Bride of the Stone: Circle of Nine Trilogy 2

by Josephine Pennicott

  As if understanding what the Geldoz said, Rudi snarled, revealing a mouth full of jagged teeth. With a flick of her huge tail, she launched herself back into the shadows of the aquarium.

  ‘Will she ever be released?’ Gwyndion asked, privately thinking it still seemed cruel to imprison the creature. Joseph shook his head. ‘It is doubtful,’ he replied. ‘Her family group have long since moved on, and the information the Scribes glean from her is far too valuable to permit her release.’

  They walked further along the corridor, where the contents of the aquarium became murkier, more difficult to see. Although in places it looked as if the water were jet black, Gwyndion was uncomfortably aware that the glass contained some life force within its raven depths. He could feel the intensity of the eyes that watched him, and he shuddered. Eleven simple wooden doors marked the entrance to the eleven subterranean worlds of the Tremite Scribes. Gwyndion was filled with excitement. Inside each private chamber, history, myth, dreams and the future were entrapped and spun from the penmanship of the Scribe within. Sensing his excitement, Samma mewed, and was promptly hushed by Joseph.

  The Geldoz strode boldly to the sixth door and knocked loudly. ‘You will be assigned to Wollemoonx today,’ he said.

  The sound of a book being shut and a chair being scraped back came from inside the room. ‘Yes? Who is it?’ an irritated voice sang out. The tone implied there had better be a worthy explanation for the disruption.

  Undeterred, Joseph called, ‘I have the new recruit for you, old Wollemoonx. Upstairs said to put him with you.’

  There was the sound of a muffled expletive and noisy clatter from the wall. Gwyndion looked at Kaliegraves for support, but her eyes indicated he should not verbalise his feelings. The door was swung open, and Gwyndion had his first glimpse of one of the famed Tremite Scribes.

  Wollemoonx appeared ancient. The skin over his face was almost translucent, having not seen the light of day for centuries. He was hunched, stooped from bending over the texts he studied and wrote every day. He had no hair left on his head, just a complicated power tattoo encircling his shining skull. On his shoulder perched a miniature golden owl. Gwyndion recognised with a small thrill one of the original Athena owls, believed to be long extinct in Eronth.

  Wollemoonx’s eyes were shrunken, watery-grey pebbles that stared suspiciously out at these clearly unwelcome visitors. ‘I thought you said it was just the Webx!’ he snapped irritably to Joseph.

  Kaliegraves inclined her head. ‘If you permit me to say so, good sir,’ she said, ‘I am Kaliegraves, Crone and Healer of New Baffin. I have accompanied Gwyndion and Samma on their first day to the Scribes, as he is not familiar with our city.’

  Wollemoonx pulled a face. ‘Needed a stickybeak, did you?’ he snapped. He peered suspiciously around them. ‘There’s no more of them, is there? Why they just don’t start selling tickets to the tourists upstairs I’ll never know! Well, don’t all stand there gawking, letting impure air into my books. Come in! Come in!’

  He half-pulled Gwyndion into the room. He wore white silk gloves that Gwyndion presumed must be for handling the precious manuscripts.

  Hundreds of white candles filled the room, flickering with red-blue flames. Charts and maps covered every available space on the walls. Astrological charts detailing the heavens of all the known worlds, clocks ticking in different times, conversion charts for money, for language, and many other fragments Gwyndion could make neither head nor tail of. Thousands and thousands of ledgers were crammed into every available space. Most of them looked as ancient as Wollemoonx, their spines cracked with age. On the workbench, a massive tome stood open. The symbols and layout of the book were instantly recognisable as the Tree of Life, and the Webx felt his throat catch. Here he stood in one of the birthplaces of the great book. Ignoring his guests, Wollemoonx crossed to his desk and began peering feverishly at the symbols and muttering to himself under his breath. ‘Well, I’ll be leaving you then,’ Joseph said cheerfully. ‘If old Woolly doesn’t acknowledge you soon, then give him a poke to remind him you are here. The Scribes can be a vague old lot.’

  Gwyndion thought it highly unlikely that ‘Old Woolly’ would tolerate a reminder poke. As he watched Joseph exit the room, he was grateful that Kaliegraves had come along for support.

