by Dorian Hart
Lapis certainly deserved death for her crimes, but to chop off her head and deliver it to this…thing? Ernie fought against his distaste. “What if we can’t find her?”
“That will be your problem, not mine. Promise me her head, or I tell you nothing.”
“Fine! Yes! You can have her head. We’ll do everything we can to—we’ll do it. I promise.”
Shreen’s chuckle sounded as though he was choking on rusted scrap iron. “Good. Good.”
“And what’s the second thing?”
A long sigh escaped Shreen’s swollen lips. “Tell me, Ernest Roundhill, is there a specific thing you intend to do with the Crosser’s Maze once you have it?”
“Yes.”
“And what is that?”
Ernie looked back at Grey Wolf.
“No!” Shreen’s voice rose to a gravelly howl. “Look at me! I’m asking you, not him! Tell me, what are you going to do with the maze?”
Ernie risked a glance down at Morningstar. What else could he do? “There’s a…a dangerous man trapped in a prison on another world. If he gets loose he’ll kill everyone, maybe everyone on Spira, including you. We’re going to use the Crosser’s Maze to stop him.” Not that Ernie had any idea how that would work, but the archmagi had been confident, and that was good enough for him.
“What is the dangerous man’s name?”
“Naradawk Skewn.”
Shreen smiled through misarranged teeth. “Then, Ernest, when you have stopped Naradawk Skewn from escaping, I want you to bring the Crosser’s Maze back here. I want you to give it to me. Promise me you will, and I will share with you what I know.”
What? No! How could he even consider handing over something that powerful to a creature like Shreen? He could use it to commit atrocities every bit as bad as what Naradawk might do—couldn’t he? This was where he would put his foot down. There must be another way to find the Crosser’s Maze, some sage or library or storyteller, something. And they still had the clue from Morningstar’s vision—that the maze was in a jungle.
Shreen tapped his plank-staff impatiently on the dirt. Ernie needed to buy time to think. “Why do you want the Crosser’s Maze? What are you going to do with it?”
“That is not your concern!” Shreen’s fingers clenched and unclenched his staff, betraying his anticipation. “Will you promise?”
“But if you want it that much, and you know where it is, why haven’t you just gotten it for yourself?”
“No more questions! You have my terms. Accept them, or don’t.”
Morningstar writhed on the ground beside him, her body moving but her head still, as though a heavy invisible foot pressed on her neck.
Ernie tried to keep the desperation out of his voice. “If I say no, will you let us go?”
“Of course,” said Shreen softly. “I’m not a monster.” He gave his rusted-metal laugh. “But then you will have learned nothing. And when Lapis discovers that Labyrinthine is naught but lies, she may come back to make her own bargain. Assuming, of course, that this Naradawk Skewn hasn’t already escaped.”
Ernie glanced down again at Morningstar. The memory of that awful day in Sand’s Edge came back to him, of her smashing a prisoner’s hand to wring information out of him. Ernie had complained, bitterly, that heroes needed to rise above that kind of thing. But Morningstar and Grey Wolf felt differently. And weren’t they right? If Morningstar hadn’t been so ruthlessly decisive, they wouldn’t have discovered the gargoyle out in the desert, and it would have killed Abernathy.
“Decide!” Shreen’s face shook as he growled out the word, as though he tried to stifle a pent-up scream.
Ernie tried to think logically. If he didn’t make his promise to Shreen, they’d probably never find the maze, and in a month Naradawk would be free. Certain disaster. If he did promise, they could find the maze, stop Naradawk, and worry later about what Shreen might do. Possible disaster.
Gods, was that right? Be responsible for whatever horrible deeds Shreen would do with the maze, out of pure, desperate need? The old Ernest would have refused on principle. Never be a party to evil, no matter the stakes. You could always find another way.
But what if there was no other way?
“Night Master Shreen, I accept your terms.”
Shreen shambled forward until he stood nose to nose with Ernie. He would be frighteningly tall if he could stand up straight. Little sores pocked his skin, whiskers sprouted in separate patches from his chin, and his breath smelled like an outhouse.
