Nethereal (Soul Cycle Book 1) Page 15

  Vaun’s callous mask seemed to gloat. “It may be that you do not.”

  “Deim, get back on the Wheel,” Jaren said. “You got us here. Now get us back.”

  “That path ends in wretched death,” said Vaun. “The only way out is through, and for that you need a gate.”

  “Searching those woods will kill us faster than sailing for the ether,” said Teg.

  “The portal will not appear as a vine-grown arch in a murky glen,” said the voice behind the mask. “The Circles’ denizens take pride in guile.”

  Nakvin planted one elbow on the table and laid her head in her hand. “You mean the gate is disguised,” she said, “and we need to solve a riddle to find it.”

  “How is that better than taking our chances in flight?” Jaren asked.

  “Recall that a puzzle, however fiendish, must have clues,” said Vaun. “There will be a marker.” The empty eyes of the mask stared at Teg. “Perhaps you saw more than you know, Master Cross—or more than you've said.”

  A moment passed. Then Teg sighed and said, “There was a mural.”

  “What did it look like?” Jaren asked.

  The mercenary shrugged. “Damn thing’s so faded I can't say what it was for sure.”

  Jaren’s features hardened. “Use your imagination.”

  “Alright,” said Teg, “it looked like Deim's ink.”

  Nakvin stared at the junior steersman. So did everyone else.

  “I don’t know what he's talking about,” said Deim, his dark eyes wide.

  “Stand,” said Vaun. “Let us compare the wall to your flesh.”

  The young man shot a pleading look at Jaren, who only nodded.

  Deim slowly rose from the table. He turned and pulled his shirt over his shoulders, exposing the tattoo on his back. Nakvin gazed as though for the first time at the winged woman etched upon Deim's olive skin. She exhaled sharply, only then realizing that she’d been holding her breath.

  A moment passed before she noticed that Teg was looking at her. “It's…you,” he said.

  Nakvin barely heard him. The longer she looked, the clearer the likeness became. Yet there were disturbing differences as well. “It's not me,” she said. “Not exactly. Look at the eyes.”

  “She's right,” Jaren said. “The eyes aren't silver. They're red.”

  “Not red,” said Nakvin. “They’re rose. What about the mural?”

  “The face was completely worn off,” said Teg, “but I can see one difference. The painting’s hair was black like yours. Deim's ink is lighter.”

  “It wasn't like this before,” Jaren said. “When did you have it changed?”

  “I didn't,” said Deim. “The hair and eyes should both be black, unless someone's been drawing on me in my sleep.”

  “Who gave you this mark?” Vaun asked.

  “My father,” said Deim. “He had the same one, and I think my grandfather did, too.”

  “He did,” Jaren said. “So did your great-grandfather. Each marked his son during infancy. The picture must be glamered, because it grows with you.”

  “Indeed,” said Vaun. “It may be mutable by other forces also.”

  “Deim, what does it mean?” Nakvin asked.

  The steersman looked at the deck. His face reddened. “I think it's an image of Thera.”

  “A crucial piece of the puzzle,” said Vaun.

  “Why would the locals worship a Tharisian sun god?” Jaren asked.

  “The folk of Tharis named their suns in dim memory of a greater truth,” said Vaun. “Thera was daughter to Zadok All-Father. She slew him, and the cosmos sprang from his corpse.”

  “That's an old wives' tale,” said Teg. “I should know. My mom told me.”

  “The Guild have done their utmost to cloud the past,” said Vaun. “A tale it is, but one that bears truth.”

  “I don’t see how that helps us,” Nakvin said.

  The eyeless mask stared at her. “The Queen of Doors guides the way to hidden truth.”

  Teg's face lit up. “There was something else: a green circle with a point on top. The lady was holding her hand over it. That's where I got the idea to head for higher ground.”

  “We're over the mountain right now,” Nakvin said. “Deim, did you see anything on the peak? A gateway, or even a cave?”

  “No,” said Deim. “I searched every inch.”

  Nakvin folded her arms so that each hand passed into the opposite sleeve of her robe. “There goes that theory,” she said.

