Silk & Steel

by Ellen Kushner

  Lammeët reached for Kuolma’s hand, then pulled her in for a possessive kiss. Before Kuolma could relax and explore beyond those lips, Lammeët had already broken contact. But she stayed breath-tasting close for another moment, gaze darkened by the conflict of her desire and duty, before straightening and clearing her throat.

  “Lead the way, guard.”

  Kuolma was tempted to disobey for a heartbeat, to surprise Lammeët as the elect had surprised her, but the real surprise waited below. Hands tangled together, they left the old tech behind and ventured into the curving stone corridors in a steady rhythm of beating heart, clicking steps and cane, and the intermittent tap of her own fingers on the wood of her club. Kuolma had a knife, too, tucked into her belt just in case, but the real dangers would come from the magic they sought and the animates it created. A sharp blade was little match for opponents made of rock and bone.

  A familiar chill seeped through her coat and gloves, finding skin, finding bone. Soon, their breaths became ghosts that lingered, twisting without a breeze. The walls clung close, narrowing and expanding at uneven intervals as if the cave itself were breathing. The warm torchlight reached only far enough to make them uncomfortable, but as long as the torch’s flames stayed yellow and orange, they were safe.

  Kuolma ignored the first few off-shoots from the main corridor; magic seeped through dirt and ice and stone, which meant the real treasures were farther down. Besides, she’d left marks on the wall to guide their way and knew just how far those treasures were.

  But Lammeët couldn’t tamp down her curiosity. Her soft glove slipped easily out of Kuolma’s hand, and then the princess-elect was flitting down a side corridor, the torchlight just catching the soft brown highlights of her dark hair.

  “Lammeët!” called Kuolma, but Lammeët ignored her.

  With a sigh that was more acceptance than annoyance, Kuolma followed. The torchlight caught up to Lammeët and filled the room she’d found, spilling across a confusing jumble of shattered wood and scattered dirt. Glass glittered, catching the torchlight—still yellow.

  Lammeët pinched something between her fingers, long like a rope but twisted and distorted. She rolled it between her fingertips, then tossed it back to the dirt.

  “A garden.”

  Lammeët’s words gave the chaos shape: the wood had been boxes that held the dirt; the thin ropes were withered stalks; the glass had been their light. In the far corner, crumpled wire must have once been a chicken coop. The knowledge that the cultists had cultivated and grown crops in this darkness turned Kuolma’s own internal story about them on its head. She’d skipped these corridors her first time through, assuming these caves were just like ones they’d found before, where apocalypse cults had gone to die or to shelter for a few years with just enough canned food for both options. This one had meant to outlast the apocalypse.

  “They had everything they needed.” Lammeët hugged her arms close, looking around. “Why didn’t they make it?”

  Kuolma could guess—the shattered tech upstairs and the things she’d seen below made it clear that there’d been a struggle—but she didn’t say. Instead, she held out her hand to Lammeët. “Leave that to the historians. We’re here for the magic, remember?”

  Far off, a stone clattered, its echo a whisper. But they both stiffened.

  “Animate,” breathed Lammeët.

  “Maybe.” Kuolma’s hand went to the handle of her club. “It’s too high up, though.” She glanced at the torch, but its flames hadn’t begun to purple; if it was an animate, it was still far away. “We should keep going.”

  Lammeët was already heading back to the main hallway, her steps quicker now. Even though Kuolma had used danger to entice the princess-elect here, doubt sluiced through her like a dam overflowing. Already this trip was not going exactly to plan. Kuolma kept one eye on the torch and the other on the princess-elect as Lammeët’s cleats and cane tapped out a faster rhythm.

  The echoing scrape of rock against rock happened more frequently, coming from close and far away, from ahead and behind them. So Kuolma was already on edge when Lammeët suddenly stopped and pointed at the wall.

  “What’s that?”

  Kuolma’s heart leaped ahead at a gallop and she gripped her club, still attached to her belt. She scanned the stone, looking for what had startled Lammeët. The glitter of a rogue stalactite? Some other rock animate? But there was nothing.

