Aestival Tide (45 page)

Zalophus.

Even from where she crouched she could hear the report as the leviathan crashed back into the waves, and somewhere behind her a voice that she knew dully must be Rudyard's. But Reive could only stare at the water, her hands digging into the sand heedless of stones and shells that cut her fingers until they bled, the rain streaming down her cheeks as she repeated the name over and over again.

Zalophus.

He had not lied. The city was falling.

And there
had
been a way out.

As the storm raged overhead she watched the two of them struggling in the waves, the great whale roaring gleefully as the Redeemer howled and shrieked, and its song was more awful than anything Reive had ever heard; and more marvelous too. Because it was dying; she could see that it was dying. Its tail thrashed helplessly against the waves and its slender neck wove back and forth as the great zeuglodon threw itself upon its flanks, tearing at it in an ecstasy of hunger and fury. Blinding light flickered on the horizon, and a grave rumbling that would have terrified Reive had she been capable of knowing fear. But now only wonder kept her there, kneeling rapt in the sand while the waves stormed about her and she stared out to sea.

Against the viridian sky the Redeemer's scaled body gleamed faintly, crimson and jet. It flailed helplessly and seemed to be trying to turn, to swim back to shore; but all around it the water boiled eerily white and yellow, while that other immense shadow flowed through the frothing waves, leaping so that it hung like a great black tear against the sky. She could hear the whale shouting to itself, its voice wild and jubilant as it tore at its prey and the Redeemer's screams grew higher and more frantic. Behind her she could dimly make out other cries, human voices shrieking in horror and disbelief, but when she turned she could barely see the domes through the heavy clouds of spray slamming into shore.

“Reive—Reive, we've got to find someplace, someplace—”

A small hand tugged at the slack wet folds of her shift and she looked up to see Rudyard Planck, soaked and bruised but with eyes feverishly bright.

“Hurricane!” He coughed, bending over as water dribbled from his mouth. “Might escape—go inland—
run
—”

She shook her head, turned back to look out to sea. The roar of the storm drowned all other sounds and the glaucous air was nearly too heavy to peer through; but she could just make out a slender silhouette moving convulsively in the murk, and then a darker shadow rising from the sea to engulf it. For an instant she thought she heard a voice bellowing joyfully in the maelstrom, a sound like singing from the waves; her own name carried faint as a whisper from the frenzied throat of Ucalegon.

I
N THE DARKNESS AHEAD
of them Hobi saw a curl of light, at first so insubstantial it might have been a mote dancing in his eye. But after a few minutes the speck grew to a flickering wisp of green flame, and then to a tear in the black fabric all around them; and finally it became a jagged hole that grew larger and larger as they approached.

Hobi thought he might never forget what that hole looked like. His first sight of anything other than darkness, after so many hours of trudging through the tunnel. Sometimes he closed his eyes to see if there was any difference between what he saw then and what he glimpsed when they were open. There was not, really. Nefertity's cool blue gleam had faded, until only her eyes glowed, silvery green like a cat's. She had finished reciting the long story she'd begun back in the chamber with the replicants. Hobi was unhappy with the way it had ended, and since then they both walked without speaking—though he wondered if they would be able to hear each other if they
did
try to talk. In the distance the sound of explosions continued, but too far away now for him to feel them rock the passage. The rhythmic throb of the ocean roared and shushed, echoing through the tunnel like the breathing of a leviathan. Without meaning to Hobi had begun walking in time with that relentless beat, his feet thudding against the ground. Something softer now beneath his boots—he had paused once, and stooped to find sand, sifting cool and dry as ashes between his fingers.

The air had changed too. A strong wind blew through the tunnel. As they grew nearer to the opening Hobi saw that what made the light appear to flicker were numerous fluid shapes moving back and forth across the entrance, like pennons snapping in the wind. He hesitated, let Nefertity continue on ahead of him.

For hours he had prayed for some kind of light, for an end to this night journey. Now that they were nearly there he was overwhelmed by a terror so strong that his hands shook uncontrollably, and he half crouched, grabbing his knees and squeezing until his fingers grew steady again.

