“Where’s the signal coming from?” she asked.
“Under the bridge, Commander.”
The shape of the bridge, and its shadows, made it impossible to see what might lie beneath.
“It could be a trap,” she said. “Send out a drone.”
The shuttle dispatched a small drone fitted with a camera front and back, and sensitive microphones. The drone began to transmit sound and images as soon as it left the shuttle. It went in low over the water, the splashing of the Orchy filling the cabin of the shuttle as the river itself was displayed for Vena. It drew closer to the bridge, then stopped. A shape moved in the darkness.
“Give me some light,” said Vena.
The drone shone a beam into the gloom beneath the bridge. It picked out Cynna’s body, hanging by the neck from a rope, her feet almost touching the water flowing below. A hand-lettered sign was pinned to her uniform. It bore one word:
MURDERER
“Meia,” said Vena. “Meia is responsible for this.”
But she was wrong.
Meia was long gone.
PART III
TOGETHER
CHAPTER 43
Syl Hellais was not in class.
“She’s not feeling well,” explained Ani, when the register was taken. “She stayed in bed.”
But Syl wasn’t in her bed at all.
Instead her hair was wrapped in old sheeting and she was wearing Elda’s faded, off-white robe as she slipped quickly through the Thirteenth Realm—home of the senior Novices and Half-Sisters—all the while studiously avoiding eye contact and keeping to the quieter corridors, carrying a mop and a bucket half-filled with soapy suds in case anyone doubted her disguise. She’d been here so often now that she knew her way around the network of hallways and service lanes, and she knew too that this was the best time to be here, when most of the pupils were in class. The occasional girl who passed her while running an errand or going to the loo paid no heed to the drudge she pretended to be.
Syl was more nervous than she’d been since starting her illicit investigation of the Marque, for in her pocket was the set of keys, shiny contraband wrapped snugly in a washcloth so that they wouldn’t jangle in the quiet.
But it was time to be fearless. Swiftly, silently Syl made her way to the rear of the Thirteenth Realm, to the large sliding doorway with the wide red eye of the Sisterhood emblazoned on it. It was through this entrance that the Sisters who taught the Novices flooded every morning. She had been as far as the door several times before, placing her palms flat against the cool metal, peering cautiously through the glass slats that showed yet another corridor disappearing tantalizingly around a bend beyond. But this one was different from the other hallways she’d been down so far, for this was the entrance to the Fourteenth Realm, and the end of the line for Novices. Beyond here, only full Sisters could venture. It even looked different, for on the other side of the door, the curved walls, ceiling, and floor were not the stark rock face and grimy whitewash of the Twelfth and Thirteenth Realms. Instead they gleamed deepest red, the surfaces twinkling slightly as if dusted with crushed rubies, creating the impression of a healthy artery pumping life into the Marque’s core.
Now Syl stood before the door once more, her heart a piston in her chest. She was panting slightly as she studied the keypad in the wall, with its silver hole awaiting a pinlike key. Next to it was a fat, rather old-fashioned-looking button, browned with age, but she knew that pressing this would only summon a Sister to the door, for she’d made that mistake before, cowering and staring at her feet as the red-clad guardian peered at her through the opening.
“Why did you ring?”
“My apologies, Sister. I was cleaning and must have leaned against the button by accident,” she’d muttered, and the door had purred shut again.
Another time she’d pressed it on purpose and a different Sister had appeared, her face furious.
“What?”
“May I come in to clean, Sister?” Syl had said, and the quake in her voice had been real.
“Of course you can’t! Where’s your key? No one can unless they have a key.”
“Uh, then who cleans at that side?” asked Syl.
“Are you new here? The Service Sisters, of course. They have keys! Speak to your superior and stop wasting my time.”
This time, though, Syl did have keys. After another quick glance around, she slipped the bunch from her pocket. She held up the red-tipped one and took a deep breath.
“The woman that deliberates is lost,” she whispered, adding automatically, “Cato, by Joseph Addison,” because her father had always thought it important to acknowledge the source of your quotes and aphorisms.
