16

THE DOOR

🙜

"What does it say?"

Ember got to his feet, brushing grass and dirt from the seat of his trousers, and took a few steps toward the wall. The runes peered down at him, somber and magnificent—not so much in stature, though they were expansive, but simply because they were. That such a thing still existed, or ever had, put to shame all the stories of the town below about the history of their people and where they hailed from.

Surely it was no coincidence that they had settled in this valley, so close to the Sisters.

It could have been a thousand years, he reminded himself. A thousand years ago or more.

He took a deep breath. “Ky…”

Ky waited expectantly.

Instead of answering her question, he muttered, “Are you the only one trying to open this door?”

For a moment, her expression froze in place; then she gave him an empty-eyed shrug.

“Yes.”

Ember crossed his arms, frowning. “Did someone–or something–follow us here?”

Her lip twitched.

Fear?

Annoyance?

“How am I to know?”

“That thing I heard in the woods—the voice—”

“Yes, yes,” she muttered anxiously. “Better to read these runes quickly. It may be looking for us.”

“But what was it?” He paused, mulling over his own dark speculations, but kept them to himself; better to hear what she had to say than give her an easy explanation.

Instead of replying, the sirena glanced away with another shrug, chewing the end of a long black claw. Ember considered pursuing the matter, but found his own curiosity pulled in the direction of the door despite his better judgment.

The sight of those carven words awakened a strange desire within him to seek out the men who had fashioned them, to be a part of something ancient and grand.

To be significant, in some way.

Desirable, even.

He very much wanted to believe that he had come from a long line of skilled craftsmen—and in that moment, he did. Although time had weathered parts of the rock away, he could already make out one or two coherent words.

"I think these runes make some mention of peace," he said honestly, shading his eyes against the noonday sun.

Ky grabbed his arm.

"What else?"

He turned, startled, but her eyes roved the door, flickering over every etched rune and obscuring vine. That peculiar hungriness had returned, tightening her face. Ember uncomfortably pushed her away with a finger.

She glanced first at him, and then her hand.

"I don't know," he said stiffly. "I need a minute to think… Some of these runes are completely worn away."

Ky's ears quivered.

She turned away, circling behind him.

"Think," she murmured, stalking to the other side of the clearing and seating herself upon a mossy boulder. "And when you have thought long enough, I will be listening."

Ember plopped down on a tussock of grass and squinted up at the faded lettering, scratching his chin. He had never been a very good reader; he prided himself on more practical skills, and though he knew a great many spoken words and could usually sound them out on paper, his literary prowess was hardly boastworthy. Each time he moved his lips to mutter some sound or other Ky would stare at him, doubtless hoping he was ready with an answer.

After several moments, the sirena reached into her jerkin and pulled out a few crumpled leaves.

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"Perhaps," she said—and he could not tell if it was in derision or an earnest desire to be helpful—"you will think better if you attend yourself."

He reached for the knitbone, murmuring a thanks; she withdrew a few crushed flowers from her bosom, rubbing them between her palms and inhaling their scent before handing them over as well.

Ember's shirt was not an easily torn sort of material (nothing the women of the valley wove was anything less than durable) so he pulled his knife from his belt and ripped a thin strip of cloth from the hem. Then he stuffed two of the leaves in his mouth, chewed them up thoroughly, and spat them into his palm. Ky watched his every move with the wide-eyed disbelief of someone who had likely never spat out a bite of food in her life.

He smeared the sticky paste over his arm, wrapped it tightly in cloth, and tied it off at the elbow with his teeth and the fingers of his left hand. Then he popped another leaf in his mouth and beckoned the siren.

"Your ankle?"

She silently pulled up the hem of her oversized trousers, and Ember was surprised to see that, less than a few hours after their mishap, the wound had already begun to shrink. Most of the blood had sloughed away, leaving only a few small cuts and brownish bruises. Her skin's natural oily shimmer seemed more glisteny than usual around the wound, and he had the distinct impression that if he touched it, it would feel like pond scum or fish slime.

