by Edward Cox
Beyond the car’s clear shell, the world was thickly pale and swirling. Through the forward window, past the moisture that ran in jagged, windblown streaks across the glass, something sullied the whiteness – something very dark and very big and approaching very fast
At first Hamir thought it might be a new cliff, that the journey was to be a swift one, and the car would soon be docking at whatever destination Amilee was leading him towards. But all too soon Hamir realised what the shape was, and he rolled his eyes.
A statue – a gigantic, behemoth statue – rising like a mountain of obsidian, carved in the likeness of a Thaumaturgist.
‘Superfluous,’ Hamir muttered, and he wondered who it was Amilee was trying to impress with this degree of imaginative detail.
In its hands, the colossal monument held a staff, the end of which was a diamond shape, the symbol of thaumaturgy. The edges of the diamond glowed with a purple radiance, and the cable upon which the car travelled ran straight through its centre, anchored into position by this perceived representation of higher magic. The car slid through the diamond without slowing. The cable sloped downwards on the other side until it finally cleared the cloudbank and the journey levelled out over an ocean as clear and blue as sapphire.
Up ahead, another monumental statue of a Thaumaturgist rose from the water. This one only emerged from the shoulders up, its arms raised above its hooded head. In its hands it held another glowing diamond. Unobscured by clouds, the statue’s intricate detail could be appreciated.
Hamir pursed his lips and looked behind him as the car sped through the diamond. ‘Superfluous and pretentious.’
The cable line dipped again, bringing the car to no more than ten feet above the calm and clear blue waters that stretched to the horizon. Hamir leant forward in the chair, peering through the glass directly ahead. There appeared to be an anomaly on the surface of the ocean in the near distance, like a patch of oil. As the car drew nearer to it, Hamir realised that the anomaly was a hole in the water. He was not surprised to see that the hole comprised a perfect diamond shape with its four edges glowing thaumaturgically, holding the ocean back.
The cable disappeared into the hole. The car followed its course, went sliding down, and Hamir was soon descending a tunnel that stabbed diagonally into the ocean like a spear of hollow glass. But the walls of the tunnel were not made of glass; they shone with the radiance of the thaumaturgy that held back the ocean.
Through the tunnel walls, Hamir could see movement in the purple light that weakly illuminated the ever darkening waters. They were only glimpses, brief flashes, but the necromancer saw enough to know that numerous, monstrously sized sea beasts were swimming around the tunnel. He spied amorphous blubber and tooth-filled maws, powerful limbs and bioluminescent tentacles, horned tails and cold dead eyes; but not one of these beasts dared swim close enough to the tunnel for the radiance of higher magic to light them in any grand detail. They were hints, ghosts, a threat in the unknown.
Evidently, Lady Amilee had never acquainted herself with the concept of pragmatism. ‘Utterly pointless,’ Hamir whispered, shaking his head at the creatures beyond the tunnel.
As the car continued to descend, Hamir’s thoughts returned to the Trinity of Skywatchers.
The third and final member was known as the Word. Favoured above Lord Wolfe and Lady Amilee, the Word was First Lord of the Thaumaturgists, the only creature of higher magic who came close to matching the Timewatcher in power and wisdom. By far the most malevolent member of the Trinity, the Word’s purpose was to represent the wrath of the Timewatcher. Principally the overseer of the overseers, he policed the Thaumaturgists, ensured his peers never strayed from the Timewatcher’s directive that called for equality and gentle guidance for the Aelfir and humans.
The reverence held by the Thaumaturgists for the Word was second only to that which they held for the Timewatcher, but many also feared the power that had been entrusted to him. The day he murdered Baran Wolfe the Wanderer came with a great sense of irony; it was the act of betrayal that began the greatest of all wars. The Word’s true name was Iblisha Spiral, but from that day forward he was known as the Lord of the Genii.
