Shadowheart

by Tad Williams

  “I am very sorry, my lady,” Ena said. “Lord Shaso was a brave old man and always a friend to the Ocean Children.”

  “To be honest, I’m surprised your people knew him so well. When he walked into your father’s longhouse it seemed as if they were old friends.”

  “There are many stories to be shared, that is certain,” the girl said. “But not now, I think. We must cross the bay before dawn. At the very least, that will stop the Xixians firing on us with the guns that they were able to drag back into the hills. Do me the honor of letting me be the one to bring you back to your home.”

  “Thank you, Ena. Let me go and gather up my belongings.”

  Briony made her way back across the shingle to the temporary camp where Eneas and his men were making the last arrangements with the Skimmers. She supposed she should have remained—she was certainly one of Eneas’ advisers, if nothing else—but she found it too painful. The tall player Dowan Birch had told her she would speak to her father at least one more time, and she had. Could that hour in the prison tent have been the last time? And now she had found Barrick, and he had turned his back on her. Seeing the two of them again was all that had kept her going through her darkest days. Now she was near them both but could not have them. The pain threatened to overwhelm her.

  I must believe I will see them again—that Heaven means for it all to come right. What else can I do?

  But Briony had not convinced herself. You can go on pretending you’re living in a story, with gods and spirits watching over you, she told herself, or you can accept that you’re living in a much different sort of world—that the gods are dead or hateful, that someone else will have to save your father, and that nobody, least of all you, knows how this story will end.

  Chert hurried up the narrow path, angry and frightened in equal measure. He and his workers were already hard-pressed to the point it seemed impossible that his undertaking would ever be ready, but now an urgent message had arrived from Brother Antimony insisting he come at once to the site of the digging. Half a day would be lost—more if they were unlucky.

  He passed at least a dozen other Funderlings coming down from the dig, most of them pushing barrows of soil, but others on missions whose purpose he could not easily discern, and Chert began to feel a little better; at least things were still happening. At least Antimony had not let this urgent matter stop work entirely. Still, as he searched for Antimony, he took a good look around the site to make certain things were as they should be. The Funderling workers moved past, mostly in two crowded lines, one going to the site and one coming back. All of those moving away had barrows full of rock and earth to be dumped. Many of those who had already emptied their loads were returning to the nearest site carrying the newest sacks of blasting powder.

  He found Antimony at the center of the workings, near the first and largest tunnel which would connect to the broad crevice leading down into the Sea in the Depths—“Chert’s Chimney,” as some of the workers had mockingly dubbed it—the Pit, as he thought of it. The End of the World. The tall monk looked harried beyond his years, but it was the identity of the two Funderlings who stood with him that hit Chert like a body blow. One was Nickel, the abbot-to-be of the Metamorphic Brothers’ temple, a humorless fellow Chert had disliked from their first encounter, but the other . . . the other was Chert’s own brother Nodule, magister of the Blue Quartz clan, and one of the few people in the world he could honestly say he liked less than Brother Nickel.

  “Well, well, and well,” said Nodule as Chert walked up, “how fortunate it is that our father is dead. He would have been furious to see how you have scratched and marred the family name.”

  “A pleasure to see you, too, brother.” Chert nodded to Brother Nickel, who only scowled back, then turned to Antimony. “I am here at your call, Brother, but I can wait if you have business with these two . . . worthy fellows.”

  “In truth ...” Antimony began.

  “We are here because of you,” Nickel said. “Or rather, because of what you are up to. What you are doing here is dangerous, and it is especially a danger to the temple. If you bring down so much stone, you will kill us all. I have decided I will not allow it. It must stop today.”

  For a moment Chert could only stare at him. “What . . . what do you mean? Stop? Stop what?”

  “This. All this.” Nickel waved at the men rolling barrows of stone and dirt. “You may not undertake such a risky project so close to the temple.”

