material that came up through the floor and workbench.
“Now we pass soul energy through it,” Annaig said. “The chemical terror will attract what it needs to become the real thing.”
For a moment nothing happened; then the spiculum took on a faint lavender glow, and quite abruptly became opaque. Annaig waited another moment then removed the spiculum and shook it again. The coating inside the crystal sloughed free and settled into one end, a viscous powder. She unsealed the hlzu gum that held the spiculum together with spirits of coatin. Then she emptied a bit of the newly formed substance into a horn spoon and carefully handed it to Slyr.
“And there you have it,” she said.
Slyr blinked at the lavender stuff.
“Am I to taste this?”
“You may if you wish.”
“Perhaps not,” Slyr said, dipping her finger into it experimentally. A bit clung there, and she rubbed it back and forth. “It feels-” But then her face transformed; her eyes became huge, and the veins on her neck stood out as she suddenly began shrieking. She fell from her stool and twisted into a fetal position, fighting for the air she needed to keep screaming.
“Or you can just touch it,” Annaig said. “It’s absorbed just as readily through the skin.”
Slyr’s only response was to quiver uncontrollably-she was past screaming now.
For Annaig, the next few seconds stretched thin and brittle; part of her wanted to continue watching the other woman suffer. Anger was beautiful, because its core was the absence of all doubt. When anger wrapped you up in yourself and you knew that you were right and righteous-that the very universe was in agreement with you-at that moment you were a god, and anyone who crossed or disagreed with you was worse than wrong, they were heretics, apostates, twisted in the very womb. Slyr deserved this. And much, much more.
Then why, beneath the wonderful, purifying rage, did she feel sick? Why did she suspect that she was the one in the wrong?
Because she wasn’t really angry at Slyr. She was angry because all her hopes of escaping Umbriel were destroyed. She was angry at the stupidity of a little girl who thought she could save the world like a hero from the songs, and now was going to spend what little of her life remained in a disgusting place among disgusting people.
And one of those people was Slyr. But somehow she couldn’t watch her lose her mind.
So, with a sigh, she unstoppered the bottle she’d fixed for herself, in case she had an accident during the experiment, and waved it under Slyr’s nose. The other woman inhaled, gasped, gave one great shake, then sagged. She was still breathing hard but her eyes were clear.
“S-Summpslurry,” Slyr managed, her breath still ragged.
She traveled her gaze over her body, as if fearing she was missing limbs.
“You stopped it, didn’t you? You could have let it go on and on.”
“For a few hours, yes.”
“It would have driven me mad.”
Annaig shrugged, still feeling angry and helpless, and now trying not to cry. What was wrong with her?
“I’m not so convinced you’re sane as it is,” she said.
Slyr chuckled harshly. “I soiled myself,” she said.
“I didn’t need to know that,” Annaig replied.
“I guess not.” Her eyes dropped down. “Toel doesn’t care what happens to me. No one does. No one would have even reprimanded you-”
“I’m not like you, Slyr,” Annaig said.
Slyr shakily came to her feet and gathered her clothing around her.
“Maybe not,” she said. “But you’re closer than you were.”
And then she left. Annaig almost thought the woman had a faint look of triumph on her face.
When Slyr was gone, Annaig’s tears came.
For a long time after being trapped on Umbriel, she hadn’t cried. She watched the city she grew up in destroyed, and although she hadn’t seen it, in her heart she knew her father was dead, and Hecua, and every other soul she had ever known before coming to this place, to Umbriel-which was responsible for all of that murder. She had kept it all in, bound up with hope and purpose, freighted by the need to survive to get from one day to the next-and yes, at times by wonder, by the sheer alien assault on the senses that was Umbriel.
But after Slyr poisoned her, those bands began to fray, and when at last she was ready to escape, to leave Umbriel, they had broken, because she wouldn’t have to live each day in fear any longer, because she didn’t need such unnatural control. And then she and Mere-Glim had flown out across the night to where Prince Attrebus was waiting, with his strength, his courage to sustain her.
But Umbriel hadn’t let them go, and now…
“You cry far too much,” a soft voice said behind her.
She closed her eyes, but he knew, so she didn’t bother to wipe them. It would only show further weakness.
She turned with her cheeks still glistening and stood up from her stool.
“Chef Toel,” she said.
When she first met Toel, she’d thought him darkly, devilishly handsome, and his unbelievably blue eyes had absorbed her. Now he only seemed dangerous, like a viper.
He looked meaningfully at the purplish substance in the crystal cone.
“What have you there?” he asked
“Terror, Chef.”
“Well, give us a taste, then.”
She hesitated. “It’s quite strong, Chef.”
“I’ll take care, then.”
She doled him out a bit and watched as he carried it to his lips and let it touch his tongue. His eyes widened dreamily and he hissed before taking several shuddering breaths. Little sparks danced on his skin, and she felt the tiny hairs on her face pull toward him.
Then he looked down at her, his gaze still a little strange.
“Exquisite,” he murmured. “You have so much talent, little one. Such beautiful ideas. If only you had-well, a little drive. A bit of ambition.”
He smiled slightly. “I saw Slyr. She looked as if she’d seen the worst thing in the world.”
“She tasted it, Chef.”
“You let her?”
“I did.”
“Well, well. An improvement. But why is she still walking? She hasn’t a constitution for such things, as I do. I think it should have destroyed her mind.”
“I gave her an antidote,” Annaig admitted.
He stared at her a moment, then made a slight tsking sound beneath his breath. His eyes-which had held her with a certain sparkle-dulled and shifted.
“Very well, then,” he said. “Bring that around. I’ve a mind to use it in seasoning the suspiration of hare and sulfur I’m preparing for Lord Irrel’s thirty-third course. A little something different for him. And perhaps, if you could, also make me a bit of remorse?”
“I’m not certain a horse can feel remorse, Chef.”
“Very well,” he said. “Kohnu was badly burned this morning distilling phlogiston. I shall send his brain over.”
“But if he’s still alive-”
“Healing him would take time and resources, and he wouldn’t be able to work for weeks. He’ll serve me better this way.”
She knew Kohnu. He was funny, always telling little self-effacing jokes and clowning about with the produce.
“Chef-” she began.