“I can't, I can't,” he whispered. The wind pouring through the passage was warm almost hot; still he shivered, drew his hands up, and clasped them around his neck. His hair had matted in heavy clumps against his shoulders. He thought of turning and fleeing back down the tunnel, of leaving the nemosyne to wander out there alone. He knew he would never be able to find his way back again; knew that, even if he did, he might find nothing but ruins, all of Araboth wrecked as Nasrani's secret chamber had been.

But he could not go on. How could he go Outside, knowing what he did: that to do so would make him go mad, that he would be crushed beneath the waves of light and sound waiting out there? The hot smell of the wind sickened him, thick as it was with other things—brine and dead fish and a sweet fragrance like roses. “I can't,” he whimpered again, and sank onto the sand.

“Hobi.”

He looked up to see Nefertity. The light weaving down from the end of the tunnel touched her with gold and green. Her fingers as they brushed his cheek were cool. “Hobi, we are almost there. Outside. We will be free.”

“
Free.
” He shook his head. “I can't, Nefertity, I can't! I'll die out there—”

“But why? I detect little radiation, certainly not enough to kill you. And there seems to be lush vegetation at the mouth of the tunnel, so the earth is not contaminated—”

“No!” He drew his knees up and covered his head with his hands. “You go—I would rather die here, or go back—”

Nefertity's eyes glittered and she shook her head. “I have seen this before. With Loretta. Too much time alone, inside. It makes human beings go mad.”

Hobi gave another croaking laugh. “You've got it all wrong—it's that, there—Outside—
that's
what drives us mad. That's why the domes protect us, why we never go out except at Æstival Tide—”

“But you told me it is Æstival Tide now, Hobi. You said that at Æstival Tide it is safe to go Outside and look upon the sun. You said the feast began at dawn, whenever dawn was. So you will be protected.”

She turned to gaze at the tunnel's mouth, and Hobi looked up at her in despair. Shafts of golden light made it impossible to see anything except for her silhouette; but for the first time it seemed that it was a woman's profile he saw there, the sharp edges and silver lines of her cheeks and jaw softened by the sun. Even her eyes grew softer, darker, their eerie glow melted to a gentler green. She was so beautiful that for a moment his fear trickled away.

“Æstival Tide,” he whispered. He had forgotten what day it was. It seemed weeks since he had told her about the Feast of Fear, but of course it had only been yesterday. The nemosyne turned to gaze back down at him, and as the shadows once more struck her face the vision of a woman was gone.

“Perhaps once we get Outside we will be able to see your friends, and you can find your way back inside your city.”

Hobi nodded. His fingers relaxed and he sighed, let his hands drop to feel the cool sand. This is what he had wanted to do, after all. Have an adventure. Find the nemosyne and leave the city. It seemed like a child's dream now, stupid and dangerous; but he had done it nonetheless, and in a way it
was
something to take pride in. And surely nothing was irrevocable—even now, revelers would be gathered beneath the Lahatiel Gate, and he could find someone there to help him, Nasrani or even one of the margravines. He pushed himself up, brushing sand from his trousers.

“All right. Nasrani will be there, and my father—”

Though in his heart he knew that his father would not be there, at least not with the margravines upon their viewing platform. “Let's go,” he ended hoarsely, following Nefertity. And with each step that brought him closer to the sunlight his dread grew, until he stood within the tunnel's very mouth, blinded and battered by a hot fecund wind; and crying out, he fell to his knees, bringing his arm up against his eyes to protect him from the horror of the world Outside.

Tast'annin never tired, but there were moments when Nasrani was certain that he had fallen asleep, and walked dreaming with that fiery angel at his side. Once he woke to find himself in the
rasa
's arms, being carried through a passageway where water gushed from a break in the wall and swirled about the
rasa
's knees.

“Please, I can walk,” he protested weakly; but the Aviator shook his head.

“It is too strong. The current would sweep you away.”

