by Phil Tucker
"No, she most assuredly did not, for she arose, blade in hand, and into the thick of the fray did she stride! Oh, it was glorious, her speed, her power! One by one the enemy fell, until Kethe was declared the victor! Oh, yes, she won the whole thing, Kethe did, against all the odds, against Lord Laur's best knights. It was a wondrous moment, truly it was."
Audsley remembered then how Kethe had fled the field when she'd learned of Ser Tiron's presence. The very knight who had tried to kill her and whose attack had set her on her path. All those old wounds and woes – was there never any escaping them?
"She must have already been manifesting her power," said Iarenna. "To have won in such a manner."
"Yes," said Audsley. "I suppose so." He sighed. "Poor Kethe. She was – is – such a brilliant woman. Strong, brave, caring, too – really a remarkable person. A true Ennoian."
The carriage had turned and rolled out into the sunlight. Audsley leaned to the side once more and saw that they were crossing a broad bridge, leaving the actual stonecloud behind to cross over a chasm to the Temple.
"We shall alight at the Foreyard," said Iarenna quietly. "It might be best if you remained within the carriage, Magister."
"Assuredly," said Audsley. He felt his demons relax a fraction. And yet, shouldn't he step forth and ask for absolution? Had he not come in part to drive these demons from his soul?
Audsley steeled himself. He wouldn't imperil Kethe's delivery. After she was taken and safe, then and only then would he present himself and beg for the mercy of the Virtues.
The carriage rolled out onto a large courtyard and came to a stop. Before them arose a wide building carved from living stone, with a triangular facade and broad steps climbing to a colonnade, beyond which lay shadows and the hint of a door. The tympanum was resplendent with achingly realistic carvings of men and women at war, and Audsley sighed, knowing he would never get a chance to study it closely.
The carriage door opened, a stepping block was placed before it, and Iarenna and her ladies descended. Then the two men who had driven the carriage reached past Audsley to lift Kethe up and bear her away.
Farewell, dear Kethe! Audsley felt a pang of sorrow. I send all my blessings and good wishes with you. Farewell.
The small group approached the steps and was met by two men in robes so simple and white that they appeared severe in contrast to the ladies' finery. They exchanged earnest words, and Audsley bit his lower lip. Would word of Makaria's death have reached Aletheia yet? He prayed not. Those who would bear the tale were yet trapped at the Talon, waiting for that Lunar Gate to open and bring them back to Ennoia. No; Kethe's crimes could not yet be known. They would take her. They had to take her.
Audsley realized that he was holding the edge of the carriage door in a death grip. Finally, one of the men in white stepped forward and took Kethe in his arms. Audsley felt almost faint with relief, a dizzying wave of vertigo passing through him. Success. He had done the best he could. He had delivered Kethe to the Virtues, and now her fate was in their hands.
He passed his hand over his brow. Now came his turn. His moment of truth. And if they slayed him for being foul and polluted? Such were his just desserts.
Audsley moved back to the slatted window and saw the two men bearing Kethe up the steps to the colonnaded entrance just as another group departed. It was a large group, the man in the lead regal and poised, clad in robes as layered and elegant as any Audsley had yet seen, and followed by almost forty men and women who all had the air of supplicants and hangers-on and personal guards.
Demon, whispered the Aletheian in his mind.
"What?" Audsley startled. "Where?"
You see him. There. At the head of the group. I sense a demon entwined within that man's soul.
"I – are you sure?" Audsley peered closely again. The man looked to be in his forties; he was short and round-faced, his features pinched, his chin weak, but he still projected a confidence and authority that explained the deference his retinue was showing him. "Him?"
Yes.
"Well. I never."
Audsley watched the man carefully. A huge carriage rolled into view, pulled by six white oxen, large enough for the man and most of his retinue. They entered with great ceremony, and when the carriage turned and rumbled away, some twenty guards followed on foot.
The door to Audsley's carriage opened and Iarenna entered, followed by her four ladies. She sat back, her mouth a thin line, but evidently relieved to have delivered Kethe. "We have done our duty, and now her fate is in the Ascendant's hands."
