He couldn't look directly upwards, due to Sheol's brightness, so it came as a surprise when they reached the hole in the sky that was the lowest entrance onto the Path of Life. A shadow suddenly fell over them, and he found himself staring up into a gap in space, a topological cave that led to another place entirely. It loomed out of the sky like the rear bays of an aircraft carrier, a skewed oval with knife-sharp edges and walls of a dark brown stonelike finish. The depths of the entrance were shrouded in blackness. Wormhole, he thought, but for worms the size of the cloud-whales he'd seen earlier.
The formation broke apart around him. The lead kaia settled onto an overhanging edge that took their weight easily, even though it seemed as thin as paper. Their wings fluttered and vanished one at a time, then they guided the others aboard with small but strong hands. Seth tested the surface before standing on it. By rights the structure shouldn't have been there at all; it should have fallen out of or evaporated back into the sky in an instant. It felt as solid as a rock.
The kaia helped him out of his harness.
“Won't we need the wings to go the rest of the way?”
“No,” said Spekoh flatly. “We will follow the Path of Life.”
“I thought we already were.”
“The Path is not a direction, or a road, or something you can point to on a map.”
“So what is it then?”
One kaia pointed deeper into the hole in the sky. A different one answered. “The Path is this way.”
Seth peered into the hole and saw nothing but more hole. A cool wind blew steadily out of it.
Agatha seemed, for once, as poorly informed as Seth. “We take you at your word, Spekoh,” she said. “How far to Tatenen?”
“It lies ahead,” said the kaia. Seth would soon grow tired of that phrase. “Please follow, being sure to walk where and as we do. The way is perilous. Once begun, turning back is not permitted.”
With that caution, the kaia led the way into the hole in the sky.
The Path of Life was like nothing Seth could ever have imagined. His previous experiences offered no analogy, no easy means of understanding its existence or purpose. After what felt like a small eternity thinking about it, he came to the conclusion that the Path had no purpose: it wasn't a made thing, or even a natural thing. It didn't fit into any grand scheme. It just was.
It was, he decided, a mistake. A flaw. A jagged, crack in the sky, with just enough room along its heart for a handful of people to tread.
Seth concentrated on the back of the kaia ahead of him. If he looked to either side, his mind reeled and his body reeled with it. The physical properties of the Path of Life—or the physical metaphor that wrapped around it, like the flesh of an oyster embracing a nascent pearl—were unnerving to an extreme. The edges of the Path weren't solid; they were spatial. Light bunched and slewed across them, giving them a liquid sheen. Ahead and behind was blackness, but up, down, and to either side was a mishmash of perspectives. Shimmering reflections formed and dissolved without warning. At one point, he was surrounded by images of his own face, twisted horribly from true. It was exceedingly difficult to find a point of solid reference at any one time, so his balance skidded and dived at the slightest provocation.
Birth metaphors came to mind and he wondered what sort of transformation such a disorienting canal might lead him to.
“I feel your discomfort,” said Agatha, easing her way past Xol to walk beside Seth. “We all do.”
“I'm sorry.” He kicked himself for letting his concentration slip.
“No, it's not your fault,” she said. “The Path of Life is responsible. It is neither realm nor devachan but something in between. Some pansophists say that it formed during the last partial Cataclysm, or the one before that; others think that its origins might actually lie as far back as the dismemberment of Ymir. The Holy Immortals believe that our understanding of the universe cannot be complete unless we understand the Path as well as everything around it. They travel the Path in search of enlightenment, and in doing so pass between all of the realms we know. And more besides, perhaps.”
Why are you telling me this? he wanted to ask.
“To distract you,” she said, still seeing past his mental block, “and to help you understand why it is you feel disoriented. We are in a space that does not fit our expectations. We all feel disoriented here. You are not alone.”
He felt churlish. “Thanks, Agatha. I apologise again.”
