by Heidi Heilig
“She’s coming,” Dahut said, like a threat. “Help me!”
“No one’s bloody coming!”
“She’s right there!”
I shuddered like a fish on a line. Would she give me away? I risked a glance, but Dahut was staring into the woods in the opposite direction. Following her gaze, Crowhurst plunged into the trees on the other side of the clearing, crushing leaves beneath his feet. His footsteps grew fainter by the moment, but my heartbeat was so loud that I very nearly didn’t hear Dahut whispering. “Please help.”
Could I save her now? If I took her from him, she’d never make his maps. Would it prevent my fate or unmake my reality? I still didn’t know the answer, but I couldn’t just leave her there. Trying to move quietly, I rushed to her side. Beside me, the pools shone like crystal in the sun; cool air flowed from the dark grotto. “I’ve got you,” I said softly, and she started crying.
I plucked at the ropes. They were clearly tied by a sailor, tight and secure—I wished for a knife as I dug my raw fingers into the knots at her ankles. “Are you going to take me home?” she whispered then.
I froze. Had she sipped yet from the Lethe? “Where is home, to you?”
“Raispur. Please keep working,” she added. I redoubled my efforts on the knots, my heart beating faster.
“That’s in Ghaziabad,” I said, my mind racing. “In India?”
“You’ve been there?”
“It’s where Crowhurst was born.”
She shuddered. “What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s mad,” I said, but was it true? If he was, so was my father—and so was I. But it didn’t matter. I tugged on the last knot; it was loose now. “Almost done. Tell me more about your family.”
“My father works for the railroad. My mother—” Her voice broke on the word. “She does mehndi for brides.”
“What are their names?” I said urgently. “Give me an address!”
But she did not answer. Her eyes went wide, and I knew what I’d find when I whirled around. “Crowhurst.”
He was breathing hard from his run through the woods, and his suit was stained at the knees. Other than that, he looked very nearly the same as he did in his future, in my past. His hair was just a touch shorter, but that was the only difference—or was it? Something in his eyes was different too, something hollow and lonely—a brokenness he had not yet mended or hidden.
Poppies swayed at our feet, and bees zipped in lazy circles around us. Behind me, Dahut kicked against her bindings, the knots growing looser still. Could she get free? Could we stop him now, before it all began? Crowhurst watched me; I could almost hear his own thoughts churning. “How do you know my name?”
How much to tell him? I clenched my fists, my hands still smarting. “We’ve met. Or we will. I’ve come to warn you—to tell you not to go to Ker-Ys.”
“Ker-Ys?” He frowned. “Where’s that?”
“A drowned city, from a French myth . . .” My voice trailed off—had I just planted the idea in his head? I bit down on a curse. What could I say to stop him? If Lin could make up fortunes, so could I. “If you go there, you’ll die.”
Crowhurst blinked at me. “How can you know that?”
“I’ve seen the future.”
“Have you?” He stepped closer, still peering at me with those empty eyes—but in them now, a spark. “So have I.”
Behind him, Dahut leaped to her feet, finally free of the ropes . . . but at the same moment, Crowhurst turned, as if he’d known. Had he? Grabbing her by the shoulders, he threw her face-first into the sparkling pool.
“No!” I dove for her as she thrashed in the water, but Crowhurst dragged me back.
“Didn’t see that coming, did you?”
I threw him off. Dahut had pushed herself to the edge of the water, but that blank look was back in her eyes. I backed away, grinding my teeth. Had Crowhurst truly seem the future? More questions—but I only wanted answers.
Before me, Crowhurst grinned. Behind me, the pit of the oracle.
I stepped backward into the dark.
This time the drop was short, and something soft cushioned my fall—a lamb, freshly killed. I swore, scrambling away. The eye still shone, the blood still dripped—a sacrifice. Crowhurst had come for knowledge after all.
Above my head, the circle of light was eclipsed by his figure—a colossus, a dark angel above the tomb. “You think you can learn the secrets of the universe?” he shouted down to me, his voice echoing in the cavern, mingled with the buzzing of bees. “You think you know how the game will end?”
