They ran through the tunnels. Root tensed with every step, dreaded every corner. There was no way to know what waited just ahead, what traps lay long-dormant underfoot. Azriah had taken the lead, and Root hadn’t objected. Was she wrong for that? Maybe, but she couldn’t bring herself to volunteer. Nevertheless, she winced every time Azriah’s boots hit the floor. It looked as though she was suffering some curse of voodoo—her doll being the entirety of the palace, and Azriah stomped all over it.
They had no guide now. No one to caution them to “step over that wire” or “keep to the right wall” every dozen paces as before. They ran blind.
Twice they paused at intersections, looking down each avenue for signs that spelled certain death. Unfortunately, the king hadn’t opted to label every trap with a detailed description of how one could die in that particular location, like a buffet of ways to go. How even he could remember every nook and cranny, every twist and turn, every combination of bricks to rap on and every tripwire, Root couldn’t fathom, especially after so long away.
At the intersections, Azriah seemed to take whichever path looked largest—taller, wider, easier to traverse without dropping to their hands and knees or wiggling along on their bellies. Root could appreciate the expediency, but she also rationed that a larger tunnel was just more surface area for traps. At the second of the two, he grunted in frustration, shook his head, then ran on ahead.
They didn’t go far down the corridor before he stopped, looking up at a spot on the ceiling at the top of a rickety set of makeshift ladder rungs.
“We could wander in here forever,” he said.
“Likely not,” countered Root. “I think we’re a maximum of thirty seconds from getting stalled for a good long while.”
“Right. So we have to get out of here.” He pointed up.
“Where does it lead?” asked Vit.
“No idea.”
“Syrus?”
The man shrugged. “Don’t look at me, I’ve never seen these strange passages.”
“What if we still have to make it out of the palace? And during a lockdown?”
“Better odds than down here,” said Azriah.
Beel looked up. “How do we know it’s not a trap?”
“We don’t.” Azriah hauled himself up, hand over hand. “Look out.” He threw a latch ninety-degrees. It scraped in its track, spitting dust down onto those below. Then he pushed up.
It looked heavy. Azriah cracked the hatch and peered out. Nothing came through—sound, guards, a spray of acid, a swarm of scorpions. He pushed the door up the rest of the way; it thudded against an adjacent wall.
“Everyone up.”
They filed up the ladder and into a large room above.
They were at one end of a huge chamber, longer than it was wide. High above, the ceiling came to a curved point. Tall windows opened up along either side, glassless, inviting in the outside air and silver light, joined by a tall yawning arch at the opposite end with no door to speak of. An arch of equal stature stood just to their left, delving somewhere deeper into the structure. Some kind of gathering place and support group for cracking stonework and weeds, by the looks of it. They’d emerged within a smaller enclosed vestibule standing watch over the adjacent door, a structure like a covered market stall.
“Where are we?” asked Vit. “Is this the palace?”
“Eh, yes and no,” said Syrus.
“Wait,” said Root. “We saw this. On our first tour, remember? It’s the, uh, historic section, right?”
“That’s right!” said Syrus. He beamed. “Nestled at the palace’s base on the street level. It’s still connected to the palace through the door there. But we are, uh, outside the palace proper. Like a garden. It’s not so heavily guarded until the doors through there that lead to the active wings. So, uh, outside the lockdown. Locked out, given the circumstances.” He looked around at the smaller structure enclosing them. “This used to be the guard checkpoint, see? And this chain here sounds the alarm. Still works.” He indicated a pull chain along the rear wall as he gave them all a look heavily laden with meaning.
Root glanced towards the arch at the opposite end of the hall. It was a big room, but cross that threshold and they’d be back in the streets—in the palace district, but not too far from the gate. Could Syrus stop them alone? Was he going to? Could they make it out the door and through the gate before putting the whole block on lockdown?
“Fascinating stuff,” said Azriah. He maneuvered himself out of the guard stand, inching toward the door so far away. He gave the others a hard look and they began to follow.
“Now, hold on,” said Syrus. He crossed his arms. “I think we should discuss some things, no?”
“We’ve got other places to be, unfortunately. And Beel’s dead tired of standing, you have to understand.”
“I am. Er, dead?”
“And he’s allergic to weeds,” added Root.
“I am?” Beel stepped away from the nearest sprouts pushing up through a crack in the floor.
“Listen,” said Syrus, putting up his hands. “I saw the crown back there, you know.”
“Oh, that?” Root waved a hand. “Souvenir.”
“Mhm. Like Hamlick’s souvenir flutes?”
Root faltered. “Right.”
