Oracle's Fire

by Mary Victoria

  At first, it appeared he had made the correct choice. The passage plunged purposefully down into the branch-core, as if it were as eager as they to reach its goal. There were other tunnels, small openings their questing fingers passed on the walls, but these were minor by-ways. The main passage did not falter. The groaning and tearing of wood grew faint behind them, and the shuddering of the branch gradually stilled. As the floor began to feel level again beneath his feet, Tymon allowed himself to hope that they had indeed taken the vital turning into the main trunk, and were out of immediate danger. The air was not dead and stagnant in these lower passages, as he had worried it might be, but stirring with the promise of another, far-off exit.

  An age went by, with only the shuffling steps of the workers and their muted conversation to break the silence. On and on in single file they walked, down into the black heart of the Tree. After a while, Tymon’s body began to be racked with shivers, his weariness catching up with him at last. He had not eaten since the day before and the reopened wounds on his back were wet with blood, sticking to his undershirt. He bumped dizzily against the wall of the tunnel, causing Zero to reach out and steady him from behind with a whisper of concern.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Tymon muttered, brushing his friend away. ‘Everyone else is just as tired as I am.’

  He was furious with himself, now. He felt as if his body were a clumsy impediment, a liability after all he had been through. He had withstood the accursed birds — survived Tahu’s machinations — even endured the brutality of the guards and not succumbed, only to be thwarted by his own physical weakness. He forced himself to take the next step, and the next. He began to feel suffocated by the claustrophobic darkness of the mine. If only it would end. If only they could reach an opening. The thought of Samiha, alive and waiting somewhere in the Tree while he wandered aimlessly through these tunnels, became excruciating. He had to get out!

  ‘Just do it,’ he mumbled aloud to himself as he stumbled on. ‘Just damned-to-root do it.’

  When the first chant echoed out behind him, he almost fell. The husky voices of the mineworkers were rising up in the darkness, one after another, blending into a ghostly melody. They sang to give themselves courage, to fend off the gloom. They sang, surprisingly, neither in Lantrian nor in Nurian, but in a language known to slaves in both countries, the ‘twig-tongue’ Tymon remembered from Marak.

  Up to Heaven, take my feet, they crooned, their shuffling steps keeping time. Those who dead lay down to sleep.

  Tymon straightened his back, kept his hand on the wall to his right and walked on, his companions’ voices buoying him, pushing back the darkness.

  Chain-men don’t go lying down.

  Walk me up to Heaven’s crown.

  So much for the slaves of Chal being legally soulless, thought Tymon. The workers had their own ideas about a heavenly reward.

  But the songs could not keep the encroaching dark of the mine at bay for long, and soon even the dauntless workers of Chal sighed and fell silent. By now the passage had ceased its spiralling descent and ran straight, as far as Tymon could tell, though he could no longer guess the direction. He was just wearily considering the merits of calling for a halt and a much-needed rest, perhaps even attempting a Reading to determine their course, when he caught sight of a light ahead — a faint, pale flickering in the far reaches of the passage.

  Daylight! he thought. An opening, an end to this unbearable hole. Panting with effort, he staggered towards it, leaning heavily on the right-hand wall. When Zero, hurrying behind him, asked him once more if he were well, his answer was barely audible.

  ‘Don’t you see it?’ he muttered, his gaze fixed on the faraway glimmer.

  As he neared his goal, however, his steps faltered and he frowned in perplexity. The light did not behave like an opening to the outside world. He realised with a shock that it was moving towards him. It wavered, a wandering white smudge in the blank darkness of the tunnel. He stopped short, causing Zero to blunder against him again.

  ‘What is it, Lord?’ whispered the Marak boy.

  ‘My spirits,’ said Tymon. His voice sounded thick and slow in his own ears. ‘They’re back. Come on. We’re getting out of here.’

  Before him walked the familiar vision of Samiha. He could See her now, clear as day, some distance down the tunnel. Her form was transparent, glowing with pale light, but otherwise she was as he remembered her in Sheb: a small, straight-backed figure, grave and beautiful, her long, shimmering hair braided down her back.

