by Jen Williams
Bern nodded and sat back a little, looking out across the stream. His beard, Aldasair noticed, was becoming a wild tangle. It had been some time since any of them had had time for personal grooming.
‘Part of me thinks it’s bloody typical.’ To Aldasair’s surprise, Bern grinned, suddenly looking more like his old self than he had in days. ‘My ma always said I was like my dad born again, and now she’ll say I’m as careless as him too.’
Aldasair frowned slightly. Human humour was sometimes very strange.
‘I do not think she will say that,’ he said carefully. ‘I think she will be very sad for you, and your father will be too. They are fine people.’
‘Oh, aye.’ Some of the merriment faded from Bern’s face. ‘She’ll break her heart over it, I’ve no doubt about that. Both of them have always known we live in a dangerous world, but I’m not going to enjoy letting them know how right they were about that. As for how it actually feels?’ He lifted up his foreshortened arm and looked at it; underneath the brownish resin, it was possible to see the flap of skin where it had been pinned in place, along with the neat stitches done by the healer of Deeptown. ‘Sometimes, I swear I can feel the hand still there. I catch myself going to scratch my head, or pat Sharrik, or even grab for my axe, and I’m just gesturing with nothing. Sometimes it even hurts – I don’t mean my arm, I mean the hand. Like I’ve fallen asleep on it and it’s tingling, except it’s not there at all. By the stones, it’s annoying.’ He scowled, then shook his head, as if changing his mind about being angry. ‘But aside from all that – listen.’
‘What?’
‘Just listen.’
Perplexed, Aldasair sat back on the sand and listened. It was a quiet forest, filled with only the gentle noises of small birds and the murmur of water across pebbles. A little way behind them, he could hear Vintage talking. He couldn’t make out her words, but the sound of her voice – steady, merry, confident that those listening would be interested – brought a little warmth to his heart.
‘I can’t hear anything.’
‘And neither can I,’ said Bern triumphantly. ‘My link to the Jure’lia is completely gone. When Celaphon chomped off my hand and swallowed it, he cut me off from them. Their terrible chaos, the endless whispering voices, the sense that I was . . . that I was tainted by them – it’s gone. I’m free of them, my love. And as awful as the price was, I’m glad.’
‘You nearly died,’ said Aldasair, feeling like this particular fact should not be brushed over so easily. ‘And if we had not arrived moments after he’d done it, you would be dead. Celaphon doesn’t care for you, or any of us.’
Bern picked up a pebble and threw it into the stream. ‘I wonder about that. What your cousin did to him, what the worm people did to him. He had no choice. I think if he had had a real choice, then he would have been here, with us. A brother to us all, instead of a monster.’
For a time, they sat together, immersed in the gentle quiet of the forest. Small brightly coloured birds hopped around in the shallow waters on the far side of the stream – one of them was as green as the leaves above them. Aldasair watched it closely, thinking long thoughts.
‘There’s something else,’ Bern said eventually. He sounded hesitant, as though the words pained him. ‘She – the worm-queen. She was inside my head, Al, so deep, pulling my memories apart, dragging up things I haven’t thought about in years and turning them over as though she expected to find some hidden treasure under them. That’s the worst of it really – the memory of her grasping, hungry fingers in my head. I keep worrying that she might have broken my mind somehow, that there could be memories I’ve lost, and how would I know? What if I’ve lost memories, Al?’
Aldasair reached up and brushed Bern’s hair away from his face. ‘Then we’ll make new ones, my love.’
Ebora brooded under a shimmering heat haze as they made their way over the foothills of the Bloodless Mountains, yet as they drew closer, Vintage saw that the human campsites had grown since they had left. The roads leading to the palace were thronged with people, and new tents had sprouted up all over, like wildflowers in a stretch of featureless meadow.
As they came in towards the palace, they flew closer to each other, naturally flying in formation over the great, wide street that cut the city in half and led to Ygseril.
‘Do you see what I’m seeing?’ Tor called across. ‘I can hardly believe it.’
‘I see it,’ said Vintage, and although the sight should have warmed her heart, she felt uneasy.
