Of the Abyss

by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

  She had dreams of a little girl. Pearl, from the Cobalt Hall. The girl was shy, had always been shy. She had a long, dusky-­gray feather in her hand, and was deep in prayer. But there was a wolf at the door, and it was hungry.

  The black Abyssi watched, knowing. Once the girl was at the temple, he would be able to reach her.

  Xaz woke, gasping, from a nightmare she couldn’t quite recall. The last thing she clearly remembered was the command from the Numini to capture Pearl and bring her to the temple . . . what happened after that? She had been injured. She had woken up in the home of one of the members of the Order of A’hknet.

  At that thought, she realized that she was curled up against what felt like a man’s chest. It was too dark to see anything, so her sense of touch was all she had. Her first thought was, Cinnabar? She wouldn’t have bedded him—­

  She tried to pull away, but there was a wall against her back and the ceiling was only inches above. Where was she?

  Not with Cinnabar, she realized. She had left there. Gone home.

  The soldiers.

  She realized suddenly that the “man” lying in front of her had to be the creature she had pulled through the veil. She shouldn’t have had enough power to do that without days of elaborate ritual, but she had been so scared . . . and the Other had helped, more than she would have expected. As a rule, Others did not like to tie themselves too tightly to mancers. It made them vulnerable.

  She relaxed and curled closer, grateful for its warmth. Despite knowing what it was, knowing intellectually how much trouble she could be in, the Other’s presence was comforting. The tie between them, the lie of power’s voice, was what made this creature feel so safe; Xaz was aware of that. But in that moment, she was tired, and the creature was warm, and they were both wrapped in what felt like fur and silk.

  The Other opened its eyes, which were deep indigo and shone like a cat’s—­except a cat’s eyes just reflected present light. This creature’s glowed from within, with an electric black luminescence.

  Only once she noticed that did Xaz realize that part of the fur she was feeling was the creature itself. With her arm around its waist like a lover, it was hard to miss the feel of hard muscle beneath the fine, silky-­soft pelt.

  “You’re Abyssi,” she said in shock. Her voice seemed very loud.

  “Yes?” It sounded amused.

  “That’s impossible.” She tried to pull away, and remembered that she couldn’t.

  “You’re mistaken.” Despite its infernal origins, the creature had a beautiful voice, like water flowing over stone, or the warm crackle of fire. “It must be possible, for I am here, and I am Abyssi. You may call me Alizarin. And you are a Numenmancer.”

  “That’s the problem,” she said, fully aware of the amused lilt in the Abyss’s tone. Now she remembered the blade, and the blood, and the screaming of soldiers after the Other appeared, but none of it made any sense. “I cannot have summoned you, much less pulled you through a rift into this plane. The human plane. Are we still there? Where have you brought us?”

  “We’re still on the human plane. We were both too weak to survive a passage through the rift, or to travel far. I found somewhere close.”

  “How far are we from the city?” she asked, trying to ignore metaphysic impossibilities for the moment and focus on what obviously had and was going on.

  “We are in the city,” Alizarin answered.

  “What? They’ll be searching for us. They’ll find us. We need to go—­”

  “Hush, Mancer,” he bid her, pressing a fingertip to her lips. She felt the barest hint of a claw tip against the sensitive skin above her upper lip. “They will not find us here. And you need to rest longer before we travel again.”

  Struck by a horrifying notion, Xaz pressed her hands to the “ceiling” again, feeling padded silk. Then the walls. A fourth wall on the other side of the Abyssi. A wall just above their heads, and a last one below their feet.

  “Dear Numen, we’re in a coffin.” Since the passage of Citizen’s Initiative 126, all bodies had been burned to keep them safe from necromancers and Abyssumancers, but there were still some old graveyards left.

  “A royal coffin,” Alizarin said. “A standard one would be far too small to fit us both. About a century ago, a prince was lost at sea. His body was never found, but the king and queen nevertheless buried a coffin, filled with furs and silks and jewels, in the family crypt. The jewels were looted from the coffin before it was even sealed, but the box remains. We are behind walls of stone, and then soil. The Quinacridone itself ordered the crypt filled in, after the royal family was disposed of.”

