City of Keys, page 3
A sigh. “Yes, doctor.”
Malach’s eyes slid shut. He dragged them open and managed to raise his head a centimeter from the table. The glint of a scalpel hovered above his abdomen. In an instant, he was back at a stone chamber in the Arx of Novostopol, Falke’s priests pinning his arms and legs as the blade bit into his wrist. A muffled scream filtered through the gag.
“I told you we should cut his throat. Someone might hear.”
He felt weak as a newborn, yet every muscle tensed as cold steel touched his navel. He forced his body to relax. Minimize the blood loss. If he survived the cutting long enough for them to extract the stone, he’d have the ley. It flowed all around him, right there. When he died, he’d make sure they went with him.
Malach fixed his bleary gaze on the circle of light overhead, panting through his nose. Whatever drug they’d given him, it didn’t dull sensation. A sharp sting—not too bad. The gentle clink of the scalpel striking the steel tray. A pause as Dr. Fithen chose another instrument. Then pain greater than he’d ever known. It burrowed to his roots. Mist devoured the edges of the room, but he refused to pass out.
Please please please please find it.
The instrument finally withdrew.
“It’s deeper than I thought,” Dr. Fithen said. “Lodged in the lower intestine. I’ll need to widen the incision. Get the probe ready.”
Malach’s heartbeat thundered in his ears. So loud it almost sounded like running feet—
A force rocked the gurney on its wheels. The ceiling spun as he careened across the operating room. The IV stand crashed over. A woman screamed. Malach’s head flopped to one side. Dr. Fithen cowered in a corner. Two blurry figures stood over her.
The pain drained away. He could hear it leaving, a steady drip-drip. The quiet embrace waited to enfold him. Very near now.
Then Darya’s fingers curled in his hair, lifting his head. Her rings gouged into his scalp. Pewter eyes stared down at him.
“Ah, aingeal,” she whispered, cheeks pale with rage. “I think you’ll get your audience with the Mahadeva now.”
Chapter Three
Malach’s eyes opened to the sting of salt water. A heavy weight crushed his chest. He sucked in a panicked breath. The sea poured in. Fingers scrabbled over the flat stone pinning him. It was brutally heavy.
Long shifts toiling in the pit—and sheer panic—finally shifted it aside. He sat with a gasp. Water rattled in his throat. A long minute elapsed before he managed to speak.
“If you intend to murder me, go ahead,” he rasped. “But I thought you’d be more creative than drowning.” He glanced around. “In a pool less than a meter deep.”
The Mahadeva Sahevis started to laugh—all three of them. The Crone had the rusty screech of a gull. The Mother chuckled quietly. But the Maid flailed in helpless mirth, her giggles echoing through the grotto.
“He thinks we’re trying to drown him.” She eyed Malach fondly. “Silly aingeal!”
“Be silent,” the Crone snapped, her own cackles fading. “Valmitra has seen fit to heal you, feckless boy. A little gratitude is in order.”
Malach pressed a hand to his stomach. The skin was smooth and unbroken. Even his other scar had vanished. Yet the agony was seared into his memory. He recalled only a fraction of the ordeal at Fithen’s house—but that was enough. The woman had gutted him.
“It’s not possible,” he whispered, staring at them each in turn. “Even the ley cannot heal!”
The Crone shook her head. “How little you nihilim understand.” White cauls covered her eyes, but her blind gaze pierced him nonetheless. “Count yourself fortunate that the Great Serpent took pity on you. It is a thing rarely done.”
Not for a single moment had Malach believed in their god. The concept was ludicrous. A serpent that coiled around the core of the earth, breathing out ley? But he couldn’t deny that an apparent miracle had occurred. He rose from the pool and strode to the rock shelf. A clean Rahai sat there. He unfolded the garment and knotted it around his waist. His stomach growled loudly.
“How long was I down there?” he asked.
“A week,” the Mother replied.
“A week?”
She dragged a jade comb through her hair. “That butcher you went to inflicted mortal wounds. So we gave you to Valmitra. If you lived, you would surface. If not . . . . We did check on you periodically.”
