‘We can’t even think it,’ Anomer agreed.
‘So here we are, meeting at night, on the assumption that even a magician needs to sleep, hoping we can—in as brief a time as possible—make sense of what is happening to us and decide what to do about it.’
‘Don’t forget what Lenares calls—called—the hole in the world. Our thoughts are being overheard by something desiring our deaths, it seems.’
‘I agree, Anomer, and you are right to mention—’
‘It tried to kill us, I think, in Faltha,’ said Conal.
‘There was a hole in Faltha?’ Duon asked, surprised by the abruptness with which the priest joined the conversation.
‘Must have been. It was when I first joined Stella—ah, Bandy—and her guardsman. We were on a boat in the Aleinus River and encountered a waterspout. I remember Bandy telling me later that she thought the spout was searching for something. It could have been me, couldn’t it?’ He licked his lips. ‘We might be targets of the gods. Mightn’t we?’
‘Undoubtedly,’ Anomer said. ‘Arathé, and anyone in mind-conversation with her, has been hunted by the hole. We are the reason the hole pursues our friends, and why thousands of people have died.’
‘Our choices are stark,’ said Duon. ‘Flight, keeping away from centres of population, hoping to remain hidden from the hole. Or to walk boldly towards it, hoping to destroy it, and those behind it, somehow, before it destroys us.’
‘Why can’t we just stop talking to it?’ asked Conal.
‘Do you really think you can keep the voice out of your mind? Given what your companions said about you, the voice has taken you over completely at least twice: once to save your companion—Stella, was that her name? Or Bandy? Nevertheless, once to save her and once to kill her.’
‘They told you that? All of it? So…you know about her and Heredrew?’
‘Know what? How can we know whether we have heard everything?’ Duon leaned forward, his face close to that of the priest. The faint starlight revealed a sheen of sweat on the man’s cheeks. ‘What do we need to know about Bandy and Heredrew, aside from the fact that Bandy goes by another name?’
The priest paused a moment, then lifted his head and smiled at them. ‘If I tell you, you must promise not to do anything rash.’
He’s either a fool or a very clever man, Duon thought—or possibly both. ‘No promises. Just tell us.’
Conal smiled slyly. ‘I called her Stella, a slip of the tongue, but that is her real name, a name she does not want known. Do either of you children know the name of the Falthan queen?’
Arathé exchanged a blank look with her brother.
‘Ah, then perhaps you know the name of the Undying Man’s one-time consort?’
Arathé made a series of hand gestures to her brother, accompanied by moaning and grunting noises, the sort a simpleton would make. Though Duon knew the woman was intelligent and articulate in her own fashion, his cultural conditioning screamed ‘lackwit’. With difficulty he put his prejudice to one side and instead marvelled at the siblings’ ability to communicate, particularly given the darkness.
‘Stella Pellwen,’ said Anomer at once. ‘Well known to anyone conscripted to learn magic in Andratan.’
More signals from his sister, this time frantic.
‘Are you suggesting the young woman with Heredrew is the Dark Consort? Arathé says if the woman was still alive she would be ancient. Nearly a hundred years old.’
‘I merely asked a question,’ Conal said. ‘You understand, if I am asked whether I have kept Bandy’s secret, I wish to say with honesty I have told no one.’
Duon scratched his head. ‘So, if she is the Dark Consort, then the man Heredrew—’
Anomer chimed in. ‘The self-confessed powerful sorcerer—’
‘Is the Undying Man himself,’ Duon finished. ‘But Heredrew looks nothing like the man I met in Andratan.’
‘And sorcerers are bound always to present their true appearance to the world?’ Conal asked. ‘Did you see the Destroyer’s true form in Andratan, I wonder?’
‘The Destroyer?’ Duon could not remember hearing the term.
‘Falthan name for him,’ Conal said, a defensive note in his voice. ‘Understandable, surely, given the history, that Falthans see him as a tyrant. But I’ve been surprised since coming here how benign his influence appears to be.’ This last seemed an unwilling confession.