  “But, the air,” Xaz protested. “There can’t be enough air in here.”

  “While I am with you, I can sustain such a slight need,” Alizarin explained. “The power it takes for me to do so is even less than that which it takes for you to fill and empty your lungs.”

  “Still, we should move on. We . . .” She trailed off. What could she possibly do next?

  “You need to rest, Mancer. As do I,” Alizarin insisted. “You are too weak. Without your own power to assist, I would probably lose my grip on you if I tried to bring you back to the surface now. Sleep a while. Sleep deeply, and I can leave enough power to keep you alive long enough for me to go to the surface and feed.”

  “Feed,” Xaz repeated, concerned. “Feed on what?”

  “No one you would care about.” He licked her cheek, making her flinch. “You still taste like their poison.”

  “I don’t care,” she snapped. “I want to get out of this grave. Bring us to the surface.”

  “Right now?” he asked, tone too innocent. “Right this instant? Into the freezing rain that is currently falling? And, around in which the Quin guards are wandering as they search for you? Give it time, Dioxazine, until some of this settles.”

  She sighed. What choice did she have? “Okay. We’ll wait, just a little while longer.”

  Except that, waiting in the darkness, she couldn’t help but think. Very softly, not wanting the answer but unable to resist the words, she asked, “How many of them did you kill?”

  “Don’t trouble yourself, Mancer,” Alizarin replied.

  “How many?” she repeated.

  “I killed no one who would not have killed us first,” he said this time. “And I will feed upon no blood that would not be willing to spill ours. Would you have me do differently?”

  Her chest was tight, maybe from tears for those whose lives had been lost . . . and maybe from her own knowledge that no, she would not have had him do differently. She had fought for her survival.

  She had done exactly what the Quin most feared, what they had passed CI–126 to try to prevent.

  “I’m a Numenmancer,” she asserted, feeling at the edge of outright hysteria.

  “The Numini rejected you because you were bloodied trying to do their bidding. When you tried to call for help, they fled, fearful of being enslaved by a mancer who could control them. I alone chose to answer you, Mancer.” He added, very significantly, “And it was a choice. It was a choice for me to come to your side when you called, as well, and it was a choice for me to bring you here. So do not trouble yourself over the bodies behind us. Not until we both know how much ‘choice’ I have left.”

  Dear Numen.

  He was right. She had no innate power over the Abyss; she had successfully summoned a creature over whom she might have absolutely no control. He needed for her to survive, since without her he would be forced back into the Abyss, but if she could not find a way to rule him, it was possible that he could just lock her away somewhere secure and think about her only enough to allow her to sustain his tie to this plane.

  “You and I, Mancer, are going to have an . . . interesting partnership,” Alizarin speculated. “Now close your eyes.”

  CHAPTER 8

  There
was blood in Hansa’s left eye. He blinked, and it seemed to take an impossible effort to open his eyes again after that.

  He was on the street, in a residential area. Someone was kneeling next to him and weeping. Everyone else had run.

  Almost everyone.

  His vision was going dim, but nevertheless, he couldn’t help but see that one person had stayed, and was kneeling next to the body of the soldier Hansa had carried out with him. He was a man, and then, for an instant . . . not a man. He looked up at Hansa, and his detached expression quickly changed to concern.

  “Help me?” Hansa whispered.

  The man flinched as if Hansa had struck him.

  “I’m trying.” He recognized Ruby’s hitching, fiercely-­controlled voice. Had she seen the man? Was he even there? “You’re—­you’re going to be okay. I’ve sent for a healer, and I’ll do everything I can until someone arrives.” She shifted, and he realized she had all her weight on the wounds on his back. Shouldn’t that hurt more?

  “Please,” Hansa whispered.