“Your promise will bind all of you,” he whispered. Then, louder, “Your promise will be made in the eyes of Dralla, goddess of night, on her sacred ground. She will hold each of you to it! Now, say it one more time, that you will bring me Lapis’s head, and you will give me the Crosser’s Maze. Promise! PROMISE!” He was screaming by the end, spittle flying from his lips into Ernie’s face.
Ernie looked down once more at Morningstar and something in him hardened. She would make this choice if their situations were reversed. “I promise that if you tell us where the Crosser’s Maze is, then once we have used it to prevent Naradawk’s escape, we will return here and give it to you, and that we will do everything in our power to bring you the head of Lapis as well.”
A cold, clammy sensation settled on him, as though he had put on clothes that had not finished drying after a wash. He half-imagined that clumps of shadow stuck to him like fungus on a tree.
Morningstar cried out as if stabbed; her body thrashed, her feet kicked out wildly, while her head stayed clamped to the ground.
“Even you!” Shreen grinned down at Morningstar. “How it must feel, Morningstar, to be beholden to a goddess greater than your own. Your friend’s promise binds you, and Ell cannot free you from it.”
“No…no…” Morningstar pressed her hands to her head as if she could block out the sound of his splintery voice.
“I’ve made your promise!” Ernie shouted. “But it only holds if you tell us what we need to know.”
“Of course, of course.” Shreen’s voice was eerily calm. He stood up as straight as he could, which wasn’t very, and spoke as though reciting a poem. “South of the Whistling Stone, east of Posada’s Tears, beneath an endless ceiling of green, there is Calabash, the City Vitreous. Deep in the heart of that city waits the Crosser’s Maze, that encompasses all things, all times, all beings.”
Ernie waited for something more, but Shreen was finished.
“You are the first outsiders ever to hear those words. I wish you great speed and success.”
Endless ceiling of green. Morningstar’s vision had shown her that the maze was in a jungle. Now they had landmarks, some names, and knew that they needed to find a city. Surely that would be enough.
Shreen turned his back on them; Morningstar gasped as though she had been holding her breath this whole time and rolled over onto her side.
“If you’re still here in another minute, I’ll let my pets have you for dinner.”
Kibi and Grey Wolf pulled Morningstar to her feet, and they fled through the hole in the wall.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
When they emerged into the Plaza of Glory (with all their light-rods immediately brightening) and discovered a man standing next to the angel fountain, a sword in his hand, Aravia couldn’t stop herself. The words sprang from her lips, her fingers twisted of their own accord, and she flung out her arcane power into his chest. Her arcanokinesis picked him up and hurled him backward twenty feet, then rolled him another ten before he thumped into a stone wall. Tor, Ernie, Grey Wolf, and Dranko charged across the plaza to subdue him.
Aravia stared down at her hands as though they had betrayed her. For all her ironclad equanimity, she felt an unreasoning fear of the creatures in the darkness, a fear colored with unfulfilled aggression. Part of her had longed to unleash her magic into that frenzied swarm of animals, or, failing that, to rip them apart with her bare hands.
The sword lay beside the stranger on the ground. A c
lear wildness shone in his eyes; he scrambled for his weapon and lurched to his feet.
“What in Kemma’s name is the matter with you?” He waved his sword in front of him as if daring any of them to take a step closer.
Dranko walked forward with his hands raised. “Just out for a stroll through the nice part of town? If you’re thinking of buying some property on the cheap, I have to warn you, this place is crawling with vermin.”
Aravia stared at the stranger, a man on the young side of his thirties, his short brown hair and matching beard neatly cut and trimmed. His clothing was clean, notwithstanding the scuffs from having been tossed about. His beige tunic bore the emblem of a sunburst: the holy symbol of the church of Kemma. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so quick to blast him.
The man’s face twisted in anger. “I don’t see that I have to justify my presence to you.”
