Dark Heart (Husk)

by Russell Kirkpatrick

  Bandy had been brave, but she had failed. At least the three groups did not assault each other; but the Amaqi had left in a different direction from the Bhrudwans, leaving the Falthans alone and no doubt bemused on the shores of a vanished lake amid the detritus of a battle not of their making.

  And now here they were, travelling north as they had indicated they would, daring to make contact with one of the other groups. Courageous, if nothing else. Or foolish.

  ‘You wish me to take greater care with my words?’ Dryman said. ‘Very well. Captain Duon will do the talking.’

  From another man Torve would have considered it a fit of pique, but the Emperor had much to hide, and perhaps no real way of knowing how powerful these Falthans were.

  ‘We simply wish to understand what is happening here,’ Bandy said carefully. ‘How it might be tied in to events in Faltha, and to what extent we can assist in resolving things. We are not an invading force, we do not seek riches or power, nor do we wish to destabilise any nation or regime.’

  Torve turned to Lenares even before she started speaking. He knew she would not wait for Captain Duon to make his cumbersome explanations.

  ‘This is what is happening,’ she said, rushing her words as though she expected to be interrupted at any moment. ‘Thousands of years ago there were three gods: a father and his two children. The children rebelled against their father and drove him out. This damaged the—the material, I think the word is—between our world and theirs. Now one of the two children is using the damage to break through into our world. He has enlarged the damage into a hole in the world by killing people and breaking the threads connecting them to everything else. The material separating our world from theirs is woven from the things we do, you see, so any untimely killing of people near the existing hole in the world makes the hole bigger. Now he and his sister can reach through and affect things. And I think we have been brought together to oppose them.’

  ‘To oppose them? Oppose who? I’ve not heard of three gods before.’ Bandy shook her head, confused.

  ‘The numbers all match,’ Lenares said. ‘Three gods, three empires, three groups. One group from each empire to oppose the gods.’

  ‘But who are these gods?’ Bandy insisted.

  ‘I’ve heard something of this,’ Heredrew said, his voice troubled. ‘From a most impeccable source. The most impeccable source, you understand?’ He faced his own people, obviously communicating something.

  ‘We are finally making progress because I am telling the truth,’ Lenares said, anger in her voice. ‘If you keep secrets, we will not be able to prevent the Son and the Daughter breaking through. So you must tell us what source you heard the story from.’

  ‘I must tell you nothing,’ Heredrew said. ‘You will have to accept that we will keep some secrets relating to our identities—as at least one of your number does, I note.’ He nodded to Dryman, whose expression did not change. ‘Besides, the truth, as you call it, would not be believed.’

  ‘Can no one else taste and smell truth?’ Lenares cried. ‘For all your magic, why are you all so crippled?’ She pointed a shaking finger at Heredrew. ‘You are telling the truth as you see it when you say you think people wouldn’t believe you. But I would believe you, if you told the truth. So what you are saying is the truth, but it is not true. You need more than your own knowledge to decide whether something is truth. That’s why you should all listen to me. I’m a cosmographer.’

  She awaited their reaction, but there was none.

  ‘Don’t you know what a cosmographer is?’

  Three Falthan heads shook in the negative.

  ‘You don’t have cosmographers in Faltha? Well. We didn’t have many in Elamaq either, and no real ones for hundreds of years, not until me. A cosmographer uses numbers to see how the world is shaped, and to explain the actions of the gods. I am the most gifted cosmographer ever, Mahudia always said. I can see things that are hidden: the actions and secrets of people are colours and smells and numbers to me. If you do two things, I can see the relationship between them. Three things and I can work out the numbers that define you. I can see your place in the world. The more I watch and listen to you, the more threads I can see, until I can tell you almost everything about your life. The same applies to any trace of the gods. I can see the holes they have made, and I have spoken to one of them. Today.’

  ‘A mixed-mind,’ Heredrew breathed. ‘I’ve only ever met one other.’

  Lenares came to full attention. ‘You have? Where is he?’ And, after a pause: ‘I have a name?’

