Black Bottle

this”—she stirred the air with her finger—”blasphemy.”

Taelin’s mouth twitched. The witch was hard to read.

Sena grinned, not maliciously. “You are, however, the first I’ve granted an audience.”

“Thank you,” stammered Taelin. “Thank you. I … which I, appreciate … of course.” She wrung her hands behind her back. “Why did you grant one to me?”

“Someone from the south put in a good word for you. And besides, you were called here by Nenuln, weren’t you?”

“What? Yes.” Taelin had just noticed the faint glimmers that decorated Sena’s waist, tracing the muscular hollows as if a spider had crawled crazy over her skin. She was so distracted by the designs that the question hit her broadside. “Have you? I mean … who is it that you know? From the south?”

Sena’s eyes moved from where they had been boring holes in one of the room’s featureless walls and centered on Taelin’s face. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Does your goddess love me?”

Taelin fumbled mentally. Finally she said, “Yes. I mean…”

“Does she love me as much as you loved Aviv … or your son?”

Taelin’s blush returned. Unfair!

But before she could respond, Sena’s cool, gravelly voice scraped over her. “Let me tell you what you were sent here to learn.”

“I wasn’t sent here to lear—”

“You were sent to learn that I am, in fact, going south. I’ll be passing over Mirayhr, over Skellum, near midnight on the twelfth of Tes. You will be unable to stop me there and I will proceed to Sandren. Send whomever you want. The Stairs will kill them.”

Taelin felt Sena’s words dissolve reality; the logic of the moment was crumbling into chunks. What’s going on? What is she talking about?

“From the Stairs, I descend toward Bablemum. If you’re still following me after that, I’m afraid I’ll have to drag you through the jungle.”

She’s insane. Of course … Taelin felt the Duchy of Stonehold as a political entity wrap itself around her, more sinister and entangling than before. This wasn’t about bringing some power-hungry shakedown artist to repentance. That clearly wasn’t who Sena Iilool was. No. Sena Iilool was crazy. Maybe the king too, if all of this was true. Or maybe … what if? Maybe this was all an act.

Taelin fixed Sena with a dubious scowl. “I’m sorry … I don’t…”

“Shh.” Sena put her finger to her lips. “They’ll hear you.”

“Who will hear me?”

Sena unleashed the perfect white smile from her billboards. “It belongs to you now. Don’t let them take it.”

Enough nonsense! “Nenuln sent me here to—”

“Nenuln sent you here as part of an agreement.”

Taelin gave up. “I think I should leave.”

“Only because you’re frightened and you don’t know what to say.”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“I’ll keep you safe, Lady Rae. Don’t worry.”

“Stop it. Stop it!”

“Better than your grandfather’s amulet…” Sena held out her hand, sideways, fingers extended ambiguously. Whether she was pointing toward it or asking for it, Taelin couldn’t tell. Her hand shot up to protect the demonifuge. “No! You can’t know that. It’s impossible that you know about that!”

“Impossible? What about the scroll from the Valley of Dust that you translated so painstakingly out of Veyden: Gnor-ak Gnak Zith’yn Auth-ich Aubelle Aubiel Gnak Naen’Uln Thu-ru Ryth-ich El? And what it means to you is: ’In the darkness there are many lights; Nenuln is One that will end an Age of Sadness.’”

“Stop it. Stop it!” said Taelin. “You can’t know that. It’s impossible! Your holomorphy…”

“Shh—” Sena hushed her again, gently, as if tending an infant. “We aren’t enemies.” Then she spoke in the Unknown Tongue, which Taelin recognized mostly from those short examples of blasphemy handed out by priests at the church her parents attended, two or three phrases uttered as warnings, as examples of what to fear. The dark glottal sounds popped from Sena’s throat with the sound of volcanic glass cracking.

Taelin clenched her grandfather’s demonifuge as the panicked sunlight withdrew from the window. A thickening cocoon of shadow concresced over Sena’s body.

Darker. Sena became a spectral pit of blackness straddling the stool. Instead of sunlight, a halo of dust or smoke obscured the shape that might or might not have been what Taelin was looking at. Taelin felt her eyes being pulled out of her head into the relentless gravity of the thing. Thin platinum lines, like starry charts, fluoresced within the blackness and a pair of burning eyes opened: white and blue.

Taelin’s heart pounded in her skull. She closed her eyes and began to pray. “Sweet Mother of Light, I have been deceived. Your warmth and glory come around me. Protect me and—”

Taelin felt her thoughts lose traction. Her fist was numb from clenching her necklace.

Sena’s cool husky voice penetrated the sanctum of her prayer. “You told me your goddess loved me.”

Taelin did not dare open her eyes. “Y-yes”—she bit her lip—”she loves you—”

“Of course she does.” Sena’s voice was right next to her temple, bouncing off her blood vessels. “All the gods love me. You saw their love poems—written on my skin.”

Taelin opened her eyes. The doors were still shut but the room was empty. The thermal crank had stopped ticking.

Taelin sank down on her knees and cried.

CHAPTER

8

“If I’s there, I’d a smacked her,” said Palmer. “She got no business treatin’ people like that.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” said Taelin.

“Yes, I woulda and you couldn’t a stopped me. She’s nothin, she’s less than nothin. Got her face all over town like it’s somethin special—but it ain’t. What you do is special, Lady Rae. What you done is special. Helpin us.”

Taelin smiled but the horror of her visit still haunted her. When that awful tangible darkness had surrounded Sena, Taelin had felt it. More than a change in light. It had been a power, a sign, a bellwether. The experience still tingled in her pores.

For the next few days, Taelin shook off her fear by serving meals and handing out blankets; delivering evening services and passing around flyers. Every day, without fail, she got the questions.

“You from Pandragor?”

“Why you come up here?”

“Must be crazy. Trade that warm sand for snow!”

She took pride in being from the south and enjoyed the attention. But her escape was short-lived. On the eleventh, a stooped, vile-looking bird planed in through the dreamhole in St. Remora’s steeple where Palmer had been stationed to operate the volucroria. When Palmer rang the bell Taelin darted upstairs, giddy at hearing the signal that meant correspondence had arrived and that Palmer had determined it was important.

Perhaps it was from the mayor. Or maybe Travis Whittle had decided to support her with a grant.

She entered the volucroria and boggled at the three pigeons she had purchased from a local duffer. They churned through a series of conniptions inside their cage. The fits looked and sounded more like feathery explosions than anything real birds could accomplish. Taelin marched across the room and wrenched a heavy quilt over the volery.

“Palmer! You have to cover them when they do that.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Palmer was looking quietly at the sinister bird. Taelin saw it now that the commotion had ended and it gave her pause. The four-foot creature stood on a wooden perch near the dreamhole, shaking out a