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YOUR BLOOD SHALL WATER our garden, your bones shall guard our tomb. Those were the words that had been carved into the tunnel’s wall, and unlike what Cyrele had assumed, they weren’t a reference to the religious creed of the temple at all. They were a threat.
It was a realization that came far too late, for although it felt as if time slowed while the skeleton’s hand reached out to strike her, the truth was that Cyrele was a breath away from death and completely powerless to stop it. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think past the reality that she was underground and isolated, trapped in a web spun by those who cared for her not all at. At the end of it all, she found herself far from everything she’d known, everything she’d ever wanted, except for just one thing: the knowledge of the previous Order. So many of the glyphwriters back home earned for nothing more than to witness the marvels of the lost age, and she had done exactly that—but those marvels would kill her and no one would ever know.
A crack sounded as a figure jumped at the skeleton bearing down on her, knocking it back and landing on top of it—Aralath. Scrambling to her feet, Cyrele found the two sailors already gone, their footfalls echoing from the darkness that covered the way back out of the tunnel. Some half dozen skeletons ran past herself and Aralath, presumably giving chase to the fleeing sailors.
But then one of the skeletons stopped midway, turning its face to Cyrele and tilting its head as if...confused? Was that possible? Or was it simply an object mimicking life as per the instructions carved into its body?
Aralath used her knees to pin down the arms of the skeleton beneath her, then grabbed its skull and began bashing it into the stone floor. The bony figure strained against her, still capable of flailing despite what would’ve been a traumatic injury for a living person, yet failing to dislodge her. For now, she had it pinned. But how long would that last?
Meanwhile, the skeleton staring at Cyrele—assuming its empty eye sockets could actually see her—approached slowly, as if it had all the time in the world...and perhaps it did. Perhaps there was no escape from it.
Cyrele took a step back, unsure of what she should do. If she fled, she would abandon Aralath, who likely couldn’t fend off a second skeleton while wrestling with the first. But what could she do if she stayed? Even if she managed to hold down a skeleton like Aralath had, where would that leave the two of them? Trying to outlast two magically animated artifacts whose strength had already held up for centuries? Waiting for the skeletons chasing the sailors to return and kill them? Nothing she did would truly help—at least nothing short of de-animating the skeletons once and for all, a challenge she couldn’t count on meeting even if she had all the time in the world.
Or was there another way? Aralath had held down her skeleton so easily...because it was all bones, pinned by the weight of a full person. Their attackers might be relentless, but they weren’t strong. There had to be something Cyrele could use to tie them up. Hurriedly, she tore a strap off the skirt of her dress.
One skeleton continued moving towards her, bones clattering with each step, presenting another problem. Cyrele couldn’t tie up Aralath’s skeleton without leaving herself vulnerable to this one. At the very least she had to get it on the ground somehow, buying herself time before it got itself upright again, but she couldn’t risk becoming entangled herself. She needed something heavy to knock it down...
...but there was only one object with any heft in her possession, only one thing that had been worth carrying the extra weight. Only the mirror.
For an instant, her mind and heart went to war. She knew the mirror was useless to a dead person, which she’d likely become if she didn’t fight back. Even if it broke, what practical meaning did that have for her? She only ever used it at someone else’s behest, never for herself. And yet, in a way, this mirror was her life’s work. She’d clung to it from the moment of her exile as if it was the only valuable possession she still had.
But it wasn’t. The most valuable possession she still had was her life. And if she chose the mirror over herself, if she truly treated herself as expendable as the royals—Viemian and Kavan alike—thought she was, then she would lose everything.
Cyrele took one deep breath, allowing herself a moment to savor what the mirror had once meant to her. To bask in that sense of self-worth that came with each new discovery, to appreciate the feeling of accomplishment that came with her fellow glyphwriters’ praise. To remember what it meant to discover her place in the world, after struggling for so long to find something that felt right.
Then she let it all go.
#
THE BAG HOLDING THE precious artifact sailed through the air, striking the skeleton in the chest with enough force to unbalance it. It fell to the ground in a clatter of bones that almost overpowered the heartbreaking crack of breaking glass—almost. Cyrele flung herself towards Aralath’s skeleton, grabbing its feet and winding her fabric around them with surprising ease.
“Back away!” she called to Aralath as she finished tying the knot and jumped to her feet.
Aralath followed her up while the skeleton remained on the ground, reaching to pull at the knot but too weak to untie it. The other skeleton was only just getting onto its feet when Aralath dashed forward and knocked it back down, tying it up with a piece of her own clothing.
Then, instead of immediately backing out of the skeleton’s reach, she grabbed for the bag that held the mirror. And that gave the skeleton the opportunity to grab her arm in turn, its bony fingers digging into her skin. With a pained grunt, Aralath kicked the skeleton back, hard enough to dislodge its hold—but her arm dripped blood from the gashes that the skeleton’s fingers had left behind.
