Mud, Page 4

  I walk through space where Kythiel paced, confessing his story to me.

  Ascend the rotting stairs.

  I pause at the door and listen—nothing. Look past it into the sanctuary. It’s empty. I hope the woman was able to finish her ritual, even if the gods aren’t listening anymore. Kythiel said he used their prayer to cross over, so maybe someone bothered to listen.

  Past the sanctuary to the winding stairs to my tower. Just get to the tower.

  Golem.

  A word I thought I’d escaped long ago. A word that burns through me like hot coals on flesh.

  Kythiel’s request taps at my mind and begs to be let out. But I can’t. Not yet. Get to the tower. I move quickly up step after creaky step.

  Golem.

  The thoughts leak out over everything, oozing, dripping the truth I thought I’d escaped.

  I am nothing. I am less than nothing. Dirt.

  It’s why I hide, why I stay in the shadows. I never fit with the humans. It didn’t take long to learn to stay separate from them. To stay alone.

  Gritty grains of dirt cling to my feet and between my toes. I faintly sense the return of the thick, dusty air as the rotating stairs take me higher. I breathe it in.

  I wouldn’t have to live like this anymore. I could stop being alone and be one of them. If I can hold up my end of this deal.

  If I can do the impossible.

  The enormity of Kythiel’s request hangs around me. Is this something I can do? Is this something I want to even try? The Texts warn over and over against breaking the Three’s Order. There are legends. Myths. Stories of men who have tried to raid the Underworld. Tried and failed, all of them. And paid the price.

  Men who spend eternity suffering for their efforts, trapped in the Underworld never to return. There’s no way to know if they are true.

  But maybe it doesn’t matter. Those are human myths, human attempts. Maybe Kythiel is right. Maybe, without a soul, I can do what they cannot. He must believe it, to hunt me down as he did. Reeking of desperation.

  If he’s right, if I succeeded, I could leave all this. Just place the box on the mantle and walk away. Find a people somewhere far from here, if there are any others left outside the wall. Find a home. I could live out the rest of my short, free life until finally, finally I leave this world.

  I’ve reached the top of the tower. Except for the light breaching the window, my comfortable prison is just as I left it.

  ****

  The sun is starting to come out, and so are the Silencers. They stride through the street, eye the shopkeepers as they roll out their carts and set up, wobbly wheels stuttering on the cobblestone. Then, the laborers come again for their morning meals and other errands.

  Every day is the same.

  Every day except this one.

  Because I watch and watch, aching for distraction from Kythiel’s looming request, but the redheaded boy and the woman aren’t there.

  I’m not the only one watching for them. The Silencer from yesterday is out again, pacing the street near the cart she goes to most, craning over the crowds and grinding his sharp jaw. I look around. There are more Silencers than usual today. They’re hovering in corners and against the tower walls and next to carts, standing stiffly as the morning crowd draws around them. Their eyes flit to the one from yesterday, the jaw-clencher, as if waiting for a sign. Waiting for the woman to show up. Each glance, each shift of their feet pierces through me, and I search the crowds for their gleaming red hair.

  But they don’t come.

  The morning crowd dies down into quiet and I find myself in a puddle of relief. But where are they?

  In the street the Silencer kicks at a shopkeeper’s cart, narrows his eyes at the tall towers where the laborers sleep. They’re somewhere inside Epoh’s walls, they have to be, and the Silencer will find them eventually. When he does, they’ll pay for all of this.

  The other Silencers leave, but the jaw-clencher stays through the evening when the market closes. Finally, the shopkeepers are rolling their carts away. Only when the streets are totally empty does he finally trudge down the street toward the city’s center.

  Dark falls, and I am left with only Kythiel’s words lurking around me, waiting for me to choose.

  Now is the time to decide, but I keep staring at the street, unable to look it in the eye.

  It should be easy. How many times have I thought about how I would give anything to break free of this life? But can I bear to leave this place after so long? What is left out beyond the wall since the last Realm War? Is it worth the chance of being trapped in the Underworld forever?

