The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms (24 page)

And then it was gone.

I opened my eyes.

I sat slumped on the bathroom floor. My limbs felt weak, shaky. The walls were glowing again. Steaming water filled the tub beside me to the brim; the taps were closed. I was alone.

I got up and bathed, then returned to bed. T’vril murmured in his sleep and threw an arm over me. I curled against him and told myself for the rest of the night that I was still trembling because of fear, nothing else.

THERE ARE THINGS I KNOW NOW that I did not before.

Like this: In the instant Bright Itempas was born, he attacked the Nightlord. Their natures were so opposed that at first this seemed destined and unavoidable. For countless eternities they battled, each occasionally achieving victory only to be later overthrown. Only gradually did both come to understand that such battle was pointless; in the grand scale of things, it was an eternal stalemate.

Yet in the process, completely by accident, they created many things. To the formless void that Nahadoth birthed, Itempas added gravity, motion, function, and time. For every great star killed in the cross fire, each god used the ashes to create something new—more stars, planets, sparkling colored clouds, marvels that spiraled and pulsed. Gradually, between the two of them, the universe took shape. And as the dust of their battling cleared, both gods found that they were pleased.

Which of them made the first overture to peace? I imagine there were false starts at first—broken truces and the like. How long before hatred turned to tolerance, then respect and trust, then something more? And once it finally did, were they as passionate in love as they had been in war?

There is a legendary romance in this. And most fascinating to me, most frightening, is that it isn’t over yet.

T’vril left for work at dawn. We exchanged few words and a silent understanding: the previous night had just been comfort between friends. It was not as awkward as it could have been; I got the sense he expected nothing else. Life in Sky did not encourage more.

I slept awhile longer and then lay awake in bed for a time, thinking.

My grandmother had said Menchey’s armies would march soon. With so little time, I could think of few strategies that had any real chance of saving Darr. The best I could do was delay the attack. But how? I could seek allies in the Consortium, perhaps. Ras Onchi spoke for half of High North; perhaps she would know—no. I had watched both my parents and Darr’s warrior council devote years to the quest for allies; if there were friends to be had, they would have made themselves known by now. The best I could do were individual sympathizers like Onchi—welcome, but ultimately useless.

So it would have to be something else. Even a few days’ reprieve would be enough; if I could delay the attack until after the succession ceremony, then my bargain with the Enefadeh would take effect, earning Darr four godly protectors.

Assuming they won their battle.

So: all or nothing. But risky odds were better than none, so I would chase them with all I had. I rose and went in search of Viraine.

He was not in his laboratory. A slim young servant woman was, cleaning. “He’s at the oubliette,” she told me. Since I had no idea what this was, or where, she gave me directions and I set out for Sky’s lowermost level. And I wondered, as I walked, at the look of disgust that had been on the servant woman’s face.

I emerged from the lift amid corridors that felt oddly dim. The walls’ glow was muted in a strange way—not as bright as I’d grown used to, flatter somehow. There were no windows and, most curious, no doors, either. Apparently even servants did not live this far down. My footsteps echoed from ahead as I walked, so I was not surprised to emerge from the corridor into an open space: a vast, oblong chamber whose floor sloped toward a peculiar metal grate several feet in diameter. Nor was I surprised to find Viraine near this grate, gazing steadily at me as I entered. He had probably heard me the moment I stepped off the lift.

“Lady Yeine.” He inclined his head, for once not smiling. “Shouldn’t you be at the Salon?”

I hadn’t been to the Salon in days, or reviewed my assigned nations’ records, either. It was hard to care about these duties, considering. “I doubt the world will falter for my absence, now or in the next five days.”

“I see. What brings you here?”

“I was looking for you.” My eyes were drawn toward the grate in the floor. It looked like an exceptionally ornate sewer grate, apparently leading to some sort of chamber under the floor. I could see light glowing from within that was brighter than the ambient light of the room Viraine and I stood in—but that odd sense of flatness, of grayness, was even stronger here. The light underlit Viraine’s face in a way that should have sharpened the angles and shadows in his expression, but instead it stripped them away.

