Vial of Tears, page 22
“What’s that?” Rima asked. “A sword for killing mice?”
“Probably,” Sam said. “Or maybe to kill a god. I’m not sure which.”
Rima made an uncertain noise. She took the weapon from Sam and held it in her hand. “Um, okay?”
“So, also, there was this woman I met,” Sam said. “I can’t stop thinking about her. It’s just so weird—I felt like there was some connection between her and us, somehow, but how is that possible? She said I summoned her. Me. And she said I had her obol, just like Eshmun.” Sam paused. “She looked so familiar. She had this crazy, wiry hair pulled up into a tall, pointy bun. Her eyes were all white and clouded over.”
“That’s the witch,” Rima said instantly.
“The witch?”
“From the stories Mom used to tell us when we were kids. The witch who would rise up out of the ground.”
“I don’t remember that one,” Sam said. “She rose up out of the ground, like from the underworld? The way Eshmun did in our backyard?”
“You think Mom has another coin?” Rima asked.
Sam’s eyes widened. “In that velvet box in her closet… It’s possible. She could have touched it and summoned Sbartā. If Sbartā really is ‘the witch.’”
“I don’t know how that helps us, either way,” Rima said, “and I’m too tired to figure it out.”
Sam chewed on her lip. “Even if we’re right about the coin, there’s no way for us to tell Mom.”
“Nope,” Rima said. “We’re stuck in this cell, Sam. We’re not going anywhere. I need to sleep a little, okay? I’ve been too afraid to close my eyes.”
“Go ahead,” Sam said, her mind scrambling. They couldn’t be stuck. She needed to form some sort of plan. Attack the next guard that delivers food? Make a run for the spiral staircase? But the way those guards had killed their comrade… they were like bloodthirsty animals, feral, frenzied. If she started a fight with one, could she really win, or protect Rima?
Rima stretched herself out and put her head on Sam’s lap. “I love you,” Sam whispered, looking down at her sister’s face. Within minutes, Rima was asleep, still gripping the sword in her hand. Sam stroked her forehead and added, “More than anything.”
She tipped her head back to rest on the wall behind her, and it shifted a little.
“Oh,” she gasped.
Gently, she moved Rima onto the bench so she could slide out from underneath her, and then she pushed against the wall. The stones behind the bench barely budged, but there was weakness in the wall. She began a systematic check of every row along each wall. She pressed and palmed, finding some slightly tremulous, until she reached a corner in the back where the stones half-crumbled with a single push.
“Come on,” she whispered as she wrestled decayed stones out of their places. She pawed at them, digging, until there was a hole almost big enough to crawl through. She lay flat against the ground, trying to see what was on the other side, but all she could discern was a dim light. Another room? A hallway?
On her knees again, she wriggled another wet rock free, inching it out of the way and making the opening wider. All the while she kept an eye on the cell door, wondering when one of the guards would show up.
Suddenly there were scratching sounds in the hallway. Sam stood and went to the front of the cell to peer through the bars. Down the dark corridor, a pair of eyes glowed greenish yellow. Then another pair of eyes. Three sets, and then five.
Sam stifled a scream.
The eyes came closer. Then Sam saw fur—black and glossy, as if coated with mucus—or blood. One of the animals raised its nose and sniffed the air, whiskers twitching. It stood fully upright and Sam’s heart slammed so loudly she thought the sound of it might give her away. A rat creature… the size of a small child.
Abruptly, they all scattered at once. Sam turned and saw, with a shock, that the same guard from before had reappeared soundlessly, peering in at her with a smug look on his filthy face. With him were three others. She jerked back from the bars.
Rima was still sleeping quietly in the shadows. Sam felt dizzy with fear. “What do you want?” she asked.
He tapped a finger to his ear. “You hear that, love?”
“What?” Sam asked. It was quiet, other than the sound of the men’s wheezy laughter. Could they hear Rima’s steady breathing behind her? She stepped forward to block their view.
“You do not hear that?” the guard asked, his face blooming with glee.
