Ekaterina Sedia - The Alchemy of Stone

We remember the voyage across the sea, smooth as glass, the ship becalmed for days on this green surface; we remember it wrinkling like silk under the first breath of wind; we remember the waves and the terrible precipitous valleys that open between them; we remember the sensation of our stomach leaping to our throat as the ship poses on the crest of a wave, hesitant, and then plummets downwards, accompanied by cries of terror and exhilaration.

We remember the cities we have never visited, the lives we have not lived—children and grandchildren, and the inevitable aging of the parents; we remember smells of cardamom and moist tropical heat; we remember the soft, red earth which gave so generously when it was not compelled to do so, and was so barren when farmed. We remember the dances in the city squares—open squares fringed with low buildings, which were much more about air than they were about stone; we remember the bright paints children use to decorate themselves and to throw at each other, laughing.

And then our vision doubles as we see our city but through the eyes of the outsiders—the imposing edifice, carved of stone; we see ourselves as others used to see us—perched on the steepled roofs, our wings a sharp silhouette against the fading sky. We see the gray severity and the stern beauty, which does not invite appreciation but rather demands it. We grow dizzy, and we shake our heads, bedazzled and entranced.

And then the other voices awaken inside us, the souls of the people who were ripped away from the dead man who is cooling on the ground before us. We hear a multitude of voices whispering to us, insistent. “Listen,” they say. “Just listen.”

Mattie forced herself to stand on her wobbling legs. The right knee joint kept alternately locking up and buckling under her, but she paid it no mind.

She felt no satisfaction from her accomplishment but rather an emptiness she did not know how to fill—there was nothing left to do. The thoughts shifted sluggishly in her mind, as the gears turned and clicked with unusual hesitation. There was Sebastian and Iolanda and Niobe, none of whom wanted her. There was Loharri, who did not want her anymore either. Then there was the key—her key, the key that would spark her back to life. When she would be her own mistress, she would find a mechanic to fix whatever was wrong with her. And yet none of this seemed important next to the gargoyles, transformed by her alchemy.

They nudged her, gentle, still in awe of their new hands. “Shouldn’t we go after them?”

She looked after the pointing fingers, flushed gloriously golden, a real life pulsing within them. “Go after who?”

“Them.”

Then she forced her eye to move from the gargoyles to the object of their attention—the enforcers trudging dutifully toward the mouth of the mine. There were enough of them to open the hidden entrance, Mattie thought. There were too many of them to follow. “No,” she said. “They have muskets. They will kill us—even you. You are not what you used to be, remember that. You are mortal now. You can be killed.”

The gargoyle faces turned fearful, and she hurried to reassure them. “They won’t do anything unless you provoke them. And following them now would be provoking. Come on, you must know of other ways to get underground.”

The gargoyles nodded, all together, like they always did. “There is a secret place inside the city, near the district that burned first.”

“Can you take me there?”

They did not answer but swept her up again, holding her securely aloft, and flew.

The time of inactivity let Mattie think in ways she wasn’t able to while walking—she could force her thoughts into an organized pattern, to stack them against each other, to decide on priorities. Ilmarekh was dead, and she was done looking after the others. She needed her key so that she could take care of herself, not needing anyone’s condescending help or grudging friendship. And to get her key, she needed Iolanda.

But not just as a friend; Mattie could call on a promised favor. And after that, the sting of their indifference would be tempered by Mattie’s knowledge that she did not need them. Perhaps then Sebastian would love her back.

The gargoyles landed just inside the northern gates. Mattie’s legs still felt wobbly, but she steadied herself, and bent them a few times, making sure that sensation and flexibility were still present. “Where to?” Mattie asked. The ruins of the orphanage towered above her.

The gargoyles pointed at what appeared as a small hollow in the ground—overgrown with sun-scorched grass, and quite unremarkable in itself. When she looked closer, she discovered an uneven patch of ground, with only a thin gap outlining its irregular shape.

The gargoyles gathered around it and fitted their fingers into the gap. They lifted the thin slab of stone, with grass still clinging to it, and Mattie felt the wet, dark exhale of the shaft mouth, with its familiar scent of stale air and deep underground wet and warm stone.

“Will you come?” she asked the gargoyles.

They shook their heads in unison. “We must go now, but we will see you again.”

Mattie descended underground, not looking back. There was no point in watching the luminous, winged figures soar over the still-beautiful city when one was about to descend into a dark place.

Her new eye could not see in the darkness, and she kept one hand on the wall of the tunnel, feeling her way with one foot. Her progress was slow and laborious, and Mattie worried that she had taken a wrong turn somewhere and was now heading down an abandoned dead end, where she would never be discovered, and would be unable to find her way back. She took mental notes of the bumps on the wall, of any distinguishing features she felt on the ground—an abandoned axe handle, a bundle of rags.

When Mattie saw a weak glint on the walls of the tunnel, she did not dare to believe that she was nearing the end of her journey. It could be the faulty eye or some underground fluorescent life; it could be anything. She did not let the hope take hold until the glint became a steady glimmer, an inviting white dot of light with thin rays radiating from it, and the stale, warm breath of the tunnel brought with it smells of burning lamp oil and sounds of human voices.

She emerged into the light and space with the walls receding at a distance, so suddenly large and free, and she cried out in relief and anguish. Her eye took a long time adjusting to light in the cave, and people around her appeared as blurs. They asked her questions, but their words all buzzed together, like the sound of flies that now swarmed in the streets, and instead she spoke. She told them about the enforcers who went down the other tunnel. She told them that the mechanics knew.

She felt arms wrapping around her, and for a moment she thought that they belonged to the gargoyles, that somehow the transformed creatures had found her in the darkest underground. She squinted and recognized Niobe’s face close to her, with Iolanda just behind. Both women looked changed— their features had grown gaunter, sharper, and their eyes seemed more knowing than before.

“Loharri,” Mattie said to Iolanda. “He knows about the tunnels, and he knows about you and the other courtiers. Don’t let him get to you, don’t let him take your spell away.”

Iolanda shook her head. “Don’t worry about that now, Mattie. What happened to you?”

Mattie’s legs wobbled.

“We need a mechanic here,” Niobe shouted into the interior of the cave. “This woman is ill.”

It was nice to be attended to, Mattie thought. Niobe and Iolanda made a fuss, insisting that she sit down by the wall, on a stack of empty crates. Everything in the cave seemed scavenged from the surface, and the smell of mold and rotten fruit clung to the crates as Mattie sank into them.