Mud, Page 5

  No. Don’t let it in. My throat tightens and constricts and I strain to shut it out. But something tells me it was always there, already a part of me.

  And then suddenly the image scratches and rips and there is nothing but cold where he stood.

  My panic is flat and tasteless in my mouth like ash. Who is he? Where did he go?

  Wisps and pieces of him fly around me like lost pages from an old book. I reach to a tree and cling onto it for support, digging my fingers in as tight as I can. I try to catch the cast off pieces of the boy’s image.

  What did Ceil do to me? Why am I here? My fingers press into the tree so hard my skin is beginning to rub away against the bark. I force my hand to relax and let go. I turn again, trying to find the boy. As I move I am caught in a storm of apparitions—the rumble of carts wheels, a cheerful rabble of voices. It is a town, somewhere close by. The jovial community fills the boy with quivering anger, and his anger is inside me.

  I stop. Try to hold onto the feeling long enough to understand it. To find the boy again. But wind blows through, the pages shuffle, the moment is lost in another rush of flashing moments shuffling past. I scramble to catch what I can—a high laugh floats through the forest branches—a bouquet of spring wildflowers, curling in on itself as the buds rot and blacken—a necklace around a girl’s neck, a simple gold chain with a large uncut emerald dangling from it—and I don’t catch the rest because the box quivers in my pocket, a wild trembling pull toward the girl with the necklace. It’s twisting, crying for her.

  I clap my palm over it through the pocket. Trap it tight in my fist and try to force it into submission, my hands trembling. And there is an urgency in my gut, something telling me I need to understand. But it is too little, it is too much, I can’t put it together.

  “Do you study magic?”

  The voice is warm and inviting like honey, whispering just over my shoulder. I whip around to face it, but there’s nothing there.

  My temples buzz with a rapid thud-thud-thud-thud too loud to think. I strain for more, but the vision leaks at its edges like a blurred watercolor. Like it’s all about to dissolve. But it can’t, I don’t understand yet.

  The forest floor rumbles, the stones rattle against it, begin to rise.

  From behind me, I sense a soft rosy glow, the flutter of gentle wings.

  The voice again, “What is your name?”

  I whip around, almost catch it this time, but my foot snags on something and I fall, down, down, down past the ground and into darkness.

  ****

  I’m thrown back to the tent with a hot rush of smoke and biting embers.

  When I open my eyes, Ceil is waiting.

  “Did you find your answer?”

  The question ignites a sudden anger in me. I found nothing but wisps and bursts too thin to hold.

  “Who is the boy? And that girl?” I growl. The strange floating laugh plays back in my head. “Why did you send me there?”

  Ceil looks down. Shakes his head. “You held onto the wrong question.”

  The rage swells in me. I whip out the box. “My box. It was connected to them somehow. What do you know?”

  Ceil darts backward as far as he can while sitting. “Put that away,” he snaps. “By the Gods, keep that thing away.”

  Something in the sharpness of his voice makes me look at him closer. His eyes are tense and his hand is outstretched to shield himself, fingers trembling.

  He knows what it is. At least, as much as I do. And he is right to be afraid.

  But as I study him, it comes back to me like a bud emerging from the earth. Ceil had something to tell me about the Underworld. And the woman is out there somewhere. The box is not what matters right now. I will be free of it soon anyway, if I do as Kythiel asks. And this man can help me, he says.

  I slowly pull in my arm and tuck the box back into my cloak pocket. Ceil relaxes and leans back in toward the fire.

  “We must try a different way,” he says. He pauses, pursing his lips in reflection. Then he looks back to me. “Do you know the parable of the Three Trees?”

  I have to shut my eyes to search my mind, block out the tent. The Text comes to me.

  “In the Beginning, the Three Gods planted three seeds. From them grew three trees. Each tree was different, but they grew together in harmony.