Hamir didn’t notice until the glass cable car began to slow, but the tunnel had levelled out to run horizontally a few feet above the ocean floor, sandy and littered with black boulders. Signs of the great sea beasts were no longer present in the lowest depths, but directly ahead a huge monument appeared out of the gloom. A triangular shadow at first, it quickly revealed itself to be an underwater mountain, unnaturally smooth in its formation. The tunnel led directly to the mountain’s base and the mouth of a cave which was, of course, cut into a perfect diamond shape.
As the car entered the cave mouth, there was a low hum and a flash of purple. The waters parted, and then Hamir found himself entering a large cavern that appeared surprisingly dry.
The car docked, the door slid open, and Hamir stepped out.
The cavern was formed from a dull grey substance, not quite stone, not quite metal. Its wall swept round Hamir to form a perfect circle, as smooth as the disc of the floor upon which he stood. He sniffed. This place wasn’t just dry, it was dehydrated; there was a fundamental lack of moisture. The air felt as dusty as old bones, and it scratched the back of Hamir’s throat as he breathed.
Illumination came from a pale, glowing pillar that rose at the edge of the circular floor, close to the wall. Hamir would easily need twice his arm span to fully embrace its circumference and it rose so high into the gloom above that he decided the interior of the underwater mountain must be entirely hollow.
At first Hamir thought the pillar was glowing moonstone, but as he took a few steps closer to it, he felt a chill that radiated from the structure’s light, and realised it was formed from the hardest of ice.
The necromancer stepped back as the pillar reacted to his proximity.
With dull snaps and low groaning, the ice began to fracture into a host of jagged cracks that interconnected and streaked up its length. The white glow intensified and the necromancer skipped back another step as the pillar shattered with a nerve-shredding noise. The ice collapsed into millions of tiny shards which swirled like a snowstorm, maintaining the shape of the pillar, but glowing now with a broken sort of paleness, flecked with dashes of dancing black. It looked like a column of static, and filled the cavern with a mournful drone.
At the base of the column, the flecks of black merged together and pushed back the shattered ice until it formed a slim doorway. A figure emerged, and Hamir raised an eyebrow.
Tendrils of sky blue wavered around a centre the colour of twilight forming a vaguely human shape. Eyes leaked tears of vaporous black.
‘Hello again,’ Hamir said to the avatar. ‘I surmised you were working for Lady Amilee.’
Sky blue tendrils coiled and snaked, but the avatar didn’t reply.
Hamir sighed. ‘Is Her Ladyship planning to make an appearance? She must be bored, judging by the pointless detail of this place.’
Again, the avatar did nothing but hover before the column of droning static while shedding its blue radiance upon the metal-rock floor.
Hamir felt his patience fray. ‘It’s strange – I have found myself pondering the Trinity of Skywatchers for the first time in many, many years. Was I following a natural train of thought, or – here, in this place – did Amilee wish to remind me of the subject?’
Only then did the avatar speak. ‘You know,’ it said with a masculine and surprisingly affable voice, ‘I still can’t work out if you are a friend or a foe, Hamir.’
Hamir rocked his head from side to side. Technically, the answer would lie in the middle of the two options, but this really wasn’t the time for a philosophical debate. ‘In the scheme of things,’ he said, gesturing around the cavern, ‘does it really matter?’
‘Maybe not,’ said the avatar. ‘How did you get
here?’
Again, the philosophical answer was too splintered to address now, and Hamir stuck with the literal. ‘I followed the instructions you gave me back at the Nightshade. How else?’ A thought came to him. ‘Or perhaps you suspect I’ve turned double agent for the Genii?’
Smoky tears rose lazily as the avatar relapsed into silence.
‘Maybe you would answer a question for me,’ Hamir said testily. ‘Are the agents of the Relic Guild dead or alive?’
Nothing.
Hamir sucked air over his teeth. ‘Thus far I have done everything that was expected of me, whether I wanted to or not.’
To emphasise his point, Hamir produced from his inside pocket the phial of changeling blood and showed it to the avatar. Of course, in this imagined world, the phial had changed. It now appeared as a piece of stone that had been carved to resemble what looked suspiciously like the Tower of the Skywatcher. Hamir stuffed it back into his pocket.
