by James Derry
Sygne glanced to her freckled thighs. “‘Blubber?’”
“Yes,” Jamal said. “All Hinterland women have it. It goes with your pasty skin.”
“You’re from the North?” Princess Ilona swiveled so that she could look at Sygne. “What gods do you worship?”
Sygne vaguely shook her head. “I was born in the Northern Hinterlands. Yes. But at the age of three I was brought to the Academy at Albatherra and raised there.”
“Oh,” Ilona said. “So you’re an anti-theist.”
“No,” Sygne crinkled her brow, as if she thought Ilona’s assumption was slightly insulting. “We’re scientists. And philosophers. If anything, we’re pro-mortal. We believe that humankind’s natural curiosity—bolstered with a spirit of goodwill—can uplift all peoples. We want to raise people, not force them down onto their knees.”
Princess Ilona shrugged. “Sounds like anti-theism to me.”
“Well it’s not. I believe that the natural and the supernatural can coexist. For the last two years, I’ve been traveling across the middle-reaches of Embhra. I’ve visited all kinds of tribes and villages. My goal has been to show them how tried-and-true science can safely treat their illnesses, or deliver their babies, or grow food. That they can be better off using science—sometimes—instead of putting their faith in deities or shamans.”
Jamal cocked an eyebrow. “Sounds dangerous.”
Sygne nodded. “That’s what the Mentors said. They worry that Embhrans will be threatened when we try to share our wisdom with them. But I think it’s worth the risk if we can make the world a better place. I lived sheltered in the Academy for twenty-six years; I was beginning to feel like I was wasting my—”
“Wait,” Ilona said. “How old are you now?”
“Thirty-one,” Sygne said.
“Thirty-one?” Jamal examined Sygne’s wide eyes and her boy’s haircut. He didn’t see any obvious wrinkles on her face.
“What?” Sygne asked. “Why are you both so quiet?”
Jamal and Ilona didn’t answer.
“You think I’m ancient, don’t you?” Sygne smirked at Jamal. “How old are you?”
“I have no idea. I was an orphan too. And a slave. Makes it hard to know for sure.”
Jamal liked to say he was twenty-five, which seemed like a mature-yet-still-virile age to be. Although, in truth, he’d been saying he was twenty-five for a few years now.
Sygne protested, “I’m not old. Life expectancies are getting longer every year. Because of science. Through proper diet and healthy habits, more and more people are living to be as old as sixty.”
Jamal scoffed at that. “I don’t know many soldiers or slaves that live to be sixty.”
“Or heroes for that matter,” Ilona interjected. “Wait! I know what her Gjuran role is now! She’s the ‘old sage.’”
“‘Old sage?’” Sygne asked.
“Yes, that’s it!” Ilona laughed. “All she needs is a gnarled cane. Or a ratty hermit’s robe.”
Sygne opened her mouth, but she didn’t get a chance to speak. A resonant, gut-shaking thrum settled over them. It moved down through the basalt columns in the ceiling, which vibrated like pipes in a pan flute.
“It’s the Great Bell!” Princess Ilona scrambled to the nearest glowing puddle, which was just beginning to ripple from the sound. Sessuk had said that the Great Bell could vibrate the magically imbued water in just the right way…
He stepped back as Ilona threw herself into the inch-deep puddle.
The thrum faded into an echo, but the princess continued to wallow in the puddle, rolling around and wailing.
Sygne tried to pick her up. “Stop! Ilona! Ilona! Stop.”
“It’s the transfixion!” Ilona cried. “They carried through without me.”
Jamal studied the ceiling of the cavern. What was going on in the courtyard above them? Had they truly sacrificed another person in Ilona’s place?
“Stop,” Sygne said quietly. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
“And ruin my vest,” Jamal added.
Sygne cut him a dirty look, but Jamal shrugged it off. “It’s ox-hide.”
Eventually Ilona pulled herself out of the puddle. Her hair hung in wet tendrils over her face. Her shift was plastered to her thighs with dirty water. Kohl ran from her eyes and down her cheeks.
