Keeper of Sorrows, page 20
“Cravens!” I snarled.
They whipped around, releasing Lenita. She fell into the vat. I careened by the envoys, their eyes wide. I forced all my fury into my claws, imagining how they would feel sinking into Enzo’s skin, and slashed him across the throat. He dropped like a rock into a boiling vat.
An envoy shrieked and tried to save him. I squeezed by her, pushing her in with him, and laughed like a loon. My guffaws thundered the cave. Each echo chimed in my ears as the other envoys scrambled away. Lenita had sunk beneath the melgo; ivory linens clouded up above her. I dove in and grabbed, but my hand slid right through.
“No!” I wailed, bubbles engulfing me. Melgo, sweet and thick, plugged my mouth. I grabbed. Nothing. How did I slash that bastard’s throat, push his friend in, yet now I couldn’t even manage to hold on to this drowning girl, a task far simpler?
No more bubbles left her mouth, and she sank lower.
There had to be a way. I thought back to the Keeper’s chambers, that night I’d seen her and the captain kissing. The anger I’d felt; it was uncontrollable. I’d blown out her mirror. Pain was power.
Instead of feeling sorry for Lenita, I threw my rage at her. Angry that I was in this blasted citadel and still didn’t know who I was, where I was from, what my purpose was, and why I felt the asinine need to save the woman I’d planned on killing. I retracted my claws and seized her arm. Impact, soft and spongy. I pulled her up and flung her over the side. But she was cold and still, limp as a fish. I jumped out and dragged her to the catwalk. Hit her chest, said a voice within. I was wary but had no alternative. I slammed my fist down. Stone against bone.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
She coughed up amber foam and, though my throat tensed, I relaxed. Her breathing steadied, violet eyes flickering on me.
“It’s you,” she said, smiling faintly, then passed out.
A strange sensation swelled within, stinging my eyes. I saved her, and she remembered me. I’d finally been seen, and now, for the first time since waking, I glowed with pride.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Mad
“It’s gaining on us!” Mila glanced over her shoulder.
“Conserve your air,” gasped Naokah.
They tore through the dark hallway, glass thudding under their feet. She ignored the leering murals, the humming hives, the fact that the horned gargoyle from the donjon had somehow jumped off its perch and was now inside, chasing them. The corridor would end soon. She’d have to make a decision, but the closer she got to the conservatory’s frosted door, the more panic stifled her thinking. Her sleepless nights had caught up to her, weighing her down.
“Where can we go?” Mila gleamed with sweat.
Naokah groaned, irritated she’d done all the problem-solving so far. Mila was a keen, scrappy survivor. Why couldn’t she pitch in? Was the gargoyle leashed to the grounds like the crith tethered to the Razing? If they left the citadel, would its strength fade? Her mouth dried. Her gut writhed. The rancid stink from her room had returned and ripened.
As her lungs fought for air, her eyes played tricks, fuzzing the shadows into more beasts.
No.
Goosebumps tracked her damp skin. Not tricks. She skidded to a halt, panting, filling the dark corridor with cloudy breaths.
“Where are we?” Mila huddled beside her, teeth chattering.
“Don’t know.” Naokah wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her in tight, away from the…the…. “Please, Mila,” she whispered, rubbing her eyes. “Tell me I’m not mad. Tell me you—”
“I see them too.”
A sea of rotten hands flailed about in the murals. Painted with such skill, their long, spiraled nails seemed to claw from the walls. Beneath, grotesques with slacken jaws and oozing teeth drowned in black waves. They were contortions, mockeries of the human form, and couldn’t have possibly come from the Keeper. Her depictions, albeit often erotic, were poetic, hopeful. Whoever created these was demented.
“Sea of Sorrows,” Mila whispered, and Naokah nodded, shivering.
Because the Divine Daughter considered betrayal the worst offense, upon death, anyone committing it would descend to the Scorned Son’s afterscape, sentenced to drown for eternity in the Sea of Sorrows. These murals, filled with regret and agony, were so real, too real, as if the artist themself had endured it.
Something warm splatted Naokah’s neck. She jumped, swiping her skin. Her hand came back red.