“What is this place?” I asked.

“We’re below the palace proper, actually in the support column that elevates us above the city.”

“The column is hollow?”

“No. Only this space here at the top.” He watched me, his eyes trying to gauge something I could not fathom. “You didn’t attend the celebration yesterday.”

I was not certain whether the highbloods knew about the servants’ celebration and ignored it, or whether it was a secret. In case of the latter I said, “I haven’t been in a celebratory mood.”

“If you had come, this would be less of a surprise to you.” He gestured toward the grate at his feet.

I stayed where I was, suffused with a sudden sense of dread. “What are you talking about?”

He sighed, and abruptly I realized he was in an ugly sort of mood himself. “One of the highlights of the Fire Day celebration. I’m often asked to provide entertainment. Tricks and the like.”

“Tricks?” I frowned. From what I knew, scrivening was far too powerful and dangerous to be risked on tricks. One miswritten line and gods knew what could go wrong.

“Tricks. Of the sort that generally require a human ‘volunteer.’” He gave me a thin smile as my jaw dropped. “Highbloods are difficult to entertain, you see—you being the natural exception. The rest…” He shrugged. “A lifetime of indulging all manner of whims sets the bar for entertainment rather high. Or low.”

From the grate at his feet, and the chamber beyond, I heard a hollow, strained moan that chilled both my souls.

“What in the gods’ names have you done?” I whispered.

“The gods have nothing to do with it, my dear.” He sighed, gazing into the pit. “Why were you looking for me?”

I forced my eyes, and my mind, away from the grate. “I… I need to know if there’s a way to send a message to someone, from Sky. Privately.”

The look he gave me would have been withering under ordinary circumstances, but I could see that whatever was in the oubliette had taken the edge off his usual sardonic attitude. “You do realize spying on such communications is one of my routine duties?”

I inclined my head. “I suspected as much. That’s why I’m asking you. If there’s a way to do it, you would know.” I swallowed, then privately chided myself for allowing nervousness to show. “I’m prepared to compensate you for your trouble.”

In the strange gray light, even Viraine’s surprise was muted. “Well, well.” A tired smile stretched across his face. “Lady Yeine, perhaps you’re a true Arameri after all.”

“I do what’s necessary,” I said flatly. “And you know as well as I do that I don’t have time to be more subtle.”

At that his smile faded. “I know.”

“Then help me.”

“What message do you want to send, and to whom?”

“If I wanted half the palace to know, I wouldn’t ask how to send it privately.”

“I’m asking because the only way to send such a message is through me, Lady.”

I paused then, unpleasantly surprised. But it made sense as I considered it. I had no idea how messaging crystals worked in detail, but like any sigil-based magic their function simply mimicked what any competent scrivener could do.

But I did not like Viraine, for reasons I could not fully understand myself. I had seen the bitterness in his eyes, heard the contempt in his voice on those occasions that he spoke of Dekarta or the other highbloods. Like the Enefadeh, he was a weapon and probably just as much a slave. Yet there was something about him that simply made me uneasy. I suspected it was that he seemed to have no loyalties; he was on no one’s side except his own. That meant he could be relied upon to keep my secrets, if I made it worth his while. But what if there was more benefit for him in divulging my secrets to Dekarta? Or worse—Relad and Scimina? Men who served anyone could be trusted by no one.

He smirked as he watched me consider. “Of course, you could always ask Sieh to send the message for you. Or Nahadoth. I’m sure he’d do it, if sufficiently motivated.”

“I’m sure he would,” I replied coolly…

The Darren language has a word for the attraction one feels to danger: esui. It is esui that makes warriors charge into hopeless battles and die laughing. Esui is also what draws women to lovers who are bad for them—men who would make poor fathers, women of the enemy. The Senmite word that comes closest is “lust,” if one includes the variations “bloodlust” and “lust for life,” though these do not adequately capture the layered nature of esui. It is glory, it is folly. It is everything not sensible, not rational, not safe at all—but without esui, there is no point in living.

It is esui, I think, that draws me to Nahadoth. Perhaps it is also what draws him to me.

