UNSEELIE

Through the white I can just see Ailiss, jaw set and hands tight round the rope. One breath, and it’s cooler than she expected, crisp, with a faint flavor she can’t place.  It would be pleasant, were it not for the feeling of chill fingers probing her throat, her lungs and nose. Still, tisn’t like the undercity. Ailiss doesn’t believe anything is.

It’s quiet in the white. Her breath is jagged, and she can hear the shuffle of steps, quick and short, from ahead, and the hum of someone’s fingers trailing ‘long the Pipe. West Pipe’s not meant to be exposed like this, bared like the spine of some half-eaten creature. It hadn’t been buried by the time the mist came. Ailiss takes a moment to grumble to herself about that; twould have saved her some effort.

The rope slackens. Someone stopped ahead of her. Ailiss feels panic rising in her chest, but it’s only a moment til she hears the call, cutting harshly through the silence. The man’s voice lilts uncertainly at the end: “I found something?”

A few more steps and she sees it too. There’s the marker, yes, hammered at eye level through the Pipe from the safety of the inside - Ailiss’ boots sink into the earth with a squelch. Her searching fingers probe the Pipe ahead and she feels jagged metal, wounds heavy enough to wound another. She snatches her hand back and watches the blood ooze from it.

“Is that one of the holes?” she asks, hating her voice in the quiet.

“You could say that,” says the older man from ahead of her, the one who’d stepped into the mist like it was a morning walk to the bakery. He doesn’t sound so sure of himself now.

Ailiss moves again til she can see it. It gapes from her fingertips to her elbow; no wonder the ground’s bathed in liquid waste. This wasn’t what she’d been told. The Pipe’d been punctured in a few places, they said, maybe a tree or a stone fell from outside the ditch. But she can see the distinctive marks of teeth on the cool metal. Teeth, or claws? As it may be, she’s never seen a creature that could do such grievous harm to metal.

         Lord Pan, the Horned One, the Serpent in the Garden, Reveler in Folly. We Nephilim have many names, more than Sivan could ever know, certainly more than she’s heard in her meager child’s years, and yet each name’s the same, at its core. A dragon with a thousand heads is one great beast, coiled round the city’s still-beating heart.

         He is like Lamia, and yet unlike her. The Serpent’s an easier sight for human eyes, to be sure; his skin’s warm and living, his bones strong, dark curls like a nest for long curved horns. He springs from his repose, greets Sivan like a noble, lips pressed to the back of her hand. But here, under the cathedral’s ancient skin (the only light born from oil lamps, caged by glass and iron, faint strains of song echoing like ghosts), beauty’s another kind of awful. She looks, reluctantly, into burning amber eyes, and

fever dancing burning bright the fire’s name is life

         listens

just careless cares to speak of, fire’s name is love

         answers his inquiries, her words sure and keen. Flour and grain for Lamia, and fruits to be dried, and to the Orchard goes finely spun cloth and finely wrought stone and finely detailed wood. The deed is done, in Pan’s eyes. Sivan’s free, now, to partake in whatever pleasure she desires. On this night all the Orchard’s hers to roam, and she has never felt so vital, so high, so molten. She barely notices the stirrings of god which demand her attention and her obedience.

         Sivan drinks. She dances with more women than she can remember. One of them’s fearsome, a lady all in black with a quick slash of a mouth and bloody words pouring out of it.  Sivan leads her somewhere she doesn’t remember, somewhere dark where their bare skin’s caressed by leaves and silken grass, and gets a taste of that mouth.

           Faintly, through cracks between softening floorboards, I see the candle Breghan’s lit. He’s crafted it himself, from the dead wax on windowsills and temple floors. The undercity care little for Echo’s factories.

         Magda sits across from Breghan, her wretched face warm in the candlelight. She glances around the little circle, notes the glint of light on Heron’s knife, the copper shine of Breghan’s eyes, Odd’s matted gray locks, and says

         “’Twill be an exciting year for us all.”