She slotted the pin into the keyhole. There was a welcoming beep, and with a hiss, the door slid open. Syl was in; it was as easy as that.
• • •
It smelled different here beyond the doors, fragrant, sweeter, the air almost sugary, thick and rich and exotic, like spiced wine.
It smelled of Syrene; it smelled of her father’s breath after Syrene had infected him.
Syl swallowed down the urge to retch. Instead she looked around.
The ground beneath her feet was softer, a little springy, and when she touched the walls they had gentle give in them too, calling to mind spongy red seaweed, although her hand came away dry. Her fingers left temporary indentations when she pressed down, but the dark sparkle did not come off on her fingertips. It seemed ingrained, twinkling like a mineral catching the light down a mine. Natural stalactites pierced the red of the ceiling—there must have been water here once, thought Syl—and particularly striking rock formations had been allowed to jut out from the carved walls, a stark contrast to the soft red sparkle. The effect was lush and decadent, yet tasteful, and as she made her way down the wide passage, automatic light lit her way, dimming to a faint gleam again behind her once she’d passed.
It was like being inside a working model of a large, bloodless organ.
She passed doors now, three of them set into the burgundy walls, unmarked. She hurried on, unsure what to do, for what would she say if she opened one and was faced with a Nairene when she was prying where she shouldn’t be?
A little farther on, the passageway dipped steeply downward, heading deeper under the ground, and the red on the walls melted from solid color to coiling patterns, breaking off like the roots of a felled tree sprouting from a thick red stem. Between the red spirals the rock face now showed, polished smooth to best display strata of granite and quartz and shining stone that Syl didn’t recognize.
Again thoughts of Syrene flooded her head, Syrene with those striking red filigree tattoos that spilled across her smooth, pious face, and coiled like snakes into her shaven hairline, tattoos that found an echo in these very walls. Perhaps the artwork on Syrene’s skin was based on these markings, or perhaps her apparently legendary beauty was the inspiration for the decoration. Either way, it seemed like great vanity, and Syl felt as if she were an ant walking across the face of her enemy. Surely her presence must be felt here; surely she would soon be brushed away, crushed with no pity or feeling. And oh, that smell, the smell of her loss and sorrow . . .
Enough of this! I am Syl Hellais.
The words were spoken only in her head as Syl once again shored up the mental defenses that she hoped would protect her.
I am here to do a job, to find out what lies at the cold soul of the Nairene Sisterhood.
She walked with more purpose, growing headstrong and fierce deep inside, feeling the shields coming down like cast iron, feeling the barriers in her head clanging shut, weighted with lead, sealed with blood.
I have powers of which you have no knowledge.
She thought of her father, of Earth, of Paul and Steven, of Althea and Meia, of Fremd and Heather and Just Joe. She thought of all the death and destru
ction she’d seen, and for what? For what?
I have powers beyond your dreams, powers beyond your nightmares.
She thought of the thing she’d seen inside Grand Consul Gradus’s head before it had torn him apart, of the mysterious parasite wrapped around his brain stem, and the irony didn’t escape her now.
I’m within you, Syrene. I’m inside your nerve center. And you don’t know what I’m capable of.
And she saw again the human who died at her bidding, throwing himself on his own bayonet because she willed it, and for the first time she didn’t squirm away from the memory. Instead she took strength from it, for had she not taken up arms now, and was she not fighting the war he declared was his own? She smiled grimly.
Even I don’t know what I’m capable of . . .
The automatic lighting faded away now, for through the rock ran a seam of glowing stone that provided illumination as flattering as firelight. Trailing her fingers along it, Syl rounded a final bend and then stopped short, gasping, partly in fright but also partly in wonder. Before her the artery had exploded into a vast chamber that soared up from the deep, high into the dark night sky, the walls curlicued and twinkling and red, tendrils of burgundy and claret reaching as tall as church steeples, twisting into a honeycomb ceiling of jagged boulders and distant crystal domes, breaking up the stars. Around the sides of the chamber were ornate stone balconies and landings, beautifully carved and twisted from the rock. Rows of well-spaced doors opened off these high galleries, each shiny and black, each bearing a name plaque. There were even plants down here, blue-black fronds growing rich and lush, their greedy red and purple blooms reaching toward the faraway ceiling and its promise of the ultraviolet light that this curious Illyri flora lived for.
