Week 16

  Ox-head said nothing for most of the walk to the Sixth Court. He’d claimed it was “against protocol” to chat while escorting guests between courts.

  “So… what’s this King Biancheng like?” Briar asked, breaking the silence. “Is he a talker, or does he skip straight to the punishments?”

  Ox-head grunted. “He is scrupulous and deliberate. Every sentence is executed with precision.”

  Tanith arched a brow. “A bureaucrat, then.”

  “That is unkind,” Ox-head replied. “He is an artist of suffering, not a clerk.”

  Briar shivered. “Well, that’s so much better.”

  They reached the end of the corridor. The ceiling arched suddenly, opening into a courtyard ringed by skeletal trees.

  At the center rose the shrine itself; a once-grand Daoist temple, its eaves and lintels now sagging under the weight of a thousand years of ash. Black lotuses carpeted the pond out front, the flowers so dense they hid the water. Along the edges, rows of stone saints leaned at odd angles, their faces slick with yellow sulfur.

  “Oh, that’s charming,” said Briar, holding her sleeve to her nose. “Do you think the flowers bite?”

  Tanith ignored the question. Her attention was fixed on the statues. “Those are the Seventy-Two Worthies. They’re supposed to stand in the highest halls of merit, not in Hell.”

  Briar wrinkled her nose. “They look like they’re weeping.”

  “They are,” said Tanith. “The yellow stains are called the Tears of Judgment. The sulfur symbolizes the bitterness of false virtue. It’s still pure heresy though.”

  Callie gave a small nod. “You did your homework.”

  They crossed the threshold of the courtyard, passing under a crumbling archway. At the far end, the pond had dried up. The wind, which had been following them since the First Court, stopped and the mist evaporated in an instant.

  Ox-head came to a halt at the base of the temple steps. He turned and sniffed the air, his expression grave. “From here, you proceed alone. My presence is not required.”

  Tanith pocketed her notes. “Are you afraid?”

  Ox-head hesitated. “Of course not. It just seems like the air is bit dry here.” As if to prove his courage, he began climbing the steps to the Sixth Court. “Ascend when you are ready.”

  Callie motioned to Briar and Tanith. “Let’s go.”

  ***

  The stairs were long and uneven, the rise between each step inconsistent in a way that forced their legs to work. At the top, two massive bronze doors stood slightly ajar.

  Briar pulled ahead and peered through. “It’s empty. Nobody’s home.”

  Tanith set her hand on the door and gave it a push.

  The main chamber was bare except for a single altar at the far end. Behind it stood an effigy of King Biancheng: not a demon, but a gaunt, scholarly figure in a robe, one hand holding a brush and the other a sheaf of paper. His face was thin, lips pressed in a line of absolute disapproval.

  Briar froze. “Where’s everyone?”

  The three looked back at Ox-head who simply shrugged his shoulders.

  Tanith decided to lighten the mood while they waited for an attendant to receive them. “You know, Calanthe, if you ever wanted to go full villain, this could be your origin story.”

  Callie blinked. “Excuse me?”

  Tanith strolled down the aisle admiring the artwork. “You have a rare ability. Most people spend their entire lives accumulating Experience (XP); tiny increments, hard-won through violence or virtue. But you, with a single gesture, can rewrite someone’s narrative, draw out their golden mana, and leave them... empty.”

  Briar looked at Callie, then at Tanith, and said, “That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

  “Is it?” Tanith pressed. “If she put her mind to it, she could strip a man of his XP and leave him a hollow shell. No cost to herself, just a flick of her wrist. Golden mana drawn from his accumulated attainments… elegant, really.”

  “That’s not how I see it,” Callie said.

  Tanith smiled. “Of course not. That’s why you’re not a villain. Yet.”

  She stepped closer, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Granted, you’d make a pretty second-rate villain. Who’s ever heard of a healer taking over the world?”

  Briar giggled. “Maybe she could force everyone to get vaccinated [*]. Is that villainous enough?”

  “I’d rather burn the world than run an immunization campaign,” Callie deadpanned.

  Tanith grinned, then turned on Ox-head who was waiting for them at the threshold to the inner sanctum. “Consider, for example, our horned friend here. What harm could possibly accrue from stripping him of his mana?”

  Ox-head’s nostrils flared. “I have no idea what you are talking about, but don’t.”

  Briar muttered, “He’s already had his fill of weirdness today. Leave him alone.”

  Callie shook her head, fighting a smile. “You’d make a better villain, Tanith.”

  Tanith inclined her head in mock bow. “I accept the compliment. I have very many evil plans.”

  The banter relaxed Callie more than she expected. She was suddenly aware of how close her friends stood, the warmth of their presence blunting the chill of the chamber.

  “Let’s finish what we came here for,” she said.

  ***

  Ox-head opened the doors to the inner sanctum, stuck his head through the door... and immediately turned and fled.

  Callie, Briar, and Tanith were left standing at the threshold marveling at the speed at which Ox-head disappeared from view. The air around them turned from thick and vaporous to dry in an instant; their throats instantly becoming parched.

