by Tim Lebbon
How the Widow would so love to talk to him now! He was sad that he would likely never see her again, but he was also content in the knowledge that she would champion this voyage and be pleased to see him upon it. And perhaps one day the repercussions of what might happen south of here would reach her in her mountains.
My killer is in these forests, Ramus thought. She rides through, expecting to beat me to the Divide, expecting to gain the top first, find the God. But the Sleeping God was guiding him in. It left his dreams to him, whether they were his own or Nomi's skewed visions. But it gave signs to his waking self. Some words he read from the parchment were held within the twisted boughs of trees, spelled out by the fall of certain leaves, cast into the sky in cloud formations that whispered to him when he saw them through the forest's ceiling. Shapes in chaotic undergrowth spoke in languages he could not understand, but their underlying meaning was clear to him, and so he followed, closing in, nearing the goal of this, his final voyage, and all the time he learned the parchment words that one day could mean so much.
He did not mention the shapes, words and signs to Lulah. She was too busy protecting them from more worldly threats: poisonous insects, beasts that kept their distance, and the enduring idea that they were being followed. He thought perhaps she was paranoid, but at least it kept her away from the trail he was following.
THE TENTH NIGHT they spent in the great forest, Beko came to her. Rhiana was sleeping in her tent on the other side of the fire, and Noon and Ramin were out in the forest on watch. The night noises were different here, the fauna quieter and more restrained, and Rhiana had suggested it was due to the proximity of the huge river they could hear in the distance. None of them had seen it yet, but that afternoon they had crested a rise and been able to look through the trees at a wide valley ahead of them. Much of it was obscured by mist, and they had headed down the gentle gradient with a keen sense of anticipation. Nomi swore she could feel the ground shaking from its power.
It was the sound of unknown Noreela, waiting to swallow them up.
“Tomorrow could be a real test,” Beko said, settling down beside her. “Have you heard tales of this river?”
Nomi shook her head. “I know of few Voyagers who have come this far.”
“Hmm.” Beko was sitting beside her, staring into the fire, his shoulder touching hers. The contact had shocked her initially, and she was sure it was the first time he had touched her in days. They'd ridden close, yes, and talked often, but this was what she craved. Superficially, it was Beko's acceptance of her again, after the startling revelations that had driven Ramus away. She'd hate to be thought of as a jinx on the voyage. But beneath that was something more complex, deeper than Nomi could really bear to look. With Timal, she had used the word “love” many times, bandying it around like an accessory while he rode her, lived in her house, spent her money. Now she could barely think of the word when she considered Beko, and it felt as though she would curse the very idea by doing so. But his closeness warmed her, in her mind and elsewhere.
“What does ‘hmm’ mean?” she asked.
“It just seems strange,” Beko said. “Maybe when Voyagers do make it this far, they don't come back because they've found somewhere better.”
“Voyagers are driven by discovery, and most of them want to share. To flaunt what they've found. But that's a nice belief.”
He laughed quietly, his voice merging with the river's distant roar. “A hope more than a belief. If they didn't return because they were hurt or killed, then we have a rough ride ahead of us.”
“We've had a rough ride already,” Nomi said, and she leaned into Beko as she felt tears burning. The first dribbled down her cheek and she wiped it away.
“I've certainly had easier,” he said.
“You've lost friends before?” she asked.
“I don't think I'd ever consider Ramus to be your friend.”
“I was talking about you and Konrad.”
Beko sighed. “Oh. Yes, I've lost friends. Saw a woman called Tresay killed in the forests to the north of Pengulfin Landing, cut in half by a razorbill lizard. Two friends taken by sea raiders on the western shores of Marrakash. And back on Mancoseria, of course. Seethe-gators. Not every Serian survives their encounter.”
“But never like that,” Nomi said.
“No. Never killed by the Voyager who hired us.”
“I hired you, Beko.”
“And I'm still grateful you sought my service.” And perhaps it was the heat from the fire, or her unsettled state of mind, or even the elemental roar and groan of the river filling the air and vibrating through the ground, but Nomi heard more in his statement than the literal. She placed her hand gently on his thigh and he did not turn away, did not object, and she knew then what she had heard.
“My tent?” she said quietly.
He turned and looked at her, smiling. “If you're sure.”
“And all these days I've been thinking you were the uncertain one.”
Her tent was cool and filled with the sighs of the river.
THE RIVER BURROWED beneath the ground. It entered the valley from the east, cascading down a set of violent rapids and waterfalls, and then across the valley it plowed into the western hillside, disappearing in a constant cloud of heavy mist that drifted toward them on the breeze and soaked them to the skin. Nomi guessed that the valley had once been a lake with a small drain to some subterranean river, but an ancient cataclysm had opened the ground and swallowed the water, sucking it down into unknowable depths and giving the fertile valley sides and much of its floor back to the trees.
