To the Dead City
Page 14
“He has a point,” I say, keeping my voice low.
“I considered it,” says Casmel. “But I don’t think there is any danger of him being taken for a meal. There is something very… off about him.”
“I think you’re right about that. But you’re wrong about Slek Mydra. He will not be bought. The Sceada are death-loyal.”
“Oh, I know. But if we’d let Hilder live with no purpose, then Mydra would have suspected something was amiss. Maybe not that we are spying on him through the eyes of his lackey, but something.”
“Of course,” I say, then yawn.
“You must stay awake, Alys,” says Casmel. “We need to give Mydra time to find Hilder if we are to learn anything.”
“But I am so tired,” I say.
“I know,” he says. “But you must keep your eyes open for a little while yet.”
“Tell me a story, then,” I say.
“Don’t we tell stories to help children sleep?” says Casmel. “Isn’t that the opposite of what we are trying to achieve here?”
“Stories have never made me sleep,” I say. “My mother had to sing me to sleep, or stroke my back, or rub my palm with her thumb. Stories always made me more wakeful. I always wished to know what happen next.”
“I have no stories,” says Casmel. “Unless you want to hear about the many games of spedig I have won and lost. Or, perhaps, you would like to hear about the time I drank so much ale I tried to saddle a cow, thinking it was Lata?”
“I would not,” I say.
“Please yourself,” says Casmel. “It is a very funny story and your loss if you do not hear it. Ethra? Do you have a tale?”
“None I want to tell. Unless you would hear the First Story.”
“Tell it,” I say. I have heard it many times, though often it changes at the edges and becomes interesting again.
She tells it.
In the beginning, there was nothing.
There was no thing and there was no time.
And then arose the Moment.
And being the only thing that was, the Moment was Everything.
And it was Everything all at once.
It was as a roaring, crashing wave, obliterating the nothing in an instant.
But in its violent suddenness, it created, instead of nothing, the shuddering chaos known as the Dwolma.
The Moment sat at the centre of the Dwolma and the Moment was the Dwolma.
And the Moment was afraid and could find no peace.
And so the Moment began to bring order to the chaos, which was the Dwolma, which was the Moment.
It began by creating Heaven.
Heaven was a calmness in the midst of chaos.
But the Moment found the calmness of Heaven only served to accentuate the shuddering chaos beyond its edges.
And so the Moment created distraction within Heaven, things to catch the eye and draw the attention away from the terrifying spectacle of the Dwolma.
The Moment created the Mountains of Eormen, the Meadows of Apay, the Sea of Byre, the Desert of Brunetha, the Forest of Healstor, the Swamps of Merscud, the Valley of Faerseeth, the Frozen Wastes of Frorelm, the Plateau of Lehng.
But it was not enough to distract the Moment from the Dwolma. It was not enough to assuage the Moment’s terror.
And so the Moment created the gods: Fryth, Gewith, Seros, Wyrchen, Byradu, Bacotha, Memynd, Beolas and many more besides whose names are forgotten or were never known or were never named.
And to the Moment’s delight, the gods, being of the Moment, began their own makings.
They made the skies and the stars. They made our world and, to give it companionship, the moon. And in our world they made all the things that they enjoyed in their Heaven: mountains, meadows, seas, deserts, forests, swamps, valleys, frozen wastes, plateaus.
And then they made the peoples of the world, beginning with Derenderlic and Shiblessi, from whom all peoples were begat.
But soon there were too many people, and they appeared always in conflict with one another, and their conflict was without end because it was of no consequence.
The gods did not know what to do.
But the Moment did.
The Moment created a new god, and that god’s name is Wealm, and he is the God of Death. And Wealm created for himself his Fields, between the Mountain of Eormen and the Meadows of Apay, and from that day forward, there was a consequence to conflict and the number of a man’s days was given a limit.
Soon, Ethra’s voice is just a sound without meaning, a comforting buzz. I try to focus on the words but cannot make a meaning of them.
When the sound stops and the story is done, I say, “Tell it again.”