“There is no need. I am acting selfishly, too. When you are distracted, I am distracted. Your mood affects us all.”
Aha. That made more sense. He nodded acknowledgement and resolved to do better at maintaining the block on his thoughts. He would prove to her that he was more than an invalid slowing the rest of them down.
Agatha stayed at his side. “I also wish to explain something to you,” she said. “Or try to, at least.”
He did his best to repress his automatic apprehension. “Okay. Go ahead.”
She hesitated, then reached into her top, and produced one of her rings. “You've seen me use these,” she said. “They are my weapons. They work like lenses, like the mnemonic Xol placed on your arm. They focus my will.” She looked at him, perhaps to make certain he was following her. “They take the energy I give them, and they direct it in the manner of my choosing. I lose energy in the process of using them. That is the nature of magic, you see.”
He nodded, curious as to why she was revealing this to him now. The ring was a thin loop of unadorned silver that glittered in the odd light, as though covered with millions of tiny facets. He had never seen such fine work in the First Realm, and could only guess at its origins in the Second. Perhaps they were family heirlooms: the work of some heroic ancestor, handed from daughter to daughter down the centuries. Or perhaps Agatha had conducted a fabulous quest across the landscape of the Second Realm, battling exotic beasts and duelling ancient deities to steal the complete set of rings from the ten-fingered hand of a monstrous living statue.
Agatha smiled and, much to his surprise, offered him the ring. “You have a very strange impression of me,” she said. “There are no heirlooms in the Second Realm, as you imagine them, and no treasures waiting to be plundered. I made these myself. They will be unmade when I die.”
He took the ring, impressed and slightly abashed. It was heavy in his hand, and surprisingly small.
“How do I make it work?”
She smiled gently, recognising the inane question for what it was. “Words direct the will. Words are lenses, too. The entire world is a magnifying glass through which we—our souls—examine the lives we make for ourselves. It's up to us whether we see clearly or not.”
He was less interested in the philosophy than in the object in his hand, but he began to see, then, what she was trying to tell him. “That's what the Second Realm is to you,” he said. “A means of finding yourself.”
She nodded. “My kind live in wonder and exist to protect the source of that wonder. We are wards and guardians at the same time. The realm embraces us, yet at times we are forced to stand outside it in order to defend it. That is often the way with love.”
“And that's why you're helping me,” he said, “even though you hate what I am.”
“I hate more what I would become if I didn't help you, in spite of what that might ultimately mean for the realm.”
“So you want to have your cake and eat it too. That doesn't often work out very well.”
She nodded unhappily.
He hefted the ring, wishing that life had stopped being hard when he had technically stopped being alive. “Could I make something like this?”
“Of course, if you had a hundred years to spare.”
“That's all, huh?”
“Yes.” Some of her usual briskness returned. He took that as a good sign. “I have never believed in doing things by halves.”
He handed her back the ring, understanding that this was the other thing she had been trying to tell him.
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“Thank you,” he said. “I'm glad I have the whole of you on my side.”
She acknowledged the comment with a nod. The ring disappeared under a fold of her tunic with the others. There, he hoped, it would stay for the duration of their journey.
Seth concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, fighting both disorientation and the memory-flashes of Ellis. By focussing on the back of the kaia ahead and, when things became too weird, shutting his eyes entirely, he hoped to make it through this leg of the Path without throwing up, or whatever the Second Realm equivalent of that was.
The end came suddenly. One moment, he was squinting to avoid disorientation; the next, he was walking on a surface that sloped gently upwards, carved from the same brown-with-black-whorls material that the entrance to the hole in the sky had been made of. The slope grew steeper and became stairs that were just a little bit too long and high to have been built for a person of human height. Seth had to strain to keep up with the kaia, who, despite their smaller stature, leapt up the steps like gazelles. Multicoloured threads trailed behind them from where their raiment had come unravelled in the storm.