  Time passed. Nobody risked moving a muscle while the Scribe studied the texts. Gwyndion scarcely dared swallow, lest he interfere with some train of thought that might cause the fall of some known civilisation. Occasionally Samma gave a tiny yawn, but presently she dozed off to sleep in Gwyndion’s arms, growing heavier by the second. The Scribe let out a long sigh, his face creased with concern. Picking up his quill, he scratched a mark upon the page. Gwyndion and Kaliegraves exchanged a glance, sure that they were witnessing the creation of the Tremite prophecies.

  ‘Damn fool thing,’ the Scribe muttered. ‘Rubbish! Rubbish!’ Concerned, Gwyndion hardly dared to breathe. What catastrophe threatened the known worlds? The tiny golden owl appeared to be peering at the scribbles on the page, also in great concern. Shaking his head, the Scribe suddenly appeared to notice Kaliegraves and Gwyndion.

  ‘Are you fools still here?’ he roared. Mutely they nodded.

  ‘Well, why didn’t you open your mouths and say so? I could have put you lazy beggars to work, instead of me sitting here looking at my owl’s horoscope!’

  Gwyndion hardly dared look at Kaliegraves, but he felt his muscles begin to relax slowly. Perhaps the known worlds weren’t threatened today. Perhaps it was safe to breathe when you were in the company of the Tremite Scribes.

  The day passed with agonising slowness. To the Webx, who had looked forward to being initiated into the company of the Tremite Scribes, it was a crushing anticlimax. Fantasies of analysing the Book of Life, talking in hushed whispers about state secrets and being awarded glimpses into mysterious other worlds dissolved into disappointment. His back ached, his legs ached, and he marvelled at the resilience of the Crone, who stood bolt upright all day, her aged eyes shining. She appeared to be rejuvenated by being in the company of Wollemoonx. Samma spent the day dozing, her tiny snores filling the room, causing Wollemoonx to occasionally glance around, his face pursed at the interruption. To the Webx’s disgust, he did not even get to examine the Book of Life. Instead he was handed a rag and ordered to dust the books, while the Crone brewed the Scribe endless jugs of esteo.

  At last the tiny owl suddenly hooted a warning, and Gwyndion heard Joseph’s footsteps. He could not wait to return to his cool room at Kaliegraves’s and go to soil. Wollemoonx did not even bother glancing up from his writing to say goodbye. Instead he grunted something to the page, which the Webx took to mean goodbye. Miserably the Webx followed Joseph along the corridor, past the other doors where Scribes worked in secrecy. ‘So, how did you get on?’ Joseph asked cheerfully. ‘Did you learn anything of interest today?’

  Gwyndion couldn’t help himself. ‘Yes, if I were hankering to be a server! I have never dusted so many books in my life! All he had me doing was dusting, dusting, dusting! Then he told me he would get me scrubbing the walls tomorrow and bath his owl! Has there been a mistake? Does he not realise I’ve come to study the texts? Perhaps he has mixed me up with a server apprentice?’

  There was a short silence as they passed Rudi, who floated wraith-like in her tank, waving a mocking goodbye. The Webx looked at Joseph and Kaliegraves, who were smiling at each other. He realised that he was a witness to some private joke. They got into the automated lift, and, before he escorted them to the door, Joseph turned to Gwyndion with a huge grin on his face. ‘The lesson was there,’ he said softly. ‘You just failed to recognise it.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Night in my mouth tastes sweet. Blood, like blooming roses, is sweet. Sweeter still your name. Alecom be praised!

  — Extract from the Azephim Book of the Damned

  News of the Rainbow Bird Wizards’ awakening spread rapidly through Faia. When the Virgin Protectors of the s
tones had awoken to an empty field filled with rubble, they had collapsed in shock and grief. The stones had awoken without even acknowledging their divine protectors! Crones arrived in droves from the village and surrounding areas to give healing energy and comfort them — and pick up some gossip — but the Virgin Protectors refused to be consoled. Their entire role in life had been to care for the nine monoliths, and they could not face the thought they had let the goddesses down.

  Someone had crept into the Circle of Nine while they had slept, a being with enough power to awaken the Wizards. But who? This was the question the entire village of Faia was asking. Mothers discussed it with children, servants discussed it with masters, birds carried the news far and wide, and eventually, inevitably, the news was carried on the wind to the Wastelands.