And she tells it, even if I do not hear it.
Somehow, I manage to stay awake for the next three hours. But after that, it is useless trying to resist.
I watch the rat—body fat as a piglet’s, tail longer than a grown man’s leg—as it burrows its way into Chayn Syrunn’s withered corpse. I tug at the cords that bind my wrists, but I haven’t the strength to loosen them. For a moment I can’t understand what is happening. Have I been betrayed? Has Casmel Durn, the Scur, pulled the wool over my eyes once more?
And then I realise. I am not me. At least I am not in my own body. I am in the skin of Eftas Hilder. It feels wrong this time. It isn’t the same as when I saw through my father’s eyes or Casmel’s eyes. I can feel his skin on me, as if I am wearing it as a garment. And there is a layer of hot grease between it and me. It is a sickening sensation.
I almost withdraw back to wakefulness, but somehow I am able to find the nerve to hold fast.
The rat seems as repulsed by Syrunn’s flesh as I am by Hilder’s. It scuttles backward from the corpse and hacks up a gobbet of half-chewed… something. And then it looks at me. At Hilder. It sniffs the air once and again. Then it takes a few tentative steps toward me before sniffing the air again. It could be my imagination, but there seems to be an expression of disgust on the rat’s face. It scampers away. Just in time. A sword blade falls where, a moment before, the beast was sniffing and expressing its distaste.
I recognise the weapon. It has hooks along its blade, designed to drag entrails steaming into the cold air. It is a Sceada’s weapon.
Slek Mydra’s face lurches before mine.
“What happened here, slaughterman?” he says in his soft, reasonable voice. “Is that… Syrunn?”
“Yes,” I say. Hilder says. “Cut me loose.”
“Why is he dead and you are strung up like a maiden sacrifice?” The Sceada’s nose wrinkles. “And why do you smell so… sour?”
It is a relief when Mydra backs away from me.
“Cut me loose,” says Hilder.
“You have not answered my question. Why are you alive while he is… like that?”
“They had a message for you. They let me live to deliver it.”
“They?”
“Cut me loose.”
“Who are ‘they’? Speak.”
“The Scur who tricked us with his map, Aryc Clainh’s daughter and a girl who… whose skin… came off.”
“Another Glyster?”
“I do not know. The Scur claimed it was Alys Clainh’s doing, this… skinning. He said she would do it to us, too. He said there were spores, that… Or something. I can’t remember. It was confusing.”
“He tricked you, that is what you are saying, no?”
“No. I don’t know. Possibly. Cut me loose.”
“And what was this message?”
“He said that you should not follow him. He said that you should go back to Gafol and tell the Jarl that you took care of Clainh’s kin. He said that within the month you would receive a heavy bag of coin. He said—”
“He said!” the Sceada roars.
His sword blurs toward me… and buries itself in the trunk above my head. I feel the whole tree tremble violently. It is a wonder I don’t snap into wakefulness.
“He mocks me, this Scur,”
says Mydra, his voice low once more. “Twice now, he has mocked me. The first time, he mocked my intelligence with that deceptive map of his. And now… now he mocks my loyalty, he mocks my honour. He tells me to deceive the Jarl, the Jarl who is as my own brother, who calls me brother.” He reaches over my head and wrenches his sword from the tree. “I will gut him. I will gut him in the Old Way, so he will live and see and feel while I make a noose from his innards and hang him from a witchtree.”
It is said that those who hang from a witchtree cannot go to the Fields of Wealm. Given what I have heard of Wealm recently, that may not be a bad thing.
“And then,” the Sceada continues, “I will drag the Glystgedder to Gafol and I will make her kneel before her father and I will make her watch as I gut him in the Old Way.”
Chapter 24
The Eeffenn Sea
The forest thins, and within the hour, we are riding on scrub. We put a ridge between our group and the Fisher Road, but occasionally we hear travellers—cartwheels, hoofs, voices. My leg is starting to ache, every jolt from the uneven ground reminding me of Syrunn with his sword to my throat, twisting the arrow, then twisting it again.