"Yes, yes, very much so. Good. Good." Audsley hesitated. This was it. His time to dart out of the carriage. "My lady Iarenna, if I may be so bold, who was that man who just descended the steps?"
The four ladies-in-waiting immediately bowed their heads. Even Iarenna looked impressed, her eyes widening. "That was the Minister of the Moon, Magister."
"Oh, yes, yes, of course." And who is that?
The Minister of the Moon is the fifth most powerful man in Aletheia, said the demon quietly. Behind only the Minister of the Sun, the Ascendant's Grace, the Minister of Perfection, and the Ascendant himself.
"Oh," said Audsley quietly.
The door to the carriage closed tightly. Audsley sat still, staring straight ahead and seeing nothing.
"Are you all right, Magister?" Iarenna's voice cut through his thoughts.
"Me?" Audsley grinned, knowing the expression to be ghastly. The way the four ladies recoiled was proof enough. "Oh, yes. I mean no. I'm sorry. I mean perhaps." He wiped at his brow with the hem of his borrowed cloak and saw Chynica wince. "My dear Lady Iarenna. If I may impose, I have much to ask you."
"But of course, Magister Audsley." Iarenna bowed her head gravely. "You delivered my cousin to me. We are in your debt."
Your questions will not be so easily answered, whispered the Aletheian demon.
No, I didn't think they would be. Audsley felt his heart sink. But I must ask them regardless. I must discover what is going on in Aletheia. I must uncover this evil, for the sake of Ascension itself.
CHAPTER THREE
Asho emerged from the Portal, demon blade in one hand, burning torch in the other, and stepped out onto the base of a terrifyingly slender stone bridge. He was within a vast chasm, through which a sharp wind blew with a delirious moan, plucking at the flames of his torch and pulling him down toward the dark void that opened at his feet and dropped into the depths of the earth.
Shivering, but not from the cold, Asho pulled back, flattening against the now-dead Portal to Starkadr. That old pressure, that comforting sense of weight that came from the untold miles of rock above him, returned, a sensation he hadn't realized he'd missed in all his years of being beneath the open sky, beneath the resplendent glory of the sun.
He was back. He was home. Bythos.
But nowhere familiar. The aurora infernalis was missing from the darkness above him, and the grand vista of the Great Cavern was nowhere to be found. The cruel blade towers, the tumbled white blocks of the cubes. Beyond the golden illumination of his torch he saw a faint, ambient purple light that seemed to emanate coldly from the very walls of the chasm. Peering down, he saw other slender bridges spanning the gulf. A hissing whisper came from a crack thirty yards below and to his right, from which a plume of dust and sand was draining like a waterfall into the darkness.
He felt something else, as well. A sense of loss. An emptiness that ached within him. The ambient magic that he had grown accustomed to at the Hold was gone. There was nothing to reach out to, nothing to drink deep from, to infuse himself with so as to achieve the impossible. Without it, the sickness from having drunk too deep of his magic during the battle with the demons redoubled, bringing a sour taste to his mouth.
Asho closed his eyes and sought something, a wisp of the power that had cloaked him since he'd stepped out into the Hold through the Raven's Gate. Nothing. No, wait – there. The lightest touch, the faintest breeze across his skin. A hint, a tea
se, but not enough to work with. Asho opened his eyes, frustration and fear coursing through him. Of course: the Black Gate of Bythos had been closed for centuries, with only the faintest flicker of power stealing through. He'd not be Sin Casting here.
Where was he? He'd never heard tell of this eerie chasm. Kneeling, he passed his hand over the stonework of the bridge. It was smooth, wonderfully carved, with simple yet neatly incised patterns in the stone beneath the thick layer of dust. Like nothing he had ever seen before. He looked up then to see that the bridge had no railings, a barely noticeably arch, and it plunged into a narrow tunnel on the far side of the chasm. He rose to his feet with a grimace. There wasn't much choice, so he sheathed his blade, took a measured breath, and walked out onto the bridge.
