He tore his gaze from the weapon, heart leaping with relief when he saw Loriabeth and Sigoral still lying on the dais. Unlike him, his cousin and the marine remained unconscious. Also, his captor hadn’t felt the need to tie either of them to a pillar.
He jerked as the woman spoke again, eyes snapping to meet hers. She had lowered herself into a crouch and regarded him with a level of scrutiny that bordered on the openly hostile. Their packs lay open near by, the contents disordered due to a thorough rummaging. Glancing at his bonds once more, Clay realised he was bound with the length of rope he had carried across the ice, and couldn’t help voicing a rueful groan.
The woman spoke again, more insistently this time. Clay found the words meaningless, the cadence and prolonged vowels were all completely unfamiliar.
“Sorry, lady,” he said, shaking his head. “Just Mandinorian, though I can just about get by bargaining in Dalcian.”
The woman stared at him for a moment in obvious incomprehension then gave a deep sigh of frustration as she lowered her gaze and smoothed a trembling hand over her forehead. After a moment she calmed herself with a visible effort, breathing deeply and draining any emotion from her features. Clay estimated her to be scarcely older than he, though the flawlessness of her skin may have made her appear younger. Her hair was cut short, only a half inch or so from the scalp, and he saw no jewellery or other accoutrements on her person.
She turned to the packs and extracted Clay’s canteen, the one half-full of diluted Green. She lifted the canteen, touching the cap to her lips as she mimed taking a drink, raising her eyebrows in an unmistakable question. You drink this. Yes?
Clay’s gaze lingered on the canteen before tracking back to the woman, her expression now one of expectant surety. “Guess you know that ain’t just water,” he said.
The woman frowned and shook the canteen at him, making the contents slosh about as she asked a question in her unfathomable tongue. Clay stared back, saying nothing, unwilling to reveal so much to so strange a captor. He maintained his silence and they matched stares, her frown deepening into outright anger. She spoke again, voice raised as she moved towards the dais, stepping into the crystal’s glow with pause. She halted at Loriabeth’s side, raising the brass-and-steel gun to point it at his cousin’s chest before turning back to Clay, a question and a threat evident in her gaze.
Clay strained against the straps, unable to contain his shout. “Leave her alone!” His anger provoked a small flinch in the woman’s bearing but she didn’t move, instead carefully placing her finger on the gun’s trigger.
“Alright!” he shouted, nodding rapidly and hoping she understood the gesture. “I can drink the damn stuff.”
The woman betrayed a small shudder of relief as she lowered the gun and returned to crouch at his side, reaching into his pack and extracting Scriberson’s note-book. She leafed through it briefly, stopping at a particular page then crouching at Clay’s side once more, holding it open. He recognised the page as an annotated sketch of Brionar, the ringed planet the astronomer had shown him through the telescope at the base of the falls. The woman tapped the sketch then made a scribbling gesture before pointing at Clay. Did you do this?
He shook his head. “No. That’s the work of a dead man.”
She grimaced in consternation, leafing through more pages until she showed him a table of some kind, rows of numbers set out in Scriberson’s messy script below a much more neatly drawn diagram. It looked like one of the constellations to Clay, but his knowledge of Scriberson’s work was meagre at best. The woman’s finger moved over the page, tapping in certain places. It seemed she was particularly interested in the diagram and one set of numbers at the bottom of the table.
“Sorry, lady, I ain’t never been no scholar,” Clay said, shrugging as much as the ropes would allow him.
She seemed about to question him further but stopped when the chamber shuddered. A faint rumbling filled the space and the light cast by the crystal flickered as the shaking continued. Clay saw the woman tense as a thin stream of dust cascaded down from the shadowed ceiling. The tremor continued for about thirty seconds, after which the woman turned back to Clay, her face now set in a frown of hard determination.