The sound was tremendous, and the clouds of mist thrown up by the tunneling river soaked the air with a permanent fog. The plant and animal life had adjusted to the environment. Soon after descending the slopes and entering the cloud, the group found themselves surrounded by huge butterflies that seemed to swim through the moisture-laden air, wings flapping intermittently. The creatures were friendly and curious, and Nomi found it amusing to watch the Serians carrying a dozen gorgeous butterflies on their shoulders, arms and head. There were many more lizards than they were used to as well, most of them harmless creatures that basked on trees, their glistening skin adapted to moisture rather than sunlight. But there were also creatures less than harmless, and Rhiana was the first—and not the last—to kill a poisonous salamander with an arrow.
They also saw serpents that seemed to float on the curtains of mist. Their bodies were transparent, their wings wide and gossamer thin, and occasionally they converged on a giant butterfly and burrowed into its body, driving it to the ground and consuming it from within. Thankfully, these serpents seemed to have a taste only for butterfly meat.
They skirted wide around the sinkhole into which the river disappeared. They had to keep at least a mile away, because to go any closer meant visibility was down to a few steps. Besides, their mounts were petrified. Noon and Ramin went from horse to horse, comforting them, whispering in their ears and stroking their necks and backs, but still the animals were jumpy and nervous.
Far from disturbing her thoughts, the shattering roar of the river allowed Nomi to think more clearly. And most of her thoughts related to Beko. Their earlier lovemaking had been clouded by being swayed, and her memory of it was further sullied by the events that had interrupted it. But last night was clear in her mind, and as they rode through the day, she could not help replaying it again and again.
Beko smiled at her and rode by her side, but he did not neglect his duty as captain of the Serians.
It was late afternoon by the time they rode out of the valley, and as the western horizon caught fire and the damp air gave them a glorious sunset, they rode into the forest to escape the river's clammy influence. They were exhausted, wet and hungry, and their ears were ringing from the thunderous river. They could still hear it in the distance, but now it was merely a murmur.
Rhiana vanished so quickly that it took them a few beats to register what had happened.
<
br /> Her horse galloped away between the trees.
“Rhiana!” Noon shouted. The other Serians had drawn their bows and spread through the trees, taking up defensive positions as Beko rode close to Nomi and urged her across onto his horse.
“Hold on to me,” he said quietly, as she sat behind him.
“Hey!” Rhiana's voice cut through the loaded atmosphere, but still they could not see her.
“Where are you?” Noon slipped from his horse and moved forward cautiously, looking down at the ground and up at the trees, probing undergrowth and stepping carefully over trailing tree roots.
“Watch your step,” Rhiana said. Her voice was muffled. She started singing a bawdy song to guide Noon, and by the time she reached the second verse he was kneeling on the ground thirty steps from Beko and Nomi.
They gathered around and looked down into where Rhiana had fallen. It was a trench in the forest floor, maybe twenty steps long and taken up with five wide, deep, violet plants. The plants' leaves were cylindrical and ten steps deep, and Rhiana had become wedged at the bottom of one.
“Hurry,” she shouted. “I don't like the company I'm keeping down here.”
Noon lowered a rope, Rhiana grabbed on and he began to pull.
Nomi winced at the stink that wafted up from the trench. It was sickly sweet, a bewildering odor that made her hungry and nauseous at the same time. When Rhiana crawled over the edge of the rent in the forest floor, her trousers were glistening and sticky with some noxious liquid.
“Oh nice,” Noon said, leaning over the Serian and looking down into the giant plant leaf.
Nomi looked as well. There was a corpse down there, mostly submerged in liquid, flesh black and rotten, bones showing through in places. It was human, but beyond that she could tell nothing. As if seeing it brought the truth home, she caught another waft of rot. The smell was so thick and meaty that she was sure it coated her skin.
“Clever,” Beko said.
“Clever?” Nomi turned away, clasping her stomach and trying to hold on to her last meal.
“What, this doesn't fascinate you? It's perfect!” Beko knelt by the trench's edge, trying to restore the carpet of roots, moss and dead leaves that Rhiana's horse had stumbled into.
Nomi shook her head and glanced at Rhiana. The Serian was wiping down her trousers with handfuls of dirt and dried leaves.
Nomi smiled. “Any of you seen or heard about anything like this before?”
“I've heard of them,” Beko said. “Rokarian traps. Don't know anyone who's ever seen them.” He peered into the other huge leaves to see what meals they had caught.
“Then it's now renamed Rhiana's Trap!” Nomi said. “A fitting plant to give your name, Rhiana?”
Rhiana grinned. “At last, I have my place in history!”
Nomi and the Serians laughed, mounted up and moved on, riding more cautiously now that they knew of another peril to avoid.
When they made camp that evening, Rhiana and Noon went hunting for meat and collecting roots and herbs. Ramin patrolled their perimeter. Beko and Nomi built the fire together, their glances lighting fires elsewhere.
And that night, after food and tale-telling and before love, Nomi began to feel that her voyage was on course again.
AFTER FOURTEEN DAYS traveling through the forests, Ramus and Lulah at last reached their southern extreme, beyond which lay a bizarre landscape of interconnecting waterways and standing stones.
And then the gray people came.