  Giddy excitement took hold of him, and he forgot his aching limbs and tiredness as he hastened towards her. She gazed at him an instant, then turned and walked down the tunnel ahead. He followed her eagerly. A moment later, he saw her faraway form step into an opening on the right; he struggled to catch up with her, plunging into the side-passage only to see the glimmering figure still walking ahead of him, still some distance down the tunnel. It seemed to him that she glanced over her shoulder before continuing, as if to check that he was there. He hurried after her without a moment’s hesitation, while Zero and the others pursued him as best they could, far behind.

  9

  Ephelius Gowron, born some fifty years ago in the slums of Argos city, the sole bastard son of a seminary tax collector and a laundry maid, disembarked once more in his native town on the nineteenth day of the month of Sunlight Return, four weeks after the Kion’s trial. He had made the long voyage from the colonies on board two merchant dirigibles, first travelling to Marak, then catching a winter freighter back to the Mother Canopy. He looked almost respectable when he set foot on the air-harbour quays that morning; his hair and beard had been trimmed, his ancient priest’s garb replaced by a sailor’s double-breasted coat and boots. Only his eyes, peering with veiled disdain at his compatriots in the streets of the city, betrayed their old, murderous gleam. That hint of violence was no less dangerous for being officially sanctioned. He was ushered into the Saint’s opulent office at the College after barely a word of questioning from the guards, for the men had been told to expect him. And although his subsequent report to Fallow might have amazed the Saint, it came as no surprise to the two other witnesses present at the meeting.

  The Envoy, accompanied by an apparently restored and smooth-faced Wick, sat through Gowron’s revelations about traitors within the ranks of the seminary without batting an eyelid. The evidence regarding one of the Fathers who had been caught selling state secrets to Lantria had been concocted by Lace himself, of course, and given to his acolyte in secret, well in advance. The only one in the room who had not yet heard the trumped-up tale of Rede’s treachery was Fallow. After Gowron had finished his account, the Saint sat back in his chair, his expression frankly gleeful.

  ‘That’s terrible, terrible,’ he observed, looking anything but upset. ‘Father Rede, eh? Who’d have thought it. And the link to the East, too: my goodness. We’ll nip this thing in the bud, my friends. What wonderful timing. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Ephelius. You’ll have your tenure at the seminary fully reinstated, of course. I’m grateful to you for your hard work.’

  ‘It’s my pleasure, Holiness,’ smiled Gowron. ‘I can’t stand a traitor. I’ve made my mistakes in the past, but I’m still proud to be an Argosian and loyal to the Mother Canopy — not like these white-necks. They have no sense of honour.’

  ‘Well, well,’ Fallow ruminated. He rose, still rubbing his hands together. ‘I suppose I ought to take care of this immediately. No sense in letting it linger, however much I deplore arresting a colleague. And there’s all the other arrangements to make, too, the go-ahead to send to Admiral Greenly … Forgive me, all of you, if I hurry off. I’ll see you later. This is a day of great achievements.’

  Before quitting the room, however, the All-Father paused a moment to stand by Wick. ‘Congratulations also on your rapid recovery, acolyte,’ he added, patting the lad good-naturedly on the shoulder. ‘A fine day on all counts.’

  With that, he bustled out of t
he office, leaving the Envoy and his two co-conspirators gazing at each other across the hardwood desk.

  ‘I’m impressed, too,’ drawled Gowron, his eyes lingering curiously on Wick. ‘Healing from an accident in the Veil is no mean feat. May I ask if there is some form of — ah — enhancement?’

  Wick turned aside from his scrutiny, mumbling an incoherent reply.

  ‘Wick’s good health, however pleased we are to witness it, is not the issue here,’ Lace reminded them dryly. ‘I have some business for us to attend to while our Saint is occupied by his witch hunt. I summoned you back to Argos for a higher purpose, Gowron, if you recall. The Sap is finally moving in our favour. The time has come to rid ourselves of our greatest enemy.’