Mila shrieked, “Don’t look up—”
Too late.
Hanging upside down from the turret was a lean figure in carmine, their long brassy braid dangling like a fraying rope.
“Samara!” Naokah cried, and Mila threw her a puzzled look.
The savvy twisted their neck in an unnatural angle, and it popped with a wet crunch, not unlike the horned gargoyle’s, and their vacant gaze landed on the women. A ghoulish sneer that didn’t belong to Samara stretched across their face, and then a voice, ancient and diabolical, said, “You were warned not to wander.” They cackled and clawed repeatedly at their wrist, dribbling hot blood over Naokah and Mila. Naokah gagged.
She grabbed Mila, not caring where she was going as long as it wasn’t here, and bolted into the shadows. Pushing until her legs cramped, pushing until her chest might explode, until finally, the hives greeted them. Never in all her life had Naokah been so grateful to be surrounded by bees. But they still weren’t safe. Not yet.
She changed course, pulling Mila towards the doors where a teardrop of moonlight leaked through the gazebo.
“The hedge maze?” Mila squealed as they dashed into the darkness.
“Unless you have a better idea?”
Mila shut up, trailing close behind, and Naokah was grateful, catching her breath. As they sprinted deeper into the maze, the towering walls of green, now black in the dead of night, wound around them like a resting snake. Naokah wiped the sting of sweat from her eyes. Crisp dew and notes of crushed foliage settled her stomach and wreathed her with an aching for home, for Lenita.
Did the gargoyle take her sister? Possess her? Death, in this case, seemed a better fate. Was poor Samara doomed too? Guilt squeezed Naokah. Instead of staying to help, she’d fled. If Lenita were here, she’d have stayed and fought. She did. And that’s why she was missing. Naokah shuffled through Patri’s tales but couldn’t recall anything about gargoyles coming to life.
A column of smoke rose in their path, solidifying. Mila took a step back, and Naokah grabbed her hand.
“You’re safe, at least for now,” the amorphous figure said, voice crackling like fall leaves. It didn’t seem to match the girl emerging from the fog. Her eyeless sockets bled shadows, and Mila gasped. Naokah gripped her hand tighter. The girl was now solid and tilted her head at that odd, bird-like angle she’d first shown Naokah on the cliffs. Adrenaline flared, but Naokah held her ground. The gargoyle and the Samara puppet were scarier.
“What was that thing in there?” Naokah asked.
“Which thing?” The girl’s filmy face bore no expression.
“The gargoyle. I recognize it from the donjon.”
“That’s not what I saw.” Mila wrapped her arms over her robe. “It was a huge, scaly shadow, eyes slit like a serpent.”
“But you did see Samara hanging from the turret?” Naokah pressed. “Their body, I mean. That thing wasn’t the savvy.”
“No.” Mila’s brows furrowed. “With long black hair, sunset tips? That was Kjell.”
“Different visions but the same monster,” said the ghost. “It curates your greatest fears and twists them into personalized nightmares.”
Naokah shivered. The moment she’d stepped foot in Abelha, she’d felt eyes on her, had even cringed beneath the gargoyle’s stare. “And you are positive that…thing wasn’t Samara?”
“Nor Kjell?” Mila murmured, grimacing at the blood drenching them both.
The ghost nodded, and a heavy weight rolled off Naokah’s shoulders. Despite her cowardice, the savvy was fine.
“Then what is it?” Mila asked.
“You’re familiar with the Scorned Son’s afterscape, I take it?”
“Who isn’t?” Mila sassed, surprising both Naokah and the ghost. She had pluck after all. “It’s where the Divine Daughter banished her little brother for stealing the wind. Where we’d end up should we ever betray our family.” What they seemingly just escaped from.
“And where precisely is it?”
An uneasy look passed between Naokah and Mila.
“Millions of leagues away?” Mila asked.
“So some say.” The girl tossed her hair over her shoulder, and it oozed like melting icicles down her arms. “But what if I told you it’s not so far? What if the entrance to the Scorned Son’s afterscape is actually quite near?”
“As in, here?”
The ghost nodded, guttering like a dying candle.