“What?”
He leaned closer, his breath assaulting her. “I hear wedding bells,” he hissed, rattling the key into the lock.
She wrapped her arms around herself and felt the bile rise in her throat. Sensing a slight motion behind her, she realized that Rima had sat up.
“Let’s go, then!” she said quickly, before the guard noticed Rima in the corner. “I’m sick of this cell. I’ve been here so long.”
Stay quiet. Don’t lift the sword. We can’t win.
I’ll protect you.
The guard let out a laugh, surprised by her reaction. “So eager,” he said, “to get to your marriage bed.” He swept out an arm, beckoning her to exit the open cell.
She hesitated. “Will all the guards be coming to the wedding?” she asked. “Is everyone invited?”
“Of course,” he snarled. “My lord wants it to be a spectacle.”
“Lead me, then,” she said. The guard gave her a searching look, but she kept her eyes straight ahead. She wanted to call out instructions in English, tell Rima to escape through the hole she’d made, but she was afraid it would make the guards suspicious.
She’d come to save Rima, and maybe she’d just done it. Tears streaked silently down her cheeks. You can run away now, she wanted to shout. You have the sword. They won’t be looking for you. You have a window of time. Hurry before the rats come back. Every guard will be at this wedding. My wedding.
The guard pulled up the back of Sam’s dress and patted her. His rough, icy skin made her turn rigid with disgust. “Oh, how I cannot wait to witness this,” he said.
Sam spun and swatted his hand away. “I will tell him,” she threatened, tugging her dress back down. “The god of death is the only one who can have me.”
The guard laughed. “So, so eager.” He pushed her hard, thwacking the small of her back with the whip he carried. The other men laughed, whooping like a pack of hyenas. “I cannot wait to see.”
18
Sam was shoved into a room where two women poured water onto hot rocks, filling the room with steam. They wore rows of beaded neck rings all the way up to their chins, and their dark eyes were lined with white paint. Their bare arms and legs seemed to be made of pure muscle.
“Clothes off,” one said over her shoulder at Sam. The guard lingered in the doorway. “Get out! Puq!” she screamed at him, and then crossed the room to slam the door in his face.
Sam stripped and crossed her arms over her body, but the women pushed them out and away, yanking and twisting her so they could mercilessly coat her with gritty soap.
“What is that?” Sam asked, alarmed: One had retreated into a corner of the room and opened a box, retrieving a long, curved metal blade from it. Sam eyed a second doorway, but how could she run away like this? Naked and defenseless?
“Vacant girl,” the woman said, smiling at Sam’s fear. “See?” She pulled the blade across her own arm. “It cleans you.”
Sam closed her eyes as they scraped her skin, desperately willing herself to be elsewhere. She tried imagining home, school, work, but it was impossible to pretend she was anywhere but here.
She glanced around again. If there had only been one woman, and if they both hadn’t been so much bigger than her, she might have chanced a fight.
“What is this?” the taller one asked. She turned Sam’s right hand upward, where the blackness had leached even darker and deeper, running down her palm, through her life line and fate line, mildew-like.
“I touched a ruḥā,” Sam said.
“What of it?” she said. “Many have touched the dead. Never have I seen this before.”
“I have,” the other said. “It happened to my own brother. He embraced the ruḥā of his dead wife. He held on too long and looked inside her. He saw into her world. He waded into the pool of death, and then he could not dry himself of its waters.”
Sam looked down at her hand. “What happened to him?” she asked.
“Slowly, he turned into a pillar of empty skin,” she said. “He became stale and brittle from the inside out. And then the wind took him.” She blew into Sam’s eyes.
“You are cursed,” the other said, and they both laughed. “The ancients say the only cure is the sun, but alas, there is no such light in this realm.”
Sam felt sick. Eshmun’s healing powers had at least been able to push the blackness down. How long would it take for her to turn to ash? How much time did she have left?
“You will not live long as the bride of Môt anyway,” the taller one said, as if answering Sam’s unspoken questions. “He will use you and dispose of you.”
