One of the Silent Ones walked along their road through the eternal night. The Great Pyramid, lit by the Barrier that surrounded it, was far enough away that human eyes could not have made out any details. Yet, the hooded figure paused, looking towards the great edifice, as a small figure ran out its gates.
This was unusual. The dwellers in the Pyramid sent out their explorers and adventurers from time to time. Usually lone travelers, sometimes small bands. Some returned, some did not, suffering death or worse. But, these would-be-heroes moved with caution as they passed the protection of the Pyramid and the glowing Barrier that surrounded it. They never ran.
Yet, this one did. The Silent One watched curiously. To the best of its knowledge, those who hid inside the Pyramid did nothing worse to their enemies—their human enemies—than kill them. The Night was not so kind. No matter what punishment they fled, no human—no sane human—would trade the Pyramid's safety for the outside.
Perhaps this one was not sane? Perhaps possessed or bespelled? Now and then, Whispers found their way inside the Pyramid. Prey could be lured out, though the Silent Ones normally sensed it when such things happened.
The traveler was clad in the dull, gray armor of its kind. It carried a diskos, their favored weapon, a metal staff with a sharp blade at the end that could be made to glow with a terrible light. The light itself was enough to drive off some of the lesser creatures. The Silent Ones were not so easily frightened. They did not fear the Pyramid and its powers. They only waited, patiently, keeping to their own paths till the appointed hour.
The traveler also carried a pack so it was armed and had supplies. Bespelled or not, it had some rationality left.
It stopped once it had put some distance between itself and the Pyramid. Turning back, it saw there was no pursuit. It paused to take its bearings, choosing its course.
It began making its way to the Road of the Silent Ones.
A rational choice, the watcher knew. Its kind didn't kill travelers there. Or feed upon souls.
Except when they did.
The traveler was headed for a piece of the road only a little farther ahead. The Silent One drifted towards it.
X
Belle hadn't known what to think when the guard came to get her in the Hall of Records to tell her Jefferson was asking for her. She knew Jefferson. He was one of the Monstruwacans, the guardians who kept watch over the Pyramid, but he had often been in the Hall. He was the one normally sent by the Master Monstruwacan to deliver copies of their reports or to request information from the past. But, not long ago, the news had been spread through the Pyramid that Jefferson had requested permission to go out into the Night, the land outside the Pyramid.
It was always a grave thing when such a request was made, and there were strict laws. No one who had not passed his twenty-first year was allowed out. The man who made the request was evaluated, to make sure he was sane, and was given special training and preparation. He was also given a very thorough, graphic understanding of what had happened to some who had been reckless enough to go outside.
"He." It was always a "he." That was the other part of the law: No female was allowed into the Night—not ever.
But, the law allowed a widower with a young daughter to risk his life and soul. Belle didn't understand why.
At least, he'd returned, wounded but alive. Or alive for now.
He'd returned, Belle reminded herself. His soul was his own. No matter what else happened, she had to be grateful for that.
The Master of the Hall of Records gave her permission to leave. Belle got her diskos and followed the guard. Unlike Belle, the guard, of course, was in full armor, his diskos fully lit, though they were fairly safe so deep in the Great Pyramid
"How is he?" Belle asked.
"He'll live," the guard said. "I think. The Healers can tell you more."
Meaning that was all he knew or all he was allowed to tell her. Belle tried a different tack. "Is his daughter there?" Grace wouldn't leave her father's side if they weren't sure he would get well, Belle was certain of it.
"She hasn't been told he's back yet," the guard said. "He wished to speak to you first."
Belle tried to keep her expression neutral, but it was almost impossible. Everyone knew how close and protective Jefferson was of Grace. Jefferson was Belle's friend—a good friend—but nothing more. Why did he need to see her before his daughter even knew he was alive?
The guards in the Halls of Healing let Belle through. She murmured the Word as she passed each of them, barely pausing to hear them say it back.
The Word. It was their first protection, the one even children were taught to say. Belle had thought of it as magic as a child, once she understood its power.
Her mother had shaken her head. "There's no such thing as magic, little one," she told her. "Not in all the world."
