City of Stairs (The Divine Cities, #1)(84)

The Divinities, she remembers, could only be killed with the Kaj’s weaponry. But their minor creatures were more vulnerable, and all had their own weaknesses.

Shara comes to a decision. “How many have you devoured during your imprisonment here?”

Again, it doubles over in mock laughter. It dances over to where Sigrud stands and mimes inspecting him, pretending to squeeze his thighs, test his belly. …

“I believe it was many,” says Shara. “And I believe you enjoyed it.”

In one swoop, the mhovost slides over to her. It runs one finger along the sides of its mouth: a disturbingly sexual gesture.

Shara looks at a candelabra beside her. “These are very illegal, of course.” She picks up one candle, flips it over. Inscribed on the bottom, as she expected, is a symbol of a flame between two parallel lines—the insignia of Olvos, the flame in the woods. “These candles never go out, and give off such a bright white light.” She holds a hand to its flame. “But the heat they give … That is quite real, and no illusion.”

The mhovost stops, and slowly withdraws its finger from its mouth.

“There’s a reason all these candelabras are here, isn’t there?” asks Shara. “Because if by chance you got out of your cage, a dusty, dry creature like you would have to step very carefully to avoid catching alight.”

The mhovost drops its hand and takes a step back.

“I bet Mrs. Torskeny ran to you, didn’t she?” says Shara softly. “Seeing a little girl in need.”

Shara remembers the old woman bent over her coffee: I tried to learn. I wanted to learn to be righteous. I wanted to know. But I could only ever pretend.

Angry, the mhovost flaps its bill at her: fapfapfapfa-

With a flick, Shara tosses the candle at it.

The creature catches afire instantly: there is a whump sound, and an orange blaze erupts from its chest. Within seconds it is a dark man-figure flailing in a billowing cloud of orange-white.

Somewhere in the back of her head, Shara hears children screaming.

She remembers, again, the boy in the jail cell. How I repeat myself.

The flaming creature veers across the salt ring, seeming to bounce off of invisible walls. Scraps of flickering cloth float away from it like glowing orange cherry blossoms. It grasps its head, its monstrous mouth open in a silent cry.

Its form fades; the flames die away; a gust of ash dances around the candelabras. Then it is gone, leaving only scorch marks on the floor.





And Olvos said:

“Nothing is ever truly lost

The world is like the tide

Returning, for an instant, to the place it occupied before

Or leaving that same place once more

Celebrate, then, for what you lose shall be returned

Smile, then, for all good deeds you do shall be visited upon you

Weep, then, for all ills you do shall return to you

Or your children, or your children’s children

What is reaped is what is sown.

What is sown is what is reaped.”

—Book of the Red Lotus,

Part IV, 13.51–13.59





Re-creations


Shara strides across the room. As her feet cross the salt, she braces for some terrible misfortune—perhaps the thing will resurrect itself and fall upon her—but there is nothing.

She feels the crack in the wall, pries at it with her fingers, but it does not budge. “Come and look,” she says. “Do you see a handle? Or a button? Or maybe a lever …”

Sigrud gently pushes her aside with the back of one hand. Then he takes a step back and soundly kicks the door in the wall.

The crack sounds deafening in this silent place. Half of the door caves in. The remainder, suddenly powdery, shatters and falls to pieces like a mirror. White, acrid clouds come pluming up.

Shara touches the broken door, which leaves a chalky residue on her fingers. “Ah,” she says. “Plaster.” She cranes her head forward to look into the dark.

Earthen stairs, going straight down in a steep angle.

Sigrud picks up one of the sputtering candelabras. “I think,” he says, “we may need one of these.”

*

The stairs do not end: they stretch on and on, soft and moist, formed of dark, black clay and loam. Neither she nor Sigrud talks as they descend. They do not discuss the horror they just encountered, nor does he ask her how she knew how to dispatch it in such an able fashion: eight or nine years ago, they would have, but not now. Both of them have been at this strange sort of work for so long that there are few surprises left: you encounter the miraculous, do as you need with it, and go back to work. Though that, Shara reflects, was the worst in a long while.

“What direction do you think we’re going?” asks Shara.

“West.”

“Toward the belfry?”

Sigrud considers it and nods.

“So, soon we will be … underneath it.”

“More or less, yes.”

Shara remembers how the gas company gave up this quarter, choosing to leave what was buried below Bulikov alone.

“A question comes to me,” says Sigrud. “How could someone make this without anyone noticing?”

Shara inspects the walls of the tunnel. “It looks like it’s been in use for a while. Much of it’s been worn away. But it almost looks like, when this tunnel was first made, they made it by burning it.”