  He waited for the announcement to sink in, then continued, lowering his voice. ‘The time has come to move against Matrya. My Masters have already mounted a successful assault against our adversary in the Veil: it remains for us to destroy her physical form. I believe I have found the location of her birth-body. It was not hard to discover, once I had the right source material.’

  He retrieved a wad of bark-paper covered in neat notes and calculations from an inner pocket of his waistcoat, smoothing the sheet out on the table. ‘What lies at these coordinates is less certain. There will most probably be a sealed chamber, deep within the Tree, and there may also be secondary safeguards, locks or traps protecting the body.’

  ‘Where is it?’ asked Wick, swallowing nervously. ‘Where is the —’ he pulled one of the papers towards him, squinting at the transcription of what looked like poetry — ‘the heart of the world, where East meets West? What does that even mean, sir?’

  ‘Nothing.’ The Envoy shrugged. ‘The coordinates were embedded in a set of nonsense verses. That they have remained hidden thus far is due to the shocking incompetence of the Council, rather than any effort on the part of our enemies. The cache won’t be anywhere near the real heart of the world — that’s deep in the World Tree’s trunk and would take weeks to reach on foot, even if a tunnel could be found to take you there. My guess, according to these coordinates, is that Matrya’s body lies at the base of the Tree, beneath the southern reaches of the Gap. Of course, the canopies merge below the clouds and it’s all one trunk. East certainly does meet west in that sense. But the verses are without import. It’s the numbers we need to remember.’

  ‘Why did the Ancients write down the coordinates of the body in the first place, even in code form?’ asked Wick. ‘Wouldn’t it be safer not to mention it at all, if they wanted to keep it a secret?’

  The question was a reasonable one, as far as he could tell, but it seemed to rankle Lace. The Envoy glanced sharply up at him, a glint of suspicion in his eye, and did not immediately respond. Wick was left with the uncomfortable sense of having brought up an issue his master did not wish to discuss, yet again. Or perhaps Lace had not considered the problem in that light, and disliked being shown up. Wick never found out which, for at that point Gowron brushed aside the remark with one of his own.

  ‘So we’ll be able to cross the Storm safely, using this steam-driven machine from Cherk?’ he enquired of the Envoy.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Lace replied. ‘They are useful devices. Fallow was far too eager to destroy the first one we had.’

  The eyeholes burned in Wick’s mask as he listened to his companions. He was not overly concerned that his question had not been answered; his main aim in asking it had only been to appear intelligent, and engaged in the conversation. But the mention of Galliano’s air-chariot conjured up painful memories. He recalled how he had watched Tymon’s humiliation on the knot outside the old man’s workshop, the night the first machine was destroyed, and thought with a pang of his schoolfellow’s adventuresome spirit, the foolish plan to cross the Storm. Nothing was ever simple, Wick ruminated. He had given up much to be where he was now, at the hub of power in the seminary. He quashed the troublesome memories with another, hurried query.

  ‘What’s it like in the World Below?’ he gabbled to Lace. ‘What’s beneath the Tree? Are your Masters there?’ Too late, he remembered this was another subject to avoid. The Envoy hated it when a human being mentioned his Masters.

  The blood rushed to his face beneath the mask, causing the invisible scars to prickle; although he was not overly eager to depart on this mission to assassinate the Oracle of Nur, that journey paled in comparison with an encounter with the shadowy Powers he knew were directing the Envoy. He had been schooled enough to realise it was the Masters whom he should hold in awe and dread, and conversely anticipate meeting in the course of his career, as the key to his own success.

  The Envoy fixed him with his steady, empty gaze, but did not lambaste him for his temerity. ‘My Masters are in the Veil,’ he answered shortly. ‘For the time being, you will remain in this world, and travel to an ancient city named Kand, the ruins of which lie at the base of the Tree. There won’t be much of it left by now. I expect you’ll only see a pile of rubble, if that. It depends on the location of Matrya’s body.’

  ‘You mean …’ Wick gaped, as realisation sank in. ‘You’re not coming with us, sir? Weren’t you going to …?’