‘Lenares did say Heredrew was hiding something,’ Anomer observed. Arathé signalled, and her brother nodded his head. ‘We wish she was still alive,’ he continued. ‘Lenares’ gifts would be of great use to us now.’
All of a sudden the magician’s voice reverberated in Duon’s head. What are you doing? I leave you alone for a moment and you share our secrets? Duon could feel the man’s anger building: the back of his head began to warm with it.
You threaten me? he asked.
Indeed. I could burn your brain from the inside out. Make you throw yourself from somewhere high, or walk into a fire. Eat poisoned berries. Anything. I repeat: what are you doing?
By now the other three had turned to him.
‘His voice is spilling over,’ Conal whispered, his face white. ‘We can hear every word.’
Duon was almost certain the magician knew nothing of the proximity-induced spillover between his three tools, but it took everything he had to avoid consciously thinking of it, or to speculate on how he might use the knowledge, as he conversed with his unwanted parasite.
And if his parasite could pick the underlying thoughts from his mind, he was already doomed.
Trying to find out what your other two hosts know, he mind-voiced.
Oh, so you’ve worked that out? Clever.
So hard, so very hard, not to articulate the conclusions he could draw from this one statement. We three are the only ones. He knows less than we think. And he doesn’t always hear what we say or even what we think. Blurs of knowledge, not proper thoughts.
We have some questions for you.
No doubt. But do you really think I will answer them? Certainly I will give no information to anyone not sworn to my allegiance.
Then you will answer some of my questions?
When I have proof of your fidelity. I have a task for you to complete. We will speak again when I give you that task, and questions and answers may follow, if you satisfy me.
And should I refuse?
Then we both will have learned something. But, in your case, the lesson will be your last.
The exchange took a bare moment, but Duon still missed Anomer’s next question. The others, however, would not have missed the exchange. More explaining to do, more risk of being found out.
‘What do we do with what we know?’ Anomer repeated.
Clever lad. Sufficiently vague that the listening magician would be able to make little of it, but necessary to ask so the magician didn’t realise he was being overheard.
‘We return to our billets and think about it,’ Duon said, signalling them with his eyes. A waste of time: he doubted they could see the gesture. ‘We must not prolong the risk of discovery by remaining here. We do not want anyone else to put the three of us together, or they may come to the obvious conclusion and dispose of us.’
The voice in Duon’s mind hissed, and Duon wondered what he had said; but at that moment he became aware of another presence. Someone stood on the ridge above them.
Of the four of them, Conal sat in the darkest shadows; without prompting he eased himself backwards until hidden. Clever man, Duon thought. Or a voice in his mind gave him instructions. Then, a moment later, he realised such a conversation would have spilled over.
Two figures descended the ridge towards them, resolving into the Omeran slave and his master, Dryman the mercenary. The second grave complication in Duon’s life.
‘Couldn’t sleep either?’ Dryman asked.
The question rang false on many levels: overly hearty for a man who normally wouldn’t enquire about anyone el
se’s wellbeing; designed to offer an explanation for the man’s own presence in a woodland path after dark.
Ask him where he’s been and what he’s been doing.
Oh, Duon intended to.
‘Where have you been, Dryman? What business draws you out night after night? You might think you are unobserved, but I see you and your thrall creep out of the camp again and again. What do you get up to?’
The voice in Duon’s mind cried for him to exercise caution, but Duon was having none of it.
Dryman gave no answer. His deep eyes were shadowed, and Duon shivered at the unseen menace. Nevertheless.
‘Then what about you, Torve? You are a man of integrity. Yes, a man, no matter what we Amaqi say about Omerans. So why don’t you tell us what you’ve been doing?’
‘No,’ Torve said.
‘No you will not, or no you cannot?’ Duon pressed on, aware of the risk he was taking. The mercenary could cut him down—unless his personal magician strengthened him. Emboldened by the thought, he pressed Torve.