  Chert almost grabbed the man by the collar of his robe. “But . . . but you know why we are doing this!” Or did he? Was Chert himself going mad? He could have sworn that Nickel had sat through all the discussions, arguing bitterly against it but having to agree with Cinnabar’s decision in the end. “It may be our only chance to save ourselves! Cinnabar has put the Guild’s seal on it . . . !”

  “Has he?” Nickel smiled unpleasantly. “I do not remember such a thing. I vaguely recall that you had some farfetched plan for using blasting powder to knock down stone and defeat our enemy, but I do not believe that Magister Cinnabar would ever agree to such madness.”

  “You . . . you liar! You were there! You heard it all and you heard and saw Cinnabar and Vansen agree!”

  “Here now!” said Nodule, his broad jaw working in indignation. “You cannot speak to Brother Nickel that way. He is an important fellow. You shame me again, Chert.”

  Chert had wanted to hit his brother in the eye for years, and for a moment felt certain this was the time, but he decided that the risks were too great, the work here too important. “Others were there. Malachite Copper—he is a well-known and honorable man! And some of the other commanders.”

  “Are they here now?” Nickel spread his hands. “I don’t see them. If you claim to be doing the Guild’s business, and with Cinnabar’s permission, where is the Astion?”

  Chert was dumbfounded. A replica of the Astion, the star-shaped sigil of the Stonecutter’s Guild, was the ultimate arbiter of who served Funderling Town . . . but Nickel was right. He didn’t have one. “Cinnabar and the rest had to fall back and protect the Mysteries before he could give it to me—you know that!”

  “I know nothing of the sort.” Nickel shook his head. “At the moment there is only your word for it, and the risk is far too great to trust one man’s word.”

  “Especially a man like my brother,” Nodule said officiously, “who has already been called up in front of the Highwardens once for his foolish, risky behavior.” He nodded. “But since Cinnabar is not here, I am the highest-ranking Guildsman, and I rule that Nickel’s complaint is valid. No work will be done here until an Astion is produced.” He smirked. “Good luck, Chert.”

  “Please, let me take you back to the temple, Magister,” Nickel said. “We are grateful to have you here, but you have had a long journey. I have a very nice old mushroom jack in my cupboard—we call it by the old name here, mykomel. You must share a cup with me.”

  “It would be an honor.” Nodule’s round face flushed with pleasure. “I love a good jack! But my brother cannot join us, I’m afraid. He will have too much work to do closing down the job here.” He looked sternly at his younger brother. “But I will return, and if even one apprentice sweeper is at work here, the full weight of the Guild’s power will fall on you, Chert!”

  When the monk and the magister had gone, Chert sank to the ground and put his hands on his head. “That cursed fool, my brother! And Nickel—what is he doing? He knows what we are doing here and why we are doing it! Elders know we pray it isn’t needed, but it might be our only hope.” He looked at the workers milling around in confusion and distress. “Still, it will be a terrible, mortal tragedy even if it succeeds.” He blinked. “Fracture and fissure! I cannot believe Nickel would be so short-sighted.”

  Antimony sighed and sat next to him. “He is not shortsighted, I can tell you that. Nickel is the cleverest of all the Brothers. That is why, despite being young, he is going to be the abbot soon.” He chewed on his lip for a
moment. “I think he doesn’t believe that Vansen and the others can win, but he doesn’t want you to succeed, either. He may be gambling that he can make some kind of peace with the invaders. ...”

  “Or that Hendon Tolly will.” Chert frowned. “I cannot help wondering just how much of a liar he is. Enough to turn traitor?”

  “Nickel?” Antimony was clearly surprised. “Selfish and dishonest, yes, but anything more seems hard to believe ...”

  “Enough.” Chert shook his head in disgust. “There is no use trying to puzzle it out this way. We must get the Astion from Cinnabar, or my brother will shut down the work, just as he said, and then even this faint hope is lost to us. The Guildsmen have all scattered to their homes since the siege began. I could never round them up in time to have them vote a new Astion! Cinnabar is our only powerful protector, and his younger supporters are mostly fighting with him and Vansen, but my brother and his faction are not the kind to join in any war unless their own houses are threatened.” He made a growling noise in his throat. “And by the time that happens, it will be too late!” He stood up. “I’ll have to get the Astion from Cinnabar, somehow ...”