  Lammeët stepped forward until her finger met the wall, just below a scratch mark. “There.”

  Kuolma froze with a different kind of fear now. “I don’t know.”

  “It’s fresh.” Lammeët dragged her finger and the tip came away clean, no sign of the dust and dirt that coated the rest of the walls. “Someone else has been here.”

  Fighting her suddenly dry mouth, Kuolma croaked out, “Kids got in here before. From the town. Remember?”

  Lammeët peered closer at the mark. “I’ve seen a few of these. Like... they’re marking our way or guiding us toward something.”

  “Hah,” said Kuolma. “Maybe the kids found the magic first.”

  A troubled look crossed Lammeët’s face. “Let’s hope not. That would be very dangerous.”

  Reluctantly, Lammeët left the mark and continued on down the corridor. But instead of relieved, Kuolma was disquieted. She would have welcomed an animate over Lammeët’s worry. Alleviating that worry, though, meant confessing: that those were her marks, that she had been here before, that she had fabricated more than just this excuse to explore a cave together. If she confessed that much, she knew she’d confess everything, down to the hope she’d stowed away below. The words remained unvoiced and Kuolma followed her princess-elect.

  The distant scrapes had ceased, but Kuolma found herself willing them back again, if only to fill the silence. Lammeët usually talked enough for both of them, but she was just as on-edge as Kuolma, her hand going to her side again and again as if to reassure herself that she still had her sword.

  So when they finally found the bodies, Kuolma was relieved.

  The cave yawned into another cavern. This one was as cluttered as the first, but its debris was not ancient tech and furniture, nor dissolving books and forgotten dinners. Instead, this cavern was full of the dead.

  “Oh,” said Lammeët, both a sigh and an exclamation, and the single sound filled the space between the ancient bones.

  The cultists’ bodies clumped in groups of five or more, arms jumbled together as if they were still holding each other in death as in life. They’d been undisturbed for however many centuries. Hundreds of cultists—of people—who’d planned for their future, until that future had been so twisted and distorted that this had become their only option.

  Lammeët stared at the nearest body, its skin in desiccated tatters. “What happened?”

  “They lost hope,” said Kuolma, her voice barely a whisper but loud enough in this tomb.

  Lammeët tucked a stray hair behind one ear and turned slowly around. “But all of them? Like this?”

  “The accounts from similar sites show that once the global communication networks went down, a lot of these communities fell prey to their own fears,” said Kuolma. “Then all it took was a single charismatic leader to convince them the outside was too dangerous to return to, and. Well.” Kuolma gestured at the dead.

  “They just needed to listen to the local communications! Those stayed up.”

  “They would have smashed those first,” said Kuolma.

  “But why?”

  Kuolma’s smile was tight. “There was a lot of chaos and confusion in those early days. It would have been easy enough to convince their people that it was all lies, to tell them they couldn’t trust what came from outside. They wanted to believe it was the end of the world; that’s why they built these caves. They’d already given up.”

  “But they could’ve just opened the cave and gone out,” said Lammeët. “They could’ve rebuilt the communicators. They could’ve talked to someone,
anyone.”

  “Sometimes, it’s easier to believe the worst.” Beside Kuolma’s foot was a bony hand, its fingers splayed wide as if it had just let go.

  Silence spilled between them for a heartbeat, two, then Lammeët whispered, “Please.”

  Startled, Kuolma looked at the princess-elect instead of the bones. Lammeët’s head was high and her lips pressed tight, but her eyes glittered with unshed tears. Kuolma’s heart warmed, even as she flushed with guilt; while she might be inured to death, Lammeët was not.

  Wordlessly, Kuolma took her hand and led her through the graveyard. As they wove between the bones, the calm magic pulsed gently under her feet; even though they’d died, at least they’d died on their own terms, and that affected everything they’d left behind.

  Kuolma whispered a prayer, more for her own benefit than the cultists’. Their souls were gone now, taken up by the twelve gods while their raw energy went back to the earth, animating it, sustaining it, and becoming the magic that powered the Republic.