         Odd’s left eye twitches. “Exciting in the unwelcome sense. No pleasantry, unless one happens to enjoy the sight of babes’ corpses.”

         “Perhaps,” Magda grants. “But I’d not be so quick to cry doomsday. If we have no hope, we have no will.”

         There’s a silence. Breghan breaks it – he’s no interest in idleness.

         “For the present,” he says, “I’m more concerned about the knockers’ corpses.” Dullahan’s arms reach farther than one might think; the last time one was slain - Breghan was just a tot throwing stones at sparrows, hoping for a meal - ‘twas weeks before the blood stopped pouring, and not all of it was gods’ blood. Nephilim are vengeful sorts, and the Knocker in Moonlight is no exception.

         “Aye, but what are we to do? Keep people from the streets? The hounds’ll flush us out faster than I could snuff this candle.” Magda shakes her head slowly. “We have to protect ourselves. The cityfolk aren’t all children; they’ll act sensibly.”

         “Huddling in their huts,” sneers Odd. “Quaking elders. Babes screaming. My magic will be strong.”

         Breghan pulls fretfully at the hair on his left temple. He tries in vain to will his arm still – he’d rather not have to shave again, he likes to have that option when he needs to look different, and quickly.

         From these heights, I can see the Orchard;

         tendrils from its green expanse invading the cityscape round it, torchlight and bonlight leaking from neath its branches. Sivan is there. She’s never been before, not during festival, and she’s astounded, she’s aweshocked at the tumblers, the firewalkers, the dancers, the drunkards, the lovers unconcerned with privacy. She’s never seen such revelry. She’s never seen people so wild.

         It’s hard for Sivan to draw anyone’s attention. She’s small and dull, and they’ve more interesting things to look at. After a time, though, she manages to find a man- a lean, sharp man- who recognizes her. He seizes her by the shoulder, stopping her path.

         “What business has a child of the Queen who Crawls in the garden?” His voice is also lean and sharp. Sivan stutters- she didn’t expect them to know her- and her pieces of god stir from their nests of muscle and marrow. Quick:

         “I’ve trade propositions.”

         His eyes narrow. “This early?”

         “We haven’t enough for the winter. Lamia’s offering more than a fair deal.” Sivan lets her hazel eyes bore into his, hoping they’ll convey the double meaning of her words. If it works, she can’t tell.

         “You’ll need to parley with Lord Pan.”

         Sivan stiffens. She’s not eager to meet another of the Nephilim, specially not one she’s aligned against. Alas, god will offer her no choice.

         “Aight, then. Take me to him.”

         He tilts his head, considering, then beckons into the crowd. A fat woman in a pinstriped maroon skirt puts down her ale, pushes people aside as she moves. “Who’s this, Gevin?” she asks, voice quick and piping.

         “She’s from Lamia. We have to take her to Lord Pan.”

         “Ohh.” The woman crosses her arms. “We have to. Not just you. It’s clearly a two-man job.”

         “Yes, it is, Ulla. Now come.” Gevin takes them both by the arm and, ignoring Sivan’s start, leads them deeper into the Orchard. Sivan’s heart’s thumping; she reminds herself to breathe, looks at the vaulted green ceiling above her. She’s soon distracted, though; a flaming torch sails over her head. She can’t see who catches it, or if it was indeed caught. The crowd seems unperturbed. Gevin sweeps her on.

         There are bonfires ahead - under gaps in the branches - caressing the sky. Gevin leads her between them, and between another pair, and another. ‘Tis a path, though it’s overgrown as the rest of the garden. The revelers stay clear of it.

         And soon enough, the canopy thins and Sivan can see Pan’s cathedral. Lamia’s palace is wondrous, but fortresses of stone’re hardly scarce, not in the city. Sivan’s seen them all her life. She gazes, spellbound, enraptured, enchanted, at the ancient winding branches embracing trunks rising taller than a hundred men.

