He was weak, but he lived in a time of weakness. The God Wars flayed the world and hung it on a cross. The strong fell and the craven thrived. No wonder Caleb’s generation retreated into despair and compromise. No wonder the children of the Wars drank and fornicated, gambled and danced and wondered, after long days smeared drunkenly into night, why their lives seemed meaningless.
An obsidian knife hung from Temoc’s belt. In seventy years he had used the blade twice. Ten years old, at his initiation into the priesthood, he carved the gods’ signs into his chest with hands blood-slick from the wounds his teachers gave him. The second time was the night the barricades rose in Skittersill; he knelt over his son and cut the same symbols into his flesh.
Temoc had never wondered about his purpose. His purpose was the point of that knife.
He lowered his son to the floor beside Teo, and turned to the King in Red. Kopil’s round skull glistened. Six decades before, peals of laughter had rung from that grinning mouth as he scattered the Quechal priesthood and broke their gods. He had impaled Temoc on a thorn of ice, and left him writhing to die.
Temoc set his foot on the skull and pressed down. The bone did not yield.
He stomped. Bone bounced against the floor, but did not chip or shatter. He roared and leapt on the skull with both feet, but it rang like iron and he stumbled back. The shadows of Kopil’s face mocked him.
Above, the moon broke the circle of the sun. Time enough for vengeance—later. He had a world to save.
Temoc lifted his son’s friend, the girl who had never known a man’s touch, the altar maid, the offering who confessed her willingness to die. He placed her on the altar.
He bowed his head, and drew his knife, and began to sing.
* * *
Mal and the moon opened their mouths and breathed in fire. The moon swelled and darkened as it consumed the sun’s body. Mal too devoured flame and was transformed.
Shadows fell upon the earth. She worked her Craft through the slumbering course of the Serpents’ minds. From deep dreams they whispered to her. They knew her name. The eclipse came, and the stars called them to battle.
“Come,” she whispered, taking hold of the Serpents’ reins. “This is your moment. Rise, and be my weapons.”
The earth trembled. Buildings shivered, pyramids shook. Another tremor came, stronger than the first.
Wake, she willed. The sun dies. Stars circle like starving vultures, and sup on the light that bleeds from its husk. As it dims they shine.
Come forth.
A stillness passed over the surface of the earth. Mal’s eyes snapped open.
Beneath the world’s shell, the Serpents stirred, and stretched, and woke.
* * *
Balam laughed at the first earthquake. Other protesters screamed, farther back in the crowd on Sansilva Boulevard before the Canter’s Shell: newcomers to the city’s struggles. The masters and Wardens of Dresediel Lex used their power to cow resistance. They shook the ground and burned the sky to spread fear, but they rarely killed. Hardened protesters trembled only at Couatl claws and lightning. Or they feared nothing, for Craftwork weapons moved faster than human eyes could follow or human ears detect, and to fear those was to live in fear.
Balam did not fear. Decades of cliff running and riots had burned the emotion from him.
And if this was no plan of the Wardens’, and the ground was trembling of its own accord, well, then, Dresediel Lex was a city on the ocean’s edge, and sometimes the earth shook beneath its weight. The crowd surged against him, acres of sweaty skin, stinking of meat and leather and rage.
“Is that the best you can do?” he shouted at the sky, at the pyramid sheltered behind its shield.
When the second earthquake came, he did not laugh.
* * *
Bedrock and packed earth did not stay the Serpents. Slithering upward they carved tunnels that caved in as they passed. The land rolled. Glass broke in skyscraper windows. Towers swayed and bowed their heads. Only the pyramids stood strong: they were built to outlast the world.
Sansilva bisected Dresediel Lex from east to west. Foreign visitors often wondered why the ancient Quechal had built so broad a road through the center of their city. Little freight passed through Sansilva, and few commuters—the priests had lived on their temple grounds.
They wondered on a false premise. The road had not been built for human use.
* * *
The second quake began like the first, shaking pitching ground, men and women crying out in alarm and pain, but rather than receding it built. Balam and his comrades stumbled against one another. They thrashed and pitched like froth, and this too was normal—but over their cries Balam heard another note, a high creaking cascade, everywhere at once, scraping against the pate of his skull.