Sam hugged herself.
Her skin became pink and raw from being scrubbed so mercilessly. After she’d been washed and slathered with fragrant oil and had her hair brushed with ivory combs, she was handed an elaborate purple gown, richly embroidered at the hem with golden thread. If Teth had thought the outfit Meem had given her was too fine, he would have been astounded by this dress. It must have been silk, it was so supple and weightless.
Once she was dressed, they hung dark purple flowers around her neck and placed rings of bells around her ankles. She was given a new belt of fur. “Give me my bracelets back,” Sam insisted. They were her last items from home, and she felt a pang of finality. Without them, she would have nothing left of her old life.
“Is this your engagement ring?” the woman asked, tapping a finger against the emerald. They’d already taken the small box, not noticing the strand of Eshmun’s hair inside, and decided it was worthless.
“I suppose,” Sam said miserably, realizing she’d been doomed from the moment she set foot in the underworld to wed one of the gods. The prophecy.
“Hmm,” the first woman said, still considering the gold ring.
The second woman threw her head back and laughed. “Take it,” she said ruefully. “I should like to see what he does with you as punishment for such a theft. If the Lord of Death gave it to this girl, it is worth your life and then some. Take it!”
“This way,” the first woman said, leaving the ring on Sam’s finger.
Sam followed once again, leaving the room. This was not the dungeons or anything close to it anymore—this was a temple. The dark floor, which had been polished until it looked wet, was cold against her bare feet. Her ankle bells rang as she walked, making a rhythm of her march.
“The show is about to begin,” the first woman said. She adjusted Sam’s bracelets on her own wrist with a smirk, and then led her through a final maze of fine stone hallways attended by liveried guards. Sam’s thighs burned as they walked up an incline, and she felt herself shaking as the hallway widened and led into a strangely open area. The woman pointed for Sam to continue, and then she retreated, disappearing back down into the den of torchlit hallways, the flames’ green light casting bruised shadows.
Sam looked over her shoulder and then took a few steps forward, her heart thudding. The open air filled her with a sour and sickening dread as she realized where she was:
On a stage in an amphitheater.
Rows of stone benches sat empty, waiting for spectators. At the center of the stage was a majestic bed, carved from wood and decorated with jewels, and topped with a thick mattress and embroidered pillows.
Dark ovals littered the stage, and at first Sam thought they were insects. Cockroaches. She jumped when she felt one under her bare feet, but they were only flower petals strewn everywhere. An unseen musician played mournful music, which floated through the amphitheater like a foreboding fog. Above her the sky was slate gray.
She shivered in her thin gown and looked out across the benches as prison guards filed in, taking their seats in the front row. She recognized a few faces from the marketplace, too: There were the naked ḥayuta women with their matted fur, and there was the man who was selling caged monkeys. They spoke to each other, but their eyes were on Sam. All the people of Kition were assembling here, it seemed.
She shrank back toward the passageway she’d come out of, but then the growing crowd fell silent. From the opposite side of the stage, Eshmun emerged.
He’d been captured.
He was a prisoner, too.
The boat in the harbor… it was his. He must have been ambushed. But where were the rest of his men? Had they been thrown in the dungeons? Were they dead?
“Eshmun,” she whispered.
His eyes swept over Sam’s hair and gown; the flowers around her neck, the bells she wore around her ankles. He was naked except for a small skirt of fabric around his waist. He had been whipped: His chest and stomach were torn apart and he was bleeding. Three guards stood a few feet behind him, their arms folded across their meaty chests. She saw now that Eshmun’s hands were bound behind his back. The crowd grew noisy again, shouting insults at him.
“Half-god! Empty promises!” The stone benches had filled with more and more wedding guests. “To hell with him!”
Sam felt an angry swell of protectiveness. This wasn’t right. Eshmun was always in charge, always strong and regal. She was glad to see that his posture was still proud, his eyes lit with their usual fire.
Then a trumpet-like blast interrupted, and Sam turned to find a man blowing into a long, curled horn. His cheeks swelled with each note, the sound somber and deep.