The staircase wrapped around itself in a spiral. The echoes of their footsteps rang like handclaps up and down the curled shaft. If anything was waiting for them at the top, it would know they were coming well before they arrived. But the eagerness of the kaia to climb the stairs was infectious and no one suggested slowing down.
They climbed.
The stairs brought them to the centre of a flat shelf atop a floating island. Seth felt the change in the air as they neared the summit: it was colder, and the light was brighter, harsher. He moved off the final step into a steady wind blowing from his left. He shivered and put his arms about his naked chest, wishing he had a coat—and, if he did, that it would make a difference.
The kaia had spread out ahead of him. Seth cautiously followed, taking in the view around him. The shelf was carved out of the top of a ragged hill, a weathered outcrop of light brown rock perhaps a kilometre around that wouldn't have looked out of place in an ancient, baked land like Iraq or Turkey. The ground beneath his feet was smooth, made from many wide, rectangular slabs polished by centuries of footsteps. If there had ever been a design carved upon them, it had been long since worn away.
He walked nervously to the edge of the shelf and looked over, wondering what the underside of the island looked like. The sides of the hill sloped down into nothing. If it had been an island, water would have lapped where air and the view of the realm below took over; underneath might have been raw bedrock, dangling precipitously over the distant surface of the Second Realm as though it had been ripped out of its proper place and cast carelessly into the sky.
There was no sign of the staircase they had ascended except the uppermost steps in the centre of the island. There was, likewise, nothing visible to indicate what held the island suspended in midair. Magic, he assumed. Someone's will.
Seth felt, without looking, Xol come up behind him.
“What is this place?” he asked, turning. The sky above, where it surrounded Sheol, was oddly dark.
“This is Tatenen, the Raised Land,” said the dimane in hushed tones. All nine of them were out of the staircase now. Synett was looking around in awe, his hands clenched in front of him as though he was about to spontaneously orate.
“Sort of like Atlantis, but the other way around?”
Xol shook his head. “Its origins are unknown to me.”
The five kaia had arranged themselves in an outwards-facing circle. They seemed to be waiting for something.
“This isn't the end of the line,” Seth said. “Agatha said that we'd be judged here by the Eight—whoever they are.”
Xol nodded. “And tested, too.” The dimane radiated uncertainty, and Seth remembered his opinion on whether the expedition would be allowed through the Raised Land. Only one of us needs to pass. It wasn't a cheering diagnosis when viewed from the top of a floating hill with a cold wind blowing right through him.
“Couldn't we just sneak past?” Seth asked. “I mean, it's not as if there's anyone here to stop us.” Filled with a strong urge to press onwards—before they found themselves unable to move at all—he went to go to Agatha to suggest that they find the next leg of the Path and get going.
“There is someone here,” hissed Xol, taking his arm and holding him back. “They simply do not wish to be seen.”
Seth pulled himself free. “There is? They don't?” Irritation rose in him. “Well, if they won't show themselves, I don't see why we should give a damn what they think of us. Hello?” He cupped his hands and shouted into the wind. “Hello! Come out where we can see you!”
The response was totally unexpected. The sky folded around the stone shelf and eight faces congealed into view. They were enormous and hideous, stretching high above them like giant Easter Island moai. Their solemn faces were leathery and long and gleamed with greenish hues. Downwards-drooping mouths competed with bulging eyes for the most froglike features. They had scales, and two narrow slits for nostrils. Four of them displayed smoothly flowing tattoos that curved and tangled in eye-bending ways. The other four had sharp, sharklike teeth. Sheol shone weakly between them, casting strange shadows down their wrinkled, lumpy visages.
Seth stared up at them, certain in a very old part of himself that these giant, awful creatures were about to bend down and eat him.
“Your mouth is quick to move, boy,” said a voice from the shelf of stone on which he stood, “but your mind is slow. One doesn't hurry the Ogdoad. They come in their own time—and they always come for those who dare to follow the Path.”
