“Gonna hit the bathroom,” said Azriah, his voice crackling through the whisper stones as he addressed the second guard at the hall door. That was Root’s cue. It wasn’t a particularly sophisticated one, but it was hers nonetheless.
With her bag and raincoat in tow, she made her way into the Hall of Relics, across the long chamber, up the steps to the display area, and down the steps on the far side where another hallway bisected the room. She crossed to the far wall where pillars and frond-filled planters gave her some cover to keep out of sight.
She took in the scenery the whole way through, admiring the stained-glass skylights above the doors, the mosaic tile work, and the display cases as if all were new sights and not the sort that’d been haunting her mind every time she closed her eyes for the past few weeks. In case the now-lone guard watched her more closely, she put on a careful display of tiredness, a creeping headache, a search for a quiet spot to spend a moment away from the hubbub. She rubbed her temple. It wasn’t a difficult act to pull off.
From her spot beyond the pillars, she watched the guard.
He turned every few seconds, looking out past the courtyard to the situation in the foyer. Beel didn’t look like much of a threat, but the palace was built on a shifting foundation of paranoia, its heavy cornerstones sinking ever deeper into the muck. It tugged at every inhabitant, every member of the staff, like puppet strings giving the heart a vigorous shake.
Azriah sidled up next to Root, returned from a quick U-turn in the direction of the bathroom. Their eyes met. He gave her a nod.
The next time the guard turned aside, Azriah crossed the floor quickly, just to the foot of the few stairs up to the display dais. He knelt, felt under the lip of a stair, and pulled. Tunk-tunk. The stairs slid back. Azriah shimmied into the crevice beneath, and the gap closed with a click.
The tunnel beneath the display cases was barely wide enough for a person to crawl through. It brought images to Azriah’s mind of the strange tourists who had occasionally passed through town when he was growing up, the sort with a cushy life off in some other corner of the country or world who ventured all the way out into the countryside to explore the nearby caves. There was always some kind of lunacy in their eyes, a giddiness that had disturbed him even then as a child with a burgeoning sense of adventure and a yet-unrealized awareness of mortality. He’d poked into those caves himself with some of the other kids, but never farther than the light dared to go, and certainly not to the point where the ceiling overhead commanded him to lie down and slither like a worm. There was nothing in there but rock. If he was wrong and there was some treasure, the ground could have it.
Not that he hadn’t ended up in plenty of caves or other tight spaces in his time. Quite the opposite, in fact. But those men who came knocking looking for a local guide to show him every twist and pinch of the underground labyrinth, they were trying to pay for the experience, and not just with lung cancer or a trapped leg or their life. Azriah only found himself in situations like this one when there was a lot of money looking for a new home in his pockets.
And there was, currently. Which made the tunnel somewhat more bearable. But not less dusty.
He sneezed. It was a man’s sneeze, so it was quite loud, and a lot of people had bits in their ears that broadcast that sneeze loud and clear. Through the hall and courtyard and foyer, six people jumped.
“Yeesh, keep it down in there,” said Root. “Doesn’t look like the guard heard, but you’re damn lucky.”
Azriah wriggled on, ignoring her. He had just enough room to army crawl, but in the pitch blackness he had no good gauge for how far he’d gone. He felt along the wall every foot or so.
Finally, he felt something. It was a symbol—a rune in the spirit alphabet, which he couldn’t read even if he’d been able to see it. He poked the grooves, but it wasn’t the pattern he searched for. He shuffled ahead.
He felt another symbol, then more. He paused at each one, but they weren’t the one he was looking for, so he moved on. Finally, he felt one that matched the description the king had drawn.
He rolled onto his back with some difficulty, then—eyes closed, because he was good at thinking about those things others weren’t, and because they weren’t doing him any good at the present anyhow—he worked one arm up and felt along the mortar where the right wall met the ceiling until his pinky landed on a small nub. He pressed it.
The ceiling popped up an inch with a wheeze, a grinding cough, and some sort of third disgusting mouth utterance. A rain of dust and bits of decayed stone rained down across him. But not into his eyes.
He pushed the panel toward his feet, then sat up into the space above. It was equally dark and equally narrow.
Barely wide enough for Azriah’s shoulders, he appreciated the new roominess nonetheless. He found another latch. This one he disengaged more cautiously.
Light streamed in. The stone tile lifted a few inches, hinged on one side. Azriah poked his fingers through the gap and felt around until they brushed cold metal. He closed on the object and tugged it down into the space below.
