by Garth Nix
Then, within another second, it was all over. Without warning, the sky ripped with lightning for a second, turned black, and filled the stars and scudding clouds. A new moon hung on the horizon, and there was no sign of the Gwarulch or Glazed-Men. Julia could only see five or ten meters in the moonlight, but the whole area seemed to be different. A memory change had struck again.
With an inaudible sigh, Julia collapsed onto the ground, holding up her bleeding arm. She felt sick, and for a few seconds her stomach churned and bile burned the back of her throat. Then she remembered Mirran—had he been lost in the memory change?
But there was coughing coming from somewhere on her right, and she could just see Mirran sitting up in the moonlight, not far away. With a hand clasped over the cut in her arm, she crawled over to his side.
He stood up, coughing a little, and cleaned Julia’s cut with one of her socks, and bound it with the other, while she sobbed with the pain and horror of it all. When the bandaging was finished, Julia took a few deep, short breaths and said, “I thought you’d gone with the memory change.”
“No,” said Mirran quietly. “I am a prisoner, not one of Her memories—though I came close to being slain by them. You were very brave, child. I…I hoped for a daughter once. Perhaps she would have been like you.”
Julia didn’t answer, and when Mirran looked closely, he saw that she was asleep or unconscious. But her breathing was steady, and pulse strong, so he gently folded her hands under her head, before getting up to walk around. He could smell salt and that meant they were near the sea. Perhaps near Sleye, where Anhyvar had lost whatever made her human, and called the Angarling from the sea.
He looked back at Julia, a small dim shape on the ground, and wondered that she could sleep, cut and all. But then he had always been able to sleep when he was a boy, despite cuts, cares and bruises. There had been no nightmares then, he thought wistfully—awake or asleep. Still thinking of his childhood, he also lay down, and fell into a kind of half-sleep to dream of better days.
Deeper and deeper went the light-stalk fish, as Paul hung on with a grip of deathly fear. He was afraid of where the fish was going, but even more afraid to let go, in case he sank all the way to the bottom. If there was a bottom to the endless abyss of black, all-enclosing water.
Vaguely he knew that he was far deeper than scuba divers ever went, and that he should have been crushed by water pressure or got the bends (whatever they were). But the water-breathing spell seemed to take care of that—at least Paul didn’t feel any different, except that there were dull booming sounds in his ears, like the echo of faraway drums.
Then he realized that he actually could hear drums, or at least some bass vibrations through the water. And there was a dim shape looming ahead of him, just a touch lighter than the dark water.
The fish clapped its jaws again, and wriggled a little to change direction—towards the lighter shape. As they approached, Paul realized that the water was no longer dark and the shape ahead was some sort of vast doorway in the canyon wall—a doorway closed with great strands of weed, with a bright light shining out between the little gaps and holes in the curtain of weed.
Seeing the light, Paul’s fears lessened, and he remembered how the Master of Air had really been quite kind, despite his awesome presence. Perhaps the Water Lord would be the same…He closed his eyes for a minute to reinforce that hope. For some reason life seemed a little more hopeful when Paul closed his eyes and counted up to sixty.
He’d just reached forty-five when the first weed brushed past his face, a cold, slimy shock that made his eyes snap open. The fish was going straight through the curtain of weed, and great slimy tendrils kept brushing over Paul, leaving dark-brown stains and pieces of rotten vegetation behind.
The only good thing about it, thought Paul, removing some slime from his face, was that it was getting lighter and lighter. Obviously there was some sort of enormous lantern beyond the weeds—something like an underwater lighthouse.
But it was far more spectacular than that. As the fish burst through the last layer of weed, Paul cried out and covered his eyes with weed-slimed hands. For they had emerged into an enormous underground cavern of shining emerald-green water. And it was lit, not by a single light, but by thousands of luminescent fishes, octopi, squids, strange creatures, and glowing weed—a swimming galaxy of brilliant stars.
As Paul’s eyes slowly adjusted, he realized that the light-stalk fish was taking him to the very center of the cavern, where the most luminous creatures of all shed their light around a sphere of black and troubled water—the only dark part of the entire amazing cavern.