I did not answer, and finally the light returned. I could see the hive now, humming at the lip of the cavern; bees flew back and forth through the cleft, in and out of the sun, and the ground around me was littered with insects, dead and dying. I had leaped without looking; there was no ladder back to the world above. I wasn’t trapped—I could see the map of the ship in the light streaming down—but how would I collect the Mnemosyne water?
My heart was pounding; the tattoo on my arm throbbed with each beat. I took a deep breath. The air was deathly cold and smelled of honey. Perhaps there was a way out through the dark. Peering into the shadows, I could see nothing beyond the circle of sunlight. But this was the cave of the oracle himself. And Trophonius was no wispy seer with a white rag over his eyes. He had murdered his own brother. How would he react to my arrival, and without a sacrifice to offer?
Maybe that would be the only question he answered.
I swore again, softly. Then I froze as a laugh returned, like an echo, from the dark. I swallowed. “Hello?” What else to say? “Ave?” Then I cursed again; that was Latin, not Greek.
The laugh came once more, and a voice, harsh and sibilant. “Such language.”
My response was immediate. “You speak English?” Irritation overcame awe. “Stop laughing.”
Silence from the dark.
“Who are you?”
Silence, again, and the hum of the bees.
So I guessed. “Trophonius.”
“Nix.”
“How do you know my name?” I waited for an answer, growing impatient. “You’re not much of an oracle if you don’t answer questions.”
“Knowledge takes sacrifice.” The voice was almost a hiss.
“What kind of sacrifice?”
Silence in response.
“You won’t answer questions without one.” No answer. Of course. I bit my lip. “But I have nothing!”
A sigh. Or was it the wind rushing out of the cavern?
I glared into the dark. A sacrifice . . . I crouched, searching for movement on the floor. There. A honeybee, too old to fly, crawling painfully on the earth. The sphinx’s riddle came to mind: what has four legs in the morning . . . ?
But I was not here to answer questions. I was here to ask them. I plucked up the bee between my fingers; air hissed between my teeth when the sting came. The creature tore itself apart as the hot pain bloomed at the base of my thumb.
Laughter again. “Was that your sacrifice or the bee’s?”
“His death, my pain. Sacrifice is always shared.” Wincing, I scraped the stinger out of my flesh. “But I shouldn’t answer your question without a sacrifice of your own.”
I heard the smile in his voice. “Come closer.”
I hesitated only a moment, and then stepped out of the circle of light.
Beyond, the darkness was absolute. Slowly, blindly, I slid my feet forward along the floor of the cavern. It was smooth, polished by water or by hands, but the bodies of insects crunched and crumbled beneath my shoes. The scent of honey coated the roof of my mouth, as thick as though I’d eaten it. The drone of the hive seemed louder in the dark. At my next step, my toe hit something—something rounded and hollow. I froze as it rolled away into the dark, rattling. “What was that?”
When the answer came, I was not surprised. “My brother.”
I swallowed. “You kept his head?”
“It seemed only fair. I’m the one who took
it.”
His voice echoed, seeming to come from nowhere and everywhere. My eyes skittered side to side, but I could see nothing, nothing but the heavy black. “But why?”
“A sacrifice.”
I frowned—that was not part of his legend. “For what?”
“To hide the truth.” There was a long silence. Then he sighed. “We were stealing from the king, and my brother was caught in a trap, his leg crushed between two stones. I couldn’t save him, but I couldn’t leave him—not all of him. We were inseparable. If the king saw his face, he’d know I’d been there too. I remember it so well. The smell of the blood. The sound of his sobbing. He died calling for our mother. I had to saw at the tendons. Stomp on the bones of his neck. The blood on my face felt like tears. His death, my pain. I sacrificed, but to keep secrets, and now I remember . . . everything.”
My face twisted in disgust, in pity. “Can’t you drink from the Lethe?”