  Sati was relaxing in her rose garden. The odour of brilliant dark red roses surrounded her, and she sighed deeply, surrendering herself to their perfume. A small wren landed on the stone wall nearby, his eyes blazing with excitement as he relayed the news to the Azephim Queen. She listened in shock, then was filled with a nagging realisation. Her blood turned to ice as she was forced to face the truth she had always known. Fenn was not the Awakener — her much-loved daughter, whom she had abducted from Emma on the Blue Planet, was no child of the Stag Man. Fenn was Faery, a changeling, left behind by some malicious Faery tribe who had anticipated the Azephim move. Her breath came faster and her lips turned to blue. She dismissed the gossiping wren with a curt wave.

  Time and time again, she had excused Fenn’s behaviour over the years, thinking she had half of Emma’s blood, a Bindisore who had grown up as a Bluite. But deep inside herself she had always known the truth, and had refused to acknowledge it. Fenn with her elongated, otherworldly eyes, Fenn with her silver-white hair, Fenn who refused to eat maug. She had harboured a Faery in the Azephim castle! Indeed, she had come to love the Faery as if it were her own.

  Burying her face in her hands, she moaned at the thought of Ishran’s reaction. He would be merciless, he would kill Fenn — or worse, perhaps, imprison her in the Azephim laboratories.

  Sati’s breath quickened as her thoughts flew in a frantic race. Didn’t Fenn deserve such punishment, however? She had deceived the Azephim with her shy smile, her lilting melodious voice. But she was innocent, another voice cried. It wasn’t her fault that her stinking race had deemed her expendable, and had used her as their changeling. Having a Faery in the castle was bad luck, Sati was sure. Faeries brought misfortune upon all who were fool enough to trust them.

  She could keep the news from the Ghormho, she thought. After all he was hardly in the Wastelands any more, as he increasingly crossed to other worlds with Charmonzhla. When he was at home, he took little notice of affairs of the Wastelands, vague and preoccupied with secrets he shared with the angoli. Perhaps she could get away with withholding the news from him. It might give her enough time to plan a strategy.

  Then she remembered the expected visitors to the Wastelands later that morning, and she hissed furiously. Seleza, High Priestess of the Azephim and Ishran’s Hosthatch, and the Glazrmhom, Rashka, were due to arrive from the Web-Kondoell. Sati had no illusions about the angels’ visit — it was not for social reasons, but rather another attempt on behalf of Seleza to reclaim the Eom for the Web-Kondoell. Her planet was sickening, wasting of some unidentified disease since the Eom had been abducted by the Nine Wizards. It would take no time for Seleza to sniff out the news that must be ricocheting around Eronth about the Circle of Nine rising.

  Caught in panic and despair, Sati began to involuntarily shape-shift, a large beak splitting her face in two, wings sprouting out from her back. She launched herself into a raven and began to ascend into the apricot-coloured skies. Her mind wanted to shut itself down, to lose itself in her bird form, intent only on hunting for small prey. Far below her in her rose garden, the petals of the roses she loved so dearly began to fall from the bushes in soft taps. Delicate petals, turning to brown, blowing gently away in the breeze.

  *

  Seleza was furious. They had flown from the Web-Kondoell, a perilous and exhausting journey, and, when they eventually reached the Azephim castle in the Wastelands, there had been no Sati or Ishran to welcome them, only rose petals blowing in the wind, and that simpering weakling, Fenn. She did not bother to hide her displeasure, snarling at Fenn and the servers who hovered inside the great receiving hall.

  ‘Has my overfed useless Ghormho got more stimulating things to do than welcome his Hosthatch and Queen?’

  Fenn attempted unsuccessfully to keep her voice steady when she replied. She had long ago realised that the Azephim were like wild wolves and could sense fear, which would only incite them to further violence. ‘H-h-hee has b-been so busy lately, Seleza, that your visit, which he has been looking forward to, must have slipped his mind.’

  ‘It must have,’ Seleza said. ‘Where is his whore wife? Why has she not chosen to welcome me?’ The servers looked at each other in consternation. Not programmed to deal with insults directed against Sati, they could not understand the language issuing from the Dark One’s throat. Fenn fell silent, realising any excuse she might give would only inflame the situation.

  Seleza glanced around the ornate receiving hall with its gilded mirrors, sparkling chandeliers and antique tapestries. Despite her exhaustion, she could feel the Eom throbbing quietly in the background. A silent witness. Ishran and Sati were too accustomed to the Eom’s presence to fully sense it. Seleza had no doubt that nobody came to the Wastelands by accident; she was sure that the Eom drew what it needed and desired.