  ‘Yes, you have a name,’ Heredrew said, not hesitating to look right at her. She liked that, Torve knew. She wanted people to be direct. ‘You belong to a rare and privileged group of people,’ the Falthan said. ‘I once knew a man who could paint music, and for whom letters had colours, but he had no facility with numbers, as I recall.’

  ‘Can I meet him?’ The gods now forgotten.

  ‘I’m sorry, Lenares, he died a long time ago.’

  Again his head turned to Bandy, and they exchanged a glance. Entirely unconscious, no doubt, but Lenares would not have missed it.

  Her eyes widened. ‘You are very old,’ she said. ‘He died before I was born, didn’t he.’

  ‘I am a sorcerer,’ the man responded blandly. ‘Sorcerers generally have long lives.’

  Lenares stood and started pacing around the table, a small giggle in her voice. Totally absorbed, totally alive. ‘Still not all the truth. You’re afraid that we won’t listen to you if we find out just how old you are. You must be a very good sorcerer, Heredrew.’

  Bandy choked, and recovered to cough politely. ‘Hear that, Heredrew? A good sorcerer.’

  But Lenares was now immersed in her own visions and did not notice the further elision. ‘What I don’t know is who drew everyone here. The Son is not happy we are all here; he sees us as enemies brought to defeat him. The Daughter—I’m not sure about the Daughter. She wants to escape, but she is not cruel like the Son. But they both must be bad, because they drove their father away.’

  Her pacing increased; Torve gave up following her with his eyes as she circled the tables.

  ‘Bad people don’t have parents, Rouza said. I must have done something bad to drive my own parents away, she told me, and I don’t want to believe her, but where did my parents go? The Daughter understands me and wants to be my friend. Perhaps, like me, she didn’t realise what she did to make her father go away. She has spoken to me twice; once more and I can define her. Then I will have my answers.’

  Her thoughts followed each other in an associative rather than logical sequence, forcing Torve to listen carefully. The rest of those gathered did the same, if the silence around the table was anything to go by. Finally, after thousands of lives lost, they listen to her.

  ‘The Daughter says it is cold outside the world. I feel sorry for her, but not enough to let her in. She says she could keep her brother out but I don’t believe her. If I knew who brought us here I could solve the mystery. A hand comes out of the hole in the sky’—she was clearly reliving the Nomansland experience—‘and snatches us up. A hand with talons. She had talons when I spoke to her today, but her hand was thinner, more elegant. I think the Son brought us here, but I don’t know, not yet. If the Son did bring us here, it must be for his benefit and not ours.’

  She stopped pacing. Her perambulations had brought her back to her own seat, so she sat down and leaned forward. ‘Who brought you here?’ she asked the Falthans.

  Bandy answered. ‘We’re not sure. Heredrew used powerful Fire magic to transport us to Andratan, but Conal here interfered with the spell. We think Water magic might have become mixed with the Fire as a result, making the incantation vulnerable. Whatever the reason, we were between Dhauria and Andratan, somewhere outside the world if I’m guessing correctly, when we were pulled away from our intended route. Test this for truth, Lenares: none of us knows who was responsible. But Heredrew thinks he sensed another magician pushi
ng us, working in partnership with the strong hand that drew us here. Heredrew might well be the strongest magician alive, but he could not free us from the pull. So here we are, sampling the wares of an Ikhnal Tea House, after nearly drowning in a disappearing lake, almost being struck by a fireball and enduring three weeks of foot-wearying boredom in our struggle to catch up with you.’

  As though conjured, a woman appeared at Heredrew’s shoulder. ‘Can I arrange tea for you?’ she asked him. ‘Mimia, the host who explained to you newcomers how the tea house operates, is busy serving the rest of your party, but she has communicated to me your likely needs. May I serve you?’