It was a bronze gauntlet, etched with designs across the plates and freshly polished, but no polish could hide such wear, nor cover up the fact that designs like this hadn’t been used for hundreds of years. He soon liberated the second from its home just beside the first. The Gauntlets of Endkiu, the king called them.
Azriah closed the small hatch, reentering the darkness. From its spot tucked beneath his white and magenta palace guard vest, he withdrew a rubbery bundle.
Slipping into the raincoat while so constrained was difficult work, and he had to move swiftly. Beel’s distraction wouldn’t last forever, no matter how irritating he could be. Azriah donned the raincoat, raised a mask that hung around his neck beneath his shirt, then slipped on the gauntlets.
The gauntlets fit perfectly, well cushioned and still as flexible as a pair fresh from the armory. And as his fingers moved, they felt… strong. Like the strength of a good rest multiplied forty-fold, or like he’d grown into a giant, and one flick of a finger packed enough energy to cave in a door.
He shuffled quickly back to the tunnel entrance, moving backwards now. His feet hit the wall.
“Ready,” he said.
“You’re clear,” came Root’s response. He hit the release with his heel and the stairs folded away again. Azriah squeezed out, pulling the secret entrance closed again, raising his hood and yanking it down so it nearly met his mask.
He stood. He had no further need for stealth. In two bounds, he cleared the stairs and ran towards the halo case.
When he arrived at the case, the other guard still hadn’t turned back to keep watch over the room. Azriah rolled his eyes; if these people cared so much for security, it’d do well to get some brighter minds—or sharper ears—on their payroll. He scuffed his feet a bit. The guard turned; his eyes widened.
With one hand, Azriah pulled a small burlap sack from the raincoat pocket. He lifted it as he threw back the halo case lid. It opened without issue.
Inside sat the Halo of the Unsightly King, comfy atop the cushion and glittering in the myriad light filtering down from the ceiling, unobscured by glass or distance. It was right there.
Azriah reached for it.
Root crushed a fata pomorgranate seed and huffed it into her nasal cavity. Ugh, fuck.
Azriah’s hand dove into the display case with the bag. She put up the mirage, and the halo vanished.
Both gloves removed, Root reached up with her other hand toward a small, hardly noticeable speck on the rear wall, tucked away out of sight beyond the pillars and planters. The king had inspected it when they’d taken their third and final tour but hadn’t explained until later. Now, he pointed it out to her again from his spot in her open clutch at her feet. She only had so many hands to work with.
Smoke curled off her fingertips and danced around the tiny orifice.
Azriah withdrew the empty burlap bag from the inside of the case, careful never to let it get truly close to the halo or skip snare. Root could handle perceptions. He pretended to stow it in his coat.
The door guard shouted and started towards Azriah. He looked over to where his partner was supposed to be—where only a spear leaned against the wall. The guard’s face paled as he hesitated. Then he turned and called into the courtyard, summoning backup. “Grand Priest Mammona! The crown!”
With any luck, he was as good as the boy who cried phage spirit; everyone in the courtyard had heard those calls before. But Azriah wasn’t going to waste time. Even in the most optimistic scenario, he had mere seconds. He dropped to a crouch, bag clutched tight in one hand, and rammed his fingers beneath the display case.
The stone floor crumbled like a crust of fresh bread under his fingers, fresh grooves forming in the floor beside the case. He pushed until he had both palms firmly beneath the stone of the case, and then he lifted.
The case rose an inch. It didn’t even strain him. Two tons at least of solid stone and thick framing steel, and he lifted it like he’d been hired to move boxes of clothes from one house to another. And this one felt like a collection of feather boas.
Still, it rose only an inch. A loud krrr-tOCK filled the room as the unseen mechanism triggered, a clever defense against something huge and powerful. The case shifted, suddenly no longer a box of feather boas. It was a box of shirts. Then a box of books. Then bricks. Then two tons of stone and steel, then three.
Azriah dug his fingers into the stone underside like it was soft butter, then yanked his hands back, leaving the gauntlets and bag behind. The case shot downwards with a huge gust of air that nearly ripped Azriah’s hood from his face, but he caught it just in time.
The floor clamped closed, two heavy slabs sliding in from either side. And the halo case was gone.
Root pushed more smoke out of her palm as a heavy burst of wind filled the room with a sound like someone getting punched in the gut. She looked back over her shoulder. The display case was gone, Azriah was exposed, and the guard was yelling. Commotion ripped through the courtyard beyond.
