Page 78 of The Devouring Time

Of the ones I can read, most are simply names, sometimes with locations or dates. Gregory Miller of London, or Art Greene, 1723. A few are more expressive: Mary Rathlin, taken from her children, may God Almighty keep them in His care. None, however, are informative, except to drive home just how many people the Swarm have kidnapped over the millennia.

But why? The more inscriptions I read, the more I wonder what purpose there could be behind all of this.

A few days later, some of the Swarm enter and announce that anyone who wishes to take a walk may do so. At this point, I’m sick of the room, however cavernous it might be, and eagerly join the line forming near the door. A bit to my surprise, Khephnes does as well, though as usual he doesn’t speak to anyone.

Bianca joins me, along with Titus. I’ve learned in the days since meeting him that he’s a Roman soldier, Titus Quintus Blaesus, who was taken in the middle of a campaign against the Gauls. According to Bianca, he’s helped with some of the Latin translations, but is more interested in physical pursuits than scholarly. Hence his daily martial exercises, I assume.

We’re led through the blue-lit corridors, past the flaking murals and signs written in what I assume must be the hieroglyphic language of the Swarm. Our captors take us to the top of the ziggurat and leave us to our own devices. Some bask in the sun or skitter around peering out at the jungle.

I’m not sure what I expected of Khephnes, but he takes up a solitary post at the edge of the platform, staring out yet again. He could have done that just as well in our room, though I suppose this way he can at least enjoy a different view.

Perhaps the sunlight will cheer up him a little, though given his position, I can’t blame him if it doesn’t. Still, I take the opportunity to approach, in hopes he might be open to speaking more.

The view is similar to every other one I’ve seen—teeming jungle, with great shapes moving off in the distance, and more buildings closer in. But the nearest structure is different from the others—a low, flat circle with no visible entrance.

“What is that building for, I wonder?” I say, more as a conversation opener than anything else.

“It’s the creche, where the larva are hatched.”

“Oh!” Maybe he is feeling more talkative. “Did they tell you, or…?”

His trunk flashes a complicated series of colors I have no way of interpreting. “When I was first told I was trapped here…I was a scribe, before they stole me. I deluded myself into thinking I might build a life of sorts here, so I asked them to teach me to read their language. One of the signs we passed points to the tunnels that lead to that building. According to it, it’s the creche.”

My interest sharpens. I don’t know how reading the signs could be helpful, but maybe…?

“Can you teach me?” I ask.

He turns all five eyes on me. “Why should I bother to do that?”

51

I have nothing to offer him in exchange but my honesty. “Because I want to know more about them. If I were imprisoned back home, with no clue as to why, I’d be banging on the bars and demanding answers.” I gesture to the landscape with my trunk. “Here, out of time, the entire world is a prison.”

“My people didn’t have these prisons you speak of,” Khephnes says. “But I understand what you mean. I’m trapped here forever, but you’ll go home soon enough. Again, why should I help you?”

Frustration boils up in me, but I tamp it down. I’d probably feel the same way if I were in his position.

God, please don’t let my real body die.

I spread my forelegs helplessly out to either side. “What else do you have to do?”

He looks at me for a long moment—then, to my surprise, laughs wryly. “As you’ve seen, my days are very busy, but I suppose I can squeeze in some time to teach you. But if you aren’t an apt pupil, I’ll quit.”

I’m shocked at his agreement. Perhaps my bluntness surprised him enough to take an interest in me. “Thank you. I’ll do my best.”

Once we’re returned to our room, I let Bianca know about my upcoming studies. “Good idea! I can’t believe Khephnes agreed.”

“I think he’s bored.”

“Bored is better than depressed. Though I suppose he’s that as well.” She wriggles her forelegs. “So far, you’re still the furthest person in the future—my future—I can find evidence of. I don’t know what that means, not yet, but maybe we can find some sort of pattern…”

While she continues her work, I study with Khephnes. He requests writing implements from our guards, who agree without seeming to care why we’d want such things. They bring us a sheaf of papyrus-like paper, an ink pot, and a brush made to be held with the trunk.

But the paper has writing on one side already and is crumbling around the edges from age, and the purplish ink is long dried to the bottom of its little stone pot.

Khephnes holds up the ink pot to the guards. “Don’t you have anything that isn’t dried up?”

“We do not write,” the guard replies.