The Cage of Dark Hours, page 36
As he stared, Hintosep continued. “Mimics can camouflage themselves in any natural setting. Jumpers ignore the constraints of time and space…”
Krona’s armor rattled, and Mandip turned in time to see her glance up sharply. “Love eaters target strong emotions. The pack leaders are much more intelligent—they retain more knowledge.”
“And mirrors know every secret move before you make it,” Hintosep finished. “When you know what the final gift is, it becomes easy to see, doesn’t it? Though there are many things I still do not know, there are a few things of which I am certain. Varger are not monsters from beyond the Valley. They can’t traverse the border; they’re trapped inside just like everything else. No one has ever found any pups or broods, because they do not procreate like any other creature, and yet they proliferate. No matter how many are captured, no matter how many are bottled, there are always more. And after all these many years, I have come to one foundational assumption—one that you will help me test.”
“And what’s that?”
“That varger are born of people.”
Mandip resisted the information, even though he knew deep down that he had no right to be skeptical. Still, incredulous confusion threatened to push a sardonic laugh from his chest, but he bit it back. Thibaut, on the other hand, had no such reservations, and let loose a bark of derision—the kind that could only come from someone who had no firm footing in the conversation to begin with. Thibaut was surely skilled at many things, and certainly crafty in his own way, but enchantment expert he was not.
“Just as all magic is born of people,” Hintosep said firmly, ignoring him. “It all springs from the same origin. It may come from the gods, but it resides in people. Most of what you’ve been taught about magic is carefully curated, if not an out-and-out lie.”
“That’s nonsense,” Mandip said. “Raw enchanted materials have magic in them straight from the ground. I’ve been to the mines. I’ve seen the enchanted forests. I’ve held—”
“I’m sure you have,” Hintosep cut him off. “You need to forget what you think you know, realize that most every enchantment you’ve encountered is the result of sleight of hand. The materials do not absorb God Power on the rim. It is purposefully placed into the materials after it is harvested.”
“Harvested from where?”
“Haven’t you been listening, milor?” Thibaut asked, still clearly amused by what he thought was a joke or, at the very least, an obvious lie. “Magic is harvested from people.”
36
THALO CHILD
Nine Months Ago
Gerome’s command quickly turned cruel. It wasn’t overt enough to draw notice from the priests—mostly small slights in more public areas of the keep, and larger indignities in private. Gerome started to use the Eye’s influence on him at random, manipulating Thalo Child’s emotions without warning. He made him burst out laughing during a silent call to worship, and sob in the middle of breakfast.
Those minor humiliations Thalo Child could take—and if it hadn’t been for Hintosep’s deal, he would have thought Gerome was testing him; he would have thought it a lesson or an exercise that would help him become a stronger Named One in the end.
The true malice lay in his efforts to keep Thalo Child from seeing his charge. There were days where the Possessor would stroll up to him, pluck Thalo Infant from his grasp, and stroll away with zhim. Others where Gerome would order him to return Thalo Infant to the nursery because of an “important task,” only to relegate Thalo Child to hours cleaning the privy.
Thalo Child tried to convince himself that his Possessor was only toying with him. That the moments he was separated from Thalo Infant were meant to worry him, nothing more. Gerome wouldn’t hurt the babe once he took zhim out of Thalo Child’s sight. Of course not.
Of course not.
Even knowing the separation pangs were just that, he could not keep himself from obsessively fearing for the infant’s safety while they were parted.
* * *
One afternoon, a few months after Gerome’s deal with Hintosep, the Possessor and Thalo Child trod a familiar path, out onto the rampart, but instead of stopping halfway to wait for the Harvesters to bring in new Sacrifices, Gerome hurried on without a pause, toward the door that led … led away.
Surprised by this turn, Thalo Child stumbled, but he quickly recovered. When they reached the door—sturdy wood with iron studs—Gerome pushed through without explanation.
A dangerously narrow open-air staircase met them on the other side. Just like the rampart, it soared above the natural slope of the mountain, and a fall in either direction would be deadly. Thalo Child wondered how the wind hadn’t claimed any of the Sacrifices he’d tended to—seeing as how it howled with ferocity even now, threatening to take him off his feet before he’d even attempted to leave the landing—until Gerome stepped onto the staircase and his robes fell straight and calm.
Of course. The staircase was enchanted with a protective barrier. Invisible, and, he assumed, likely to give out should anyone attempt a crossing without a knowledgeable Thalo to manage it.
Thalo Child followed cautiously but confidently. The stairs alighted on a narrow path that wound around an outcropping, shielding its true length and destination from view. It too was guarded from the elements, though it appeared exposed.
The path twisted for a long way, following the natural flow of the stone at a smooth-yet-steep downward slope.
There were several times Thalo Child wished to stop—not to catch his breath but to simply look out over the Severnyy Ice Field and what little he could see of the curling Valley to the west.
Eventually, they came to a lowered drawbridge, and on the other side stood a carriage house. Nothing but forest and road lay beyond.
Real, open, winding road.