At its center, the chamber was furnished with plump cushions of scarlet, vibrant purple sofas, and recliners fashioned from heavy tapestry and brocade. Ornately patterned red rugs covered the floor. And far above this opulent seating area the wall was adorned with yet another red eye, staring down unblinking on those who lived in its name.
It was the beautiful, sterile heart of the Fourteenth Realm.
But right now that heart was beating. It was alive.
And everywhere was the Sisterhood.
CHAPTER 44
The red-clad Sister sitting nearest to Syl was watching at her curiously. Syl looked back, keeping her features bland while inwardly stacking up the blocks and barriers in her head. I am one of you, she willed. I am with you. Look at me, and see your own. But she felt none of the probing she associated with Syrene or Oriel, for few shared their psychic abilities.
“Why are you just standing there? There is no time to lose,” said the Sister finally. “The cleaning must be finished before the tutors return from class. It is imperative today of all days.”
“Yes, ma’am,” muttered Syl, ducking her head and bumbling passed her.
Service Sisters were darting all around, scrubbing and shaking and puffing and spritzing, busy white corpuscles in the giant organ of velvet and blood. Syl’s presence went unremarked as she joined their ranks, for they vastly outnumbered the smattering of red-robed Illyri who reclined on chairs and cushions, reading and making notes, or earnestly talking, occasionally lifting their feet automatically so the floor beneath them could be swept. From behind the trailing end of her headscarf, Syl could make out Amera, the biology lecturer, chewing on her fingernail as she studied a screen in front of her. Syl slipped silently by, looking in the other direction, reading the plaques on the doors as she made her way through the chamber. Most bore names she knew or vaguely recognized from among the vast teaching staff who had made the education of would-be Sisters their life’s work, and some were even her own tutors. Seeing them all together like this, Syl found herself newly in awe of the enormity of the Marque. If this was just the teachers, what lay beyond in the other Realms on Avila Minor? Somewhere in this underground maze were Ezil and the other elders—the First Five. Somewhere was hidden the secret of the Sisterhood.
With fresh determination, she moved on.
In the center of the room she passed a vaguely foreboding double door. It was unlabeled, but clearly these were the largest quarters of all, and easily accessible for an older Sister, one who might be less than steady on her aging legs. They could only be Oriel’s, and Syl’s skin prickled under her robes as she went by. She hadn’t seen Oriel since the incident in Elda’s rooms. At first the head of these three Realms had been declared ill, and then it was said that she had been called away to important meetings, but Syl had not mourned her absence. Far too often thoughts of the old witch invaded her head, unbidden and unwanted, and she wondered if the Grandmage was close by, was scrutinizing her, trying to unlock her mind. Whenever it happened she felt physically ill, and afterwards she had a headache, but Syl saw nothing of the crone in the actual flesh. Fitfully she wondered if she imagined Oriel’s presence, yet still she knew she must always remain vigilant.
Syl walked passed two white-clad Sisters who were deep in conversation, and she heard Oriel’s name. Trying to look inconspicuous, she stopped, bent down, and used the edge of her cloth to rub at a make-believe mark on the edge of a rug.
“She’s due back around lunchtime, I believe.”
“Before the end of Novice classes? But there’ll hardly be anyone to welcome her.”
“That’s how she wants it. You know Grandmage Oriel.”
“Not well, thankfully.”
“I know what you mean.”
The pair laughed as they moved on toward the farthest reaches of the gallery. After a heartbeat, Syl followed.