  “Often, the solution to one puzzle provides a clue to another,” said Vaun. “The gate wardens made Thera’s icon in the lady Steersman’s likeness. They would not design their sacred ornaments without forethought.”

  Teg laid his palms on the table as he stood. “Alright,” he said. “Full disclosure. It was Nakvin's dog that chased me up the mountain.”

  Nakvin couldn’t keep her mouth from falling open. “He only comes when I'm threatened,” she said. “I was safe and sound up here.”

  “I think this is where he comes from,” said Teg, “and where he goes back to when his job’s done. The one I saw might not have been yours, but judging by the others down there, I'd say his kind are locals.”

  Jaren looked at Nakvin, and the finality in his voice gave her chills. “It has to be you,” he said. Somehow, she knew he was right. The gate would only open for her.

  Still she demurred. “Does anyone else think we’re jumping to conclusions?”

  “A simple test should satisfy your doubt,” said Vaun. “Take the Wheel.”

  Nakvin clenched her teeth and swallowed the bitter venom that ran from them. “Fine,” she said. “Let’s get this over with.”

  The pirates left for the bridge with Vaun close behind. As they approached, the double doors opened. Two Mithgarders exited carrying a black, man-shaped bag that smelled of spoiled meat. The ill omen almost made Nakvin turn back, but curiosity burned away her fear, and she went inside.

  Stochman stood ashen-faced below the Wheel. He made no objection as Nakvin brushed past him. She climbed the short stairway, empathizing with the cold fear of condemned prisoners mounting the gallows. The wordless call came to her again as she set foot upon the Wheel. This time, she didn’t resist.

  The white circle blazed, and Nakvin became the Exodus. The black ship’s raw lust made her stomach turn, but her loathing subsided as awareness of a second presence dawned. It clung to her—not greedy, but forlorn— like a child seeking comfort.

  “I hate to distract you,” Jaren called up to her, “but sooner’s better than later.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you knew how weird this feels,” Nakvin said. Yielding to intimate yet alien longing, the Steersman concentrated on the peak below. The summit shook with a thunderous roar. Through the baleful ship’s eye, Nakvin saw the mountaintop collapse in on itself. In its absence a vast dark crater yawned.

  “I don’t know what I expected,” said Teg, “but that wasn’t it.”

  Nakvin plunged through the gate without waiting for Jaren’s command.

  25

  At first Nakvin saw only far-flung points of light flecking the darkness.

  “Are those stars?” Stochman asked.

  Nakvin held out hope that they were until she felt heat on the ship’s alloy skin. “I think they’re vents lining the inside of a huge empty sphere.”

  “We must’ve gone down a magma tube,” Stochman said. “The whole planet’s hollow.”

  “Only if the inside is bigger than the surface,” said Nakvin. “This space has about the same diameter as the mean orbit of Mithgar’s moon.”

  “What’s our best ETA to the wall?” Jaren asked.

  “About twenty hours at top speed.”

  “Can we go back the way we came?” Stochman asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Nakvin said. “The gate dropped us into the middle of this thing.”

  “What about ether drives?” Jaren asked.

  The Steersman shook her head.
“Wherever we are, we’re cut off from the ether.”

  “Set the fastest possible course for the wall,” Jaren said at last.

  Nakvin had been relieved by Deim, passed eight hours in fitful sleep, and taken the Wheel again before the ship reached the sphere’s end. The wall was still some distance away when she spotted something on the surface. “That’s impossible!” she thought aloud.

  “What is it?” asked Jaren.

  “There,” Nakvin said, pointing out a web of grey lines seemingly etched into the far wall. A few seconds later, the others gasped at what they saw.

  The fine traceries were actually miles-long columns of human-sized beings clad in light grey, cowled robes. They walked several thousand abreast, marching in lock step across the inner curve of a crystal ball large enough to encase a gas giant.

  As Nakvin looked on, the head of the line neared one of the bright spots, which definitely wasn’t a star, but a seething pool of fire. Her dread turned to relief as the lead walker passed within arm's length of the burning abyss.

