The obsidian blade is vicious-sharp, and my dark brown locks drop to the ground in hanks. Carefully I shave the remains until only stubble remains. I only cut myself twice. I am freshly penitent now. I can truly grieve.
Satisfied, I return the blade to its sheath, which I strap to my right ankle, then pull the hood of my robe low before I slip out into the narrow passage. The ally quarters are still at this hour, and not even a shutter squeaks as I make my way along to the stairwell. Conversely, every breath I draw seems to me to be a Sunai-wind heralding the coming deluge, each step the rumbling of the mountain.
As if in answer, Mount Ferion lets out a deep groan, and I freeze, clutching at the handrail. Surely there must be those still awake who worry about the mountain’s continued mutterings? They might come out and peer at the night sky. Yet no. Through the narrow apertures, if I strain, I can hear the super-sonic chitterings of the piper bats that are hunting their prey, but not much else.
One floor, two floors, ground floor. And not a soul. I wait, crouched in the dark space just beneath the stairs where we usually store firewood, but no one comes. Not even a patrol, and usually there are allies who take the night shift. I curse in silence, for I should have waited until I’d marked them so I can estimate their passage.
Yet I can’t tarry here either.
Every precious heartbeat wasted represents another instant that brings me closer to the dawn, and we have no time left, either of us. Death is a peculiar thing. It’s not something I gave much credence to as a child; it had always been something that happens to someone else until I watched Mama and Papa pay for our sins.
The Word of Fennar teaches that death is to be embraced; it is part of the natural order. All ends eventually. The sea will erode the earth. The volcano will crack the earth’s crust. Stars plunge from the firmament. My life, in the greater scheme of things, is meaningless; therefore it makes sense for me to dedicate my life to a greater good, to something that will outlast me. I am but a brick in a temple, a small fraction of the Fennarin, the body of the Word, that is limitless potential.
What utter garbage.
I know that now, having seen the Place from the inside, where elders favour those allies who suck their cocks and lick their arses. How allies inflict great cruelty on penitents for the sake of purifying them, but it’s all just another way to exact servitude from willing slaves. To make up for the casual cruelties once inflicted on them when their heads were newly shaved. So the cycle continues without end.
That is one way to look at it, during my bleakest hours when I can no longer stomach the confines of my self-imposed cage. Who am I fooling if I think I’ll ever aspire to anything more than the charcoal robes I’m now wearing? At what cost?
I’ve been selling myself this lie for ten years now, and can no longer ignore the soon-to-be corpse of my brother. My only blood. Demon-tainted as he is.
Unia, why?
So much hurt in those two words.
The mountain rumbles, and with it, the earth shudders. Dust rains down from the ceiling. A fat scorpion is dislodged, falls with a sickening plop then scurries into a nook. These tremors are far, far worse than what we’ve had in a while. If this continues, I’ll have even less time in which to act, as allies will be watchful, waiting for word that we might have to evacuate. And that’s not even talking about the dangers of venturing down into the sub-levels where the older structures may have become unstable. Shored up over the years as they are, there’s no telling when passages might collapse, entire floors drowned beneath the weight of rubble.
This only spurs on my sense of urgency. I must find my brother and save him. Somehow. There must be a better way to rid him of the vyra-taint than this, that will only end in his death. Not only that, but I have my own burden I must lay at his feet. I don’t blame him if he doesn’t forgive me my role in our family’s demise. That knowledge, in itself, brings with it a kind of relief. This entire night might hurtle into an unknown, unexpected future. I don’t need to look towards augurs to know; I can feel the certainty of it pressing down on my shoulders, making my breath short, every sense alert to the subtlest shift in my environment.
My first stop is the medicinal stores. No one guards this place at night, and all allies carry the key to access this area. I pause on the threshold to breathe in the spiciness of the interior, the coolness of the air compared to out in the passages. Cunning ventilation ensures that our stores maintain an average ambient temperature, and I’ve often wished this could have been applied to our living quarters during the weeks leading up to the Sunai.
The ally’s soft snores from the mezzanine above the storage area tell me exactly what I need to know—the man slumbers through an unquiet volcano, no doubt aided by his own special blends of tinctures. That’s the benefit of his position within the Fennarin, though we’ll smile and nod when we discuss his little habits among ourselves. Now his predilection works to my advantage, and even if the mild-mannered man were to awaken, I could easily spin a story about my own sleepless wanderings in search of rest. The herbs have blunted his edge over the years.
Dim crystal glows provide the barest minimum of light but I know exactly where I must go. The philtres are kept near the back in a heavy lamin wood chest carved with fighting kama birds. The catch is well oiled and the tiny bottles glisten in the low light. The one I’m looking for is a virulent green mixture obtained by distilling crushed grubs of the nala beetle that have been fed on hira leaves. Funny how that which can kill can also be distilled into a substance that will enliven. I wrap three of these in a soft cloth so that they will not clink, then slip the bundle into my pouch.
Ally Tarin’s snoring hitches and I pause, my breath captured while I wait to hear whether he will call out. After a few mumbled incoherencies, while my stuttering pulse quietens, his snoring recommences.