“What happened to Dr. Fithen?” He hoped it was something terrible.
“Her medical license has been revoked. She will atone for her offense.”
Malach nodded thoughtfully. “Tell her I want my money back.”
The Maid leapt to her feet, scowling. “Do not jest! You have made us very angry!”
“Have I?” He gave her a cold stare. “And what did you expect? I am not a dog to be leashed and brought to heel. You show me signs and portents. Declare that I am dangerous but not why or to whom. You refuse to tell me how long I must remain here or anything that is happening in my homeland. Where I have not one but two newborn children! So yes, I tried to remove the kaldurite. You left me no other choice!”
The three women—he still thought of them as three, although they shared a single mind—regarded him with quicksilver eyes. They resembled each other, more so the Maid and the Mother. Bold nose, thin lips, and high, angular cheekbones. The Maid’s hair was a rich mahogany, threaded with silver in the Mother and fading to pure white in the Crone. They wore no clothing, only dozens of jeweled bracelets, anklets, rings and overlapping necklaces that gleamed in the dim light of the grotto.
“If Valmitra saved your life,” the Mother said at last, “it is because we were right. You have importance in the scheme of things.”
“Then let me meet my destiny, whatever it is!”
The Crone shook a leather dicing cup and tossed the contents between her bony legs. They were not gems, merely rough pebbles that looked like every other rock in the grotto. The Maid and Mother crowded close. They whispered to each other for a minute.
The Crone gave a satisfied grunt. “Valmitra has confirmed our choice.”
The Maid grinned impishly. “He will not like it.”
“It does not matter what he does and does not like,” the Crone said. “He will submit.”
Her voice held total assurance. For the first time in his life, Malach felt utterly outmatched.
“Submit to what?” he asked wearily.
“The mines were a poor choice,” the Mother said. “They stoked your aggression and failed to stimulate your mind.”
“I like the pit,” he said, jaw setting stubbornly. “If I must be here, that is my preference.”
“And therein lies the problem,” the Crone said. “Your judgment is poor, aingeal. We would lock you up before sending you to the pit again. But we do not desire to punish you more than you already have been.”
He leaned back on his palms, crossing his ankles. “What are you offering?”
The Maid’s eyes glittered. “A challenge, aingeal. If you succeed, we will consider setting you loose.”
There were too many conditions in that sentence to take it seriously, yet Malach felt a glimmer of hope.
“Then I will rise to the occasion.” His lips quirked. “Shall I slay a monster for you? Seek out a magical sword?”
“You will join a creche,” the Mother said. “Rear children.”
Malach laughed. “No, really, what is it?”
The Maid scampered over and stroked his hair, toying with the damp locks. “Why do you doubt?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. She gave his beard a playful tug, then kissed his cheek and returned to her elders.
“You would trust me around your children?” he asked in disbelief. “Me?”
“Would you harm them, Malach?” the Mother asked.
“No, but—”
“Then it is done.”
“I haven’t agreed yet!” Unsettled by the swift turn of events, Malach cast about for another excuse. “With all respect, Mahadeva, I don’t speak the language. Menial labor is more suitable.”
The Crone’s thin lips twitched. “A bheil thu a’ creidsinn gu bheil sinn gòrach?”
He gazed at her, all innocence. “Your pardon, Mahadeva?”
“I say again, do you believe us to be stupid?” She swept the stones up. “Very well. Glasaidh sinn suas thu.”
“No!” He frowned. “Do not cage me again.”
The Maid tossed a pebble at him. “Liar,” she growled.
After four months immersed in the speech of Dur-Athaara, Malach had picked up a good deal. In that way, the witch was right. He’d been so bored at the pit, learning their tongue was the only real challenge. And he’d thought he might need it to escape.
“Dè cho fada ‘sa dh’fheumas mi seo a dhèanamh?” he asked.
“You will remain at the creche for as long as it takes.” The Mother’s bracelets jangled as she rose to her feet. “Maybe you’ll come to like it.”
“That’s not the point.”
She smiled. “The Great Serpent will tell us when you are ready.”
“How? Do you speak with it?”
“The pronoun is them. And Valmitra will send a sign.”
