Sokâr (Nine Rivers Odyssey #2)
Prologue
The Attendant was Nameless, and so she was unseen.
She moved through the Jade Lattice without obstacle, her existence so insignificant that not even the guardian Reskala looked at her in passing.
Their hollow white eyes scanned for intruders—for lawbreakers.
As an Attendant, she was neither. The rich violet color of her robes, her ornate mask, and the long pointed hood resting at her back were enough to signal her right to pass.
And her limp, perhaps. All those in the Lattice knew of Her Radiance's malformed Attendant, of the way her right foot twisted inward as she walked.
Reflection: Thoughts of this are improper.
Hands do not reflect.
Hands only serve.
Correction: Think of Her Radiance. Think of duty. Meals. Linens. Her Radiance needs a new comb. Fresh Lustrals. A new supply of herbals.
With each step, the Attendant catalogued the supplies she needed to bring back to the Sokar's room this morning. The farther she moved from reflection into duty, the less her shoulders tensed.
Step by step, she moved; until the maw of the Servitor loomed above her in the inky murk of the palace.
A maze of stone tunnels, shared quarters, and ovens that never cooled.
Pillars of black marble veined with pulsing emerald light rose like guardians at an ancient gate.
On the right, an effigy to the Destroyer glared down at her with empty eyes; his clawed, malformed hand pointing to the carving of the Littany cut into the stone.
Beneath the Shields in the city of Krystopolis, all was silent. Always silent. Doctrine brooked no sound to interfere with the magic's steady humming, save for the Onyx Horns and the voices of the Holy Blood.
Such a voice echoed in the halls of the Lattices now.
Light and airy, at odds with the frigid stone and empty gaze of the effigies lining the walls.
The Sokar chanted the Litany, as she had every morning for three and fifty years since her arrival in the Endless Dark, long before the Attendant’s birth.
“The Void is impartial.
The Darkness does not take sides in judgment.
The Void guides our steps.
The Darkness cradles us.
Strength is our spine.
Silence is our freedom.
Order is our mercy.
Hail the Sovereign.
Hail the Resh.
Hail the Destroyer.”
The Attendant paused, raising her hand to touch the leather choker at her neck. The emerald gem there lay dormant, but its magic bit into her throat. Taking her voice, sealing it at birth. Never to be removed, only adjusted time to time to ensure the leather didn't choke her in her sleep.
Reflection: Memories of the Choir Mother. The Choosing of this Nameless to serve despite wrong birth. Interference at the Repurposing.
Enough reflecting.
Hands do not remember.
Hands only serve.
She limped towards the gates of the Servitor, slipping through the double doors, her broken gait slowing her pace. Yet still, she wove through rows of Attendants, not touching a single one.
Brown robes: Councilors.
Light red: So, the Companions are in attendance at the Palace.
Those Attendants bumped her shoulder on purpose in passing. One tried to trip her, but she shifted her weight below her limp. Avoided easily. One more motion, and she could have sliced his ankle with the hidden dagger at her wrist, but not today. Not this morning.
Too much commotion.
Cleaning blood from robes will hinder duty.
Her Radiance must eat. Better than the past days.
This Nameless must gather proper food this time.
None met her eyes. Attendants never looked at one another unless they chose to kill in defense of their Host’s reputation.
Mornings were too full for such squabbles.
Only the highest-ranked Attendants were excused from prayer at the Litany of Silence, bound to serve their Hosts without pause, without end.
An honor. One not to be wasted on inefficiency.
“The Void is impartial.
The Darkness does not take sides in judgment.
The Void guides our steps.
The Darkness cradles us.
Strength is our spine.
Silence is our freedom.
Order is our mercy.
Hail the Sovereign.
Hail the Resh.
Hail the Destroyer.”
The Polis crystal in the Servitor pulsed with green light in response to the sound, growing brighter and brighter with each chant.
The Attendant approached the kitchens, a wide-open chamber.
Great ovens ran hot at all hours of the day, their metal spines bowed, steam rising in spirals as Cooks mixed ingredients and crafted meals by rank to give to the Attendants.
Everything from rare meats and cheeses gracing the lavish tables of the Councilors to the most sacred of nectars for the Companions, maintaining their vast mana reserves.
Once, the Attendant believed she would be serving such creations to Her Radiance, but when she approached the tray with the Sokar’s crest and lifted the lid, she grimaced behind her mask.