  The security of my temple clings to me, won’t let me go.

  Outside on the street dark figures scurry through the shadows. They’re going to the only place that operates in the dark: the Hush, Epoh’s own black market.

  I let them distract me, their hunched figures darting through the night. Their faces covered with scarves and masks to hide their identity. They could be anyone.

  At least, most of them could. Another one scurries across the dark street, a bright tuft of red escaping from under a gray and black dotted scarf.

  I let go of my thoughts and snap to full attention. What is she doing out there?

  I move toward the door without thinking, a dense thudding in my head.

  I’m following her. Kythiel and his promises—and the doubts they raise—can wait.

  Chapter 6

  MY FEET RACE down and down and around the dark stairwell. I rush halfway across the sanctuary, halt, and turn to face the doors.

  Huge iron panels, tower high. They are rusted shut as if the temple were closing itself off from the hate that grew around it.

  This place has been good to me, secure and isolated. It has kept me from committing more damage than necessary, swallowed me within itself. Kept me safely locked away.

  Thick clouds are pasted across the dark sky. No moonlight breaks through the colored glass tonight. The sanctuary is dark and dull, aged in its hollowness. More like the empty place I’ve come to know.

  I’ll lose her if I don’t hurry.

  I reach for the rusted handle. The large knob is cool and rough against my palm. My fingers clench around it. I hold still as it washes over me, waves of caution, anger, and fear. They course through me in wild vibrations. Then, with a deep breath, I twist the knob and push against it with all my strength. Its achy joints screech as it slides open, filling the sanctuary and calling out a warning to the city.

  Fresh night air rushes around me. Soft. Cool. Caressing my skin. The blank light of the streetlamps’ flickering flames invades my eyes and greys my dull skin. My head throbs. I feel naked in its glare.

  I haven’t been outside this temple in ages, hardly outside my own tower room even. Blank days, white noise bustles from the market. Black staring nights of creeping shadows greet me. My feet hesitate in the doorway. I never move. Not until I have to. It’s the rule I’ve followed forever. Ever since I stopped trying to pretend I belonged among the humans. The rule has always gotten me by.

  I don’t have to do this. I don’t have to go after her. There’s hardly reason for me to go after her. The dense musky air clings to me, begs me to stay. But the thudding in my head is hard, anxious, and loud.

  So I ignore the knots twisting through me and head off into the night. My hands sting with floating awareness. The box presses into my chest from its pocket. No time to lose. She’s got a head start on me, but at this time of night, there’s only one place she could be going.

  The only sound in the dead of night is thick clouds rustling over the withering steeples, wind creaking through the tired city towers. Habit keeps me in the shadows as I make my way down the ghost town streets. It’s where I belong. Even without a single other being in sight, it feels safer here.

  I hear it before I see it. A vague rustle of muffled voices darting haphazard in the night.

  I follow the sound around a corner, and in a blink, the night turn
s from empty to overflowing.

  Just another dark alley in the center of the holy district. Except in this one, the darkness is filled with vague shapes covered in dark clothing. Someone extinguished the streetlamps’ flames, and the colors all run together into a dull blend as if wet. A live pumping heart at the holy district’s center, darkly churning.

  This is the Hush.

  Thugs. Whores. Dealers. Priests. The disturbed and the devout. Epoh’s sludge. This is what the Hush holds. The darkness rustles with these outcasts, nowhere else to go within the walls, safer in the dredge than in the daylight.

  The Silencers turn in at dark and leave it alone. This one outlet keeps the always-mounting pressure from exploding. It turns the angry into addicts, makes them forget. Its chaos keeps the rest of Epoh locked in at night in fear, and it helps them weed out the ones still trying to follow the Gods. Priests give up their sheep to save themselves. Anonymity is precious, the only protection.

  So desperate. So reckless. Maybe deep down the Silencers leave it alone out of fear. Not even the Silencers dare do anything that might disturb the Gods.

