18. The Hall of Vapors (Vaye)¶
The darkness felt tangible and thick, growing heavier with every step toward the Hall of Vapors. Water dripped from the tunnel ceiling, echoing eerily among the shadows. When Vaye made the mistake of glancing up, a fat drop splattered into her mouth, tasting of tar.
There were rumors that the Orumir ate living flesh, or drank lava, or that they cocooned themselves and glowed in the dark like glassworms. Falden had sworn that they weren’t human at all, but souls encased in volcanic stone who breathed hot steam. Vaye had struggled to keep a straight face when she heard that one.
Only two solid facts had emerged from the speculation: that the Orumir were former novitiates, and that they controlled the Eyewall. In Sarmalan households, ascending to the Orumir was considered the highest honor, the fulfillment of a holy obligation that could raise a novitiate’s family to prominence. Privately, of course, many feared the idea of never seeing their friends or families again.
The tunnel was chilly at ground level, but grew inexplicably warmer as Vaye descended. She found herself jumping at small noises, unsettled by the heat. By the time she reached the entrance to the Hall itself, she was quite sweaty. The plain black door was framed by braziers that burned with acrid, greenish flames, smearing soot on the ceiling. A weird howling sound, thickened by a deep bass rumble, seeped through the door frame.
Steeling herself, Vaye smoothed down her uniform and knocked. The Sarmalan who opened the door was tall and reedy, with brittle hair and bulging eyes that gave him the look of a surprised amphibian. He appeared not to have slept, ever. “Yes?” His voice matched his appearance, thin and watery like gruel.
“I’m here for the night shift,” Vaye said, raising her voice above the noise. “Is this the right place?”
“Oh, yes, they told me about you. Come inside,” the Sarmalan replied. He shut the door behind her. “I’m Etibo, one of the night-shift Keepers.” Behind him, a group of soldiers gawked at her, as though her arrival was the most interesting thing that had happened in months.
“Vaye,” she said. She wasn’t sure how to greet the man, so she bowed, eliciting a snicker from the guards and a vague smile from the Keeper.
“What did you do?” Etibo asked, taking in her School attire. “They don’t usually send novitiates down here.”
“I didn’t—” Vaye grimaced and shook her head. Thinking about Yobaza just made her angry. “It’s a long story.”
Etibo shrugged. “Well, the kitchens aren’t that bad, once you get used to the smell. The Orumir just have peculiar needs.” He beckoned, and Vaye moved to follow.
A guard with iron-gray hair held up a meaty hand. “This area is restricted,” she said, her voice as dull as the tunnel wall. “Sarmalans only in the Hall.”
“This again?” Etibo asked, annoyed. “She’s just a kitchen worker. None of them are Sarmalan.”
The guard shrugged. “You’re responsible for her, then.” She looked Vaye over like a janitor inspecting a stuck drain. “But I need to search you for weapons. Raise your arms and spread your legs.” She patted Vaye down more thoroughly than strictly necessary, then waved her on, seemingly disappointed at the lack of contraband. Vaye gathered what remained of her dignity and followed Etibo down the passage.
The eerie, rumbling howl filled the passage as it curved in a wide downward arc, lit at intervals by the pale green braziers. Etibo explained that the torches were green to counteract the red glow from the Hall. Vaye only caught a glimpse the central chamber itself as they passed an opening flanked by two guards. Beyond the doorway, crimson light filled a vast, roughly-cylindrical cavern. A long, narrow balcony projected out into a cloud of pink mist, a lone figure seated at its tip. Vaye caught the glimmer of witchglass as she hurried past.
The tunnel finally leveled out and Etibo turned down a side passage. The rumble receded, displaced by voices and clinking dishes, and they emerged into a kitchen. Six Cantereians were busy tending large cauldrons or grinding various ingredients into powders. Their voices died down as they noticed the newcomers.
“This is Vaye,” Etibo said slowly, over-enunciating his Sarmalic as though talking to children who had been dropped on their heads. “She’s going to be helping out here, doing...” He looked around blankly. “Something. Show her around, please.” He gave Vaye a damp smile and departed without another word.
The Cantereians and Vaye stared at each other until a lean, muscular man with a curling mustache broke the silence. He spoke Sarmalic like a native, which he probably was. “Have you worked in a kitchen before?” The man’s tone was appraising—not exactly friendly, but not particularly hostile.
“No,” Vaye said. “Sorry.”
“Are you any good with herbs?” said a matronly woman with kind eyes and a thick scar on her chin. She had a slight Cantereian accent, but spoke just as fluently.
“My mother taught me some herb craft when I was young,” Vaye replied in Cantereian. Her own accent wasn’t perfect, but she had been told that her grasp of harmonics was much better than most Sarmalans ever managed. The workers lit up at her use of their language.
“Oh! You have melody!” The older woman said, her smile warming the whole room. “Wonderful. Well, come on, you can help me with the blending. My name is Teira.” She touched two fingers to her throat. “I’m the shift lead.”
“Vayeliyah,” Vaye said, returning the greeting. “But I go by Vaye.”
Teira nodded and and led Vaye to her work station. “The crusty young man with the mustache is Ruelso.” Ruelso grinned, waving his cleaver reassuringly. “Don’t worry, he’ll warm up to you.” The rest of the Cantereians resumed their duties, humming pleasantly to themselves. “The Orumir don’t eat solid food,” she continued, grunting as she hefted a large clay jar from the floor and set it on the table. “This is dreamroot. We grind it into a fine powder and add it to their brew to keep them calm.” She opened the pot and frowned. “Hmm, running low. There’s more against the wall over there.”
She started toward the jars, walking with a pronounced limp. “I can get that,” Vaye said without thinking. She grabbed two of the jars and brought them back before Teira could object.
“You’re strong for your size, child,” said the Cantereian.
“Like an ant,” Vaye agreed, nodding solemnly.
Teira’s laugh was like warm honey. “I like that. Ants survive by working together, just like us. Now let me show you how to break these roots up. Do you know any Cantereian work songs? I’ll teach you one while we’re at it, to help pass the time.”
As Vaye settled into the work, she found that she was more relaxed than she could remember. Despite being dim and stuffy, the kitchen was like a warm hollow in a peaceful forest. Each Cantereian hummed a separate melody, but their voices blended together like birdsong. And although she’d never been here before and never met any of these people, the place somehow sounded like home.
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