Chapter IX
Whispers
In which Nensela sets plans in motion
In her stronghold, Nensela had not been idle. By the Seeker’s grace she enjoyed a rare opportunity, and she couldn’t afford to waste it.
In Erebossa, Nensela’s Sight ranged beyond anything she had Seen before in the Cosmos. In the Cosmos, she served the Seeker. But much to her surprise and gratification, in Erebossa the powers of Sorcha the Everbright waxed strong in her. Allowing her to See the movements of her friends and allies. As well, all of the Seeker’s gifts opened up to her: as a prophet Nensela always Saw the Road Ahead, and now, in Erebossa, the Road Behind was hers to explore.
She dove deep.
Nensela traveled twisted, winding paths. Her instincts—and something higher than instinct, that was not of her own mind—served as her guide.
Three questions.
Before Murena captured her, Nensela had sought the answer to three questions. The first: where was Selàna? Quickly enough she found her child—blood of her blood could not be hidden from her in Erebossa.
Next: for what purpose was Selàna stolen from her? Learning of her daughter’s defilement put her in a dire state of maternal rage. And grief. And terror. Rage she set aside, and grief, because terror reigned supreme over her heart and mind: She must, she must figure out a way to help her child! Thus she submersed every emotion into a pool in her mind’s eye, letting them sink out of reach so she might examine every thread of the tapestry in the life of ‘Zephyra’ with clear eyes and a sharp mind.
At every turn Murena dogged her steps. Relentless in his pursuit, he forced Nensela to shift at least half her focus on staying two steps ahead of him. Within Erebossa the abyssal king enjoyed greater advantages than he ever did in Thuraia. And he only needed her to make one small mistake, and that only once.
Having unraveled every aspect concerning the abomination known as Zephyra, Nensela formulated a daring stratagem. Drawing upon centuries of experience, she executed one well-timed Sending. Cool, icy nerve saw her through as she planted a seed in Zephyra. One which bloomed just as it should, just when it should.
And then Murena captured her.
Now, free from his ghastly presence, she could focus on the third question.
From the safety of her stronghold she allowed herself one indulgence: a search for her son, who had gone exploring these last few centuries. The sole immortal born to her. All was well with him, Amyntas be praised. In body and spirit, all was well with him.
Write your mother, will you?
This thought she imprinted upon his spirit, wistful rather than commanding. Let her loving voice come to him in a quiet moment. Let it keep him up at night, until he should indeed send word to her as to how he fared.
This done, she contemplated the priorities before her now. Now she knew beyond all doubt the gods were the primary targets of this Long War. A war begun long before she herself first drew breath in the Cosmos.
To better suit her needs, Nensela altered her stronghold somewhat. The lower level retained its appearance as the temple of the Seeker. Now she added a second level, which resembled her childhood home. Familiar shelter, shelter she sought even in her dreams—yes, she understood this dance.
It was here that she received her guest.
“I don’t believe I’ve heard of you,” he said. He stood in the center of her library, turning and turning as he took in the breadth of volumes housed in her codex cases. The library had been built in the Octagon, what her father called the tower where he kept his volumes of scrolls, and later, codices. Its eight walls all bore niches that housed the cases.
Nensela’s father had been born after the First Cataclysm. The knowledge he had accumulated in the thousands of years from that day until this day could not fail to awe her guest, who had once been mortal. And of course, in his day, there had been no such thing as a codex. Scrolls served as repositories of knowledge in his day. Scrolls, or inscriptions in stone or clay.
Nensela smiled at her guest. She carried two wine cups, one of which she offered to him. “No, you would not have heard of me, Nimlot of Athyr-ai. I did not exist in your lifetime.”
Nimlot eyed the wine in his cup. Its golden color signaled that it was honey wine before his tongue informed him of that fact. As a native of Athyr-ai he no doubt expected the wine of date fruits or raisins. But he smiled after his first sip.
“Nensela,” he purred. “You’re Ta-Setian. I wept when your people conquered my Gate.”
Slaves did not attend Nensela here, nor sworn servants. But at a gesture from her, a small citruswood table appeared before them, laden with a tray of dainties and small foods. Nensela had stocked hers with treats from the lands she once visited or passed through. Lands Nimlot might only have heard of—or not.