  At first, it seemed like they were alone. But as Callie’s eyes adjusted, she realized that the sides of the inner chamber were not empty at all. Dozens of forms crouched behind the pillars: some humanoid, others closer to bird or reptile, their bodies dusted with mildew and ceremonial sashes.

  At the far end, behind the altar, someone sat cross-legged on a throne of censers and divining instruments. The figure’s face was hidden, shrouded in a cowl of blue-black silk.

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  Tanith whispered, “I think that’s our patient.”

  Nüba—the drought demon, the curse of the Sixth Court—did not move or acknowledge them, not even when Briar accidentally knocked over a candle.

  Instead, she spoke. The sound was so dry and brittle it took a second to realize it was speech. “Approach.”

  Callie looked at the others, then advanced to the edge of an artificial pond which resembled a dry, cracked river bed.

  “Who are you to stand before my court?” Nüba’s voice was clear now, and absolutely unhurried.

  Callie answered, “Calanthe. I came on a referral.”

  The laugh was delicate and feminine. “From which unfortunate?”

  “A Corpse Eater,” said Callie. “He said you were in need of healing.”

  Nüba uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, letting her arms dangle over the edge of her throne. The hood slipped, revealing a face of a beautiful yet monstrous young woman: skin stretched tight over sharp, perfect bones; cheeks streaked with the tracks of old tears.

  Nüba regarded Callie for a moment, then smiled. “Do I look like I need healing?”

  “That’s certainly a matter of opinion.”

  ***

  Nüba rose from the throne, moving with the absolute confidence of someone who had never feared anything in her life.

  Every minion in the room sprung to life as well. Their eyes were sunken, their lips cracked and the closest ones wore antique lacquer masks, painted with exaggerated weeping faces.

  Only then did Callie see the state of Nüba’s back. The robe had fallen away at the shoulders, revealing not skin, but a lattice of scars and open wounds. Dozens of iron thorns pierced her spine at irregular intervals. It was like looking at a mosaic; one made of suffering and deliberate artistry.

  Nüba stopped three meters from Callie, gaze level, breath slow and even. Each inhale seemed to draw moisture from the room; Callie’s lips immediately went dry.

  Tanith and Briar stepped up, but the minions shifted nervously and pressed closer, blocking the route. Even so, they made no move against the party. If anything, they seemed more wary of Tanith and Briar than of Callie herself.

  A fox demon scurried forward and sniffed at the edges of Callie’s robe.

  Before she could object it had grabbed her satchel and upended the bag, dumping any loose contents across the floor. A group of demons rushed forward and pawed through the mess, picking up each item and sniffing it before tossing it aside with disdain: a half dozen jars of healing salve and anti-microbials, two scalpels, three clean bandages.

  Meanwhile, a rat demon rooted through the remains of the satchel and found a tiny ivory idol: a relic of Belus, a keepsake from Callie’s first weeks in this world, gifted by Theron [**]. The demon examined it, bit the head off, then threw the rest into a bronze brazier. It burnt up instantly.

  Briar shot Callie a look. “You cared about that, right?”

  Callie shrugged. “Not really. Never liked the guy.”

  The rat demon continued its excavation of the satchel, tearing at its lining. Then it suddenly stopped, freezing in mid-action—and disintegrated into a pile of ash. A heavier, toad-faced demon shuffled up, examined the remains of his colleague, and laughed delightedly at his fate. It scooped up the satchel and resumed the search before it too froze and formed another pile of ash beside his friend.

  “Show me what’s inside the bag,” Nüba demanded, glaring at Callie.

  Callie picked up her shredded satchel and reached inside. From a half open side pocket she drew out, her lucky wooden whistle, a small spool of gold thread and a small clay figurine of Abyssa; the very ones she had “borrowed” from the Library upon her departure [***].

  There was a loud rumble and as Callie looked up she saw that Nüba and every demon in attendance had fallen to their knees, their foreheads hitting the cracked tile with a sound like porcelain breaking.

  When Nüba;s came next, it was stripped of all mockery.

  “Forgive me, Healer,” she said. “I did not realize I was in the presence of a daughter of the Mother.”

  Callie blinked.

  Nüba stayed kneeling, head pressed to the floor.

  Briar stared at Callie. “Is that true? Are you her daughter?”

  Callie stammered, “I... what?”

  Tanith looked at her with sudden interest. “That… does explain a lot.”

  Callie said, “No. Absolutely not. I’m not... ”

  Nüba cut her off, voice rising. “You are suffused with her perfume. That thread...” she pointed at the golden loop,“ ...has been spun by hand from her own spindle.”

  Briar mouthed, “Holy shit.”

  Tanith looked at Callie with an amused, new respect. “I knew you were special, but that’s… extreme.”

  Callie said, “It’s just a thread. A keepsake. And the idol... anyone could have one.”

  Nüba shook her head, still kneeling. “There are only eleven like the one you hold; one for each of her children. It holds a fraction of her will. I can feel it. It is like staring into the eye of the abyss, and knowing you’ll never leave.”