“That was supposed to be me.”
Sygne hugged her. “You didn’t want that. Remember? And you were right to not want that.”
Ilona weeped against Sygne’s shoulder. “My family is all dead. I was going to join them.”
“You’ve been through a horrible week,” Sygne said. “You’ll see—it will get better. You’ll be glad that you didn’t let yourself die.”
“Why would I be glad?” Ilona tore herself away from Sygne. “What am I supposed to do?”
“You live on. We’ll help you.”
“How will you help me? Help me live as a fugitive? Help me grow up to be an old woman with no family?”
“Hey,” Jamal held up his hands. “No reason to start throwing insults.”
Sygne looked puzzled, and Jamal felt a need to explain. “She was insulting you with that ‘old-woman-with-no-family’ line.”
Sygne glowered at him.
“Sorry, Sygne,” Jamal said. “I was just trying to defend you.”
The princess wrenched herself out of Sygne’s arms and stumbled away.
“Come back here!” Jamal demanded. “Sooner or later you’re going to realize we did you a favor. You’re going to realize you wasted your whole life training to be a pincushion!”
Ilona sneered. “Is that what you think it means to commune with an Ancient One? The Dweller Under Dreams holds a power that goes beyond godhood. Why do you think the Issulthraqis fought so hard to conquer Krit?”
Jamal said, “I don’t think they had to fight that hard.”
Sygne rushed forward and grabbed the princess’s arm. “Ilona, please...”
The princess was still shrieking at Jamal. “The Issulthraqis have the Dweller, so they’re one step closer to controlling the world. And one step closer to destroying Gjuir-Khib and every other city in Embhra.” Ilona jabbed her finger at Jamal. “Let’s see how calm you are—” she sneered at Sygne “—and you—when they kill everyone you love!”
Sygne let Ilona go, and the princess stumbled away to a far corner of the cave where she wept with her face in her hands.
***
Sygne didn’t wake up as much as she became more and more aware of a bone-grinding ache radiating through her body. She opened her eyes and peeled herself off the wet, unforgiving floor of the basalt cavern. Her neck was stiff, and her hips and shoulders were throbbing.
A blue glow still illuminated the cave. Sygne twisted at the waist (to compensate for her immobile neck) and found Jamal sleeping in a seated position on a slanted formation of igneous rock.
Where was Ilona?
There were plenty of breaks in the floor, and uneven segments of basalt that could have concealed the princess. Sygne trotted between nooks and hollows, trying to find her. Soon she was yelling, “Ilona! Princess? Where are you?”
She was relieved when her shouts woke Jamal. He grumbled, “Sygne. What’s happening?”
“She’s gone!”
Jamal’s hand went for his sword. “Be quiet for a moment. There could be Issulthraqis in these caves.” His head swiveled, checking each tunnel that led out of their current hiding spot. For a minute, they wordlessly searched for any signs of the princess. Smudged footprints on the wet stone. Scraps of fabric. Anything.
Jamal rubbed his goatee. “She must have left a long time ago. As soon as we fell asleep.”
“She was so upset… She’s not thinking clearly. What did she mean about the Issulthraqis controlling the world?”
Jamal shook his head. “More mythical conspiracy theories. People believe that the Issulthraqi clergy and their gods only p
retend to not believe in the Ancient Ones. The theory is that they’re secretly planning to reunite the power of all seven Ancient Ones, and then they’ll remake the world.”
“Remake the world?”
“Rewrite the rules. Redefine… everything. They could change what it means to be a god.”
“Do you think Yur… wants to become a god?”
Jamal shrugged. “I think that Bliss and the rest of the Fabled Pantheon want to become more than gods.”
Sygne said, “It sounds like every other doomsday scenario I’ve heard. Farfetched.”
“Right.” Jamal sighed. “For now let’s focus on problems we can solve. Like getting out of here.”
“What?” Sygne exclaimed. “No! We have to find Ilona.”
“She’s made her choice, Sygne.” Jamal punctuated his sentence with a soft clap of his hands. “We tried to save her; she decided she wanted something else.”