  The man snarled, his lip drawing back for an instant, and then he shook his head and walked toward Hansa, his movements a delicate glide, catlike. He put a hand on Ruby’s shoulder and said, “Go.”

  She stood up, then paused, frowning down at Hansa as if confused. “I should—­”

  “Go,” the stranger said again, his blue eyes seeming to flash.

  “Okay,” she mumbled, still frowning. She took several steps back, as if trying to remember what she had been doing, then turned to leave. Hansa almost called after her, but his voice broke.

  Still standing above Hansa, the man said, “I can heal you, if you ask me.”

  Not human, Hansa thought. A mancer? Why would a mancer be offering to help him?

  What else could he be?

  “I could leave you to die if you prefer,” the man said.

  Hansa wasn’t brave enough to accept that offer, no matter what the man might be. “Help. Please.”

  “One boon,” the man said, the words sounding very formal.

  He knelt, and pressed a hand directly to the wound on Hansa’s back, making Hansa whimper. He was too weak to scream any more.

  The world went black. For a while, Hansa was sure he was dead, but then he opened his eyes. The pain was still present, though lessened, but the growing pool of blood was . . . gone. He managed to reach a hand back, and found his armored vest tattered, but his flesh whole.

  The man stood and started walking away.

  “Wait!” Hansa called, through a throat that was raw from trying to scream. The man hesitated, his frame going rigid. “What . . . who are you?”

  He twisted, just far enough for electric blue eyes to meet Hansa’s. “My name is Umber,” he said. “And I only assisted you because, if you lived, the taint from the Abyssi might have made you dangerous. Do not call to me again.”

  With that, he stalked from the plaza.

  Everything was blurry. The pain had gone away and the blood had disappeared, but Hansa still felt too tired to lift himself from the cobblestone plaza.

  But he had to get up. The Abyssi could still be around. The others might need him.

  He pushed himself to his knees, but was shaking by the time he got there, and his breath was coming so hard the muscles in his chest felt strained. He tried to go further, to stand, but ended up collapsing all the way back to the cold ground. Maybe he could just rest a little while . . .

  “Hansa!”

  “Uuh?” Couldn’t he sleep a bit longer?

  “Hansa, I can’t carry you. You have to get up! Can you hear me?”

  Ruby. That was Ruby’s voice.

  In what he considered to be a remarkable act of willpower and valor, he opened his eyes.

  “That’s it, baby,” Ruby said. “Wake up. You hear me. You can’t stay here.”

  “Ruby,” he mumbled. “You . . . you have to run. It could come back.”

  “I had to see what happened,” she said. “Thank the divine you’re all right. But you have to get up. I don’t think you’re badly hurt, but you’ll freeze if you stay here. Oh, here’s the healer. Sister, here he is! Please help me.”

  One of the violet-­robed Sisters of the Napthol ran to his side, and knelt down, telling Ruby, “Don’t move him. If he’s as hurt as . . .” She trailed off, and said, “Let me get some guards to help me carry the stretcher. Miss Upsdell, you should go back inside.”

  “I’m not leaving him,” Ruby protested.

  “Then at least go fetch some warmer clothes. You’ll both freeze this way. Then you can come with us to the Cobalt Hall.” She raised her voice as she continued, “Guards! Could you please help me?”

  He was pretty sure he could sit up. He struggled to do so, while the healer from the Cobalt Hall conferred with the guards. He recognized them from his own company, which meant some had survived.

  That was good.

  But how many were dead?

  He was half-­upright when one of them said, “Here, let me help you,” and offered a hand.

  “Thanks.”

  He reached out for the hand. Took it. Was barely aware of the needle-­like blade in the man’s other hand, which caught him by surprise an instant before the darkness did.

  Hansa woke cold, damp, and half-­naked, and unfortunately he knew exactly where he was. The perpetual gloom of the Quinacridone cells was distinctive.

  He was somewhat relieved to discover that he was in one of the first-­floor cells, instead of the deeper ones, which were reserved only for irredeemably evil and violent offenders . . . but that was only slight relief, since it still left him in a cell in a prison only used for sorcerers and their sympathizers.