“And forget him? Never. I love my brother.” He sighed again, and his voice echoed in the dark. “Seeing the skull reminds me of him.”
“You can see in this?”
“It’s easier if you close your eyes.”
“What is?”
When the answer came, I felt his hot breath in my ear. “Remembering.”
A hand grabbed my wrist; I screamed and flailed at him, but I didn’t connect. Still, he released me, and I stumbled back with a splash. Cold water seeped into my boots as I panted, searching the blackness with unseeing eyes. His laughter echoed through the cavern, shaking my core.
“I didn’t come here to amuse you,” I shouted, louder than I had to, but my voice was high and scared in the dark.
“A happy coincidence, then,” he replied.
I gritted my teeth, trying to slow my racing heart. I’d been wasting time with these questions about Trophonius. What did I really need to know? “Is Crowhurst waiting for me by the pools?”
“He’s already fled.”
A stab of disappointment—but perhaps it had been impossible, undoing the very circumstances that had brought me here. “How do I get back to the Mnemosyne?”
“You’re already there.”
I blinked, suddenly very aware of the icy coldness climbing the leg of my trousers. “It’s not above?”
“The pools above are Lethe. It is always easier to forget than to remember.”
He said it simply, and I believed him. I knelt and dipped the canteen into the pool. Full, it was cold and heavy. I slid it back into my pocket, where it matched the weight of the lock. I paused, turning the next question over in my mind, considering whether or not to ask. “Will I save Kashmir?”
“No.”
Everything fell away then, and the air of the cave was not half as cold as the pit of my despair. “Why not?”
“It’s not up to you.”
“Then who?”
“It’s not your fate,” he said. “I cannot tell you.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I don’t believe you!”
“I don’t care. Though perhaps it’s not the Mnemosyne you want, but the Lethe.”
“I will never forget Kashmir.”
“I know.”
I swore at him. Trophonius was wrong, he had to be. I had not come so far to be foiled—I would find a way, if I had to go down to the treasury and carry Kashmir out myself. Plowing through the water, I returned to dry ground. Where was the mouth of the cave? I could no longer see the light. “How do I get out of here?”
“But . . .” The oracle’s tone changed, and a note of uncertainty vibrated in the cavern. “Won’t you drink?”
“Why should I?”
“Because if you do, you’ll know what will happen.”
“With Kashmir?”
“With everything,” he said, and his voice low and tempting. “You will know what is possible, what is probable, and what only has a passing chance. What might happen, and what should never. If you drink, your eyes will become open. You will emerge from the dark cave, and all that came before will be like shadows on the wall. You will finally see, and you will know everything.”
“Everything?” For a moment, my mind reeled with the prospect of knowledge—of truth, bitter and beautiful. I had chased it for so long. But then I frowned. “Why are you asking whether I’ll drink? Don’t you know the answer?”
“I know the most likely answer, and the least. But I don’t know which you’ll actually give.”
“So Joss was right. There is a chance to change things.” There came no answer—but then again, I had not asked a question. “Did Crowhurst drink?”
When the oracle spoke, I heard the smile in his voice. “What do you think?”
“I think . . .” I swallowed. “I think knowledge takes sacrifice. I already know what I need to.”
He laughed again. “And what is that, little girl?”
“Enough to know better. How do I get out?”
He was silent then, for a long time. “The map.”
I touched my arm; the sleeve still covered the ink. “But I can’t see like you can.”
“I told you. Close your eyes.”
I did, and there she was, my ship, my home, the memory clear in my mind’s eye. My arm itched; the lines of ink seemed to prickle, and then I felt it: moisture on my skin, and the taste of the sea mist over the flavor of honey. The fog was coming.
It was easy to cast aside the cave, for there was nothing there to hold me. The pull of the ship was almost physical; would this be my last time aboard? Once I returned to the Temptation, I wouldn’t have much time—if I was going to go after Kashmir, I’d have to send Cook on to London without me and trust that Slate could find me later in Honolulu.