No such thing as magic. Belle hadn't understood that then. Light and dark were matters of science, and what humans called the soul could be measured and weighed. The Word was the distillation of that knowledge. Only humans with uncorrupted souls could say it or even think it. Sometimes, the sound alone was enough to drive back the Night Dwellers. Even when it didn't, it weakened them—and it revealed anything that pretended to be human but wasn't by their silence. In the rest of the Great Pyramid, it was the first thing people said to each other when they met. Here, in the Halls of Healing, it was a constant murmur. Years of training kicked in, and Belle found herself unconsciously joining the litany, repeating it back each time she heard it.
Most of the sick and injured were in a single room with beds on either side. Jefferson, however, was in a small alcove separate from the others with his own guards. He was one of the honored travelers, after all. He had ventured into the Night and returned alive and uncorrupted.
He had also been injured by the Night Dwellers. Those that could make their way into the Pyramid would be drawn by the scent of his blood. He needed special protection—and the other patients, in their weakened states, needed to be protected from whatever dangers he might draw.
Still, the Halls of Healing were among the safest left in the Pyramid. The guards were wary but not afraid—not too afraid. They stood back as Belle reached Jefferson's bedside. No one was ever alone in the Pyramid, of course—not really alone. But, the guards gave the two of them as much privacy as they could.
Jefferson was sickly pale where he wasn't bruised or covered in bandages. His eyes were almost too swollen to open. He was so battered, Belle didn't dare touch him for fear of the pain it would cause.
"Jefferson?" she asked uncertainly. Could he hear her? Was he even conscious?
Jefferson's swollen eyes opened a crack. He managed a weak, painful smile. "Hey . . . Bluebell . . . good to see you,"
Bluebell. The nickname was a scholar's joke. The last ornamental flower had died over a hundred years ago, but Jefferson had enjoyed looking through books of plants and that mythical time called the daylight world. For some reason, the bluebell had struck his fancy and become her name.
"Good to see you, too," Belle told him and said the Word.
Jefferson's eyes narrowed for a long, silent moment. Belle felt her heart thud against her chest. Why didn't he say it? He must have said it before he was allowed back into the Pyramid. Nothing that couldn't prove its humanity was allowed here, nothing.
Unless—unless Jefferson had been dying, unless there was something inside him draining him away and waiting for its chance. . . .
Jefferson spoke the Word, and Belle forced herself to relax. "Why did you do it, Jefferson?" Belle said. "Why get me instead of Grace?" She meant to keep her voice calm, but thinking of Grace and everything Jefferson had risked flared her anger. "Why go into the Night?" she demanded. "What did you expect to find? What would happen to Grace if you died?"
"Grace . . . is why I . . . had to go. . . ." Jefferson's voice trailed off. For a moment, Belle thought he'd drifted into unconsciousness or sleep.
Instead, he took a long, shuddering breath, forcing himself to go on. He glanced at the guards and spoke in barely more than a whisper. "You've . . . read the records, Bluebell. . . . The Barrier . . . is weakening. . . . When it falls . . . inside . . . outside . . . won't matter."
Belle dug her nails into her palms. There had been a time when the Pyramid was safe. Nothing worse than Whispers from outside could make it in, and those were easy to detect. Over time, things—weak and insubstantial, but real—had begun to find their way into the Pyramid. They were paltry and frail. But, enough attacks, even by things that were paltry and frail, could kill.
The attacks had increased even since Belle was a girl. Now, everyone was trained to use the diskos and no one went anywhere without it. They all took their turns at guard duty and had armor to wear when they did it.
When the Barrier failed, the Night Dwellers would swarm the Pyramid. The people would fight but they all knew how it would end.
They did the only thing they could. They went from day to day and hoped that the end was still a long way off. When it came, they hoped to die well—and not to face anything worse than death.
And they tried their best not to think of it—or speak of it.
Jefferson was injured, Belle reminded herself. From the look of him, he'd been lucky to make it back. She didn't chide him for saying what should never be said. He was battered and sick. He needed to be humored. "You're telling me you found an answer?"
Jefferson nodded. He looked around carefully, but the guards were watching for things that might attack. They only glanced, now and then, at Jefferson and Belle, to make sure they were still all right. Reaching beneath his blankets, he pulled out a small, white sack with a golden drawstring. Belle didn't recognize the cloth. It had a silkiness that reminded her of her mother's hair. But, the gold. . . . Belle ran a finger along it, with the strange feeling she should know what it was.
