Chapter XII #2
“Yusef said they didn’t care so much about what something looked like, but rather what was it was like—not drawing for creativity or expression, but to give something permanence and meaning.
So once they worked out how to depict the essential qualities of what they were representing, consistency was more valued than originality.
” He sees my inspection of one tomb in particular, the symbols on it clearly scraped away.
“I don’t know why some of the names are scratched off.
Sometimes people don’t like monuments to the past, I suppose. I don’t think it happened recently.”
We press on; after a while we’re getting close to where we started this morning, and I’m just beginning to wonder whether Caeror’s forgotten, when he abruptly stops in front of an opening to our right. “In here.”
The tomb entrance looks like any other. Carved stone pillars on either side, etched with symbols I do not understand. I trail after Caeror. The mausoleum is as utterly dark as any of the others, and three steps in I slow, despite hearing my guide’s footsteps echo ahead. “I can’t see.”
“Just wait.”
Nothing for a few moments, and then I’m holding up a hand to shield against the abrupt pain of bright, eerie green light.
“Rotting gods.” I grit my teeth against the ache behind my eyeballs.
Wait to adjust. The light is outlining a doorframe, I can see now.
More specifically, it’s coming from a series of glyphs etched into it.
Each one pulses with a deep jade radiance, surrounding Caeror as he stands in front of the closed door. “What is this?”
“Old machinery. Made by the same people who built the Channels. Another leftover from before the war.” He starts pressing symbols in a seemingly random order, though his silhouetted motions are quick and sure. Each one he touches flashes briefly.
Then the barrier in front of him suddenly shifts, folding away to reveal a passageway beyond. It’s lit by a thin, pure white line along the centre of the roof. Everything else—floor, walls, and ceiling—glimmer darkly.
“Come on,” says Caeror, stepping inside.
I follow. Frown at the mirrorlike black stone, brushing my fingers along it. “Is this obsidian?”
“It certainly looks like obsidian.” He pauses, then draws the Instruction Blade and slashes with abrupt force against the wall; there’s a sharp cracking and sparks where the two collide and I flinch back, startled.
Caeror grins contritely and holds up the sword.
“No damage. To it or the wall. We haven’t found anything that can even scratch it. ”
I consider. On Res, obsidian’s one of the easiest substances to imbue, but otherwise it’s naturally somewhat fragile. “Is it imbued?” That’s how the Praetorians ensure their Razors don’t constantly break.
“I don’t think so. Otherwise we’d be able to adopt the Will from it. Same with the sword.” He presses on; the short passageway suddenly opens into a massive room, and my questions about the obsidian are quickly lost.
“This is the garden,” he adds, somewhat unnecessarily.
Rows of carefully tended crops fill my view for hundreds of feet.
Beans and other legumes, for the most part.
I rub my eyes; the light in here is a shade softer than in the passageway, faintly warm against my face, perfectly straight lines of it striping the roof between the reflective black stone.
It’s the leafy greenery that I can’t stop looking at, though.
I find myself oddly moved by the sight. I haven’t seen anything growing since I got here.
A half dozen people move between the rows, harvesting or replanting. All naked to the waist, just as everyone here seems to live. A few of them pause at our entrance, and I can’t avoid seeing their anxious expressions as they spot me, though they’re quickly back to work, heads bowed.
“This light. It mimics the sun?” I stare up at the stripes along the ceiling.
“It’s not as effective. Or as warm,” says Caeror, a little regretfully. “But it’s enough for things to grow.”
“It’s incredible.” I cough a short laugh. “Rotting gods. This is really from the war?”
“It is. Four thousand years old. If only we had a fraction of their knowledge.” Caeror stares around, almost wistful, then notes someone waving to him a short distance away. “Give me a moment? I just need to talk to Khensu.”
I watch as Caeror greets the stranger with a smile and affectionate slap on the back, acutely aware of how far I am from any such interaction. Then, as their conversation seems to be an earnest one, I let myself wander. Examining the room, the lighting. It’s a marvel.
