Sobs redoubled, she put her arms around Marabaldia’s enormous neck, and together they turned to look at Poke, who lay unconscious, smeared with blood. Suka reached to run her hand along the rose tattoo, and they both took hold of her hands, one on each side, stroking her cramped, sharp, cloven palms. In time Marabaldia took up her burden again, but Suka stayed alongside, holding Poke’s hand until it had entirely transformed, hardened, and grown cold.
By that time it was afternoon, and they had crossed the ridge. To the west Suka could see the land slope down toward Myrloch and the lake, and the fens surrounding it. To the east a thick mist hid the pass into Synnoria and the vale of the Llewyrr. Northward, straight ahead rose the Cambro Mountains, shattered pinnacles of granite streaked with glaciers and high chains of lakes. Underneath, the rock was full of holes, shafts and caverns dug by generations of miners, now abandoned. They climbed through valleys full of the heaped tailings below worm-eaten cliffs, red hills of the exhausted ore.
They were approaching the stronghold of Harrowfast, a fortified enclave in the mountains, built by dwarves, now overtaken by the fey on the marches of Synnoria. Here were the entrances into a world of caves and mining tunnels, now mostly disused. But over the course of generations, two miles down beneath the ridge of peaks, the fomorians and their slaves had dug a roadway all the way to Cambrent Gap, and then a spur to Citadel Umbra in Winterglen, an immense tunnel through the dark. The entrance to that road approached the surface near to where they were, a narrow chasm on the eastern side, where the wide black walls were covered with eroded reliefs, carved figures from the ancient times, gods and goddesses, kings and queens. Emissaries waited for them near a massive stone gateway leading down into the dark, a company of cyclopses dressed in burnished armor, carrying long lances with pennants hanging from the crossbars, flags as black as night, embroidered with the sign of the red torch clasped in a purple hand, now snapping and rattling in the fresh breeze. Captain Rurik and the eladrin had reached the place already on their horses, but when Marabaldia saw the flags she laid the stretcher down for the last time, and after combing her hair back between her fingers, pulled out her iron bar and marched forward, the grimace on her face transforming as she saw a fomorian warrior standing by himself. Suka, beside her, saw a look of indecision pass over Marabaldia’s big face, and then a new determination. Marabaldia recognized this man. And another, and another, as the great giants rose out of the shadows of the rocks.
The cyclopses had started with a wailing cry that was half random howling and half music—Suka could hear traces of a wavering melody and traces of harmony, also, between the high voices and the low. Now they settled to their knees, prostrating themselves just as Borgol had in the prison at Caer Corwell; they closed their eyes and pressed their foreheads into the stones. The fomorians bowed low, except for one, a giant of what was for them, Suka estimated, middle height, and the only one of them not wearing armor, or grasping clubs or battle-axes. He was a handsome fellow, Suka thought—astonished at herself for making these distinctions between members of a race of grotesque and tyrannical barbarians—with his black hair in a braid, and his eyes almost the same size, the right one slightly larger, of course, and shining now as if it itself were a source of light. Marabaldia gasped. She reached down to take Suka’s hand between her forefinger and thumb, which the gnome squeezed reassuringly—she knew who this was. Against all hope and reason, just as the world had turned irrevocably into shit, here was a gift from bright Selûne’s hands, a bridegroom who had waited ten years for his bride. Hurt and made brittle by the lycanthrope’s slow death, Suka found herself, again, on a thin edge of tears, yet happy this time to see her friend walk forward into the circle of bowing, prostrating giants, and this one fellow in the midst of them, smiling now, dressed in his long, rich, fur-lined robes.
Because maybe there was hope for all of them, and Suka’s friends were also still alive, and she would see them again on a bright, clear day like this, when the wind was in her face. Thinking somehow this was a gift for her as well, she stepped forward with the princess, reaching up to hold her hand, as if she were (she imagined later) a servant or a slave. She didn’t think about that now. She looked up at her friend’s shining face. Marabaldia was too shy to speak. Ughoth (that was the fellow’s name, Suka subsequently learned) held his hand out, but she did not take it. She’d been staring at the ground, but now she looked up, and Suka saw a beam as if of light or comprehension pass between their eyes—she didn’t have to talk. Everything, Suka imagined, was now revealed, or at least everything important. The rest were just details.