“Dammit. First the Issulthraqis sacrifice someone else. Now Ilona’s lost… She might try to hurt herself. Or she might head back to the palace.”
“I get it. I’m frustrated too. And she stole my shirt.” Jamal twitched his pec muscles as he said this, apparently admiring the way his dark skin gleamed in the eerie light.
“So what do we do now?”
“We look around for a tunnel that leads out of here.”
Sygne grimaced. “If only I had my compass.”
“What’s a compass?”
“It’s something we could use to orientate ourselves. But I left it behind in my pocketbook when I started rescuing Ilona.”
“You rescued her?”
“We rescued her,” Sygne conceded. “But I really wish I hadn’t forgotten my pocketbook. Do you think it’s still there?”
“Possibly. Along with a regimen of angry Issulthraqis.”
“We can’t go back there, can we?”
Jamal sighed. “I don’t know, Sygne. The palace is a big place. There’s a chance we could get in there and find a way to the outside without being seen. Honestly, Yur’s soldiers are probably searching the beach for us right now. Heading back toward the palace might be the one thing they’d never expect us to do.”
“But then again,” Sygne said. “If anyone sees us in the palace, we would be in trouble.”
“That’s true. As a black man and a redhead, we’re likely to stand out.”
Sygne sighed. “I suppose we should look around and see which tunnel seems most promising.”
They spent the next few minutes walking opposite halves of their perimeter, examining every passage they could find.
“Here’s the one we came in from,” Jamal said. “But without Ilona, I doubt I can remember which forks lead back out.”
Sygne called, “This hole has driftwood in it. It must lead to the ocean.”
“Essoth’s eyeful! This one has rats in it. Two big ones!”
“That means it could lead to the palace. Where there are pests there are people.”
“So you’re saying the rat tunnel is a good option, Sygne?”
“Here’s a gap, but it looks awfully small.”
“No, thank you,” Jamal said. “I don’t like tight spaces.”
“That’s a funny thing to mention, now that we’re in a cave.”
“At the time, the choices were ‘cave’ or ‘skewered by spears.’”
“That’s true.”
They converged on the largest egress from the cavern—a wide tunnel with a healthy amount of glowing water running down its center.
“This looks… promising.”
Jamal held up his hand. “Shhh. Listen. It sounds like the ocean.”
Sygne leaned into the mouth of the tunnel. She could hear the purr of ocean waves. A suck and pull of air. A brackish odor permeated her nostrils, salty with a strong hint of decay. The sound grew louder. Somehow phlegmy. And angry.
She whispered, “It almost sounds like a breath.”
“It does…”
Sygne backed away. “Perhaps we should go through the rat tunnel.”
“The rat tunnel?”
Sygne shrugged, and Jamal warily studied the wide, breathing passage with a sidelong glance.
“Yes, Sygne. I think I agree.”
***
Jamal felt sure that they had chosen the wrong passage.
The floor of the ‘rat tunnel’ grew higher and higher, as if some current of wind or water had settled sand and silt into the passage. Soon they were crawling over piles of pebbles and sand, with their heads scraping against the rugged ceiling. Then the pebbles became larger and more jagged, and Jamal worried that they were crawling toward the site of a recent cave-in.
At least they had light.
Sygne had gathered up a bundle of driftwood and made it into a torch using her last match. Her torch showed the way with a greasy, nervous light. Its constant flickering made the shadows move, like rats squirming across the rocks.
Jamal really didn’t want to put his hand down on a rat’s slimy back.
“Maybe we should go back, Sygne?”
“Why do you keep doing that?”
“Doing what?” Jamal turned, but the scientician’s face was obscured by the glare of her torch.
She said, “You keep mentioning my name as we talk.”
“I don’t think I’ve been doing that, Syg—”
“See?”
“Sorry.” Jamal stopped for a moment, resting his knees on the least jagged rock he could find. “That’s a habit I learned in Gjuir-Khib. I call it name-raising. It helps to keep my story straight. Also, you should be flattered that I keep raising up your name to the Specularity. Everyone likes a little recognition.”