It amused her. They didn’t need to eat. But in Erebossa, those who had been inquisitive in life seized the opportunity to have experiences unavailable to them in their living years. She edged a plate of bread slices over to him. The slices were topped with cheese made from sheep’s milk, and quince paste.
Nensela replied, “I weep that I was not yet born. I did not see this conquest happen. I am told it was glorious. But, your sorrow moves me, Great Architect: to spend the flower of your youth on an endeavor, to spend your blood and your sweat and your treasure to bring it to fruition … only to have it snatched away at the peak of your success! Yes, I would weep with you, for such sorrow.”
Nimlot’s mouth twitched. His hooded eyes and bushy eyebrows must have made him look half asleep to everyone who met him when he was alive. In Erebossa, he was no longer wizened and bent with age. Now here he stood anew, strong and straight, a man in his prime.
“Am I remembered now? In your time, do they know that it was I who built the Gate?”
He tasted the quince. What did it do to him? Nensela wondered. To summon a ghost, one must pour out libations of milk and honey and wine. The spirits drank it eagerly, as she’d observed, for the libations permitted them to regain their fleshly forms, if only for a little while.
But on this side of Erebossa, what did happen to the spirits of the dead, when the spirits sampled the delights of the living world? Could taste and sensation invade their senses? What senses did they have? Did he taste every bit of the sweetness of quince? The sharp kick of the sheep-milk cheese? Was the honey wine like ambrosia to him?
Nensela shook her head. She had no time for those questions. “Ahh, fame. For some—I suppose these are the people who matter—some do revere, the name of the man who built the Karnassus Gate. For some you are but a note in the margins. Many, many more know nothing of you, that you ever lived. Your Gate still stands. Others do not.”
Nimlot’s bushy eyebrows flew up. “Others?”
She had him there. “The Xia Gate came after yours. Was that land known to you? It is far across the Gold Sea. Try this bread roll, the people of Xia make it with lotus seeds … the Cloud Gate was built in a land not known of in your age, as I understand it. That Gate remains, as well as yours. It is far to the North.
“But Anshan had one. Did your people fight Anshan, in your living days? I think only a skirmish or two … yes, the rice and barberries come from them. The rice is golden because they make it with saffron … Pelasgos built a Gate, and it, too, is lost. I do not believe your people had dealings with the Tartessians. They would have been of no account in your time, and are far to your west. But I think Athyr-ai did treat with the people of the Riftwater; which is to the east, in the midst of the Gold Sea. That is the place where the Sea Lord left this world, ah, before both our times!”
Nimlot had made several encouraging noises throughout her chatter. Now his eyes gleamed. “But no Gate for Ta-Seti!” he crowed. “My revenge, then, it was effective?”
Nensela suppressed a pitying glance. “My dear Architect, your suicide was in service to your people, was it not? I’m told they remembered it that way, in the generations after your death. That you would die before betraying the secrets of the Gate is to be expected of a man loyal to his people. I … know what it is to choose death over aiding an enemy.”
Nimlot, his cheeks puffed with the savories she was feeding him, swallowed hard. His heavy eyelids lowered to slits as he peered at her.
At last he asked, “How did you come to be here? A Ta-Setian does not lightly die.”
“I am not dead,” she said simply. “But I might die. I might, without your help.”
Nimlot stepped away from the table. His eyes swept the room, flitting from one codex to the next. His wistful expression told on him. Yes, Nensela thought, what would he have given to have the knowledge contained in these manuscripts? In his living years, the library would have been a treasure without price.
But his time had ended. By his choice, by his hand, it had ended. Truly, as a mortal, he would have been fated to end up in Erebossa all the same. As far as the world was concerned—those very few who knew his name at all—Nimlot of Athyr-ai was past tense.
But if Nensela offered him the free reign of the library, he might take it. Inquisitive souls … but here the knowledge in her manuscripts could only edify himself. Alive, Nimlot had possessed a drive to be of service to others. The Karnassus Gate was his monument, his obelisk, one not meant for a king, but rather for a builder.
Nimlot rounded on Nensela. He fixed a cool stare upon her. “How old are you, Ta-Setian? What has passed? Is Athyr-ai free now, of your people? Have we conquered you in turn?”
