by Greg Curtis
Chapter Forty Two
White was the new trend. At least in hair colour. That was what Sorsha had decided as she looped a few tresses of her hair around her fingers and played with it. It wasn't such a bad colour. As long as she wasn't as old as it suggested. And though she was tired and still recovering from the battle, she was recovering. The necklaces were working. And however many spiders were left, they weren't stealing her vitality.
Of course she knew that she, like every other spell-caster who had been sent to the other realm, was going to have to wear the necklace for the rest of her life. That wasn't such a pleasant thought. But it was better than being drained.
She knew the spiders were still out there. Not least because every so often another bunch of them would attack them. In fact as she sat there she watched another group of a score or so march down the blackened wasteland that had once been the foothills of the Hammersmith ranges, heading for their death. Because they still died when they walked through the portal wall. And they never learned.
She suspected they kept doing it because they couldn't actually see the portal. To her eyes, and to normal eyes, there was a shimmer there that told them a portal was in front of them. But spiders had very different vision. They might not be able to see that. Only the prey beyond. As long as she and the rest were camped there, the spiders would keep marching for them – and keep dying.
“You know you really should be in there, discussing the future with the Air Commander.”
Sorsha looked up to see Peth standing there, and Danvers beside him. They were looking a little flustered. That happened every so often as the negotiations dragged on. But it had occurred to her this morning when she'd woken up, that they weren't actually negotiations and they didn't have to happen. Which was why she'd decided to spend the day doing nothing.
“There's no point,” she told them simply.
“It's our people's future!” Peth objected.
“No. It's not.” Sorsha shrugged. “This, all of this is meaningless.” And she was angry with herself for having taken so long to realise that.
At first it had seemed important. The Air Commander had insisted that they discuss the situation. And there had been meetings and endless questions as he reported everything they told him back to his superiors. But at some point it had struck her that he was only asking questions. He never gave them any information and he never suggested any sort of arrangement.
After that it had finally occurred to her why he didn't do those things. He couldn't. If there was a war he could negotiate a surrender or a truce. Begin making plans for peace though of course he could never sign one. But there was no war. No rebellion either. They weren't rising up. They weren't trying to secure our independence from Redmond. They were just normal citizens of the realm who looked a bit different. If there was no war, no rebellion and no military concern, what could a soldier do? He was simply the wrong man for the task.
The right man of course, had they been rebels or immigrants making a new home in the realm, would have been a representative of the King or someone from the Court. But no one had come despite the fact that he kept assuring them that someone would be sent. Now she was beginning to realise that no one would.
They had told the Air Commander that on the first day that they weren't rebels or an invading army, and he had no doubt told his superiors, and they then would surely have told the Court and the King. And from that point on precisely nothing had happened.
None of his superiors had come. None of the Court had come calling. No official representative of the King had turned up. Because they'd realised the exact same thing. If there was no war and no rebellion, then there was nothing to discuss.
But the Air Commander had let them believe that there would be. Now she knew better. No one was coming.
The Court would do nothing, just as they had done from the beginning. They would just sit back and hope that things resolved themselves. Or maybe discuss the matter and make a decision – in a few years. The King was barely a figurehead, and the one military force he could have relied on to do his bidding, now consisted of seven members of the Silver Order who were all safely locked away. So he could do nothing. And the Royal Army wasn't about to declare war on their own people. How could they? There was no country to invade and no force of enemy soldiers to fight.
What they had was actually disorder. And that was a matter for the town and city guards to deal with. The magistrates – if there was a crime. Maybe for the local councils. Not the military. Not the nobility. And certainly not the King.
But she understood why the others were so desperate for something to come of these discussions. They were in a new world. A strange world that they didn't understand and which didn't understand them. They wanted to find their place in it. And they thought – because he let them think it – that this was the way. It wasn't.