The wind tugged at his cloak, made him clench his jaw, stole the echo of his footsteps away and carried it into the hungry depths. A thin sheen of icy sweat lay over his brow by the time he reached the far end of the bridge, and he wasted no time in entering the tunnel. Then he slowed, raising his torch as he examined the worked walls. Carved with strange geometries, they were alien to him, completely beyond his ken. Audsley would love this, he thought, and for the first time managed a rueful smile.
The corridor ran for several hundred paces before opening up into a high-roofed cavern, the entire far wall of which was obscured in shadow. No, Asho realized as he approached, sparing but a glance for the carved floor and intricately worked pillars. Not obscured; altogether absent.
Once again the far reaches of the cavern were illuminated by that faint, glacial purple light that seemed to be extruded by the rock itself. A steady glow, uneven; like the folds of a curtain, certain vertical swathes were darker, some almost pitch black. Asho couldn't help but marvel. The cavern was more of a causeway, he realized, a broad and natural bridge across dark depths from which massive stalagmites rose up like savage canines.
Two figures emerged from a dark crack at the far end of the causeway, their presence immediately marked by the ghostly green flare of their buglights. Bythians? Asho began to walk forward, his own torch held aloft, trying to make them out. The pair noticed him, stopped, then began to walk forward with greater speed.
There was something belligerent in their bearing. Asho kept walking forward. He needed answers. More than that, he wanted to see human faces. The figures grew ever larger, details emerging bit by bit, and when they were perhaps twenty yards away Asho stopped, hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
No Bythians, these. Their hair was dark, their faces bearded; their leather armor was standard issue and the blades at their hips well-worn and plain. Ennoian guards.
"What do you think you're doing down here?" The man on the left stepped forward, bristling with anger. A scar gleamed down the length of his face, splitting his lip and showing where he'd lost his teeth. "That a blade you're wearing?"
Asho rocked back onto his heels. "I'm lost. Where am I?"
Both men were staring at him in wonder, their incredulity slowly souring into anger. The second man stepped up beside the first. He was a heavyset fellow with great rounded shoulders and a belly sagging over his broad belt. His eyes, however, were small and quick and alert. "How about you set that sword down? We'll answer all your questions then."
Asho pursed his lips and looked down at his demon blade as if considering the request. Was he supposed to be cowering? Begging their forgiveness? He got the impression that his very confidence was unnerving them. "My apologies," he said, keeping his voice low. "That isn't going to happen. So, why don't you tell me what I need to know, and we'll go our separate ways?"
"Nicely spoken, isn't he?" The first man licked his ruined lip, a quick dart that seemed habitual. He drew his weapon, taking his time about it so as to get a good metallic rasp in the process. "Almost like he doesn't know his place."
The second guard hesitated. Asho could almost hear his thoughts as he watched him calculate. In the end he drew his blade as well, his reluctance obvious in his stiff movements. "Careful, Andris. I got a bad feeling about this one."
Andris set his buglight down and then shoved it away with his foot, sending it scraping a couple of yards off to the left on its carapace, glowing underbelly exposed to the air. "You think they all look dangerous." He took a step forward, blade gleaming. "Now, slave. You've had your chance. Means we've got to –"
Asho threw his torch overhand at the heavyset guard and ran at Andris, drawing his sword as he went. He felt heavy, almost dull, without magic infusing his limbs, his nausea rising up to claw at his throat, but he was quick enough. Neither of them had expected him to take the offensive; had, perhaps, in their hearts, still expected him to begin cowering. He knocked Andris' blade aside and moved in close to catch him by the back of the neck and pull him down as he slammed his knee up into the man's gut.
Andris went down with a whoosh.
The second guard had deflected the torch with an adroit swipe of his sword, but in doing so had sent a flood of sparks flying into his own face. He was still blinking and cursing when he felt Asho's blade tickle his heavy gut.
"Drop the sword," said Asho. "Please."
The man didn't hesitate. To his credit, he knelt slowly and laid his blade carefully on the rock floor. Then he backed up toward where Andris was heaving for breath and fighting to rise.
"Now," said Asho. "Where are we?"
The larger guard sat down. "You're serious, aren't you? You don't know."
"Just tell him already, Andirke," said Andris, his face pale and contorted.
"You're in the labyrinth," said Andirke. "The Abythian Labyrinth."