‘Cannot? The clear implication is you are protecting your master, which means you and he are up to no good. Remind me, Torve, why this man commands you? I thought you were the Emperor’s personal pet?’
‘He commands me because he is the true leader of our expedition,’ Torve responded, his voice guarded, his eyes sorrowful. ‘He carries forward the will of the Emperor. As he has said, you would have led us home. Therefore I must obey him.’
‘Besides, we are not the only ones who have been out wandering at night,’ Dryman said, taking a step forward. ‘Here you are with as little justification as Torve and myself. But not so long ago you left everyone behind one night and returned to Raceme, consulting no one, to offer support in the slaughter of defenceless courtiers.’ He leaned forward. ‘I don’t answer to hypocrites.’
‘You always have an answer,’ Duon replied. ‘But none of them satisfy me. I intend to make it my business to find out who you are and why you are destroying the Emperor’s expedition.’
His words sounded faintly ridiculous in his own ears. Destroying it? The expedition had been destroyed when the Alliances had usurped Duon’s leadership and marched their army into an ambush. Nothing to do with Dryman.
The mercenary tilted back his head and laughed. Some startled animal, a squirrel or possum perhaps, fled between he and Duon. It took some time for the echoes to die away.
Once again the brave explorer crushes himself, said the sardonic voice in his mind. Even a fool learns eventually. Will you one day learn enough to be considered merely a fool?
Duon slunk back to his host’s house, aware of the eyes on him. Why could he never give answer to Dryman? And what thoughts were forming in the other two magician-cursed minds? Thoughts reflecting on his betrayal of them? His foolishness?
How soon would someone decide his continued existence was unnecessary?
In all his previous adventures he had never failed to find at least some sleep during the night, no matter how difficult the situation. During their time in Nomansland he’d slept; he had even found rest amid the terrible cries from the Valley of the Damned. But this night he lay awake on his cot through the hours until dawn, reflecting on his failures.
Allowing the Emperor to appoint him titular head of an unmanageable expedition. Almost as though he was set up to fail.
Failing to ride the political winds of the Alliances, resulting in his removal as leader at precisely the time when it did the most damage.
Acquiescing to Dryman’s leadership out of some misguided feeling of worthlessness. Allowing a man with no past and no standing to overrule his better judgment.
Losing thirty thousand people.
Near dawn his thoughts drifted into unfamiliar channels. Seditious pathways. The Emperor expected him to fail. The voice in his head had first appeared when he was heralded as leader of the expedition—clearly the magician was in league with the Emperor. His sovereign benefited from the loss of his army…how? Because it destroyed the power of the Alliances. Part of the Emperor’s plan. Yet he survived, along with Torve and Lenares, because of Dryman’s intervention. The Emperor’s will? Yes, yes. Dryman was the Emperor’s tool, a bodyguard whose task it was to keep his master’s three most important assets alive. Lenares for her witchy ways—now lost. Torve for his unquestioning obedience, and Duon for his experience in the northlands. A bodyguard, nothing more. Chosen for his fighting prowess, charged not to reveal the Emperor’s plan. Only a bodyguard. Not a leader.
Not a leader. Why, then, should he continue to follow the man?
For one reason. He’d succeeded in convincing Duon he knew the will of the Emperor, knew the real goal of this expedition. The admission that there was a real goal meant the Emperor had set this up to start with. The army was never intended to survive.
He would walk a way further with this mercenary. But he would demand answers as the price of his continued cooperation. And when he completed the task for which he had been chosen, whatever it was, he would watch his back.
If thirty thousand people could be dispensed with, Duon told himself as the sun rose, so could one.
Torve also did not sleep, but for a different reason from that of his fellow southerner. With a thrill of wonder over his entire body he recalled something his master had said earlier that night, during the revelation that he was god-possessed.
‘The halfwit Lenares can no longer read me,’ he had said. ‘She will never associate me with the mask-wearing Emperor.’