Dranko thrust out his tusks. “You obviously followed us here, and you’re armed, so I’d say that’s exactly what you have to justify. What’s your name? No, wait, let me see if I can guess. Skulking Stalker? Flying Fool? Reckless Wanderer? Moronic—”
“My name is Certain Step,” he snapped. “I saw you at the church in the citrine district, during the…the transformation.”
“That was you, up on the balcony, watchin’ us.” Kibi had joined them, supporting Morningstar, who still stumbled and shook.
“Yes. I am one of the bell-ringers, among other things. It is vital that I talk with you, but this is not a proper place for civilized people. When you leave, may I accompany you?”
Grey Wolf gestured at Certain Step’s sword. “Why don’t you put that thing away first?”
Step’s shoulders slumped. He hastily sheathed his sword and his hard expression softened. “My apologies. I had hoped to make a good initial impression, but I don’t…react well when attacked. It is said that a man should take three deep breaths before a plunge. Perhaps we can start over.”
“Sure.” Grey Wolf didn’t sound mollified. “You can start by telling us why you were following us.”
Step looked about nervously. “This is not where I would choose to explain myself. Please, take my weapon if that puts you at ease. I swear on Kemma’s bright heart that I intend no treachery.” He held out his sword hilt first. Grey Wolf took it.
“Let’s make sure of something,” said Dranko. “Stand up, Certain Step, and keep your hands high in the air.”
Certain Step glowered but did as he was told.
Dranko frisked him, ankles to collar, then stepped back. “Nothing alarming. A pinky ring, a pendant, some coins and a small book in his left front pocket. Aravia, can you check him for magic?”
“Of course.” Arcing one man had not severely taxed her reserves, so casting aura sense was no hardship. Certain Step was clean, but the same couldn’t be said about the rest of them. “Nothing on him, though I’m afraid the rest of us are newly burdened with enchantment. It’s extremely faint but unmistakable.”
No one spoke aloud the clear conclusion: that they carried their promise to Shreen beyond the walls of his shrine.
Dranko clapped Step on the shoulder. “Good news—we’ll let you live. Let’s get out of this charming little square, head to a more cultured part of Djaw, and find a nice place to eat. Your treat.”
* * *
The Spinning Coin was loud and boisterous, with half the tables occupied not with diners but with raucous games of chance. Dice, cards, coins, and tiles were rolled, spun, flipped, and slammed down, often with emotional displays of triumph or resignation depending on circumstance. The name Laramon was cursed, implored, and venerated in equal measures; clearly he was a Kivian god of fortune.
Certain Step didn’t have a great deal of money, but he nonetheless treated them to a satisfying meal, lamb stew with crusty bread and a sweet fruit pie for dessert. Tor wolfed down his food like a starving man; Morningstar, one side of her face bruised and dirt-smeared, picked at her meal as though uncertain it was edible.
Ernie’s whole body shook, even two hours removed from Dralla’s refuge. “I hope…I mean, I tried to do the best I could. Morningstar, I’m sorry about…about…” He trailed off as though unsure of exactly what he was apologizing for. Morningstar didn’t seem to notice he had spoken.
“You did exactly what you needed to,” said Grey Wolf, his voice louder than normal, as though he still hadn’t come down from his anger and frayed nerves. “We’ll have to deal with the consequences later, but I don’t see that you had any real choice.”
Kibi was hard to read, as always. “I suppose we could a’ hoped to learn ’bout the—” He glanced at Certain Step. “‘bout our quest somewhere else, but that would a’ been a terrible chance to take. Ernie, don’t beat yourself up over it. We couldn’t a’ known what that promise would mean.”
He plucked absently at the skin of his wrist, as if he could feel the filth of Shreen’s oath clinging to it. Aravia felt it, too, even this far from the shrine. Would the feeling persist until they had met the terms of that bargain? It was an unpleasant supposition.
Dranko motioned to Step with a sloshing cup. “Step, you should have been more punctual! You missed a fun little outing back there in the Plaza of Glory. Maybe next time. We’ll introduce you to Shreen. Nice fellow. Oughta be a singer.”