"Now he gets it," said Andris. He spat and scowled. "Now you know how much trouble you're in."
Asho nodded as he looked around once more. The Abythian Labyrinth. A holy complex, a place of pilgrimage, a place of ancient ruins to which the First Ascendant had retreated during his Withdrawal. Where he'd found the Solar Portal to Abythos, through which he'd allied with the kragh and begun his war of Ascension.
"Where are the mines?" he asked.
"The mines?" Andirke echoed. "That where you came from?"
"Yes," said Asho. "Point me in their direction, and I'll leave you alive."
"You wouldn't dare –" spluttered Andris, but Andirke waved him quiet.
"He's not going to kill us." He paused and eyed Asho. "I don't think. Anyway, if you want to return to the mines, enter through the hall we came out of, and take the right passage. Follow that straight."
Asho studied Andirke's expression. The heavyset man looked right back at him with stolid neutrality, but Asho saw a gleam in the man's eye. Cunning, but not cunning enough. "Very well. Thank you. I'll have to bind you to prevent your raising the alarm. You understand."
The guards grumbled but didn't protest. Asho had first one and then the other lie face down as he used their own restraints on them, and when he was done, he hesitated then left their blades and his torch. Their buglight in hand, he strode quickly down the length of the great causeway, ignoring their curses, and stepped into the diagonal crack from which they had emerged.
The tunnel almost immediately split into a T-junction. Asho crouched and studied the floor. Numerous tracks went off to the right, both coming and going. It seemed Andris and Andirke were part of a regular patrol. Good. That meant someone would find them before long. It also meant that Andirke had probably tried to send Asho into an Ennoian outpost. Asho couldn't fault him for trying.
Rising, he turned left. Holding the buglight by its stiff tail, underbelly outward, he walked quickly. He knew little about the Labyrinth. It was strictly out of bounds to everyone except Third Shift Bythians who came to mine it for Gate Stone and harvest the creatures that seemed to live only in these particular caverns. But if he could meet up with them, he might be able to return over the Badlands to the cubes in safety.
The hallway ran on for some time, the occasional crack marring its otherwise smooth walls, until it punched out into a second chasm. Steps we
re carved up the chasm face, and Asho ran up them, not liking the way the wind pulled at him. Another tunnel, a second T-junction, and Asho started to grow uneasy, began to worry about getting truly lost down here, ending his days without food or water in the heart of this complex. He was about to turn and follow his own footsteps back when the tunnel ended in a set of steps that spiraled up. Taking a deep breath, Asho climbed them, going around and around until he suddenly broke free and emerged onto the surface.
Asho squatted behind a pile of loose rocks that masked the entrance to the stairwell and breathed in deep. Above him flickered the aurora infernalis, undulating with slow elegance across the Great Cavern's ceiling, hiding it in shifting shades of emerald and sapphire. Then he stood and stared across the black badlands that stretched away toward the Blade Towers.
Asho's chest swelled with a storm of emotions. Memories cascaded through him, of a lifetime spent growing under the tall Blade Towers where the Sigeans and Ennoians dwelt in sullen splendor, a life spent grubbing in the mines, down in the cramped dark, always hungry, always exhausted, seeking, fighting to find some spark of joy in the soulless drudgery that was the life of a Bythian slave.
Even now, he knew, thousands upon thousands of Bythians were laboring in the mines, chipping away at ore, hauling baskets, turning the great gyres that operated the lifts, scaling the wooden ladders like a flood of ants with baskets hanging down their backs, their cloth handles looped around their foreheads. Their misery was an invisible miasma in the air, a heat shimmer of abhorrent abuse.
Asho forced himself to exhale and unclench his fists. The dark metal forms of the Blade Towers, splotched with rust and glimmering darkly in the light of the aurora, seemed crueler now than he remembered.
Below them spread the homes of the Bythians themselves, a vast spread of tumbled ivory cubes, looking like children's blocks from this distance, windows without glass, entrances without doors. Flat-roofed, pale like bone, crude and simple, they housed the thousands who slept while the second shift worked and the third made the most of their brief moments of respite.