  Nakvin realized that, unless the millions of individual walkers each kept a perfectly straight path, the entire line might plunge into the same open furnace on their next circuit. As this thought came to her, a hideous, many-armed shape emerged from the molten lake and snatched up four of the pilgrims before submerging once again. A collective cry of shock sounded across the bridge.

  Without pausing, the line of grey walkers closed ranks and continued on their way.

  Nakvin’s horror manifested through the Wheel. The fire went out, leaving a hole giving on emptiness that she somehow knew was the next gate. By reflex she sent the ship forward into a realm of roiling clouds.

  “I'm done,” Nakvin said, squeezing her eyes shut and rubbing her temples. The Wheel dimmed as she strode from the dais and descended to the deck.

  Jaren intercepted her exit. “I didn't dismiss you,” he said. “We're making progress.”

  Nakvin fixed her eyes on Jaren. “You can't know what it's like for me,” she said, her voice starting to waver.”

  “The shower almost gave me a heart attack, too,” Jaren offered in consolation. “Besides, I saw the same things as you.”

  “You did,” she said, “but what does it mean to you? That the Gen legends aren't as absurd as everyone thought?” Nakvin jabbed her index finger at her chest. “I never had a tribal tradition. I grew up without knowing what I was! Believe me, ignorance was a blessing.”

  The lady Steersman waited for Jaren’s reply. Instead he looked at her for several seconds; then stood aside.

  Stunned silence lingered until Jaren addressed the crew. “I know things haven’t gone according to plan,” he said. “Now I want all of you to know something. Against great adversity; despite your differences, you have all performed with courage and honor.”

  Jaren scanned his audience. The few pirates wore broad grins, but he was relieved to see many somber and thoughtful Mithgarder faces. A few were nodding. He continued. “With Commander Stochman's approval, I’m calling a period of general shipboard leave.”

  “Six hours,” the commander said. “No one touches the Wheel.”

  Nakvin was brushing her long ebon hair when Jaren came to her quarters.

  “I was only thinking of the crew,” he said at last.

  Nakvin held her peace until she finished. Then she laid her hands on the table fronting the mirror and bowed her head. Her hair fell like a lavender-scented hood. “You only ever think of the crew.”

  “I'm sorry you were embarrassed,” Jaren said, “but we need you.”

  Nakvin turned to face him. “I know they need me. I'm not so sure about you.”

  Jaren removed his coat and boots. The bed creaked as he climbed into a kneeling position at its foot. “Here,” he said. “How about some help?”

  Nakvin hesitated; then sat down on the bed with her back to him. “You know what you're doing?” she asked.

  “Don't worry,” said Jaren. “These hands never forget.” He gently took several locks in hand and began weaving them into the elegant plaits that she favored. The sensation soothed her raw nerves, but Nakvin held onto her frustration. Despite the outward humility of his actions, she knew that Jaren's real motive was coaxing her back to the Wheel.

  Nakvin had concluded long ago that much of Jaren's antisocial behavior was unintended. He'd been a child when they'd met, and Nakvin remained painfully aware of her role in shaping his personality. Still, these were explanations; not excuses. “I'm sorry,” she said.

  Jaren’s hands paused at their dextrous work, betraying his surprise. “You’ve got it backwards,” he chuckled. “I'm the penitent here.”

  “I don't mean about earlier,” said Nakvin. “I'm sorry you had to be alone.”

  “I've got too many friends to be alone,” Jaren said. “I've got Deim, Teg, the boys—I hope I've got you.”

  “Those aren't friends. You use them, but you don’t give anything back.”

  “They get steady work and a roof over their head,” Jaren said in a slightly irritated tone.

  “Exactly. That's a business arrangement; not friendship. Those people know next to nothing about you.”

  Jaren’s voice turned somber. “You know me,” he said. “All there is to know.”

  “Because I was there,” said Nakvin. “If you could’ve hidden it from me, you would have.”

  Nakvin fell silent for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice darkened. “Am I just someone who works for you, Jaren?”

  She felt his hands squeezing her shoulders. “We're not friends, you and me,” he said. “We're family.”

  Nakvin felt tears welling in her eyes but fought them back. “You'd say anything to get what you want.”