As Paul approached, he felt his fish begin to shudder, and soon he was shuddering too. A deep vibration of sheer power seemed to emanate from the sphere of black water, a power that beat at Paul’s temples, scaring him, and at the same time, filling him with some of its strength. He felt like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, and just bit his lip instead.
It was only when the salty tang of blood trickled into his mouth that Paul realized he really had bitten his lip—quite deeply. And with pain came the realization that the fish he was hanging onto was a dead weight in the water. It was no longer swimming. And that the black watery sphere before them had begun to slowly spin, green water foaming into it like an unblocked drain. A whirlpool that was going to suck the light-stalk fish in…and Paul with it.
Immediately, Paul pushed away from the fish, and tried to swim out of the vortex of the whirlpool. Arms and legs thrashing wildly, he forgot every aspect of the swimming style he’d learnt over so many cold mornings at the pool. He was still floundering when the main swirl of the whirlpool caught his legs, twirled him about, and swept him into darkness.
It was almost instantly calm within the black sphere, and as the currents became still, so did Paul. He trod water steadily, just to keep his place, and looked around.
It wasn’t as dark as the abyss outside the cavern—obviously some of the sea-creatures’ light filtered in. It was more a sort of grey, thought Paul, like on a moonlit night. That reminded him of the Master of Air, and the great bird that had been so fearsome at first sight. Perhaps this black whirlpool was just the Water Lord being fearsome to start off with. Paul hoped so.
Thinking that it might only be some sort of test made Paul feel a little better, so he started to swim about. He trusted the dolphins, at any rate, and was sure they wouldn’t have brought him to the abyss if it was going to be really horrible.
Then he saw something coming down towards him, a rope of luminous weed being let down from somewhere far out of sight above. It stopped a meter or so above Paul’s head, and he noticed a loop in the end like a handhold, just the right size for him to grab.
Paul hesitated for a second, then reached out to grab the loop. It was instantly snatched out of his hand, and the rope flicked up about five meters. Puzzled, Paul watched it go, then swam after it. He didn’t have to go far, because the rope came back down, stopping about the same distance away from him as before.
Once again, Paul grabbed the loop, only to have it snatched away. This happened several times. Finally, Paul swam up to it very slowly, got very close, and lunged at it with both hands.
With a triumphant cry, he got a firm hold on it, only to find himself suddenly bound tight, as folds of rope fell down from above and wrapped themselves around him. The rope snapped tight, and started dragging Paul upwards at high speed, the water foaming past him like the jet from a tap.
Seconds later, Paul burst from the black depths into green-lit brilliance, and was pulled sideways by the ropes, zigzagging across the cavern to a cave carved out of the wall, lined with the gleaming sides of cowrie shells, all green and mottled in colors never seen above the sea. In the middle of this cowrie-paved cave, his legs firmly planted on the back of a giant turtle, a man-like figure was pulling in the rope hand over hand. Paul stared at him, but couldn’t quite make sense of what he saw.
The figure was man-like, bu
t seemed to be made of constantly swirling sea-patterns. He shimmered fluidly, and small waves moved back and forth across his burly chest, while different colored currents swirled up and down his arms. And when Paul looked at his face, all he could see was the deep, blue-black expanse of the open sea.
Obviously, Paul had been caught by the Water Lord—fished up from the black waters. He hoped the Water Lord wasn’t going to do to him what fishermen did to fish.
“So,” boomed the Water Lord, deep vibrations buzzing in the bones behind Paul’s ears. “You are Paul.”
“Yes,” whispered Paul, puzzled as to where the sound was coming from. The Water Lord’s face was still featureless, and the sound seemed to come from all around.
“Why have you come here?” asked the Water Lord. He leaned towards Paul, and the boy felt the terrible force in him; the waves and currents that roiled his surface hinted at a vast energy within like some huge coiled spring.
“I came to ask for your help,” said Paul slowly. He was really uncertain now. The Water Lord’s lack of a face was strange, inhuman, and far more threatening than the giant, bearded visage of the Master of Air.
