Blackveil

Gubba raised her lamp, shifting shadows and revealing one section of wall covered with primitive paintings in soot and a red ocher substance. Dried blood? She could not say. The images were handprints, fearsome creatures, spirals, and abstract patterns, and in the midst of it all, the dead tree of Second Empire.

Certain Grandmother had taken in the tree, Gubba set the lamp down and removed a pouch from her belt, and emptied tiny bones into her clawed hand. She breathed on them, then tossed them onto the mat before her. She leaned over them as though studying their pattern.

So, Grandmother thought, Gubba fancies herself a fortuneteller. Grandmother did not hold stock with such cheap tricks and found herself vaguely disappointed by the display.

Gubba wiggled her fingers. The bones vibrated, then lifted from the mat to float between them. Grandmother reassessed her opinion. This was the art. Gubba had some command of etherea after all.

Gubba chittered, her gaze intently following the bones. Then with a distinct, “Oooh,” she watched for a few more intense moments before allowing the bones to gently settle on the mat. She turned her eye on Grandmother, then pointed at the yarn basket.

Grandmother took it to mean Gubba desired some similar show of power. She picked through her yarn. She had no way to replenish her diminishing skeins and had taken to being very careful with what she had left. Some minor demonstration with a small knot would have to suffice. She would create a flower from flame.

She gestured if it was all right for her to borrow the lamp, and Gubba gave her a very human nod. Grandmother rapidly tied a simple knot, one of the first she had learned at her mother’s knee, and dropped it into the flame.

A flower did not bloom as she expected, but the trunk of a tree sprouted from the cup and grew and grew and grew until it was immense, followed by more and more until she and Gubba sat in the illusion of a vast forest of ancient trees.

“The grove,” Grandmother murmured in awe. “It must be.” With the perversity that was Blackveil, the etherea had once again warped her intention, but this time with a magnificent result. Gubba’s eye was wide as she took in the trees.

Then a voice thundered, “FIND THE GROVE.” Gubba’s den vibrated with the voice of God. Crawlies fell out of the ceiling.

Gubba shrieked and Grandmother bowed her head. “Yes, my lord,” she whispered.

“FIND THE GROVE BEFORE THE OTHERS.”

“The others?”

“AWAKEN THE SLEEPERS!”

The illusion faded and all was as before. Gubba reached a shaking hand over to Grandmother. “Gubba scurrit Grrrnmudda. Gubba scurrit Grrrnmudda ock Sleeprrrs.” She walked her fingers on the mat.

Grandmother emerged from Gubba’s den elated. God had not forsaken them, and if she interpreted Gubba’s gibberish correctly, the old groundmite was going to lead them to the grove of the Sleepers. Absently she plucked a twitchy insect out of her hair. Her people came to her, touching and patting her to ensure she was all right, their anxious expressions relaxing to relief.

“All is well,” she told them. “Gubba is going to take us to the Sleepers, and they shall be awakened as God wills.”

But doubt niggled at her. Who were these “others” who also sought the Sleepers? They must be the disturbance that she’d sensed in the forest. Then there was that music that had become an undercurrent in the etherea, like an itch she could not scratch. It could destroy everything she was working for by strengthening the wall, closing off Blackveil once again.

As if trying to survive the forest wasn’t difficult enough, she now faced dangers on two additional fronts.

She hugged Lala and held her close. She would do whatever it took, sacrifice whatever she must, to accomplish her task. Second Empire depended on it.

RETURN TO TOWER OF THE EARTH

“We should have told her right away,” Estral said.

Alton sat at the table in Tower of the Heavens staring morosely at the books piled atop it. Estral stood at the other end, hands on hips. If he didn’t feel bad enough about how things had gone with Karigan, he’d done the one thing he surely wished to avoid: upset Karigan’s best friend. They’d been having this same discussion since the morning of the company’s departure.

“I was waiting for the right moment.”

“There is no right moment for that sort of thing,” Estral retorted. “You—”

Dale suddenly emerged through the tower wall. She took one look at the two of them and backed right out.

“Oh, forget it,” Estral said, fresh tears dampening her cheeks. “That may be the last time we ever see Karigan, and she left angry and feeling betrayed. Because of us.” She turned on her heel and left the tower.

“I tried . . .” he mumbled. He supposed he ought to run after her to comfort her, but the last time he’d made an attempt she’d pushed him away. Perhaps he needed to try harder? He just didn’t know the right thing to do.

“Tried what?”

Alton squawked and jumped out of his chair. Merdigen. It was Merdigen standing silently behind him. He placed his hand over his thudding heart.

“Can’t you give a man some warning?” he demanded.

“You mean you want me to knock before entering my own domicile?”

“Yes.”

“Not very likely.” Merdigen conjured a chair for himself and settled down arranging his robes just so. “What did I miss while I was away? Anything new?”

Relieved to have an excuse not to run after Estral, Alton sank back into his own chair and told Merdigen all about the arrival and departure of the expedition.