18. The Hall of Vapors (Vaye)¶
The darkness seemed to grow thicker with each step Vaye took toward the Hall of Vapors, broken only by the viriyeshet that flickered in her periphery. Water dripped from the ceiling, scattering weird echoes along the tunnel. When she 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 at that one.
Only two solid facts had emerged from the speculation: that the Orumir were former novitiates, and that they maintained 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 ominously warm as it descended. Vaye found herself jumping at small noises, unsettled by the heat. By the time she reached the entrance to the Hall itself, her uniform was sticking to her back. The plain black door was framed by braziers that burned with acrid, greenish flames, smearing soot on the ceiling. An eerie howling sound, thickened by a deep bass rumble, seeped below the door.
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. His voice matched his appearance, thin and watery like gruel. “Yes?”
“I’m here for the night shift,” Vaye said, raising her voice above the noise. “Is this the right place?”
“Oh, 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 pair of soldiers gawked at her, as though her arrival were 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 do—” Vaye grimaced and shook her head. Thinking about Yobaza just made her angry. “It’s a long story.”
Etibo shrugged. “Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter. 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 shit 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.”
Vaye stiffened, then forced herself to relax. She didn’t like being touched, but resisting would just make the whole thing take longer. The guard patted her 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 rumbling howl filled the passage as it curved in a wide downward arc, lit at intervals by more pale green braziers. Etibo explained that the torches were green to counteract the red glow from the Hall. Vaye only caught a glimpse of 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 strained to see, but only caught the glimmer of witchglass as she hurried past, her curiosity wrestling with her dread.
The tunnel finally leveled out and Etibo turned down a side passage. The rumble receded, displaced by voices and clinking dishes as they emerged into a large kitchen with a low ceiling. The air was pungent with spices. Six Cantereians were busy tending heavy 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. Despite Etibo’s implication, the man spoke Sarmalic like a native. “Have you worked in a kitchen before?” His tone was appraising—not exactly friendly, but not particularly hostile.
“No,” Vaye said. “Sorry. But I’m a quick learner.”
“Are you any good with herbs?” said a matronly woman with kind eyes and a thick scar on her chin. Her Sarmalic was equally fluent, although she had a slight Cantereian accent.
“My mother taught me some herb craft when I was young,” Vaye replied in Cantereian. She’d picked up the language soon after coming to Thelenza, having spent more time around Cantereians than Sarmalans. Her 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 formal greeting. “But I go by Vaye.”
Teira nodded and led Vaye to her work station. “The crusty young man with the mustache is Ruelso.” Ruelso grinned, waving his cleaver. “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 slurry 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 it,” 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 herself relaxing for the first time since her arrival at the School. Each Cantereian hummed a separate melody, but their voices blended together like birdsong. Despite being dim and stuffy, the kitchen felt like a warm hollow in a peaceful forest. And although she’d never met any of these people, the place somehow started to sound like home.
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