Mila shook her head. “But why would the Divine Daughter want her brother in Abelha?”
“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” Naokah swallowed a scratchy lump. “So, this thing is the Scorned Son’s spawn?”
“The Divine Daughter certainly didn’t create it. Anything nasty could’ve only come from him. He lacked imagination, creativity, so his world is a shadow of ours, a warped echo. The Razing is but a bitter taste of what he can do and, if it doesn’t claim Vindstöld first, he will.”
The night was still, but they were stiller. “How?” Naokah asked.
“If the beast finishes what it started.”
“What does that mean?” Mila rubbed her neck.
“Someone intervened last Praxis and ended it.” The ghost twitched, losing shape. “Or so we thought.”
Lenita. It had to be Lenita!
But before Naokah could ask, Mila pressed, “Can we stop it?”
“I’m counting on it,” the ghost whispered, then melted into vapor.
* * *
Something warm and wet nudged Naokah’s cheek. She stirred, waking Mila. Too afraid to return last night, they’d stayed up late, washing off the blood in the maze’s giant fountain. And while the sculpture within the pool was odd – a cherub riding a shark – a comforting presence lingered, as if Lenita had not only been here, but sought refuge here too.
It was still early. Trimmed hedges and dew spiced the thick air, and the sun had barely crested the mountain terraces, spilling orange beams across the valley. It should’ve been a promising start to the day, but the conversation the night prior stacked her gut with bricks of dread. Naokah had been on the wrong trail the entire time. The staff hadn’t kidnapped her sister. Something unnatural had. Advocate was Lenita’s middle name, and if the world needed saving, she would’ve stepped up no matter the cost.
The gargoyle must have taken Lenita, driven the prior envoys mad, and picked Naokah’s classmates off, one by one. She and Mila had been lucky last night, escaping outside. Still, why the poisoning, the hanging, the kidnapping? Awfully human-like crimes. She rubbed her temples. She missed the days when dying via bee swarm was her biggest worry. A sharp grunt resounded off the fountain. She grabbed Mila, and they stumbled up. The stone was cold beneath her toes.
“See anything?” she asked, squinting through the fog.
“No,” Mila whispered, shivering beside her.
Another grunt. Closer. Clacking against rock.
“There!” Mila gasped, pointing at the base of the fountain.
A hefty animal with spiked hair stalked closer. Naokah and Mila backed up to the fountain’s edge. Mist licked Naokah’s neck.
“What is it?”
“Don’t know.” Hands shaking, Naokah frantically searched the vast quartz fountain for something hard, a weapon. Mist clung to what looked like a rake in the cherub’s fist. A trident? It sheened metallic in the watery light. The beast grunted, ears erect as it climbed the levels of stone towards them. Mila whimpered.
“Shush. It’ll be okay.” Naokah jumped into the fountain. Icy water seeped into her nightclothes, rising up to her chest as she waded to the sculpture. The water was a deep navy, and she tried not to think about how the pebbles beneath her toes were coated in slime, how it was too dark to ascertain what was in the fountain with her. Something smooth zipped by her ankle, and she yelped. Like the citadel’s aquarium floors, there were fish in the fountain. Nothing else. Surely, she’d just frightened one.
“Naokah.” Mila backed up. Her thin shadow stretched over the water. “It’s getting closer.”
“Hang on.” Naokah charged the cherub, grabbed its cold trident, and yanked. Slick with mist, her fingers lost their grip. She cursed.
“Naokah!”
“I’m trying,” she spat, finally wrenching the metal rod from the sculpture’s hand. Its arm, wreathed in moss, came off with it, plopping into the water.
“Naokah!” Mila had climbed into the water, wading to her.
A chest-high creature now stood on the highest ledge. Its long nose cast an angular shadow over them, like a horn or spike. It grunted, throwing its hairy face to the side. Beady eyes pierced the veil. Naokah sighed, dropping the rod into the water.
“What are you doing?” Mila asked. “Kill it.”
“No need.” Her pulse slowed, steady as the water spurting from the shark’s jaws.
“Why?”
“Don’t you recognize it?” Naokah stepped closer. “From the outer gates?”
