The Cradle of Ice, page 11
part #2 of Moonfall Series
Rami leaned closer. “The reason you truly came here?” His eyes glowed brightly, shining with a sharp cunning that he had kept hidden until now. “What does it have to do with the moon?”
18
CARRIED THROUGH THE gardens of the Imri-Ka, Frell took in deep breaths. Each inhalation of fresh air cleared his head. The spinning world resettled into some semblance of order.
Still, his body refused to obey him. He felt the iron grip on his arms and legs by the four Dresh’ri who bore him, but his limbs could not fight them off. He couldn’t even raise his head, which hung crookedly from his shoulders, bobbing with each step through the perfumed grounds.
Gravel crunched under sandals. Tailored bushes rushed past him. Thorns from purple empyrean roses snagged at his robe. Water burbled in stone fountains. Lanterns glowed in the shadows of the high-walled courtyard.
He spotted others in byor-ga habiliment who scurried from their path, servants who surely knew better than to speak about what they had witnessed.
The group finally reached a tall marble archway in the center of the gardens. A pair of knights flanked the entrance, holding the chains of massive war dogs, who snarled in threat. But none of them made any effort to stop or question the cadre of Dresh’ri led by Zeng ri Perrin.
Frell was hauled past the threshold, but a pair of black iron doors blocked the way. Zeng lifted a white staff, embossed with ancient sigils, and the doors swung inward, welcoming the return of the librarie’s guardians.
By now, the fresh air had cleared enough of the numbing alchymy for him to focus more acutely. Beyond the doors, the group entered a small stone antechamber. It appeared to have no exit. The seven Dresh’ri crowded in tight, making room for a latecomer, another member of their order.
No one spoke.
Zeng shifted over to a lever on the floor, grabbed it, and hauled it down. The ground bumped, then shook. Frell had enough control of his body to gasp as the floor began to descend, accompanied by the sound of rushing water.
Frell could not stifle his amazement.
Some pressure-fueled artifice …
Still, he should not have been surprised. The Klashean alchymists outstripped all others when it came to sophisticated mechanisms and innovative craftworks.
As the floor dropped, an elongating well stretched above him. The stone walls were polished smooth, impossible to climb.
It reinforced Zeng’s earlier warning: You will never leave.
The torchlight from the entrance overhead had become a dull, distant glow by the time their descent halted. Another iron door opened. A familiar and welcoming smell greeted him. The scent of dust, dried leather, and dusky parchment. It was as familiar as home. He knew what they were about to enter.
The Abyssal Codex …
Frell was carried down a short hall and into a lantern-lit cavernous space. His breath caught in his throat. He gaped at the sheer breadth of the place.
The domed ceiling rose so high that its apex vanished into shadows. Shelves climbed nearly as tall, densely packed with tomes and sealed scrolls. Ladders scaled those heights. A few cowled scholars perched on the rungs. They were illuminated by tiny lanterns strapped to their shoulders. Across the vast expanse of the place, small stars twinkled in the distance, marking other Dresh’ri.
Despite his pounding heart, he could not help but be awed, even humbled. The shelves vanished into the distance, overwhelming his senses. This librarie dwarfed even the one at the Bad’i Chaa, which had been massive.
As he was hauled along, he could not determine if the space was once a natural cavern or if it had been dug out of the rock. The shelves seemed to radiate out from a central core, which he was being carried toward.
His eyes rolled all around, trying to take it all in. He wished he had control of his neck to better view the extent of the Codex. Curiosity competed with fear.
Then the shadows shredded overhead. A flurry of tiny black wings swept down upon them. Their group was assaulted by a high-pitched squeaking; their robes were spattered by foul droppings. Then the horde dashed away in a coordinated eddy.
Frell tried to follow their path back into the shadows, recognizing the winged creatures.
Bats …
This was confirmed by Zeng, who dropped back to pace alongside Frell and waved his staff to chase off the last strays. He must have sensed his captive’s confusion.