  “But if you can’t round up the Guild in time, there’s no possible way you can reach Cinnabar,” Antimony said sadly. “He’s at least as far away, and there are thousands of the autarch’s soldiers between him and us.”

  Chert felt like an overloaded arch; one small crack and the whole thing would tumble. “How is the work here? Would we have succeeded?”

  “In what, two more days? Three?”

  “According to Vansen, it might be as little as one.”

  Antimony snorted. “No offense, Master Chert, but I doubt we’d have managed it. We still have several more yards of stone to cut and move in Mudstone Reach before we can lay the charges, and twice that in Last Reach. Too bad we couldn’t use blasting powder to open the holes to put in the blasting powder ...” He chuckled.

  Chert’s gloom turned to a moment of pure terror. “By the Elders, Antimony, don’t even jest! If we knocked down the walls at Last Reach before we were ready ...”

  “I know, I know.” The young monk rubbed his big hands together. “But I wouldn’t mind if we did it and forgot to tell Brother Nickel, I’ll confess. Does that make me a bad Metamorphic Brother, do you think?” He laughed again, but it had a morose tone. “And how are your wife and the other ladies doing?”

  “Very well, actually. They surprise me.” Chert knew he should get up and try to solve some of his many problems, but he felt weak and brittle, as if all his supporting struts had burned away. “I do not think we will have corned sixty barrels worth of blasting powder by tonight, but we will be close to it. That Vermilion is at least as much of a general as her husband, if not quite so sweet-natured. She and Opal have not just the other women jumping to their drumbeat, but Ash Nitre and his men, too. Do you remember when part of the guildhall fell down a few years ago, how the men stood in lines passing stone hand to hand all through the first night? That’s what it looks like down by the ladies’ camp. Never doubt that women can sweat, Antimony.”

  “I never did,” the monk said. “I come from a big family. Our mum had nine to feed, but she still always had a hand free to give me a clout on the head if she thought I was out of line.”

  Chert smiled. “Ah, well. I have sat here like a lump of flint in a limestone bed for long enough. We’d better make sure things are safely secured here while I think of what to do next. Where’s Salt?” Although Antimony was Chert’s eyes and ears, Salt Nitre, Ash and Sulphur’s nephew, was the job’s foreman. “And for that matter, where’s Chaven?”

  Antimony looked at him strangely. “What do you mean? Isn’t Chaven back in Powder Camp with you and the women?”

  “No.” Chert felt a clutch in his chest. “Of course not. He said he was coming here to give you what help he could—told me he was too big and clumsy and would only be in the way among all those nimble little ladies. You know how he talks. Didn’t he come here?”

  “Never.” Antimony shook his head emphatically. “We have fewer than a hundred men here, all of them retired Guildsmen. We take our meals together here and we sleep each night back at the temple. I’ve seen no sign of Chaven either place and he’s hard to miss, being twice as tall as the rest of us. He’s been gone since the Xixians invaded our tunnels.”

  “By the Elders,” Chert groaned. “He is wandering lost down in the depths somewhere, with the autarch’s men all around, and those horrible clawed monsters, and . . . and ...”

  A sudden, even more frightening thought occurred to him: Chaven had been acting strangely since he had come to Funderling Town—perhaps his obsession with the mirror had turned him traitor. Perhaps the physician had sold his allegiance to the one man who could help him get the mirror back, the mirror that he yearned for like a drunkard craved mossbrew. Perhaps even now he was taking news of Vansen’s and Cinnabar’s plans—and even of Chert’s own farfetched scheme—to their greatest foe, the Autarch of Xis. . . .

  “He wouldn’t do that ...” Chert said quietly, mostly to convince himself.