“My help…against the Ragwitch…” boomed the voice again. It was so low and loud it was starting to give Paul a headache, and made it hard for him to concentrate.
“Yes…against the Ragwitch,” answered Paul. He struggled to think of a reason for the Water Lord to help him. “She will try to destroy the streams and rivers…all the fish and things in the water…”
“Yes,” came the Water Lord’s reply, a flat agreement that she would try these things.
“The Wise said that I could harm her—stop her,” said Paul. “If you and the other Elementals help me.”
The Water Lord said nothing to this, but more waves broke on his surface, and Paul felt as if he were watching some sort of inner struggle between the conflicting natures of the Water Lord—between the sea which provides, and the sea which destroys. Then the waves quietened, and the Water Lord stood completely still. As Paul watched nervously, a bright blue tear welled out where his left eye should have been. It hung from his face for a brief second, was caught by a current, and spun off into the water towards Paul. Without even thinking, he caught it in his outstretched hand.
It was surprisingly solid, almost like jelly, and warm as well—even hot. Paul flipped it from hand to hand, like a hot biscuit, while it cooled. Strangely, with the teardrop in his hand, he’d almost forgotten where he was—if only for a second.
The booming voice reminded him quickly, with a sharp stabbing pain in his head, as the Water Lord said: “That is The Blood. Keep it with you always. Now—leave here!”
The vibrations from the last words were so severe that Paul was stunned for a moment. Disoriented, he floundered about, looking for the light-stalk fish, a dolphin, or any guide to get out.
But none of the light-fish came any closer, and as Paul looked back, he saw black waves rising across the surface of the Water Lord. Each wave seemed to disrupt his man-like form, and his whole shape was becoming fuzzy at the edges, as if it were about to mold itself into something else—and whatever the Water Lord was going to become, the process was very disturbing.
Paul started to swim away, The Blood safely stowed with The Breath in his leather pouch, but he couldn’t help slowing to look back again, which was a big mistake. For the Water Lord had completely lost his human shape, and was now a whirling mass of black and writhing water—another whirlpool that was growing with every second. Paul didn’t need another look, and struck out and up, swimming furiously. Thoughts raced through his mind, of the fisherman’s shack at Donbreye, and Deamus saying “the sea…knows cruelty as well as kindness…”
The phrase was still running through his head when the black waters reached him, caught him, and once more swirled him down to the darkest waters of the Water Lord’s deep crevasse.
14
Sleye Midden/Sharks
HIGH ON A narrow headland, which thrust out into the sea, the setting sun cast long red lines of light across the branches of the trees like trails of fire. Julia leaned against one of the sun-fired trees, and looked out through a break in the forest to the sea beyond. The scent of salt was very strong, and if she closed her eyes she could almost feel that it was her family’s favorite stretch of coast, and she was standing near the front of a rented beach house on the first day of the holidays.
But when she opened her eyes, there was the great red setting sun, the trees bright as flames, and it was Mirran sitting nearby—not Paul. With a start, Julia realized that what with all her own troubles, she hadn’t thought of Paul for ages. The last time she’d seen him was when the Ragwitch had been taking her over—and he’d run out of the bedroom. With a pang, she hoped he was all right. Paul would miss her dreadfully, and worry too. Julia realized that she missed Paul as well—his comforting, loyal presence, always ready for whatever they were going to do next. She wished he was there with her, and then wished that she was with him. Safe…back at home.
Mirran interrupted her thoughts by getting to his feet, mail-shirt clinking. “We must move on,” he said wearily. “If Anhyvar is anywhere, she will be here. I am certain that this is the headland to the north of Sleye…though…it doesn’t seem quite right.”
“Even She can’t remember exactly,” said Julia, “so I suppose it isn’t exactly the same. You know, how you think that somewhere is just as it is in your head, and when you go there, it’s not?”
“Yes,” muttered Mirran. “I believe you have it. Now, we had better not talk as we walk. These trees could hide Gwarulch or other of Her creatures—and I’d rather surprise them than be surprised.”
