Foretold (25 page)

Thrashing, I twist and find my arms. I take a few strokes, but where’s the surface? I can’t tell. I’m fighting my own flesh. My chest screams for a breath; my mind refuses to take it. Once I’m full of water, I’ll belong to the sea forever. I know that, with all certainty I know that, and I give up on thinking. I just swim.

I hear the dull thud inside my head before I feel the rocks cutting my scalp. Heat pours from me, cold clasps me. Digging my fingers into stone, I try to follow its shape. Strange silver domes cling to this rock wall, caught on ledges. They waver like jellyfish, little, impossible moons beneath the waves.

When I drag my fingers through one, it turns to bubbles. I almost laugh, hysterical and delighted. I’m saved, I’m saved! Pressing my face into one of the domes, I draw the air from it, a tiny sip. I have to clamp a hand over my mouth. Instinct begs me to draw deeper, but I can’t. I mustn’t.

Half-floating, half-dragging, I pull myself along the wall. I inhale every bubble I can find. It’s not enough, but my head stops spinning. My panic softens; I can think. Peeling my satchel off, I let it drift away. I’m lighter now. Bit by bit, I rise.

Catching a sharp edge, I duck beneath it because a huge streak of silver gleams there. When I lift my face to it, I don’t just find a pocket of air. I find the surface. The sound of the splash echoes all around me. Air cools my face; a stone ceiling arches high above my head.

A cave. I’ve found a cave. I can pull myself from the water here, and I do. No matter that the rocks cut my bare flesh. If there are sightless beasts, they’re welcome to crawl and bite. I’m too weak to fight them off, so let them come. Shivering, I open my eyes wide to take in light, the same way my mouth gapes open for more breath.

Logic tells me that I should be swathed in perfect darkness. The ceiling is solid, the walls too. I lie beneath sea and stone, completely entombed. There are no torches but the obsidian flecks in the wall glitter all the same. Unsteady, I pull myself to my feet.

Now that I’m not drowning, my body complains about the other abuses it’s suffered of late. My hips feel wide and breakable from riding; a headache blooms from the gouge in my forehead. It’s like my flesh is mapping the past few days, recording the journey.

But I can’t get ahead of myself. It’s not over yet. I have to survive the Breathless Reaches and pass the Earthenwork
Defiler. If Iulla’s news is accurate, I have little time remaining. I turn, following the leap and spark of obsidian, until I make out a thin white ribbon of light.

It leads me into a tunnel. At first, the walls are sharp and irregular. But the light grows brighter, and they grow smoother. In some places, they’re so polished that I catch rippled glimpses of myself as I walk past. Then black glass gives way to colorful tesserae.

These tiny tiles swim along the tunnel walls in intricate patterns. Spirals and twists stretch out, bordering what appear to be more complicated mosaics between them. In spite of the dim light, the images come to life. They’re remarkable, as fine as any of the mosaics in my father’s palace. Each scene inhabits its own frame, but I can see they’re connected.

In the first, a white-shrouded figure looks down at a city. In the next, the figure kneels before three crones blazing inside a hearth. My heart suddenly quivers as I take in the third. Now clad in blue, the figure kisses a silver mirror—or draws a breath from a trapped bubble.

I can’t read the runes, but I don’t have to.

This is the prophecy; perhaps the first recording of it. I’m on the right path. I’m almost to the end!

Hurrying to the fourth panel, I’m disappointed. It should explain what the Earthenwork Defiler is, give me some hint how to reach past it. Instead, the figure wields a sword, thrusting it into
nothing
. The border of the mosaic cuts off the tip of the blade. I move down a few paces, hoping the next panel reveals all.

It doesn’t. It’s victory, finality: a pair of hands hold the Fabled Cup aloft. Light streams from it, and these tesserae are flecked with gold. I can’t help but notice that the hands are made with alabaster tile. They’re pale and unmarred. My
own hands are dark—bruised and scored, and even if they weren’t, I have no sword for them to bear.

Exhausted, I walk back to the fourth panel, but it remains a mystery. The sword still cuts into the border, nothing beyond it to be seen. There’s nothing. Nothing! I stand there, all too aware of the things I don’t know. That I have come this far by chance and luck and no wit at all.

My entire life, I’ve been
in
the court, but not
of
it. For my father to name me his heir, he must have known he needed one. All my petty litany of complaints, that I’m tired and cold and hungry, fades away. My sister is dying. She may well now be dead.