  Heredrew nodded graciously, sending her off with a compliment, and Torve found himself wishing this temperate, considered man was the Emperor of Elamaq. Heredrew would likely not have instigated quests in search of immortality, or derived pleasure from torture. Spending time in Lenares’ company had refined his own truth-sense, Torve had no doubt of it. If only he could be rid of the torment…

  ‘There is something else to consider,’ Heredrew added. ‘One of our number has an unexplained voice in his head.’

  ‘A voice?’ This from Captain Duon, who appeared a little agitated, perhaps because Lenares steered the conversation despite Dryman’s command. ‘What sort of voice?’

  ‘Unfortunately you cannot question him directly, as he knows no Bhrudwan and refuses to learn.’ Heredrew indicated the young man who had fainted when they first emerged from Lake Woe. ‘This is Conal, priest of Yosse, who is alive and still with us only on sufferance. I make no secret of my opposition to this, but I was overruled. Others in our party consider his knowledge, and especially his revelation that he has a voice of power in his head, of potential value. I say he ought to have been sent on his way for betrayal and interference. He claims to hear from an unknown magician, who has come to his aid with guidance and, on one memorable occasion, unnatural strength.’

  ‘Oh?’ Captain Duon said, further discomfited. ‘Unnatural strength?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Heredrew went on to tell a fantastic tale of the priest rescuing Bandy by slaying a Maghdi Dasht, a most powerful magician and servant of the Undying Man. Robal, the guardsman, had apparently witnessed feats of most unlikely physical prowess from the otherwise cowardly and weak priest.

  Torve could see that the captain was taking this news strangely. His face continued to pale, and even a refill of the tea their host brought them did nothing to restore him. His pallor had caught the attention of one or two of the Falthans.

  ‘Is the voice—can you ask him, that is—whether the voice is arrogant and full of mocking laughter?’ Captain Duon wore a look of desperation.

  ‘I’ll ask,’ Heredrew said, his eyes narrowing, ‘but I don’t really need to, do I?’

  A small shake of the head from the captain, his eyes downcast.

  The tall Falthan translated the question anyway, and the pasty-faced priest gave a brief answer. His features did not betray any curiosity in the questioner, but his dark eyes sparkled.

  ‘He says yes, that sounds like the voice. So. We have two people around this table influenced by an unknown person. I’m sure I am not alone in feeling uneasy about this. Is this unknown person in fact one of the Most High’s children? Does he overhear us even now?’

  ‘Or,’ Bandy said, ‘is this some other person entirely? Perhaps a renegade Maghdi Dasht—they have been known to betray the Undying Man’s cause—has brought us together. The more we discover, the less I like any of this.’

  Lenares stood. ‘I almost know what it is,’ she said. ‘Give me a moment to follow the thread. It was something Arathé said.’ She began pacing around the table again, then stopped.

  ‘No,’ she said, her face suddenly white. ‘No, I don’t know anything.’

  What? A clear lie. So unlike Lenares, Torve felt ill even considering it. What is she doing?

  Heredrew interrupted their musing.

  ‘New arrivals?’ He wore a worried frown. ‘I’ve just realised: did the serving woman say something about new arrivals? Do you suppose—’

  Robal was first to react, though Torve had seen a flash of something like amusement in Dryman’s eyes. ‘Get away from the window!’ the Falthan soldier cried and, seizing Bandy by the shoulders, dragged her towards the landward end of the tea house. He knocked down a free-standing partition and there they were, the Bhrudwans, all eight of them, heads down in discussion, the steam from their beverages rising—then abruptly fluttering and flattening out as a breeze sprang from somewhere.

  ‘Outside!’ Robal shouted. ‘We must flee!’

  Beside Torve, Lenares began to mutter. ‘The gods don’t want us to put all the truths together. Every time we get close, they try to stop us.’ She turned towards the window.

  Torve took her by the hand. ‘Leave her,’ Dryman commanded. The Omeran’s hand spasmed, but kept hold of hers. His master’s voice came again, shaped with its full weight. ‘Leave her.’

  How deep was his conditioning to obey? Clearly deeper than his love for Lenares. His hand twitched open and his arm jerked away from her. Another betrayal.