"Find . . . him. . . ." Jefferson whispered. "Tell him. . . . I don't know . . . who locked us up . . . in this world. But . . . tell him. . . ." It was getting harder and harder for Jefferson to speak. "He'll . . . protect you. . . . But, you have to tell him . . . tell him I found you . . . tell him . . . protect Grace. . . ."
He slumped back, his eyes closing. Belle gasped and jerked back, calling for help. No less than three Healers hurried over. They murmured the Word almost like a mantra. Healers frequently did. Evil things were too often the cause of strange ailments. The Word drove them back. Belle found herself repeating the Word with them even as she got out of their way.
It attracted the attention of one of the Healers. "He's all right," the Healer told her. A tall, fair-haired man, it took her a moment to remember his name. Victor, that was it. "He's exhausted. I'm surprised he managed to stay awake this long, but he insisted he had to speak to you." The Healer looked her over in a speculative way that made Belle blush.
"Is he—Will he get better?" Belle asked.
The Healer nodded. "With proper care and time. He needs rest more than anything. You don't need to worry. But, you should go, now. We'll summon you if there's a change."
Belle nodded, taking her diskos and hurrying off. Despite the weapon in her hand and the other people she passed in the corridors, she felt vulnerable as she made her way back to the Hall of Records and found herself wishing for her armor.
Once she returned to the Hall of Records, the Master wanted her report on Jefferson. Belle wanted time to think over what Jefferson had said, not be interrogated by the Master, but it was his right. Belle stood at attention while he questioned her, a scribe sitting by to take notes.
The Master, of course, wanted to know everything. What injuries did Jefferson have? How extensive were they? Were the Healers taking any special precautions?
"Did he speak to you?" the Master asked.
"A little," Belle said. "He was very confused. I'm not sure I understood what he was saying. I gathered he . . . he hoped his quest would benefit his daughter."
"Were those his exact words?"
"He said it was to protect Grace. Or maybe he was asking me to protect Grace. I—I'm not sure." She thought of the strange things Jefferson had said and shook her head. "I didn't understand him."
The Master, who had spoken to other travelers and read their records, nodded. "He may make more sense when he recovers. But, why did he summon you? I hadn't thought you were particularly close."
Belle wondered if the Master spoke from scholarly interest or if he were digging for gossip. Either way, all she could do was shrug helplessly. "We're friends, nothing more," she said. "Maybe it was because I helped him search the records before he went out. Maybe . . . he was confused when we spoke. Maybe it made sense to an injured man." And one who had sounded half-mad, even to Belle.
The Master nodded understandingly. "Disorientation is common for those who return." He looked at her speculatively. "Do you think it's possible his feelings for you are deeper than you realized before he left?"
Belle's hand tightened on the diskos. It was a logical question, she told herself. And the Master of the Hall of Records only cared for getting the words written down accurately, not for the embarrassment he caused. Or that was what she had to tell herself. "I don't know, Master. Possibly."
"Hmm. Well, it will no doubt be made clear in time."
That was the end of the interview. Belle made her way back to her desk, half-relieved, half-guilty. The Scholars believed in accuracy. There had been times in the past where their survival depended on the Archives. People died because of secrets and lies. Belle had a duty to show the Master what Jefferson had given her.
But, Jefferson had chanced the Night to bring back the small bag he'd put in her hand and whatever secret he thought it contained.
The Barrier is weakening. When it fails, inside, outside won't matter.
Short of going into old, abandoned levels of the pyramid, being alone was impossible. A desk with stacks of books and papers was the closest Belle could come. She shifted a few to hide what she was about to do. Making sure no one was looking at her, Belle slipped the small sack out of her robe and opened it, her fingers brushing once again against the gold and feeling that sense of almost remembering. Two things slipped out of it. One was a tiny wheel made of gold.
A spinning wheel, Belle thought, not knowing where the name came from or what it meant. She must be half-remembering something from one of the far-too-many books she'd read.
The other was something impossible, something that hadn't existed in over a hundred years.
The blood-red blossom of a rose lay in her hand against the gold.