They waited until the travelers had passed the last of the trees before emerging from their hiding places and launching their attack. They scurried from the forest like massive ants, hands and feet slapping the ground, their movements so fluid that they seemed to flow. Ramus saw them first, a flash of movement from the corner of his eye. He shouted to Lulah. The Serian was standing a few steps ahead of him, horse reins in one hand, the other held up to shield her eyes as she looked at the view. For some reason, the gray people bypassed Ramus; it was Lulah they went for first.
He smelled them as they drifted by, like old, musty, forgotten things. Their long hair flowed behind them, and seen through its trailing strands, the forest lost all its color.
Lulah cried out, batting the first gray person aside and stepping back as she drew her sword. But there were too many and they were on her, sticking like mud, wrapping their arms and legs around her torso, knocking the sword from her hand and driving her to the ground. Her arm flashed out and one of the attackers screeched, a high keening cry that sent a shiver down Ramus's spine. Blood splashed the air—surprisingly red—and the thing fell away from Lulah, clasping a hand to a vibrant wound across its shoulder.
Lulah's screams changed from fear to pain, and Ramus wondered what they had done to her.
He looked back into the forest and saw more of the gray people coming at him. They emerged from the gloom between the trees, and then he realized that some were materializing from out of the trees themselves, parting from trunks like smoke taking shape and form.
Lulah's screams changed again. From fear to pain, and now from pain to wretchedness.
What are they doing to her? Ramus drew his knife and stepped forward, but then the gray people fell on him as well. He had imagined them as mere wraiths, but their weight surprised him, crushing him down and squeezing him inside. His head pulsed with pain, but what they sought existed far deeper.
Ramus felt the swell of old knowledge, much of it hidden away in the darkest corners of his mind, and at last he knew where Lulah's desolate scream had originated. He screamed as his own terrible memories rose.
His mother cries as he laughs at her, and it's a childhood wickedness he would never forget. She has had a hard life bringing him up on her own, every painful day etched in her face, and she nurses her bruised arm, loving him far too much to ever curse him for striking her. He is nine years old. He continues laughing, because to stop would be to allow access for the shame and shock pressing in from all around. She looks at him and loves him, and Ramus laughs some more.
More wrongs, more faults, more sources of guilt. A shopkeeper who Ramus stole from in his teens; his mother's look of hurt when he turned down a gift she had bought for him; Nomi, sitting in her home after Timal had left for the last time, her tears icy spears in his heart.
And the gray people grinned and grew fat on what he was experiencing. Their weight increased, their eyes sparkled, the rotten teeth in their mouths gained weight and color, their sunken cheeks filled out; and more and more of them were coming from the forest.
He grasped the round stone charm and struck out, feeling the warm patter of blood across his face.
The Widow spoke to him and he clung to her voice, feeling surprise simmering through the beings splayed across his prone body. Magichala is instinct, she said. You're born with it, and it can never be forced. You breathe it. There's no technique other than that.
Ramus uttered the words he had read from the parchments and they flowed from him like stale breath. He kept his voice low so that Lulah could not hear.
He grabbed Konrad's stone fingers hanging around his neck and they felt warm, a strange heat as though it was from somewhere other than his own flesh and blood. He looked up into the eyes of a woman as the final sound left his mouth. At first, her grin changed into a look of surprise, and then her eyes stopped glittering as they turned to pale, dead stone.
Ramus did not know how long Konrad had taken to die. Perhaps back then, whatever power the words held was still developing in him, growing from the seed planted by his readings of the parchment. But this time, within a dozen beats of his muttering the words, everything had grown still.
When Ramus moved, the crackle of breaking stone limbs startled him. The gray people around him were still gray, but now they were motionless and dead. Here and there he could still see the soft texture of flesh and skin instead of the dulled tones of stone, but as he watched even these hardened. His attackers were statues, frozen forever into one moment i
n time. He heaved away the people who had been crawling and clasping across him, pulling himself from beneath their dead weight and feeling the rough edges of their fingers, teeth and hair scratching the exposed skin of his face.
An arm stood in his way, fingers turned into the soft ground where its owner had been grasping for balance. One thump with the heel of his hand snapped the arm from the shoulder and it tipped over, fingers still splayed like a dead spider.
Gasping, still barely believing what he had done, Ramus stood and looked across at Lulah.
Her gray attackers still smothered her, but now they were looking at him with suspicious eyes. They did not seem perturbed by what had happened—indeed, none of them seemed to be looking at their dead, petrified companions—but the threat had bled from them. One stood on Lulah's chest, stepped off and loped back between and into the trees. Soon, the others followed.
Lulah remained motionless on the ground. Ramus wanted to go to her, but then his legs began to shake, and he went down to his knees.
All instinct, the Widow said in his memory, and he relished his vision of her. He closed his eyes, and drove away all the sour memories the gray people had dredged up. He answered her, and it felt good to have his own voice back.
“Much for you to see here, Widow. Plenty for you to know. You'd be proud of me.”
“Ramus,” Lulah whispered, and she was looking at him in fear. “You have the power of the gods.”
Ramus shook his head, unable to meet her eyes. “Maybe just one of them.”
LULAH STUMBLED AROUND the dead people, staring down as if they would move again at any moment.
