32. The Forgotten Arm (Vaye)¶
The sun rose and fell and the Eyewall churned, constant and ever-changing.
Vaye’s shadow stretched and retracted with every passing brazier as she trudged back to her cell. Despite the long hours, her duties at the Hall of Vapors no longer felt so burdensome. She’d settled into the camaraderie of the Cantereian kitchen staff, and had even come to enjoy the quiet, neutral aloneness of the walk back. Still, her perpetual exhaustion left her feeling like a living version of the Hall itself, only held upright by the pressure of her own breath.
She paused in front of the heavy ironwood door of Yobaza’s office. The last time she’d been summoned for a quick round of degradation, her tzashim had still been hanging in their place of “honor.” As she glared at the door, trying to melt a hole in it with her eyes, her fingers brushed an odd shape in her pack. The witchglass face of Adranaya’s misguided gift stared back at her as she withdrew it, the curls of its hair writhing slowly like a nest of snakes.
In theory, it was possible to use witchglass to pick a lock like the one on Yobaza’s door, but raw witchglass, supple enough to conform to the tumblers, wouldn’t be firm enough to actually turn them. Opening the lock would necessitate allowing the witchglass to cure in place, leaving it permanently stuck, a dead giveaway that the lock had been tampered with. All the locks in the School were specifically designed to take advantage of this fact.
But Adranaya’s gift wasn’t raw witchglass. It was expensive and highly refined, which meant that the ends of the hairs could retain their strength while still flexing into other shapes. And a few strands woven together might be firm enough to turn a tumbler.
Vaye looked up and down the dark corridor. Then, heart pounding, she twisted the ornament’s hair together and stuffed it into the keyhole. Closing her eyes, she sussed out the space within, probing with the fibers. It was a bit like feeling around under a piece of furniture, but soon the tendrils found the tumblers.
She firmed up her makeshift key and tried to turn it, but to no avail. The tumblers were too heavy. But there was a bit of space behind each one, a gap that the hairs could weave themselves into, wrapping around the mechanisms like vines. Once she’d done that, opening the lock was as simple as pulling the mechanisms out of the way, a gesture that required great precision, but little force.
The lock opened with a satisfying clunk and the door swung silently inward. The sky outside was thick with clouds. Weak moonlight filtered into the chamber, settling on the pristine surface of the Preceptor’s desk. Vaye’s ball of nownow was in one of the drawers, but unfortunately those locks were too small to pick with the charm.
Her tzashim were still hanging where she’d last seen them. She ran her fingers along the flats of the blades longingly, but they’d have to stay here. There was simply no way she could take them without Yobaza noticing, and the Preceptor would know immediately who had done it. She considered making a forgery to swap out, but the tzashim were a masterpiece. Talented as she was, the daggers were beyond her skill.
She looked around at the other artifacts lining the walls. In what world did someone like Yobaza deserve to surround herself with such treasures? The charlatan didn’t even understand what she had. The sheer injustice made Vaye want to break all the glass in the room.
The clouds parted. A shaft of moonlight struck the silver arm where it hung on the wall, and the artifact seemed to beckon, the moth on the back of the hand glowing faintly. Yobaza had said the arm was a scroll case, and that there was a page inside from one of the Lost Books, but that it couldn’t be opened without destroying the page. The tragic beauty of it made Vaye want to weep. She had a vague sense that she was forgetting something important, maybe something from a dream.
Approaching the artifact, she gingerly reached up and slid two fingers along the forearm. The surface was disturbingly lifelike, textured like skin and wrinkled at the joints. Tendons stood out on the back of the hand, the witchglass moth shining like the moon itself. She slid her fingers up the wrist, an oddly sensual gesture.
The moment her fingers touched the moth, the hand suddenly curled into a fist, moving like it was alive. Vaye yelped, jumping back and almost falling onto Yobaza’s desk. The arm didn’t move again, but the fist had twisted in place and a gap was now visible where it joined the wrist.
Her heart thudding so violently it had to be audible, Vaye touched the hand again. What everyone had taken for silver was actually solid witchglass, somehow cured to be permanently metallic. She’d never felt anything like it.
She took off her boots and carried Yobaza’s chair to the wall, standing on it so her head was level with the arm. Slowly, she raised the fist. A cylinder beneath it slid smoothly upward, its motion untouched by the centuries. It rotated as it slid, revealing an inner chamber. Within the chamber was a rolled-up scrap of parchment.
Holding her breath, Vaye caressed the page, terrified that it might crumble to dust. But the arm had been sealed so tightly that the parchment felt almost new. She extracted it with shaking hands, then stepped down and set the page on the desk before climbing back up and closing the arm. When she twisted the fist into place, the hand relaxed into its previous posture, and she finally exhaled.
The parchment was soft and warm in her hands. She unrolled it just enough to scan the first passage. The High Anashic letters were arranged in an unfamiliar geometry, the groups of words connected by intricate lines, a diagram as much as prose. The script eschewed vowel symbols, as was common for archaic texts, making it quite difficult to read. But after a while, she puzzled out the word for “truth” or “fidelity,” which was repeated several times.
The moon had gone back behind the clouds, leaving the room in shadow. As she carefully slid the parchment into her pack, she had the sense that Grandmother had been watching. Vaye could only hope the goddess approved.
For once, Vaye was thankful for Yobaza’s fastidiousness. The lack of dust would make it harder to tell that Vaye had tampered with anything. She shut the door carefully, wincing at the clunk, then quickly resumed her journey.
She paused at her own cell, thinking. There was no way she could keep the scroll here. Even if they didn’t search her room for a few days—which would be a miracle—her nerves would give her away. And it might get damaged in her pack, which she wasn’t allowed to take with her to class anyway. But then she remembered a better option.
Adranaya was snoring softly beneath a pile of bedclothes, one shapely foot sticking out the bottom. Belatedly, Vaye recalled that today was Dunvirmak, a major Sarmalan holiday and one of the rare chances for novitiates to sleep in. Like all Vargashi celebrations, the holiday only made Vaye feel more alienated, but Adranaya had been excited about it, and Vaye saw no reason to ruin it by waking her up. There would be plenty of time to discuss the scroll later.
In the corner, a beautiful lacquered chest held the extensive library Adranaya had “borrowed” from back home, which included a number of parchment scrolls. It was the perfect hiding place. Vaye quietly lifted the lid and nestled the page amongst the other documents. Thanking Grandmother for watching over her, she silently slipped out.
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