She nodded. “The party in the Wastes has an Axis. While you, as a Root, don’t have access to the knowledge we need, she might.”
“Possibly.”
“You taught Shiya how to silence her emanations, but she remains damaged. Is there any way to restore her?”
“Possibly,” he repeated. “But I will not try.”
“Why?”
“She is useful enough in her current state to the others. Such efforts could inadvertently damage her further.”
Aalia stared hard at him, divining that he wasn’t being entirely forthright. “There’s another reason you won’t try fixing her. What is it?”
He closed his eyes slightly. “When the Revn-kree fled, they didn’t just hunt down Sleepers to kill them—like the one who attacked me. Sometimes, they replaced them, too. Burying poisonous seeds among the Sleepers.” He sighed. “And I fear, in Shiya’s damaged state—”
Aalia understood. “She could be one of those poisonous seeds and not remember it.”
Tykhan bowed his head again.
Aalia turned to the window with a worrisome concern, thinking about Mareesh, about poisonous seeds.
Who else might betray us?
* * *
FRELL HAD MUCH to contemplate as he followed Pratik through the ruins of the Abyssal Codex. Aalia had assigned Pratik to oversee the salvage of the great librarie and to manage the Dresh’ri. Such an elevation wasn’t well received, but after the last of Zeng’s supporters were rooted out and strung up in the gardens, the remaining scholars bowed to her commands.
In small ways like this, Aalia was slowly shifting the Klashean caste structure. She dared not tear it apart too quickly or risk it fraying into chaos. Over in the lower city, during the reconstruction, she had begun to blur the lines among the baseborn castes and the imri, as they labored and organized repairs, leaning on imperial pride and a common purpose to fold in her changes.
Even the Shayn’ra found common ground with the imperial guards. After fighting shoulder to shoulder during the attempted overthrow, the two factions had established a grudging respect for each other. And while fractious outbreaks still occurred, those were subsiding, too.
Still, despite such progress, Frell had grown troubled of late. It was why he had returned to the librarie. Lantern in hand, he continued down into the depths of the Codex. He followed the central spiral stair, leaving Pratik working above. The stench of smoke lay heavy in his nose.
Still, surprisingly, a large swath of the librarie had been spared. One whole level had miraculously avoided the torch, along with a few isolated islands on other levels. Plus, the Dresh’ri had their own stashes and stacks in their private quarters or scholariums. Pratik had been systematically cataloging what had survived. It served as a reminder that even in the darkest times, knowledge found a way to persist.
Frell finally descended the last curve of the stairs and reached the bottommost level of this inverted subterranean pyramid. He held his lantern higher and crossed to the tall doors, wincing as he pushed into the inner sanctum beyond. He swore he could still hear the dreaded singing of the Venin. It had been etched into his skull. He paused at the threshold and made sure none of the mutilated creatures were hiding in the shadows.
Once satisfied, he headed down the short flight of steps into the room.
Pratik had already cleared out the remains of the two pyres and the bones of the man Frell had tossed into the flames, along with the sacred book. A pang of regret stabbed through him—not at the death, but at the memory of those pages turning to ash.
Still, he took the lesson above to heart.
While the book had been burned here, maybe its wisdom persisted elsewhere.
I’ll keep hunting for it.
Both to regain that knowledge and to atone for the destruction of that ancient tome.
Frell crossed the room and stepped to the waist-high slab of stone at the back. He raised his lantern, casting its light over the wall behind it. Glowing emerald veins traced through the rock, all appearing to emanate from a drawing above the altar, sketched in soot and black oil.
Frell stared again at the huge full moon rising on the wall. Silhouetted against it was the black beast with outstretched wings, edged by fire. He focused on its dark rider, as hunched as the beast itself. The rider’s eyes were stabs of that same vile emerald, glowing with menace.
Frell named the rider. “The Shadow Queen.”
He had heard the tale of what had befallen the others in the Wastes. A story of emerald fire and madness, both driven into a winged beast and a small rider.
Is that what’s depicted here?
