Waybound (31 page)

A
s the hours crept by and the kids found themselves no closer to unraveling the mystery, Phoebe began to despair. There was nothing here that could possibly refer to Phoebe's father.

“Can't we just ask Tik if he's heard of the Occulyth?” mused Micah, staring at the halos emitting from the Ona's hands.

“No,” Phoebe replied firmly.
“My greatest secret, tell no one.”

“Yeah, but she also didn't expect we'd have to figure all this junk out on our own. I think she can prob'ly cut us some slack.”

“She trusted us, so we have to keep her secret,” Phoebe said. “We need to figure out Rhom's riddle. It's the only way.”

He sighed and swept his light around the room. The bulb was dimming. If it went out, they would have to wait until day.

“We looked everywhere,” he grumbled.

“Almost,” Phoebe said, inspecting a burial platform. She ran her fingers along its edge. “Tik said the arch-axials knew.”

“Yeah, but…” Micah's eyes popped. “You ain't sayin' you wanna…Seriously?”

“Of course I don't,” she said, shoving on the slab that covered the tomb. “But it's the only place we haven't looked.”

He watched her give the lid another futile push.

“Then let's try one of these,” he suggested, motioning with the light. “Some of 'em were blown open by the attack.”

They found a tomb whose lid had been broken in half. Working together, they shimmied the pieces aside. A decrepit, musty smell wafted up from the black hole beneath.

“Shine it here,” Phoebe whispered.

The light flickered like a sputtering torch. Micah smacked the side, momentarily stabilizing it. Although the hole was deep, their fading beam was strong enough to illuminate the body at the bottom. The corpse was shriveled and rusted beyond recognition, yet it glinted like golden cinders in a fireplace.

Phoebe shuddered. An unexpected wildfire of emotion swept through her. The image of her father's body, rubbed in gold with that splotch of blood on his chest, gleaming as he descended into darkness, was too much for her to bear. She turned away.

Micah was pale. “You okay?”

Phoebe sank to the ground with her back against the tomb. She held her pounding head in her hands.

Micah squatted beside her and gently peeked under the bandage on her forehead. She winced. “That ain't lookin' so hot, Plumm. We should change it soon.”

“I think I know what I'm supposed to do,” she said.

He gave her a sideways look. “What do you mean?”

“The whist.”

He plunked to the ground. “What about it?”

“I…” She hesitated to share with him. But Micah's apology on the shore had seemed sincere, and she needed to trust him.

“Last time I used the whist, I…I heard him. I don't know how, Micah, but my dad spoke to me. And my mother too.”

Micah looked at her, his brows rising.

“I know you don't believe me,” she said.

“It-it's not that,” he stammered. “Are you sure you didn't…imagine it or something? It was really them…actually talking?”

“It was them. I know their voices.”

“I know,” he said, trying to choose his words carefully. “It's just, I dunno. Creepy.”

“It's the only way I can make sense of what Rhom said.”

“But you don't have the whist anymore.”

“I have to figure out how to talk to him without it.”

Soft footsteps drew their attention. In the dim light of the vibrating stars, they saw Tik peering through a hole in the wall.

“Loaii,” he spoke quietly. “We needing you.”

They followed without question, relieved by the distraction. As they left the cathedral, Phoebe looked back at the Ona's masked face, the mosaic crumbled and flaking.

The prophet kept her secrets well.

Phoebe wrapped her arms around herself to protect against the bitingly cold air. The wind shook the needle trees, producing a grating squeak that set her teeth on edge. Tik led the kids through the rubble and across the scarred ground to a gentle slope studded with weathered grave markers. A cemetery.

The Broken were gathered at the lip of a deep crater, a woeful cavity that had been blasted by a Foundry bomb. Countless bodies were piled in the pit, lined up shoulder to shoulder and laid atop one another. The Broken stood silently, watching the kids with baleful expressions. Tik spoke to his companions in Rattletrap, and they murmured in response.

“We not having what need for rusting rites,” he explained, miming the turning of a crank. “No
ohneshalo
, you understand?”

She remembered the machine that had wailed a haunting chord at her father's funeral. “What can I do?”

Tik bowed. “You Loaii. Speak, Makina hear.”

“But I…”

Phoebe didn't know the words. She hardly knew anything about the Way. How could she possibly heal this wound?

The mournful mehkans stared at her, hoping for solace. All except for the hairy mehkan with the withered arm—his weeping eyes were fixed on the bundle he cradled. Slowly, reluctantly, he laid the wrapped body in the pit.

Phoebe breathed in.

She saw herself standing at her mother's grave.

Saw herself reflected in the mirror of her Carousel at home—that selfish, sniping girl who knew nothing about the world.

She breathed out.

Saw herself marching into the tunnel that led to Mehk. Saw herself looking deep into the eyes of the chraida, back when she first realized that mehkans were not machines. Saw herself reflected in the oasis, when she watched her Trinka sink into the vesper—when she finally understood the truth.

In.

At last, she saw her golden father sinking into the ore. He had sought to save Mehk, and now his path was her own. The way had been shaped for Phoebe from the beginning, though she had not seen it. Every step had been essential, preordained, carved for her to tread.

His death was not in vain.

Out.