“Since the founding of the Codex,” the Dresh’ri explained, “a colony has been preserved here. It is their home as much as ours. They serve as steadfast caretakers, helping to protect our treasures. Throughout the centuries, our winged brethren have feasted upon all manner of pests that risked damaging our vast bounty of leather and yellowed parchment.”
Frell felt both disgust and amazement at this shrewd accommodation. He also remembered the Dresh’ri sigil he had found embossed on the book back in his sanctum. It had shown the wings of a black bat with a golden eye glowing in the center.
Was this the source of that symbol?
“Of course, sharing this vault with these agile hunters requires a few precautions.” Zeng leaned closer and pointed to the side, toward a cluster of desks draped in leather, their surfaces daubed in guano. “And certainly a fair amount of mopping.”
Frell had already noted the many servitors shuffling through the shelves, cloaked in drab byor-ga, which made the resplendent white of the Dresh’ri stand out all the more. Like the city above, the subterranean librarie appeared to be an equally ordered world, structured by the hierarchy of its caste system.
The group finally reached the Codex’s core. At its center, a spiral stair led downward.
As he was lugged toward it, Zeng assured him, “We do not have far to go. The Venin awaits.”
* * *
DESPITE HIS ATTEMPT to stay focused, Frell grew dizzy as his bearers carried him down the tight spiral of the staircase. Their descent wound round and round, revealing a surprise.
The Codex extends down here, too.
The group marched past level after level, where more shelves spread out from the stairwell. He counted ten tiers by the time they reached a set of black iron doors sealing off the bottom. He was dumbfounded by the sheer enormity of the librarie.
All the knowledge of the world could be hidden down here.
And maybe it is.
Frell also noted that each scaffolded level appeared to shrink in size as they progressed, as if they were climbing through a pyramid balanced on its point.
And now we’ve reached that buried tip.
But what was here?
Zeng stepped to the door and rapped his staff three times. After a long breath, iron scraped loudly, and the doors swung wide. Firelight flickered from inside, dancing their shadows across the walls of the antechamber. A warm mist swept outward, redolent with incense.
Frell held his breath, fearing some other disabling compound in that scent, especially as the paralyzing miasma had begun to wear off. His fingers and toes now tingled and prickled. He could even slightly wiggle his digits, but it took great effort.
Zeng turned to the others. “Take him to the altar.”
Frell’s heart pounded harder.
Do they mean to sacrifice me?
He was carried over the threshold and down a short flight of stairs. The firelight grew brighter with each step. He sensed the weight of the librarie stacked overhead, all pressing down upon this small chamber.
A quiet chanting rose around him as he entered.
His bearers finally stopped and dropped Frell to his knees in the center of the room. Hands propped him up, but he could finally lift his own chin.
He nearly fell back in shock.
The small chamber had been carved out of rock, exposing twisted and sundered beams of ancient steel. Some claimed that the foundations of Kysalimri were rooted in the past, going as far back as the Forsaken Ages.
Is that what I’m seeing?
Between the protrusions of steel, shining emerald veins cut through the stone, glowing a poisonous hue, forming a noxious web. It spread outward from the far wall, where twin pyres burned, smoking with unknown alchymies.
A stone altar stood between the fires. Atop its slab rested an open book, as wide as his outstretched arms. It appeared to be an illuminated manuscript, one that was likely centuries, if not millennia, old. The exposed pages revealed painted figures crouching and leering amidst lines of faded text. The images seemed to move in the flickering light.
Frell swallowed hard.
If such a tome was sequestered down here, it must be more precious than all the books above.
He tried to study the open pages. He was scholar enough that desire flared through his fear.
What is written there?
Unfortunately, Frell could not move any closer. Plus, the book was not unprotected. It had its macabre guardians.
Surrounding him, like spiders in that glowing web, a ring of cloaked and cowled sentinels stood watch. Both men and women. They were dressed in Dresh’ri garb, but clearly the gathering was something far more inimical. All their eyelids had been sewn shut. Their ears sculpted into sharp points. Their nostrils splayed open and stitched wide into place. Even their teeth had been sharpened to points.