Then she covered it up again, tucking her feet nearer the boulder.

"Oh." Ember shrugged and swallowed the knitbone. It would do him as much good from the inside as without.

Ky observed the remainder of the leaves, and then crept across the grassy knoll to sample one. As they sat there together, both chewing quietly and both staring up at the massive door, Ember heard something odd.

It sounded a bit like a snuffling dog—distorted, strange, frighteningly close and distant all at once. They turned as one, glancing at the border where he knew the false crevice to be. Nothing was visible down the sloping hillside, but Ember supposed that if something were creeping up behind them the illusion might work two ways.

"Ember," Ky breathed in his ear, making him shiver. "Have you thought long enough?"

He stood, nervously unslinging his fishing spear and moving toward the door. "Maybe…"

She gave him a little poke. "Hurry, hurry."

"It says, ‘Speak the truth,’" he began, his palms sweating, "‘all… who come in peace… for…’ something…"

"Something?"

"No! Something else—um—"

Ember whirled around as the snuffling noise intensified, and he heard the muffled sound of a twig crackling under foot or paw.

"Something else what?" Ky hissed.

"‘For none shall pass this door with…’" Ember swallowed, peering hard at the very last word. He was quite unsure of himself—it was not a word he had ever seen on paper before, and it was the one that appeared to be missing the most runes. "‘Malintent’?"

"Is that all?"

"Yes!"

"What does that mean?"

"I don't really know. I think speaking the truth is the most important part..."

"Then let us waste no more time!"

Ember glanced back at the steep forested slope as the siren hurried toward the door.

Footsteps.

Something patrolled the edge of the ravine. Whatever it was, Ember suspected it was only a matter of time before it discovered the illusion.

"My name is Ky Veli," Ky proclaimed, her voice resounding with an elegant solemnity that Ember did not expect and was rather impressed by. "I come in peace, and I seek the lost kingdom of men."

The door stubbornly remained in place.

Ky beckoned him impatiently and he rushed forward, fumbling to string together the appropriate words: "My name is Ember—son of Jarel—and I've come to open the door for my—traveling companion, and—friend, Ky Veli."

They stood side-by-side in front of the door, waiting breathlessly, but nothing happened.

"Did you read them properly?"

"Of course I read them properly! I had to guess once or twice to form a complete word, but there's nothing else it could be."

He glanced back again as the sniffing stopped.

The creature—or entity—was listening for something.

Could it hear them speaking to one another?

He might have thought it had given up and left altogether had it not been for a strangely alluring odor of crushed herbs hanging about the clearing; a hint of sage and pine, and something tangy or bitter.

The scent from the woods.

"Maybe the door is hard of hearing," he said, a little desperately. It didn't sound far-fetched after everything they had encountered on their way up the mountain.

Ky looked sideways at him, but nodded her assent. They both stepped up to the door as one and reiterated their claims, as loudly as they dared. A few birds twittered nearby, but there was no massive grumble of shifting stone. Disappointment flooded through him.

"It is broken," Ky ventured.

"Or," Ember suggested dryly, "one of us is not being truthful."

Ky's eyes flitted from the door to Ember, and then back to the door. "Broken," she pronounced.

Ember bounced the spear in his hand, disquieted. "You said the magic in the forest was twisted. Can spells rot?"

"I would not say 'rot.'" She tilted her head, eyeing the door as one might eye a duplicitous adversary. "This is wild magic, and old—and some of it is hurriedly woven. Doubtless the strongest of spells remain as their shaper intended, but the rest run untamed, taking on that-which-is-not-their-own as they encounter other twisty spells."

"Delightful." Ember glared at the hewn rock. "So we're stuck here, with the Maker only knows what—" he lowered his voice, swiftly gesturing toward the hidden entrance "—out there, and now we can't even find what we came here looking for!"

He wasn't sure when it had ceased to be merely Ky's desire and become his personal quest as well, but it had, and now it looked as if their trip up the mountain had been for nothing.

"I suppose," he whispered rather reluctantly, "we can take turns telling it all of our secrets, and see how long that takes."