by Ted Sanders
There was a Mothergate here. His mom had practically said so, and Horace could feel it in his bones. Besides, surely all these Altari were here for a reason. In addition to the tall Altari with the blue-bladed sword, he’d seen a handful of others with weapons as well—a hammer, and two spears, and a particularly nasty-looking pair of daggers carried by the only ugly Altari he’d seen, a short, crooked-faced male. Weapons, for sure, but also Tan’ji. And why weren’t those Keepers out there fighting with Horace and the others? He could think of a few reasons, maybe, but only one really made sense. They were here to defend a Mothergate. Defend it? Heal it? Save it?
Could it be saved?
There were answers ahead, he knew. Answers that frightened him. Not least of all because he wondered how many of those answers would come from Sil’falo Teneves herself. The thought of meeting the Maker of the Fel’Daera in the flesh had filled him with a kind of terrifying anticipation. Truth be told, he’d been fussing with the box most of the day in the hopes that Falo might suddenly burst into the room, glorious and terrible and wise, and then . . .
Well, he didn’t know what then. But something. Something was better than nothing. And the last nine and a half hours had been a whole lot of nothing.
He looked over at Chloe. “Hey,” he said softly. No response. “Hey,” he said more loudly, kind of crooning the word.
Chloe stirred. “Hey, schoolgirl,” she sang back sleepily, nuzzling her face into the mattress.
He laughed. “I’m not a schoolgirl. You’re a schoolgirl.”
“Second row,” she mumbled. “Way down low.” Suddenly she rolled over, her black hair plastered across her face. Her wild, confused eyes found him. “You wake me up a lot,” she said after a few seconds. “What was I talking about?”
“Honestly, I have no idea,” Horace said.
“Is it time?”
“Almost.”
She sat up, tucking her hair behind her ears. Too short to stay, it flopped back down around her chin again. She stretched extravagantly and then reached out for the giant loaf of bread. She scooped a soft handful out of the middle of it and began to pluck it apart, munching unapologetically. “Geesh, I’m hungry. You think they got any fruit here? I could use a banana.”
“I don’t know. It’s weird there’s any food at all. Or I guess it’s weird there’s never any food in the Warren.”
“The Wardens usually eat upstairs in the Mazzoleni Academy. I think the students think they’re teachers, or something. Mrs. Hapsteade keeps crackers in her doba, though.”
“Really?”
“Like five kinds. They were all sort of gross. As was the school food.” She tore off a big hunk of bread and popped it into her mouth. “But this stuff is delicious. I could eat it all day. What even is it?” She pointed a warning finger at Horace. “If you find out it has owl milk or some weird . . . cave moss in it or something, don’t tell me. I don’t want to ruin it.”
“I will definitely not tell you about any owl’s milk.” Horace turned to the door. “Come in, Dailen.”
There was a pause, and Dailen entered, looking elegantly confused. “How did you know I was here?” he asked.
“It’s five forty-four,” Horace said. He held the Fel’Daera aloft, wiggling it, then slipped it into its pouch.
Dailen frowned. “That’s the kind of thing Brula is going to frown at, I think.”
“Let him frown,” said Chloe. “We’re not here for him anyway.”
“I know you’re not,” said Dailen. “But it’ll go easier for you if you stay in his graces. And you’re about to meet with him. The Council has called for you. I’m here to take you to the Proving Room.”
“That doesn’t sound sketchy at all,” said Chloe. “What are we trying to prove?”
“That you are worthy of being here,” Dailen said.
“And if we’re not, we’ll be asked to leave?” said Horace.
Dailen shook his head. “You will not be asked. And you will not be allowed to return.”
“Ah, hospitality,” Chloe sighed. She stood, stuffing the rest of the bread into her mouth. “Let’s go prove some things, then.”
Dailen led them out, and through the corridors of Ka’hoka. The architecture of the place continued to impress—no low passageways here, but plenty of high ceilings held up by pointed archways. And lots of light, everywhere, from mysterious sources hidden cleverly in the walls. The very fabric of the place seemed to glow, one of the brightest places Horace had ever been.