In the nothing, Her voice will guide you.

Axial Phy had told her that Makina would come to her.

And She had. Because, Phoebe realized as exhaustion and outrage and confusion rose to a boil within her,
she believed.

At last, the path was illuminated.

“Mother of Ore,” she whispered, too soft for anyone else to hear. She closed her eyes, focused on her breath.

Phoebe felt calm. Not even the bitter cold could bother her.

“Mother of Ore,” she repeated, this time projecting above the wind. “We are trying to do Your will. Trying to follow Your plan.”

Tik began to translate for the somber Broken.

“We have so many enemies, and we are tired and suffering. But we believe in You. We trust in Your sacred machine. And we know that Your children who have rusted here…”

She turned her eyes to the stars. They were beautiful, delicate spiderwebs of light connected in the sky, like the entire universe was bound together, composed for this very moment.

“…that their embers will blaze in Your Forge forever.”

Phoebe looked at the assembled crowd.

“Praise the gears,” she said.

Tik translated, and the Broken repeated the phrase.

“Praise the gears,” Micah said sincerely. She looked over at him. Tears glistened in his eyes.

As the mehkan with the crippled arm stared at Phoebe, the lines of grief on his face softened. He bowed low to her.

The Broken got to work, tossing handfuls of ore into the pit. It clanked dully against the bodies below. Some of them grabbed pieces of debris to use as crude spades.

“Thank you, Loaii,” wheezed Tik. “We bury now. You rest.”

“You guys need help,” Micah said, seeing how much difficulty the feeble mehkans were having with the task.

“No. Our family, you understand? It is for us the burying. Now safe for us work. Loaii pray, keep Uaxtu away.”

The word rang a bell—Dollop had mentioned them before.

“Uaxtu?” Phoebe wondered.

“Ember-reapers,” Tik said in a nervous whisper. “Evil ones who defied Makina. She punish. They haunt dead places.”

“Well,” Micah said with a grin, “glad we could chase away all your ghosts and stuff. They won't be botherin' ya'll tonight.”

“You not know Uaxtu?” Tik's small, sore-dappled mouth quivered. “Loaii must know. Loaii must beware.”

“Tell us,” Phoebe said as Micah suppressed a yawn.

The night was patterned with the clank of the Broken shoveling ore. Tik stared into the mass grave for a moment.

Then in quiet, halting words, he told the story.

And in the place atop the Ephrian Mountains, where living blue does not reach and rust red is the crowning peak, dwelt the Uaxtu. There the mountain did not grow, for all was death and corrosion.

And near was the Shroud, den of our Mother of Ore, and near was Her Forge, where came the embers to be blazed and stirred and doused. Beyond its borders did Makina decree no mehkan should venture until the gears of fate decided it was their time.

But wicked were the Uaxtu, for they did not follow Her Way.

And spake the Uaxtu, one to another: “Of all mehkans, we are wisest, and will bow to none. Therefore, why should the secrets of rust be Makina's alone? Let us seek this sacred knowledge, that we may become as She. Let us learn what lies hidden beyond the Shroud, for none have returned from there to tell.”

Of foul tongue did the Uaxtu weave evil incantations as they slaughtered their own children. Then did they venture beyond the Shroud, seeking the embers of their slain. And they did steal the embers back and returned them unto the rusted bodies of their young. And lo, the bodies did live again.

And spake the Uaxtu, “Look upon us and tremble, for we have conquered rust, and we are greater than the Engineer.”

But Makina was not pleased. These, Her precious creations, had betrayed Her. And with heavy grief, She did condemn them. Upon them She did breathe Her holy fire, and they were turned to ash. And they became as shades, banished to eternal undying.

So spake our Mother, “Seek My Way, find thy function. But woe to those who defy me. Woe to those who profane the Shroud!”

Thus were the Uaxtu damned, eternally hollow, hungry to reap holy embers to replace their own. And only the blessing of the Waybound would repel their lustful greed.

And their forsaken home atop the Ephrian Mountains, where living blue does not reach and rust red is the crowning peak, did the Great Engineer name Rust Risen.

Accord IV: Edicts 06–11

I
do not stop running for hours. Yet somehow I don't tire, like a train rolling downhill.

I am at home in this darkness. But the world feels enormous, wider and deeper than I have ever known it to be. Frightens me, and that is not a feeling I am used to.

Pain grows with every stride, a volcano within where the bonding rounds entered my shoulder and chest. Muscle shreds. Minute by minute, I reach new heights of agony.

But I won't stop. I will the pain to fuel me. And I know that help will meet me at my destination.

I run faster.

Taste blood through my not-skin. Their blood. Try to remember their faces, but they're already fading. How many were there? The images in my head stick together, edges smearing.

I sense my way. Smell the path. Have never been here, but somehow I know where to go. The past is a confusing mess, part dream and part memory, but now is clear. The place I seek is near.

The suns peek over the red mesas, like slanted wedges holding up the sky. I slide into the shadows, shelter from the day.

When I stop running, the pain eats at me. Every sense drowned out by fire. Wounds are gaping, mouths torn open in my flesh. The white bonding agent is gritty and crumbling like sand. Can't stick to me. But the rounds are still inside. Digging deeper.