Ughoth cleared his throat—a grunting, burbling, disgusting noise—and said, “Madam, I have the unfortunate duty of telling you your royal father has now passed away, and my father too has joined him in the Deep Wilds, friends now where they were enemies. Because of this my circumstances are now changed, and I am able to welcome you—no, I rejoice to welcome you home, to … my home. I know I must not presume now on past intimacies, so I am here to offer you my service in whatever decision you must undertake. I must tell you—all of us, all of your subjects have never given up hope. But I especially have waited for you, picturing in my eye some version of a moment just like this, though always a pale shadow of reality, and with no understanding of the happiness I feel at this moment, and my joy and relief in your safety …” et cetera, et cetera, Suka thought, slightly startled at the personal, private tone his speech had taken at the end (“intimacies,” she thought—that’s one word for it), especially in this public space. But he had lowered his voice, and maybe no one else could hear except for her, Suka guessed—but what was she? Chopped liver? Ugh. She didn’t even want to think about that. But she imagined she was probably beneath the level of his notice—quite literally, as it happened, because his head was six or seven feet above her own.
But Marabaldia was aware of her, at least enough to be embarrassed. She turned her face away from him, her eye shining like a star. “We will talk about these things together,” she said, brushing his fingers with her own. “When we are alone.” She made a gesture, and the cyclopses rose to their feet, and the rest of the fomorians ceased from bowing. “I have brought up from the plain the bodies of my friends, slain in my service, human and fey—there, you can see the horses. When we have laid them to rest, there will be time to speak.”
And then more like this, ceremonial talk that tended to obscure feeling as a cloud did the moon. Other assorted dignitaries now stepped forward, and all privacy was lost. Representatives of the various factions made preliminary speeches, here in the stone agora of Harrowfast, among the snapping banners.
But all this ceremonial talk, in Suka’s opinion, took too much time. This was a gathering of opposite forces, brought together in a common goal, the first such congress in the history of the world. So blah, blah, blah. Perhaps the verbiage was necessary to obscure what everyone suspected: There was no way.
Some differences are impossible to overcome. Suka already could guess the sequence. She felt she didn’t have to sit with them or listen. The fomorians and Captain Rurik’s men would be eager to move forward, and Lord Mindarion (much exhausted and reduced since his encounter with the darkwalker) would be tentative and unsure, unable to promise anything until he knew the whereabouts of Lady Amaranth the ginger slut (Suka was extemporizing here), who probably already had her hooks in Lukas, and the Savage, and heck, probably Kip and Gaspar-shen as well, if that were possible. Probably even Marikke was hot for her. A pound of dog shit, that’s what she was worth. Or two. Or three. A big, smoking pile of dog shit on the crystal throne of Karador.
Amused by the mental image, she smiled, which was completely inappropriate to the solemnity of the occasion—it was a good thing no one was paying attention. But what could she do? What she really wanted was a bath and a change of clothes. During the speeches, she found herself salivating with anticipation. She stared up at Marabaldia, and crossed her eyes with mock boredom.
Later
, they descended underground down one of the stairways in the rock, through a gate carved in the shape of a demon’s open mouth. The lamps were lit, and it was stuffy and warm in the small chamber near the bathhouse. The walls were lined with wooden panels with quilted fabric over them, and the floor was covered with mats of woven reeds. Suka lay on pillows, happy to be out of her leather doublet, her jailhouse shirt, and especially her underwear, which (let’s face it) had not worn well during her captivity, and had been chafing her unmercifully. Now she wore a tangerine-colored cotton shift. One of the fomorians had something just her size—no, no, don’t ask questions, don’t even think about it—and was drinking wine from a crystal goblet so immense she had to lift it in both hands. And Marabaldia was with her, her own big limbs asprawl, also drinking, also at her ease indulging in what Suka realized was the royal fomorian equivalent of girl talk. The gnome smiled, and then, worried the expression might appear too bright and unmixed, allowed a shadow of sympathy to creep across it. Boy, she was happy about the wine, a sweet, amber wine. Her tongue felt swollen in her mouth, and she ran it back and forth under her teeth, playing with the stud through the middle of it, the dog’s bone in the dog’s mouth. She found herself fingering the rings along the ridge of her left ear, and examining the blue-flame tattoo that covered her right forearm, all the distinguishing marks if someone had to identify her body. Screw it, she thought. You’re a nervous wreck. You’ve got to stop thinking like this.
