Eye of the Tempest

Page 42

The problem was that lying prone over the scabbard’s mouth was a white dove, its wings outstretched like some sort of feathery crucifixion character.
“Shit,” I swore, under my breath, as I stared at the conundrum. Meanwhile, the dove watched me back, its beady little eyes rolling as its breast fluttered in panic.
First things first, I thought, studying the sword. The rapier looked razor sharp, and so very thin, but I knew the damage it would do to that white breast. I moved around it, trying to see how it was floating, but it was obviously magic.
When I reached for the pommel, I couldn’t help but emit a low chuckle. The rapier’s grip was surrounded by a large, circular shield that was the same shape as the sigil we’d just chased all over Rockabill. Grasping the sword, I pulled, nearly falling back on my ass when it came to me with no resistance whatsoever.
I stood there, sword in hand, staring down at the bird. The bird stared back.
What kind of test is this? I wondered. Is it testing my resolve? My cruelty? My willingness to sacrifice? Or is it the complete opposite? Do they want to see my mercy, my kindness?
I studied the faces of the statues around me for some clue as to the true nature of this test. Because if I got it wrong, my little corner of the world was doomed.
What would they have honored? I wondered, scrutinizing the ancient Alfar’s enigmatic stone expressions. The Alfar I’ve known are either distant or monstrous. Either they wouldn’t care that I murdered what amounts to a fancy pigeon or they wouldn’t even notice.
What had Blondie said about these ancient Alfar? I remembered her mentioning something about power, and about cruelty. But certainly there had to have been wisdom, too, for the Alfar not only to have thrived but, in their own way, to have flourished?
I walked around the scabbard again, feeling the weight of the rapier in my hand. The bird was still shuddering in fear, its lovely white breast feathering up and down.
Besides the fact that I wasn’t a huge fan of animal cruelty, I had no idea what I was supposed to do. Kill the bird? Try to free it? Do a tap dance with it on my head?
And what right did these ancient Alfar have to test me in the first place?
It was then I realized what they would have wanted. Any being that would muck about, so, with others, wouldn’t want mercy or kindness. They’d want strength—of arms and of purpose.
“I hate that you’re making me do this,” I told the statues, as I stood up from where I’d been kneeling. “I hate that you’re making me kill this little bird just to prove I-don’t-even-know-what to your long-dead asses.”
Clutching the pommel of the sword, I readied myself to place the tip of the sword right at the bird’s breast. Part of me knew that it had to be a fake; no bird could have survived underground like this, for thousands of years. And yet it didn’t look fake. It looked alive, and terrified of me. So it took me a while to work up the nerve to actually do it. The bird kept watching, the whole time, like it knew. Finally, however, I forced myself to place that point right where it would cut through to find its scabbard.
I don’t want to fuck this up, I thought. If I did it too slow, or did it wrong, the bird, fake or not, would suffer more than it had to. This is so evil. What if they’d put a baby here, instead? I shuddered, and then stilled myself, including mentally. I didn’t want my stray thoughts giving the magical tests any ideas.
Then I pushed down, hard.
A burst of bright blood marred the perfect white of the dove’s breast. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, as those panicked black eyes popped in pain and fear.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered again, as I kept pushing through the bird’s body, until the rapier was firmly sheathed in its scabbard. Bizarrely enough, I would remember killing that bird better than I would remember killing the humans who had attacked us at Anyan’s. One had been a desperate act done in the heat of the moment; this was done with calculation. At that moment, I hated the Alfar more than I ever had. They’d made me ruthless.
My “I’m sorry” then began to echo through the chamber, making a mockery of my whispered sentiments. I’d still killed the bird, after all.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry” boomed through the white hall as I stepped back from the sword. The pigeon, scabbard, and sword all disappeared in a puff of magic, and I saw a pair of white doors appear where they’d once stood. But the doors were sealed shut.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” continued the echo, till I put my hands over my ears to quiet it. That’s when the door began to tremble, as if it were being forced open from the other side. I took another step back, unsure of what would happen when it finally burst open.
