Facets of the Nether

by William C. Tracy

  “I know this person,” Zhaddi said, their voice loud in the silence. “Rabata Liinero Humbano. She is of a well-respected lineage among the Etanela. You wish me to observe her, dispose of her, or replace her?”

  Janas waved a hand. “Me, I care not. Only silence her voice against our peace with the Assembly. That is all that matters. We must make up for time lost.”

  “How long would it take for you to replace her?” Dunarn asked. The postures of the other leaders of the Life Coalition indicated disgust at the Aridori, but Dunarn sat forward. She seemed one of the least religious of the leaders, save perhaps for Nakan, who was still glowering, his arms crossed and the knife dangling from one hand. Enos clenched her hands as the urge to confront rose in her. She could do as well as the others. She could replace the speaker!

  No. What are you thinking?

  Zhaddi cocked their head, Festuour tongue licking their muzzle. “A true replacement would take several cycles of careful observation. I could do a hasty one in a few months, but her aides would soon penetrate my disguise.”

  “No time for that,” Janas said. “Kill her.”

  “Kill Speaker Humbano?” Zsaana asked. “Janas, you are certain of this? She is most influential and any foul play, it would be reflected on us, especially if the assassin is discovered.”

  Putra purred and stepped forward. “Send me instead. I am better at observation. I will replace the lovely speaker. I have observed her before.”

  The leaders, even Dunarn, drew back from Putra. The Aridori changed, growing taller, though slowly. The mane of hair they sported turned from light brown to nearly white. Enos recognized the face of the stately speaker emerging. She had seen the Etanela several times when accompanying Majus Ayama.

  You knew her too. You can take that assignment. Prove you are worthy.

  The voice welled up in her, and with both her inner self and this voice coercing her, Enos could not resist it. Her arms lengthened, almost without her control. She had extra mass, and talent, latent. Yes, why not take the advantage?

  A tiny part of her knew this was wrong, but pride and certainty swelled in her as she changed shape.

  You defeated us, and we will serve you now.

  The voice pulled memories to the front of Enos’ mind, advising how she should change to best match the speaker.

  Enos took a step forward, her leg lengthening as she did. “Pick me. I have more knowledge of the Assembly and current events.” What was she saying?

  Putra hissed, turning to confront. Zhaddi stepped close to her other side, surprising Enos by picking her over their long-term cohort.

  “You will fail this fight,” they said to Putra. “Especially with two of us to your one.”

  Thoughts of Sam, of Inas, of Majus Ayama flashed through Enos’ mind, battling with the images and feelings the other Aridori in her dredged up. The two assassins gauged each other, and her, but then Enos remembered:

  “We are each proficient enough to keep another from absorbing us, yet none so strong we could stand against two at once.”

  “We would never do that, though.”

  Why were Putra and Zhaddi flanking her? The desire to fight them rose like a wave, crowding out other thoughts.

  Seize your birthright as an Aridori, the voice inside her whispered. We are the true rulers of the other species. Work with the others.

  Work with them? When they were threatening her? Enos tried to think straight. She took another step toward Putra, felt Zhaddi tense beside her. The other three Aridori backed away, leaving this fight to the most powerful. But was it a fight?

  Tricky Aridori.

  “Them, what are they doing?” Janas shouted. “Stop them!”

  Nakan growled, stalking forward with his knife outstretched. “Me, I’ve killed one Aridori today, and I can kill more.”

  Putra hissed again, their teeth lengthening into sabers. Their head swiveled between Zhaddi and Enos, and Nakan.

  Zhaddi growled, and their fingers sharpened into blades. They hunched inward.

  Enos’ heartbeat sped.

  You are the dominant one, majus. Stake your supremacy! The voice in her howled, but Enos beat it back. Then another rose to take its place.

  Watch their moves. Coordinate with them.

  Enos growled. Her head was throbbing and she just wanted to stab something.

  “How could one Aridori lead the Nether for so long?” Nakan taunted. “These, they are pitiful excuses for their species.”

