“Now, we find the relic and go back,” said Thassa.
“But I don’t have the other relics,” she said, her shoulders sagging with the memory. She quickly ran through the events on Benguzi, Thassa listening attentively.“That means Zlo has the relics you and the Light … Sul …” he shook his head, “I mean, Astrapi found?”“Yes, he does," she said hearing only failure in her acknowledgment. But then why was Thassa looking less despondent?"That's good news, Ilyria," said Thassa, "Because it means they are still in one place. Even if that place is with him. We just have to figure out how to get the relics back from him."
Ilyria was not convinced this was such good news, though she felt a small ember of hope warming her.
"Thassa, how do we know that he doesn’t already have the Yakip relic? And the Izben one? We didn't even make it to those places. And the Nemachi one? If it even exists.”
She remembered that final image of the Nemachi fortress, the smoki
Ilyria had the dizzying impression of being in two places at once, which—in a way—she was. She was here, with Miasma beside her but also there, inside the whirlpool, with Thassa, feeling his thoughts and seeing what he saw. She watched herself reach out and pop one of the kaleidoscope bubbles that floated past, but it was Thassa’s scarred hand that did it. She looked around her and saw Miasma’s tranquil, untroubled expression beside her outside of the whirlpool. She even felt some of Miasma’s ease. It was going to be alright, of course it was, Ilyria felt Miasma thinking. It was not yet the end and who could tell if anything ever ended anyway. Comforted by Miasma’s thoughts she returned her attention to Thassa, feeling him cross his arms over his chest as the memory was released from the bubble he had just popped. His mother sitting cross-legged with little Thassa’s leg pulled over hers, carefully pulling long spiny thorns from his flesh. Thassa’s face was smooth and tear-streaked b
Ilyria had already grabbed Miasma’s hand, before she realized she had no idea where they would run to. And what about Thassa? She felt Zlo’s amusement. He enjoyed her panic. It was like watching ants trying to save the ruin of their nest, not knowing that their inconsequential lives could be snuffed out in an instant … Wait. … she could feel Zlo. In the same way as the water gave her access to Thassa and Miasma, she could feel the flow of Zlo's thoughts. It was like being trapped in a dark tower. The walls were cold, impenetrable, there was no light. In this cold dark space he was invincible. Nothing could stop him. He was the most powerful. Yet. There was something else. Behind the door to this room at the top of the tower, down the thousands of stairs that wound their way to the bottom, through the cellar door and deep into the earth waited the something that was very, very, hungry and very, very patient. It waited for him. But if he stayed in this room, wi
Ilyria finally let go of Miasma’s hand. They stood in the middle of smoking black ruins beneath a cobalt sky in which the brother full moon and sister waxing moon were clearly visible. The Twin Moons were nearly reunited. From the streets around them came noise of fighting and still that infernal procession with its drums and cymbals, though they were moving farther away. Somehow they were back in Idixat. Ilyria’s heart thudded with joy and relief. Solid ground and a disrupted burning city were still preferable to that strange watery place that was Thassa’s home, and Zlo. Thassa lay at their feet, groaning. Ilyria dropped Miasma’s hand and fell to her knees. She lifted Thassa’s head. His eyes—thankfully, mercifully—fluttered open. “Ilyria,” he whispered. Then he saw Miasma and his eyes widened. “You…” he said. Ilyria turned to Miasma and only then understood what he was seeing. Miasma silver-gold hair fluttered around her as static sparked and crackled up and
Thassa found the third piece and Miasma the fourth and final. They laid the pieces together. The sky had lightened which only made the ruins among which they knelt look worse. Ilyria tried not to think of the life that had seemed so much like a home for her here. She tried to believe it was just a place that she had temporarily stayed. But it was not. The three of them stared down at the epoch clock. “Ilyria …” said Miasma softly, “Maybe …” “It will work,” said Ilyria, not meeting her eyes. “It will.” It had to. She knew the aeon clock in her father’s study as well as she knew and loved his face. The nooks and crannies of his face still lived under her fingertips, the smell of his crisp tunics still lingered as a scent-memory in some deep part of her brain. Yet she had difficulty recalling the exact colour of his eyes or what his feet had looked like. Memory was a strange creature. So it was with the aeon clock. Each one was unique in a way kn
Miasma looked at Thassa who lifted his shoulders in a tired shrug. "The last time we saw Fierce was after Thassa gave her the collar and she went to find you,” she said to Ilyria. “She wasn’t there with you I think.” Ilyria shook her head. “No, she took off when I left the guardhouse at the gate.” “Ilyria,” said Miasma, she put a hand on Ilyria’s shoulder and Ilyria had a brief half-memory of happy smells, of home and rest and kindness. She sighed and allowed herself to be comforted by Miasma. “Fierce will be okay. She is … Fierce,” Miasma smiled and Ilyria felt a little less anxious in spite of herself, “But now we really must go.” The three hurried along the dark streets, the sounds ahead of them becoming louder and more disturbing. Ilyria had though the procession was never ending with its clanging cymbals and drums and the odd trumpet. But as they progressed along the streets and the sun’s rays illuminated their path, she saw signs that the proces
