The Grass King’s Concubine (60 page)

The Oldest Shade of Darkness

I
T WAS DARK.

The words were not adequate. If there were words of any kind for this darkness, Jehan did not know them. He moved forward through it, and he knew he moved only from the brush of fabric against his legs. He could see nothing. He could feel neither ground beneath his feet nor air against his skin. He knew he held the woman thing over his shoulder, yet he could not feel her. He was wrapped, enveloped, swallowed whole by a darkness deeper than any he had ever known.

Perhaps this was the darkness the Tarnaroqui sought in their uncleanliness, burying their dead as they did in earth-lined tombs. He did not think it could be. Not even a grave could be so utterly devoid of any hint of light. His heart pounded in his ears, telling out the rhythm of his life. Almost, it seemed, he could hear the soft wash of blood through his veins, the rush of it through arteries feeding muscle and tendon. His breath filled him, lifted breastbone and ribs, tingled through lungs. It was all of him, this aching, hefty, fleshy body that he must lift and push and shove forward on paths he could neither see nor feel. Clairet was there somewhere beside him, but when he put out his free hand—muscle contracting, sending messages to bones and sinews—there was nothing there to be found or touched. The twins must be there, too, but he could not hear them,
could not even smell their musk. He followed, knew that he followed, and yet could not see his guide. Aude could be here somewhere in this same darkness, and he would pass her by and never know.

Wherever this was, whatever this was, it was not meant for his kind to understand. He should, he realized dimly, be afraid. He should fear losing himself forever in this limbo. He should fear losing Aude even more. He could not summon the energy. He was body and breath, movement and blood, and that was all.

He had no idea how long—how far—he traveled in darkness. It was not a question one asked in such a place. He knew when it changed. His right foot came down from nothingness onto solid stone, jarring up through shin and knee, into hip and spine. He stumbled, flung out a hand, and met the coarse hair of Clairet’s mane. Her breath, her pony-warm scent, reached out to him as her hoofs clicked on the ground. The woman thing was heavy on his shoulder, her weight shifting as he tripped, and he twisted to right himself, pushing her back into place with both hands. A twin chittered. Balance regained, Jehan lifted one hand, and it swam dimly into view—long fingers, square back, dirty and dust scoured. In front of him, Qiaqia was a lithe, quick form. He could smell damp and stone and rust and a faint hint of ozone. Beyond Qiaqia, threads of light thickened, became the shape of an arched gate made of metal bars. The stone underfoot was gray paving, cracked and shiny with age and use. The walls to either side were silky stone, scattered through with glints of quartz and mica. He looked back and saw a narrow passage winding back into that absolute darkness. He said, “Where?”

“This is the Heart Gate. It was the easiest.” From her sleeve, Qiaqia drew a small iron key. “The Rice Palace began here. Once.” She turned the key and the gate opened. “Please.” Stepping through it, she made him a shallow bow. “Be welcome.”

The woman thing’s hair had escaped the blanket to slither down his back, greasy even through his shirt. It caught in
his cuts, stinging as he went through the gate. He shuddered, looked around him for somewhere to set her down.

They were in a high rock chamber, roughly oval in shape and filled with twisting limestone fingers. Some rose from the floor, pallid and ridged like the tentacles of some lake beast. Some dripped from the ceiling, bulging downward. Here and there, pairs had met to form lumpy stone pillars. Now and again a droplet of water fell from the tip of a stalactite, thick with minerals. The air was sour in his nostrils, stale with age. The chip of stone from the Stone House dragged at his pocket. When he placed a hand over it, it felt warm through the fabric. He stopped a few feet from the gateway, Clairet at his side. The pony was calm despite her hurts, ears forward and nose sniffing delicately at the rock formations. The twins pressed close to her flanks. He could smell their fear, sharp and acrid. He said, “What is this place?”

“The center. After a fashion.” Qiaqia closed and locked the gate behind her, running a hand down its greenish bars. “Liyan called this metal from the rocks at the Grass King’s bidding. Or so I’m told. That was before me. His work has grown more elegant since then.”