They passed a dozen or so Altari. Some of them murmured greetings to Dailen in their own tongue, nodding politely but warily at Horace and Chloe. They saw two humans, too, a middle-aged man and a plump woman in her twenties. Most of the residents bore visible Tan’ji.
After a few minutes, they passed through a wide archway into the darkest room they had yet encountered in Ka’hoka. This chamber was lit by the familiar amber lights, bulbous crystals that gave off rising swirls of golden light. No one was here. At one end of the room stood a crescent-shaped table, with four huge chairs. Within its arc, a wide round patch of dirt floor filled the center of the room. And on the opposite side of the circle, another table, this one heaped with food—fruit, and meat, and more loaves of the spicy bread.
“The Proving Room,” said Dailen. “The Council will be here shortly.”
Chloe marched on in. “Well, while we’re waiting, I’m about to prove some of this food.”
Horace followed her, suddenly hungry for the first time that day. He found a huge leg of some kind of meat on the table. After verifying to his satisfaction that it was turkey, he began to eat. Chloe, meanwhile, pulled a banana from an enormous bowl of fruit. “I love this place,” she said.
They ate greedily, using only their fingers. Dailen nibbled on some of the spicy bread, but Horace got the impression he was only doing it to be sociable.
“Where do you get the food?” Horace asked him.
“The same place you do, mostly. Our human residents do our shopping for us.”
Horace heard footsteps. He turned around just as a small group of Altari entered the room. Brula came first, followed by two females and the towering male Altari with the huge blue-bladed weapon. It was strapped to his back now. And the taller of the two females carried a weapon, too—a massive black bow, six feet long, slung over her shoulders. It, like the blue-bladed sword, was Tan’ji.
The four Altari said nothing but proceeded to the crescent-shaped table at the head of the room, taking seats around it. Plates of food stood ready for them there, and huge stone pitchers, but they showed no interest. Instead they gazed intently at Horace and Chloe, obviously waiting.
Dailen bent to whisper to Horace and Chloe. “I brought you here, so I must introduce you. But after that, it’s all you.”
Horace swallowed the chunk of turkey he was devouring. “You’re leaving?”
“I’ll stay to observe. But this is between you and the Council.” He glanced at the others. “Remember, Brula’s the one to worry about.”
Dailen turned and approached the council’s table. Chloe shoved half a banana into her mouth and waggled her eyebrows at Horace, and together the two of them followed Dailen into the wide ring of dirt in front of the Council’s table.
Brula spoke first, his words like a song. “Who comes before the Council? Who comes beneath the Veil?”
Dailen cleared his throat. “Chloe Oliver, Keeper of the Alvalaithen. Horace Andrews, Keeper of the Fel’Daera. Here under my auspices.”
Horace glanced at Chloe. She made a face. Apparently, the Wardens here were quite a bit more formal than Mr. Meister’s little crew. But then one of the female Altari spoke, the one with the bow. Her face was leaner than the others, more severe. Her voice was strong but reedy, like a clarinet.
“It seems every visitor comes under your auspices these days, Dwen’dailen Longo,” she said. “Are we not enough company for you? Or do you hope to start a zoo?”
“Sorry,” Chloe sniped,
“I thought you were the zoo. We’re the visitors.”
The Altari seemed to consider Chloe for a moment, and then said, “My name is Ravana.”
“O’ravana Omri, Keeper of Pinaka,” Dailen explained.
“Like I’ll ever remember that,” said Chloe.
Ravana leaned forward. “You will call me Ravana,” she said icily. “Remember it before you leave.”
“Moving on,” said Dailen hastily. He turned to the Altari sitting next to Ravana. “This is Sol’teokas Notiana, Keeper of the Thailadun—the Moondoor.”
Another female, this one so beautiful that Horace almost wanted to look away. Almost. Smaller than the others, she had wide hazel eyes, and the ring around her irises was golden. When she blinked, her double eyelids seemed to curtsy. She stood gracefully, smiling a gorgeously radiant smile. “Call me Teokas, please,” she said, her voice low and sweet. “Welcome to Ka’hoka.” A band encircled one of her wrists, a round bauble the size of a chestnut dangling from it. Horace had no idea what it was, but it was definitely Tan’ji—the Moondoor.