Lucia is good. She’s kind, and she’s clever; she would be the queen that Vernal
deserves
. My insides turn to liquid, a hot wine that bubbles and boils. It feeds my hands and makes them clench; it fills my belly and sears me from the inside out.

The shadowy weight of grief has no chance to settle on me. How stupid I’ve been, to waste her last days chasing a fable. How fantastically absurd I was to think that I could be the one to fulfill a prophecy that has, all along, excluded me.

I pound my brown fist against the white hands in the mosaic. I’m no champion. I’m forged of nothing but damaged flesh. Again, I beat the wall. My teeth feel sharp with pleasure, and I grind grim satisfaction between them when the tesserae come loose. They sound like glass breaking as they fall at my feet.

Uselessly, I beat against the wall. More tesserae fall. I dig them out; I break the soft mortar and let it fall like ash. I’m mad with ending this prophecy, and I’m viciously relieved when my fist finally strikes wet earth. It’s done; it’s obliterated.

A few tiles cling yet, but I’ve torn away the Cup, the hands, even the border. As I heave great breaths, I stare and let the last of my anger drain away. And then I tip my head in surprise. Light pours from the mud, a single pinpoint almost blinding in its clarity. I sweep my hand in front of it. It’s not warm, it doesn’t burn—but it doesn’t waver, either.

With careful fingers, I widen the hole. More light pours through, and soon I’m bathed in it. It spills from a hidden chamber, appointed in marble and gold. My vision blurs, and I’m assaulted by the rich scent of burning marjoram and dittany.

A hand reaches out to take my elbow, startling me, drawing me forth. Everything glows so brightly that it’s like standing in a lantern. The touch, now strangely soothing, slips from my skin, and a woman says, “I always find it interesting to see who comes for the Cup.”

Perhaps I’ve drowned after all. Perhaps this is a dream I’m having, fevering alongside Lucia.

In the temples, Vara gazes down from her sculptures with a slightly maternal air. Her hips are wide and round, her breasts full. Her hair coils around her head in braids, and she is always, always rendered in bronze.

Now I see why. I don’t mean to stare, but what is the proper response to seeing a god made flesh? I hope it’s trembling and confusion, because that’s all I can manage.

“Sit,” Vara says. She fills a basin and brings it to me. “Here. Let me get you a cloth.”

The water in the basin is warm. Steam rolls up, and it feels like a kiss on my scoured skin. For a moment, I consider drinking it. It would be just like tea, I think.

“You’ll have tea in a minute,” Vara says. “That’s for washing.”

Chastened, I take the cloth she offers, and do just that. I’m filthy from digging in the walls and crusted with salt. If I could climb into the basin, I would; the temptation to empty it over my head is great.

It’s a remarkable bit of work, the basin. It seems to be simple pottery, but the water inside it never fouls. When I scrub mud from beneath my fingernails, or wipe clean the blood from the soles of my feet, each time I dip the cloth, it comes back clean.

“Better?” Vara asks.

“Much,” I say.

She exchanges the basin for a cup, and nods at me expectantly. I drink deep. The bright, astringent herbs make me shiver, then warmth sweeps all through my bones. It leaves a pleasant burning in my chest, an ember to drive away any chill.

Before I have half finished my tea, Vara produces a chalice and sits before me. Only when she pulls her chair a bit closer do I realize that all of these things she’s given me have been drawn from the air. There were no chairs until we sat upon them. There was no basin until she gave it to me. I want to tremble again, but her dark eyes are too kind. Her strong hands too gentle. She should frighten me, but she doesn’t.

“This is the prize,” she says, offering the chalice to me.

I wrap my hands tighter round my teacup, soaking up heat through the pottery. “But I’m not … I failed, didn’t I? I’m not light-forged. I never found the Earthenwork Defiler. I survived the Breathless Reaches by accident … someone else showed me the witches.”

Vara smiles crookedly. “
You’re
the Earthenwork Defiler. Look what you did to my mosaics. You survived the Reaches, and that’s all that matters. I don’t care how you found the witches, you found them.”

My warmth turns to a flush. “I don’t …”

“The quest was never meant to be difficult, if you were meant to be on it.”

