Of Salt and Memory
Daphne
Emrys and I strode into the main room, holding hands.
Orren pinched Camille’s thigh under the table, and she looked up at us, her face splitting in a sly grin.
Maerya’s expression didn’t change. Her eyes, framed with kohl, didn’t lift from the old parchment.
Nibble was dosing off, perched on a white polished skull on the bookshelf.
“The lovebirds have landed,” she muttered. Nibble twitched, cracked one eye at the word “birds,” and promptly went back to sleep. Orren pulled two chairs for us. “Here’s the map, Emrys. Tell us where the Surge will happen. Then we talk about defenses.”
Emrys silently studied the map and tapped on the lines drawn with faded ink. “It’ll be here. And it’s our last chance. Next Surge with such intensity will be in hundred and ten years.”
All eyes moved to me—the mortal who somehow stole a fragment of Emrys’s magic. I swallowed. By that time, I’d be dust. This was our only chance.
“The Salt Womb chamber,” Maerya said, playing with a large agate ring.
My brows climbed up. “The Salt Womb?”
Maerya traced a crescent on the map with her finger, stopping at the central chamber. “It’s not only a room—it’s a reliquary. A sanctum. Every pharaoh and noble passed through there. Salt to dry the flesh, oils to preserve the soul. The priestesses sang until their throats bled.”
I blinked. “Sang?”
“To confuse the spirit,” Maerya said. “So it wouldn’t find its way back to the body. Otherwise, it lingered. Bitter. Hungry.”
“That’s dark,” Orren muttered, sharpening a viciously curved blade.
“Oh, that’s just the beginning.” Maerya smirked. “They stored the intestines in alabaster jars. The lungs were dried with clove smoke. They filled the skull with wine and honey before sealing the mouth shut.”
“Why honey?” Camille asked.
“To sweeten the breath in the afterlife,” Maerya replied. “Or maybe to keep the corpse from whispering. Hard to say.”
I froze. “Whispering?”
Maerya looked at me, her dark eyes glowing. “They believed voices lingered in the bones. Especially in the jaw. So they sealed the mouths with gold or linen soaked in pitch.” She glanced at Emrys. “Some were sealed with curses, too.”
“Charming,” Emrys scoffed.
“Oh, I haven’t even told you about the heart jars,” Maerya said with a smile, her multiple jewelry and trinkets clinking. “Some hearts were swapped with scorpions or beetles. For traitors, mostly. One priest had his heart replaced with ash. A message to the gods.”
“I’d like to do that to the Renegade,” Orren said, cracking his knuckles. “Just... with less singing.”
“You can hum if you’d like,” Camille added sweetly. “I’m sure the gods appreciate some variety.”
“I’ll sing if we make it out alive,” Orren grunted.
“Please don’t,” Nibble muttered, awakened by all this talking of dead and disemboweling.
I leaned in to inspect the old map. “So… the Salt Womb. That’s where the Surge will happen?”
Emrys nodded. “Yes. Three corridors lead there. Orren, Camille, Maerya—one for each one of you to defend.”
Maerya cackled darkly. “And I’ll make sure to prepare a warm welcome for these abominations.”
Camille nodded. “Will make them regret setting their foul feet on sacred ground.”
“It’s not only sacred ground. It’s soaked in centuries of mourning, worship, and longing. All that magic clings to the salt. That’s why your Surge manifests there. Salt binds. Salt preserves. Salt remembers,” Maerya said.
The room went silent, save for the hiss of the hot wind outside.
Emrys exhaled slowly. “We’d better make sure the Womb remembers us, too.”
Maerya smirked. “Oh, it will. Whether it wants to or not.”
Nibble cleared his throat. Loudly.
“You know it won’t work without me, right?”
He fluttered down to the edge of the parchment, landing right on top of the glowing Salt Womb rune.
“Someone’s gotta yell at you when you forget the basics. Or bleed too much. Or die.”
He narrowed his eyes at Emrys. “Especially you.”
There was a long pause.
When Emrys spoke, his voice was quiet but firm. “That’s exactly why you’re not coming.”
Nibble bristled. “Excuse me?”
Emrys crossed the chamber and crouched beside him. His voice had lost its usual edge.
“If something happens to us… someone needs to protect the Minaret. Take care of Liang. Keep an eye on the Renegade. Keep hope alive.”
Nibble stared at him, then at the others. He gave Camille a withering look.
“You’re all insane.”
Camille blew him a kiss. “And you love us for it.”
Nibble muttered under his breath, turned his back and flared his wings dramatically.
“Fine. I’ll stay. But if that ley line eats her and the pyramid collapses, don’t come crying to me.”
He paused at the door, glancing back over his shoulder. “I’ll have your gravestones polished. Once a year. No flowers.”
Then he was gone—in a puff of dust and defiance.