Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

Winter nodded uncertainly. Feor drew in a deep breath.

“Even if it’s. . dangerous?”

Winter nodded again. Feor wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, smudging the grime across her face, and exhaled slowly.

“All right,” she said. “Then come with me.”

• • •

They retraced their steps to the edge of the cavern, where the enormous steel tablets lay against the wall. Before, Feor had been filled with sacred reverence, reluctant to approach the things. Now she ran along the line, periodically stopping to stare at the lines of dense script. She stood on tiptoe, peering up into the gloom, then shook her head and moved on.

Finally, close to the end of the row of metal slabs, she stopped. One finger traced a long line of script, her mouth working silently. When she reached the end, she looked up at Winter.

“There’s something here that can stop her. I think. It hasn’t been used since long before I was born.”

“Can you read it?” Winter said.

“It’s not that simple,” Feor said. “ Naath are jealous things. Mine would not tolerate another power in my body, and the conflict would certainly kill me if I tried.”

“But-” Then Winter got it. “You can’t be serious.”

Feor nodded grimly.

“But. . me?” Winter shook her head. “I’m not a-a wizard, or anything like that. I don’t even think I can read this!”

“Only those of us who have been trained can read it,” Feor agreed. “But you don’t have to. You only need to repeat what I say, exactly. Then, when we reach the end. .” Feor’s fingers ran across the marks on the tablet. “The last words of the spell are viir-en-talet . You have to remember that. I will guide you up to that point, and then you complete the naath yourself.”

“And then what?”

“Then you can confront her.” Feor looked away. “If you survive.”

“Survive?”

“ Naath are not for the weak. The power coils around your soul like a serpent, and those who are not strong enough may be crushed by its embrace. I think that you will be strong enough, but. .”

“You’re not certain.”

Feor nodded, still not meeting Winter’s eyes.

There was a long silence. From somewhere out in the mist came the shriek and rip of magic.

“Viir-en-talet,” Winter said. “Am I pronouncing that right?”

• • •

“Sit down,” Feor said, “and close your eyes.”

Winter obeyed, resting against the cool surface of the metal. She leaned her head back and tried not to think.

“Repeat what I say. Do not open your eyes. And whatever happens, do not stop before you have said the final words. Do you understand?”

“I understand.” Winter’s mouth was suddenly dry.

“Very well.”

Feor paused, then started to intone the odd words of the language of magic. She spoke slowly, emphasizing every syllable. There were no pauses or breaks, just a continuous stream of sound. Winter repeated each word a moment later. “Ibh-jal-yat-fen-loth-see-”

Suddenly she felt monumentally silly. It all seemed like an enormous practical joke, Feor’s earnest voice running through volumes of nonsense words carved into steel by some long-ago shyster. Certainly Winter didn’t feel anything, no more than she had at the Prison, repeating the Church hymns and prayers by rote.

If this doesn’t work. . If it didn’t work, she had no idea what she would do. Hell, I don’t know what happens if it does work. There was no kind of a plan. She was running through a fog, one hand waving blindly in front of her, hoping not to crash into anything solid.

Her thoughts had wandered. Winter hesitated, even as Feor went on. Was that “shii” or “su”?

Pain lanced through her. Not the dull ache of her bruises or the hot agony from her side, not any of the fuzzy signals that reached her from the pile of meat, bone, and gristle that she called her body. This was sharp, silver pain on a level she’d never known existed, needles tearing into her essential self. It was everywhere at once-ripping at her stomach, clutching around her heart, driving in through the back of her skull-but she knew somehow that it was in none of those places.

She wanted to vomit. It took an enormous effort of will to fight down her gorge and gasp out the next word.

“Shii.” The pain abated, a little. Her memory offered up each word only after a fight. “Nan. Suul. Maw. Rith.”

She heard-a million miles away-the drone of Feor’s voice slow down. There was no time to be thankful, no time for anything but the next word.

As though the spikes of pain had shocked her into a greater awareness, she could feel the naath now. It wound around her like a great black chain, drawing tighter and tighter with every link she added. It was in her, under her skin, inside her bones, binding itself to an internal essence Winter had never even known she possessed. She realized, in that instant, that she would never be rid of it. How could she be? The chains were tightening until they were as much a part of her as her hands, her feet, her tongue. The thought brought a sudden panic, but this time her voice didn’t stumble. She could feel what would happen if she stopped, as well-the chains tearing away, ripping great chunks of her with them. There was no choice, not now. Finish or die.

Feor’s voice was growing ragged. Winter wondered if she was tiring. She’d been speaking for what felt like centuries. But when the words started to come in gasps, she understood that it was pain she was hearing. The naath drew no fine distinctions between teacher and student.

The end was approaching. There was a structure to the words after all, Winter could see that now, and they were building to a crescendo. Every syllable echoed along the fibers of her body, making them hum in unison. The agony had transformed into something else, halfway between pain and pleasure, the chains of the incantation wrapping around her tighter and tighter as her voice drew them together to weld the final link. The pressure of the thing was terrible. When she snapped that last link in place, she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to stand it. It felt as though her soul might shatter in a single instant of near-orgasmic relief, leaving the whipping strands of power to thrash like loosed hawsers and demolish whatever was left of her.

It was terrifying, but there was no going back now. Stop, and the thing would rip her to pieces just the same. Winter mouthed the last few words as Feor fell silent. There was a pause that seemed to last forever, like the moment at the apex of shell’s trajectory, before it begins its terrible descent. In the roiling tumble of her mind, Winter saw green eyes, red hair, a sly grin.

“Viir. En. Talet,” she said.

Feor gave a shocked gasp, as though someone had punched her in the stomach. Winter felt the last link snap into place, the shivering tension as the thing squirmed across her, searching for a weakness. Little spikes of pain came and went as the energy squirreled around. Then, as it settled, she became aware of her body again. Her heart thumped so fast she thought it might explode, and her legs trembled and threatened to give way beneath her. She tasted blood in her mouth where she’d bitten her lip, and her jaw ached from tight-clenched teeth. She put one hand against the steel plate for support, finding its surface icy cold against her flushed skin.

She opened her eyes.

Feor lay in a crumpled heap at the base of the steel slab, her breathing fast and shallow. Winter automatically knelt beside her, and nearly fell over herself when she tried to move. Her muscles felt as stiff as the morning after a forced march. She sucked at her lip and touched Feor on the shoulder. The girl’s eyes fluttered open.