They came to a wide door, sealed shut, and the smaller of the women held down a button beside it, set deep into the wall. The door slid open. They went through it, and after a few seconds Syl followed, unhindered, although her throat felt as if it would close with nerves. Before her wound another long corridor. A third Service Sister approached, but she went by with a mere nod of greeting, and Syl nodded back as casually as she could.
The pair that she’d followed stopped some way ahead and opened a door carved into the wall. As Syl watched, they took off their dirt-smeared white robes, revealing simple red vestments underneath, tossed the soiled garments into what appeared to be a cupboard, then opened a second and withdrew freshly laundered white clothing. They slipped these on with barely a break in their conversation, and then moved away. One of them glanced at Syl as they left, but didn’t raise as much as an eyebrow of recognition, and Syl breathed out deeply.
I am one of you, she repeated over and over in her head. We are the same.
Quickly she went over to the cupboard and removed her own faded off-white robe, slipping on another from the fresh stock behind the second door before anyone saw her own telltale Novice undergarments. She took the keys from her pocket before she shoved the old robe that had once been Elda’s into a large laundry basket behind the first door, and then, emboldened, she opened the third cupboard. Inside were piles of neatly pressed and folded headscarves. Syl could have clapped. There was no way she could risk removing her own makeshift one here, in the open, so she simply knotted the new scarf over the top. Already she felt that she blended in better.
The Sisters she was following had now disappeared from view and so Syl hurried on, passing doors and windows that revealed what lay beyond. Here was an exercise room of sorts, or perhaps a health center, fitted with equipment and body-function monitors. Inside, a lone Service Sister was languidly washing the floor, drawing slow, looping pictures on the stone with her mop. She yawned widely and scratched her cheek.
Farther along there was a clutch of meditation rooms, all open and welcoming, their cushions plumped and ready, fragrance cubes in nooks by the door waiting to be lit. Haunting Illyri music played from inside one, and Syl glimpsed the Sisters whom she trailed. The taller of the pair was halfheartedly cleaning but the other had called up a s
creen and was leaning against the wall, washrags hanging forgotten at her side, laughing rudely at whatever it was she watched.
“Hush, Eya,” said the first. “You’ll get us in trouble.”
Syl tiptoed by.
The pathway rose upward, a steep ascent, and another glass-fronted room appeared. Syl slowed as she passed, marveling at the long, golden pool inside. It was clearly some sort of bathhouse, for a fountain steamed at one end and a brace of Sisters reclined in the water, bubbles rising large as plates around them. Three Service Sisters waited on them at the side of the pool. The first held towels while another sprinkled shards of shining soap over the water. The third bent over a figure in the pool, expertly pumicing a proffered foot. As Syl stood and stared, one of the bathers looked up and glared at her. Quickly, she turned and left.
Now the corridor she was following split. Syl was about to take the wider path, which veered to the right, when she heard voices, and saw a reflection of red bounce off the walls around the bend ahead. Swiftly she skipped up the narrower passage to the left and scurried away, her heart thudding.
The route twisted and turned sharply for a while, then porthole windows opened up high in the walls, revealing the sky. There were no entrances or exits, so Syl guessed that she was traveling down a connecting tunnel to somewhere different, perhaps to a new Realm. Or rather an old Realm, for the walls around her were dark and shiny, rubbed that way with age, and the floor was grooved as if many feet had walked this way over the years, eroding a pathway into the rock. At points it was patched with flat stepping-stones, also shaded with wear. The air felt thin and Syl shivered, for it was colder here. Wherever she was, it was very old indeed.
Syl knew that the oldest areas of the Marque predated even the arrival of the Sisterhood. It had never been entirely clear who carved out the original primitive tunnels, for they were without decoration and their creators had left no trace of themselves behind: no pots, no animal bones, no Illyri remains. The annals of the Sisterhood suggested that the moon’s caves had originally provided a refuge for those seeking to escape some form of persecution back on Illyr, just as the first Sisters had done. This was disputed by some of the Sisterhood’s own historians, who claimed that the age of the tunnels indicated they had been constructed before the invention of interplanetary travel. It was, it seemed, one of those mysteries destined to remain unsolved.