It wasn’t much, but Torve knew his master. He would not have said can and will if Lenares were truly dead. How the Emperor knew, Torve could only speculate: perhaps the oversight of the god within told him what others did not know.
Lenares had to be alive.
CHAPTER 14
THE DAUGHTER’S NUMBER
A TUG ON HER MIND jerked Lenares awake.
She liked to wake to one thing at a time, but even before she opened her eyes she was assailed from every direction by sensations and their associated numbers.
Another tug.
The sound of waves crashing. A cold splash.
The heat and ache of pain; the numbness of what she feared might be a serious injury.
Cool wind brushing her face, pulling at her hair, making a hollow booming sound behind her.
An insistent tug.
The arcing cry of a seagull.
The sun beating down on her eyelids, the sting of salt in the corners of her eyes.
The tug, tug of the mathematical line she had secured to the hole in the world. One of the holes. The one exploited by the Daughter.
She opened her eyes.
She lay on rocks below a seaside cliff, but not the same rocks as yesterday. There had been no cave in the cliffs yesterday. She shuddered. The sight of any hole, any void, set her on edge.
Tug. Tug, tug.
She had been shifted since she fell. Perhaps she did it herself. Yes, that was it: an explanation for the abrasions on her body, on her hands and knees, that hadn’t been there yesterday.
The annoying tugging hadn’t been there either.
Something was broken in her chest. Lenares was a little hazy about anatomy, but it wasn’t her heart or lungs; it felt more like the dull ache she imagined would be associated with a broken bone. One of her ribs perhaps. It hurt to breathe, but the pain wasn’t unbearable.
Tug.
Stop tugging me!
She had bled on the rocks yesterday, but these rocks were clean. The tide was almost in, her numbers told her, but she was safe from the waves, though the spray spattered her with stinging drops of salty water.
One of her knees hurt, the left one. She had to sit up to see it; her leg hung down from the rocks and her foot actually trailed in the water. She hissed at the pain in her chest as she moved.
Tug.
Snarling, Lenares snatched at the link between herself and the hole, the one she had spun with her experimental numbers. The link seemed to have no
solid anchor in the hole—apart from her unproven notion that the far end was held by Mahudia. Her dead Mahudia.
The link shook, then oscillated like the wave she could make in a skipping rope if the other girls let her play. The wave reached the far end.
Ah, so you are awake, little one.
‘I’m not speaking to you.’
Oh yes, you are. See? You’ve always had trouble with numbers, little Lenares. Particularly zero. You say something isn’t, when clearly it is.
‘That sounds like a lie. I don’t lie.’
No? So when you said you weren’t speaking to me, what did you mean?
The Daughter was right. ‘I will find out how you were able to trick me, and change my thinking. I’m not perfect.’
There are more important things to consider, little one. There is a nexus coming, and you need to be there. Are you ready to travel?
‘I’m not doing anything you tell me to.’
Really? Breathe, Lenares.
For an instant she considered holding her breath, but that would just be childish. ‘I’m not breathing because you told me to,’ she argued. ‘You could say “live” to me and the only way I could disobey you would be to die. But that doesn’t make you my lord.’
Your problem, Lenares, is that you don’t truly understand numbers.
There are things you don’t understand either, Daughter, Lenares thought; but, unlike the unwise god, she did not speak her thoughts aloud.
One of the things Lenares felt certain the Daughter didn’t understand was that Lenares had tied a numerical link to the hole the Daughter used. Had the god known, she would surely have taken steps to undo it. The link allowed Lenares to sense with much more clarity not only the Daughter’s numbers, but also her emotions and thoughts.
But the Daughter was right: Lenares didn’t fully understand the numbers she had used. She had puzzled over the mathematical concept of ‘nothing’ for a long time, even before she had become aware of the hole. Perhaps—she couldn’t remember, but it seemed likely—her thinking about how to express ‘nothing’ had led her to the discovery of the hole. Holes. She still wasn’t certain how many.
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