  “The first tree was a tree of true light. To it came the first creatures of Theia. The second tree was a tree of shadow and sanctuary. It offered rest and refuge to Gloros’ sprites, and the strange things of the abyss beyond. The third tree lay between the first and second, changing often like the temporal mortal creatures it sheltered. To it also came Shael’s daemons. The three trees grew together for many years. Their roots and branches intertwined and their creatures kept company together beneath them. Until one day—”

  “Very good, that is enough,” he says. “But there’s more the Texts don’t say.”

  My throat tightens. The Texts’ story is a dark one. All was well until one day a creature of the first tree asked for a fruit from the middle tree. When the Three denied him, he took the fruit for himself. He told others how delicious it was, and boasted of how he had defied the Gods and gotten away with it. Many of the others began trying other fruits too.

  Soon the craving for it consumed him, and the others. The trees were depleted by the increased demand, and could no longer sustain the needs of their own creatures. The trees began to wilt away. To save them, the Three ripped the trees from the ground and separated them, and build great walls around each so the creatures would not break free to steal fruit from the others. Some creatures fled to another tree before the walls were up, but the other trees’ fruit could not sustain them, and they went mad from the hunger.

  I’ve never liked this story.

  But what more could there be to tell? The Texts are everything. That’s why it’s the Texts.

  “What do you mean?” I ask. I’m not sure I want to know.

  Ceil glances away. Small lit ashes float through the tent’s thick smoke, snapping and hissing. He leans toward me on his hand, almost touching the flames.

  “There was a creature of the first tree who followed the Three’s orders when the trees separated, but could not forget the sweetness of the middle tree no matter how many years passed. His desire for it made him forget all else. He never stopped trying to break free of the wall, and finally he forced his way through. The divide between the first tree and the middle tree was weakened by it, and it threatens the peace.”

  The fire is filling the enclosed tent with smoke and flecks of ash. Ceil’s eyes cut through it, sharp and bright and focused. He shoves his words onto me.

  “If the walls suffer more breaks, they will crumble. If the walls crumble, it will all begin again.” He leans toward me over the fire. “Do you understand?”

  The rhythm of Ceil’s voice lulls into silence, the only sound the crackling of the fire. Smoke crowds around him and the fire’s angry light shifts across his face in harsh dancing streaks, hiding, and attacking him in strange pieces. His eyes lift and lock with mine, hold me captive.

  No. I do not understand. There is something behind Ceil’s words that I am not grasping.

  I shake my head.

  He purses his lips into a thin line. Presses further.

  “There is another. A creature that belongs to none of the trees and none of the Gods. This creature holds the power to contain the discord. But if he is not careful, he could tear the walls down and unleash the chaos.”

  Smoke fills my lungs and sways the walls. The small white flames swallow me.

  “Adem.”

  The force of Ceil’s voice snaps me back to myself. Did I tell him my name? I look across to him. Small beads of sweat collect along his lip and run from his brow.

  “You were not seen in this. One thread can alter the entire tapestry. If you disrupt the Order, not even fate’s masters know where it might lead.”

  The fire reflects off Ceil’s eyes and ma
kes them a whipping torrent, dark pits hollow beneath them.

  “Do you understand?”

  Smoke swirls around my head. Distorts the room. Flecks of ash bite at my cheeks. The ground still spins and dips. Ceil’s eyes plead with me as if the fate of the world is in my hands.

  “Do you understand?”

  I don’t. I’m wracking every corner of my mind, but every time I hit a wall.

  Anger clouds inside me, words shoot out from me like lightening. “What did you bring me here for?”

  I was just following the woman, just passing through. And now he’s held me back and weighed me down with meaningless stories and strange visions. Now my mind is clouded and confused, and I’ve lost her. It’s like a gaping hole right through my middle, a hole that was almost filled and now never will be.

  Ceil’s eyes are still on me wide and desperate and unblinking, unfazed by my rage. He stares at me as if he is planting his words in my head, begging me to understand. But my mind is barren and cannot make anything of it.

  Ceil shakes his head. “I cannot give you any more. There are ears and eyes everywhere. Think. Who is the creature of the first tree, Adem? And who is the creature outside the walls? Think.”