With horror, Frell recognized the purpose of this mutilation, the appearance sought by the disfigurement.
They’ve been carved to look like bats.
19
FRELL CRINGED IN horror at the ring of figures surrounding him.
It was from their lips that the chanting rose. Their singing grew louder. He fought to clap his hands over his ears, but his limbs still refused his command. He knew what he was hearing. He recognized the hum resonating behind the intonations. The sound ate at his skull, danced fire over his brain.
Frell’s senses swirled, making it hard to think, frazzling his focus. Still, he knew the truth about these mutilated men and women, the gift carried in their blood.
They’re bridle-singers …
Zeng came before him, bowing to each of the figures, then faced Frell. “The Venin welcomes you. Seeks your guidance.”
The Dresh’ri lifted a palm and blew an ashy powder into Frell’s face. Surprised, he could not stop himself from inhaling it. The dust burned into his sinuses. His lungs convulsed, as if trying to reject the poison.
He gasped and coughed, doubling over. He clawed at his face—only then realizing he had control again of his limbs. Still on his knees, he sat straighter, no longer propped up by his bearers. He lowered his hands and stared down at his palms, which still trembled and quaked.
A fine mist of the powder hung in the air.
Not poison but antidote.
Zeng touched his shoulder. “We know what you came to seek, Frell hy Mhlaghifor. Even what you keep secret.”
Frell tried to shake his head, to deny, but he could not. The singing, the alchymy in the smoke … it all ate at his will.
Zeng waved his staff. Two of the Dresh’ri crossed to the twin pyres. Each threw fistfuls of silvery powder into their respective fires. The flames burst higher, dancing toward the roof on either side of the altar.
“Behold!” Zeng sang out. “She who will end the world and start it anew!”
His staff pointed to the image revealed by the flames. It had been painted across the far wall behind the altar. The glowing emerald veins emanated outward from it. The depiction looked smudged out of soot and drawn with black oil, or perhaps even smeared from the shadows themselves.
Frell gasped at the sight.
A huge full moon rose high on the wall. Silhouetted against it, a black beast with outstretched wings dove toward the altar. Its wings turned to flames at the edges, dancing in the firelight cast by the two pyres. A dark rider sat astride the creature, as hunched as the beast itself, both staring toward those in the room. Only the rider’s eyes were pools of that vile emerald, which shone even brighter now, glowing with menace.
“Here is the Vyk dyre Rha!” Zeng intoned.
Before Frell could stop himself, he revealed that he knew that forbidden name. “The Shadow Queen…”
Zeng swung toward him. The man’s face was a mask of adulation, approaching madness in its intensity. “We know the Iflelen search for a girl who commands one of the great Mýr bats, a beast of astounding size and malignancy. Someone you have communed with.”
Before Frell could respond, Zeng lifted his staff high.
The Venin around him responded, singing in unison, in ancient Klashean, carrying with it a frisson that set Frell’s heart to thundering in terror. He covered his ears, but he could still hear them.
“Vyk dyre Rha se shan benya! Vyk dyre Rha se shan benya! Vyk…”
Zeng pulled one of Frell’s hands down and leaned closer. “You cannot deny Her. You know it in your heart. We all can see it. Listen and know it to be true!”
The chanting continued. “Vyk dyre Rha se shan benya! Vyk dyre…”
Zeng’s eyes shone feverishly as he translated. “She is the Shadow Queen reborn!”
The Venin continued to sing, adding new words, infusing the weight of history and certainty. It rang with prophecy.
Zeng stayed close, reciting along with the singers. “She who would be reborn one day, in flesh and form. Burning away all that She possessed, leaving only darkness and savagery behind. A dread being who will spread fiery ruin in Her wake, until all the Urth is consumed.”
Frell leaned away, wincing. The bridle-song grew to a gale in his face, driving the conviction of their portent into his bones, rooting it deep.
Zeng did not let up. “Tell us who She is, where She hides!”