Or what will burst through, I thought, raising my shields and a mage ball, to be on the safe side.
But when the door finally ratcheted itself open, only darkness waited for me.
I lofted my mage ball and stepped through into liminal space.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
This room, unlike all the others, was inhabited. And not only with magic so powerful that my knees nearly buckled when I walked through the door.
Upon first entering, my mage lights had revealed what I first thought were enormous tree roots. Trained to think of the supernatural world as one in which our myths were almost-right, my brain jumped immediately to Norse legend.
“The World-Tree?” I wondered aloud. Was this what Phaedra had planned? Some old-fashioned Ragnarok action?
[Not the World-Tree, child] an amused voice rang in my head. [Look closer.]
Upon first hearing that voice, loud and clear but definitely not verbalized, I acted as bravely and with as much dignity as I always did. Dropping flat to the floor, I glared around with wild eyes, trying to figure out who the fuck was in my mind. Unlike Graeme, however, these were just words. I felt no presence, so it didn’t feel nearly as squicky. Just weird.
The mental voice chuckled. At me. Awesome.
Way to keep the enemy on their toes, I thought as I picked myself up off the ground.
“Who are you?” I called into the darkness.
The voice kept chuckling: a warm, gentle sound that matched the rich, if curiously nongendered tones of its speech.
[You know me, little one,] it said, eventually.
“So I’ve been told. But it doesn’t feel that way,” I replied, uncertainly.
[You do. In fact, we’ve spent quite a bit of time together.]
Now that I was standing, I lit a few more lights and took a few steps farther into the room.
Not tree trunks, I realized, staring at what I’d thought had been knotted lumber in front of me.
It’s only lumber if lumber is green. And kinda wet. With suction pads.
Cthulhu, I thought.
[A distant cousin,] the voice answered, in all seriousness.
I could only stand and blink, open mouthed.
What I was staring at, after all, was a pile of tentacles that filled the back wall of the enormous cavern in which I stood. And yet, they appeared to consist of mostly the tips.
If those are just the tips, I thought, how big is the rest of this thing?
[Big,] said the voice, chuckling again.
It was no fun having a conversation with something that could read your mind. Especially, I realized with horror, when at least a third of your mind is almost always thinking about either sex or food, or both.
That amused chuckle pushed through my brain, again.
Mortified, I took another step closer. “Who are you?”
[I lived before names,] it said. [But I am what I am.]
“Like Popeye?” I blurted out, before I could stop myself.
A tentacle lifted itself, causing me to skitter back. But all it did was flex, like it was a bicep. It was my turn to giggle.
[Do you know what you’re here for, little Jane?] the creature asked then.
“Blondie told me you chose me,” I said. “But I think you’re crazy.”
[Crazy?]
“You can’t be serious about me,” I told it, trying to make it understand the truth. “I’m not a fighter. I’m not anything. I work at a bookstore.”
[You’ve done quite a bit more than work at a bookstore, this past year,] the creature reminded me.
“But not by choice,” I said. “I didn’t want any of this.”
[Perhaps that’s why you’re perfect as a champion.]
“I don’t understand,” I said, meaning everything about this situation.
[Not all heroes are born, Jane. Some are made. And those bring with them a different insight. It is such insight—the insight of the person who has been outside, who has been, as you say, nothing—that is sorely needed right now.]
“But I don’t want this…”
[Perhaps you think so. But you must make your choice. And undoubtedly there are things that will sway you. Everyone has a weakness. Should we experiment?]
With that, one of the creature’s tentacles moved, slithering toward me. Knowing it could crush me with any of its many, many limbs, I tried to keep still and look brave. I think all I managed was to look terrified, but in the same place.
The thick, mottled tentacle tip flipped itself over with the paradoxical elegance of a hand model to reveal a large, flat sucker probably the length of my whole arm. Or one of my legs. But I had short legs, so that wasn’t saying much.