The twin with the book shifted. “Old place. Dead place. Nothing lives here. Nothing grows.”

“No.” Qiaqia joined them. “That’s probably why Sujien likes it so much.”

Liyan. Sujien
. The names meant nothing to Jehan. The white thing seemed to grow heavier with every moment. He said, “Why are we here?”

“It’s the quickest.” Qiaqia began to walk again, wending her way neatly between the stalactites and stalagmites. “Come on. We don’t need to linger.” Clairet moved after her, head high. Jehan looked at the twins.

“What is this?”

“First place,” one of them said. “Grass King awoke here. Cadre awoke here. Some of them.”

“Shirai first,” said the other, “and Tsai. Sujien. Liyan. Not
her,
” and she nodded toward Qiaqia. “She came later.”

“Liyan found her. Chose her.”

“Liyan breaks things. Spoils things. Spoiled things for us.”

“For Marcellan.” The twins exchanged a glance, and the one holding the book tightened her grip upon it.

Jehan shook his head. “What about Clairet? Qiaqia said she could be healed here.”

“Not
here.
Farther on. Perhaps.”

“It smells funny here. Not right. Something’s missing.”

He did not want to hear that. He had enough problems already. And Aude was somewhere ahead. He followed Qiaqia across the lumpy floor. It was hard to keep his balance between the weight over his shoulder, slight though it was, and the uneven ground. The twins trailed behind him, muttering to each other and hissing. Here and there were shallow pools of cloudy water; once or twice Clairet paused to nose them, but she did not drink. Droplets fell from overhead, making their passage harder, slicker. Sometimes he had to bend or stoop to avoid one of the stalactites, or one of them snagged on the ends of the blanket that wrapped the woman thing. Once, a thick drop of water landed in the center of her back. Jehan stopped, remembering. But she did not stir, and the water soaked its way into the blanket. Qiaqia’s spell—if spell it was—held.

The rock formations thinned out as they approached the edge of the cave, and the floor became smoother. He breathed more easily and let his stride lengthen and find a more comfortable rhythm. Qiaqia stood waiting for him beside a wide cleft in the wall, Clairet beside her. In the shimmering light, the pony’s injuries looked even smaller. He came to a halt beside her and rubbed her nose. He said, “She’s healing.”

“It’s possible. This place is potent.” Qiaqia said. “We go this way.” He peered past her into the gloom of the aperture and groaned. A short expanse of gravel and then stairs, winding upward into more darkness. The woman thing was light, but his shoulder ached from carrying her, and a familiar, unwelcome chill spread out across his back where she rested.

He slid her down so that she rested in his arms and made
to lay her on the floor. A twin hissed at him; at the same time Qiaqia said, “Do not.”

He looked at her. She went on, “She’s harmful, in her state.”

She was wrapped in the blanket, more or less. But he did not remind Qiaqia of that. He shook his head and rolled his shoulders as best he could before shifting the dead weight to hang over the other one for a while. The twins stared at him, and he said, a little shortly, “You could carry her.”

“No,” one said.

“She’s not ours. Not to do with us.”

“We have to carry the book.”

“Our book.”

“Marcellan’s book.”

He inhaled and turned. “Let’s get going, then.”

“Certainly,” Qiaqia said.

The stair was less dark than he had at first feared; after the first turn, amber light filtered down through long shafts in the rock. The steps were shallow and worn in the center. Easier for Clairet, perhaps, but hard work for Jehan, who must forever shorten his stride. He could feel sweat beginning to form, sticky between his shoulder blades. The woman thing had not responded to the water in the cave, but this was closer by far. He swallowed, dry mouthed, and kept walking. Up and up they climbed into the amber dusk. In front of him, Clairet was steady and neat; behind him the barefoot twins were almost soundless. His own breath came rough and ragged. He tried to keep a count of his steps but found himself repeating the same numbers over and over in time to his feet.