He managed not to flinch as she leaned closer and stared into his eyes. He fought down an instinctive impulse to struggle against his bonds as her gaze lingered, unnerving in its intensity but also commanding, capturing his attention so completely he felt his fear fading away. Eventually she blinked and broke the stare, Clay’s heart giving an involuntary leap as she hefted the brass-and-steel gun.
Her thumb depressed a small lever on the side of the chamber which duly sprang open with a kind of neat, mechanical efficiency that would have made any gunsmith envious. Clay let out a faint groan of self-reproach at seeing the chamber was empty. She was never gonna shoot Lori, he realised as the woman’s free hand moved to the belt on her waist, opening one of the pockets to retrieve a small glass vial.
She held it up before his eyes, turning it so it caught the light. Clay was sufficiently familiar with the various shades of product by now to recognise the viscous liquid it contained. “Blue?” he said.
The woman slotted the vial into the gun and closed the chamber, muttering something before pressing the barrel to her forearm and pulling the trigger. There was a low hiss of escaping air, then she removed the gun from her arm, leaving behind a faint red welt.
“Oh,” Clay said as she pressed the gun’s barrel to his arm and pulled the trigger. “You too, huh?”
• • •
The trance closed in immediately, Clay finding himself on Nelphia’s surface with the woman a few feet away. There was no sign of her own mindscape, which meant she either didn’t have one or was skilled enough to keep it completely suppressed. She stood staring all around in patent awe, as if not quite capable of grasping what she saw.
Where’s yours? Clay asked, causing her to turn, dust rising as she staggered a little in surprise. He raised his arms, gesturing at their surroundings. I showed you mine, he went on.
The woman stared at him for a moment then did something completely unexpected. She laughed. It was a genuine laugh, full of delight, continuing on as she went into a pirouette, raising more dust as she whirled. She moved with a fluid, practised grace that reminded him of Joya in the ball-room that time. He watched her dance, leaping and jumping before spiralling to her knees where she reached both hands into the moon-dust, laughing again as she cast it into the sky. It hung there, glittering like stars in the void.
You’re making a mess, Clay told her, asserting his will over the mindscape and sending the frozen dust cascading to the ground.
The woman’s laugh faded into a smile as she got to her feet, asking something in her own language. The words were meaningless, but in the trance language wasn’t the barrier it was in the waking world. You made this?
The question baffled him. What kind of Blood-blessed would be so impressed by a mindscape? Sure, he replied. It’s still a little rough around the edges, though. Been awhile since I had a chance to work on it.
The woman gazed all around, her wonder unabated. So much detail. You can craft others?
Not as fine as this one, but if I think hard enough, yeah.
She turned back and moved towards him, an unnerving amount of joyous anticipation on her face. He realised his estimation of her age may have been off by several years. She seemed almost childlike now, a near-desperate glint in her eye as she stopped and reached a tentative hand to his. Show me, she pleaded.
Clay took a step back, crossing his arms. We gotta lot to talk about before I start sharing any memories. He tapped a finger to his chest. You shooting me, fr’instance.
The joy slowly faded from her face and she took a backward step of her own, eyes downcast. A necessary precaution. The trance communicated her most prominent emotions with ease: bafflement and deligh
t shot through with fear, but above it all a sense of grief, far deeper and more painful than even her displays of despair had indicated. Blood-blessed she might be, but she had no facility for concealing her thoughts. Clay suspected that if she had shared minds with Lizanne every secret would have been stripped from her in seconds. Such things were not within his skills, however, so he was obliged to wait for her to share.
The note-book, she said finally, thoughts leaking both reluctance and a sense of grim certainty. The diagram in the note-book. Is it accurate?
Couldn’t say. But the fella who drew it was awful clever and exacting in his trade. Not the type to make a mistake when looking at the stars.
Is he here? Another member of your party?
Clay shook his head. It’s just the three of us. The man who wrote that book is dead. I carry it as . . . a souvenir, I guess. We were friends, for a short time.