“Hi,” Horace said, waving at her. “Thanks.” Chloe snorted. Teokas waved back with a long, silken hand.
Dailen gestured to the Altari with the blue blade. “And this tall drink of water is Grul’go’nesh Tulva,” he said. “Keeper of the Guan’dao, the Fairfrost Blade.”
The hulking Altari said nothing, not introducing himself, but Horace was getting the hang of Altari names by now. This must be Go’nesh. Horace got the feeling he let the Fairfrost Blade do most of his talking for him.
“And finally,” said Dailen, “you’ve met Brula. Mal’brula Kintares, Keeper of Veritas. Head of the Wardens’ Council.”
Brula nodded once, his face stern. “Enough,” he said, waving a curt hand of dismissal. “Formalities used to mean something, but apparently times have changed.”
Dailen bowed again and stepped nimbly aside, drifting into the shadows along the far wall.
Brula reached into his robe and pulled out a small, flat bowl. It was simple, made of plain gray stone, but clearly Tan’ji. “It is time we spoke,” he said, laying the bowl on the table. “We will begin with Veritas.”
“Truth,” Chloe said. When Horace gave her a puzzled look, she shrugged. “Veritas means truth.”
“Indeed,” said Brula. “Perhaps you’d like to tell me what my Tan’ji does, then?”
“Your little bowl there . . . tells the truth,” Chloe said dubiously. “It’s not one of those lying bowls.”
Brula frowned. “Veritas brooks no lies,” he said. Horace still didn’t understand. Brula picked up a stone pitcher and poured a small amount of water into the bowl. He spread his arms. “Come. Take the bowl. Don’t be shy. I have just a few questions for each of you.”
So Brula wanted them to actually touch his Tan’ji. Apparently Veritas was like Mrs. Hapsteade’s quill, the Vora—it only worked in the hands of others. And somehow it would be able to know the truth?
“What if we don’t want to answer your questions?” said Chloe.
“Then we will have no more to discuss,” Brula replied. “Your visit here will come to an end. You will be returned to the surface.”
Horace didn’t want that. There were answers here, to a thousand questions. He stepped up to the huge table and stood on his tiptoes, cautiously taking the bowl. He didn’t allow himself to hesitate at all, but he also didn’t want to spill any of the water. Though it had looked small in Brula’s hand, it was several inches wide. Through the clear water, Horace saw that the bottom of the bowl was engraved with a crude, plump sun. But as he watched, the water began to cloud over, developing a faint greenish tint. Soon the sun was totally obscured. Horace’s own face gazed back at him.
“Good,” said Brula, closing his eyes. “Now observe yourself in the water and tell me a lie.”
Horace looked down at his own reflection again, at his shaggy brown hair. He really needed a haircut. “Okay, then,” he said. “My hair is . . . blue.” The lie came out easily, and he felt nothing—at first. But when he uttered the word “blue,” the lips of his reflection refused to move. They remained sealed. The illusion was profoundly disorienting, as if Horace’s reflection had betrayed him, revealing itself to be someone that wasn’t Horace. He recoiled a bit, nearly sloshing water onto the floor.
“What happened?” Chloe asked.
“In Veritas, your reflection will refuse to lie,” Brula said. “And I will know it.”
Horace pondered the bowl, thinking it through. “But Veritas can’t actually know the truth,” he said.
Teokas leaned forward, unbearably beautiful. She raised her exquisite eyebrows at Horace. “Can’t it?” she asked, her voice like the sweetest choir.
“Well, that . . . that would be impossible,” Horace stammered. “The bowl would have to contain all the knowledge in the universe. I’m guessing the bowl can only know that I know I’m not telling the truth. It’s just a lie detector.”
Now it was Brula’s turn to frown. “Three questions, Keeper—assuming you do not lie. Keep your answers simple and straightforward.”
“Fair enough.” Horace ignored Chloe’s exaggerated eye roll. He had nothing to hide.
“First question,” said Brula. “How long have you been Keeper of the Fel’Daera?”
That was easy, even if the true answer still seemed absurdly inadequate. As he spoke, Horace watched his reflection’s lips move in perfect unison with his own. “Only about two months.” He thought he heard a soft murmur of surprise from one of the Altari, but no one said anything.
