Gates of Thread and Stone(32)

“There has only ever been one Kahl.”

How was that possible? I didn’t know what any of the Kahls looked like, but I’d been taught that each Kahl ruled for his lifetime, schooling his heir in relative seclusion until it was time to pass on leadership. Wouldn’t someone have noticed if he was immortal?

“The Infinite are constant in number,” Irra said as we followed him back the way we had come. All the turns and passageways made the route difficult to memorize. “We lost one some time ago—Conquest, as we knew him—and Ninu was chosen to succeed him. He is the youngest of us. When a child is given restrictions, he grows rebellious.”

“Ninu created Ninurta because he was having a tantrum?” I said. “That’s ridiculous.”

Irra gave a delicate shrug. I suspected there was more to it—a lot more—but he wasn’t sharing the information.

“Absurd or not, Ninu has fashioned himself into a leader of men. As to his sentinels, they are mahjo, the result of our dalliances with humans.”

“Ninu isn’t the last mahjo?” Avan asked.

“Ninu is not mahjo at all,” Irra said. He turned a corner, and I hurried to keep pace with his much longer legs. “The mahjo are mortal descendants of the Infinite. Once, they carried our magic in their blood. But their petty war changed that.”

“That ‘petty’ war decimated the world,” I said.

Irra waved a dismissive hand. “And for what reason? To prove which side was the superior force? It was a conflict born of little more than pride and conceit. The Infinite decided it would be too dangerous to allow the mahjo to retain their powers. However, by stripping them of magic, their blood became poison to their Infinite parent. It was, I believe, nature’s way of maintaining balance.”

“So when Ninu discovers any descendants . . . ,” Avan began.

“He snatches them up and transforms them into his toy soldiers, both to protect himself and as weapons against the rest of us. I’ve managed to recruit my own, mostly by stealing them from him, but I make do with my resources.”

“Ninu has Reev?” I asked.

“Is that all you’ve taken from this conversation?”

I flushed, first out of embarrassment and then frustration. To think that Reev had never left Ninurta at all . . .

“Why would Reev’s boss believe he sold him to you?” Avan asked.

“Ninu does have to keep up my reputation if he doesn’t want an uprising on his hands.”

We reached the hall where Irra’s study was located, but he led us past it. I slowed outside the door to the courtyard again, lulled by flowers as big as my hand and the scent of grass—real grass, not the dry, straw-like weeds in Ninurta.

“There will be time later to explore,” Irra said.

I looked away, annoyed with myself, and spotted the knife in Avan’s hand. I had completely forgotten about it. He gave it back to me, and I stuffed it into my bag.

“Come,” Irra said, “you must be hungry.” He grinned, a dark, almost derisive gleam in his eyes. “Fed by Famine. What has the world come to?”



The mess hall was full. It was probably about lunchtime now, and there had to be at least fifty people gathered around the wooden tables and benches. They talked loudly, laughing and leaning into one another as if they were all old friends. Several of them waved when Irra dropped us off at the entrance.

In the food line, Avan and I received trays, and an enthusiastic chef allowed us to pick what we wanted to eat. I stared at the display of food. My stomach grumbled loudly, but I was completely at a loss. Our meals at school were picked for us and usually consisted of a clump of mashed potatoes, watery pea soup, overcooked carrots, and sometimes milk, if we were lucky. The vegetables tended to taste a little sour, but I was happy to eat. Food was food.

“Tell you what,” the chef said, brandishing his spatula. He wore a blinding-pink apron, and his wavy brown hair was covered with a matching hairnet. He was almost as riveting as the mounds of food. “I’ll let you sample everything, and you can decide what you like best.”

Despite my objections, he piled my tray with enough food to feed a whole level in the Labyrinth. And then he did the same for Avan. I tried not to gape.

The chef winked at me and said, “Come back for seconds.”

“So wasteful,” I muttered as we searched for an open table.

I kept one eye on Avan and the other on my tray. The bread roll actually steamed—it was fresh. The beans were covered in a brown sauce that didn’t look like mud. I’d never seen carrots that were so orange, and the corn glistened with what could have been real butter. I had tried butter once when a friend brought it to school, but it had been rancid.

How could the Rider afford these quantities of food? Where did it come from? I sniffed at my tray. Everything smelled delicious. My stomach growled again.

“Then we better eat up,” Avan said.

We sat near the wall, and I hunched over my tray. Everyone around us was dressed in similar tunics. But like the girl from the hallway, many of them had altered the clothes to suit them. They also had no reservations about staring. I felt distinctly out of place.

“What do you think of Irra?” Avan asked, seemingly oblivious to the dozens of eyes on us. “Crazy or immortal?”

“Maybe both.”