So Nasrani clung to him like a child. He gritted his teeth against the heat radiating from the
rasa,
burning through his damp clothes until they steamed and filled his nostrils with the smell of sweat. At last the water fell behind them. The tunnel began a slight incline, and the
rasa
paused to let Nasrani clamber from his arms, puffing and wiping his face with his soiled handkerchief.

“Are you sure this is the right way?” he demanded, hurrying after the dimly glowing form.

“It is the only way now.” The Aviator Imperator's voice drifted back, echoing sharply. “And even here the walls are failing. Soon the entire Undercity will collapse, and then one by one all the upper levels will fall.”

Nasrani's breath came in short gasps. He felt an anxious jab at his heart, and patted his greatcoat vainly, looking for a morpha tube. “But why?”

His tone sounded shrill and whining. He paused to catch his breath, then called again, trying to sound calm. “Why, Margalis? Why destroy the city? Who would do this? Who
could
do this?”

“Why?” The
rasa's
voice sounded almost amused, and he halted, turning to wait for Nasrani to catch up with him. “Because it is an abomination. Because it should never have been created in the first place.”

Nasrani put out a hand to steady himself against the tunnel wall. By the
rasa's
dull crimson glow he could see another crack forming, spinning out across the concrete like a spider's thread thrown against the air. “Don't be absurd, Margalis,” he said testily. Exhaustion and hopelessness had nearly driven out his fear of the Aviator Imperator. “No one would have survived Outside all these years—the domes were our salvation—”

“The Orsinate should never have been saved. Better for all of us if they had died four hundred years ago. As to who could destroy the city…”

Tast'annin shrugged. Dark lines shadowed his face, and he looked away, down the length of the tunnel. “I would destroy it, had I the power to,” he said softly. “All of them: I would see all of them dead.”

Nasrani shuddered, ran a hand across his brow. “We'll see ourselves dead soon enough, if we don't find our way back to a gravator.”

The Aviator started walking again. “You're a fool, Nasrani. I told you, Araboth is collapsing. Soon the Undercity will be buried, and Archangels, and the medifacs, all the way up to your precious Seraphim. If this passage doesn't lead us out somehow, you will die here.”

Nasrani nodded curtly but said nothing.
I will die here,
he thought,
but what of you? Can the dead die twice? Do the dead dream?
He gave a bitter laugh, and the
rasa
turned to stare at him with its coldly human eyes.

“You are not afraid. That is good.” He pointed down the length of the tunnel. Very far away a pinpoint of light showed in the spiraling void, so small it might have been something Nasrani imagined, drawn from the darkness like a minnow from black water. “I think that is where the tunnel ends. I can hear them, down there—”

Tast'annin cocked his head. Nasrani could hear nothing save the hiss and roar that had grown gradually louder the farther they went. “Yes,” the Aviator said at last. “It is the end. They have left us at last, they have escaped from Araboth.”

“Escaped,” Nasrani murmured. A warm wind chased down the passage and dried the hair on his neck. “So will we escape, to go mad or be consumed by the sun.”

“The sun is not poisonous. You know that, Nasrani, you have been Outside.”

Nasrani shook his head. “Only for a few hours…”

He shuddered at the memory. “It smelled—it smelled of water, and something else. I don't know what. A horrible smell.” He pinched his nose, squinted at the fleck of light far ahead.

“Things growing.” The
rasa's
face leered back at him. “That is what you smelled, Nasrani. Milkweed and cholla and evening primrose, huisache and mesquite and rugosa roses. You will smell them again, soon.”

The thought made Nasrani's stomach churn. He stumbled on in silence, the tunnel's cracked cement floor giving way to sand beneath him. In the distance the light grew larger, until the
rasa's
shadow staggered on the ground in front of Nasrani and his own shadow danced across the broken walls. The unbearable heat gradually became bearable—a different sort of heat, less painfully intense, wind-borne and salt-scented.

The Aviator Imperator continued tirelessly. If anything, his steps hastened as they grew closer to the end of the passage. Nasrani watched him with a sort of detached curiosity, as one might regard a replicant performing a difficult task.