  Kuolma and Lammeët exited the cavern and walked the following corridor in silence. Lammeët was clearly shaken by the experience, and Kuolma wished she’d found a way around instead. This trip was supposed to be filled with adventure that would lead to the kind of kisses they’d shared above, not disquieting tableaux of the dead.

  The sound of stone scraping against stone resumed, louder than before. Maybe they should turn around and head back. But that would be abandoning the only thing that had given Kuolma hope in the past few months and by the time she had bribed enough officials and arranged enough schedules to bring Lammeët back down here, the election would be long over.

  Then the edges of her torch sparked purple.

  The cool color spread quickly: one moment the torch had blazed a warm yellow and orange, the next it was wholly purple. The transition was so abrupt that Lammeët noticed and stopped.

  “I’ve never seen it turn so quickly,” she breathed, pupils dilated in the dim light.

  As if in answer, the walls themselves began to tremble.

  “We need to move.” Kuolma tightened her grip and pulled Lammeët along.

  “But what’s going on?”

  “This magic isn’t ready yet.” Kuolma tried to keep the quiver from her own voice as she hurried Lammeët through the shaking passage. “It’s still too tied to its deaths. Most of the magic has seeped farther below and calmed down. But there must have been a fight amongst the people in this area; this magic is still scared.”

  She could taste it in the air, thick and cloying like fear-tinged sweat. Then the walls began to close in on them.

  “Run!” said Kuolma.

  They ran. The scrape and groan of rocks smothered the sounds of their footsteps and breath. The torchlight was nearly black. Kuolma didn’t dare touch the seeping walls, even with her thick gloves and thicker boots. Raw magic was invisible except in its effects, the way it animated the inanimate, the way it burned through flesh.

  Lammeët’s hand slipped from hers, and she heard a cry crushed between the stones. Kuolma spun, heart in throat, fear in chest, but Lammeët was still alive, still there. Her coat had been caught by the closing walls, trapping her.

  Kuolma closed the distance, her dagger already in hand. She severed Lammeët’s coat with a slice, freeing the princess-elect into her arms. Then they ran again, the walls closing behind them onto empty air.

  Thankfully, stone was slower than flesh, and they outpaced the danger. The cave’s groans continued, however, shuddering through Kuolma’s chest so that she couldn’t tell what was her own heartbeat and what was the movement of the cave.

  Lammeët slowed, her hand reaching for the wall to steady herself. Kuolma interposed herself, letting Lammeët lean on her shoulder instead. Lammeët gasped out a breathy thanks.

  After a few moments, Lammeët shifted her weight off Kuolma to her cane. “Well. That was exciting.”

  Kuolma glanced back the way they’d come, the corridor completely swallowed by darkness. The torch was still purple, if a few shades lighter.

  “That wasn’t supposed to happen,” she said, more to herself. Then, pasting on a smile, she added, “But it explains the sounds we’ve been hearing. Guess we’ll have more to report than I’d expected. Are you okay with continuing?”

  Lammeët glanced pointedly into the darkness. “We can’t really go back that way.”

  “There’ll be another way out,” said Kuolma. “Or the walls will re-open. Volatile raw magic doesn’t usually stabilize. The cave will move again.”

  “That isn’t as reassuring as you think.”

  But there was a bright edge to Lammeët’s words and she was smiling. Kuolma couldn’t help but smile, too: at the fact that they were alive, that they were together, at the absurdity of it all.

  “Well,” said Lammeët, her cane clicking as she navigated the uneven floor. “Let’s find the next thing that’s going to kill us.”

  She reached without looking and took Kuolma’s hand. Even muted by their gloves, Kuolma could feel Lammeët’s warmth, as reassuring as it was solid. Their lives had changed so much over the past year—Lammeët’s increased status in the Council, her bid for the seat of principal-elect, Kuolma’s elevation among the specialists—and they had been together through it all.

  But the upcoming election meant that was no longer guaranteed.