But either way, I wouldn’t leave Kashmir behind. We had been apart too long already. I was almost eager to face Crowhurst as the mist curdled around me, condensing on my cheeks, curling in my hair, clinging to my clothes. The temperature dropped in the cave, and gooseflesh rose along my arms. I started shivering as the hum of the bees turned into the roar of the ocean, but something was wrong. The fog continued to thicken until it was impossible to breathe, and at first I thought I was falling again, no, tumbling—so cold—not through the air, but through the icy currents of the Iroise.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I screamed, or tried to, and water filled my throat. I coughed, convulsing, tossed like a fishing boat in a hurricane. The waves pushed, the current pulled. I struggled toward the surface—or toward the ocean floor? I could not tell up from down, I could no more sense gravity than I could breathe, and any moment I dreaded being dashed against the rocks, if I did not drown first.
And then I did hit something—but not stone. The current was sweeping me along the smooth belly of the ship. I scrabbled for purchase with my raw fingers, but the hull was slick—copper clad. Still, I’d felt the curve of her and knew where the surface lay. I fought the current, kicking upward, but the sea was stronger than I was.
Could I take hold of the safety line as I passed the stern? My limbs were already numb with cold. I fought for air, my fingers frozen, lungs aflame, sliding along the back of the ship—then past. My hands swept through icy emptiness; I had never felt more alone.
Was this what Kash had felt, out in the Margins? What he would feel, if the sea took him from me? Despair flooded in, colder than the water.
But then something took my arm.
Claws bit my skin. The hand was scaled—I opened my mouth in shock, and the tide poured in. Yanked against the current, I rose toward the surface, where my grasping fingers tangled in a rope. The strange hand released me as I hauled myself along the line with strength I didn’t know I’d had. When I broke into the air, my first breath was more primal than a scream. Shaking water out of my face, I searched for a glimpse of my savior, but the foamy sea gave nothing away.
Then I heard shouting over the sound of the waves. Blinking away the salt, I saw I was holding fast t
o the Fool’s anchor line; she’d hove to beside the Temptation. I never thought I’d be happy to see Gwenolé’s face.
Oddly, she looked happy to see me too—or at least, satisfied. “She’s here!”
At her shout, my father rushed to the rail of the caravel. He grinned, giddy with relief, and hung over the side, calling out encouragement as Gwen herself reeled me in like a fish. As soon as I was close enough to the corvette, I slid my arm through the rung of the ladder that ran down the Fool’s stern. I was bleeding from five deep scratches in my forearm, but the air was colder than the water and I could hardly feel the wound.
I was coughing now and shivering, too weak to climb up. But Gwen threw down another rope, tied in a loop; I slipped it over my head and under my other arm. With her taking my waterlogged weight, I managed to guide myself up the ladder. At the top, she pulled me over the rail and onto the deck.
I lay like a landed fish, gasping at the grim sky. Clouds boiled overhead as water pooled beneath me. Gwen rubbed some life into my limbs; as blood returned to my extremities, my skin burned. Now my arm began to sting.
“I saw you go over the side,” she said to me, and though her voice was brusque, there was concern in her face. “What the hell were you thinking?”
With numb hands, I felt for the bottle of Mnemosyne water, safe in my pocket. “I’m t-t-trying to lift a c-c-curse,” I said through chattering teeth.
“By drowning yourself? Hmm.” She gave me a twisted smile. “Maybe I should throw you back into the sea.”
I rolled my eyes and tried to sit up. “Throw me b-back to the Temptation instead.”
“Probably best that way.” Gwen helped me to my feet; standing was an excruciating pain. My feet felt swollen but hollow, as though they’d gone to sleep. “You’re no kind of captain if you keep jumping ship.”
Together, we staggered to the rail; already, her crew was rigging a rope from the Fool to the Temptation. I took it in my hands, but I hesitated as a realization came. “I can get you past the f-f-fog,” I said then. “Back to the Port of London.”
Beside me, Gwen stiffened. “How, exactly?”
“All you have to do is let J-James take the helm.”