“Come on…” muttered Root through ground teeth. She pulled more smoke from her core.
“More smoke,” whispered the king. Root put up her second hand, still sticky with the juice from the seed.
The guard at the door looked frantic. No doubt this was his first time faced with actual danger—and with none of the diffusion of responsibility that usually came with being one of a hundred. But the panic gripped him for only seconds. He recovered from his surprise and jumped into action.
He started towards Azriah.
“Shit,” hissed Root. More, more, more. She was going to blow this if she didn’t trigger the sensor now.
Heavy black smoke plumed from her hands. She swayed on her feet. More, more.
A flash of flame lanced across her fingers, coiling past her knuckles. Root yelped and drew her hand back.
But it was enough. A rapid ticking split the air above, and then water spattered Root’s back and head. A torrential downpour burst through the Eternal Palace: the Hall of Relics, the courtyard, the foyer, and beyond.
“Fascinating,” mused the king from Root’s feet, eyeing her hands. She knelt and snapped her clutch closed, silencing him.
Shrieks rang out from the courtyard where rain had materialized in an instant. The guard charging Azriah slowed in surprise, then slipped on the slick tiles and crashed to the floor. It was not a building that had ever expected to contend with rain, nor wet boots.
A flood of people burst through the doors into the Hall of Relics, expecting to find respite from the downpour but only discovering that rain—which many of them knew little about, given the biome—seemed to be an indoor phenomenon as well. All of them wore hastily-donned yellow raincoats (that clashed terribly with their outfits) and put up oversized umbrellas, which only clogged up the flow of traffic further, blocking those trying to elbow their way into the hall.
Root, already soggy, slipped on her own coat and joined the crowd. She couldn’t see where Azriah had gone, couldn’t pick him out from the crowd.
Suddenly, everyone was dressed the same. What a mess this made for culprit descriptions.
A tense moment that was. Let’s find a quick spot to shelter from the rain and have a breather. Let’s see, maybe…
Oh, dear. That’s not a particularly upbeat moment to cut away to, now is it? Well, it’s been a long time coming. And we’ll have to see it eventually. Hm. All right.
Vit was only fifteen. It was older than Bradan expected, but younger than anyone wants to hope. He’d been worried about the child—and it was, often, the word “child” first in his thoughts, then “young adult” only when he had a moment to reflect. He’d been worried years ago, when he’d thought the day might come while they were younger, still so dependent, still not understanding the value of a good sweeping up or a balanced meal that didn’t start and end with the sweets.
He hadn’t been worried lately. Vit knew the way to Egogbin, knew how to patch the roof or weave a blanket, knew how to get water and grow food. They’d been teaching him things, marvelous things! Not only how to catch water like flies from the air—ingenious!—but about the worlds, about the creatures around them, and most importantly, about himself. It was a wonder; it was a joy.
It was exactly how Bradan wanted to go.
It was early morning. Bradan had been home for two days—no swims. He’d been lucid only an hour the day before. His breathing was heavy, and his gills fluttered unevenly. Vit watched this all tensely from his bedside, hardly stepping away, hardly eating, hardly sleeping. They understood, and they weren’t trying to stave it off, to parry the demands of nature. They understood. They understood quite well. That was almost worse.
But Bradan felt content. He felt the love in the gentle touch of water to his lips, the small spoonfuls of broth. He heard the stories that Vit read with wavering voice from the books they’d read together a thousand times. He smiled, and hoped Vit could see it, small as it was.
And he felt relief. He’d felt it for a while now, but he faced it more imminently now. He wasn’t worried about the child. He knew Vit, and he knew the person they’d come to be. And he didn’t have a doubt in his mind that they would be okay on their own. Okay in the worlds. That they’d go on and do great things when they were no longer tethered to him, to the cabin, to their home in the swamp.
And when the time arrived in that early hour, as a halo of silver Enynlight filtered in through the window and bathed Bradan’s well-worn cot and threadbare blanket lightly stained with algae, he breathed a final breath—hitched, haggard, conclusive. Vit’s grasp squeezed tighter on his hand like one final attempt to hold him there in the world.
The pink skin of the right side of his face lost its vibrant hue. It turned ashen—not the dark color of the rest of his complexion, but muted and cold.
A wisp coiled off his skin—from the fading luster of the one iridescent eye, the gills, from his slightly parted lips. A spiral, glittering like mica in a stream, peeled away from him, curled through the air like a festival streamer, and then zipped away, heading north. A will gone; a body left behind.
And the cabin was silent but for a single choked sob.