‘I am tired of playing Amilee’s little game,’ the necromancer stated. ‘I deserve to know exactly what in the Timewatcher’s name is going on. Why am I here?’
‘Follow me,’ the avatar said. It drifted back into the doorway in the pillar of spinning, droning ice chips, and disappeared.
‘Infuriating,’ Hamir muttered.
The necromancer’s skin tingled as he approached the doorway. He looked up the length of the column, narrowing his eyes against its glare. In this dreamscape, Lady Amilee could wait for an eternity for him to follow the avatar. It made no difference if Hamir stepped through the doorway now or in a hundred years, the outcome would always be the same.
Taking a breath, more from exasperation than any need to summon courage, Hamir stepped into the doorway. There was no pain, no sight, no noise, only a quick and curious sensation that told him his being had crumbled to atoms which were then borne on the spinning storm and sent up and up and up …
Chapter Fourteen
Grace and Truth
Clara had no memory of waking up. She couldn’t remember venturing outside. But there she was: fully awake and running through a thick and lush forest.
From the taste in the air, and the way moisture seemed to be descending, Clara decided it was evening. The falling sunlight filtered lethargically through a verdant canopy.
Exactly when she had changed into the wolf, Clara didn’t know; but she was ravenous, and the thrill of the hunt coursed through her veins. The cool moisture in the air dampening her pelt, the scent of foliage rich in her nostrils, the ground coarse and leafy beneath her paws – Clara felt at home, as though she had been born in the forest, spent her life running free and wild, master of her terrain.
She sped between the trees: a huge, sleek, powerful silver-grey phantom. This was her life, here and now – simple, clean, pure – and there was nothing else in the realms she need concern herself with.
Clara headed down into a depression in the forest floor, a bowl-like clearing where mist had formed, thick and wet. She slowed, creeping into the mist with a growl. The hunt was almost over.
The deer was young and fast – strong, but not strong enough. Its energy expended, the animal hid in the mist, its eyes wide with fear, not quite looking at the wolf, body frozen yet trembling. It didn’t move as Clara drew near; she tasted its terrified hopelessness. She wished the chase could’ve lasted longer, but her hunger demanded feeding.
The deer gave a final, desperate scream, barely struggling, and Clara’s huge jaws crushed its neck. Hot and sweet blood coated the wolf ’s muzzle as she bit and tore, sating her hunger with tender flesh, shrouded by mist.
While she fed, Clara acknowledged a presence at the back of her mind, a brooding shadow that belonged to the dead Resident, Gideon. He didn’t speak, but Clara knew he was there, vicariously revelling in the rewards of the hunt, the taste of the spoils. Clara didn’t care; let him play the voyeur. His ghost wouldn’t hinder her enjoyment.
Comforted by the tang of blood in her mouth and the fresh meat filling her belly, Clara sensed that other animals of the forest were hiding from the new master who now ran among them. She had heard them earlier, scurrying from her path as she hunted down the deer. Although such fearful respect pleased the wolf, the prospect of an after-meal fight greatly appealed to her. She hoped that the forest would send a champion to challenge her dominance, a territorial beast big enough to provide a real test of her strength.
A scent that did not belong in the forest suddenly filled Clara’s nostrils. The wolf stopped eating, and retreated from the deer carcass. Turning in a slow, full circle, she scanned the encircling mist.
‘Clara,’ a smooth voice said.
The wolf could smell Van Bam, but not see him. She remained where she was, proud and alert.
‘Clara, I know you are there,’ Van Bam continued. ‘I can see you.’
Of course he could, Clara realised; the illusionist could see things hidden to others, including wolves concealed by thick mist. But still, she didn’t move. If she could have, the wolf would’ve smiled.
‘Please,’ Van Bam appealed, ‘may I speak with you?’
Boosted by the respect in the illusionist’s tones, Clara padded up the slope of the depression. When she emerged from the mist, she saw Van Bam up on the ridgeline, leaning against a tree, green glass cane stabbed into the ground. His metallic eyes dull and grey, he smiled at the wolf.