In the surge and thrust of angry limbs, at first he could not find the sound’s source. When the screams began, he saw: broken glass rained from skyscrapers and pyramids all around. Shattered panes fell from shaking towers. Transparent knife blades tumbled, sparked by the dying sun. Striking, they severed flesh. Screams cut short before others took their place. Bodies pressed against Balam from all sides: ten thousand people simultaneously forced themselves toward the center of Sansilva Boulevard, away from the glass and blood.
This was not Wardens’ work. They would not break the buildings they were sworn to defend. Real estate was sacred to them. Above, their Couatl wheeled, wings beating rapid, roaring with jaws unhinged by panic.
Couatl feared nothing—not fire, not death, not the shifting earth. No mere earthquake would make them cry. But if not Wardens, and not an earthquake, what was happening?
The groans and cries changed tempo and tenor, rising, gaping, higher. Hot wind blew across Balam’s face, and the crowd convulsed again, pressing him not toward the center of the road this time but forward, toward the lethal blue border of the Canter’s Shell.
He turned, straining against the tide, and saw fire.
* * *
Asphalt glowed like broken coals. Mal flailed in flame, in hunger. She strained against the weight of stony sleep. Air melted to plasma. Below, demonstrators fled, screaming.
In the old days, the rooftops had boiled with spectators, risking their sanity to see.
The fleeing protesters thought the quakes, the flames, were the Craftsmen’s vengeance.
They would understand soon.
The world held mysteries more worthy of their fear than human Craft.
Tar bulged, rippled, burst. A forked fiery tongue spouted from the molten flow, and retreated into a blunt mouth a hundred yards across. Two eyes of white flame flared from an immense arrow-shaped face. Aquel bared fangs the size of trees. A thousand years of sacrifices stared out from the diamonds that lined her gullet, Quechal faces trapped in agony. She roared a volcano roar.
Her sister too broke free, and they rose together, sinewy, strong, hungry. They cried doom.
* * *
The city shook. Elders trembled as nightmares wormed from the rotten timbers of their memory. Madmen shouted prayers in High Quechal, though they did not understand the words spilling from their lips. In hospital coma wards, patients silent for years opened their mouths to speak:
“Blessed Be They.”
In the Skittersill a burning building collapsed around a three-year-old girl and left her unharmed. A Warden’s mount plummeted from the sky, dead; the Warden’s partner swooped to save him from a bloody landing.
From Fisherman’s Vale to Monicola, from the Pax Coast Highway to Stonewood, Tzimet exploded into steam. In the fountain of the Monicola Hotel, the beast of water and black ice shattered. Insect-sized demons popped like blisters. They fled the approach of greater monsters.
* * *
In Balam’s childhood when his grandmother lay drunk on corn beer on cool dry winter afternoons she had told him tales of old gods and heroes. Beyond these he knew no sacred signs, no holy chants beyond those repeated before an ullamal game. But he recognized the cobra-hooded coils above Sansilva, the house-sized scales slick as water if water burned, taller than the pyramids, tall enough to eat the sun, or kindle it aflame again with the darting forked lava spouts of their tongues. Shining in every color and none, cored white as alabaster: Aquel and Achal, greater than goddesses, fiercer than demons, the world’s first children.
He almost froze in awe and wonder, and if he had, he would have been lost. The crowd saw, and whatever they understood, whether they recognized the Serpents or thought them Craft-born terrors or demons run loose, they knew to flee. Desperate they stumbled away from the Serpents: down alleys and into swaying buildings, despite the rain of glass. But most ran along the path of least resistance, down Sansilva Boulevard, and their tide carried Balam toward the Canter’s Shell and forever.
Balam pushed against the crowd, with muscles built down decades of cliff running and decades more of teaching runners. A stone statue stood fifty feet upstream, some robed Iskari goddess, a break in the human tide. Fifty feet might as well be miles. He thrust himself into spaces between people, he struck men in the stomachs, he tore free from clawing fingers, and pressed toward the statue.
Heat passed over him, raised rivers of sweat on his arms: the heat of the Serpents’ gaze, or else their distant breath.