Thalo Child could not hold his tongue any longer. “We’re leaving the keep?” His voice broke at the end in a combination of pubescent cracking and sudden fear. He’d never been outside the keep. No one his age had ever been outside the keep, as far as he knew.
It made him instantly wary of what Gerome had planned. He wanted to believe his Possessor wouldn’t dare harm him, at least not before Hintosep either succeeded or failed to retrieve the Cage. But he’d come to understand that he truly knew little of Gerome’s motives and reasons. His Possessor seemed both extremely measured and overly impulsive in contradictory turns. Perhaps Gerome’s suspicion of Hintosep’s plans for Thalo Child had won out over his desire for the Cage. Perhaps he thought getting rid of Thalo Child was the most practical way to stop her and prove his loyalty to the Savior.
“Your feet are not made of lead,” Gerome said impatiently.
Thalo Child raised his foot to move from the last step onto the waiting road, calculating what his chances would be in the mountains if he decided to run. Could he escape Gerome? If he fled, what would be his charge’s fate? Sure, he had helped Hintosep, but zhe was innocent, had done nothing. Was Gerome so depraved as to hurt a young one purely out of revenge?
Gerome was a Possessor. His whole life was devoted to raising and training young Thalo, a noble endeavor, a righteous and humbling calling.
It also afforded him easy and automatic power. Young children were trusting; Thalo Child had seen proof of that in his infant, in the way zhe had taken to him right away, with no proof of his ability to care for or to be kind to zhim.
They were brought horses and supplies by several Thalo manning the bridge and carriage house. “It is several days’ travel to where we’re going,” Gerome informed him as he mounted his steed.
The shock of such a simple statement went straight to his lungs, made them stutter. “But Thalo Infant, my obligations—” Your obligations, he wanted to add. Gerome did occasionally leave his cohort with another Possessor for a short time but never without warning. Was it possible the others had been told and Gerome had kept him in the dark on purpose?
The idea only served to stoke his fears.
“Everything’s been taken care of,” Gerome said, in what Thalo Child used to think of as a reassuring tone.
“I don’t know how to ride,” Thalo Child pointed out. He’d never seen more than an illustration of a horse, let alone touched the real beast before.
“Your horse will follow mine. All you need to do is not fall off.”
* * *
Horseback riding, Thalo Child decided, was not fun in the least. His entire body ached, especially his thighs, hips, and back. But he didn’t complain, and he didn’t hesitate to dismount and climb back up on the horse every time he was ordered. The horse he’d been given was indeed a patient, gentle soul, and he was thankful for its demeanor every time he burdened its back.
Day turned to night turned to day turned to night. They camped under the stars, which Thalo Child thought might have been pleasant with different company.
Early afternoon on their third day, Gerome signaled they were near their destination. “The village is just a ways ahead. We’ll stop outside, off the beaten path.”
They crested a hill and Gerome pulled his horse to a halt. “We’ll put up camp here.”
They tied the horses, set up their perimeter, and prepared a slight meal in awkward silence.
“Now what?” Thalo Child ventured once they’d eaten.
“Now we wait until we are summoned.”
He said no more than that. Thankfully, not too much longer passed before Gerome received whatever signal he’d been waiting for. Thalo Child didn’t notice any change, but his Possessor was soon snapping his fingers and ordering him to prepare for a small hike.
Together, the two of them trudged out of their protective, climate-controlled circle and through a fresh, light powdering of snow. All around, the mountains were a twist of steep slopes topped with rocky outcroppings, sheer and sharp. They had to make their way between two ridges before they came upon a clearing. Around the clearing, ancient, warped trees with trunks as broad as the carriage house rose into the pale sky, their branches wide and their needles long and sharp. The woody scent of cones mixed with damp stone and a slight edge of sulfur in the air, giving the mountains a distinct smell, not wildly different from the scents of the keep.
They pulled up short as they alighted upon a herd of caribou nosing their way through the snow to get at something underneath. The creatures were large, with antlers as wide as Thalo Child was tall, all covered over in velvet. Each wore a harness of small brass bells. The creatures were intimidating but fascinating. Thalo Child longed to approach one, to see if a deer would allow him to touch it, but Gerome spotted the herdmaster, and the two of them hurried on.
The way dipped down into another clearing with a small stream trickling through it—fed by ice runoff high in the glacier regions. To one side of the stream, at the rear of the clearing, lay a massive circle of the broad-trunked trees, nestled right up against a bare-stone cliff. Some of the trees even appeared to climb up the rock, coiling and branching up it like grasping fingers in the way the keep grasped at the mountains. Thalo Child had never seen such trees before, curving out in strange ways, bulbous and shiny, as though polished. The wood was a lovely warm reddish.
“There it is,” Gerome said with a nod, face still remarkably pale even after their strenuous trudge.
“What?”
“The village,” he said. “Those trees—the village is inside.”
He pictured the homes like little fairy holds, carved right into the wood.
“Come. The Harvesters are expecting us. You must stay close to me. I will hide us from the villagers’ sight, but in order to do that, I must be aware of your position at all times. Understand?”
“Yes, Possessor.”
“Good.”
Soon, they found a well-trodden, narrow road and entered the circle of trees. The reality of the village was different but no less wondrous than Thalo Child had imagined.