  Both Aridori swiveled to Nakan, spitting and hissing, and an aura of blue and purple rose around him.

  “Manacles,” hissed Zhaddi, so low Enos almost didn’t hear them. The single word drilled into her consciousness and the dissenting voices in her died away, watching.

  This was the right time.

  So it was a feint, at least partly. Enos knew if she had engaged Putra or Zhaddi they would not hesitate to batter her down and absorb her. The two were opportunists. Instead, Enos focused on Nakan.

  He killed the Effature.

  Enos’ arms were long, like an Etanela’s. She bent the manacles toward her neck and heard two themes battle in the Symphony, each veering the other away from harmony. The manacles buzzed and fizzed, and relaxed around her wrists. The collar hummed and the glove loosened around her. Enos flung the cuffs into Nakan’s hood but the Sathssn dodged it.

  The Symphony roared in Enos’ ears. The notes changed as she changed form. They were the same thing, and she took notes from her core at the same time she shifted shape, strengthening the martial tempo of her movements and making her skin dense. She could change at speed again.

  She stepped forward just in time to receive the slash of Nakan’s knife. Enos gasped as the strange blade parted skin and notes at the same time. It cut a melody loose from the larger Symphony, unraveling it into curls of single notes and chords. What was the knife made of?

  Nakan pivoted around the two slashing Aridori, who were now more blades than not, even slowed by their collars. The guards behind them wavered between the three others, but the assassins separated, flanking the troop, and Enos thrilled at the coordination in her siblings. They were strong! Strong enough to take on all these Coalitioner jailers now they had made a mistake!

  Enos shrunk her limbs to normal size, but strengthened muscles in her legs, augmenting the change her shifting caused in the Symphony with her notes. There was so much she could do!

  She gathered, and sprung up and out of the group, intending to make her escape.

  A hand like a vice grasped her ankle, and the changes in the House of Healing unraveled like her song when touched by the knife. Nakan was reversing her change without her consent. The blue of the House of Grace crept up her leg as he slammed her down to the ground, knocking the wind from her. He ducked a slash from Putra and swerved around Zhaddi’s jaws, keeping his grasp of Enos’ leg.

  “You, new recruit, will not escape,” he said. He wasn’t even breathing hard. Nakan dodged around the other Aridori’s attacks as he dragged Enos away from them by the ankle. Enos twisted, snarling though she knew how the expression must look: rabid. Out of control.

  She fled back into the House of Healing, trying to make her skin slippery—a key and chord change—but the blue of the House of Grace swirled around her change, preventing it. How was Nakan doing that when he couldn’t even hear her House?

  “You, new recruit, you will not shame me more,” Nakan said. He brought the strange knife again across Enos’ belly in a swift sweep.

  Light flared in Enos’ mind, and the Symphony broke into jagged, discordant shards.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Passage to Time

  - The House of Time differs vastly from the other houses of the Maji. For one, the music of Time cannot be controlled as easily as Communication, Grace, or Potential. It is less discernable to those existing inside it and thus it requires vastly more notes to make changes. Further, as time passes, portions of a change become irreversible. The notes of a proph
et are precious, and we must accord their utterances utmost importance.

  From notes of Wor Wobniar, Prophet of the House of Time and pruner of the Nostelrahn species

  As Sam left the Effature Vaevicta with Inas, she reached out for his friend—his boyfriend’s—hand. Sam pushed away a surge of hot jealousy at anyone else touching Inas, then was immediately embarrassed by his reaction. They were both Aridori. Inas needed support Sam couldn’t provide. The Effature surely had advice to help him control his shifting. Inas was no longer wildly changing, but it was as if there was something else inside, fighting to get out.

  He watched the Effature’s slender fingers intersperse with Inas’, and his stomach roiled. He would not be jealous. The fingers of that hand were longer than those of Inas’ other hand. He wasn’t fully recovered, and the Effature could help him.

  “This way,” Wor Wobniar said. Xy scuttled toward the doorway leading from the enormous building, one of xyr head flaps pointing toward Sam and the other two toward the exit. Sam moved slowly, looking back as often as possible. The old fear rose, now Inas was not by his side. He felt in his vest for his pocketwatch. He’d only touched it once since coming to this facet—less than usual.