  No one shows their face here. A flood of scarves and hoods and masks bob through the street. When they talk they lean in inches from each other. I’ve never seen so many humans so quiet. Just the rustle of fabric and vague curling whispers swirl the night. They are a hidden pocket of dark people in a dark street in a dark part of the city. A Hush.

  I stop at the street’s opening, search through the mass for the woman. There’s no sign of her. The idea of pushing through this strange crowd makes my muscles twitch. My hand drifts protectively to my chest pocket where the box lies. I step back … I shouldn’t be here. This was a mistake.

  But then I see it.

  Among the masses pushing through the street, I catch the same flash of fire-red curls escaping from under a gray and black dotted scarf.

  I am pushing through the crowds after her before I can think about it, a tense fluttering in my chest pulling me after her. Something that ties me to her and the boy.

  Next to the humans, I’m a little too tall, a little too bulky, my skin a little too dull. Most of them never notice. Even fewer would in this horde, in the crowded darkness. But I do. I pull up my hood and tug it close around my face as I push through them.

  Even the air in the Hush is tight and crowded. Dingy. Dust floats through it, kicked up from the bustle, twitches in my eyes. It smells of mingling mold, spices, sweat, and smoke.

  I push slowly though the shoving silent mass, wary of every move, keeping one eye on the woman as best I can. She moves fast, and the humans swarm like a hive around me. My ears hum with fragments of low conversation, wisps that invade the silence and evaporate fast as the steam of their breaths. Why is she here? Where is she going?

  At the other end of the alley, a haggard hooded form in tattered clothing weaves wildly through the crowd, grapping at arms, and his long scraggly beard leaning in close to anyone he can reach. Against a brick wall, two forms hover over a scale, carefully measuring out a white powder that glows with brightness in this dark place. Low chants rise from a group of hooded figures bound together with rope in a circle. A woman in a featureless mask and priestess’ diadem makes eyes at me from across the alley, her hands trailing down a tight dress. Her undulating movements captivate me before I can look away and for a moment, I am caught in her gaze.

  By the time I regain my balance and look back to where the redheaded woman was, there is no sign of her. I scan the crowd, panic washing over me.

  Cold fingers wrap around my wrist and jerk away my focus. I flinch with a jolt of terror—the box. I twist toward it and am met with bloodshot eyes.

  The small haggard man I saw darting through the crowd is at my side, his face just inches from mine, most of it protected by the shadow of his hood. He straightens his hunched back as much as he can, craning up to me. So close, I can see the crumbs and debris caught in his mangled beard. His breath stinks of stale liquor. I cringe and pull away, but he tightens his grip.

  I hear his whisper this time, twisting up to me, “Choose.”

  I try to pull away. “Choose what?”

  I have to find the woman, and every second he keeps me here, she is slipping away. But his fingers tighten, jagged nails digging into my arm. “Choose,” he hisses. His arm points through the crowd, deeper into the alley. I crane to see what he does, but he’s so small there’s no chance he can see past the few figures right in front of us.

  And then I see it, it’s her, the tip of her red braid slipping away behind a corner, and I know it is what he meant me to see.

  My muscles seize in angry bursts.

  “Choose,” the strange man demands again.

  I have to get to her. I have to follow her, make sure no harm is done to her. I’ll—

  Before I can take a single step, a small warm hand slips into my free one. I flinch at the unexpected touch.

  “Leave us, Archuus.”

  The voice is a smooth, cool breeze. It is not afraid; it does not hide in the night like the others. The hunched man bares his teeth in a grimace, glaring past me, but then loosens his grip on my arm, turns, darts back into the crowd. My skin quickly closes again where his nails dug into me.

  My other hand remains enclosed in gentle warmth. I turn to it and am met with a piercing blue-green gaze. An uncovered face that stands out sorely here in the crowd of the hidden. It is worn, weathered, creased with great burdens. A body small and lithe like a child’s, too skinny. His clothes hang off him, matted down rags.