The crowds below them were cheering and waving, and when they landed on the palace lawn, they were immediately met by a surge of people. There were colourful pennants all over, made from – at Vintage’s guess – the silks of various tents, and as she climbed down from Helcate’s back, Vintage was greeted by an excited throng, all desperate to wish her well and shake her hand.
‘We heard what you did,’ said one man with a grizzled grey face. ‘Who’d have thought it? Who’d have thought I’d live to see the end of them.’
A woman with a baby in her arms was crying, and she pressed a somewhat damp kiss to Vintage’s cheek. Two little boys with identical mops of blond hair tried to give her some flowers they had picked. She glanced up to see the others being given the same treatment – some brave soul was attempting to put a garland of bright red leaves around Vostok’s neck, and Noon was already surrounded by fell-witches; she caught a brief glimpse of the young woman’s face, and saw that she looked somewhat alarmed.
‘My darlings, please, I . . .’ Vintage found that for once she didn’t know what to say. Could she tell them that they were uncertain of their victory? That it seemed, in her heart, to be too easily won? Did she want to be the person to take this joyous day from them, when the truth could be on their side? She smiled fixedly at them instead, and accepted their embraces, patted their hands and kept her mouth carefully shut. Eventually, a slim, dark figure eased itself out of the crowd, and she took Okaar’s hand gladly.
‘Your witch friends, they told us the good news when they arrived,’ he said. He was smiling slightly, as if amused by her perplexed expression.
‘And what did they tell you, exactly?’
‘That the lost witch had been returned. That the worm-queen was dead, blasted into a smear by the great Lady Noon and Lady Vostok, that the hiding place of the worm people was destroyed also.’ He looked at her closely. ‘Is that not the truth?’
‘It’s not not true.’ She glanced upwards, catching sight of Ygseril’s spreading branches. The leaves were still there, silvery and green, rustling slightly in the summer winds. Looking at them, it was almost possible to believe that they had survived. That Sarn might be free. ‘My dear, let’s get inside. We all need a bloody rest, I know that much.’
Instead, there was a feast. They held it in one of the central ballrooms, although it spilled out into the corridors and neighbouring rooms, and the humans brought so much food and drink that Tor began to wonder what they were going to eat for the rest of the year. The ballroom opened on one side to a spacious courtyard, and Jessen and Vostok joined them there, allowing themselves to be fed and congratulated by a series of increasingly inebriated humans. Tor watched them for a while, and stood and talked with a few well-wishers. Noon had been fully abducted by the fell-witches, who were drinking ever more elaborate toasts in her honour – he caught her eye at one point and acknowledged the faintly irritated expression on her face by raising his glass to her. Eventually, although the moon was still up and the party still very lively, Tor eased his way out of the room and away from the still-teeming corridors. He felt, in short, unutterably tired, and it was no longer possible to ignore the fierce ache in his arms and chest.
Outside under the stars, he walked out towards the more untamed sections of the palace garden. Despite his pain and weariness, he felt reluctant to retire to his rooms.
‘I’ll be spending more than enough time in bed, sooner rather than later,’ he said to the quiet trees.
To his own ears his voice sounded cheery, very much his old self, but the words summoned a surge of panic that was like drowning. He gripped his bandaged arm tightly and squeezed it, as if he could squeeze out the poison that was growing there.
‘When will you tell them?’
Tor sighed, and looked at the ground. Kirune slunk out of the shadows, his yellow eyes like ghostly moons in the dark.
‘I can hardly tell them now,’ he said. The tightness in his chest was growing. ‘Did you not see? We’re celebrating our victory. I might be vain, but I won’t spoil this moment for them.’
‘You cannot hide it,’ said Kirune. ‘Not for much longer.’
To Tor’s surprise, the big cat came alongside him and pressed his head to his side. Tor rested his arm on his back, and sank his fingers into the cat’s thick, grey fur.
‘If it is all over, perhaps I’ll go away,’ he said. ‘It’s not like I’m not known for my tendency to run away, and they will think I’ve had enough of the responsibility. Tormalin the Oathless was my given name for a reason. I’ll just go away, find the furthest corner of Sarn, and die there, hopefully with a bellyful of wine and no real idea what’s going on.’