The other items I need are rarer still, but I know where Ally Tarin has stowed his poisons, even if he thinks it’s his best-kept secret. By his desk is a loose floor tile with a piece missing that’s just the right size for an index finger to slide under. The covering lifts with a soft scrape to reveal the compartment within. The vial of sata tincture will be welcome. If imbibed, it kills within minutes, but a small prick of the skin, and the recipient will find bliss in the lands of the Dream King for a few hours, if not days. Understandably, Ally Tarin is anxious that none other would abuse such a powerful substance.
The needles are not so hard to find, and before I leave, I take care to dip a half-dozen of them in the tincture before I fold them into a square of felt that slips snugly into the front pocket of my pouch.
The fabric of my robe clings wetly to my back and armpits, and I pause by the door to draw in deep, calming breaths before the next part of my journey. So far. So good.
By the time I slip out again, Mount Ferion sends out another shuddering rumble. I clasp a pillar with one hand, grimacing at the lights that have gone up in the top storey where the elders maintain their chambers. They’ll send sleepy-eyed penitents scurrying with word; perhaps a council will be called. Either way, there will be more folks about.
I pull my hood low and walk with my hands in my sleeves, possessed of purpose, as if I have every reason to be up and about. It will draw more attention if I scurry about like a roach scuttles from revealing light. As it is, I round a corner in the ambulatory and come up against a patrol—allies Pava and Hestor.
“Allies,” I murmur from beneath my hood, and keep walking, though my heart wilts at the encounter.
“Ally...” Pava acknowledges and they continue going.
Then Pava spins around, and I stumble mid stride, my hands clenched.
“Ally, what business have you at this hour?”
Slowly I turn, peer out from beneath my hood. “What business is it of yours, Pava?” I keep my tone waspish. “You are not engaged in a Trial at present, are you?”
He blanches, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to suppress a feral grin. They might speak
of my current obligation as if it were a privilege, but few would like to suffer for it.
“And Elder Susin would be most displeased if he were to hear how you waylaid his assistant while she’s engaged upon an important errand.” Not exactly a lie, but most certainly not the entire truth either. Where my sudden glibness springs from, I have no inkling, but I’m grateful for it.
“Come.” Hestor places a hand on Pava’s shoulder. “We must still go one more round before we hand over. Let’s not have any trouble?” He glances meaningfully towards the archways, in the direction of the mountain. “Besides, there’s an ill mood about this night. I’d rather not invite further discomfort.”
Pava narrows his eyes at me. He must be considering my secretive garb, the tension I’m trying not to radiate. Hestor’s fingers squeeze one more time, and he relents. This is my cue to hurry on, and I do so, expecting him to shout at me to stop at any moment. My fingers stray to the felt bundle in the front pocket of my pouch. Two quick jabs. Neither will know what bit them.
Two comatose bodies that will lie there, for me to drag off into a hiding place lest they draw attention. Time wasted. Rather not. Yet they’ll remember seeing me this night, and I’ve let them go on their way. Fool that I am.
I’ve really dug myself a deep hole now. Might as well carry on digging.
I expect two guards at the entrance to the cells, but to my intense relief there is only Ally Dona who, like Ally Tarin, has fallen into deep slumber. If the elders find out, they’ll be furious about our lack of vigilance. Then again we never expect trouble from within, do we? In our arrogance, we’ve become soft, vulnerable to the snake that has burrowed deep within our heart.
To be certain, I free one of the needles, wary of the sharp end.
A tiny prick on his wrist. Dona doesn’t so much as twitch at the kiss of the needle. When he eventually wakes, he’ll think it a mere mosquito bite, perhaps a bit more inflamed than most. The man remains slumped over his desk, a thin line of drool seeping into the paper of the pamphlet he was reading.
I wait, poised, the wasp waiting to strike again if need be, but if anything, the man’s breathing becomes deeper, and he sags a little more in his seat.
Fool.
That’s when I take note of the clay carafe of palm wine still clasped loosely in his left hand.
Doubly the fool. Not only will he sleep for a day or more, but he’ll wake with a headache that will make him wish he’d died. Sata doesn’t play nicely with wine.
By then I’ll either be long gone.
Or I’ll be dead.
I’m not sure whether either thought pleases me.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Revelations
Last chance to change my mind: I can still attempt to back out now though my shaved head will raise suspicions difficult to wriggle out of. This deep beneath the ground, at the very roots of the Place of Fennar, the ground is moist, the slimy grit treacherous as I halt on the last step. By now I should have been used to the stench, but I swallow back bile, grateful I’ve not eaten. There is nothing to bring up, despite my stomach’s contortions suggesting otherwise. The darkness here by the cells is so complete I can feel it sliding down my throat. Starbursts of colour bloom before me as my eyes struggle to adjust to the light that simply is not there.
Apart from the steady drip of moisture and my own ragged breathing, I can’t hear a thing. My toes curl around the edge of the step of their own volition and the sudden proliferation of doubt urges me to retrace my route and return to my pallet where I can wait until dawn to let the inevitable take its course.
“Ailas?” My voice cracks on the second syllable.