‘I had forgotten how big you are,’ he said.
Clara stopped short of him, resisting the urge to race forward and bowl him over. She didn’t like that Van Bam stood above her, higher than her.
‘Clara, we need to talk.’
There was an unspoken command behind Van Bam words, a demand. Clara showed him her teeth.
Van Bam chuckled kindly. ‘You cannot fool me,’ he said. ‘I know you have gained mastery over your magic. This is a good thing – to be celebrated. But for now, I need to speak with my agent.’
He was telling her to change back into human form, but Clara had no intention of obeying. She turned, intending to run through the mists into the forests, to spend the rest of her life among the trees, free and wild.
‘I understand your reluctance,’ Van Bam said, and by the tone of his voice, Clara knew that he really did understand. ‘Gideon warned me that you were proud and stubborn as the wolf – perhaps a little blinkered too?’ He chuckled again. ‘But I suspect you are also carrying a shadow of self-doubt, yes?’
Clara turned back to him, but still didn’t approach.
‘If you would let me,’ said Van Bam. ‘I would banish the final uncertainty inside you with a little reassurance.’
Without waiting for consent, Van Bam tapped his cane against the forest floor, whispering words too quick for Clara to catch. With a brief flare of green light, a glassy chime rippled through the trees, borne upon the droplets of moisture in the atmosphere, resonating in the air. It brushed against the wolf ’s thick pelt, burrowed into it and tingled upon her skin, like the breath of a magicker whispering to the blood of a kindred spirit. The sensation was enticing, beckoning with the promise of acceptance.
The wolf wanted to back away, but every muscle in her body tensed, hard, ridged, and held her still. Then they relaxed with a sudden, lurching sensation, as if she might vault into the air and soar above the treetops. Instead, the wolf stumbled forward and stood in the forest as a young woman called Clara. Whole and human; a smooth transition from one animal to another, the gentle calling of her magic ringing in her ears.
She looked at Van Bam, up on the ridgeline. ‘No pain,’ she whispered.
‘Acceptance does not always have to hurt, Clara.’
Clara laughed in surprise and delight.
But her feet didn’t feel right.
She scratched them against the dirt, as though there was something stuck to her soles that refused to dislodge. When she looked, she found hard,
calloused skin had formed there, like the pads of a wolf. And then Clara realised with astonishment that she did not stand naked before the illusionist.
She was dressed in a simple pair of trousers and a long-sleeved hooded top. The material was grey and strange to the touch; as thin and light as silk but with the brushed feel of suede or hair.
‘Where did these come from?’ she asked with a bemused grin.
‘A gift from Namji,’ Van Bam replied, as Clara made her way up the slope. He looked quizzical. ‘I believe she recently introduced herself to you.’
Clara confirmed with a nod. She could recall the voice of the Aelfirian magic-user in her head while she had been viewing the world through Van Bam’s eyes.
‘Your new clothes are imbued with a surprisingly strong spell,’ Van Bam continued as Clara joined him. ‘When you change, the wolf will absorb the clothes, but – as you have just discovered – they will reappear when you take human form again, thus avoiding embarrassing situations.’ He smiled, looking her over, nodding approvingly. ‘It is good to see that being a changeling is finally agreeing with you, Clara.’
Once more whispering to his magic, Van Bam conjured the illusion of a mirror in which Clara could study her reflection. She immediately saw the change in the woman who stared back at her.
Clara’s posture was straighter, her shoulders a little broader. Was she taller? The streaks of red dye had gone from her hair, but its natural blonde colour was now tinted with silver-grey. And her face … it was still her face in the mirror, but Clara’s features were not those of the awkward young girl she had last seen. She seemed older, more mature, gazing upon her reflection with eyes carrying a hint of sunshine yellow.
‘How do you feel?’ Van Bam asked.
Clara scratched the thick skin that had grown under her feet against the ground again. ‘Good,’ she said, if a little uncertainly. ‘Like I’m supposed to be in this body. Like I’ve … grown to fit my skin. Does that make sense?’