  There was a strange odour, and she sniffed the air, attempting to discover the source. The milksop Fenn stared at her with open eyes and mouth. Seleza made a formidable sight at the best of times, but with little spare energy for Glamour after a long flight, she realised she must present a terrifying sight to the child. Rashka was nearly collapsing on the floor, and Seleza knew that they had to rest and restore their energies before the happy reunion with the Ghormho. Hissing orders at Fenn for their rooms, she followed the servers, half-supporting the Glazrmhom up the endless flights of stairs. Ishran would pay for his negligent treatment of his Hosthatch.

  *

  The Ghormho was hidden in his garden. He had made a small clearing for himself amid some fernery and rosebushes and was lying back looking at the sky. Beside him lay an empty bottle of dark rum. He knew his Hosthatch and sister had arrived; he could feel her anger at his absence. It did nothing to lift his spirits. He toyed with the idea of remaining in the clearing, of getting a server to bring him food, and sleeping there until his Hosthatch left, but he knew she would sniff him out. She always did.

  The alcohol had made him melancholy, and he wondered what Lazariel was doing. His life seemed so idyllic compared to Ishran’s. All the fallen angel had to concern himself with was which Bluite woman to bed and performing his meaningless rituals to establish some form of contact with angels. Lazariel didn’t have the massive concerns that faced Ishran, like being unable to activate the fucking Eom, and a Hosthatch who was determined to reclaim the crystal. He didn’t have a wife who was never home, and spent more time in the skies than on earth. How long had it been since his kylon had enjoyed pleasure?

  Where the fuck was Charmonzhla? Perhaps he, too, had deserted the Ghormho. Self-pity flooded him. The lowest peasant in Faia had it better than the Ghormho. He snarled softly. His head was already beginning to throb with the rum. He watched as a single strike of white lightning split the heavens. Something had to change, he thought hopefully, face upturned to wait for the first drops of rain. Baptism. He longed to be cleansed of his past, of all his weaknesses. But no rain fell, and another strike of lightning flashed. The Ghormho slept.

  Charmonzhla, kneeling cross-legged before him, grinned at the vision of the angel in a drunken stupor. He began to chant softly over him in a tongue that had long been forgotten in all the known worlds, raising his energy, planting thought patterns of
strength around him. If the angoli were going to work through this dismal specimen, he had better prepare him. The Ghormho had to be ready.

  *

  Seleza watched Ishran and Sati through suspicious eyes. The dinner could not be faulted; crockery gleamed until you could see your face in its surface, and white roses adorned the lace tablecloths, scattered in an aromatic display. The maug was fresh and crisp, and the accompanying raspberry and lime wine sparkled in the mouth. The Ghormho, she could see with disgust, was even more highly strung and whining than he had been last time they had met — if that were possible. For the millionth time that evening, she wished that his sibling egg, Rashka, had been the Ghormho. Where Ishran was emotionally frail, she had the strength of a thousand lions. She was savage in battle but, unlike Ishran, who liked to prey, rape and kill those weaker than himself, Rashka chose her opponents in battle carefully, enjoying the challenge of an arduous fight.

  Sensing these thoughts, Ishran and Rashka looked up. Rashka smiled at her Hosthatch, as Ishran cowered in his chair, unnerved by the unvoiced criticism.

  Sati laughed to herself as she looked on. She had always derived a secret pleasure from observing Ishran quail before Seleza. Feeling subdued this evening, she preferred to observe the unfolding drama. Her flight had helped to balance her thoughts concerning Fenn. All that was certain was that she had to move quickly. As self-absorbed as Ishran was, it would only be a matter of time before he learned that the Circle of Nine had awoken. Seleza’s suspicious glances in Fenn’s direction had not failed to escape Sati’s notice. Ishran’s Hosthatch was no fool.

  During her flight Sati had formulated a hasty plan in the event of Ishran discovering that the stones had awakened without Fenn’s influence. Ishran had based his theories on the Awakener from the prophecies of the Tremite Scribes. It was impossible, Sati had realised earlier, as she had hovered over the ocean of New Baffin, watching a sea-serpent battle, that he had misinterpreted the prophecies, meaning she could plant the suggestion that Fenn was still the Chosen One. If she could somehow drug him, muddle his senses, he might accept everything he was told. She had nearly shape-shifted back into her Sati form in excitement at the idea, losing concentration on her bird essence that allowed her to remain in the sky. Now, under the watchful eye of Seleza and Rashka, the idea seemed childish and futile. She began to pray to Alecom that the angels’ visit would be brief.