Ignoring the injury, Aralath took the bag and fell back towards Cyrele.
“Go,” she said, pulling Cyrele with her using her unhurt arm—in the direction of the Temple of Lost Hope, the opposite way from where the sailors had run. “Go!”
The two of them raced down the tunnel. Paintings and glyphwriting flashed by as Cyrele passed them, too quickly for the details to register in her mind. Perhaps they contained hints about what was to come. Perhaps they provided solutions that could protect them from the dangers of the temple complex. Cyrele would never know, because even as the thought occurred to her, the fear driving her muscles forward refused to abate. In that moment, she couldn’t stop running even if she’d wanted to.
A doorway appeared before them, signaling the end of the tunnel. According to the map, beyond it lay the Temple of Lost Hope, where everything would come to an end.
Aralath barreled towards the entrance—then came to a crashing halt as she bounced off of empty air. Cyrele skidded to a stop next to her, both women panting for a moment before they could muster up the energy to speak.
“A barrier?” Cyrele finally managed.
“Are there any...” Aralath began, pausing to breathe mid-sentence, “...instructions or dire warnings...written along the doorway...about the temple? Start with the large writing...at the top.”
Cyrele leaned against the wall for support, raising her head up to look at the glyphwriting written over the temple’s entrance, the words blurring before her eyes. Her body trembled from residual fear, and even as her panic ebbed away now that she could no longer hear skeletal bones clanking together, it was in turn replaced by an awareness of her aching muscles, her blistered feet, the shadows of exhaustion creeping over her. Her physical limitations were in danger of taking her down at this very moment.
Long hours of studying throughout the night in her cramped quarters came back to her, as she forced herself to ignore her body and focus on her mind. She would pay for it later, of course, but that would only matter if she lived long enough to pay for it at all. Then the glyphwriting in front of her finally came into focus.
Come claim endless wonder if you dare, the largest glyphs read.
Unhelpful, that. She promptly told Aralath so, noticing that her companion had begun wrapping a piece of fabric around her injury as a makeshift bandage.
Aralath sighed, then straightened her back. “Then we’ll have to find a way out somewhere in the multitude of tiny glyphwork around the doorway. Let me finish tying this and I’ll help.”
Cyrele glanced at the other woman in wonderment at her steady acceptance. Aralath might have had sweat stains, torn clothing, disarrayed hair—even wounds caused by a magically reanimated skeleton, of all things!—but her expression and posture told a different story. Her stance was firm and strong, her face composed.
“You risked injury to retrieve my artifact,” Cyrele noted, even as she began skimming the long passages of glyphwriting surrounding the entryway.
“The Karits know someone broke into the temple already,” Aralath said as she joined Cyrele in reading through the mass of glyphwriting before them, “so it’s acceptable to leave the skeletons tied up. But we must not leave the artifact here for them to find.”
While Cyrele had been ready to run for her life in utter panic, Aralath had been thinking ahead, taking note of what traces they would leave behind in these forbidden places. Should she be impressed by her companion’s forethought even when facing death? Grateful for it? Or afraid of it?
“I think this is it,” Aralath called her over.
And sure enough, between the two of them, they deciphered enough glyphwriting that that they could take the barrier down with only a few modifications. Much of the passage remained beyond their comprehension, of course, but it didn’t matter. A few more minutes of chiseling and they could move forward without any impediment.
Even in their dire circumstances, Cyrele felt a small smile tugging on her lips from the satisfaction at how simple it had been for two glyphwriters to circumvent this trap. But then the satisfaction bled away as she imagined what might’ve happen to anyone who came here without the ability to read glyphs.
Like the sailors, for instance. If they’d fled in this direction instead of back towards the exit, they would have been run down by the skeletons with no hope of escape...but did they truly have any hope of escape now? Most of the skeletons had gone after them, while Cyrele and Aralath had barely escaped when faced with only two.
“The sailors...” Cyrele ventured, remembering how Aralath had told her that they had families to return to. Remembering what had persuaded Cyrele to risk searching for Kamene instead of running away.
“There’s nothing we can do for them now. I’m sorry for it, but that’s simply how it is.”
The sentiment felt ruthless, yet also undeniably true. The two of them barely stood a chance of surviving themselves. Trying to save the sailors would likely ensure they all died.
Cyrele almost thought she should have never agreed to come in the first place. But there was no point in turning back now that they’d come so far. And there was no way of knowing if the secrets the royals had hidden here were worth the risk without seeking them. Both terrified out of her mind and excited beyond reason, Cyrele gathered herself...
...and took her first step inside the Temple of Lost Hope