It’s all made of wood.

            I see a woman in roughspun clothing, dark braid swinging in time with her kit as she walks.

            There are others with her – it’s the morning of her first day outside, and no one goes out alone. No one but the poor souls who’ve the hubris to think they can rule themselves.

            She’s afraid.

            She’s petrified, in fact, but she can’t back down now she’s taken the job, sworn in before Araun and all his court. The High and Mighty’s not one to forgive even a small transgression. In any case, she spent her last spare pennies on the fare to West Pipe. She needs this money. She needs it for Ave and the children.

            When they reach the gatehouse, the foreman takes the rope and knots it round each of their waists. It’s thick, sturdy cable, not the cheap sort they make in the factories. He cinches it so tightly it hurts, but she’s glad of it. She looks at her companions, her colleagues, appraisingly. Both are men. One is young and nervous; the other is neither.

            The foreman’s speaking now, giving them instructions. Stay tight to the Pipe; find the marker; fix what they can, but odds are they won’t have the right tools and this foray’ll be a more of a scouting mission. They understand. They nod.

            He wheels the gate open, and the mist seeps in, hungry. She tries to look through, but it’s like she’s blind, like there’s nothing there at all.

            She breathes deep and reminds herself:

           She can do this. She is Ailiss Hart, Maintenance, and she has crawled for hours through piss and molten shit beneath the city; she can certainly do this job.

           She has to.

           The older workman, the one on the rope’s leading end, steps into the mist. One step, and he’s out of sight. There’s not much slack between each of them; the young man has to go quick. He looks back at Ailiss before stepping through, smiles at her, but she can hear his ragged breaths over the sound of her own.

           I see a gray waif entering a palace. Her face is drawn. Her heels are dragging.

           She walks. The guards look on mutely, row after row, still and silent but for the clicking of small feet and jaws within them. When she comes upon the throne room, the last pair pull the great stone doors tight behind her. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust – a moment before she can begin to approach her god.

           She approaches. She kneels, eyes closed, chin to her sternum.

           And Lamia is there,

breath like eight thousand, four hundred and twenty-one wings

           speaking:

voice like eight thousand, four hundred and twenty-one chelicerae

           “Sivan. My child.”

fingers, stiff and leaking, at her temple

           “You did not answer my summons promptly.”

           Of course she was unwilling. She is only a child, and she never asked for any of this, least of all for the pieces of god squirming under her skin. Not really. Not this.

           Still, she daren’t speak.

           “Must I punish you?”

           She chokes back a whimper as they stir inside her.

           “Or will you make your reparations elsewise? Yes, I think you will.”

           “Th-thank you, mlady-“

           “Shh, now. You’ve labor ahead of you.”

           Trembling in relief: “What would you have me do, mlady?”

           “Pan.”

           Pan. The Horned One, Reveler in Folly, the Serpent in the Garden.

           “He’s wronged us. You will bring my swift reprisal.”

           Sivan knows better than to ask what he did.

           “Remember, Sivan – all of this is for you. For all of you.”

            Who’s Sivan to disagree? A mere mortal body, enacting the wishes of god – her kingdom come, her will be done, without as it is within.

            I can see what Morrighan’s feathers see:

            gleaming spires, stone and metal fingers reaching to the sky, walls thick as the earth and high as the gods’ ambitions, and the Court at the center of it all, myself peering from its loftiest window;

            and below, the shacks cobbled from mud and splinters, the masses crammed into buildings ready to fall, the smoke rising from factories where the multitudes suffer.

            Tansermorghaine.

            Tansermorghaine, the city of fallen angels, the last bastion of humanity, the place where giants rule with hands of iron and eyes of ice.

            Tansermorghaine.

            Here I will chronicle the events of the coming war as they transpire - I, Mimir, scribe and seer of the Unseelie Court - for perusal by any who seek this knowledge.