Sygne said, “So the Specularity are omniscient enough to observe every minute of every Gjuiran’s life, but they’re not smart enough to keep everyone’s names straight?”
“Consider it a narrative aid.”
Sygne laughed. “Just know that it’s very annoying to hear people’s names repeated again and again,” said Sygne.
“Fine. I’ll try to be less expository with my language. But truthfully, it’s a very healthy thing to imagine yourself being constantly watched by a righteous presence. It makes you act nobler. It makes you stand straighter… when there’s room to stand.” Jamal smacked his hand against the low ceiling.
Sygne was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “And you were saying you wanted to turn around? Before you answer, remember the Specularity are watching. Jamal.”
He nodded. “Let’s keep trying.”
After another minute, Jamal came to a point where the piles of rock abruptly sloped downward. The cave expanded in all directions, opening into a spherical cavity that was high enough to stand in. For a moment Jamal was relieved. Then Sygne’s torch came closer, and he saw that the bottom of the cave quickly curved down to a dark pit in its center.
“Look at that.” Sygne pointed to a rind of melon that had settled at the edge of the pit. She held up her torch to show a square hole in the ceiling.
“It’s part of a trash chute!” she said.
“What if it’s a latrine hole?”
“Oh, it’s not a latrine hole. That would be a lot smaller. And also there would be a buildup of uratic salt. Not to mention the distinctive smell!”
Jamal wrinkled his nose. “You’re far too excited about this.”
“Of course. This is great news! That chute should lead to a quieter section of the palace, where the Kritan slaves work. Away from soldiers.” Sygne studied the vent in the ceiling. “The only problem is: How do we get up there? It’s an impossible leap. We need something to climb on, or prop us up.”
Jamal puffed up his chest. “Impossible? See that outcropping? I’ll leap there and do a double-jump up to the vent.”
“A double-jump? Is that a thing?”
“Of course it is! Just watch.”
“You’re far too excited about this,” Syg
ne said, stepping away from the slope of rubble that funneled down to the pit. “If you misjudge your jump, the fall could kill you.”
Jamal prowled along the edge of the scree, kicking rocks out of his way. He lifted a scrap of dried vegetable matter and dropped it to check the breeze. Sygne held her torch as high as she could, and Jamal adjusted her arm until he found an angle of illumination that suited him. His eyes lit upon a divot in the opening of the chute that might work as a handhold.
He unbuckled his scabbard and sword and set it down among the rocks. He also shrugged off Hadat’s expensive lyre; he didn’t see how it would be possible to bring it with him up the narrow, vertical chute.
He cocked his eyebrow at Sygne and said, “If you have to blink, do it now. This is going to happen very quickly, and you won’t want to miss any of it.”
Sygne’s mouth hung open slightly, and Jamal was gratified to see that she did blink. He stepped back to give himself a running start. He bunched his legs beneath him and flexed the muscles in his bared arms and chest. It was a pose worthy of a sculpture. He held it for a full second before launching himself forward.
The double-jump went perfectly. He propelled himself over the concave slope and hit his intended outcropping of rock with his right foot. He didn’t slip. His motion was powerful and perfectly controlled. He sprang, changing direction without losing momentum, and flew toward the chute. And the bottom edge of the hole didn’t crumble as he grasped at it. He swung there gracefully by his fingers, with the shadowy pit yawning up beneath him.
He pulled himself up as smoothly as he could. If his face twisted under the strain of the effort, Sygne couldn’t see. His head was already hidden in the shadows of the chute. He raised his entire body into the chute and pressed his legs into the sides of the shaft until he was lodged into place. His rump slid against something slimy plastered against the wall.
“Damn it!”
“What is it?” Sygne asked.
“I think I just stained my trousers in something. Feels like the leftovers of a plantain.”
“At least you’re not hurt.”
“Of course not.” Jamal shook his fingers, which were raw and starting to bleed in places. He was surprised that he could see so well. He craned his neck and saw a lighted window, no more than twenty yards above him.
