28. MARTYR
MARTYR
JACEN
Jacen watched the deepriver flow by as they drifted through the dark, scarcely penetrated by lantern light.
They passed stalactites and stalagmites, strange fungi, coves and whirlpools and deeper, narrower branches of Esh down which their map warned never to go.
Far from the wasteland above, even the darkness—especially the darkness—was alive.
The Zal tongue had more than a dozen different words for darkness, and Esh was one. Though it roughly signified abyss, Standard had no direct equivalent. Esh was an unending black, a great mystery, an unknown so profound, one might drown in it.
The others’ emotions created a grating cacophony around the fringes of Jacen’s consciousness.
Nines tucked herself against the back of the boat, as close to the side as she could manage.
Ogden sat hunched over, folded hands pressed to his forehead.
He’d put his gloves back on since Nines would not stop staring at his metal fingers.
Jacen couldn’t blame either of them. His head felt unbearably full.
Other worlds, uncounted thousands of them. No gods at all, but visitors from the stars. And Jacen was their offspring.
To even think the words still felt like blasphemy of the highest order: Jacen’s own lineage included one of the gods. Or—one of his parents or grandparents, born under another sun had been given as a child to host an ancient demon.
He could not decide which manner of describing it seemed worse.
Which of the Six, then? Could it have been Rakalem, the Lord of Fear, in whose presence Jacen had stood only days earlier?
Might he be a son of Ileth? Or Nabatar—the Lord of Sickness, who had carried out Elyas’s death sentence?
When the scavenger brought it to his chapel, could Jacen have held his own father’s skull?
Whatever Urien had guessed, he hadn’t shared, and Jacen was uninclined to press.
He tried not to wonder, lest he make himself sick.
He found himself trying to glimpse his reflection in the water as he rowed, in case it had changed when he wasn’t paying attention.
When they stopped to rest, he ran his hands over his round ears, searching for traces of scar tissue where they might have been cut or reshaped, until he caught the others watching and stopped.
He slept little that night. The entire paradigm through which he approached reality had shifted.
It was as though he had spent his life in a dark room, fumbling at what he believed to be a rope.
Then someone lit a torch and he realized it was a kirikil’s tail and he had never been in a room at all—but, rather, on the edge of a cliff. And then someone had shoved him off it.
It was dizzying. His first inclination was to clamp his hands over his head and scream. His second was to drink until it no longer mattered. Had there been any liquor available, he would have been unconscious by now.
He did not want to regress to that state. He did not want to go back to sleep.
Did he?
The damage he’d done to himself . . . Would it be like this for the rest of his life? Would he spend every waking moment staving off the temptation to slip back beneath the waves of blissful oblivion?
And—exactly how long would he live? Jacen couldn’t tolerate another month of this, let alone centuries. Considering the mess they were in, at least, longevity seemed very low on his list of likely problems. He tried to find solace in that.
After another day’s travel downriver, they followed a twisting fork to an underground harbor.
There, the water was shallow and turquoise, reflected on the sandstone cavern walls as a shining, shifting web.
Seth and Jacen steered the boat into the dock, one of many in two parallel rows.
Beyond the water, a tunnel curved up through the rock.
No sooner had they disembarked than a woman emerged. Two veiled, red-robed figures flanked her. One carried an ornate clay jar. The woman in the lead was tall and brown, with pale eyes, and—
“Hesaya?” Jacen exclaimed.
At the sight of him, Sister Hesaya Jinaan’s demeanor grew cold. “Brother Kheris.”
Of all his Brothers and Sisters, Jacen would have guessed Hesaya among the least likely to be a resistance spy.
But there she stood, dressed in red, carrying herself with an assured grace not at all like the rigidity she projected as a Priest of the Black Sun.
All that had fallen away, just a mask she’d discarded.
Jacen had assumed she chose her assignment in the Knots out of genuine devotion, a desire to deepen the Church’s roots where they were weakest. Her true faith had been right under his nose all along, hidden among the syncretized rituals and symbols of the Zal.
“You were Ogden’s contact.” Jacen struggled for words. “You’re—” “A traitor?” Hesaya raised her eyebrows. “A heretic?”
“I didn’t mean . . .” Jacen shook his head. After Elyas, Hesaya must have resented Jacen for years, far more than she’d let him see. It hurt in a way he had not anticipated, and all he could say was “I’m sorry.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Hesaya said to Ogden. She turned to Nines. “Welcome, child. You’ve had a long journey, but you’re safe here.” She motioned for the person with the jar to step forward.