  Have to stray strong. Inas needs time alone with one of his species.

  The Effature cringed as she probed Inas’ arm. Their hands were clasped so tightly their skin looked as if it was flowing together. The protectiveness flaring in him almost made Sam sick. He wanted to be there, holding Inas’ hand, but he couldn’t. His own problems tugged at him. Like the House of Time.

  Focus on landmarks. Make a map. He hadn’t had to do that in a while.

  Wor Wobniar was tapping xyr feet impatiently. Sam was moving too slow. He leaned against a column, trying to absorb its solidity, then moved from pillar to pillar toward the exit. Wor Wobniar was already there and waiting. Two of xyr arms clacked their claws together in irritation.

  “I’m sorry,” Sam said when he reached her. One last look back at Inas, absorbed in what Vaevicta was telling him. “I get…uncomfortable in unfamiliar places when I don’t have someone I know around.” It seemed like he explained that to everyone he met, which meant he was meeting people and getting out. Someone had told him to do that. Was it his aunt?

  The thought nagged at him as lights flashed across Wor Wobniar’s head. “The House of Healing is good for this, yes? It can soothe away chemical problems in being.”

  Sam raised an eyebrow. Majus Ayama hadn’t wanted to use that method on him. “I prefer to work through it. Chemical method works for some people, but I don’t react well with medication. It makes it hard to think straight.”

  “And you can work through it?” Wor Wobniar asked.

  Sam paused. Not at the moment. He straightened his shoulders. He’d do better. “Yes. I’m working through it.”

  Wor Wobniar waved xyr head flaps in a shrug. “Seems such a defect can be extracted from a species with enough genetic preparation. But then, you differ from a Nostelrahn. I assume you do not have the pruner gender as we do. It is very effective at propagating the species in an acceptable direction.” Xy turned to the opening in the wall, leaving Sam shaking his head at the callous suggestion of eugenics.

  Do Nostelrahns really do that?

  But then, Wor Wobniar referred to xyrself as a ‘pruner.’ If the gender role was what the Nostelrahns did as naturally as humans had children, or Benish budded, or Lobhl did…whatever they did to have children, then perhaps he shouldn’t judge.

  Outside, the wall of the Nether loomed close to the edge of the building and Sam took in a deep breath. He stared at the ground instead of into the wall’s infinite depths. He’d get vertigo from looking up.

  “You hesitate,” Wor Wobniar continued, lights flashing and changing on xyr head, xyr multiple jaws grinding together. “The only one to be of the House of Matter in countless centuries suffers from an affliction of anxiety. You will have difficult trials ahead of you even without this disadvantage.”

  That made Sam look up, and he welcomed the heat that blossomed in his face and chest, forcing the panic into the background. “It’s not a disadvantage—not one I can’t handle. Have you made a portal so big it can fit half of that building inside it?” He gestured back the way they had come. “I do just fine.”

  Wor Wobniar’s head flaps twisted and curled—in thought, the Nether supplied. “I see. Persistence can be as essential as skill. Then perhaps you are ready to visit the House of Time.”

  Sam threw one hand out. “Lead on.” He tried not to growl the words.

  Just what I need. The only person who can teach me about this weird new House is condescending and narrow-minded.

  Wor Wobniar scuttled forward, reaching xyr two forward arms to touch the crystalline surface of the wall. There wasn’t much in the narrow strip of ground between the Effature’s palace and the wall, only the two massive edifices and a line of spiky white succulents growing between.

  Sam frowned. This wall was at a different angle than the one they traveled through from the bridge to the city. He looked to his left, along the crystal surface, and in the distance he could see the other wall’s bulk. This facet’s palace of the Effature was also located at a corner made of two walls. It was a popular building location with the excess light.

  “The House of Time is this way,” Wor Wobniar said. “You saw how we passed through before, yes? Can you do this?”

  “Through the wall?” Sam asked. “I have to change the Symphony of Time to go through?”