Something stirs at the other end of the row, perhaps a restless thrashing of limbs.
Go back, there is still time.
I take that fateful step, and it’s the beginning of the fall.
I crouch, feel in the dark until I encounter a wrist flung out between the bars. Clammy fingers twitch around my own.
“Unia...you...came.”
Tears slash down my cheeks, and my heart constricts. “I’m so sorry.”
For everything.
“I knew...you’d...come.”
“I brought you a philtre,” I say. “Do you think you can sit up and drink?”
The vile concoction will lend him false strength for a few hours, and hopefully enough for me to get him walking out of here.
I rise so I can unlock the gate as another tremor strikes, and just as fast I crouch while the earth shakes and stone grinds upon stone. Won’t it be a cosmic joke that I’ve come this far only to be crushed in a collapse?
“I can’t see,” Ailas says.
“The light’s gone out.”
“And there—” He coughs and coughs.
I get the mechanism open at the second try and swing open the gate. My brother is stick-thin and delicate in my arms. So easy to crush him, break him. How he’s managed to hold up until now only the vyra-demons know.
“You need to get a philtre into you,” I whisper.
He stinks of rotten blood, piss and worse, but beneath that veneer of horror, he’s still my brother.
Ailas nods and I prop him up against the wall while I reach into my pouch for the flasks. I unstop the first then find his lips. His drinking is feeble, and I’m not sure how much of the mixture he swallows and how much trickles down his chin.
His reaction is instant, and he gags, doubles over.
“Don’t bring it up,” I caution, holding him to me.
“Gods, that stuff is vile. I forget how.”
He’s already sounding stronger.
“Another one.”
“Oh gods.”
“Please, brother mine.”
He laughs. “You haven’t called me that in years.”
“Is it too late to go back there?” I try not to sound too hopeful.
This time he takes the second flask from me, and I can hear him swallow.
“Ngghh!”
“You all right?”
“Revolting.”
“Another one.” I hand him the last.
“You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you? It wasn’t enough that you stood next to that cadaver and helped him half flay me alive.”
“I’m sorry.”
He sighs, and the stopper clinks on the ground. “Down to the belly then with this. How long will it buy us?”
“Till about noon, I suspect.”
“Way more time than I need.”
“Enough for me to figure a way to get you out of the Place.”
“Oh, Unia, we both know that isn’t going to happen.”
“I’m getting you out of here. And please don’t call me that. I don’t deserve that name anymore.”
“You’ll always be Unia to me. And with getting out, there’s no point. You’ve already done what you needed to do. I just... I hadn’t thought that my own failure would in hindsight result in spectacular and unexpected opportunities.”
“Huh?” I can hear the smile in his voice and it needles me.
“We’d needed to gain entry into the Place. We knew the cost was high when we were preparing, and I thought...I thought I’d failed. The vyra work in mysterious ways.”
“Don’t start with the vyra-demon kama droppings.”
“Listen to me!” Somehow he’s found both my hands, and he squeezes hard.
“I’m listening! Not so loud!”
There is little chance that someone will come down, let alone hear us, unless they’ve checked in on Dona and can’t rouse him, but I don’t want to take unnecessary risks. Or, rather, I don’t want to expand on my calamity any more than it has already unfolded.
When my brother next speaks, his words are hushed. “When you betrayed me—”
“I’m sorry.”
“Bygones. I’m talking about the second time, not the first.” He is breathing hard, his grip on my hands unrelenting.
I groan.
“We were planning an operation to ga
in entry into your accursed Place, and now I have a chance to complete my task. I know what I believe, what I practice, goes against everything you’ve been taught but you’ve got to trust me. I don’t know how I can convince you except to frame it within the tenets of your practice.”
“We need to get out of here.”
“In a moment. I need to make you understand this first.”
His pulse hammers against my fingers. A strangled pause stretches between us.
“Speak,” I croak.
“What is the first thing you were taught?”
“That the vyra-demons lie, that they seek to control us. That they are all around us, working to destroy the very fabric of our society. We must be vigilant, we must—”
“But you have no faith,” he says. “You cultivate no belief in souls, in an afterlife. All that matters is the Place and its Fennarin, that you are but an ant in a colony. All passes but the Word of Fennar endures, a physical body here on this earth.”
“I know my own practice!” I snap.
“Yet you don’t deny that the spirits exist. That you yourselves use magic of sorts.”
“We oppose these things, and the powers we use have been sanctified by our Most Esteemed.”
He sighs. “Aye, that I know all too well.”
Sorrow pierces my heart—there is no bridge I can build between us that will last. “We are doomed, brother. Forever to stand on opposite sides of the divide.”
“Do you perhaps not think for a moment how it would be if you did not submit to the will of others?”
“I am here of my own free will, as you willingly allow yourself to be subjugated to the will of spirits.”
“It is not so much subjugation,” he whispers. “It is a partnership.”
“Then the same is for me; I gain a higher purpose.”
“But what do you want?” Ailas squeezes my hand. “As in really want. What dreams do you have that do not involve...this place. What does Unia want?”
“Unia doesn’t exist anymore,” I say. “She had to go away so that Lada might live.”
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