I round a tall row of plants and come face-to-face with a thin girl, maybe fifteen, surreptitiously stuffing her mouth with beans. She stands as soon as she’s aware of my presence, swallows and hides full hands futilely behind her back. We stare at each other.
“Vis.” I point to myself. Smile what I hope is my most nonthreatening smile.
Her eyes shift and lock on mine, instinct to flee momentarily arrested. A frown. Hesitation. And then, carefully, “Nofret.”
“Nofret.” I nod to her hidden hands. Still smiling. “I will not tell,” I assure her in solemn, conspiratorial Vetusian.
We both jump as someone nearby calls out something that very clearly ends with her name.
Nofret puts a finger to her lips, and I nod gravely at the universal sign.
Slowly—as if I’m a wild animal that may suddenly attack—she reaches out and picks a few lentils, stuffing them with comically gradual movements into a pouch at her waist. Then, deciding I’m not going to betray her, she pops one in her mouth and, with a grin, tosses me one too before scurrying away.
I catch the stolen legume, allowing myself a chuckle before trying it.
It’s bland, vaguely nutty. I make sure I chew and swallow before I emerge back toward the garden entrance.
Nofret might get away with sneaking an extra bite or two, but with the way the Qabrans still look at me, I doubt I would be treated with the same leniency.
Caeror is already on his way back when I retrace my steps. Sees something in my expression. “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
He raises an eyebrow, then shrugs and gestures for me to follow.
We leave the garden behind and move down a series of polished black stone corridors, each lit with a single clean line of white light that never flickers. We walk for minutes, silence broken only by the muted echoing of our sandals.
And then there’s something else.
It’s the sound that hits me first. So low and faint I think I’m imagining it, that something else has triggered the abrupt, instinctive tightening in my chest. My footsteps falter.
“What is it?” Caeror slows, turns back to look at me.
“That hum in the air.” I rub at my ears. My hands are shaking.
“You recognise it?” He examines me curiously. “Where from?”
I lick my lips. “The Anguis attack I told you about. When I saw the pyramid that looked like Duat.”
I don’t want to go into it, and I think he sees that because despite his evident interest he just nods. “There’s no danger here,” he assures me gently. “Come on. We’re almost there.”
He moves on without waiting for an acknowledgement and I force myself after him. The air is suddenly thick, too heavy. Hot. Everything feels distant, vague. I’m light-headed.
We turn the corner, and the end of the passageway is in sight.
I stop, a few paces behind Caeror. Feet arrested. Eyes fixed on the door at the end of the corridor.
It’s made entirely of gold. Etched with hundreds of glyphs surrounding a dominating, intricately inscribed cross comprised of what looks like a crook and a flail, similar to the symbol on the amulet Caeror used to activate the Channel from Solivagus.
The entire door seems to emanate its own warm, ethereal light that’s amplified by the polished black walls and floors.
And it flickers and fuzzes and blinks in and out of existence. A hundred times a second. Quivering and pulsing and dizzying to the eye.
Thrum.
I cannot move, cannot take my eyes off it. The glyphs around the cross are too small to make out from this distance, impossible to properly perceive as they shiver and shift and fade.
Thrum.
And even without seeing it, that sound. That low, pulsating sound.
I hear it too often in my nightmares not to recognise it.
My hands begin to shake. I am there again.
Frozen. Hopeless screams echo in my head.
Stands coated in red. The smell. It hits me so suddenly and so hard that I don’t know what to do, how to react.
I am afraid, and though I know it is irrational, I do not know how to make it stop.
“Vis, you’re safe.” Caeror is peering at me. Deep brown eyes concerned. Brow furrowed. “It’s disorienting, first time. Breathe. Just breathe.”
I breathe, and breathe again. I am straining toward Estevan. Screams and blood and roiling dust and burning wreckage. Thousands dead and the certain knowledge that I am next. My heart pounds and I shake uncontrollably. It is a dream. A memory. But I cannot be sure. It feels so real.
Thrum.
It is too much. Too much.
With a wordless cry, I flee.