  “I’ll still be at your side, you know,” said Kuolma before she could stop herself. “Even when you become principal-elect.”

  Lammeët’s grip loosened and, although she didn’t pull away, she didn’t look at Kuolma, either. “Yes. Well. We’ll have to see about that.”

  Kuolma’s stomach plummeted. “The principal-elect might be forbidden to marry, but they’re not forbidden from taking a consort,” she said quickly, hopelessly.

  Lammeët looked at her, lips pursed tight. “You don’t want to become a consort.”

  “I do. I would.”

  But Lammeët only shook her head, the slightest smile on her face. “You can do so much better than that.” Then, before Kuolma could disagree again, Lammeët picked up her pace. “We haven’t found the magic yet and we are running low on time. I expect you to keep your promise, guard.”

  Kuolma lagged until Lammeët was all but pulling her along. Her stomach churned with ice; Lammeët had been acting strange for months now. She’d recently disappeared for a few weeks, ostensibly on business for the Republic, but she’d been even more reluctant to share details than usual and hadn’t taken any guards along. Then there were Lammeët’s late nights outside the castle spent doing... something that she simply never talked about.

  Of course, a princess-elect had many obligations and duties. And Kuolma had her own work to complete when she wasn’t at Lammeët’s side.

  It was little wonder that they’d hardly seen each other, that they’d fallen out of the habit of conversations, let alone stolen moments and kisses. After all, wasn’t that the reason Kuolma had concocted this plan? A few hours alone together, picking their way through bodies and scraping past murderous walls was just the thing for their relationship.

  And now with the election looming, Kuolma had to choose: continue at Lammeët’s side as a shadow instead of a real partner or let the princess-elect go unimpeded into the future she had built for herself.

  Kuolma wasn’t ready to consider that “or.” Besides, Lammeët was right. At this moment, they were here in the cave together—at least until the Council guards determined their time was up and came to drag them back to the light and their responsibilities. The impending election might as well be another country away in time and space. Kuolma still had a promise to keep—and to give.

  After a time both endless and short, the walls peeled away into another cavern. Kuolma held up her torch, its edges a persistent purple now that they were surrounded by ambient magic. Icy stalactites curved along the cavern’s rim like so many jagged teeth. But despite the threat of those glittering teeth, the cavern was quiet. Conte
nt. Peaceful, even.

  At its center was a pool. The water glowed with its own pale-gray light, its surface as smooth as glass. The pool was wide enough to step into and deep enough to fully submerge an adult. It was a water source that must have made this cave a choice location for an end-of-the-world cult.

  But the water wasn’t what caught Kuolma’s eye. This cavern held more bodies, although these lay peacefully beside the water, hands carefully folded over their chests, swords placed beneath their hands. Someone had taken the time to arrange these bodies, either out of respect or as a warning.

  What had these cultists worshipped? A single, distant god or all of the twelve? Kuolma knew some cults had worshipped no gods at all, but a single idea.

  Whatever their beliefs, this had clearly been a sacred space. One important enough to merit a guard, even in death. Had they understood how magic worked? Kuolma found a pebble with her shoe and rolled it beneath her sole. Then she kicked it into the darkness, betting that the cultists had. The rock clicked and clattered along the edge of the cavern.

  “What was that?” asked Lammeët, her pupils wide and her features bathed in purple light.

  Kuolma didn’t have a chance to answer before the cavern filled with the sound of stones tumbling, proving that the cultists had understood. Lammeët squeezed Kuolma’s hand.

  Then the bodies stood. It wasn’t a smooth transition. Like pouring out a sack of dice, they clicked and clacked against each other until they were fully upright. They held their swords before them in an effective, if undisciplined, manner.

  “Bone animates,” said Lammeët, her words bright with excitement. She glanced sidelong at Kuolma. “But why did these become animates and not the ones above?”

  “Magic seeps.” Kuolma freed her club, its familiar weight centering and reassuring. “Plus, it looks like this was intentional. Those above died because they decided they had no other choice. These died to protect something. That will alone is as strong as any magic.”