Nensela allowed herself a small smile. “As Athyr-ai sought once, to conquer the Dracans? The Dracans are no more. Athyr-ai remains. It is but a vassal of a power that did not exist when either of us were born. Shall I tell you of the power that seeks to conquer Thuraia itself?”
Nimlot’s eyes grew large. For once he appeared to be wide, wide awake. Nensela told him then, of her quest. When she finished, the man was bouncing giddily on his feet, in the way of an excited child raring to go on a long-expected outing.
“Yes,” he breathed. He rubbed his hands together with undisguised glee. “Yes. I will do this thing you ask, Nensela of Ta-Seti. Let us begin.”
Nensela bowed her head to him, in the way of a student to her teacher. In this way she obtained the answers to her third question, concerning the gates and how to master them.
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Darkness never left them. Outside of the fortress, the snowstorm spent its fury. In its wake it left behind mountains of snow, an expanse surrounding the fortress.
But the darkness remained.
So also did the howling winds.
Initially, the newest residents believed desolation reigned over the surrounding lands. Then came the cessation of the snowstorm, which permitted the group to hear the eerie howls of wolves calling to each other.
It might be supposed those howls made a better alternative to the complete silence hanging over the empty halls. The wailing winds, reminiscent of ghostly lamentations, brought to the newest residents thoughts of their dead.
And though they enjoyed respite from the storm, persistent breezes waxed strong, carrying ceaseless whispers on their currents. Whispers just quiet enough, and sporadic enough, that one could suppose the voices were imagined.
But the voices were always clear, and their words never went astray.
You cannot save her …
“Be silent,” Edana rasped beneath her breath.
Sharp glance from Bessa, who gave her a long look before she righted an overturned chair and sat on it. All the better to unfurl a relatively short scroll.
They worked in the library—so named by Bessa, on account of the many scrolls scattered about the room. Someone had taken the bulk of the scrolls, but Great Sower help them, one of these scrolls, might give them guidance on how to enter the Royal Ward.
Maybe.
Perhaps.
Edana cleared her throat and returned to her sorting. Illiterate in the language of the scrolls, she skimmed the volumes in her current bucket in search of certain glyphs. According to Selàna particular, symbols referred to place names such as a town or a building. Others would refer to certain government officials. Short scrolls fell to Edana to examine, along with Bessa and Alia.
They stacked the thicker, longer scrolls on four tables arranged in a square in the vast room. These they reserved for Selàna, the only one among them who could read the language. Already at the east table Selàna was busy, her pointer finger running down the length of a long document.
“It’s noon in Elamis,” Alia announced.
Standing nearest to the high windows dominating the western side of the library, she was almost completely shrouded in shadows. Underscoring all the more how unnatural the sky above the fortress.
Even more, in Alia’s right hand she held a fancy device. A pocket watch, she had called it, protected in a gold case fashioned to look like a peony. Lovely and practical both, and far more advanced than any of the pocket sundials Edana had ever used. Just as well, for the sun did not avail itself to them.
“Yet wherever Zanbil is, it’s still dark outside,” Edana replied. Beside her chair, a round fruitwood table served as the base for her discard pile. Unfortunately, the scroll in her hands proved as useless as the others. Onto the table it went. “Dark when you say it’s noon, and dark when you say it’s midnight. On at least one of those occasions we ought to have seen daylight here. Bessa, didn’t the writers of your travelogues claim that in the Far North, there are lands where the sun vanishes for months at a time?”
“Yessss,” Bessa drawled. “And they speak of how lovely the stars are, and how brightly the moon shines. Such delights are kept well-hidden from us here.”
An observation, not a complaint. Take the statement thus, and refrain from snapping back, Edana told herself. Keeping her tone mild she said, “True. This is the third time Alia said it’s noon. Waiting for daylight is looking less and less viable, as options go. We have glowlights, we have firestones, and a means of concealing our activity until we get to the Royal Ward. What I’m concerned about then is how to pass through the bubble.”
Because the bubble obviously served a purpose, and its persistent existence strongly hinted its purpose was not complete. From what they could tell, it never dimmed, it never vanished,
At that moment Tregarde and Sheridan burst into the room, stomping their boots and making audible noises of relief. Edana fixed an expectant gaze upon them.