  Wor Wobniar directed all three head flaps at him. “You have demonstrated your ability in the House of Matter on the bridge. Now, let us try your other house. Listen for the changes I make in the Symphony.” He was being tested.

  The melody of his surroundings was in his head all the time now, but Sam focused on the chiming music of the wall—overpowering this close, like standing in a church while the bells were ringing. He concentrated and heard a second theme with a more deliberate feel, as if created. It wove its way between the thunderous chimes, creating space between the notes, lengthening the moments between seconds. Wor Wobniar’s body was suffused with a silver glow.

  “I can hear what you’re doing,” Sam said. “But I don’t know what you’re making. How does this help us pass through the wall?” Majus Cyrysi prefaced everything he taught with a big speech about what it did.

  “Pay attention,” Wor Wobniar said, still weaving notes through the melody. “Follow this composition to its obvious conclusion, and try your own variation.”

  Sam closed his eyes and reached for the core of his being, taking notes from his twisting inner spiral of music to create a theme like the one Wor Wobniar made. It wasn’t exactly the same, or the Grand Symphony would push back, resisting the change happening more than once.

  How did he adjust the House of Time rather than Matter? How did Majus Cyrysi determine whether he affected Communication or Power?

  It’s all part of the Grand Symphony. We just hear different aspects.

  He wasn’t sure that helped, but he persisted, placing notes in a sequence similar, but not too similar, to Wor Wobniar’s. Rather than weaving through the chiming chords, he waited deliberately for the spaces where the notes were not, and let his notes take root. His composition was strange, a thing with as much silence as music, played in brief bursts.

  “Look at yourself,” Wor Wobniar said. Sam didn’t question how the Nether translated flashing colors into speech when his eyes were closed. His brain would hurt and he was spending too much effort on his composition.

  He opened his eyes and gasped at the metallic glow around his arms and torso. Silver, not gold. He’d changed the notes in only the House of Time.

  “How…?” he asked, but Wor Wobniar was already twisting xyr head flaps to cut him off.

  “You adapt quickly. This is good. Follow me and all will be explained.” Xy scuttled forward and the crystalline wall resisted only a moment before the Nostelrahn passed through like a
wet finger through a soap bubble.

  Sam pressed one silver-outlined hand against the wall—he could see Wor Wobniar inside—and the colors of the houses swirled away from his fingertips. He pressed and the cool crystal of the wall pushed back. It was solid, impossible to walk through. Then as with his composition of jerky silence, his fingers found spaces in the solid wall and melted into the crystal.

  Sam stepped forward into the Nether wall. Before his head entered, he took in a long breath by instinct, holding it as his face submerged.

  Inside the wall, all was quiet. In front of him Wor Wobniar floated. The crystal was more like water than a solid.

  Panic crested like a wave as Sam looked forward, up, and down. Inas wasn’t here, and the wall extended in all directions, putting him adrift in the middle of a sea of nothingness. Imperfections and facets of crystal reflected distorted images. There was another anomaly up ahead, breaking the featurelessness of the Nether wall. He had no idea how far away it was. As easy to judge the distance to an island when stuck in the middle of a stormy ocean. Sam couldn’t breathe in the wall, but his body didn’t feel the need.

  If I can’t breathe, I can’t hyperventilate.

  The Nether itself wicked away his panic, though his heart pounded, and he clasped his hands together.

  How can I move my arms while inside a crystal? No, don’t think about it.

  Wor Wobniar was already—walking? scuttling? drifting?—along, getting farther away. Like a corona of multi-hued lightning, the colors of the houses struck and reflected along imperfections. Green, blue, and orange arced toward him. Yellow, white, and gold found paths reaching up and forward, while brown and silver buzzed around like trapped hornets.

  Sam put a leg forward as if walking, and he moved forward.

  As he got used to the lack of sensations—smell, sound, and touch—his ears registered deep, thumping beats. They might have been echoes of happenings outside the wall, but here they sounded like heartbeats. They mirrored Sam’s, save larger, as if from a gigantic animal.