Black Bottle

She is a Gringling. An Eater of Time. Her blessing and her curse: to outlast the darkness.

All of us were burnt and crushed but her—minor inconveniences you might say. What killed us was despair. We despaired in the face of those Abominations and gave up our immortality willingly on that hideous fiery night. We had no means of escape and did not wish to suffer the endless blackness of a living tomb. But she, my daughter, in that miraculous niche of canted stone, she alone refused to go. She held onto her Gringling skin and in so doing condemned herself to the bottom of the Loor as Soth sank beneath the waves.

She went mad, of course, cursed with immortality that the rest of us had cast off, while she waited in the dark.

On the night it rained fire, I did not expect her to stay; so I left on the sweet toxins of a final draft of shuwt tincture and found my way permanently into another form—one lacking the perfection of my Gringling corpse. But one day I will go back. I will find my little girl. I will pull her from the darkness and return to the shining lands of Ahvelle.

For all its wild fantasy, Caliph found the account compelling. He blinked and rubbed crust from his eyes. Light was coming through the room’s single window and his duties as ruler of the duchy swung back on him like a punching bag.

Nuj Ig’nos and the other diplomats were scheduled to leave today. Sena would be returning—late. And he had a ceremony to attend in conjunction with the holiday.

What time is it? He checked. That can’t be right.

He pushed himself out of the chair and walked briskly to the door. Sorting through his disheveled hair, he poked his head into the hall and asked the sentry stationed in the corridor for the time.

“A quarter of seven, your majesty.” Already nearly noon!

7Ambiguous capitalization. Does he know what these are?—Sena.

8A species of luminous moth extinct c. 11062 (O.T.R.).

CHAPTER

6

Caliph massaged his fingertips deep into his brow and grunted.

“Should I tell the seneschal you’re awake?” asked the man.

“No,” said Caliph. “No, no.” He struck out down the hall, headed for his bedroom.

The day swelled around him, burgeoning with details and unexpected events. It was bathe, dress, lunch, bid his so-called guests good-bye and burn wooden masks in a leafy bonfire by half past ten. After that, the Blue General briefed him before he took loring tea with the burgomasters at twelve. Twenty minutes later he met the papers and answered questions regarding diplomacy with the south. He left out the parts about Pandragor wanting immediate unconditional access to twenty different sites and mostly stuck to his lines, “We’ve both agreed to more talks and I think Ambassador Ig’nos shares my optimism … we’re looking forward to a positive dialogue in Sandren.”

By fourteen o’clock, just before dinner, Caliph had managed to clear his schedule and wriggle out of obligations at a maskless party in upper Murkbell where two-hundred well-heeled guests planned to close out the Funereal of the Leaves in style.

For Caliph, the cycle of days being High King, month-in month-out, resonated as a kind of unrelenting frequency. An insufferable pattern of noise and sound that he felt abrading him, disintegrating him slowly, both physically and mentally. To rule a country, he had established that you needed one thing more than any other: to want it.

But what Caliph wanted was tranquility. He wanted to polish his own shoes, get black marks on his fingers. He wanted Sena to come home, stop her endless research and take breakfast with him as the sun rose out of the west. He wanted time—with her. He wanted a family, fruit trees and idle chatter around the kitchen table.

Sena had offered that once. Did she still want it? A year ago they had been so close. Right after the war had ended, their goals had been braided into one line, reeling them forward.

But that had changed. She had stopped leaving the library. At one point the servants claimed that she had remained on her stool for an entire week while Caliph had been away handling affairs in Morturm. One hundred eighty hours in an ice-cold room without food or water, perched on a stool without a back? Was it even possible? The servants said they often found her in the dark with the lamps gone out. They said she didn’t move, but stared at the books, as if she was reading them.

Caliph’s thoughts lifted as a message arrived that Sena’s airship was coming in from the west, over Octul Box. He strode quickly through the statued opulence of a hallway overlooking the east courtyard, toward the castle’s zeppelin deck.

When he arrived, the evening was gray and dripping, not quite cold enough to sting. Caliph’s stomach felt loose, like it was lying on the blocks beneath him. He insisted on standing alone. The small army of servants in charge of the arrival had organized themselves half a dozen yards away.

Caliph kept waiting and watching … and waiting as the clouds churned.

Finally, the Odalisque materialized like something conjured out of magic smoke. It slid into position above the zeppelin deck and immediately, a terrifying chill coursed through him.

Sena had been gone nearly a year. It had been months since he had heard from her and, for him, the hiatus had metastasized into irrational unfamiliarity. He couldn’t wait to put his arms around her. Feel her. Smell her. Hear her voice.

The craft’s wicked mulberry skin might have shown traces of purple under direct sunlight but currently it looked black, dangling from a claw of cloud. The Odalisque’s silver filigreed fins and spines marked her as an exclusive pleasure ship and though they tantalized the air with their femininity, they were also vaguely threatening.

Caliph shifted from one foot to the other. He watched the lights flash, signaling that the ship had successfully docked. People began to move.

The airship’s cargo doors opened and casket-shaped boxes began sliding out, pulled by rope handles, maneuvered by giant men. A small, fierce woman, clearly in charge, barked at the unloaders. The men adjusted their grips, used tarps to shield the containers from the rain and lugged the heavy loads toward the castle without complaint.

Caliph took a flight of cement steps up to the parapet that would conduct Sena from the Odalisque to the castle’s warm interior. There were already servants moving back and forth along the narrow pathway hedged with crenels. He made his way toward the airship and spotted the captain. A big man with blond thickets on his forearms stepped out and addressed him with a quizzical smile. “Your majesty? Did she forget something?”

“What?”

The captain kept grinning. “Did she leave something behind? I’ll help you look.” He turned toward the ship.

Caliph stopped him. “She’s already left? She’s already gone inside?”

The captain turned back around, lips puckered, eyes wide. “Well … yes.”

“And she came this way?” Caliph hooked a thumb toward the narrow parapet.

Now the captain showed traces of concern. “Yes, she did. Is something wrong?”

Caliph looked back through the rain in the direction he had come, feeling dizzy. It was impossible. He couldn’t have missed her. He didn’t know whether to board the Odalisque and search for her or return to the castle. Finally he forced a grin and waved his hand dismissively. “No. Nothing’s wrong. I must have gotten here late.”

The captain saluted as Caliph turned and ducked back over the busy walkway, rain pounding him. By the time he entered the castle, he was soaking.

A short, thick maid with breasts like gun stones nearly walked into him before declaring that he was drenched. She insisted on getting a towel.

“Where is Sena?” Caliph followed her to a nearby linen closet.