Black Bottle

Caliph didn’t resist. He let his assailants pick him up, move him effortlessly out of the wreckage and into the blinding ruddy turbulence.

In the light, he could see faces covered with bizarre masks: each like the soft back of a beetle uncensored by carapace or wings. Their weapons clung to their bodies, suckling primates, moving, hugging the shadows of their torsos, looking at Caliph seemingly without the assistance of their wearers.

His captors asked him nothing and Caliph returned their silence. They obviously knew who he was. There were no mysteries on either side of this process. As they strapped him into a harness that would haul him into the belly of the Iycestokian vessel, defying the might of the storm, Caliph’s only internalized question was Where is Sig?

CHAPTER

38

Phisku 18

Archbishop Abimael,

As you know, I went north under the assumption shared by the consociation: that the Duchy of Stonehold was engaged in mythmaking and blasphemy and that those activities might form the basis of a new theocracy which would then attempt to legitimize aggressive northern expansionism.

Right now, the papers are full of news both about what happened at the conference and the disease that now seems to be everywhere, spreading so far in less than a week. I hope you are well. I hope you have managed to escape.

I know we’ve had our differences. I know most of the members will view this letter, since they will receive similar copies, as another outlandish claim springing from the Church of Nenuln. I am well aware that none of you believe in my vision.

Be that as it may, it is my responsibility to inform you that what happened at Sandren was not a solvitriol weapon. It was not a weapon of any kind, as far as I can tell. What I mean is that I believe strongly that the Duchy of Stonehold is not making myths. I believe Sena Iilool is a god.

Furthermore I believe she is solely responsible for the mass murders at Sandren and for the propagation of the pandemic in which we find ourselves.

I know I have somehow disappointed you since the days I came to seminary. My father is a Gringling. Trust between us now is, I suppose, thin and you may wonder why I would make these claims by mail rather than bringing them before the full fellowship. It is because I am afraid.

So afraid that I don’t know what to do. Father will take care of us. I believe this will end badly for all of us, that the end may really, truly be close at hand. I am sending this to you so that you can prepare the people in your church, let them know that this must be part of some grand design if it suits you. The Ublisi ruined my party.

Abimael, believe me, I no longer rely on Nenuln. I no longer believe in the sun

is brighter

than I thought.

Give my love to my parents.

You are all going to die.

Sincerely,

Arrian Glimendula

Taelin put the pen down. Her hand hurt from writing. As she massaged out her palm she looked at her wrist. The configuration of silver spots had changed, as if the disease was struggling to conquer new regions of her skin only to lose ground in the rear. The places that had originally itched, where the creature in Sandren had grabbed her, were now clean, but other areas of her arm had become infected.

She noticed that the top of her forearm was as silvery as the aluminum desk she sat at.

It frightened her in an aimless, alienated way. My son is dead, she thought, and stared into the little vase of flowers on the desk. Bitten to death by nyaffle in the deep desert. She didn’t care about the plague.

The Iycestokians were treating her well. They had given her a private cabin, even if the door was locked.

She reached up and drew the curtains from the window above her desk. She could see a throng of Iycestokian troops sifting through the wreckage of the Bulotecus, searching for something.

She felt poignantly sad for Caliph Howl, even if he had done horrible things to her. His lovely ship lay broken, partly buried in a pool of cobalt-colored sand. The aft portion rested on the orange of the surrounding desert, as if it had crashed into a shallow oasis.

She thought about her night with Caliph. It had been ceremonial. She had shared him with her goddess. A kind of sacrament. It was not a mistake. It had been beautiful. It had brought her closer to Sena Iilool, who secretly was the goddess of light: with the sun streaming out of her back.

There was no difference anymore between the Church of Nenuln and the Fane of Sienae Iilool: Omnispecer. They were the same.

Taelin clutched her demonifuge tightly. I’m supposed to be getting ready, she thought. I need to get ready. She reached for her toiletries and pulled out her razor. She pressed it firmly into her palm and sliced her hand open. Then she held her injury toward the ceiling. “Use me,” she said. “Use me for your designs!”

Taelin watched the red-black rivulet roll across her wrist. It followed gravity down her forearm as if she had crushed a pomegranate in her hand. Droplets gathered at her elbow.

After a few moments she turned on the water from the little pressurized tank above her shower. She used the blood like gel, lathering her legs. When water entered the cut it burnt like crazy but she wet her razor and began shaving her body anyway.

Corwin says it snows on the mainland, said the inside-girl.

“It does. But not here. We’re too far south.”

That’s sad. I was hoping to see it. But anyway, the sunlight is lovely.

“I know. I love the sun. My goddess is the goddess of light.” The razor fell from Taelin’s hand. She was trembling. She had cut herself in many places.

Let’s get cleaned up.

“By the Eyes, I’ve made a mess. What do you think will happen next?”

I don’t know. But Sena said we’re going to open the door to the future. Isn’t that wonderful?

*   *   *

WHATEVER gasses had kept the hylden’s organs afloat must have leaked out, perhaps through perforations caused by thousands of glassy teeth, perhaps from rents made by the storm.

But the storm was gone now. Clear skies held sway. And Miriam could look out from her tiny window, across the grisly green and silver landscape of blubber, sunk into rubbery piles and great bubbled domes. The hylden was a much larger gasbag than what had collapsed around the Bulotecus.

What it really looked like, she thought, was that some foul god had cleared its throat. Its stink was powerful. More so today than yesterday. She watched its surface, crawling with sparkling nyaffle and wondered if the subtle metallic tinge meant that the hylden too had fallen victim to the disease.

The Iycestokians had processed the qloin. Miriam had allowed it. This was part of getting aboard, evaluating the situation, determining what to do next. Her eyes strayed up from the vast carcass to where Sena’s ship hovered. The Pplarian craft was surrounded on all sides. There was little drama. The Iycestokian ships with their huge black hoods and undulating pieces, ringed her in all three dimensions but no guns had been fired.

“What is she doing?” asked Autumn.

“I don’t know. Waiting for us I guess.”

Earlier, the Iycestokians had gagged all three of them and shackled their hands behind their backs. Gags and