“Oh!” she gasped as an elephant walked onto the stage. It was draped with streamers of lavish fabric, which billowed with each step. Jewels dotted its face. The elephant stopped just short of the edge of the stage. Strapped to its back was a square platform with an ivory railing.
Sam looked up at the man who stood atop that platform. He pounded his chest and spread his arms wide at his audience, who cheered with thunderous applause.
“Môt!” she heard Eshmun growl.
Sam strained to take in Eshmun’s uncle, who stood some fifteen feet above them. He was bare-chested, and he wore a gold skirt and a tremendously tall hat—also gold—with a flat circular top. His arms were unnaturally long, and his tapered torso was nearly the same width as his neck.
“Lêpa`né Môti hbur!” he cried. At the feet of Môt bow down!
At once the audience dropped to its knees.
“Welcome, nephew!” Môt called down to Eshmun. The elephant shifted its weight and Sam backed away from its long tusks, which were sharpened to points. “I see you have enjoyed your stay so far.” He nodded to one of the guards, who cracked his whip and sent a fresh stream of blood down Eshmun’s arm. Eshmun winced, his jaw clenched. “And I appreciate the speech you gave in the marketplace earlier, pledging your allegiance to me.”
“I did no such thing,” Eshmun declared.
Môt let a smile play on his lips. His skin had an odd green cast to it, like copper that had accumulated a patina. Strangely enough, there was something magnetic about him: He had Eshmun’s cheekbones and finely sculpted muscles, his bare abdomen stone hard. Sam felt herself staring, taking in every detail, unable to look away. His presence was powerful.
“Ah, but you did,” Môt insisted.
He motioned toward a man standing at the back of the stage. Sam felt her vision blur with adrenaline. It was the shapeshifter. He strode forward and, with a shake of his shoulders, morphed into Eshmun.
“Citizens of Kition, hear me! I am but a meager half-god,” the shapeshifter shouted in Eshmun’s voice, stroking his fur collar with his bony hands. “I concede that I must submit to Môt, the true and rightful king of the underworld. The only king.”
The crowd applauded such a convincing performance, and the shapeshifter took a bow. With a step backward, he changed again into the gray-haired man with the green eyes and even teeth. He smiled at Sam, a wolf’s smile.
“Shall we proceed with the ceremony?” he asked.
“Yes, yes, of course.” Môt gazed across the rows of benches toward the back of the arena and flicked his fingers, beckoning an entrance. On his cue, a swarm of the giant rat creatures raced down the aisles, the slick, black things Sam had seen in the dungeons. There must have been fifty of them.
They scurried onto the stage and Sam cringed as they wove greasily around her legs. The elephant reared and Môt gripped the platform’s railing. “Away!” he commanded. “Away from the elephant!” The rats obediently receded into the shadows. Others hid under the massive bed.
“What are these rodent abominations?” Eshmun demanded.
“My faithful spies and thieves,” Môt said. “Are they not lovely?” The rats tittered and squeaked, smoothing their whiskers away from their faces, chewing their nails. Their eyes were flat and dead. “Among other things, they let me know you were coming. They see everything, my precious rats.”
“You should not be here,” Eshmun said. “You were given charge of Gadir. You were to stay there.”
“Gadir was acceptable until my darling Ba’alat Gebal left me,” Môt snapped. “I have been here in Kition for some time now, and I have brought my people with me. My plans have been—how shall I put this?—expanding.
“Indeed,” Môt continued, nodding, agreeing with himself, “I found Gadir to be far too removed.” He looked out at his crowd and made a face. “You see, the other gods felt that I needed to be kept at arm’s length.” The crowd murmured and he put up a hand to calm them. “Yes, yes, I know. Have they forgotten whose domain this is, and who has allowed them to be here?” His face twitched as he put on a false, dramatic smile. “But I have missed them all, dearly and truly, in my exile. I feel that the time has come to become reacquainted. To bring them to me.” He pressed both hands to his heart.