  The creature of the first tree? How could I know? What could it matter? The Texts say nothing of who.

  And this creature on the outside. What could I possibly know of him? A creature that belongs to nothing in these realms. Walled out in the darkness while all the rest are enclosed with their trees. Never once is such a thing mentioned in the Texts. And yet this creature pulls at me, tugs at my chest, clings in my brain.

  Then it clicks.

  “It’s me.”

  I’m the thing trapped outside. All my life, just outside it all. Locked out from all that surrounds me. Somehow, I am this creature, and I can’t bear it.

  I look back to Ceil. “You’ve got to help me. I have to get in. How do I get in?”

  As I speak I reach out to grip his shoulder, but he flinches away.

  “Yes, but—that’s not—”

  The heavy smoke presses around the very walls of the tent, crowding, squeezing, and smothering. I have to get in. Ceil takes a deep breath. He tries again.

  “Kythiel is not—”

  But before he can finish he starts to cough. It grows and grows until his entire body is convulsing, and he is forced onto his hands, slouched forward over the fire.

  It stops as suddenly as it began; Ceil’s body whips bolt straight. His eyes are glazed and white, his face slackened.

  “Did I tell you to consult the prophets, golem?” It is not Ceil’s voice. It is strange, twisted, and somehow familiar. Despite the fire’s heat, it turns my skin cold.

  It’s Kythiel.

  “Our pact does not concern him. It does not concern the gods. Do not meddle in these things, for you cannot understand them. Get on your way to the sea. Try this again, and he will not survive it.”

  Ceil’s body drops to the ground in a heap. My chest hollows, a vacuum of panic. In a heartbeat, I am at his side, pressing my ear to his chest. I listen. The tent spins and the dull thudding of my brain is growing, but under it, a soft steady rhythm. His heart still beats. He will be okay.

  I stand, stare down at him. I should leave before any more harm comes to him.

  I turn and lift the dizzying pattern of the tent’s door. A cool breeze accosts me from out in the night.

  “Wait.”

  He’s awake already. I stop and turn back to him. He forces himself up.

  “One more thing,” he looks at me through strained eyes. “The boy must live.”

  My mind clouds, an impenetrable fog. Again, I do not understand. But I can’t afford questions. I must go. Already I’ve wasted too much precious time.

  I nod and leave, dropping the dizzying pattern of the tent door behind me.

  Chapter 8

  THE HUSH’S DUST, soot, and dingy desperation cling to me. It weighs down the cloak on my back, sticks in my eyes, and clings to my skin. My thoughts are becoming clouded and constricted by it.

  Ceil’s words twist in my head. I shove them aside.

  Where did the woman go?

  I should never have let Ceil stop me. I should have kept following her. All he gave me was a knot of strange images I can’t untangle. Now Kythiel is angry, my time running out. And, I’ve lost her, with no way to catch up this time.

  The night is old and the Hush is thinning. The sky isn’t lightening yet, but it will start soon. As I weave through the covered faces, my eyes dart to each of them, searching for a hint of her red hair, though I don’t expect her to still be here. Something in me aches to see her again, reminds me of the empty hole that cuts through my core.

  I pause at the cross section where the hoods and masks turn back in toward the city. I turn the opposite direction, toward the wall, unsure where I am headed. She must have returned to her quarters by now like all the others. Beyond the Hush alleys, beyond the temples, up against the horizon, the wall dips in and out of sight between the towers. I wander without thinking, weaving through the streets and side alleys until I find myself in front of it.

  The wall. The divide between Epoh and the wasteland. Between torture and freedom. Order and chaos. Between a life in the shadows and a soul.

  I wonder what’s left out there now, beyond it. Do I dare find out?

  I reach out my hand and run my fingers over it. Smooth concrete, at least three stories high. If I were to do this, where would I even start? I turn and look up. The tired buildings here aren’t close enough or tall enough to make the leap. But the towers ahead, the ones the laborers sleep in, are the highest. Tightly packed cells, stories and stories high. Perhaps one of these would get me over. If I choose to try.