Kirune said nothing.
‘It’s better than dying here, coughing up my lungs in those rooms, just like everyone else I knew. Better than Noon and Vintage having to watch me die. Instead . . .’
‘Instead,’ rumbled Kirune, ‘they will think you did not love them.’
It was Tor’s turn for silence. Eventually, they walked together through the trees, saying nothing, simply listening to the sounds of a forest at night. At one point, the pain in Tor’s chest grew so bad that he fell to his knees, and for a while he knelt with his arms around Kirune’s neck, waiting for the agony to subside.
Wherever you go, brother, Kirune said inside his head, I will go also.
In time they worked their way back inside the palace, and ended up in the Hall of Roots. The huge space seemed oddly threatening in the dark, so Tor went to and fro lighting lanterns, until the hall glowed with a warm, yellow light. Ygseril’s huge, gnarled roots looked the same as they ever had, and the vast shape of the trunk was so familiar it made his heart ache. How many years was it since he had come here to find his sister kneeling on these roots, her silk dress sodden with human blood? He reached out a hand to brush away some of the dust from one twisted outcropping of root when a noise at the doors made him turn. Vintage and Noon were there, peering around the door like uncertain children.
‘Darling, there you are. Not like you to leave a party early.’
‘Looks like you’ve brought the party to me.’
They came over to the roots, Noon carrying a bottle of pilfered wine under one arm, and they sat cross-legged together before the vast snake’s nest of the tree-father’s roots. Kirune slunk off into the shadows, sniffing at the corners and generally ignoring them. Not long afterwards, Aldasair also appeared at the door.
‘I looked in on Bern,’ he said as he joined them. ‘He’s sleeping very deeply, but it is a good sleep, I think. There is colour returning to his cheeks.’
‘It must be his first truly restful night in months,’ said Tor. ‘I doubt he’s had a moment’s peace since the worm-queen put that crystal in his hand.’
‘Of course, if he still had the crystal, and the connection to the Jure’lia, we might be more certain of their demise.’ Vintage flapped a hand at Aldasair’s outraged look. ‘I know, darling, I wouldn’t wish that on our dear Bern, but all the same, I would like a bit of certainty.’
‘Our party-throwers certainly seem to think the worm people are dead,’ said Tor.
‘That’s thanks to the fell-witches,’ said Noon, the corners of her mouth turning down. ‘They came straight back here and told everyone what they’d seen. Chenlo did try to get them to tone it down a little, but once it was out . . .’
‘We can hardly blame them for that,’ said Vintage. ‘We all almost died in that place, and they saw the queen shrivel up into nothing. It seems like a hard-won victory.’
‘So why doesn’t it feel like it?’ Noon took a quick gulp of the wine straight from the neck of the bottle, and passed it to Tor. ‘I mean, shouldn’t we feel it? If they were really gone?’
Aldasair shrugged. ‘We drove them off at the end of every Rain, but they were never really gone – just hiding. We don’t know what victory is supposed to feel like.’
‘When your world has been at war forever, how do you know peace?’ Vintage took the bottle from Tor, and shook her head.
‘So what do we do now?’ asked Noon.
‘We watch, and we wait,’ said Vintage. The words were firm, although the expression on her face was anything but. ‘I’ll have messages sent beyond Ebora in the morning, see if we can figure out what your sister is up to, Tor. If the worm people are still around in some capacity, I’m sure we’ll know about it soon enough.’
‘I will continue our diplomatic efforts,’ added Aldasair. ‘Even if the Jure’lia are gone, Ebora has been isolated too long. It’s time we were on better terms with the rest of Sarn.’ He paused. ‘It’s likely that we will never be forgiven for the Carrion Wars – and nor should we – but as long as there are humans who want to come here, to see what Ebora is and was, and learn from it, then we should be here with open arms.’
Tor smiled. ‘Cousin, who would have thought you would grow up to be such a leader?’ Seeing that Aldasair looked embarrassed, Tor leaned across and took his shoulder, squeezing it briefly. ‘I don’t jest, Al. I am proud of you. You always were the best of us.’
Aldasair looked away, a flush of colour in his cheeks.