Mila shook her head, backing up even more.
“It’s a guardhog.”
“What’s it doing here?”
“Good question.”
Despite the sunrise, the temperature had dropped. Naokah’s breath fogged the air. The guardhog with its bulging legs, muscular groove down its back, and long, curved tusks didn’t look friendly. But it jerked its head to an alcove behind them.
“Think it wants us to follow.” Naokah offered her hand, and Mila took it.
As they sloshed out of the fountain, water rushing down their legs, steam billowed up around them. Only then did Naokah miss the fountain. Within, her skin had gone numb. Now, the air razored her damp nightclothes. A chill ran through her, chattering her jaws.
The guardhog, once it established they were following, took off at a trot.
“Didn’t know pigs could run,” Mila said, speeding up.
“Abelha’s full of surprises.” Last night was hazy and, had Mila not been there, she would’ve sworn it was a nightmare.
A puff of white materialized on her left, but when she spun, it dissolved into a ray of light. The ghost girl? Mila had seen it too, evident by her jerky movement, but didn’t say anything. The guardhog squeezed through a small, arched doorway that both women had to duck to enter. It gave way to sweeping beds of dark purple foxgloves and crimson roses where forager bees hummed softly, buzzing from flower to flower. Naokah’s throat constricted, her skin tingled, but she crushed her fear into fists. She’d weathered worse.
A stone bench covered in ivy rose from the center of the garden. A small pond sat before it, lily pads skimming the surface. Flowers perfumed the air, sweet and delicate, and with the sun now streaming over the hedges, caressing her cheeks, her mood lifted. She almost allowed herself to relax, the stiffness in her thighs thawing, until Mila screamed. Both the pig and Naokah flinched.
A statue of a praying woman knelt over the pond. Tears of blood trickled down her stone cheeks and, below her clasped hands, floated a man with lovely sharktail braids – Clisten.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Happiness, a Drug
The two envoys I dumped into the melgo canisters survived, unfortunately. They deserved far worse than the burns covering their skin. Lenita refused to name them, but the envoy who’d tried to intervene did. Even so, for some reason, despite the prodding of the sentries, she wouldn’t press for punishment. They were simply sent home, as were all parties involved. That left only Lenita and the envoy from Bizou for the finale.
I’d been visiting Lenita in the surgery, down the long, dim stretch of corridor from her chambers. If she knew I’d been coming, she hadn’t let on. I hid in a mural of swans holding up a young girl, saving her from the smoky claws of the Razing. It was the best vantage to watch over Lenita, adjacent to the crown of cots that sat beneath the stained-glass alcove, but not necessarily for me. I often teared up; the brushstrokes stung my eyes and crumbled to ash in my mouth.
Unlike most memories that fizzled as soon as they’d formed, the one of my possible daughter freeing herself from my grasp and plunging into a plume of smoke stayed, solidifying into a jagged rock that scraped the soft nodes of my mind. Out of all the memories, this was the one that latched on? It taunted me, haunted me, even worse than the marching. The specter’s resemblance to the girl from my nightmare was too uncanny to be a coincidence. I’d searched the citadel a hundred times over, but whatever business she’d had the night I saved Lenita must’ve detained her. Every search ended in despair. Surely, no harm had come to her? She’d easily put the viper-eyed beast in its place, so nothing should’ve been able to touch her. If she wanted to be found, she’d appear. Until then, I’d focus on Lenita, the key to my past.
Despite my shortcomings and the hastily ticking clock, I allowed myself a brief interval of joy for the one task I hadn’t mangled – saving Lenita. Happiness was a drug. Addictive, consuming. One sip and I wanted more. No, needed. Lenita knew me. I wasn’t some lonely slab of stone. I was real. Alive. Sunny and floating. Was this how it felt to be a hero? Not once did this ray of ecstasy ever touch me on my haunt. Squashing scrim was a cold, empty chore. Never fulfilling. No matter how evil they supposedly were, I always felt like the villain. Could this, then, maintaining this doer-of-good-deeds countenance, atone for my former unscrupulous decisions? Maybe even squash the spectral army that only seemed to bother me?