  There was absolutely no change in the Envoy’s expression as his acolyte trailed off. ‘No, I won’t be with you,’ he said. ‘Other matters require my attention. I must make sure the Nurian Grafters are in no way able to See or impede our operations, among other things. I will be dealing with the eastern front.’

  ‘Do you require regular progress reports?’ Gowron asked.

  ‘No ordinary missives will be necessary. We must conduct our affairs in the utmost secrecy, my friends. Rest assured, I will check on your progress with the orah-clock when my other duties permit.’ Lace gave a small, frosty smile. ‘And my Masters are taking a personal interest in your mission. I have little doubt they will also be overseeing your endeavours: I suggest you perform adequately.’

  There was a pause as both acolytes mulled over this last chilling piece of information.

  ‘Regarding the Freeholders’ machine,’ persisted Gowron, after a moment. ‘Are you certain it can hold up to the winds? Half the Explorer ships that attempted this voyage were ripped to shreds under the Storm.’

  ‘Even then, a century ago, some were not, though the winds were stronger,’ replied Lace. ‘Ah, the whole affair has been long forgotten — you Argosians are so good at forgetting. You’ll have no trouble crossing the Storm in the air-chariot. We can’t use it openly, of course: I’ve had it transferred to another location outside Argos city. You’ll go from there.’

  ‘And once we break into the chamber? Do you wish to have the body destroyed in any particular way?’ Gowron enquired coolly.

  Wick stared at him, aghast. But Lace remained unperturbed.

  ‘Just kill her,’ he said with a dismissive flick of his fingers. ‘She won’t be able to stop you. But there are dangerous artefacts — remnants of the Old Ones’ sorcery, if you will — that have been sealed up with her. If you find anything in the chamber, in or around the body, you must bring it straight to me.’

  His tone was careless as he said this, but there was no mistaking the greedy edge to his smile, which he turned on Wick at that moment. ‘I warn you, do not seek to use or even handle anything you find for too long,’ he added softly. ‘It may be lethal to humans.’

  ‘It’s these Jays I don’t understand,’ Fallow complained, later on that evening, when the Saint and his Envoy walked together after dinner, down the candlelit corridors of the seminary. ‘What’s this ridiculous snippet of news I hear from Marak city? A group of jokers caught disseminating rebel tracts to the population? What are Argosian Jays doing in the colonies, anyway?’

  It had been a satisfactory day on all accounts for Fallow. The business of apprehending Rede had been carried out and the traitor’s links with Nurian rebels announced by crier in the city, as well as discussed at great length among the worthies of Argos seminary. The colonial professor had never been liked; he w
as the perfect whipping boy for all who wished to show themselves loyal to Saint and state. Rede provided, furthermore, the long-awaited excuse to go to war with the Nurian Freeholds. That was, indeed, where his main usefulness lay, and the reason Lace had offered up evidence of his trumped-up crimes to Fallow.

  The Envoy threw his companion a shrewd, sidelong glance at the mention of the Jays. The presence of the performers in Marak city was indeed a perplexing question, one that had been niggling at Lace ever since the news had arrived by bird that afternoon, hot on Gowron’s heels. It seemed that a group of Jays had been caught distributing rebel literature in the colony, as well as associating with the natives. They had been summarily arrested by the Marak authorities, who did not credit the incident with much importance, inserting it as a footnote in a long missive asking for more money. Lace had not expected Fallow to pick up on the true significance of the story, although it foreshadowed worrisome changes. A group of Jays found in the Domains, far from their normal air-routes, was simply an oddity. The fact that they had been associating of their own free will with the local population and distributing ‘literature’, on the other hand, was potentially disastrous.

  But one glance of quick assessment reassured him that the Saint had mentioned the matter only as an afterthought. Fallow had merely been struck by the absurdity of it all, and had not realised it was precisely these ridiculous, unheard-of associations they had most to fear from, in the long run. Eventually, such floutings of convention would bring down the power of the seminary. Not yet, but soon enough. There was a ways to go before that happened, Lace thought to himself grimly: a century or two of meat left to gnaw on the old priests’ bones. His task was to maintain the status quo at all costs, and bolster his own influence. When the seminary was of no further use to him, he would move on.