“Second,” said Brula. “How did you acquire your instrument?”
Even easier. “In Chicago, in a warehouse of the Wardens. The House of Answers, it was called.”
“Last question. Have you ever knowingly given aid to the Riven?”
Horace hesitated. The easy answer was no, but the true answer wasn’t exactly easy. Only three days ago, he had saved Dr. Jericho’s life. Had he done that knowingly? He watched himself in the green water and said firmly, “No.” And inside the bowl, to his relief, his reflected self said the same.
Brula opened his eyes. “Good,” he said flatly, sounding neither pleased nor disappointed. He turned to Chloe. “And now you, Keeper.”
Chloe took the bowl from Horace. “I’m gonna rock this, don’t worry,” she said to the room. Brula then asked her the same three questions he’d asked of Horace, but instead of telling the truth, Chloe answered with three outrageous lies:
“Since the time of the dinosaurs. Rest in peace, you noble beasts.”
“Got it for Hanukkah one year.”
“I helped a Mordin build a sand castle last summer. Does that count as giving aid?”
In the corner, Dailen had his face buried in his hand. The other Council members looked lost somewhere between confused and amused—except for Brula, who had managed to find a frown so deep it became a snarl.
“Very amusing,” he said. “One last question for you, I think. Has the Keeper of the Fel’Daera, after claiming to witness the future, ever put your life at risk?”
Chloe didn’t hesitate. “I put my own life at risk. Horace just sees it.”
Teokas nodded, smiling. Chloe reached up to set Veritas back on the table, sloshing a bit of water. She wiped her hands on her thighs. Although Horace was sure she was pleased with herself, her face looked anything but happy.
“I’ll tell you what,” she said. “Last night, I helped destroy a golem. Dailen saw me do it. A few hours before that, I killed an Auditor. A month ago, the Riven set fire to my house, and I sat inside it while it burned down around me. I’ve also impaled a Mordin with a crowbar, wrestled a malkund away from my father, and extinguished a crucible with my own flesh.” She held up her arm, displaying the broad, dark scars that stretched from wrist to elbow. “So here’s a little bit of truth for you, and you can either accept it, or suck it: I don’t need your freaking bowl.”
There was a moment of quivering silence,
and then Teokas began to giggle merrily, looking around at the others. “Veil blind me,” she laughed. “I don’t even care if she lies to us. I don’t even care what her powers are. I want her on our side.”
Brula, still scowling, reached for his Tan’ji and tossed the water out impatiently. It splashed darkly onto the dirt floor.
“I’d like to agree,” said Ravana, the one with the bow. “But I want demonstrations.” She leaned forward to peer down at Chloe. “You were inside your home while it burned down, you say. That’s a power I’d like to see. And if the Fel’Daera truly has returned, we must witness its Keeper in action, too. I call for a Ro’ha.”
“Seconded,” said Teokas at once. “Ro’ha.”
The tall Altari, Go’nesh, simply nodded slowly, his heavy eyes fixed on Chloe.
Brula sighed. “Very well,” he said. He stood up and began to recite. “Because we cannot trust what we have not witnessed, demonstrations are in order. Prepare your Tan’ji. It is time for the showing of hands. Do regalo chith’net Ro’ha.”
Chloe leaned into Horace. “Oh, man, these guys are serious,” she muttered.
Horace looked over at Dailen, pressed inconspicuously against the far wall, half in shadow. The young Altari gave him an encouraging nod. “What if we don’t impress them?” Horace asked Chloe.
She mustered up a look of fake outrage. “When have I ever not impressed?”
CHAPTER THIRTY
The Ro’ha
“KEEPER OF THE ALVALAITHEN,” BRULA INTONED. “WILL YOU go first? Will you share with us your power?”
Horace backed away, giving Chloe room for whatever she was about to do now.
“Since you asked nicely,” said Chloe. “What do you want to see?”
“Whatever you can manage to achieve.”
Chloe spun around to face Horace. She crossed her eyes and mouthed Brula’s last words silently, mimicking him. Then she grinned mischievously, and the dragonfly’s wings flickered to life. “Hold still,” she said.