Julia nodded, and drew her wand, just to be on the safe side. Mirran hefted the stick he’d torn from one of the trees, and moved off. Julia followed, noticing how quietly he could move, despite the odd clink from his mail-shirt.
Nearer the end of the headland, the trees thinned out, and a wind rose up from the sea, cold and moisture-laden. Small bushes replaced the trees, and jagged rocks thrust up from the ground in clumps. The headland rose up too, and as Julia climbed, she noticed the earth was red beneath her feet. A few yards on, white shells and broken shards confirmed her fears.
The hill on the headland was another midden.
And at the top of the midden, Julia suddenly knew, would be Anhyvar, the woman Lyssa had told her to find. But Mirran said that Anhyvar was the woman who became North-Queen, and then Ragwitch. What if this was all the wrong memory, and it was the Ragwitch at the top of the midden—somehow herself inside herself? She might be up there now, the doll’s everpresent smile split to show the shark-like teeth, and pudgy three-fingered hands reaching out to pull Julia into her evil embrace forever…
Without realizing it, Julia slowed at these thoughts, and with the last one, she stopped altogether. For the first time in her life, she couldn’t go on, and something snapped deep inside her. Dropping onto her heels, she grabbed herself around the knees and tried to curl into the smallest ball she could.
The next thing she knew was Mirran’s voice somewhere near her left ear.
“What’s wrong, child?” he asked, concern in his voice. “Are you hurt?”
Julia didn’t want to answer, but she heard her own voice babbling about the midden, and the Ragwitch waiting. But she felt that she was really drawing away, to some far-off place. Mirran kept talking to her, but the words couldn’t travel the distance.
For what seemed like forever, Julia’s head whirled with all the images of her time with the Ragwitch: from their emergence in the Sea Caves, the trip to the Spire, Oroch’s unearthing, to the slaughter of Bevallan and the poor Glazed men and women of the Namyr Gorge. But most of all, her thoughts went back to that single second in the Midden, when she’d first seen that scrap of cloth sticking out of the unearthly nest.
But Mirran kept talking, and gradually Julia began to listen to what he was saying, and her sobbing ceased, and she became awa
re that Mirran was talking about Anhyvar.
“She was so eager to find new Magic,” he said. “At first, only for healing, as the Patchwork King had decreed there would be no other Magic used in the war. But her enthusiasm went further, and she threw herself into her researches. She so desperately wanted to end the war, to put a stop to all the pain and hurt of so many people.
“For many years while the war dragged on, she spent the summer with the army, as a healer for the wounded and sick. In winter, she prowled the libraries of Yendre, talked with others of the Magi, and consulted with the Stars.
“Then one day, she came to me at Caer Calbore, where the army was resting after a hard-fought month of clearing the North-Creatures from the lands around the Awgaer upspring. She was happy, excited, more enthusiastic than ever. She told me that there had been an Age of Magic before the Patchwork King gathered all the reigns of Magic to himself—and that she had uncovered the secret to its hiding, and would be able to unleash it at her will. Furthermore, she spoke of the Stone Knights of the Angarling, waiting under the sea at Sleye. They would be the perfect means of bringing the war to a rapid end.
“I asked if she had talked of this to the Wise, or any other of the Magi, and she answered no—she was afraid they might take the path to the Patchwork King to warn him. And jealous of other powers, he might forbid her.
“Foolishly, I accepted this—but later, when I realized exactly what Magic Anhyvar had found, I knew that, even then, the first cold tendrils of that evil power had begun to warp her nature, and wrap around her heart.
“So, she left for Sleye, with a small escort of soldiers, and my blessings and hope.”
Mirran paused and looked at Julia. She raised her head, and uncurled a little, before nodding at him to go on.
“I never saw her again after that, save at the fall of the Citadel in Yendre, when it was only her shape that remained. I heard what happened at Sleye from one of her escort—the only one who escaped. He was sore wounded, and raving, but he spoke of her conjurings, on the headland above Sleye. He said that she had cast her spells, and was waiting, when a vast black door appeared, that shook and rumbled as it opened. Anhyvar was drawn within, screaming and fighting, and the door swung shut and disappeared with a rolling clap of thunder.