  I fight the calm he gives off, turn to walk away, to catch up to her.

  But his voice reaches to me again.

  “Come. Before you break into the Underworld, there are things you must know.”

  Prickles run down my spine. He can’t possibly know.

  He turns and walks off, my hand still firmly in his.

  I have no choice but to follow.

  Chapter 7

  DESPITE HIS ROUGH looks, he moves light as air.

  My head throbs.

  The woman, I have to turn back to her. I have to stay with her. She isn’t safe, she needs me. She shouldn’t be out here, risking herself. She should be with the boy. I twist to find her as he pulls me farther away and into the dark alley. I could help them; I know I could, if I could only get to her. She shouldn’t be out here, I must find her, I must—

  A thick cloth drops down in front of my face, cutting me off from her.

  I’ve been led into a tent. Its walls are mismatched cloths, a dizzying intricacy of once-bright colors.

  He sits cross-legged on the cement ground. A series of powders in bowls to his sides, arranged around a blackened pit chipped out from the street’s cracks, topped with small branches.

  He watches me. Careful. Intent.

  “Sit.”

  My anxiety bursts out in roars. “No! I have to go back. I’ve got to—”

  But I glance down and his eyes lock to mine again. Steady. Clear, so clear and strong. Something about him …

  “Who are you?” I ask.

  “I am Ceil,” he says. “There are things you must know, things you must understand before you go on this quest.”

  Suddenly the walls feel too close. I lunge at him, trap him against the back of the tent. My fist seizes his shirt. “How do you know?”

  He is still and calm, letting my growling voice roll over him. “The Gods showed me.”

  A prophet? A real one? My anger clouds into confusion. Is it even possible? Do the Gods still speak to anyone in this realm? Surely not.

  And yet. If I do this thing Kythiel asks of me, I will need any help someone like him can give. I relax my hands and drop them away, stumble back a step.

  “Be still,” he says, “Sit.”

  My head still pounds, but I place myself across from him, the powders and branches between us, mystified.

  Ceil pulls a tray with piles of powders on it in front of him from the side of the tent. He
starts pinching at them and smashing the powders together into his thumb.

  “The First Creatures can see and hear in ways we cannot. There are things you must know, but I cannot speak of this plainly, or I will draw his attention. Do you understand?”

  He pauses and looks up from the powders like he expects something of me. MMy mind goes blank.

  No. I don’t understand.

  But he’s still looking at me, his eyes pleading, insistent, and overfull, like he’s trying to pour what he knows into me.

  I nod. He goes on.

  “I’m going to try to give it to you in a vision,” he speaks in slow quiet syllables, but his hands work fast, still smashing powders into his thumb. “It’s the safest way. But understand, this only works if you hold strong to the question. You have to focus.”

  What is the question?

  He hunches forward, tight and tense. A bead of sweat on his brow despite the chill outside. He’s nervous.

  Suddenly, I am too.

  I follow his nimble fingers at work, smearing more and more from the bright powders into his thumb until it is dark as a deep pit.

  Something strange and uneasy trembles within me.

  Before I can say anything, he thrusts his stained thumb into my forehead, and my vision goes blank and I am thrown back, back, back, back, disappearing down a well, deep and dark and empty. My stomach drops out and my hands prickle with helplessness. Just when I start to think the fall will never end, it lurches to a stop, dropping me onto cold hard ground. For a moment, I lay there, my check pressed against crisp snow, catching my breath.

  Then I push myself up. I’ve been hurled into empty wintered woods. The only sounds are the rustling wind in the trees and the crunch of my steps in the stiff, frozen ground. As I turn to take it in my mind is accosted in flashes of vision.

  Dark hair.

  Flushed cheeks.

  A boy stands against a tree, staring out at something ahead.

  I’m not alone. A glimpse of relief but then something else begins to settle within me, darkness. It reaches out to me from the boy and curls up in my chest as if it were my own.