Morningstar hadn’t said a word since leaving the shrine of Dralla, and between trembling forkfuls she hugged herself and rocked back and forth. The left side of her face, where Shreen had pressed it into the ground, showed a crescent-shaped bruise. It must have been particularly traumatic for an Ellish priestess to be subjected to an oath made to a man like Shreen. Aravia had tried to assure her that she would think of a way to circumvent the promise, but Morningstar only shook her head at the idea.
One room remained to rent for the night, with one small bed. Certain Step’s affiliation with the Kemman church afforded him some cachet; the innkeeper balked at first, but Step convinced her to let them all sleep in that one room, bedrolls squeezed in around the floor. They adjourned to the room after dinner, as Step preferred a private place to talk.
Morningstar lay down on the bed while the rest sat on the floor or leaned against the walls. Certain Step had lost his initial defiance; now he fidgeted nervously.
Pewter butted Step’s ankles. I think he’s been waiting for this moment for a long time, and worries how it’ll go.
“Let’s hear it,” said Dranko. “Let’s hear what’s so important that you followed us into the blackest hell-hole in Djaw.”
Certain Step wiggled his fingers, but out of nerves, not in a spellcasting fashion. “I…this is going to sound absurd. The other acolytes, the few I’ve shared this with, think I’m mad. I expect you will think the same.”
“We won’t,” said Ernie. “Given what our last few weeks have been like, trust me, it’s more likely that you’d think we were crazy.”
Step relaxed, letting out a long breath. “Fine then. I’ll just come out with it. Six months ago I was dusting and re-shelving old books in the library—I perform many odd jobs around the grounds. I’m usually sure-handed, but one of the books slipped from my fingers and fell open on the floor. It was an overcast day, but at that moment a tiny ray of sun slipped through the clouds and fell through the only window in the room, lighting up the left-hand page of the book I had dropped. It is said that only Laramon leaves aught to chance. I believe it was a sign from Kemma.”
Dranko laughed. “Friend, if we had a mirac for every strange prophecy that’s come true in the last year, we could buy this inn and each have a separate room. What was in the book?”
Step obviously wasn’t expecting that sort of answer. He gave his head a little shake.
“Before I tell you, I’m going to ask you something.”
Dranko held up his hand. “Before you ask us something, I’m going to ask you something. I want you to look right into my eyes when you answer. Ready?”
“Uh…yes?”
“Have you seen someo
ne recently with blue skin, or heard of a person named Lapis?”
Certain Step’s forehead wrinkled. “No, I haven’t. Were you expecting that I had?”
Dranko chuckled. “We were afraid that you might, but if you have, you’re an exceptional liar. So what was your question?”
He looked at each of them in turn first but stared at the floor when he spoke. “Are you from the far side of the Churning Sea?”
“That depends,” said Dranko, “on what you’ll do if we say yes.”
“I will be terrified, and also I will rejoice. Are you?”
“Yes!” said Tor. “Are you asking because of something in your book?”
“I am,” said Step. And he hadn’t lied; his face showed a strange mix of fear and relief. “That beam of Kemma’s radiance illuminated a poem. A directive, I think, addressed to me.”
Aravia nearly rolled her eyes but didn’t want to be rude. The gods did love their little games.
“Can you tell us?” asked Ernie.
“I will.” He pulled out a small book from his pocket and read.
When time is right and world is wrong
Be the source of sunburst song
Light must rive the last of five
To break apart the timeless hive
When silent fall the noonday bells
When night descends and sun rebels
When darkness drops atop the day
The Travelers will have their say
Seven herald times of change
Seven speak with voices strange
Seven crossed the Churning Sea
Setting right reality
Go with them to certain doom
Step into the lightless room
For all to thrive you must contrive
To shine within the last of five.
Kibi looked as though he could hardly contain himself throughout Step’s recitation. “Time is right and world is wrong?” he exclaimed when Step had finished. “You sure that’s what it says?”