“But if you cause any trouble,” the Crone continued, “you will be locked away. Consider this a last chance, aingeal dian.”
Malach swept an arm across his waist and gave them a bow. “I will take it to heart, Mahadeva. If the Great Serpent has blessed me with their mercy, I shall do my utmost to merit it.”
The Crone snorted. “Pretty words mean little. We’ll see what you are made of, Malach. If you are a boy who beats his head against granite and wonders why he keeps getting hurt, or a man who faces his responsibilities.”
The irony of that was too much. He stalked from the cavern. The rhythmic splash of waves grew louder as the passage widened. A dinghy rested on the crescent of black sand. Paarjini, his old nemesis, waited at the oars. Malach gave her a brusque nod and pushed it out, wading to his knees. When the craft floated free, he climbed into the stern. Her arms were slender but strong. She pulled hard on the oars and the boat cut through the swells, turning to take a parallel route along the shore.
“Aren’t ye goin’ to jump out?” she asked after they’d been rowing for several minutes. Paarjini’s accent was very thick, her speech clipped but soft on the vowels. “Make a swim for it? The continent’s only a few hundred leagues west. O’ course, ’tis against the current. But who knows? Maybe ye’ll make it.”
The witch’s bruises had faded, but Malach doubted she’d forgotten the feel of his chains around her throat. “Are you so eager to see me imprisoned again?”
“Not at all.” She tugged on the oars. “In fact, we have wagers on how long you’ll last in your new task. My sisters say a week. But I put ten rubies on a year.” White teeth flashed. “I’ll be a rich woman if I win.”
A year? He eyed her sourly. “How did Darya find me?”
“An informant saw ye enter the house. We’ve been watchin’ Dr. Fithen. She’s unscrupulous. There are very few people who’d cut kaldurite from a man’s belly, but Fithen is one. You’re lucky the sisters arrived in time.”
“Twenty minutes sooner would have been even nicer.”
Sunlight scattered on the sapphire net binding her hair as Paarjini shook her head with a look of disgust. “They dinna stand outside listenin’ to ye scream if that’s what you’re implyin’.”
“I never said they did.”
“But ye wondered.”
He forced himself to hold her gaze. “Yes.”
She stopped rowing. “I know I treated ye roughly when I took ye on the beach, Malach,” she said. “Ye fought like a devil. But I saw ye when they brought ye out o’ Fithen’s abbatoir. I would never allow such a thing t’ be done to anyone, not even ye.”
When he didn’t answer, she took the oars again. “If you’re wonderin’ about your friend, he’s too skilled t’ be removed from his position at the temple. But ye will not be seein’ him again.”
Malach had expected this, though he felt relief that Tash wasn’t being punished for his own mistakes.
A creche. Did the Mahadeva think that caring for other people’s offspring would be sufficient to soothe his anguish? If so, she was a fool. But after Sydonie and Tristhus, the hellion orphans of Bal Kirith, Malach felt sure he would have no trouble managing normal children.
“Why did you wager so many gems on me, Paarjini?”
Her gaze flicked across his Marks, lingering on the two-headed snake at his hip. Her brow notched. Then she met his eyes with a musical laugh.
“Because ye don’t break easily, aingeal.”
Chapter Four
Paarjini rowed along the shore for a while, then steered the dinghy into a cove. The sea was clear as green glass and schools of bright fish darted through the boat’s shadow. When the oars scraped bottom, she turned to Malach.
“Hop out and pull us in, aingeal,” she said.
Malach clambered out, feet hitting soft white sand. He grabbed the rope at the bow and hauled the dinghy up past the high tide line.
“We drive from here,” Paarjini said, leading him up a narrow path through the dunes to a dirt road. A car was parked on the verge, this one in even worse shape than Darya’s. Half the body was rusted, the other half patched with clumsily welded sheets of metal. Stuffing poked from seams in the seats. It didn’t even have a windshield. Paarjini rummaged in the glove box and handed him a pair of sunglasses.
“They’ll keep the bugs from yer eyes,” she said.