Because what had occurred to her this morning was that they weren't in a new world at all. They were still in the same one, even though it had changed drastically. They didn't have to negotiate a place in it. They already had one. They were citizens. What they had to do was make their lives in it. Open their businesses. Buy their homes. Raise their families. And slowly rebuild. There was no miracle here. Only the long, slow journey to becoming once again the respected members of Redmond that they had been.
Sorsha tried to explain that to the others, but she wasn't sure they understood. They still saw the man in his neatly tailored uniform with its brightly polished boots and buttons, and thought – here was a man who could do something. Who could make them welcome in this new land.
So she let them go and continued sitting there and playing with her hair as she watched another group of spiders march relentlessly to their death. And occasionally she rubbed a little salve into her burns. Though they were nearly healed they still hurt even now. Ten days had passed since the battle had been fought – she still wasn't ready to say that it had been won – and she might have to sit here for another ten or even another ten thousand before she knew the spiders were gone. But she would do exactly that if she had to. After all, what else did she have to do? And she wanted them to be very gone. So gone that they weren't even a memory.
But as she was sitting there dwelling on that, she was distracted by the sound of someone calling her name. And immediately she heard the woman calling for her, she forgot everything. She knew that voice!
“Ma?!” She stood up hurriedly and called out to her, wondering if it could really be her. After all this time without a word! But that didn't stop her calling out to her again when she heard her mother call back. And then she hurried for the tents. Because the voice was coming from somewhere among them.
She didn't make it to the tents though. Her mother came hurrying out from behind one of them, saw her, and after that they were running.
Then they were hugging and screaming and crying like madwomen. Tears of happiness were running down her cheeks, and she didn't care. And she looked like anything but a woman in charge of things. But she didn't care about that either. All she cared about was that her mother was in her arms. Warm and solid and telling her how much she loved her. And shortly after that her father appeared along with her sister, and everyone was embracing her and crying.
It had been so long. Four hundred years. And she was sure that she had known their absence for all of that time.
Chapter Forty Three
It was early. Too early to be out Manx thought as he stood on his front porch and surveyed the wreckage of his yard. But it was the same time he left every morning. Or that he had before the world had turned upside down. But now things were returning to normal and it was time to go back to work.
He was looking forwards to that. To another day back in the basement of the library, repairing books in the peace and quiet. Because his life since he had returned to Winstone had been neither peaceful nor quiet. How could it be. He had a cat. An angry cat who was constantly complaining about Styl and the way she'd treated her. S
he still thought she'd been betrayed. In Whitey's thoughts there was never a memory of the things she'd done wrong, like ripping up the woman's clothes.
And he also had a house guest. He wasn't sure why. But Larissa had moved into his spare bedchamber – accommodation in the city was at a premium so he understood and there was no Temple of Ao for her to stay at – and the arguments between the two of them never ended. And for some reason they both seemed to believe he should take their side. But he wasn't that stupid!
They were still arguing behind him as he stood there, which was why he adjusted his hat and scarf and set off along the garden path until he reached what remained of his front fence. The white pickets were of course everywhere, and the gate was hanging off its post at an odd angle, thanks largely to the boar sunning itself on what remained of his lawn.
“Do you have any idea how much this is going to cost to repair?” he asked the beast. Naturally it ignored him. It just grunted a little and continued lying there, completely unconcerned.
But he supposed he shouldn't complain. Not after what he'd done to the beast. And he had plenty of coin. He had after all received a generous stipend from his family for the past twenty five years on top of the coin he earned for his work. Though he guessed the stipend was going to stop coming now. Still he had a cake tin full of silver and gold coins. It would be more than enough to repair the fences. Or to replace them with much sturdier ones as he suspected he would have to do. The real challenge would be finding workmen. They were in short supply in the city at the moment. And then he'd need gardeners too.
Manx carefully opened the gate, trying not to break it loose of what remained of its hinges, and then stepped out into the street. Then he took in a deep breath of the city's now much fresher air, and set off. But before he'd made it two steps he heard a woman scream behind him.
“My shoes!” Larissa bellowed at the top of her lungs. “My new shoes!”
