where she’d left Mama and Auntie Pomka with the nestlings, she found herself face to face with Papa and Uncle Enzak instead.
“Why, Lizneth,” Papa stammered. “I hardly recognized you. Your fur is filthy. What are you up to, cuzhe?”
“I was just… playing hiders-finders with Malak and the others. I got lost and wandered above. There was a dust storm, and—”
“You went into the blind-world? You mustn’t do that, cuzhe.”
“I know. I went too far. I didn’t realize where that path led until I was already there.”
“It’s alright. Just stay away from that place from now on. You’ve had enough of the blind-world already, haven’t you?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“What’s that you’ve found? Give it here.”
Tentatively, Lizneth handed him the bottle.
Papa held it up for closer inspection, his eye swelling to a hideous size on the far side of the glass. “This doesn’t look very good. What do you make of it?”
Uncle Enzak examined the bottle for himself. He gave it a sniff. Recognition flooded him. “This belongs to Kolki, our chabad.”
“Kolki is still around, is she?” Papa said. “I should like to say hello. It’s been such a long time since—”
“No,” Lizneth blurted, grabbing the bottle from Enzak’s hands. “I mean… I saw her. This—I got this from her. I wasn’t feeling well. Auntie Pomka told me Kolki could help.”
“You don’t feel well? Why didn’t you tell Mama?”
“I tried, but she was busy with the nestlings. I didn’t want to bother her. I thought if I could go quickly and get something, it would be no trouble.”
“Well, it certainly wouldn’t have been. Oh, my sweet cuzhe, you can always tell your Mama and me when something ails you.”
Lizneth knew that, and well. Mama and Papa were better parents than any child could ask for. Which was what made the thought of telling them the bottle’s true contents so daunting. It wasn’t as if she felt guilty for having coupled with a buck—as awkward as that would be to admit to them. No, it was the added burden on the family she was worried about. There were too many mouths already, and Sniverlik’s Marauders took more than their share of what little food Tanley could produce.
But here she was, thinking of Tanley and home again as though they still existed—as though there would be something to come back to whenever they returned. Lizneth had endured too many terrible ordeals these last few months to hope something good might happen for a change. Then again, maybe it was about time she and her family caught a break.
“I’ve known Kolki since she was younger than you are,” Papa was saying. “I’d like to pay her a visit. Is that alright with you, cuzhe?”
“Yes, Papa. May I go back and find Mama and the others?”
“Certainly. Just promise me you’ll take that medicine. Kolki is a very good chabad. I’m sure it’ll help.”
I have no doubt it will, Papa, Lizneth wanted to say. I’m just not sure it’s the kind of help I want.
CHAPTER 21
Squandered Stores
Sister Gallica was up to something, and Bastille was determined to find out what it was. The she-mutant was almost certainly involved in Soleil and Froderic’s illicit activities somehow, but pieces of this puzzle were still missing. Bastille had been meaning to investigate the basilica’s storerooms ever since Brother Froderic’s ‘disappearance’ and subsequent appointment to the Most High, and Sister Gallica’s threats had only served to heighten her desire.
Bastille wasn’t sure whether Dominique was wrapped up in all this too, but she had begun to tolerate the woman well enough to remain unconcerned with her. Dominique had given Bastille ample time to skim through the small collection of documents in the hidden library. Since she wasn’t allowed to speak with the fates themselves, reading about them was the next best thing.
The summation of everything Bastille had learned from those documents, however, amounted to little more than the high priestesses had already told her. There were additional details about the fates’ destructive power; about scientific studies that had been conducted years ago; about a vast cover-up on the part of the Ministry to keep awareness of the fates’ existence from spreading. But aside from the fact that they did exist, and the general consensus that they were here to bring about the Aionach’s destruction, the documents contained little.
Brother Froderic’s underling was a potbelly stove of a man with close-cropped brown hair called Belgard. Now that Froderic was dead—or missing, depending on who you asked—Brother Belgard possessed the only set of keys to the storerooms besides Gallica’s. As overseer of the basilica, it was well-known and often discussed among acolyte and priest alike that Gallica was in possession of every key to every door on the premises, from tomb to dormitory. Unless Bastille wanted to attempt a burglary of the she-mutant’s keys, Brother Belgard was her only option.
She found him in one of the east tower studies, poring over one of the thick leatherbound registers in which the supply records were kept. The door was cracked open when she approached. She could hear him mumbling to himself as he cross-referenced line items from a parchment sheet and scratched out his sums with a quill pen. Bastille would’ve knocked, but the floor gave a loud croak before she reached the door. Brother Belgard turned sharply, startled by the intrusion.
“Forgive me, kind Brother,” Bastille said.
“Nothing to forgive, Sister Bastille.” Belgard removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, weary of his late-night toils. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Belgard was one of the Esteemed, so he had the same reasons as any other priest to grovel to Sister Bastille. Somehow, though, he seemed unconcerned with making a good impression. Bastille found his casual, relaxed air refreshing, though she also knew Belgard to be a particularly tedious fellow, and one quick to take offense. A person’s weaknesses are like tools. One need only know how to turn them, she told herself as she slipped into the small chamber and closed the door.
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“Please…” he said, gesturing toward the chair beside him.
She sat down. “I’ve come to you with a matter of great concern, kind Brother. Not just to myself, but to the basilica as a whole.”
Belgard looked only mildly concerned. “And what might that be?”
“Word has it that since Brother Froderic’s… departure… the basilica’s stores have been utterly mismanaged.”
Belgard stuttered. “Wh—why, that’s preposterous. I have been managing the storerooms in Brother Froderic’s absence.”
“I am aware of that, kind Brother,” said Bastille. “That’s why I wanted to speak with you.”
His face reddened. “You think I’m responsible for this?”
“Who else might you suggest is responsible?”
“Sister Bastille… I only took over recently.”
“So Brother Froderic is entirely to blame, then.”
Belgard shut the ledger book and slid it away so he could prop his elbows on the table and lace his fingers together. When he looked at Bastille, his expression was drawn tighter than a crossbow string. “It’s only that—I’m not sure what you expect me to do. Much as I would like to, I am unable to conjure up something where nothing exists.”
“So the storerooms were in a bad state when you inherited them.”
He took a breath before answering. “With all due kindness, Sister, what concern is it of yours? Your responsibilities in the Order have little to do with the maintenance of our reserves.”
Bastille leaned back in her chair. “The products of my preparation chambers go directly toward feeding our livestock, nourishing the Cypriests who defend our walls, and fertilizing the ground in which we plant our crops. My relevance to your duties is indirect, but no less substantial. I can help you, kind Brother. Though perhaps I was wrong to think you’d want my advice.”
“Your advice? Is that what you call this—this… assault?”