  Also, he had a roommate, a middle-­aged woman who was staring at him with curiosity and suspicion. Given this cell was generally only occupied by mancers, that normally would have terrified him, but he knew this woman; Rose had been a member of the Order of Napthol before joining the Order of A’hknet. He couldn’t count the number of times she had been picked up due to her outspoken ways, only to be released as a favor to the Cobalt Hall.

  “A mancer in the One-­Twenty-­Six,” Rose said, each word bitten off sharply. “I’m not sure who I would accuse you of betraying worst.”

  “I’m not a mancer,” Hansa protested. Across his mind’s eye, the images of all his fellows’ bodies flashed. The memory of their screams. Could anyone really think he had something to do with that?

  “That’s what they say,” his roommate said. “I heard them arguing after they tossed you in. Some of the guards don’t want to believe it, but there are dozens of witnesses who say the demon killed the man with you, but let you live.”

  “I couldn’t . . .” He had spoken to someone. Asked for help. He didn’t understand exactly what had happened or how he was alive, but he knew he wasn’t a mancer. “The mancer summoned it. Maybe she—­”

  “A Numenmancer couldn’t summon an Abyssi,” she scoffed, “and a Numini wouldn’t have bloodied the soldiers that way.”

  Hansa had seen just enough of the Others—­both divine and infernal—­to know Rose was right. Numini could kill, but they did so softly and silently, without ever spilling a drop of blood.

  “They identified her wrong,” he whispered. “We were told she was a Numenmancer, but she must not have been. I . . .”

  Ran away. His friends had been attacked, and he had run.

  “I ran,” he whispered. “They were dying. I couldn’t see what was doing it, and I couldn’t fight it, and they . . . everyone was dying. And I ran. And it came after me. I don’t know why I’m not dead.”

  The woman clucked her tongue. “Well, neither do I. You’re sure you’re not a mancer?”

  “I think I’d know,” Hansa said sharply. “And even if I didn’t, my second lieutenant has the sight. We’ve kno
wn each other since we were kids. He would—­” He broke off as his throat closed up. Jenkins had been Hansa’s second. Before . . .

  Hansa raised a hand, wanting to rub blood from his face even though he knew it was already gone. If they even suspected he was involved in sorcery, they would have searched him and washed away the blood. Blood could be a tool for them.

  Apparently deciding he was either honest or harmless, Rose said, “For your sake, I wish you would clear your name and get out of here, but you and I both know that is impossible. One-­Twenty-­Six gives them the right to hold you here as long as they like. With evidence against you from members of the Order of the Napthol, and multiple dead bodies to account for, they won’t need to give you a trial.”

  “I know,” Hansa said. “Damn it all, I know. Is this why it helped me? So it could then watch me rot?” he wondered aloud.

  “ ‘It?’ ” Rose asked. “So that part’s true, about you being helped by one of them?”

  He nodded, miserably. “I was dying, I think. There was someone—­something, I guess—­there, watching. I asked for help. He said . . .” He tried to remember exactly what the creature had said. “He said it was a boon, and he was only doing it because the taint from the Abyssi could make me dangerous if I lived.”

  Rose sat forward, her voice going soft and excited. “A boon, really?” she asked.

  What did it matter? Hansa nodded, looking around the gray cell and wondering if this was to be the place where he would die.

  He understood how damning the evidence against him was. He had come to much the same conclusion when he had realized that the man they found in the warehouse in the wharf was covered in claw marks that gaped without blood. He was grateful to be alive, but short of sorcery, it was hard to explain how he was.

  “Did you ask its name?” Rose asked.

  “Umber.” He was amazed he even remembered.

  “Hansa, you may have a way out of this yet,” she whispered, keeping her voice pitched low. “That wasn’t an Abyssi who helped you. I don’t know what made the Abyssi leave you alone, but the person who helped you wasn’t a demon, and he wasn’t a mancer.”