“Oh shite!” Manx groaned quietly. He could guess what had happened to the shaman's new shoes. And that it would mean yet more screaming and yelling for the rest of the day. Which was why he immediately took the noble course of action and started walking down the street as fast as he could! Maybe he should have run!
Let the two of them fight it out, he told himself.
Soon the house was out of sight, and the two combatants out of earshot, and he slowed down a little. He was far enough away that they couldn't catch him. And for the moment the morning sun was shining in his face, warming him over the slight chill in the air, and he had a ways to go.
But he felt good. He felt strong and fit. Those weeks and months on the road had done him some good. He'd lost weight and gained a little fitness. But more than that he moved much more freely thanks to the unguent. His scars no longer bound, and in fact they were much less angry than they had been. Which made him think a completely new thought.
All his life he'd hidden. He'd been ashamed to show his face in the open. And mostly he'd kept to himself. But now, not only wasn't he as scarred as he had been, he was growing a damned tail. The bloody thing was already three inches long, and it wagged, almost of its own accord. Soon he wouldn't be able to hide it. Or the fact that he wasn't just a simple librarian. He had magic. He was as a guard had once described them, one of the funny people.
Maybe it was time to accept that. To stop hiding. To walk out in the open with his head held high like everyone else. And after all what were a few scars in a world where people had antlers and three eyes and horns? Compared to them a tail was nothing.
So from somewhere deep inside that he hadn't even known existed, he found the courage to take off his hat, stuff it into the pocket of his frock coat, and then unwind the scarf so it simply hung around his shoulders. And then with his face exposed for all to see he continued on his way. If people wanted to stare, he decided, let them. He wasn't going to hide any more.
But they didn't stare. They scarcely even bothered looking at him. Probably because they had too much else on their minds. The parrots that were nesting in practically every mailbox in the city. The need to earn some coin in a city that was in pieces, so that they could put food on their tables. The anxiety about all these strange looking people with magic at their fingertips. Or any of the other thousand and one problems of everyday life.
Maybe it was because the scars had flattened and faded enough that they weren't so striking. But maybe it had always been that way, and he'd simply never had the courage to find out. Regardless it felt good to walk out in the open without the need to hide anything.
“Hey piss pot! You're back!”
Manx looked up as he heard the cat addressing him, and then he groaned as he realised he was passing the Oldstone Estate. His favourite pest was there, sitting on the top of the fence, looking ready for some action.
“Have you been waiting there all this time for me to return?” he asked sarcastically. “I had no idea you'd miss me so much!”
“Of course I missed you monkey man. Who else would I have to laugh at!”
“Ever looked in a mirror?!” Manx shot back. And then he hurried on his way, not wanting to stay and wait for the retort that he knew was coming.
Soon he was heading for the heart of the city and he could see signs of life. Traders were wheeling their stalls out to the market, and troops of long tailed monkeys were giving chase, looking for scraps and the chance to steal anything that wasn't nailed down. Handymen and gardeners were setting up for the day, rebuilding the city home by home, and for the most part making it animal proof. In the distance he could hear the trumpeting of elephants – it seemed that they'd moved back into the city and no one had been able to tell them to leave. And storekeepers were putting out the signs as they prepared for the days trading.
Strangest of all though, a new store had opened – Beryl's Enchantments. He didn't know who Beryl was, or if she even existed. It might just be a name. But magical wares were being sold in the city? He smiled at the thought. That was new. And it was probably a good thing, he thought. At the end of the day, the new arrivals had to find a place in the world. There was no choice. For a time it had looked like there might be a rebellion or maybe even a war. But finally it seemed, reality had arrived. They all just had to live together.
Maybe after work he'd visit the store and see what was available. But first, work. He had books to mend. And now that things were returning to normal and the library was reopening, no doubt Mr. Merryweather would be back in his office, watching the staff arrive and threatening to dock pay for those who were late. He was an arse after all.
But that, Manx decided, was as it should be.
