He glances at the oracle slumped on the ground. A glint like avarice gilds his expression, as if he sees her—the oracle—as a pot of honey that he means to slurp up before anyone can stop him. “People hide all kinds of stories,” he says. “Let me tell you one of them, Doma Maraya, for I believe you truly do wish to know the truth, unlike your sister. Maybe someday you can write your own Archives.”
A mask settles on his face, one that makes him look both new and ancient. As he begins the story, shadows gather like ravenous beasts around our wavering lamp.
“In the days of heaven and earth and sea and wind, the heart of All was planted in the fertile fields of Efea. So the land prospered beneath the rule of balance, a king to oversee soldiers and fieldwork and laborers and a queen to oversee diplomacy and the marketplace and artisans. But sweet food sours if left out in the sun too long. There came a bitter war for succession between two factions within the royal clans. Into this battle sailed a foreign prince, Kliatemnos, a refugee from the broken empire of Saro.”
Shadow and flame weave in and out of his words. I sense something terrible crawling out of the dark as if his tale gives it life. What if death steals Mother? But her hand in mine is warm, and her heart is beating. I will anchor her in the world of the living.
“The young Efean queen took Prince Kliatemnos as her husband. With his troops to aid her, her faction won the battle and defeated her rival. In this way he became king to rule beside her.”
Cook mutters, “Impiety! That is not how it happened!”
His story marches on. “After this, she gave birth to four daughters. The Saroese invaders became restless. They wondered if the gods had turned against them because there was no male heir according to the way these men measured rulership. Yet despite his council’s demands, the king refused to put his Efean queen aside to marry a Saroese woman and try for a son. He could not, for she was the source of his power. So it came about that when the king sickened and died, his cunning and jealous sister invoked the law of the oracle, that a woman must be killed so her last prophecy would accompany the dead emperor into the afterlife. She drugged the queen and the queen’s daughters and walled them alive into the king’s tomb, claiming they had begged to attend him into death. Afterward she took the queen’s name for her own, calling herself Serenissima the First and ordering that the chronicles erase the existence of the Efean queen. She placed a Saroese prince on the throne as King Kliatemnos the Second, saying this youth was the heir, the son of her brother by the last living daughter of the dead Saroese emperor, a woman who never existed.”
When he pauses to look at me, the poet’s heavenly mask falls away to reveal a gloating smile. “That is how your dynasty was founded. On murder and treachery.”
“It’s not true!” exclaims Cook. “Kliatemnos married the last living daughter of the dead emperor of Saro.”
A knife-line of doubt creases Maraya’s pale forehead. “The Archives say Kliatemnos the Second was the last living grandson of the empire. There is no mention of a queen of Efean descent.”
His look is a jab. “What do you think, Captain?”
I want to refute him, but I no longer know what to think.
A thump startles us. Kalliarkos scrapes into view, shaking dust from his short hair. It is obvious he hasn’t heard a single word of Ro-emnu’s scandalous story.
His dour expression reveals his expedition’s failure. “It’s a sealed tomb. I heard women talking. We can’t get your mother out through an air shaft if it’s like the one in Lord Ottonor’s tomb.”
“Can’t we free them?” Maraya asks. “Bring them with us?”
For the sake of the living a captain must leave the dead behind. It’s what Father would do. “Their oracle may refuse and tell the priests. We can’t take the chance.”
“Jes! It’s sickening to leave them trapped there, not even give them a choice.” Maraya looks around at the others for support. Her eyes widen, and she leans forward. “Where is Amaya?”
“She was sitting right here by me!” I say with alarm.
A ghastly scream echoes out of the low tunnel, filling the space until we cower as it winds around us. With a kiss of drafty air and a curl of moving shadow, the lamp flame gutters out.
“Amaya!” I shout frantically.
A strangled cry twists out of the tunnel. “Jes! It’s swallowing me!”
I can’t even see my hand in front of my face. Fumbling, I find the flint and the last taper tucked into my Fives jacket. Flame licks up the little torch. The light barely illuminates but in contrast to the darkness everyone’s face looks startlingly clear. Kalliarkos at once hands me another lantern. I light it and then hand him the taper as I crouch-walk into the low tunnel.