But I digress.

“… but then it would be a simple matter for some other highblood to command my message out of him.”

“Do you honestly think I would bother getting involved with your schemes? After living between Relad and Scimina for two decades?” Viraine rolled his eyes. “I don’t care which of you ends up succeeding Dekarta.”

“The next family head could make your life easier. Or harder.” I said it in a neutral tone; let him hear promises or threats as he pleased. “I would think the whole world cares who ends up on that stone seat.”

“Even Dekarta answers to a higher power,” Viraine said. While I wondered what in the gods’ names that meant in the context of our discussion, he gazed into the hole beyond the metal grate, his eyes reflecting the pale light. Then his expression changed to something that immediately made me wary. “Come,” he said. He gestured at the grate. “Look.”

I frowned. “Why?”

“I’m curious about something.”

“What?”

He said nothing, waiting. Finally I sighed and went to the grate’s edge.

At first I saw nothing. Then there was another of those hollow groans, and someone shuffled into view, and it took everything I had not to run away and throw up.

Take a human being. Twist and stretch his limbs like clay. Add new limbs, designed for gods know what purpose. Bring some of his innards out of his body, yet leave them working. Seal up his mouth and—Skyfather. God of all gods.

And the worst was this: I could still see intelligence and awareness in the distorted eyes. They had not even allowed him the escape of insanity.

I could not conceal my reaction entirely. There was a fine sheen of sweat on my brow and upper lip when I looked up to meet Viraine’s intent gaze.

“Well?” I asked. I had to swallow before I could speak. “Is your curiosity satisfied?”

The way he was looking at me would have disturbed me even if we hadn’t stood above the tortured, mutilated evidence of his power. There was a kind of lust in his eyes that had nothing to do with sex, and everything to do with—what? I could not guess, but it reminded me, unpleasantly, of the human form Nahadoth. He made my fingers itch for a knife the same way.

“Yes,” he said softly. There was no smile on his face, but I could see a high, triumphant gleam in his eyes. “I wanted to know whether you had any chance, any at all, before I assisted you.”

“And your verdict is…?” But I knew already.

He gestured into the pit. “Kinneth could have looked at that thing without batting an eyelash. She could have done the deed herself and enjoyed it—”

“You lie!”

“—or pretended to enjoy it well enough that the difference wouldn’t have mattered. She had what it took to defeat Dekarta. You don’t.”

“Maybe not,” I snapped. “But at least I still have a soul. What did you trade yours for?”

To my surprise, Viraine’s glee seemed to fade. He looked down into the pit, the gray light making his eyes seem colorless and older than Dekarta’s.

“Not enough,” he said, and walked away. He moved past me into the corridor, heading for the lift.

I did not follow. Instead I went to the far wall of the chamber, sat down against it, and waited. After what seemed an eternity of gray silence—broken only by the faint, occasional suffering sounds of the poor soul in the pit—I felt a familiar shudder ripple through the palace’s substance. I waited awhile, counting the minutes until I judged that sunset’s light had faded enough from the evening sky. Then I got up and went to the corridor, my back to the oubliette. The gray light painted my shadow along the floor in a thin, attenuated line. I made certain my face was in that shadow before I spoke. “Nahadoth.”

The walls dimmed before I turned. Yet the room was brighter than it should have been, because of the light from the oubliette. For some reason, his darkness had no effect on it.

He watched me, inscrutable, his face even more inhumanly perfect in the colorless light.

“Here,” I said, and moved past him to the oubliette. The prisoner within was looking up at me, perhaps sensing my intent. It did not bother me to look at him this time as I pointed into the pit.

“Heal him,” I said.

I expected a furious response. Or amusement, or triumph; there really was no way to predict the Nightlord’s reaction to my first command. What I did not expect, however, was what he said.

“I can’t.”

I frowned at him; he gazed into the oubliette dispassionately. “What do you mean?”

“Dekarta gave the command that caused this.”

And because of his master sigil, I could countermand no orders that Dekarta gave. I closed my eyes and sent a brief prayer for forgiveness to—well. Whichever god cared to listen.