His legs ached. A flailing elbow caught him above the eye and tore his skin. Blood ran down his face. He growled, and fought harder, in and down, gripping cobblestones with his feet, desperate not to lose the slim scrape of traction that bound him to the earth and kept him safe from pounding feet and pulsing legs.
Men and women died around him. They fled the Serpents like ants flee the beam of a magnifying glass. Those too slow were crushed, or burned.
The air stank of panic and sour sweat.
Ten feet left. An eternity. He could not cross the distance. He could count his wounds, and weaknesses: a finger broken when a woman he was fighting past shifted left instead of right. Blood in his eyes. A back twisted by too much running, by a youth spent sprinting over rooftops. Forty years of fat.
Damn the crowd. Damn the Wardens for circling above the damage. He might not make it, but for one more moment he would fly.
Six feet. He released his hold on the ground, but rather than let the tide carry him forward he grabbed the shoulders of the men pressed against him and pulled himself up, onto them, over their bodies, through the forest of arms and heads, a cliff runner’s last leap—
Too short. He landed a foot shy of the open space around the fountain; his weight pressed bodies beneath him to the ground, but others surged over him, over them, dragging him back. He roared in frustration, reaching toward that stone Iskari goddess to strangle her promises of victory.
A hand closed around his: a steel grip, slender but implacable, a rock against the tide.
He pulled with strength that could tear stone, and the hand pulled back, and in a tumble he lay panting in the statue’s shadow beside his savior, a woman, not even Quechal: blond hair in tangled braids, a scar on her temple. Her eyes were wide with terror, and she sucked in breath like a horse after a sprint. So did he. He swore, and cursed, and spit.
“Thank you.”
She nodded.
“Balam,” he said, and tapped his chest. He could not raise his hand to offer it to her.
“Sam,” she said. Around them, the world continued to end.
* * *
Mal tossed, spun, caught inside the Serpents.
“Stop,” she said, in High Quechal and then in Low: “Stop.”
The Serpents swayed, brighter than the dying sun. She hovered level with round crystal eyes a hundred feet tall. Heat scored her skin. Sweat ran down her face—altar sweat, the sweat of the bound woman who sees the knife. The Serpents’ scales pinged and hissed and cracked as the air tried and failed to cool them.
They waited for her.
A smile crept across Mal’s face.
The Serpents twitched, and her smile faltered.
The smell of sacrifice rose from the pyramid at 667 Sansilva. The serpents smelled it, and so did she.
Temoc. No other priest remained to make an offering. Alaxic had killed the others, one at a time down the decades, with poison, blade, and Craft. Temoc should have been the last. Somehow, he must have escaped, and reached the altar with a victim.
No matter. She would burn him from his place of power.
She flew down Sansilva toward pyramid, sacrifice, and victory. The Serpents slithered after her.
* * *
Sea was the word for world, rocking, rolling, turning. Sea, and Caleb floated upon it beneath a woman who laughed knives and kissed with steel. His pain floated up toward a sun like a burning ring in the heavens: a hollowed sun, a hallowed sun.
Caleb followed the pain up, toward the light.
He blinked at the gray arch of the crystal dome. His skull throbbed. So did his hand, his ribs, and the rest of his body.
Incense coiled in the air.
“Qet Sea-Lord, Exchilti Sun-Shaper, Seven Stone, receiver of offerings. The Twins gave of themselves when the sun their father died. Yes, they gave of themselves—suckled the Serpents on their blood and heart-flesh. In innocence they suckled them, and we give innocence in their memory.”
The words were High Quechal, spoken in the vocative of address to the divine, with a priest’s conjugations and declensions. The voice belonged to Temoc.
He remembered: the blow to his head, Temoc’s arm around Teo’s neck, the rage and fear in her eyes as she went limp.
His vision cleared.
Temoc bent over the altar, his back to Caleb. Shadow flowed silken over his skin, wreathed his body from head to foot in a darkness like priestly robes.
Mounds of copal incense burned at the altar’s head and foot. In one large hand Temoc held a hook-bladed obsidian knife.
Blood dripped from the knife’s tip, and from the gargoyle mouth in the altar’s side.
Caleb’s world chilled, and drained of color.
“Let me go!”
Teo. Still alive. Gods. Temoc was bleeding her before the sacrifice.