“I think the picture is quite clear. You four show up in Urk. I spot you lurking in the palace and villa on multiple occasions. Odd things start happening with the crown and its display, a strange masked bandit is spotted, the crown leaves all of our sights, then turns up in your hands. And now you’re making a run for it. Don’t forget what I do here. Do you think me some kind of fool?”
Root didn’t answer the question.
“I know you’ve run a heist, of course,” he continued. “And an impressive one. I was impressed with your skills back in Midden, and I’m even more so now. I’ve had a good feeling about you four from the beginning. Did you know: no one has ever come even close to infiltrating the Eternal Palace? It shows real tenacity. And, uh, well now you’ve got the crown, and you’re making off with it. I know you’ve got Wrond’s Prurience, too. The real one. You tricked Hamlick, and you tricked even me. Oh, don’t bother,” he added as they each began to make another attempt at a lie. “You’ve told me your stories about what you’d like me to believe transpired in Midden. I think I can piece together that picture as well.”
Root gestured absently. She looked at the others. None of them had the answers she was searching for. “So, what, then?” she said. “You want the halo back?”
Syrus folded his hands as he studied her. He licked his lips. “Let’s consider the options here. Hm?” He inclined his head to the chain beside him. “When this is pulled, this section of the palace goes into lockdown. Not as fancy as the operation upstairs; the windows and door there will close, and an alarm will sound, summoning guards to assess the situation. I really have no interest in pulling it. Not a big fan of all that rabble, you know? They’re not the brightest, the guards. And Elijah.” He rolled his eyes.
“Great,” said Root. “Sounds like we’re all in agreement.”
Syrus raised his eyebrows. “Excellent. Let’s keep that trend going.” He made eye contact with each of them in turn. Vit was moving panickedly in the same direction as Azriah and Beel now. Root gravitated towards them all.
“I know you’ve expressed some, uh, some hesitation,” said Syrus, “but just consider the possibilities here. I know you’re after the mote periapts. Obviously—you’ve collected two. You’re seeking immortality. What else? So, so… and you’ve seen the power of the Children, the Seekers. You’ve seen our wealth of knowledge. The archives—incredible, are they not? They could be open to you—and not just at odd hours, hm? There’s more, you know—things only the, you know, the people at the top are privy to. You four…” He studied them. “You would be such incredible assets. I told you I could get you in—fast-tracked. I can do even better. Really. Think about it: four strangers who swoop in, who… well, save the day, thwart a plan to steal the Crown of Samesh. And from the would-be thief—as we’ll call them—they liberate Wrond’s Prurience. Oh, we can concoct such a story. The five of us—we would be legends. We would be heroes unlike any this organization has ever seen. We could practically run the Seekers. Do you understand?” He waved his hands, gesturing at the hall around them (which was, as noted, crumbling; not the greatest example) and the palace beyond. Urk. “You’ve now seen all that the Children are in a way you hadn’t when we spoke back in Midden. You understand now. The power, the armies, the knowledge, the funds. This is the might of the Children with one mote periapt. Just imagine the majesty of us with two. This could all be yours. And, oh, and you would face no consequences for your actions tonight, for your actions in Midden. I wouldn’t breathe a word of it. Of course I wouldn’t. We’d all be helping each other, hm?”
Root snorted. “And the weird cult shit?”
Syrus waved his hands. “No, don’t give that another thought. You don’t have to be believers—of course you don’t. You think everyone here is some devout zealot? No one’s trying to convert you.” He laughed. “So, now… come on. Come with me. Let’s go be heroes.” He extended one hand to the four of them.
“You’re insane,” said Root without hesitation. “And you’re a fucking creep, too, you know that?”
Syrus set his jaw. He sighed.
“It’s a hard no from me as well,” said Azriah.
“Don’t look at me,” said Beel. “Absolutely not.”
Root looked at Syrus and shrugged. Then she whirled and began a mad sprint for the open archway.
Azriah and Beel ran just ahead of Root. Three sets of feet pounded the broken floor.
Three.
Root looked back over her shoulder.
Standing before Syrus, frozen in place, Vit looked back and forth between the seeker and the retreating backs of their friends.
Vit lay awake in their bed, staring at the distant ceiling. The safe house bedroom in that old church in Midden had one hell of a draft. It was the best the abyss could do to infiltrate the holy space.
The fuzz of the wine from dinner at the Cavalier still buzzed beneath their face. They smacked their tongue a few times.
A wisp of a voice played over and over in their mind, speaking the same words, words that plunked like rocks into dark water. It was a voice that emanated like ripples in a dark and starless sky, deep, like they’d been spoken into being at the dawn of the worlds and only just traveled the vastness to reach Vit’s ears.