Without their gryphons, they had no effective means of scouting. But in Elamis Alia had retrieved the leafbird Tregarde had given her. Here and now, Tregarde used it as a scout, sending it to fly about the area surrounding the complex they were calling “the gate fortress.” Through its eyes, he could get a better sense of what lay to their north.
“Report?” Edana asked.
Tregarde’s coat flapped against his boots as he stalked over to the brazier in the center of the room. By tacit agreement they relied on elemental heat rather than the firestones they’d brought. Without sunlight to reactivate the heat in a spent firestone, they must keep the stones in reserve. Tregarde removed his gloves and began vigorously rubbing his hands over the fire.
“So here’s a thought to keep you up in the dark: why is this place outside the bubble? Any ideas?”
The look on his face caught their attention. Gone was any trace of his customary levity. In its place was something shadowed and somber.
Sighing heavily, Bessa rubbed her neck. Since coming to Zanbil they’d made sleeping pallets on the cold, hard floor. Life without a well-feathered mattress made for persistent aches and cramps, a hardship Bessa had never experienced before. Privately, Edana mused she herself had slept on relatively softer ground during her trek through the Scrubs, after the massacre of her caravan.
“Do we need dark thoughts in a place like this?” Bessa snapped.
Unspoken was the reason why they all stayed together in the so-called library. Why none of them were ever alone, except for when attending to bodily functions. And even then someone was always to keep watch over the doors.
“We need to reckon with this,” Tregarde insisted. “Daylight isn’t an option. I sent my leafbird flying high. And it got dashed to pieces. Maybe it’s just as well we don’t have our gryphons, because there might not be a sky above our heads.”
Alia joined him beside the brazier. Looking up at him she asked, “So are we in a secondary bubble?”
But at this Tregarde only shrugged off his coat, and set it aside on another empty chair. It fell to Sheridan to answer her.
“Maybe. From what we could tell, the leafbird came too close to a barrier. One we can’t see, but clearly exists, because the moment the bird came near it, it flew apart.”
Edana paused. Goodness. The Conservationists were determined and thorough.
“We shall not fly high, then,” she said. “Well enough we are without the gryphons. Is that the only knowledge your bird gained for us, Tregarde?”
He spun on his feel to face her. “Did I mention the chasm? Oh, I didn’t? Yes, so the road leading between here and the bubble is cut off about three miles out from here. Wide enough you can’t jump across, deep enough you’ll take days to die when you fall in. But should you overcome that small problem, there’s about thirty miles left of road to travel to the domed city.”
Various plans died a quick death in Edana’s mind, as a new objective came to mind. Aloud she said, “Hm. The drawing I found when we came here suggested Zanbil is not precisely a city-state. That it was more of a tiny country, with farmland and villages surrounding the capital. Did your bird find any remnants of this? Any sign of life at all?”
“Of human life? Or the Salamandra? No, and no. Curious, wouldn’t you say?”
The bubble was meant to preserve life. To be outside of it was thus to die. In the cold. And the dark. A brutal fate for the Unification faction. Were they the source of the whispers on the wind?
An idea she would like to dismiss. But too well she remembered huddling against her father’s body, surrounded by a multitude of corpses.
“The effects of the bubble and the barrier make plain the intentions of those who erected them. If the Royal Ward is in the bubble, and no one can leave the bubble, then no one can come here. That’s what gates do: they keep intruders out, but sometimes they’re meant to keep inhabitants in. Should anyone make it out, there’s the chasm you spoke of. The Conservationists might have gambled that keeping the Unificationists away from the portal room was the key to thwarting them,” Edana speculated. “So the question, then, is what went wrong.”
The question apparently startled Selàna, for she abruptly looked up from her task, and for the first time spoke without being spoken to first. “Why must something have gone wrong?”
“Because the night remains endless. Because the bubble still exists. And we are four hundred and fifty years beyond the event that brought them into existence. Why? Surely, both combatants in that fight are dead? It would not have taken more than a year, I think, for the Unificationists to die if they were outside the bubble. Or die in prison if they were inside the bubble. So why is it still up?”
Unlike Tregarde, Sheridan did not warm himself by the fire. He remained in the doorway, looking out into the corridor. Standing guard.
