Black Bottle

shimmered with a satiny organic texture.

The candle was burning low. It settled to the floor and sagged there like a glowing mushroom.

“What is it?” Taelin nodded.

“A black pimplota seed, for which I didn’t have a blueprint.”

Taelin believed that Sena was a god.

*   *   *

SENA moved the seed from her hand into her backpack with hardly a whisper. Then she asked for the shopping bag.

With a blank expression, Taelin nudged the glowing purple dragon with her foot. It was heavy. She kicked it gently. Sena dragged it the rest of the way, dredging a meaningful furrow between them.

She gripped it by one of the handles and the object inside shifted. When she tipped it, leaned it over and upended it, Arrian’s head slid out like a stone. It came to rest on its crown, severed neck blazing into the dark.

From her pack, Sena called for a slender steel tube. There was no point in being discreet anymore. Taelin had ceased paying attention and even an endless string of miracles could do little harm. Their relationship, no longer a charade of normalcy, now at least simulated truth.

Sena uncorked the tube and rolled Arrian’s head over. This was what Arkhyn had requested, that she get his daughter out. But not like this.

Sena nervously upended the shuwt tincture into Arrian’s candescent tissues. She tipped the head back on its crown so the poison rolled up the back of the throat, pooled through the sinus and dripped into the seat of consciousness. She was uncertain this endeavor would end in success.

She whispered to the head in Dark Tongue, hoping to comfort the creature that had once been a girl. Arrian could still resist, close her cells to the exchange. But she seemed disoriented. Her eyelids fluttered as the tincture took effect.

Arrian would be going out like Caliph and Taelin had gone out, like everyone who used the drug went out. But unlike them she would not be coming back. This was an overdose of the variety Arkhyn Hiel had used.

Sena felt sorry for Arrian. Twenty thousand years had been enough. Too much in fact. While she waited for the pneuma to seep from Arrian’s neck, she watched Taelin scratch the silvery patch of skin on her wrist.

Taelin noticed the attention. “I think I’m getting it.” She sounded defeated. “I should have listened to Anselm and stayed out of the tents. I’ve been so stupid.”

“No,” said Sena. “You’ve doing everything right. Trust me.”

“You mean I’m not going to die of plague? Can you really see that? Can you really see everything?”

“I can see you’re not going to die of plague.”

“How do you know?”

“We don’t have a lot of time to—”

“Time to what? Why did you bring me here? What are we doing here?”

“We’re here to get Arrian, and the pimplota seed for the ink.”

“You didn’t need me to do that—either of those things.”

“Yes, I did. But I also brought you because I needed to tell you something about your grandfather’s necklace and this was the only place I could do that.”

“I don’t understand. This place is—”

“This place is safe enough to talk.” Sena steered away from Nathaniel Howl. She didn’t try to explain that the shade was always listening or that originally she had planned to bring Caliph here, instead of Taelin, so that she could tell him directly what she was doing. That idea had quickly been scuttled. Showing deference to the High King was an unnecessary risk. Already, Nathaniel was on the cusp of understanding the truth.

“It doesn’t feel safe here,” said Taelin.

“I know. And it’s not. But it’s the only place safe enough to tell you what I need to tell you.”

“So tell me.” Taelin’s eyes were red-rimmed and glazed.

Sena paused, grew serious and said, “Your grandfather made that,” she pointed to the necklace, “so that it could be broken.” Sena felt a tremble in the black air, as the Yillo’tharnah pressed her ambit. They reached for the demonifuge and Sena gasped under the sudden weight. Taelin didn’t seem to notice as Sena paused to check her boundaries. After a painstaking moment, Sena said, “It’s not really a necklace, Taelin. It’s a hole in the world. It’s been tearing, getting wider for years, for decades. Right now, it’s enormous, but that little ring of numbers is like a drawstring, holding the whole thing together.”

“A hole? In the world? What’s inside?”

“Monsters.”

Taelin laughed quietly without voice. “So I was actually right.” She mumbled through her beggary high. “It is a demonifuge.”

“Yes.”

“Then why break it?”

“Because when that door opens, so will another. And that’s our chance to run.”

“You really think the world is ending?” Taelin coughed on the harsh volcanic dust drifting over the floor.

“It’s already here,” said Sena. “The Cabal has been spreading it. People are changing, dying, everywhere.”

“You mean the disease. But we can stop that,” said Taelin. “Stonehold has vaccine. We can—”

“Shh—” And Taelin stopped talking. “There’s something else,” said Sena, “besides the necklace, that I need you to carry.”

“What is it?”

The tincture had burned through Arrian’s cells. The Gringling girl’s pneuma slipped out.

Taelin touched the scar on her forehead and Sena knew it was done. Arrian had a new home. The priestess and the sheleph of Jorgill Deep were together now, until the end.

Nathaniel was going to be furious.

*   *   *

A TREMOR shook the ground as the Yillo’tharnah pressed Sena’s ambit, bent on seizing the necklace. Fine dust trickled from overhead and Sena looked up into old cracks with new dimensions.

The Yillo’tharnah had preserved Soth in this bubble beneath the Loor Ocean for twenty thousand years. They had buttressed it from the crushing deeps to house the things Sena had gathered from the ash. They had preserved this place not because They cared about it, but because of the bargain Arrian’s father had struck. This place and the objects it contained were pieces to be bartered. But now, with the necklace so close at hand, They reneged and reached out.

Taelin stirred slightly and complained that she felt cold.

“I know,” said Sena. “It will get better.”

Arrian’s head was empty. The perfection of her tissues still oozed light. The head would never die. But it was an empty vessel now and that was a kind of death. The exact death that the Yillo’tharnah existed in.

Sena could smell Their sweet stink. They were drowsy from the evaporation of souls. From waiting for eternities. But They were stirring now.

A massive shape hurled itself against the fortress, sending another tremor through the walls. Somewhere, a section gave way and, like a hydrant gushing from another world, the Loor began pouring in.

Taelin screamed above the sound of the water when an engorged and deep-chambered limb unrolled, listless and libertine. It importuned with the shriek of drowning sea birds. The noise reverberated in every part of the ruin and in every bone in Sena’s body.

She left Arrain’s head where it was and pulled Taelin up a flight of stairs. Her tongue began working as the walls came shuddering down.

*   *   *

ANOTHER cadence wracked the air as Taelin allowed Sena to drag her. She could hear the gargantuan thrashing, the concussive splashes, the waterfalls that had broken through.

All light had gone out but strange pictures formed in her head. She saw fiery rocks falling out of the sky. People dying. She had lost Sena’s hand.

The air was too thin and poisonous. Still she shouted, choked, laced her fingers over her necklace and stared