“Your connection to Syrus is an important one. There are deep implications in the crossing of your paths.”
Syrus. The odd, awkward, puckered little man they’d agreed to run an errand for. A long, long errand. He’d delivered on his promise—shared with them valuable information. And a (mostly) warm, safe place to hole up for a short while. And a fine dinner. And now, an offer.
“He will make you an offer,” said the same voice in Vit’s head. “A path to what you desire more than anything, a way to avoid the same fate as Bradan. But it will come at a price.”
Another voice, then—one Vit had been listening to all day. “It’s called the Order of Seekers. I think you’d all be interested.” The words swam around the room, bouncing off the high ceiling. “Consider this an offer.”
An offer.
The first voice returned, somehow louder, more menacing, like a final decisive blow. “If you turn down Syrus’s offer for the third time…” it started. Vit rolled over, pressing their pillow over their ears. But the voice didn’t waver, didn’t cease. They’d been hearing it for days, every night and all day long, ringing in their ears like the echoes of a gong that never faded, never diminished. “Then your quest for the mote periapts will claim your human life.”
“Consider this an offer.”
The third time. This was only the first.
Nothing had been decided yet.
Vit hurried back up the stairs to the catwalks crisscrossing the archive of the Order of Seekers. They could still feel Syrus’s eyes on the back of their neck, though they hadn’t seen him since he left them to their reading there in the back corner.
Syrus’s words still felt like a lead weight, threatening to topple them back down the stairs, throw them to the floor in the center of the archive, defeated, like the fighters who had battled here in the days when this room had been an arena. “I could get you a good position with one of our best teams.”
Vit could hardly breathe. First Midden, now an encounter here, on Syrus’s own home turf. A second meeting. A second offer.
Two.
In another time, many years before, Vit wandered the wilds of Atnaterra. They’d learned to question the decision to take along the Jevter Linnts book, but they still carried it. What else could they do, throw it in a ditch? They weren’t going to litter. Bradan had raised them better than that.
It’d been weeks since leaving the cabin. Weeks of walking made for uncomfortable blisters, as it turned out. It also meant eating a lot. Fortunately, Vit knew a good bit about foraging. Unfortunately, Vit knew a good bit about foraging in the swamp where they’d grown up. The regions of Atnaterra, as they’d come to learn, varied greatly, and with them the flora, fauna, and whatever else some of the oddities could be categorized as.
They’d eaten a few things they shouldn’t’ve, according to their stomach, but it all worked out all right.
The frequency of meeting other spirits—and the occasional human—along their road increased the farther north they went. They saw new towns. They even saw a few cities, which was the word for a town that smelled worse than average.
The last city was several hours behind them when they caught sight of a break in the tree line. They could sense an immense stretch ahead, open air devoid of trees.
When they reached the edge of the forest, it was a lake before them. A lake unlike any other.
They were familiar with sludgy water. They’d practically been raised knee-deep in muck. But this water didn’t even look like water; it was thick, and the lapping waves one might’ve expected were instead slow, sluggish motions that sucked at the gravelly shoreline like a tongue over chapped lips and rotten teeth. Like the entire lake was trying to lift itself from the bed, or something was trying to climb out of the slop. It was a rich, humus-brown, almost black. It stretched ahead endlessly, so far Vit couldn’t see the opposite side.
There was a power to it, a great presence, and not just in the size, larger than any body Vit had ever seen. They could feel it, like it was calling to something inside of them, drawing them in.
It made them want to vomit.
In their travels, they’d asked directions a couple of times. Folks always sounded so enamored when they mentioned the great lake Yg Balta. It was as if, to them, there was some holiness there, some intrinsic goodness. It was a source of life. It was the navel of Atnaterra, a great sea at the center of the world.
Vit saw only a sloshing grave.
They couldn’t bear to look upon it any longer. They turned aside and followed the tree line. This was only a stop on their journey; they had more important places to reach.
For a day and a half, they followed the shoreline until they arrived at a sizable river. It dumped its flow into the thick sludge of the lake, but the thickness didn’t dilute. If anything, the river succumbed to the power of the lake, following in the footsteps of the new body it had reached, as if only now learning what water should be and wasting no time in mimicking the proper behavior. Vit turned away from the shore and followed the river upstream.
It took days more of walking—and backtracking when they followed the wrong tributary. They had a map, but a map is only as good as the sense of direction looking at it.