Are you . . . She paused, Clay sensing her thoughts churning as she sought to formulate the right question. Part of a group? A large group?
An army you mean?
Feeling the pulse of incomprehension in her thoughts Clay conjured an image from a shared trance with Lizanne, the Corvantine forces massing outside Carvenport. He cast it into the sky, letting it play out as the woman stared at it. He felt her emotions shift at the sight of the memory, her despair returning along with a distinct note of disgust.
This happened recently? she asked, watching as the first cannon shot landed amidst the trenches.
Few months ago, he said. Corvantine Imperial forces about to meet an ugly end, and I can’t say I’m sorry.
Who are they fighting?
The Ironship Protectorate, along with a whole lotta conscripts and Independent Contractors. That’s what I am, by the way. An Independent.
Independent, she repeated, her puzzlement abating only slightly. And what do the terms Corvantine and Ironship denote exactly?
Clay frowned. How long you been down here?
She stared at him for a moment then broke into another laugh, shrill and only a note or two shy of hysteria. Eventually the laughter subsided and she turned her gaze to the battle in the sky. I hoped the diagram was wrong. Her thoughts were faint murmurs beneath a resurgent swell of despair. Clay found himself impressed by the way she mastered her emotions in the space of a few seconds, disciplining her thoughts with a kind of stern precision the equal of anything he had seen in Lizanne’s mind. What is your name? she asked once the torrent of feelings had subsided into a tightly controlled ball.
Claydon Torcreek, ma’am, he replied. Blood-blessed to the Longrifles Independent Contractor Company. You can call me Clay.
Clay . . . She inclined her head in a gesture of greeting, though her eyes remained on the stars. And you can call me Kriz. Her shoulders shuddered as the ball of emotion threatened to burst, though she was quick to reassert control. And, to answer your question, by my estimation I have been down here for just over ten thousand years.
• • •
The trance vanished as quickly as it arrived, leaving him gaping up at her, still strapped to the pillar. “What?” he said.
She ignored the question and moved out of view. After a few seconds the rope fell away. Clay’s hands immediately went to his leg, still bathing in the light from the crystal, fingers exploring the smooth, remade flesh. “You did this, I guess?” he asked as Kriz reappeared. She ignored the question and pointed to his pack then in the direction of the chamber entrance. The expression of pointed impatience on her face conveying clear instruction. We have to go.
Her meaning was given added impetus by the arrival of another tremor, more powerful this time and the flicker of the crystal’s light more violent. Kriz motioned for him to get up as the tremor subsided, moving towards the dais.
“Thank you,” Clay said, levering himself upright and marvelling at the absence of pain as he tested his weight on the leg. “I mean it,” he persisted. “Really thought I was gonna lose it.”
Kriz paused, thumbing the lever to open the gun’s chamber once more, then glanced over her shoulder with a strained smile of acknowledgment. She gestured at the packs again and slotted another vial into the gun. Clay checked his pack, finding his pistol nestled amongst the contents. He checked the cylinder and found it fully loaded.
“Putting a lotta trust in someone you shot not long ago,” he told Kriz, strapping his gun-belt around his waist. She gave no reply, instead pressing the gun’s barrel into the flesh of Loriabeth’s forearm and pulling the trigger. Loriabeth came awake after a few seconds of spasmodic fidgeting. Clay rushed over to catch hold of his cousin’s flailing arms as her wide, bleary gaze swung about before fixing on him.
“How you doing, cuz?” he asked.
She blinked up at him in incomprehension for several seconds, then jerked in fright as Kriz injected the same waking agent into Sigoral. “What in the Travail . . . ?”
“It’s alright,” Clay told her. “She’s . . . friendly. Far as I can tell.”
“Who is she?”
“Calls herself Kriz. She’s a Blood-blessed. Seems she’s been living down here for . . . a good long while. Beyond that, I can’t say. Kind’ve a language problem.”