  The entire room had fallen utterly silent. Even the candles seemed to have dimmed.

  Callie cleared her throat but her words had dried up.

  Nüba sat back on her heels. “Perhaps we should talk as kin and I could answer any questions you might have about my distressed state.”

  Briar glanced at Callie, then Tanith. “I have a few questions, actually,” she said.

  Tanith nodded. “So do I.”

  Callie looked around at the monster’s minions, the ruined state of the shrine, and the idol in Nüba’s shaking hands. “I guess we can start there,” she said.

  ***

  Nüba pressed her forehead to the floor for a third time before sitting upright. She shook her head. “How disappointing for a sibling. You could have led with this. Instead you chose to embarrass me. Are we not as sisters, you and I?”

  Callie winced, unsure if she should argue the point.

  Briar found her voice first. “She’s not your sister. She’s not... ” she gestured at Callie, “...evil. She’s, I don’t know, really into healing. And she’s hopeless at games.”

  Nüba cackled. It was a raw, ugly sound, a lifetime of bile distilled. “Imbeciles,” she roared, not even looking at Briar. “You all are so perfectly, gloriously provincial. You believe evil is a matter of decorum, that virtue is a function of restraint. You cannot even fathom a world where chaos and possibility are the first, best things.”

  Tanith said nothing, but her hands trembled slightly at her sides.

  Nüba rose to her feet. “If my sister will not enlighten you, then it seems I must.” She tilted her head at Callie, who instinctively braced herself.

  “Before your gods, before even the notion of Law, there was only the endless ocean. Its name was Abyssa, or the Primeval Salt. It churned with every possible shape, every color of life and death. It was the Personification of Revision: not destruction, but the appetite to change, to replace, to make anew.

  “Then came the Lawgivers, the architects of form. They built a world out of order, and in so doing, they chained the ocean. Taught it to behave, to flow only where it was told.

  “But the ocean is never truly tamed. The ocean does not forget its children.”

  ***

  With every phrase, the hall trembled. The sulfur candles flickered, and for an instant Callie saw the walls bow outward.

  “In the beginning, Abyssa delighted in every failed story,” Nüba said. “Each time the world failed to resolve a hero’s fate, she would scoop up the fragments, dissolve them in her salt, and birth something new. She held the "Tablet of Destinies." She was the editor, the recycler. The last mother of every orphaned soul.”

  Briar shuddered.

  “Who is this young creature you trawl from place to place, my sister?” Nüba asked. She turned to Briar. “Would you rather see stories condemned forever to repetition, to an endless cycle of failure? In your so-called heaven, everything is scored and measured, every act weighed by a judge who knows only subtraction. But in the Abyss, even failure has a future. Even the monstrous have the right to a new page.”

  Tanith drew in a shaky breath. “You mean monsters...”

  “Are failed stories,” Nüba finished, her lips peeling back in a razor grin. “Monsters are not born. They are what’s left when your precious laws reject a narrative too strange, too brave, or too stubborn to die the correct death.”

  Briar said, “But that doesn’t make Callie evil.”

  Nüba turned to Briar. “‘To know that you do not know is the best. To pretend to know when you do not know is a disease. [知不知，尚矣；不知知，病也。]’

  “Evil is a story you tell when you don’t like the ending. Abyssa is neither evil nor cruel. Her only law is this: she will never rewrite a story except by permission. She will not change what refuses to change. She will not save what refuses to be saved.”

  Nüba smiled sadly. “And that is why monsters almost never ask for healing. They know the price.”

  ***

  She pointed at Callie’s chest, or maybe at her soul. “Our mother’s kiss protects her because, like all children of revision, she carries the principle of consent.”

  Tanith stepped forward. “Is that why you won’t be cured? Because you never consented?”

  Nüba laughed again, softer now. “You think this is a wound? This...” she tore at her sleeve, exposing the iron thorns along her spine, “...is a badge of office. Every scar, every curse, every drought I have ever caused was chosen by someone, somewhere, who could not bear the possibility of rain.”

  She leaned close, the scent of dust and dried petals overpowering. “You want to know why I prostrate myself at a scrap of Abyssa’s will? It is not worship. It is respect for the only power in this world that can admit when it is wrong and start again.”

  Callie tried to process the implications, but Nüba was not done.

  “If you won’t worship the Mother of Revision,” she said to Briar and Tanith, “will you at least worship me?”

  Briar made a face.

  Tanith, to everyone’s surprise, bowed her head, if only for a second. “You are worthy of our respect.”

  Nüba seemed pleased. “That is the beginning of wisdom.”

  She turned to Callie, a new challenge in her gaze.

  “Now, sister, do you wish to see how a monster is born?”

  Callie swallowed, and nodded.

  _______

  [*] "Zhong dou" (种痘) – "planting smallpox" or variolation. During the Song Dynasty, the technique reportedly involved grinding scabs from mild smallpox cases into a fine powder and blowing it into a person’s nostrils.

  [**} See Book 1 Chapter 4

  [***] See Book 1 Chapter 5