The trees themselves had been trained to grow around and up the cliff. They encircled small stone cottages with dramatically pitched roofs, in the traditional Marrakevian style. The stones of the walls had been laid in an almost-haphazard way, giving each building a lean and a swirl. There weren’t many, perhaps a dozen, and most of the houses rested directly against a tree or the cliff. In the village center—more of a communal circle than anything—lay a heap of fire windows, which glowed with everlasting warmth. It was at least ten degrees warmer inside the gathering of trees than out, and Thalo Child guessed it never froze inside.
A zigzagging staircase wound up the cliff face, cut directly into the stone. This led to a series of stacked caves, which appeared to shelter a small market and various vendors.
Thalo Child noted there were more people milling about than could possibly live there. It must have been a hub, a small trading post between the vast stretches of wilderness and secluded trappers and hunters.
Everywhere he looked, there were carvings and adornments formed right out of the natural environment. Branches and roots had been manipulated to grow into topiaries representing various animals—one in the shape of a caribou had horns sprouting leaves and berries. There were surprise reliefs that could only be viewed in the stone when someone stood at the correct angle. And bells. So many brass bells and ornaments. From huge temple-style bells to small chimes. Even the Marrakevian clothes sported bells at the collars, wrists, and ankles.
It was wondrous and lifted Thalo Child’s spirits. Clearly, he’d been wrong to fear Gerome, that this outing was some kind of ruse to be rid of him. Why would he bring him to such a fascinating place before dispatching him for good?
“This way,” Gerome indicated, deftly dodging a woman with her arms full of wrapped goods. She aimed right for him, completely oblivious to his presence. As she hurried past Thalo Child, her eyes looked his way, but her gaze fell right through him. He pulled his cloak tight around him at the last moment so that she would not brush up against it.
“They truly can’t see us?” He’d known this was a skill he’d learn one day—to hide himself from the world while standing smack-dab in the middle of it—but he’d never witnessed its usage, as far as he knew, anyway.
“They cannot see us, hear us, or feel the lightest of our touches unless we want them to.”
Thalo Child looked down at himself, then up at Gerome. As far as he could tell, nothing had changed about the two of them.
“It is a projected secret,” Gerome explained, making for a cottage near the cliff. “I’ve created a blind spot around us, and their minds fill in the gaps. It is not us that change but the perception of our existence in space and time. This is why I must know where you are. If I cannot place you, I cannot protect you.”
They approached a cottage nestled in the gnarled, raised roots of one of the great trees. There were so many bells encircling the door—hung from the low-dipping eaves, attached to little hooks in the stone cladding, and strung across the threshold—Thalo Child wondered how they could possibly enter without being noticed, altered perceptions or no.
Gerome simply knocked.
A Thalo—a Harvester, given their robes—opened the door and beckoned them inside with a small bow of respect for the Possessor.
They entered into a small room that clearly served as both kitchen and primary living space. It was cozy and smelled of ginger, and Thalo Child’s attention was immediately drawn to the large cast-iron pot hanging over the fire. Two doors sat next to each other at the rear of the room, and given the overall size of the cottage, Thalo Child suspected they led to the only other rooms in the house.
The Harvester guided them to one. “Please wait here. The taxing has just commenced.”
The door opened into a dyeing room filled with hanging, twisted fibers drying on racks and dangling from the ceiling. The strong scent of wet yak hair and fermented berries hit Thalo Child hard, and he immediately covered his nose with his sleeve. The colors, though, were brilliant—vibrant purple and deep maroon and grieving red. Tubs of dyes and alcohol were stacked in the various corners, and several stained washbasins took up most of the floor, though they were pushed to the side.
A single large chest caught Thalo Child’s eye—stylistically out of place as it was amongst the Marrakevians’ belongings. It bore symbols he often saw around the keep, and he knew it must belong to the Harvesters.
“Come, stand away from the door,” Gerome said, waving him closer once the Harvester had left, standing near a stack of undyed spools of off-white yak wool. “They will need all the room we can give them. This is not a ritual I usually invade upon, but Hintosep sees fit to keep thrusting responsibility on you early, so I don’t see why I shouldn’t do the same.”
At the mention of Hintosep, Thalo Child tensed again, but he did as he was told. They settled in together to wait.
“Harvesters do more than just bring us Sacrifices,” Gerome explained. “They are as important as the Orchestrators and the Guardians to keeping Arkensyre Valley in stable working order. Every time an infant pays the time tax, the Harvesters are on hand.”
“Why?”
“To ensure magic is only used by the citizenry in the proper way. The safest way. Their lives depend on simplicity and conformity, and all Thalo—via our own positions within the order—provide that for them.”
After several more minutes, a high-pitched yawing noise started in the next room, then quickly rose in volume as whatever was making the sound headed their way. The door opened, and in rushed five Harvesters, including the one that had let them into the cottage—in their arms was an infant, bawling and bare.
Each Harvester moved with deliberation, and Thalo Child pushed even closer to Gerome as they swept about the cramped space, each gathering tools or cloth or unlocking the chest Thalo Child had noted earlier.