“I just don’t know if we have anything in common any more,” said Marabaldia, rubbing her nose. “How can I know? I mean, it’s as if my life just stopped. All that time, just stolen away. He’s been busy, working his father’s estates.”
Suka pictured an enormous cavern with pale white cows contentedly grazing in the dark, licking the mossy rocks. She leaned back on the silk pillows. “I mean,” continued Marabaldia, “I was so worried about him. I thought he might be dead. Now I find out he’s been happy all that time. I mean, he claims he was miserable, but why should that be? I’m so relieved, and yet so angry at the same time, as if I’d wasted all that hurt.”
“But what do you feel?” said Suka, mentally crossing her eyes again. “I mean, we don’t do things because of reasons. But what does your heart tell you?”
Et cetera, et cetera—it was all a waste of time. But pleasant, what with the fine wine. And it wasn’t as if Suka had a whole lot else going on. Eventually they turned to other subjects, a solemn toast to Poke, now lying in state in some refrigerated alcove. Suka had almost had to smile to see the expressions on the faces of the fomorian honor guard, laying out the body of a pig among the marble sepulchers of the slain. Dwarves had cut these passages and rooms, generations before.
“I must have faith,” Marabaldia said. “I must have faith my friend didn’t die for nothing.” And then she went on to explain how Ughoth had brought the tribes together to punish Prince Araithe for his insult to one of the nine ruling families. For ten years the leShay had held Marabaldia hostage, in return for certain vague concessions, mostly connected with the dark elves, the cyclopses, and the Pact of Eschatos. But now a fomorian army had mustered under the nine flags. If they could unite with the eladrin of Synnoria and with Rurik’s men, they would be unstoppable. The leShay would fall. Flowers would bloom on every hillside, and brass bands would play in every town. Ice cream would be served at every meal. Again, Suka was extemporizing: Pigs would shit gold in long, yellow streams, and chickens would grow lips. Parents would love their children and would never drink too much—it was ridiculous, she decided. She didn’t know what Lord Mindarion was smoking, but she wanted some. The knights of Synnoria would never fight with Ughoth; they were too proud. And you could never build an alliance among people with such disparate goals, united only in what they hated and despised. Besides, Marabaldia herself had no interest in revenge. Her heart was too pure. Halfway through her explanation she asked Suka to admire the jeweled brooch Ughoth had given her, pretty, but less symbolic than a ring—what did that mean? She wanted Suka to explain it to her. Instead, the gnome had examined the fine work, the pearls set in circles of braided gold. No fomorian could have made such a thing, with his huge, clumsy, brutal hands. No, this had been made by slaves.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. “Don’t read too much into it.”
Later, in their comfortable, quilted chamber, Marabaldia fell asleep. The gnome sang her a lullaby:
Oh, father dear, don’t curse and sigh when I am dead and gone, / I’m going to a better place that I will call my own.
DARKNESS CLEAR
THEY CAME TO THEMSELVES IN SHADOW, EXCEPT FOR SIX dim lamps that formed the circumference of a rough circle around them. And soon even these lamps guttered out, leaving them in purest darkness. The floor was made of polished tile, Lukas decided. It was warm here. The air was stuffy, rich, and fragrant, with too much oxygen to comfortably draw breath.
He wondered who was there with him and whether he was the only one awake. He wondered where they were, and he breathed in through his nose, searching for clues. He smelled dirt, and cobwebs, and lemon grease, and incense, and wet, growing things, and blood. Hmmm. A poser. He listened to the others’ soft, hesitant breath. Who was there with him? Someone was in tears.
“In Al Qahara at the desert’s edge,” said Gaspar-shen in his high, calm voice, “They make a concoction out of flour, chicken’s eggs, sugar, and cow’s butter, which they mix together into a sort of paste. Then they add small pieces of chocolate, which they bring on camel-back from ancient Okoth. They bake small circles of this paste on an ungreased pan. They call this a ‘cookie,’ I’ve been told. Because you cook it, I suppose. Things you boil, perhaps they are called ‘boilies’ in that language.”