The air begins to cool, to thin as the forest did, and soon I can smell the sea. I am reminded of days spent at Brim, collecting shells with my mother, fishing for crab with my father, of the time I got stung by a tide jelly and my father made a poultice of various weeds that clung to nearby rocks.
Wherever there is a thing that will hurt us, there is usually a thing that will heal. You just have to look around. When you are in pain, look closest for a salve; there is no need for wandering and looking at horizons.
But what if you have no choice but to wander? What if the thing you need is very far away?
A gull shrieks overhead, then another. Soon, a whole squabble of them.
“There,” says Casmel, pointing. “Leax.”
I lean out so I can see past him.
Clusters of steep and pointed tiled roofs sweep down to the glittering sheet of the sea. The water is dotted with so many boats it is a wonder they are not crashing into one another.
“We will stop here,” says Casmel. “I will go into town, find out what I can about Utlath. Purchase a map, perhaps. And while I’m there get a stronger balm for your wound. I have heard you hissing through your teeth this last two hours.”
I thought I had concealed my pain well. Clearly not.
“Get us some cooked fish while you are there,” says Ethra. “It has been too long since I have eaten well. And this will be my last meal as a Glyster.”
“Very well, Ethra,” says Casmel, smiling. “Cooked fish.”
I resist the urge to tell Ethra that this may well be the last meal any of us eat, as Glyster or otherwise. We know nothing of the Dead City or what dangers it might hold. I know only that it scared El enough that she did not dare enter its walls.
We find a patch of dry ground, Ethra and I, and sit wrapped in our cloaks. There is a wind from the Eeffenn Sea, salty and cool.
“What will you do when you are free of the Glyst?” I ask.
“Pull at my skin a while, just to be sure,” says Ethra. “Then… I don’t know. I would stay with you and Cass. Or with you and El. I would help with the work. But I would do so as myself, as I was before, when I was not something from a nightmare.”
“You are not a nightmare, Ethra. Your Glyst would be useful to the Harbour. You can be in two places at once. We might not have survived that ambush if not for your gift.”
“Do not call it that,” says Ethra. “Please. And we would not have been there to be ambushed if it were not for my Glyst.”
“It was your wish to be rid of it that put us in harm’s way,” I say, and regret it immediately. It was a mean remark.
“I know,” says Ethra. “And I am sorry. I am sorry for all the harm I have caused. My mammy and daddy… they…” She looks out to sea. “They tried to hide me. The Jarl of Mella… had them killed. Hung upside down and bled-out. Like pigs. That is what he said they were for risking the lives of every man, woman and child of Mella. Pigs. Or worse: foorstig.”
I am visited by a memory of myself strung up like a pig, like a foorstig, bleeding into the Seven Cups. And, as with every time I recall that experience, it is as if it happened so recently I expect to feel the pain and the itch from the slow-healing wounds, and my heart drums so hard it is like it is trying to escape the prison of my chest.
“I should have run as soon as my Glyst showed itself,” says Ethra. “Instead I begged my mammy and daddy to hide me. I was so afraid.”
“Of course you were. You were just a child. You are just a child.”
“I know. But I should have run. Everybody would have thought I was taken by an animal. I was always playing in the woods. I was always careless. My Glyst could have been my burden to bear and not the reason for my parents’ deaths. I should have run. And I did. Once I heard that the Jarl had sent word to Feeshun that my blood was for sale. I ran, but too late.”
“You can’t blame yourself, Ethra. Fear is a terrible thing. It makes us feel like running and nails our feet to the ground at the same time.”