She offers the Cup in all its fineness and I take it this time. It weighs nothing, though it should. It’s beaten silver, inlaid with carnelian and lapis, bedecked with sapphire and ruby. It feels so insubstantial in my hand that I raise it to my lips, just out of habit.

“Don’t. You’ll waste its magic,” Vara says. “Each Champion may use the Cup but once. We both know it’s not for you.”

Clutching the chalice to my chest, I say, “My sister is sick. She’s dying.”

“Then let her drink deep.” Vara waves a hand, and smoke twines around it like a bangle. “Go, Champion.”

As I stand, I dare to ask, “How many are there? How many Champions?”

“Not many. Most people assume a prophecy isn’t meant for them. Or that the time isn’t right. Or their need is not so great. Others think they’re entitled to my gifts. None of these would-be champions are light-forged.”

She opens a door that wasn’t there before, and we look into the sea. Something holds the water back, and I marvel. Colorful streaks of fish stream by. A creamy shark cuts sharp curves in the distance, following the shadow of a ship on the surface. From here, I can see the moon—it’s full and low, and looks like a pearl.

“It’s not enough to want the Cup,” Vara says. She plucks my satchel from nowhere and drapes it over my shoulder. “You must
need
it, and seek it selflessly. And you’d better hurry. Your sister waits.”

Before I can thank her, Vara commends me to the ocean.

Cold shocks my skin; the salt burns my eyes. I twist
around, yet I see nothing but a sheer rock face, and silver bubbles clinging to its imperfections. The golden chamber, and the god inside it, are gone.

This time, I know my way. The tea’s heat still courses through me, and I have enough air in me that no panic can unsettle my path. Unafraid, I rise toward the moonlight. When I surface, I breathe and I bask, and I start the journey home.

The guards would keep me from Lucia’s chambers, at least until they realize who I am. There’s an advantage to a face like mine. No matter how bedraggled I am, despite my dirty clothes, I am entirely recognizable.

Nonetheless, I dare them to raise their axes to me, and push past them without hesitation. When I burst through the doors, I’m struck nearly senseless. A fire burns in the stove, and herbed water boils away on it. The chamber swelters, and it captures the stink of sickness.

Sour sweat and acrid vomit, and something dark and awful, like flesh decayed while it still lives—that all hangs in a miasma that only barely stirs when I walk through it. The physicians are long gone.

They’ve left a salt circle around Lucia’s bed and dotted it with stone amulets. These are their last, feeble attempts, magic instead of medicine. I can hardly blame them; it’s the same remedy I sought.

My father cries out when he sees me. He’s haggard, and throws himself at me, crushing me in his arms. His new beard scratches my face as he murmurs, “Thank Vara, they found you, they found you.”

“No,” I correct him. “I came back.”

As much as I’d like to steep in the novelty of a father who loves and acknowledges me, I have more important things to
attend to. All my years as his bastard, mostly ignored, generally tolerated—they remain yet in my memory. For now, I only have time for the one who has always loved me openly. Wriggling from my father’s grasp, I pull the Cup from my satchel.

I perch at Lucia’s bedside, my poor, dear sister who is yellow and drawn. Her skin clings to her bones now; her lips are dry and cracked, crusted with spittle and blood. It pierces my heart to see her like this. I cannot imagine how she’s lasted so long.

But these are thoughts I cannot indulge. Instead I lift her head, trying not to shudder at the hair that slips free of her scalp when I do. Pressing the Cup to her mouth, I say, “Just take a sip now.”

Like the basin in Vara’s chamber, the Cup fills itself. At first, the water spills down Lucia’s chin, but a few drops slip onto her tongue. With a sigh, she stirs, opening her mouth against the weight of the Cup.

Each swallow dilutes the deathly shade of her skin. Each taste fills the hollows of her cheeks and darkens the luster of her hair. Though Lucia’s the one healing, I feel it in my bones and in my body. I am full with it, all my fear and anger tempered into joy.

Behind us, my father sobs and prays, and it sounds as if there are people gathering. They press closer to witness a miracle, to be the ones who can later tell their grandchildren that once, they saw the Fabled Cup.

I pay them little attention; I help my sister drink until her eyes open.

“Corvina,” she says. She’s the one that sounds like a raven, her voice rasping and broken. With a gentle hand, she traces the wide gouge that splits my forehead, so carefully that it barely hurts at all. “Oh, sweet, what happened?”