  Shrieks from somewhere, a loud roar from behind them. A bone-deep thump as the ground shook. Another fireball? Torve shouldered through the half-open door and began running up the hill beyond the tea house. Ahead of him were hosts and guests, running, stumbling, turning open-mouthed.

  He turned too, and saw the wave.

  Was it possible for a mind to become worn, Duon wondered. For the edge of reason, once sharp, to be dulled? Weariness had definitely played a part: he and his fellows had received no respite for months. But if his mind was failing him, it was because of other things. The voice in his head, for example: reminder of a magician who had empowered him with strength beyond his dreams—at a cost as yet unknown. Perhaps he was the candle, his mind the wick to the magician’s flame, burning brightly but about to wink out.

  Or his memories of that day in the Summer Palace. Waiting for death, then facing the Neherians, believing he was about to die. A fear overwhelmed by the strange mix of exaltation and horror as the magician’s strength rose in him and he began to kill.

  He had begged the voice in his head to erase the memories. They had instead blurred together into a gory pastiche. Whether this was a product of his own mind or some sadistic intent of the voice, he could not tell.

  Or maybe the cause of his blurriness was the constant, disconcerting alteration of the rules of reality. Nomansland had always played by its own rules, and their shepherding there had been frightening but not surprising. But storms and whirlwinds, vanishing lakes and fireballs, not to mention supernatural strength and an orgy of bloody death—all these served to separate him from the comfort of the real.

  So the giant wave, towering above the cliff and the tea house, made surprisingly little impression on Duon’s weary mind. He began running only because the voice in his head took over his nervous system, impelling his legs. A glance behind revealed the foaming water rearing above them like an angry stallion; he turned away and so felt rather than saw the wave crash to the ground. Don’t look, he told himself, but the thump pulled his head around.

  The bulk of the wave had come down on the tea house. The structure had vanished under a white explosion that appeared to be erupting up and out from the clifftop. Running figures covered the hillside above the coast; most well clear of the water. Like him, many of them paused to watch the spectacle. And to watch the fate of those not so fortunate, who had not taken to their heels at the first indication of trouble.

  Lenares was one such. Just below him, Duon could see Torve hopping from foot to foot, clearly desperate to rescue the cosmographer, but something restrained him. Dryman, no doubt. The man held an unhealthy, uncanny sway over the Omeran and no command of Duon’s had been able to break it.

  The remaining power of the wave washed up towards the struggling girl. There seemed comparatively little strength left in it, but it hit her with force and took the legs
out from under her. The wave ran another ten or twenty paces up the hill, then began to draw back. It withdrew from the place Lenares had been standing, but she was no longer there.

  The water raced back towards the sea as though pulled by an overstretched cord. It smashed into the ruins of the tea house with as much vehemence as the original wave, and the one remaining wall succumbed, vanishing over the cliff in a flurry of foam, trees and detritus. And bodies, no doubt.

  The magician lurking like an eel in the crevices of his mind began to laugh, puffing like a bellows. Out to sea like a piece of wood in a flood, he said, sharing his delight with Duon. That girl could have ruined everything.

  Duon realised the next few moments would be crucial, not only for his own survival, but also perhaps in thwarting whatever assault the gods were perpetrating on the world. The thought surged through his mind as an unvoiced feeling, and now he could try—had to try—the mental technique he’d devised during the days and weeks on the road north; days he’d been left alone by the voice save for a few brief checks. An answer, possibly, to the question: how does one mislead someone residing in one’s head?

  He augmented the images in his head, feigning relief as Lenares fell into the foaming water and disappeared, to be sucked, along with beams, bushes and bodies, over the cliff. He imagined her, fearful and already half-drowned, tumbling down towards dark rocks. A moment of abject terror, then pain, disintegration and darkness.

  I thought you were sympathetic to her, the magician said.

  She was a valuable asset to my Emperor, so I tolerated her, Duon sent earnestly. But three months on the road taught me that usefulness is no substitute for true humanity. She irked me beyond belief in the last few weeks. No one here will mourn her passing.