  “What did you say, Master Blue Quartz?” Antimony asked. “You don’t look well. Should I get you something to drink?”

  “No, no.” Chert’s skin was cold with sudden fear. “Nothing for me. I don’t think I could keep anything down.”

  “The southern mortals will come down from the hills with the morning’s light,” Saqri said when she returned to Barrick’s tent. “They have numbers and powerful guns, and they fear their master too much to do otherwise. Most of all, they fear what he will do to them if he is victorious below but they have lost everything above.”

  Barrick tried to heave himself out of the cot, but the walk down the beach had overwhelmed him. He settled for sitting upright, which made him feel less of an invalid. “What does that mean, Saqri? We fight them again?”

  “It means we must not be here. Otherwise, we will be fighting a pointless battle for nothing more important than the honor of the Xixians when the true danger is below. How is your strength?”

  “I can walk if I go slowly.” He paused, troubled. “My sister. That was my sister.”

  “I saw her, yes.”

  He didn’t remember how he had once felt, that was the problem, but he knew he did not have those feelings anymore. “She was unhappy with me. Why?”

  “Perhaps because you are no longer the child she remembered and that frightens her. Perhaps because you have found newer and greater responsibilities, or have changed in other ways she cannot understand.” Saqri’s dispassion was so complete it almost looked studied. “Who can say?”

  “It bothers me, and I don’t know why. I feel as though I’ve lost something important. Left something behind ...”

  The minute downturn of her lips was a frown. “Do not waste your thought on it, Barrick Eddon. We have more than enough to do. The southerners have a long lead on us—in fact, they have almost reached the deepest place, the very Last Hour of the Ancestor.”

  He did his best to shake off the mood brought on by seeing his sister. What could it matter now, when the People’s last moments were at hand? “But it seems so hopeless—you told me that the ritual, the spell, whatever foul thing it is that the autarch seeks to do, is meant to happen tomorrow ...”

  “One moment after midnight,” Saqri said. “When the year begins to die.”

  “How can we possibly stop him before then? He has thousands of men in the caverns. You sent our only allies away, my sister and those Syannese, to fight in the castle against other mortals. Why? What chance will we have now?”

  “No chance at all, of course.” Still the impassive mask. “But we have many other important things to concern us. I myself must choose what to do with my death.”

  For a moment he thought he had not heard her. When he spoke, his skin was prickling. “Your . . . death?”

  “It is hard to explain, but I think there will be no small power in the death of half the F
ireflower. Perhaps not enough to change the outcome of such an uneven fight, but perhaps at least enough to thwart the autarch in some way. But if I am not there to employ it, my death will avail nothing.”

  He swallowed. “And me . . . ? Do I have this . . . death to give, too?”

  She made the gesture The Book is Closed, a Qar equivalent of a shrug. “What I speak of has never happened before. Always when one of my ancestors died in battle their heirs were primed to take the Fireflower. Now, who knows? I die with no living issue. As for you . . . ?” Saqri shrugged. “Nothing like you has ever been heard of, not by the Fireflower, not even among those of the Deep Library.” Her smile looked like the bared teeth of a wolf. “Still, I would advise you not to sell your own passing lightly, either.”

  He nodded, pushing away the mote of disquiet which meeting his sister had left in him. “So we fight. And we almost certainly die.” It seemed so simple and so final—but also so terrifying. “Not knowing if we have won or lost. Not knowing what happened to Qinnitan.”

  “It is possible we will find your southern girl before the end.” Saqri did not quite seem to approve. “As for the rest, we will lose, of course—that is certain. In the whole of our world there is no longer enough Qar . . . magic left, as you would call it, to save us. But you and I still have work of our own to do. For better or for worse, my husband chose you to carry the Fireflower of the kings into this final battle. That is why I gave you the armor that once belonged to my son, Janniya. It did not save him. He died here in Southmarch at the hands of your ancestor, but to me he was noble and lovely beyond even the gods themselves.” She put her hand upon his. “Will you fight with me, Barrick Eddon?”