“We dare,” said Agatha, bowing deeply before the man who had appeared in their midst. He was as tall and thin as she was, but dressed in a tan robe. He held a yellow staff shaped like a long teardrop: blunt at the top, but narrowing rapidly throughout its length and ending in a point that looked as sharp as a sword. It was entwined with scraps of snakeskin and appeared to be made of resin. His hair was white and cut short, and he wore about his temples a gold crown surmounted at the front by a broad, flat disc. Its sides and rear bent outwards in numerous curved horns. It looked brutal and very heavy, like the staff.
“We apologise for our hastiness,” Agatha continued, straightening. Her tone was uncharacteristically deferential—not worshipful, as it had been with Barbelo—almost afraid. “Our quest is urgent.”
“Your quest is irrelevant here,” came the haughty reply.
“We also came to warn—”
“Your warnings are irrelevant, too.”
“Who do you think you are?” asked Seth, stung by the tone he was taking with Agatha.
“I am called Tatenen, as are the stones upon which you stand,” said the man. “I am the guardian of this great rock which separates the earth from the sky. If I live, it lives; if I grow old, it grows old; if I breathe the air, it breathes the air. I am he who the iron obeys, the Lord of Tomorrow. I am he who tamed the Old Ones.” His eyes flashed an astonishing green. “Do you still not know who I am?”
Agatha shot Seth a warning look, which he ignored.
“No,” he said. “Do you know me?”
“I will soon.” The man called Tatenen gripped his staff in both hands, as though he was about to lift it up and swing it about his head. “I am the voice of the Old Ones. They speak through me. You will speak through me, too, if you desire to survive your testing. You will not directly address them again. Is that acceptable to you, boy?”
Seth shrugged, feigning indifference although he could feel the power of the man's will radiating from him.
“Whatever,” he said. “Shall we get on with it?”
Tatenen pursed his lips and turned back to Agatha. “You wish to pass. There is always a cost. Are you prepared to accept this cost, even if it is your own life?”
“Yes.” She bowed again. “I accept.”
“Good. Then we shall begin. The many-in-one first, I think.” Tat
enen strode to the nearest kaia and cupped a palm behind its small head. He closed his eyes and went very still. The kaia didn't move. Its blank eyes remained open and empty.
For a long minute nothing happened. Seth shivered from the cold and waited impatiently for Tatenen to finish whatever he was doing. That Tatenen was somehow reading the minds of the kaia seemed a safe assumption; that this was integral to the judging process, likewise. But it didn't make for interesting—or reassuring—viewing.
As time dragged on, he noticed a strange thing: the kaia's cold grey skin had begun to glow. Golden fissures formed and spread across their features—all five of them at once—as though Tatenen had somehow woken a fire within them. The fire spread and grew, until it seemed that they were made entirely of molten lava. It grew in brightness, a fierce, intense white replacing the golden hue. The multicoloured threads draped across them blackened and smoked.
Tatenen took his hand away from the head of the kaia. The glow immediately began to fade. The transition from beings of molten light back to grey happened with startling rapidity, and it seemed to Seth as if they sagged slightly as they assumed their former appearance.
“Interesting,” Tatenen pronounced, as though voicing his opinion of a glass of vintage wine. “You next, daughter of the realm.”
He repeated the procedure with Agatha. She didn't move as his hand reached for the back of her neck and he searched her mind for whatever it was he wanted. She didn't glow as the kaia had. When it was over, she stepped away and looked at no one.
Then it was Synett's turn. Blood from the bald man's stigmata showed through his bindings as Tatenen approached.
“‘May the Lord grant you wisdom in your heart,’” he said, “‘to judge his people in righteousness.’”
“Which lord is this?” Tatenen responded. “Amun? Kuk? Hauhet? Naunet? Is it the Old Ones you worship?”
Synett shook his head. “These idols are unknown to me.”
The Crooked Letter: Books of the Cataclysm: One Page 28