For a while as they walked, Ilyria wondered if the sounds they were hearing were just some sort of auditory hallucination. The streets around them were empty. The houses with their shattered windows and burst open doors showed traces of the violence that had been there, but they too were empty. The sounds they heard were always just ahead. Peta would not leave Miasma’s side which Ilyria thought was understandable. He shadowed Miasma's every step. And in turn, Ilyria shadowed him, uncertain when he might turn again into a channel for the thing that may yet be powerful even than Zlo. It had said of the ceremony that “it is ours”. Now Ilyria puzzled over what that meant. “Mia,” said Ilyria, keeping an eye on Peta but hurrying to Miasma’s other side. “You said that I’m …” she glanced at the boy not wanting to say the word, “… of Izben and you of Menos.” “Magos?” said Miasma with a smile. Ilyria need not have worried. Peta continued treading dully, apparen
A woman at the back of the procession gave a long guttural howl. Every hair on Ilyria’s body stood on end. “Use the glamour,” said Miasma, “Help me, use the glamour.” “And do what?" said Ilyria, "Where do we even go?” Aerie? No then they would be too far away. They had to be in the Palace. Palace? What part of the Palace? The Princess’s chambers? The Princess’s garden? She felt for the token in her pocket already knowing it wasn’t there and that she wouldn’t use it even if she had it. The Princess, she decided, could not be trusted. Vatra? Yakip?No. They had to be here. “Make a run for it,” said Thassa, readying himself as if to do just that. The procession moved with purpose now, bearing down on them. Their fac
Ilyria, Miasma and Thassa paused at the iron and gold gates. The Gates of Perception they were called. Ilyria had never been this close to them. As a child she had been told they were enchanted. Any person wishing to see the Mogul had to pass the test of the Gates of Perception. Those who did not come with noble intentions would be incinerated as they passed through. Perhaps that was why the three hesitated. The heavy iron had been wrought with gold into the history of the Moguls of Idixat. There was the first with his high, noble brow, hands aloft, providing benediction for the new city. There was his successor, the same noble brow, bending to drink the water from the underground river on which the city relied. There was his successor’s successor, digging the first spadeful of dirt for the city’s ramparts. And so on. Each Mogul’s face was rendered in gold, his body in iron. The arid land in iron, the city he drew from its earth in gold. It was a study of how a man was made
Ilyria woke to the smell of warm bread and blossoming plants, and another damp salty smell she could not recognize. She sighed and turned over. Her eyes flickered half-open as she felt Suluu’s warm body lying on his back next to her. Her hand lazily traced the contours of his smooth chest, delighting in the way his skin puckered beneath her fingers. He turned to look at her, his lips parted in a smile and his eyes hooded with his desire. “Hello,” he murmured, pulling her toward him, “You’re awake.” “I am,” she said, tracing her fingers over his lips. Then her stomach rumbled noisily, “and I am so, so, so, so hungry!” She sat up trying to recall when last she had eaten and suddenly a rush of images flooded over her. She sank her face into her hands. Astrapi, impaled. The Princess and Zlo’s blood dripping from the spines of The Shackled One. Madame Skia’s wounded body lying shrouded by the shimmering moon dust. The monster’s final moments. She looked up
The monster reached out a nightmarish tendril, twisted and hard and riddled with fungus. The tendril scratched Ilyria under the chin as an overly familiar uncle might and she gagged on the smell of rotten animal flesh. “You don’t look like him at all,” said The Shackled One, “Lucky for you. We hated him for what he did to us.” “Us? There is more than one of you?” “Us,” said The Shackled One, and dark spikes shot out from its body, impaling the Princess and Zlo. A spike missed the Mogul only because Loulou had pushed him out of the way. They stood open-mouthed with dread and fear as the Princess and Zlo twisted and writhed on the spikes, howling in agony, their blood dripping to the ground beneath them. Thassa ran to the frozen pair and pulled them away. Think, Ilyria, what does it want? came Madame Skia’s question. Ilyria tried not to hear the howls of the Princess and her son. She looked around for Madame Skia the darkness was so com
They all heard it making its way. The ground rumbled with its passage as the Sister Moon shone down with relentless brightness, Brother Moon no longer able to temper her cold light. And Ilyria saw her own fear reflected in the faces of her friends. Even the sirens cowered, and Madame Skia looked uncertain which was maybe the most terrifying thing of all. What could be worse than Zlo? Ilyria knew. It was the thing that Zlo feared. The thing that lived deep within his own dark tower. She looked at the Princess. The Princess knew too. Her face had turned so pale, it seemed to reflect that horrifying moonlight. Suddenly the Princess reached out one hand and the crowd of sirens parted around her as if she had sliced through them. She curled her fingers, and the Mogul was dragged through the mud toward her. He twisted and turned reaching out for Loulou. Loulou, her cheeks flushed, tried to follow but the Princess flung her away with a flick of the other hand. She lifted her summon