“When it first happened, I thought it was a nightmare and that I would awaken at any moment to the smell of honeyed oatcakes and the sound of my parents talking about the day ahead, their tasks and the prospect of rest at day’s end, that I would hear them kiss and she would call him her scappwud, which is an old Mella word for ‘sweet apple tree’. But I didn’t smell honeyed oatcakes or hear my mammy call my daddy her scappwud, because it wasn’t a nightmare. It was happening. There were two of me, staring at each other. And I could see through both pairs of eyes at once. One me was nothing but skin, the other had no skin at all. One looked like the work of a butcher, the other the work of a tanner. I screamed. Both of me screamed. My daddy almost killed me. He thought I was some monstrosity come to kill his daughter. He thought I was one of the Byreghan come down from the Beorstehd Mountains to eat flesh and lay its eggs that beget more Byreghan. It was only when I cried out “Daddy!” that he stayed his axe. For a minute, they just stared. And then my mammy came to the skin-me and held me, and my daddy took the body-me in his arms, and they both rocked me, body and skin, until I was asleep. When I awoke, I was whole-me again and was almost able to convince myself it had all been a dream. But, the next day, a trader came, looking for cider to exchange for tools and pots. He had a grefa stone on a string around his neck, this man, and it began whistling. And that was that.” She turns away from the sea and looks at me. There are tears in her eyes. “I would be rid of it. This gift.”
“Aye.” I squeeze her hand.
“Tell me something,” says Ethra.
“What?”
“Anything,” she says. Then, “No, not anything. Something important. About you. Tell me something that hurts you the way the Glyst hurts me. Let me feel that I am not alone in my pain.”
“Very well.”
I tell her of the Ritual of the Seven Cuts and the Seven Cups, and then we sit and watch the boats bobbing on the Eeffenn Sea and listen to the gulls crying overhead, and do not speak until Casmel returns.
As promised, he has brought cooked fish and a poultice.
We eat the fish with relish, and then Ethra changes my dressing and applies the new poultice. I catch Casmel watching as Ethra applies the pulped herbs to my thigh.
“I think she can manage unsupervised,” I say, raising an eyebrow at him.
“Just wanted to make sure she was doing it right,” he says, turning away quickly. But not so quickly I don’t see the red in his cheeks.
“I couldn’t get a map,” he says. “Of Utlath. The locals get quite testy when you even mention the place. The only thing I managed to find out was that the Hollow, the Glystleeches, are to be found at the old docks of the city or thereabouts. Everyone I spoke to advised against it. Those who go too far into the city do not often come back. The best materials for making grefa stones are to be fou
nd in the middle of the city, but those from the buildings just a hundred yards in will do.”
I am too tired to catch his inference. With a bellyful of fish and the pain in my leg at last abated, I am asleep in no time.
Slek Mydra stares at me.
“You look terrible,” he says. “Your skin is like a bogtoad’s belly and you smell like… I do not know what you smell like.”
“I do not want to die,” I say. No. Eftas Hilder says. “I am afraid.”
“Afraid?” says Mydra, his tone mocking. He looks at me, at Hilder, with naked pity. “So what? So what if you are afraid? You think I am never afraid? That I do not experience fear? It matters not. Fear and courage are the same river. When you are afraid, you are swimming against the current. When you are brave, you are swimming with the current, letting it take you where it will. Either way, you are in the river. And the river can bring pain, suffering, death. But it is easier to swim with the current. Once you realise this and embrace the fear, accept that it is simply… there, you have the makings of a warrior. It is not the fear that paralyses. It is the battling of it. So say we Sceada, anyway.”
He stands and walks across the clearing in which they appear to have made camp. They are surrounded by oaks. For the remainder of our journey, we did not see any oak. I wonder where they are.
“I do not want to die,” says Eftas. His voice is as quiet as Mydra’s but without the stone and iron.
He looks down at his hands. They look bloodless and wet, soft, as if they could be cut open with a wooden spoon.
He looks at Mydra, opens his mouth to speak.
And then everything turns grey, and Mydra is gone.
He looks at his hands again. They are grey, too. Not the bloodless grey of a moment ago, but a dry, dusty grey. And then I see the hundreds of tiny mushrooms that are sprouting from his skin.
“I am dead,” he says. “I am dead again.”
He tries to stand but hasn’t the strength and slumps back against the tree behind him.
“Mydra?” he tries to shout, but only whispers. “Mydra?”
Something is coming toward him from the grey woods.