Che hauled herself to her feet, still barely reaching above the woman's waist, then realized that Elysiath Neptellian was not alone. Another gigantic figure had emerged from the gloom, and now walked ponderously to stand at her shoulder. He was a thick-waisted man with a fleshy face that spoke of all manner of terrible deeds, and no guilt at all. A second woman now sat on her own plinth, combing her hair in slow, careful strokes, while ignoring Che utterly. Their hair was magnificent, waves of blue-black that gleamed in the undersea light. Both the women wore it down to the waist, cascading in slow ripples down their backs and, like the men, they were clad in little more than a few folds of cloth. Had they been Beetle-kinden, they would have been fat, had they been any other kinden they would have been grotesque, but they carried their bodies with an absolute assurance, without admitting the possibility of ugliness or awkwardness or shame. They were beautiful, all three, and it was something that partook of their bodies and those cruel faces, but that went far beyond. They were royalty, by their very nature, and Che was the lowest of commoners.
She heard steps behind her, quiet but slow, and the apparition she saw, when she turned, sent her two stumbling steps away from it, almost falling over Thalric. His name surfaced in her mind irresistibly: Garmoth Atennar, Lord of the Fourth House, whose Bounty Exceeds all Expectations, Greatest of Warriors, had woken. He had donned the mail that had sat waiting on his throne through the ages. Armour plates of gleaming green-black and gold slid one over the other, boasting the meticulous craftsmanship of decades. The dark clasp of the open helm framed the pale features of a dead king. He stared down at her with a distant amusement, as she herself might have looked at some small animal meandering lost through the rooms of her home.
She tried to speak, but her voice betrayed her, cracking to a mere whisper in the face of them. She finally forced it out, hearing her words tremble. 'You are the Masters of Khanaphes.'
'We are some,' said Elysiath. 'Those that have awoken.' The man's hand rested on her shoulder, while the other woman continued to comb her hair, oblivious. 'You are not one of our slaves, though.' Her eyes regarded Che with arch humour. 'Some few are summoned to us, through some trace of old blood that they carry, or else through their own misplaced curiosity, but you have been called from far places.'
'I … did not come because I was called,' Che got out.
'That is what many believe.'
There was a sudden gasp from Thalric, lying at her feet, in reaction to some particular stab of torment in his mind. 'What is happening to them?' Che asked. 'What are you doing to them?'
'Testing them.' Garmoth Atennar's voice rang deep and hollow as the halls they stood in. 'A test which they shall doubtless fail, as so many do. A test which you have passed, for which you may give thanks and rejoice.'
Che glanced back towards him. In his colossal mail, he was even more frightening and less approachable than the others. There was a sword girded at his belt that must have stood eight feet from point to pommel. 'Please,' she said, crouching by Thalric, 'he will go mad.'
'It is likely,' said Elysiath indifferently. 'Soon it will be certain. That is what awaits those who fail.'
'Will you not …?' Che's voice trailed off. Of course they will not. Why should they? We are as the smallest insects to them.
'We will not stir ourselves to release them from their bonds,' Elysiath told her. 'We will not prevent you from doing so, if you can.'
'Me?' Che demanded, astonishment lending her courage. 'What can I do?'
The huge woman made a face. 'Well, then, perhaps you can do nothing.'
'This is … magic.' Despite everything it was still hard to say it. 'This is something I know nothing about. There's nothing I can do for them!'
Elysiath glanced at the man by her shoulder, who was looking bored. 'No doubt it is as you say,' she said dismissively.
'But …' Che looked down at Thalric, locked into his own bespoke nightmare. 'I can't …' Something inside her was telling her to look, though. Achaeos, help me now, she thought, reaching out. And then: You've ridden me all the way here from Khanaphes. I went up the pyramid because you were there. I've taken you everywhere you wanted, until I looked like a madwoman. Come on, now!
She felt the presence then, the ghostly half-sense of another being that had plagued her since the war. What do you want? she asked it. Just to torment me? Did I escape the nightmare only because I carry my own around with me?
You torture yourself with me. Not her words, but his, remembered from her dream. She twisted uncomfortably.
Help me now, she told him. If you could ever help me, help me now.
She sensed his reaction, his violent disagreement. This man is an enemy!
He is a Wasp, not an enemy, she insisted, but she knew he must surely resent Thalric for the feelings she had discovered towards the man. All at once, and spurred by that thought, her patience vanished.
To the pits with you, then. In her mind she did not now see the grey-skinned man that she had loved, just the brooding, bitter, shouting stain on the air that seemed to be all that was left of him. The better parts, the parts that had held her affection, were clearly gone to his grave.
There was a net about Thalric, and she caught hold of it and tore it asunder. Afterwards she could find no words, no language, to account for what she had done. She had simply done it, taken the magic and tugged until it snapped.
It must have been very weak, she thought, But then these victims are Apt, and the weakest of magics can bind the mind that does not credit it. It was weak enough that I could claw my way out from the inside.
Thalric gasped, kicked out, hands flailing at the sticky ground.
'Calm,' she told him. 'It's Che, Thalric. I'm with you.'
He recoiled from her a moment, and she thought that he had gone mad indeed. Then he clutched at her arm and something of his own character returned to his face.
'Che …' he began, seeking out her face.
'Thalric!' a voice cried out in utter fury. Che looked to see the other Wasp, Marger, up on his knees, his face twisted in fear and rage. 'Thalric!' he screamed again, throwing one arm towards the two of them, palm outwards. He was too far to restrain, and Thalric just stared at him, still half-numb.
There was a flash of metal, swift enough for Che to think it must be some new form of magic, and Marger's hand was gone, the wrist a moment late in spraying them with his blood. Marger let out a hoarse, horrified yell, eyes bulging as he brought the stump close to them, unable to accept what he was seeing. Then Accius struck a second time, running him cleanly through the throat and then whipping the blade free.
All three of them, Che thought hollowly. I woke up all three.
She reached for her sword, forgetting that the last blade she had held had been the Vekken's own, which he must have reclaimed by long habit the moment he awoke. The Antkinden was not focused on either her or Thalric, but staring past them, at the Masters — the towering shapes of Elysiath and her two companions. Following his gaze, Thalric looked back also, and Che found it incredible that neither man had even noticed the metal bulk of Garmoth Atennar, who had been right before their eyes, the body of Marger almost at his feet. They stand so still, like statues indeed, she thought. And I see better in these dark places and …