Sigoral’s awakening was considerably more violent than Loriabeth’s, the Corvantine surfacing from his slumber with a flurry of kicks and punches. He continued to flail about on the floor, only abating when Clay pinned him down, though not before earning a hefty blow to the stomach.
“Hey!” Clay delivered a hard slap to the marine’s face. “It’s me, relax.”
The sound of a handclap drew his gaze back to Kriz. She stood between two pillars, gesturing at the chamber door, her movements even more urgent than before.
“Who in the name of all the emperors is she?” Sigoral demanded.
Before Clay could answer the chamber shook again, sending a fresh cascade of dust down around them as a large rumbling crack sounded from above. Abruptly the crystal’s light faded into a dim glow, leaving most of the chamber in darkness.
“That ain’t good,” Loriabeth said, scrambling to her feet.
“Get your gear,” Clay said, rising from Sigoral and moving to the packs.
“Your leg . . .” Loriabeth said, staring at his uninjured limb.
“No time, cuz,” Clay told her, casting a worried glance at the ceiling as ever more dust began to fall. He pulled on his own pack and lifted the others, turning to see Kriz disappearing through the chamber door, clearly unwilling to linger another second. “Come on!” he called to Sigoral and Loriabeth, starting after Kriz in a steady run. After a few steps he was gratified to hear the sound of them following.
He tracked Kriz through the corridor back to the shadowed interior of the building. Dust billowed down in ever-thicker cascades, the sibilant hiss of it punctuated by the thud of falling stone. Realising he had lost sight of Kriz, he came to a halt, Sigoral barrelling into him from behind.
“This place doesn’t have much longer,” the Corvantine observed, wincing as something large and heavy slammed into the floor close by.
“Got that right,” Clay said, handing the marine his pack and tossing the other to Loriabeth.
“Where’d she go?” Loriabeth asked, eyes bright in the gloom.
A shout came from the left, Clay picking out the flicker of a shadow and starting towards it at a run. “Stay close,” he told the others.
It took only a moment to find Kriz, standing in a faint patch of light cast down from above, apparently the result of a large slab of stone that had dislodged itself from the ceiling. Seeing them, she turned and started off again, sprinting now. Clay increased his own pace, yelling at the others to do the same. After a few seconds he saw Kriz’s slender form outlined in the doorway. The three of them exited the structure just as a thunderous cacophony filled the space at their backs. Clay came to a halt and turned to receive
a blast of gritty dust in the face. He blinked away tears and when he looked again he saw a jagged matrix of cracks appearing in the structure’s outer surface. It seemed to sag in on itself as the cracks grew, issuing a terrible grinding roar as slabs of granite scraped against each other.
He felt a hard tug on his arm and found Kriz pulling him towards the right-hand side of the island. He lost no time in following, finding the prospect of remaining in this spot as the structure collapsed around them distinctly unappealing. Kriz kept close to the lake-shore, moving in a wide arc around the building to where a plinth rose at the edge of the water. She went to it immediately, slapping her hand to the crystal it held then turning an expectant gaze towards the water.
For a long moment nothing happened and Clay found himself casting increasingly nervous glances at the structure. The upper half of it had half fallen inward, the stone walls taking on a concave fragmented appearance whilst cracks continued to sunder the granite lower down. As concerning as its imminent collapse was, he was more afraid of what might happen to the monolithic shaft that rose from the building’s roof. If that comes down we’re all done for, he knew.
A rush of displaced water drew his gaze back to the lake, provoking a surge of relief at the sight of another bridge emerging from the depths. It was far longer than the one that had brought them to the island, disappearing into the mist a mile or so off shore. Kriz sprinted onto the bridge without preamble, pausing after a few yards to stare back at them as they failed to follow.
“Where’s she taking us?” Sigoral said. He had his carbine in hand and seemed to view the prospect of following Kriz onto the bridge with only slightly less trepidation than remaining on the island.