I
FEAR, MY FATHER ONCE TOLD ME, IS SIMPLY OUR REALIsation of a lack of control. And that is why when we are afraid, sometimes the only way we can cope—the only way to dull the edge of that lack—is to put our faith in those who appear not to suffer it.
WAIT. RUN.
The words are barely visible beneath pulsing crimson. Blood slides down my wrist, crawls across my palm and flicks dark droplets from my fingertips as I lope after Caeror through the red, flickering, fuzzing tunnel. The circle of bronze blades is long behind us. The Labyrinth not far ahead now. My cuts ache. Ulciscor’s brother tried to explain why I had to make them. It was a message. To myself. In another world.
It’s too bizarre to process yet. It was the steady urgency in his voice that swayed me to action—bloody and surreal and painful though it was. That, and the desperate, desperate need to believe that he truly grasps what is happening here. That he actually knows how to get us out of this nightmare.
That he is in control.
“How do we get past the Remnants?” I pant the words. Still weak from whatever it was that happened to me back there. My voice is small. Deadened by suffocating stone and hazing red light.
“They’re in Res.” Caeror doesn’t look back. “So is the Labyrinth.”
I don’t have time to doubt him: the tunnel ends ahead, and he’s proven right. Nothing guarding the exit. No walls burst from the ground, no waves of chittering obsidian death spring to life as we hurry—me tentatively—out onto the same expanse of stone upon which I was desperately navigating a maze less than an hour ago.
And yet everything is otherwise identical. Same vast, austere hall. Same platform with its red glass balustrade at the far end, which we head straight for.
“Wait. We need to step on at the same time.” Caeror pauses as I position myself beside him. “Now.” It’s a tight fit. “We need to touch the railing together, too. And … now.”
The balustrade glows. We rise, me catching my breath from the run.The hall is quickly replaced by darkness all around, leaving us bathed in scarlet.
Caeror turns to look at me. Dark and wiry, scruffy beard and curly hair framing the violent old scar that stretches from cheek to where his left ear should be. Different from Ulciscor in so many ways and yet with those same intense brown eyes, it’s impossible to mistake them for anything but brothers. “You’re real. Aren’t you?” His smile is suddenly there, a dagger to the tension. Broad and radiant. He’s giddy as he studies me. “Tell me you’re gods-damned real.”
“Yes?” I’m still disoriented. Don’t know how else to respond.
He looks upward, and to my shock, releases a bellow into the devouring abyss ahead. A whoop of unadulterated joy. Relaxing his grip on the railing as he stops, inhales, and then does it again before breaking down into plainly relieved laughter, shoulders shaking. “Yes! Rotting gods,yes! Oh. Yes. Gods-damn. Yes. Seven years. Gods-damn. What’s your name again?”
“Vis.”
“Vis! Vis, when we get out of here I am going to give you a hug. It will last far longer than would normally be appropriate. I apologise in advance.” He laughs again, a sound somewhere between jubilant and manic. “Rotting gods-damnedgods!”
I’m nervous and confused and in pain, but something about his pure, near childlike joy is infectious enough to steady me, even as my heart still pounds. “I’m glad you’re happy.” I follow his lead and cautiously unclench one hand from the glowing balustrade. “What you said back there. You said we’re in Obiteum. That this is … anotherworld?” I bark the last in a half laugh of my own. I must have misheard. Aloud, it’s even more preposterous.
Caeror’s smile remains as he calms from his delirium. “It’s a lot to take in, I know. There’s going to be more before I can explain everything, too, but we’re inquitea bit of danger until we get off this island.” Still cheerful, but something about the delivery says he’s serious. “Can we leave the questions until we’re out? I promise you’ll get your answers.”
It’s not really a request. “Alright.”
He gives a genial nod, then sees me rubbing at my arm, which has begun to ache. “Hurting?”
I shrug. “From the cuts, I suppose.”
“You sure?”
“I don’t know. It just started.” It’s not something I’ve had time to focus on, but the way he asks makes me do it now. “The whole thing hurts, actually.”
He nods again, unsurprised, as he draws an object from his pocket. “Strap this to it. Skin to stone.” It’s an amulet of some kind, hung on a leather band that threads through a slot clearly made for the purpose. I squint through the glowering red. An intricately carved scarab beetle, only about an inch across, peers back.
“What is it?”
“Vitaerium.” He holds up his own arm, displaying an identical amulet. “Whatever you do, make sure it’s not loose.”
“Why?” No masking my unease. Vitaeria are for keeping people alive. Usually verysickpeople.
“It will prevent any damage from Res or Luceum from bleeding through.” Caeror touches the scar tissue over his missing ear meaningfully. “Not to mention that the air here is … shall we say, less than nice to breathe. Outside, without one of these, your throat and lungs are going to start blistering within an hour or so. But Vis?” He raises an eyebrow. “Those were questions, and we’re not out.”
I bite back both an uneasy retort and my desire to find out more, and swiftly loop the supple leather until the scarab sits snugly against my skin. From what little I know, there’s a chance these only work on people who have been through the Aurora Columnae. “The problem is—”