Frell knew they meant Nyx, but even in the storm of their faith, he could not believe it. Still, he remained dulled by the alchymies, seduced by the bridling. He fought to stop his tongue, to strangle his breath, but he could not.
“She … She is…”
Zeng pressed him. “Tell us.”
“Nyx…” he gasped out, the words tumbling unbidden from his tongue. “Daughter of a slave … bound by blood … molded by the bridling of a she-bat. She is like … like no other.” He spoke what was in his heart but what he had never dared speak aloud. It was a terror he held deep. Tears spilled down his cheeks. “She is an empty well … waiting to be filled. A vessel destined for a power like no other.”
He knew this to be true. Back at the Shrouds of Dalalæða, Shiya had claimed Frell carried some trace of bridle-song. The ancient Sleeper believed it was that gift, calling from his blood, that drove him to study the moon in the first place. He had wanted to dismiss such a statement, but he could not. When Nyx sang, he had sensed the untapped power inside her, a near bottomless well.
If it should ever be filled …
He shook his head, afraid even now to face that terror. It was one of the reasons he had agreed to accompany Kanthe and Pratik to these lands. Down deep, Nyx terrified him. He lifted his head and stared across the altar at those glowing eyes. Flames danced at the edges of his vision.
Certainty firmed inside him.
She will become that dark god.
His shoulders shook. A sob escaped him, knowing another truth.
But she is our only hope.
Bowing to this conviction, Frell fell to his hands and shared what he knew was true. “Only she can stop moonfall.”
Zeng was not satisfied and leaned to his ear. “Where is She? Where is the Vyk dyre Rha?”
Frell did not fight answering this question, satisfied it would do them no good. “Beyond your reach. Far out into the Frozen Wastes.”
“Where?” Zeng pressed him, nose to nose with Frell. “Tell us where. We will know if you lie.”
Frell sagged, his head hanging, sweat draining from his face, mixed with tears. He didn’t need to fabricate a story. He told him the truth. “Even I don’t know.”
Zeng straightened, his face gone purple, his fingers white-knuckled on his staff. He pointed its length at Frell. “Then you are of no further use to us.” He turned to one of his brethren. “Kill him.”
The Dresh’ri stepped forward, freeing a dagger, which flashed brightly in the firelight. As he approached, Frell didn’t move from the floor, too defeated, too cowed.
So be it.
His executioner stepped before him. He grabbed Frell by the hair and yanked back his head, baring his neck. The blade lifted high.
Before it could fall, a length of steel burst from the man’s chest. His body stiffened in shock and surprise. The dagger fell and clattered to the floor. The Dresh’ri screamed as the blade was withdrawn and his body shoved aside.
Another Dresh’ri took his place and snatched a fistful of Frell’s robe. “Get up!”
Frell obeyed, wobbling to his feet, struggling to understand—then he spotted the violet eyes and iron collar hidden under the Dresh’ri cowl. He coughed in shock.
Pratik …
The Chaaen tried to shove Frell toward the door, brandishing his bloody sword all around. “Run!”
Frell resisted. He twisted away from his rescuer and stumbled back to the altar. The heat of the two pyres blasted his face. The dark countenance of the Shadow Queen glared down at him.
“What are you doing?” Pratik hollered, panic rife in his voice, swinging his sword wildly.
Frell reached to the sacred book resting open atop the altar and dragged it toward him. He and the others had come to the Southern Klashe to learn more about ancient apocalyptic prophecies. He glanced up to the full face of the moon rising behind the Shadow Queen, then down to the illuminated pages.
I can’t leave this book behind.
Before Frell could close its heavy cover, one of the Dresh’ri broke past Pratik’s guard. The man grabbed the book, cursing loudly in Klashean. The two wrestled over it for a breath. Still too weak, too addled, Frell knew he’d lose this battle.
In desperation—though it went against all his instincts as a scholar—he lunged and snatched a fistful of pages. He ripped them free, desecrating the ancient tome.