  I’m already out of my temple. What harm is there in finding out?

  The moon is sinking and the sky is beginning to lighten, but the sun isn’t showing itself yet. The quiet between the Hush and the Silencers falls, the emptiness of dampened twilight. Epoh sleeps.

  It’s a long walk to the residential district. I try to take smooth, fast strides. Still no sign of her. Not that I expect to find her now, so close to morning. As I walk, I drag my hand across the cement wall behind me. The friction releases a tense whisper in my wake. Dust and grime that has packed in over the years loosens and sticks to my skin until my fingers are smooth with fine debris. The sharp rocks that line the ground against the wall crunch under my feet.

  As the towering buildings of the laborers’ district get closer, I can see some of the buildings have stairs snaking up their backs to the roof. One near the edge must be five, six stories tall. Plenty for me to clear the wall.

  I trudge on, keeping my eye on its dark silhouette against the graying sky.

  The night is silent except for the rustle of my steps. Shadows lie in wait at every corner. Though the shoddy apartments are dark and quiet, I jump at every brush of the wind. I’ve become too comfortable in my one-room world. Maybe I should just go back to it. It’s not too late.

  But then, tap, tap, tap.

  It is clear and crisp in the dull dusk. Silencers’ boots on the pavement. Far away, yet. But coming closer. And from the cluttered rhythm of it, there’s several of them.

  Panic shoots through my gut like cold metal and I freeze in my tracks. For a moment, I am sure they are hunting for me—no one escapes—before I remember they don’t know I exist within their walls.

  Somewhere a sharp whisper pricks at my core from out of the fading darkness, the opposite direction from the Silencers. It washes over me in a forceful wave: I am not the only one thinking about escape tonight.

  ****

  Silencers are on the hunt, and they’re getting closer. I need to get out of sight. The escapers are close too; I could hear it in the whisper. Between the Silencers and the escapers, I’ll take the escapers. I pick an alley, dark and narrow, and duck into the shadows.

  Just in time—the tapping of boots and the swoosh of a Silenc
er’s cloak pass by my alley, striding down the street I was just on.

  I press against the cool stone of the building behind me and let out a slow, relieved breath. That was close. But I have to keep going. I glance around, try to figure out my next move.

  And that’s when I see it: at the other end of the block, a hooded figure flinches, and ducks behind a pile of crates. No, not a hood, a scarf. A gray scarf with a black dotted pattern. A tuft of red escapes from the side.

  Relief floods though me. I can’t believe it, I found her.

  I am pulled down the alley toward her like I’m caught in a current, weaving through the darkness, across another street and into the alley she’s hiding in. Behind her shadowed figure, a second pair of eyes flash at me like sparks—the boy is with her.

  In the back of my mind, I track the tap-tap-tapping of Silencers’ boots all around us. One is rounding a corner, turning down the street toward us, again just on my tail.

  I move slowly to keep from scaring them too much; my hands up and spread to show I mean no harm. All the same, they tense and start as I approach. The woman jumps to her feet but the Silencer is just steps away. I push her back down and crouch next to her and the boy. I press my fingers to my lips. They stare at me wide-eyed, but then the Silencer passes by, and they stay put.

  They each have a pack strapped to their backs, pressed tight against the side of the building. The boy’s face is clean of the blood that poured from it yesterday morning. Dark, swollen bruises have taken its place under each eye and across his nose.

  Heat rushes to my cheeks. So long I’ve watched them from so far away. And now her eyes lock directly with mine as we listen for the Silencer’s steps. The Silencer’s steps fade as he passes by, and we all relax a little.

  How were they going to get over the wall? Could they even survive the jump down? The woman has a thick coil of rope rolled around her shoulder. Suddenly it all makes sense. She must have paid sorely for this in the Hush, even more to ensure the seller’s secrecy. Though it seems fear won out over greed tonight.

  Is there anything to secure the rope to on top of the wall? I doubt it. Surely, she’s thought of this. Then desperation is a strange thing.