Suri shook her head after Brin had only gone down three lines. “That’s wrong.”
“What do you mean it’s wrong? What’s wrong? How do you know it’s wrong?”
The mystic shrugged. “It just is.”
“Read from the top down,” Roan suggested.
“But I learned from the tablets that the words are marked left to right in lines.”
“Try anyway.”
Brin began making sounds again, this time dragging her finger down the tablet.
Again, Suri shook her head.
“Try right to left,” Roan prompted.
“I don’t understand,” Brin said. “What are we even doing?”
“Read it right to left.” When she did, Suri’s eyes grew wide and a smile formed on her face.
—
Suri listened to Brin as she started making the sounds again, this time running her finger from the right of the symbols to the left. The tones were elongated and awkward, like someone singing a song they didn’t know, in a language they weren’t too familiar with, but she heard it. As distorted as it was, the tune was there.
Arion heard it, too. “That’s a weave,” she said from across the room.
“What’s a weave?” Brin asked. “You mean it’s a spell? So if I were to finish this, I would make something magical happen?”
“No,” Arion said. “You have no power.”
“You’re just making patterns with string between your fingers,” Suri said, realizing for the first time how that piece fit. “But if you were an Artist and could draw from a source, you could weave with the real strings, the strings of creation—create the music of the world and alter its tone.”
“Yes,” Arion said. “Exactly.”
“How is this helping?” Moya asked. “Is this helping?”
“This is the last thing the Old One was working on before leaving this room,” Roan said.
“Wonderful, Roan,” Moya said. “How does that help?”
“It’s a magic spell,” Roan said.
“A what?”
“It’s not just a spell,” Suri said. “This is the weaving pattern that created Balgargarath.”
Suri had known what it was the moment she’d heard the drawn-out sounds Brin was making. The symbols scratched on the stone were like stages in a string game, and she could see the process: the steps and the patterns. The whole method had been worked out in preparation for the attempt. In doing so, it left a path behind, a map that pointed to the chords of creation. The mystic was still learning, still a novice, but she knew enough to understand that whoever had created this had been at least a little crazy, and quite possibly a full bowl of nuts.
The pattern, the way it wound deeper and deeper, indicated that the creator was playing with the giant chords, the monolithic base elements rooted in the abyss. When Suri had killed Rapnagar, when she was touching the strings, she had noticed the drop-off, the same way someone might notice a draft or a whisper. The presence was just as irresistible and just as disturbing.
What’s down there? The question had haunted her ever since.
Now that you know…now that you’ve seen what it’s like, you’ve had a taste and are hungry for more. Now that you’ve touched the chords, you can’t help wanting to fly.
Arion had been right about that. Having seen, having touched, she was infected by the possibilities. Suri felt as if she’d spent her whole life on a little hill, content and happy. Then one day she glimpsed the truth, that the hill was actually the nose of a great beast. Not easy to sleep after that. Knowing about the chords, realizing she could alter the world, made ignoring the possibilities intolerable. She was wearing a shirt with a loose thread and was dying to pull it—if for no other reason than to make the desire go away, to make it stop distracting her.
If it had just been the thin, high strings, she might have put the whole thing out of her mind. Fire was made by plucking the light strings, and she’d done that for years. The abyss was what drew her. The chasm out of which grew the great chords, the supports, the foundations of the world. That was a forest of trees whose roots held the universe together.
What would it be like to pluck one of them? What would they sound like? And what would happen if I did?
The person who created Balgargarath had touched those chords. He had stroked them and wrought a monster.
Suri looked toward the sealed crack. Using the Art to passively tap into the nature of the world, she could sense the creature just on the other side of the stacked stones. A gigantic, brilliant mass of light. Pure power. In contrast, Arion’s sliver-thin shield coating the stacked stones—the enchantment that prevented Balgargarath from reaching them—appeared as dim as moonlight glinting off the sheen of a frozen lake. The veneer was all that was needed, but Suri suspected it was all Arion could manage.
“How did he do it?” Suri asked. The words weren’t directed at anyone; they just spilled out.
“How did who do what?” Moya asked.
Suri looked up surprised. “What?”
“You asked—”
“Oh, I was just wondering…the Old One…if he was trapped in here, how did he create Balgargarath, where did he get the power?”
Arion’s head turned away from the doorway. “Such a thing would require an enormous source.”
“If you found it,” Persephone said, “could you get us out of here?”
Arion nodded. “With a source that strong, Suri could pick up this entire mountain and just toss it aside.”
“What about you?” Persephone asked. “I know you’ve been trying to teach her, but, like the dwarfs, I think things have gone far beyond lessons. Our lives are at stake.”
“She can’t,” Suri answered. “The injury to her head…in the dahl when Malcolm hit her with the rock…it damaged her. Every time she uses the Art, it hurts. Even holding the door is killing her. Doing anything that big would be suicide.”
Persephone’s eyes widened. “That’s why you’ve been leaving everything to Suri. That’s why you didn’t stop the demon.”
“It is why I rely on Suri; but even if not hurt, I couldn’t stop it. No one can.”
“But wait,” Persephone said. “You’re keeping that thing from coming in. What source are you using?”
Arion gave a guilty look. “You.”
“Me?”
“All of you. Feeling tired? I stealing power. Mostly them.” Arion nodded toward the dwarfs, who were still snoring. She smiled. “Keeps them quiet.”
“Won’t that eventually…”
Arion nodded.
“How long?”
Arion tried to form a reassuring smile. “Not to worry.” She wiped at her nose. “I’ll die before you do.” She swallowed and winced as she did, then looked at Suri. “I think I need to teach you to do this.”
“There’s always a better way,” Roan muttered.
Suri looked at Roan, who stood staring back at her as if she wanted to say more but couldn’t, or maybe she didn’t know what came next.
The way Suri saw it, they were standing on a path that had three forks. The problem was that each trail led to the same awful place. Arion could fail to hold the demon and they would be killed. They could die of thirst or starvation. Or Suri could take over for Arion and eventually use up everyone’s strength. Then she would be without a source and Balgargarath would enter and kill her.