“Who told you this? Perhaps your head could be considered a ‘boilie,’ if it were properly prepared.”
“A traveler from a far country …”
“… Or maybe a ‘soakie,’ ” Lukas mused.
“… related this strange narrative. He told me people eat these things by dunking them into cow’s milk.”
“Bullshit,” said Lukas indulgently. “Who ever heard of such a thing?”
“In distant Al Qahara, this is considered normal. What is happening now, perhaps they would find difficult to believe.”
“Then they’re not so stupid as they sound,” Lukas grumbled. “Are your clothes wet?”
“Yes. It is a pleasant feeling.”
Amaranth said, “You are talking about the desert of Ruarin. I have heard of this place in my lessons when I was young. There are ruined cities in the sand, which are full of efreet and devils and djinn of all kinds. So I was told by my professor, the same wise man who explained to me why the fey can’t set their hearts on mortal creatures, because their lives are short and full of suffering.”
She was talking about her brother Coal, Lukas guessed. But she was not the one who was weeping in the darkness. That must be the girl dressed in the wolf’s skin, whose name he didn’t know. The Savage had not crossed the portal with them.
“And what about the opposite?” this girl now said, when she was able to speak. “What about a mortal woman … if she sets her heart …?”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Amaranth primly. And then in a moment, “Oh, but I know where we are. The Earthmother told me about a gateway in the marsh. A gateway that would bring me home.”
Lukas, resting comfortably for the moment, felt her sit up next to him. She rummaged for something in her clothes. Then she held out her hand, and something glowed in it, a blue light that slowly gathered strength. “Someone gave this to me when I was nine years old,” she said. “A final gift.”
She stood up, and raised her arm above her head. “Something to lighten the darkness,” she said, and as she spoke the light got brighter, glowing from between her fingers, making her entire hand transparent, and showing them the place where they now found themselves, a high, square chamber full of pale vegetation and pale blooms of every kind, colossal s
ucculents and bloated flowers. The four of them were on a circular stone dais about twelve feet across, with the humid earth beneath it, thick with vines. In each corner of the chamber stood an elaborate wooden screen carved to resemble a spider’s web. The work was intricate and fine. And in front of each screen stood a statue of a single female deity in four incarnations, one fashioned out of gold, one of ebony, one of bronze, and one of stone. Closest to Lady Amaranth, the ebony statue showed an image of the Spider Queen, personified as a maiden of the dark elves, her cap of white hair carved in ivory, and balls of ivory in her eyes. Slim and graceful, she carried a spear in her right hand and a net in her left.
The other images were different. The one closest to Lukas was carved from sweating bloodstone, as if permanently greased. The goddess was human and hypersexed, with bloated, glistening breasts and a bulbous ass. With a seductive leer on her beautiful face, she squatted over some vanquished adversary, humbled through another force than violence. The wooden image was half spider and half woman, and the golden one, the smallest, was a spider only, its egg sac full to bursting.
“This is not good,” said Gaspar-shen. The strange patterns underneath his skin, like living tattoos, began to pulse with sea-green light.
“No,” Lukas agreed.
They had no sense of a ceiling above them. The walls ascended into obscurity. There was one doorway, which seemed to lead into a tunnel, and as they watched, a light started to flicker there.
They clambered to their feet. Lukas had lost his bow and quiver, but still kept his sword, and Gaspar-shen raised his scimitar. They were caught in the drow’s web—Lukas could see that now—a shrine to the dark elves’ loathsome deity. He wondered, though, why he could feel no sense of menace. The wolf-girl sobbed quietly to herself, and Lady Amaranth, the bulb of light in her left hand, stared at the carvings and the heavy, hanging plants with wonder and delight. No doubt in her sequestered life on Moray she had heard nothing of the Spider Queen, full of venom and deceit, dragging her distended body through the bottomless layers of the Abyss and then up through the burrows of the Underdark, spinning her stratagems and nursing her regrets.
The Rose of Sarifal Page 21
