Chapter 29: Fieldcraft

Chapter 29: Fieldcraft The ruin had once been a site of worship, or punishment, or both. Apollo saw it first from the notch of the valley: black stones canted at improbable angles, as if the ground beneath had heaved in disgust and the building, too tired to object, had simply leaned into collapse. The dog whimpered and gnashed its teeth at the wind; even Nik, who could joke his way through a murder, said nothing as the path funneled them toward the entrance. Lyra walked a few steps ahead, chin tucked, arms folded beneath her coat. Long, pale hair whipped across her eyes, as if she hated the idea of seeing what waited inside. Thorin trailed behind, dragging his bad leg through the crusted snow, not bothering anymore to hide the pain. The front door...if it was a door; if this place had ever deserved such distinctions...hung from a single hinge, battered and scored by decades of neglect. Apollo pressed his palm to it and felt the chill, not of weather, but of something that had long ago given up on pretending to be alive. Beyond, the nave was a cavity of cold, a sunken bowl, its lip lined with pews now half-rotted and scattered like broken ribs. The air shimmered in places, little ripples of pressure. When he stepped across the threshold, the sensation hooked into his chest and pulled. ’Don’t be obvious,’ he told himself. ’Just a house for the dead, like any other.’ Nik coughed, then sniffed. "Smells like bleach and old honey in here," he said. "That usual for your people, Lio?" He shrugged, sidestepping a fragment of bone on the flagstones. "Maybe the priests liked their clean-up." "Maybe the priests are still here." Lyra’s voice came sharp, splitting the hush. Her eyes, ringed in exhaustion-gold, flickered up to the apse. Apollo followed her gaze. Above the altar, the glass was not broken but warped, so that the last of the day’s light bled through and made a trembling, arterial stain across the far wall. Beneath it, the bowl: a shallow basin, set in a dais of obsidian, thick with a dust so fine it seemed to levitate. Instinct said walk away. Habit said go closer. "Stay at the door," he muttered, but Nik was already edging sideways, making for the shadowed stair to the right. Lyra hung back, jaw set, hand on the dagger up her sleeve. Thorin took a seat on the nearest bench, breathing in short, economical bursts. The closer Apollo got to the bowl, the worse his teeth hurt. Not the sharp pain of a nerve gone to rot, but a buzzing, a resonance that mapped itself onto every old break and scar in his bones. The rim of the basin was scored with lines, runes, maybe, but not in any script he’d seen in the cities or in Othra’s books. A geometry of angles and punctures. He traced one of the lines, and the dust clinging to the stone flowed away from his touch, exposing something that glittered darkly underneath. Obsidian, then gold, then the impossible blue of aether marble. He felt the urge to laugh, of course the gods would flavor their shrines with a relic rare enough that the entire world could have burned and left only these crumbs. Of course it would pull at him with the gravity of a starved animal. He closed his eyes, tried to catalogue the pressure, but the rush of wind cut that off: a new draft spilling down from the ruined rafters, swirling in the nave. Lyra’s voice, near his ear: "What is it?" He opened his eyes. She’d crossed the room without sound or warning, and her face was inches from his, mouth set in a hard line. "Have you ever seen one before?" she asked, glancing at the bowl, then back at his face. He shook his head, but something in the lie didn’t land. She stepped around him, staring at the basin, then touched her own thumb to the rim. The line of runes flickered, like watching a bundle of wires catch the memory of a current. She flinched, yanked her hand back. "It’s alive." Someone else’s voice, but his own. "That’s the trap, isn’t it? Make the promise of power so obvious, no one with any will ever leaves it alone." They stood there in the dark, the bowl reflecting a faint, wrong light up into their faces. Behind them, Thorin rasped a laugh and said, "Don’t break it. Might be the only thing holding this place together." Nik, from the shadows, hissed: "Something moved upstairs. Bare skin, maybe ten feet away. You want me to flush it?" Apollo’s mouth was bone-dry. He kept his voice steady. "If you see it, don’t chase. We’ll leave soon." But the basin had begun to hum, a bass note, too low for any ear but perfectly calibrated for the bones. He pressed his hand full against the marble, and the hum cut through him with a clarity that nearly made him swoon. For a second, the world went dark at the edges. The vision he’d had in the well outside the city sharpened: the field of white flowers, the well of red, the faces with his own features, all waiting in a circle at the horizon. In the nave, the dust began to swirl, then coalesce. Not a ghost, not even a memory, but a pattern: a thin, pale figure, eyes star-bright and sexless, skin stretched so tight over bone that it looked like a carved candle at the point of collapse. The apparition hovered a foot above the altar, hands folded, head inclined as if listening to a music too faint for mortal frequency. The dog saw it first. It howled, once, then cowered and pissed itself at Lyra’s feet. Nik was halfway across the aisle, knife drawn, but the apparition made no move. It only stared at Apollo, then at the bowl, then at Apollo again. A triangle. A suggestion: Don’t make me say it. He fished the shard from his coat, held it up. The apparition’s eyes widened, and for the first and only time Apollo saw a flash of recognition, then gratitude, then something like envy, then nothing at all. The apparition inclined its head, then vanished. The bowl stopped humming. The air, for a moment, was so thin it felt like standing on a mountaintop. Apollo dropped to one knee, hand still clutching the rim, and saw that the dust had settled across the inside of the basin, spelling a word he knew from nightmares but not from waking life. Lyra read it too, eyes darting over the script. "What’s it mean?" He shook his head. "A warning," he said, though he knew it was a command. Nik made a show of holstering his knife, but his shoulders were bunched, face gone blank. "If it’s a trap, why not spring it?" Thorin stood, grinning his sour, crooked grin. "Everything’s trap if you’re not the architect." Apollo looked from the basin to his hands, then to the others. "We keep moving," he said, but found he couldn’t let go of the rim just yet. He waited for the world to pull him apart, for the city to finally notice what he was, for the gods to reach down and finish their joke. Instead, the dog licked his hand, and Lyra, who had never been one for tenderness, offered a grip at his elbow. He took it, stood, and for just a second the gold in his veins lit the ruin with an afterglow. Then it faded. They left the basin behind, the bowl’s warning scored into memory, and stepped out into the dusk, where the sky was already the color of extinction. No one spoke until the next ridge, and even then, it was as if language had become obsolete, nothing left to say, only the promise of another eastward morning, always and again.