  Jaren drew her into a tight embrace. “Nakvin,” he said, “I don’t care if you never touch a Wheel again. You saved my life.”

  Nakvin fell against Jaren's chest, taking refuge in his gun oil and sweat-scented presence despite her misgivings. “I'm sorry that you're alone, too,” he said. “That's probably why we can't get rid of each other. For what it's worth, I understand why this place disturbs you. It might mean that the Gen legends are true, but not all of them were happy.”

  “I don't trust Vaun,” Nakvin said.

  “He’s a shady one, but he hasn't played us false yet.”

  “It's not what he is,” Nakvin said. “It's what he isn't that worries me.”

  Jaren kept silent, inviting her to go on.

  “I know voices,” she continued. “Vaun's is so empty. Devoid of passion…of life.”

  “You can't hold a man to faults beyond his control.”

  “That's true, and this might not be his fault either; but he doesn't speak the way we do.”

  “He uses a lot of old-fashioned words, but we probably sound like that to Deim.”

  “Deim's a century younger than us,” Nakvin said. “What does that make Vaun?”

  The question gave Jaren pause. “He's not a Gen.”

  Nakvin looked over her shoulder at Jaren. “I know,” she said, “because I wasn't talking about Vaun's accent. I meant he doesn't talk like we do, or like anyone else does, either. However his voice is produced, it's not by air blowing over his vocal cords, because from what I can tell, he doesn't breathe!”

  Jaren's emerald eyes shot wide open.

  “There's more,” Nakvin said, a little more reluctantly. “I'm not sure what it means, but I can't sense his thoughts.”

  “Doesn't he need to be willing?”

  “Yes, but it only takes as much consent as speaking. If I'm already talking to someone, it's never a problem to start communicating nonverbally—except with Vaun.”

  Jaren nodded gravely.

  Nakvin continued. “Anyway, I can usually send my thoughts to people whether they want me to or not, as long as I can see them. I’ve made mental overtures to Vaun. I was friendly enough at first, but when he didn't answer I tried everything to get a response.”

  “It di
dn't work,” Jaren guessed.

  “I won't lie to you. My imagination ran a little wild. Most people would’ve been horrified, or possibly ill, but Vaun didn’t flinch.”

  “You've done that before, haven't you?”

  Nakvin suppressed a smile. “The point is, either Vaun has a superhuman tolerance for the grotesque, or he couldn't hear me. You decide which is more disturbing.”

  “I'll talk to him,” Jaren said.

  Jaren found Vaun skulking about at midnight in a warren of the ship’s stuffy bowels rumored to contain the engine room. “Vaun!” he called out when he was sure the cloaked figure wasn’t just a trick of the shadows. “You're a hard man to pin down.”

  Vaun greeted Jaren with a bow. “I beg pardon for inconveniencing you.”

  “What are you still doing up?” Jaren asked.

  “Forgive my uncouth habits,” said Vaun. “I am given to insomnia these past years.”

  “Now that you mention it, I'm not sleepy either,” Jaren said. “There's a bottle of Temilian liquor in my quarters—best cure for a couple of nightjars like us.”

  Vaun’s silence hid his thoughts like a cloud hiding the moon. “If you wish,” he said at last.

  Glad to be back in the relatively comfort of his cabin, Jaren took a slender bottle and two tumblers from his locker and sat in a steel frame chair facing another across a small table. He filled a glass with amber liquid that lined his throat with smoky warmth when sipped. “Tell me your story,” he said, offering the second glass and chair, which Vaun refused.

  “I hail from Mithgar,” Vaun began, his hollow voice turning Jaren’s quarters into a deep cavern. “There I dealt medicaments on the Ostrith waterfront.”

  The storyteller paused. Jaren turned his chair around and rested his arms across its back.

  Vaun continued. “My trade ran afoul of the law and brought me to a choice between death on the gallows or in the arena. I competed in those bloody games. Memory fails me as to how long. Finally, after gathering a pile of corpses to my name, an Adept from Steersman's College purchased my debt. The brutality I suffered at my new master's hand made me long for the gore and grit.”