Saffron. Honey. Porridge mixed well with a side of dried figs, bread, and tea. But beneath the cloying scent—iron. Oxidated. And the tang of hex magic. She dipped a finger into the porridge and touched it to her tongue.
Numbness.
Not enough to kill. Never that. But enough to weaken.
The Nameless picked up a silver spoon and scraped away the top layer.
The tea was tainted, so she discarded it entirely.
The bread was stale at the edges. She tore it open, removing the damp, warm center and rearranging it with what remained.
Setting the lid back on the tray, she noted the Cook staring at her.
Without pause, she glanced at his forearm.
Safe to report: Batcher 4034895 found to be poisoning Her Radiance’s food.
Carrying the tray, she retreated. Her jaw tightened.
Not safe to report: Next time, this Nameless will consider taking what Her Radiance needs by force. Not authorized to harm the Cook. Perhaps Batcher 4034895 has Hands that aid with his treason.
Squaring her shoulders, the Nameless proceeded to the Dripstone, a place where machines tumbled piles of linens in boiling water to clean them.
Rows of Washers in black robes and masks stood on both sides, some working their scarred hands to empty baskets of sheets into the thundering machines while others took them out and laid everything on tables for folding and drying.
An endless procession. Day and night. Day and night.
“Silence is our freedom.
Order is our mercy.
Hail the Sovereign.
Hail the Resh.
Hail the Destroyer.”
The Attendant gathered what she needed. Clean sheets, tested for foreign powder with an invisible scan of magic, napkins, towels. Those assigned to the Sokar’s crest were thin from overuse, torn at the hem. Her teeth ground together, and she tasted copper in her mouth.
She touched her hand to the ring on her thumb. A worn band of black aethersteel.
Reminder: Choir Mother’s teachings.
Hands do not feel.
Hands only serve.
Hands protect from the shadows.
And so, the Nameless turned and pillaged the package assigned to another crest. Twisting the dagger at her wrist, she sliced through silk bindings to inspect the contents.
A breath to ease the tension in her lungs.
This would do.
These linens smelled fresher; were not torn. Were soft and thick enough to touch Her Radiance’s delicate skin and keep her warm in the night. A smile behind her mask because none could witness it.
Safe to report: Negligence continues, but the Choir Mother’s orders supersede games of politics.
Her Radiance is to be kept safe. Protected.
The Nameless obeys.
Her Radiance did not need much. She hardly slept, and she had no access to the Lustral baths.
Still, the Attendant snagged Lustrals as she passed, tucking the small, rounded crystals into the finely pressed folds of her violet robes.
Some could be used for tea to treat Her Radiance’s weariness, to ease her restless dreams, to soothe her when the mysterious Fever came for her.
Just as she turned to go back to the maintenance halls, the Onyx Horn rang out in the Deep.
It was a mighty bellow, shaking the floors and walls beneath her feet.
Its mournful voice sank like teeth into her very bones, echoing outward and blanketing the entire city in its roar.
The signal to end the Litany of Silence.
The signal for the Attendant to return to her Host and tend to her after hours of chant.
Hands firm on the packages in her arms, the Nameless wound through the maintenance halls to Her Radiance’s chamber.
At the door, she pressed her hand to the stone, funneling mana into the hidden ward there and dissolving it.
The handle popped open with a hiss, and she shouldered the door open as she entered.
Cold snapped at her exposed hands and face, so sudden that her toes curled inside her fur-lined boots. Her eyes blinked to adjust to the dark. The Polis crystal here was old. It did not wake as easily to sound as the crystal in the newer portions of the Lattice. No matter.
The Attendant’s feet did not pause in their stride. Muscle memory took her to a nearby table. A dilapidated thing, but functional. She placed the trays there and set the linens on the rough cot beside it. Turning, the Attendant allowed her gaze to follow a trail of discarded shimmering garments.
A pair of worn slippers. The Sokar’s gown—pure alabaster silk with ornate lace and golden trim—lay crumpled on the ground. A moth’s discarded cocoon. And there, some feet ahead, sat the creature itself.
Her Radiance was seated on the floor, barefoot, wearing nothing to ward against the cold but a thin white shift.
Around her were scattered tomes of every shape and size and journals with notes scribbled in black and red ink.
A Polis lantern illuminated her ethereal countenance, and the Attendant had to remind herself to take a breath.
So many called her hideous. Strange. Colorless. Shapeless.