“Drink, and have sanctuary,” they said in Zal. Nines stared at the proffered jar.
“It’s only water,” Hesaya explained. “A ritual of hospitality.”
Nines took a perfunctory sip. The veiled person offered Ogden the water next. Urien declined on account of his armor, and Hesaya did not so much as blink at him. Before Seth, though, she stopped her associate from lifting the jar.
“Semira. I assume you’re here for your nephew.”
“Where is he?” Seth’s tone, for the time being, was measured. “Is Ysira here?”
“You should know that if Var Naxal hadn’t asked for you personally, I’d leave you for the spiders,” Hesaya said. “But these are desperate times.” She took the jar and offered it to Seth herself. “Drink.”
Seth ignored it. “Let me speak to Ysira. I set out to protect Neri, and I won’t do anything else until—”
Hesaya tossed the water in his face. Seth stumbled back, spluttering.
“Get your hand away from your sword,” Hesaya snapped. “It won’t help you against me. You will see your nephew at our discretion, in accordance with our rituals and customs, and you will not enter the Shrouded City until you demonstrate your willingness to cooperate.”
“If you think I’m subjecting myself to telepathic interrogation—” “This isn’t Zivora. I’m no inquisitor. But history has taught us that if we are to survive, we must be cautious.” Hesaya’s gaze lingered on Jacen. “We can provide sanctuary. But he will face judgment.”
Jacen raised his hands in a placating gesture. “I understand. I’ll do whatever you ask of me. I . . . I’m here to atone.”
Hesaya blinked at him. Ever so slightly, she inclined her head. “Good.” “Will you just—” Seth ground his knuckles against his forehead.
“Tell us whether Neri is possessed.”
Hesaya’s expression turned strange. “Yes.”
Seth remained outwardly calm, but Jacen knew him well enough to recognize the terror beneath the surface. “What does that mean to you?”
“It means he’s been chosen,” said Hesaya, “by the guardian of our people since the depths of history, long before Zivora’s gods invaded from the stars. After the Cataclysm, we thought Naxal lost, but no longer.” Her tone was deadly serious, even formal. “Neri Var Naxal will deliver us.”
Ogden and Urien exchanged a look. Nines said nothing at all. “Every time you performed an exorcism,” Jacen said slowly, “that’s what you hoped to find. The voice in the desert.”
Hesaya gave a solemn nod. One of the veiled individuals murmured something in Zal, and now Jacen understood. A deep cold flooded his veins.
“Naxal,” Seth repeated. “What does that mean?”
Jacen answered, “Devourer.” Another word which, in the Zal language, was deceptively simple. Taken literally, alone, it meant eater or perhaps hunger. In context, though . . . He drew a long breath. “It means world-ender.”
Hesaya smiled grimly. “That’s the difference between your faith and mine, Brother Kheris. We do not pray for peace.”
Hesaya made them wait.
Jacen, Seth, Ogden, and Urien sat in a row along the cavern wall, while Nines dangled her feet off the pier. They watched the boats bobbing in the harbor as the four militiamen posted at the tunnel’s entrance watched them. The collective mood grew increasingly anxious and irritable.
There were a thousand things Jacen wanted to discuss—with Seth in particular—precious few of which he could actually say aloud.
He imagined whatever judgment awaited him; in his mind’s eye, not unlike the day the Council had tried him for his role in Elyas’s fall.
But these would not be his own Brothers and Sisters.
They would be faceless strangers he had already once betrayed, beholden to a god he did not yet understand.
His very life might have already slipped through his fingers.
Atonement, for Jacen Kheris, might only come with death.
As the minutes ticked by, something tugged at the periphery of his senses. Not a human consciousness. This was much stranger, an impossibly dense amalgamation of extradimensional energy. It built until Jacen could no longer ignore it, and asked, “What is that?” His voice echoed across the harbor.
“I sense it too,” said Nines.
“Probably the Gate,” said Ogden. “I can’t quite sense it from here, but I’ve been closer before. It takes time to acclimate.”
Seth massaged his temples. “Is that why I’ve had a headache since we docked?”
“Unlikely,” said Ogden. “You’re not a telepath. Perhaps you ought to drink some water.”
Before Seth could offer a sarcastic response, Nines blurted, “It feels like it does under the Cathedral. By the white door.”