At last, the light grew stronger. The cave smells had been left far behind; a faint breeze carried wafts of citrus and dried leaves and plaster. Clairet lifted her head and snorted. On Jehan’s shoulder, the woman thing shifted. He stopped, heart thudding. It was accidental, that was all, her body was reacting to the movement of his. She moved again, made a thin high noise. Without turning, Qiaqia said, “Hurry.” Jehan set his teeth and steadied his grasp on his
burden. Above him, the shapes of Qiaqia and Clairet were limned in light. He climbed as fast as he could, anxious to reach it, to be out of here, to be somewhere where he could dispose of the thing he carried.

The stair ended in another wrought-iron gate, more elegant than the first but even rustier and clogged with dusty vines. Qiaqia unlocked it with her key and pulled it open. She swept aside an armful of foliage and waved them through.

Jehan found himself in a rough courtyard, enclosed on three sides by an arcade and with a cracked well house flaking against one side. The vines rambled over everything, binding pillars and dragging tiles from the roof. Amid the scent of ancient plants he picked out a sourer odor. Clairet rolled her lip. A twin said, “But it’s untidy,” and was hushed by her sister.

“This way,” said Qiaqia. She led them across the courtyard and through the arcade. Something cracked and rattled underfoot, too loud for leaves. He glanced down carefully. Lumps and shards of crystal lay scattered everywhere. He had to tread carefully to avoid spilling his burden. The woman thing was once again a dead weight over his shoulder. He could feel numbness spreading down his arm and across his back where she rested. The fragment of the Stone House dragged at him, making him stagger. He put out an arm to steady himself, and Qiaqia said, cold and sharp, “Do not.” He inhaled, managed to stabilize himself.

Qiaqia came to a halt just before a pair of blackened brass doors. They stood slightly ajar, giving a glimpse of a green and gold antechamber beyond. A stench of mold and yeast filtered out from between them, making Jehan gag and the twins skip back several paces. “Bad,” one of them said, pressing a dirty hand to her mouth and nose. “Something’s dying.”

“Dying slowly,” said the other twin. “Wrong.”

The woman thing shifted again, and Jehan tightened his hold on her. He could feel her chill creeping up his neck, prickling through the sweat and dust.

Qiaqia stood silent for a moment, one hand on a door, as
if she listened. Then she said, “Stay here. Don’t step out from the arcade. And don’t put that,” and she gestured at Jehan’s passenger, “down anywhere or let her touch anything.” She vanished through the door in a whisk of robes. Jehan stared after her resentfully. He dared not shift the woman thing again, lest a strand of her hair brush a wall or the side of a pillar. The chip of the Stone House weighed on him. He widened his stance. Clairet nuzzled at his hip. He could not spare a hand to pet her.

One of the twins reached over and rubbed the pony’s nose. “Pony knows there’s something wrong,” she said, looking sidelong at Jehan. “Pony is clever.”

“I wasn’t assuming this was normal,” he said, a snap to his tone. His mouth was dry. He could not reach his canteen. He went on, “She’s probably thirsty, too.” The long wounds on Clairet’s leg were now fully scabbed over. Like that, they looked less serious than before, but infection could set into them all too easily. The miasma from the rooms beyond the doors was redolent with rot and disease.

“Pony says she can wait,” the twin said.

He asked, “Where…?”

“Cistern Courtyard,” a twin said. “All wrong.”

“It should be clean. Servants should clean it. The Grass King will be angry,” her sister said.

“Should be water. It should smell of clean water. Not right.”

That was not what he needed to know. He said, carefully. “Where do you think she went? Qiaqia?”

“Somewhere.” The twins had set their book down. One of them leaned back on her hands, looking around. The other stroked Clairet’s flank with dirty fingers. “Doesn’t matter. We’re here.”

“The Rice Palace?” It was not what he had expected, not in the slightest. It was nothing like the Rose Palace in the Silver City. Nor did it resemble the description in Marcellan’s book. This place was as arid and empty as the steppe and the Woven House. He shivered. Perhaps that
meant its inhabitants had likewise been reduced to desiccated husks. He said, “What happened?”