‘It won’t hurt to encourage our neighbours to leave some heavily armoured people here, if they can,’ added Vintage. ‘A standing army around Ygseril seems like a reasonably sensible idea, and we’re nowhere near close to being self-sufficient. The fell-witches at least seem keen to stay here, thanks to the presence of the illustrious Lady Noon, their liberator.’ Vintage shot a wicked grin at Noon, who pressed her lips together in a grimace. ‘With the heartbright, they make a formidable weapon against the worm people all by themselves.’
‘From what you’ve told me, they did an incredible thing,’ Noon said reluctantly. ‘They didn’t need me to do any of it.’
Vintage looked like she might say something to that, but in the end she took the wine bottle and drank from it instead. For a time they sat together in silence, the only sounds the soft padding of Kirune’s paws as he moved through the shadows, and the distant, muffled sounds of merrymaking from the other side of the palace. Tor looked at them all in turn: Vintage, examining the label on the wine bottle with a sceptical expression; Aldasair with his hands folded neatly in front of him, deep in thought; and Noon, her eyes turned up to the newly repaired glass ceiling. He wished that he could capture this moment and keep it with him forever, just as the Jure’lia queen kept her own precious memories in a shard of crystal – this moment of peace, before any of them knew that he was dying, before he had to look at them and see that knowledge in their eyes.
‘What’s that?’ Noon was still looking up, frowning slightly. Tor glanced up too, but a second later something landed on the floor between them – a single silvery leaf, turned brown and delicate at its edges. There was a heartbeat’s pause, and another landed, just next to Tor’s foot. He stared at it.
‘What does that mean?’ Vintage asked sharply. She had leapt to her feet and was peering up into the darkness of Ygseril’s branches, but there were no more leaves falling that Tor could see.
‘I’m not certain,’ said Aldasair, a crease appearing between his brows. ‘The leaves fell when Ygseril died at the end of the Eighth Rain, but they fell all at once, a great shower of them, still green and silver. This . . .’ He picked up the leaf nearest to him and held it up between two fingers. ‘Look at it, it’s turning brown.’
‘Like a normal leaf,’ said Noon.
‘It could be a true autumn,’ Aldasair
said. ‘I don’t know what that means for the tree-father, but it certainly suggests that something is coming to an end, doesn’t it?’
‘Here –’ Tor gestured to Vintage. ‘Pass me that wine. I need a drink.’
Chapter Forty-two
It was not smoke that alerted Hestillion to the disaster – that had long since dissipated. It was a taste in the air, something detected by the Behemoths themselves and communicated through them to the circle. A soft shiver of confusion and horror seemed to vibrate through the walls, a keening noise through the Jure’lia network that turned Hestillion’s stomach over.
‘What is it?’ Yellow Leaf was with her, so she turned on the woman-shaped creature, a prickle of sweat breaking out across her shoulders. ‘What’s causing this?’
‘There is death in the air,’ said Yellow Leaf. ‘We taste its foulness.’
When they came to the crevasse, Hestillion went to the Behemoth wall and turned it translucent. The huge rent in the ground was barely recognisable. Instead she saw fresh raw earth where parts of it had collapsed, and a thick, solid-looking black mass, strange and bulbous, as if it had boiled before turning solid.
‘How did I not feel this?’
Except she thought that perhaps she had, after all. Had there not been a swell of confusion, a disturbance to the Jure’lia just before she had destroyed Tygrish? She had dismissed the feelings as unimportant, something happening very far away. All that had mattered was her circle. Her victory.
‘I’m going outside.’
Standing on the rubble under a bright blue sky, the air smelled fresh to Hestillion, but her Jure’lia senses, the connections that tugged and scratched at her skin, were telling her something was terribly wrong. Hesitantly, she walked over to where the black tar-like taint began and pressed the toe of her foot to it, noting that it was still tacky enough to leave an imprint. A little distance away, a few pieces of rubble seemed to call out to her; they were white and chalky-looking, much paler than the pieces of grey and brown rock that populated the wider jungle. For a long time, Hestillion did not move. Instead she stood and looked at the shards of white rock, her chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.