They followed each split of the river until they hiked along a steeper section, faster moving, clear, tumbling over rocks as it cascaded downhill. Shimmering forms swayed beneath the current in small pods or great big schools. There were so many colors—red, blue, orange, gold. So many salmon—or things that were mostly approximately like a salmon—each one a lesser spirit.
For four more days they followed the river, moving slower now as they scanned the current. It seemed a hopeless task. But on the evening of the fourth day, they spotted him.
They knew him immediately. Pinkish, grey-green, and black, medium-sized in comparison to the range of the others. An exact match for the form Bradan had so often taken, especially in those later years, the salmon spirit. Vit dropped their things in haste and waded into the water.
“Bradan!”
They scrambled over slippery rocks, ignoring the biting cold of the water. Other fish scattered as they waded by. They slowed, holding out a hand, trying for some sort of gesture that Bradan could see, could recognize.
As Vit approached and the other fish swam away with a forceful twitch of their tails, Bradan turned.
“Bradan…”
The salmon swam closer. The eyes broke the surface—iridescent, just as Bradan’s right eye had always been, regardless of form.
“Bradan, it’s me. It’s Vit.” They knelt and reached out a hand.
Bradan splashed his tail as he swam up closer and bumped Vit’s fingers. Vit nearly doubled over as relief flooded them. It wasn’t all lost after all.
“Bradan! Bradan, can you hear me?”
The fish nuzzled closer against Vit’s hand, pushing in to headbutt their knees. He splashed his tail excitedly.
“Bradan, can you understand me?” Vit tried again. They stared into one eye, looking for any sign of recognition, any flash of Bradan’s humor, his charm, his love.
He swam a circle in front of Vit.
“Bradan…” Vit looked around. What could they try? Maybe…? “Bradan. Splash once for yes, twice for no? All right? Once for yes, twice for no. Can-you-understand-me?”
Bradan swam another circle. He swam up the river a bit, then back, making figure-eights.
Vit tried the command again. They tried it a third and fourth time, if you’d like a full tally. They were remarkably patient. And hope is a drug not readily abandoned.
Bradan continued to swim around, butting against Vit’s limbs, splashing often but in no way that could be construed as an intentional pattern, no matter how much hope clouded the senses.
“Bradan,” whispered Vit. Understanding slowly dawned in their heart long after daybreak had come to their mind. Despite Vit’s careful explanations of the system, despite their imitations of what they worked to convey, Bradan did not follow their instructions. He knew them—recognized Vit—undoubtedly. But it wasn’t the way he behaved when he was a human morphed into the shape of a salmon, wasn’t like Vit’s experience taking their spider form—when they could see and hear Bradan clearly, could act any way they liked in the body even if the vocal capabilities limited speech. This was different.
In Egogbin, Vit had on occasion seen a person with a pet—a lesser spirit or a Setoterran creature. Pets knew their owners and came when they called, and Vit had even seen some follow simple commands, but there was nothing more lurking in their minds.
This wasn’t Bradan in his salmon form; this was just a salmon, a salmon that knew Vit. Bradan was gone.
Vit brought their knees down, submerging themself to the ribs in the cold, rushing water. They hardly felt it now.
They pressed their hands to their face and cried. It was the first they’d cried—really, properly cried, more than just their eyes filling with tears—since the night he’d passed.
But it was different this time. This wasn’t grief—not truly, not wholly. Not grief for Bradan, for the life the two of them had shared together and for the memories Vit longed to relive. This was different. Something else eclipsed the sadness.
Fear.
Bradan swam close again and lifted one eye from the water. Vit met the shimmering gaze. The surface of the eye reflected their face back up at them.
They were destined to be this. There was no avoiding it. They’d be a spider—a spider, and nothing more—a spider that recognized those it had once known like a dog seeking comfort in the lap it had grown fondest of. And they would be a spider forever. A shadow of the life they’d lived before. Whatever remained of them, trapped for eternity, sequestered away from the worlds.
Bradan nudged them again. Vit lowered their hands and stared down at the fish through clouded eyes.
They extended their extra arms from their back, casting a faint green glow across the water. They worked the limbs, weaving, until they had a thick cord of braided spider silk. They took the cord in their hands and reached into the water where they tied it around Bradan’s tail. They ran one hand across the smooth scales.
When they emerged from the river, shivering and dripping, they couldn’t bear to make camp on the bank. They changed slowly into dry clothes.
Back in the water, Bradan had rejoined the school of salmon swimming up the river, paddling rhythmically in the current. Vit watched him for a minute, then turned away.
They left the riverbank and struck off into the woods. And for the first time in their life, from as far back as they could remember, they had no idea where they were headed.