Then the air was torn apart by a woman’s scream. It was filled with such rage that every one of them who heard it fell to their knees with their hands over their ears, desperate for it to stop. Zlo alone stood, his head bowed as the Princess appeared beside him. She was beautiful and terrifying in her anger. She appeared to float off the floor, her white robes billowing around her, her long, burnished hair streaming as though she were the wind itself. Behind her stood Nicos, his expression glazed. His hands hung at his sides. He appeared to see and hear nothing. “Fool,” said the Princess to Zlo, “I did everything to help you. I sent him away,” she tilted her head toward the Mogul, “I distracted the brothers and the stupid girl-child Magoses with their little quest. I sowed division and strife. I ensured the Laws were broken. All you had to do was make sure they,” here she swept her arm around to indicate Astrapi, the companions, Thassa, Miasma and Ilyria, “were all h
Ilyria could not have said exactly when she had understood the truth of the relics. Had it begun when she realized that the map to the Lost Cities was really the knowledge of one man, Nicos? Or when Astrapi’s breath activated the perfect chord on the gold harmonicus. Could it even have been Zlo who pulled the scant threads of ideas together for her when he pointed to Fierce as a Nemachi device. Ilyria knew Fierce was a living, breathing creature. Had Zlo missed something? Having forfeited so much of his humanity for power, he no longer understood the value of that humanity. Now, as she watched Thassa’s slow, reluctant appraoch, felt his sorrow as he dug in his pocket and brought out the necklace to place it on the altar, saw his dejection as he walked past her back to where Bonbon waited, she wanted to yell out her understanding. She wanted to scream at Thassa that the necklace did not matter. Only his memory of it was worth anything. The things that bind us to
Astrapi fell, Bonbon fell. Sidian, Flame and Loulou, they all fell. But it was not with the bone-rending shatter that Ilyria, Miasma and Thassa anticipated. Thassa, with his arms outstretched was surprised to find them filled with soft, warm, living, breathing Bonbon. Ilyria cried out as Astrapi landed with the thud and slap of flesh hitting floor. Likewise, the other companions, released from their marble prisons, fell to the rumbling, caving floor with cries of surprise and pain. Except for Bonbon whose tears were of joy to be in her lover’s arms. Ilyria had no time to feel bad about her inaction for the white roof and shattered walls of the reception chamber fell away as easily as if the marble had no more substance than eggshell. The smell of the garden filled the space but instead of the intoxicating perfume of earlier, it smelled as over-sweet and rotten, like over-ripe fruit. She held her hand up to her nose. The marble floor beneath their feet dissolved into the dark
Ilyria kept her eyes on Astrapi even as she felt Zlo feeding off her pain. Her limbs grew numb and heavy as Zlo drew all that heartache from her. Ilyria willed Astrapi to open his eyes. Just show me you are alive, she thought, If I know you are alive, then I can do anything, I can … A soft hand on her arm and she groped blindly for Miasma. Miasma took her hand and stood on her one side and as she did so, Thassa took her hand on the other. She was not alone. Somehow, miraculously, she was not alone. She felt the blood return to her limbs and they tingled almost painfully with the returning pain. She would claim it back from Zlo. It was not his to steal. A rumble and the marble walls and floor shook. The three stood firm. “Look,” whispered Miasma, “They are all here.” Ilyria tore her eyes from Astrapi and looked around them. On the walls were each of her friends. Captured in attitudes of struggle, their faces bore the signs of their to
Ilyria, Miasma and Thassa paused at the iron and gold gates. The Gates of Perception they were called. Ilyria had never been this close to them. As a child she had been told they were enchanted. Any person wishing to see the Mogul had to pass the test of the Gates of Perception. Those who did not come with noble intentions would be incinerated as they passed through. Perhaps that was why the three hesitated. The heavy iron had been wrought with gold into the history of the Moguls of Idixat. There was the first with his high, noble brow, hands aloft, providing benediction for the new city. There was his successor, the same noble brow, bending to drink the water from the underground river on which the city relied. There was his successor’s successor, digging the first spadeful of dirt for the city’s ramparts. And so on. Each Mogul’s face was rendered in gold, his body in iron. The arid land in iron, the city he drew from its earth in gold. It was a study of how a man was made
A woman at the back of the procession gave a long guttural howl. Every hair on Ilyria’s body stood on end. “Use the glamour,” said Miasma, “Help me, use the glamour.” “And do what?" said Ilyria, "Where do we even go?” Aerie? No then they would be too far away. They had to be in the Palace. Palace? What part of the Palace? The Princess’s chambers? The Princess’s garden? She felt for the token in her pocket already knowing it wasn’t there and that she wouldn’t use it even if she had it. The Princess, she decided, could not be trusted. Vatra? Yakip?No. They had to be here. “Make a run for it,” said Thassa, readying himself as if to do just that. The procession moved with purpose now, bearing down on them. Their fac