Inside the fortress, they kept the darkness at bay with fires they kept lit in torches and lamps on the walls. These served as markers for the territory they had explored thus far. Sometimes; however, an errant breeze would snuff out a light …
Seeing Sheridan reminded Edana, yet again, that they needed to move on. They needed to advance.
Bessa eyed Tregarde as she unfurled yet another scroll in her bucket. “As a sorcerer, does our situation make sense to you? If you wanted to make such a spell as was placed over Zanbil, how would you go about it? And if you wanted to counter such a spell, what would you do? The chasm suggests to me that whoever might come across it wouldn’t have a pegasus, or gryphons, or dragons. Nor would they have access to a teleportation staff for some reason. You are a sorcerer in exactly that situation, so what would you do?”
Tregarde laughter was rich and deep. “Oh, you do my old masters proud! Once more I am a student, put on the spot after napping in class.” This time when he chafed his hands he did so with an air of good humor. “Let’s figure here. Start with, there must have been Unification sorcerers, too. Agree? So all the problems I mentioned? They didn’t solve them. If it were simple to solve them, there wouldn’t have been any point to the tactics used against them. Maybe they were left in the dark to force them to surrender. They surrendered. They get let into the city. But then they resume fighting inside, only this time everyone died. No one left to get rid of the bubble.”
Despite the fire, cold air prickled at the back of Edana’s neck. Unquiet spirits. Had she brought them all to a massive tomb instead of a city?
“That’s one option,” she conceded. “But my objective remains unchanged. I came here to find out about gates. The bubble stands in our way. How do we get through it?”
Tregarde’s lips twitched. “And the chasm? You’re not concerned about the chasm?”
“You have telekinesis. Your bird was able to fly over the chasm. If the bird can fly over, that means no spell is warding the chasm from those who want to cross it.”
“Ahh. And that brings us back to my question about the bubble, and what it might be used to do.”
Edana’s heart sank as realization struck her. “We, too, are in a bubble?”
“No. But every egress in the walls of this fortress are covered with a shield. I suspect when we do leave this fortress, it will not be in the usual way.”
Inwardly Edana groaned. Of course her mission was not easy. Why would it be? But she had come here, and they had followed—not by her choice—but she would accept the responsibility of getting them out of the fix they were in.
She pointed to another overturned bucket, in a corner of the room. “We’re looking for scrolls that speak of the Royal Ward. It is my belief that somewhere here is a portal to someplace there. From what I can tell the people of Zanbil were given to extravagance. Moonbow steel coins? These are people with expensive tastes. This portal fortress is within a half day’s walk of the capital, and I am skeptical a king or an official would not want to arrive here sooner for the sake of important business.”
Before the sorcerer could reply, Bessa added, “When we met her, Alia told us she found objects hidden by sorcery in the office of a wicked sorcerer who was abducting dryads. In Zanbil of all places what is the likelihood nothing crucial was hidden in a similar way?”
“Ah, then that’s where I come in,” Tregarde said, rising from his chair. “I have to map out the fortress anyway. I’ll look for teleportation sigils or mirrors, and whatever else might lend itself to that purpose.”
Alia grabbed his arm, stopping him. He blinked in surprise, but she faced the group when she said, “Take no more than two hours before you return here. Starting tomorrow, all explorations must end at noon, Elamis time.”
“Why?” Edana asked. The more time they spent exploring, the quicker they would find what they were searching for.
Alia gestured toward the brazier. “We don’t have endless reserves of fuel. As much as we need to keep the torches lit … we need to keep the torches lit. We can’t burn them at all hours. During what we will consider daylight, we will set them alight. But after, we need to snuff them out.”
“Ohhh,” Bessa silently mouthed.
A sensible decree, and one that renewed Edana’s determination to escape the fortress.
“Consider it so, good huntress,” Tregarde agreed.
He took himself off, and Sheridan followed. Before doing so; however, the young huntsman stared for a long moment at Selàna. For a moment he seemed about to say something, but apparently thought the better of it. He shut the door firmly behind himself, as if to secure the women inside the room.
Edana suspected Sheridan was pondering their need to figure out how to defend against Rahqu. But that task was outside of her field of expertise, so she would leave the matter to the venatori. Here and now she must apply herself to her own tasks.
The women worked in silence at first, pouring over each scroll as carefully and thoroughly as possible.
But in the silence the whispers returned.