Malach put the glasses on. Someone had shoved the passenger seat all the way forward. He tried to slide the seat back, but the lever seemed to be locked in place. He sighed and stuffed himself into the car, knees wedged against the dashboard.
Paarjini drove for about two hours along sun-baked dirt roads. Malach had no idea where they were, except that it was somewhere up in the hilly highlands of the interior. He dozed off, waking to find that they’d stopped at a tiny settlement.
“We’ll grab a bite to eat first,” Paarjini said. “You’ll need your strength to meet the wee ones.”
“How young are we talking about?” Malach asked, stretching his legs with a silent groan.
“At this creche? Four to eleven, I believe.”
“What are we expected to do with them?”
“Ach, do I look like I work there? Save your questions for after lunch.”
“I need a shirt, Paarjini,” he said. “People will stare.”
“Well, I dinna have one.” She grinned. “Ye’ll just have to give ‘em a show.”
Malach shook his head. “What about the creche?”
“They already know all about ye.”
“And they don’t care? I find that hard to believe.”
“If the Mahadeva trusts ye, Malach, that’s good enough for the rest of us.” A laugh. “I think ye’ll find it’s the least of your problems.”
The village had a small market and cafe that served food at outdoor tables. He chose the farthest one, ignoring the other patrons’ curious looks, while Paarjini placed their order at a window. The fare was brutally spicy, but Malach’s palate had hardened along with the rest of him. He devoured two plates of pepper chicken and rice, followed by a cooling yoghurt drink called maatha. Other than hunger, he felt no ill effects from his week-long submersion in the pool. The Mahadeva could have been lying about that. But why would she? He hardly required another demonstration of the witches’ power.
As they ate, Paarjini kept stealing glances at the two-headed snake on his hip.
“Tha’ looks like Valmitra,” she said at last. “Did ye choose it, aingeal?”
He shook his head, scraping up the last bit of sauce with a piece of flatbread. “The ley chooses the Mark. But it’s drawn from my mind.”
“Tha’s interesting. I know little about your kind.”
“What do you know?”
Paarjini’s gaze became guarded. “Tha’ your tribe and mine dinna get along.”
“Tribe?” He stared at her in puzzlement.
“T’was a very long time ago, aingeal.” She rose. “Perhaps you’ll learn more at the creche. But I’ve no time for a history lesson.”
She returned her dirty plate to the window of the cafe and strode back to the car. Malach followed suit, feeling drowsy after the heavy meal. Insects buzzed in the undergrowth and a cool breeze kept the gnats at bay. In Bal Kirith, it was the sort of afternoon for lying in the tall grass and watching the clouds drift overhead. He had a sudden memory of Nikola riding her horse around the field, silver tooth winking as she passed him. A surge of longing hit him like a mailed fist. He slid into the car, slamming the door so hard the lever to roll the window up broke off, landing in his lap. Malach picked it up, looked at it in mute rage, then tossed it into the backseat. Paarjini arched a brow.
“Did I offend ye, aingeal?”
He stared straight ahead. “Just drive.”
She shrugged and started the car. They went a short distance and turned up a narrow, rutted drive that ended at a dirt yard with a swing set and seesaw. Chickens scattered as Paarjini parked next to a covered pavilion, where two men and ten children in red shirts sat at picnic tables. It was such a bizarre sight, Malach froze with one hand on the door handle. In the Via Sancta, crimson held dire connotations. It was strictly banned for its connection to the mages and abyssal ley.
“Ye comin’?” Paarjini said impatiently.
He nodded and stepped out of the car. One of the men jogged over. He was tall with light brown skin and sun-streaked hair coiled into a messy topknot. He wore a dark blue Rahai and sleeveless tunic. There was nothing soft about him except for his eyes, which crinkled in a welcoming smile.
“You must be Malach,” he said, touching his chest in the Athaaran manner of greeting.
Malach returned the greeting, slipping easily into the local tongue.
“I am Finlo.” He didn’t even glance at Malach’s Marks. “The children are eager to meet you, so we can make quick introductions and then I’ll show you around.” He turned to Paarjini, head dipping just enough to convey respect. “Sister. Have you had lunch? You’re welcome to join us.”
