Circles of Stone

by Ian Johnstone

  “Well, sure, when you’re together! But isn’t that the whole idea? We don’t know what you’ll be like when you’re apart – in different worlds!” She stared at him steadily. “And anyway, the Say-So was never going to agree to you going after your mum – you could see that!”

  “We’ll do it anyway. I’m going after my mum and Naeo’s going after Bowe, no matter what the Say-So decided.”

  “Then you’re fools,” said the Scryer.

  Sylas rounded on him. “Oh really? You think so?” he yelled, his eyes burning.

  Triste looked at him calmly, as though considering the question. He pulled the pipe from behind his ear.

  He knocked it on the heel of his hand. “The Say-So is right – Thoth will be expecting you to look for your mother, and Naeo her father. He’ll see you coming. And if he doesn’t, his Scryers will.”

  “Thoth has his own Scryers?” said Simia incredulously.

  Triste shook his head and pushed what looked like green moss into his pipe. “The ones he’s captured and turned.”

  “Some of our Scryers are working for Thoth? How could they?”

  Triste regarded her coolly with his weary, sunken eyes. “If you’d seen what we’ve seen,” he said, “if you’d seen the Reckoning as we saw it, you might have despaired too.” He puffed at his pipe. “For Scryers, more than any other, wars are a living hell. Too much pain. Too much loss.” He took the pipe from his mouth and inspected the bowl, prodding at the strange tobacco inside. “Anyway, the point is, now that Thoth’s Scryers know what to look for, they’ll see everything I see.”

  “And what’s that, exactly?” asked Sylas, still struggling to cool his temper.

  Triste winced as his pipe sent up a new pall of orange smoke. “If Naeo nears her father, or if you near your mother, you’ll stand out like a bushfire on a dark night.”

  Sylas looked into the Scryer’s large, shadowy eyes, then shot an angry look at Simia. He turned and walked to the water’s edge, staring out across the lake. The mist had burned away now and the Valley of Outs was lit by the morning rays, but he hardly saw the beautiful waters or the majestic forests. He did not even see the small flotilla of boats on the lake, carrying the Suhl back to their homes. His thoughts were far away, with his mother, in another world. He knew that Simia was right – that the Say-So had been right – but that was irrelevant. For a few moments, when Paiscion had talked about going back to Mr Zhi, she had felt so close. Now she felt as far away as ever.

  Simia walked up behind him. “I was just worried about you …” she said, quietly. “And I thought, in a way, if Naeo finds your mum – and you find Bowe – isn’t that almost the same thing?”

  “No, it’s not,” said Sylas, walking away. “It doesn’t work like that.”

  “But you see, that’s the problem,” Simia called after him. “No one knows what it’s like to be you. No one knows—”

  She felt Triste’s hand on her shoulder. The Scryer leaned down to her ear. “It’s no good, not while he feels like this. Give him time.”

  “But I thought I was doing the right thing,” she whispered, her eyes following Sylas. “I really did.”

  “Well, you were being a friend,” said the Scryer. “And that isn’t always easy.”

  She turned and looked at him. Her eyes explored his face and then, just for an instant, she looked surprised and confused, as though she had seen something unexpected. She opened her mouth to say something but seemed to think better of it and instead she wheeled about and set off alone.

  The Scryer watched her go, tilting his head to one side as though trying to make sense of an impossible puzzle.

  Then his brow knitted in a frown.

  “How inconvenient,” he muttered.

  “… there, above her beloved valley, she surveyed all the hope and despair of the world.”

  SYLAS WAS UNSURE HOW long he had been walking. For some time he had trailed along the shoreline, following in the footsteps of Triste and Simia. Occasionally he saw them climbing a headland or tracing the edge of the woods, but he made no attempt to catch up. Eventually he left their path altogether, walking into the shade of the forest. He meandered between the trees in the general direction of Sylva, but he was in no rush to get there. He needed to think.

  Sure, Simia’s idea made some sense: it would be the opposite of what anyone would expect and the Scryers were much less likely to see any connection – whatever that really meant. But what did all that matter, compared to finding his mother? Being with her, after all this time? Yes, Naeo might go in his place, but that wasn’t the same as finding her himself. In fact if it wasn’t him, would she really be found at all?

  No, this wasn’t even a good second best. They didn’t understand.

  He sighed. In truth, neither did he.

  And these were the thoughts that dogged him as he ambled across the dried leaves on the forest floor and wound between the ancient trunks of the forest: his life … his mother … himself … what did those things even mean when he knew that Naeo was there, just through the forest. Another part of himself? How crazy did that sound!

  He was still very far from understanding Naeo. His experience of her was sensation and emotion rather than anything real or tangible. He didn’t even feel like he’d met her, not really. He remembered the feeling of warmth and joy when he had first seen her – of comfort and completeness when he had held her hand. Then the surge of energy – raw power, even – when she had stood at his side, when they had fought their way out of the Dirgheon. But since then, when she drew too near – as she had in the Garden of Havens – there was that awful pain, beginning in his wrist and becoming unbearable. Not like a wound, but more like an ache and the oddest sense that everything inside him was shifting out of place.

  And although he had felt these things, these immense forces and feelings, for some reason he had thought very little of her. It was almost as if he didn’t need to think of her, or perhaps his thoughts couldn’t quite grasp her. She was still very much a separate person, and now it was that person, not him, who was going back to the Other.

  He picked up a stick and swiped it against a tree trunk. It snapped in half and the crack echoed through the forest.

  “What did that tree ever do to you?” asked a voice.

  Sylas whirled about, his eyes searching the forest. But he already knew who it was.

  The Magruman stepped out from behind a line of bushes. His eyebrows appeared above his spectacles.

  “Sorry,” said Sylas.

  “Well, don’t apologise to me! You didn’t hit me!”

  “Oh … no …” said Sylas. He turned back towards the tree, wondering if he was really supposed to say sorry to the trunk.

  Paiscion let out a peel of laughter. “I’m only joking, Sylas!” he said, walking up and holding his hand out in greeting. “I’m sure that old giant can handle a tap on the backside!”

  Sylas grinned. “Right,” he said, taking the Magruman’s hand.

  Paiscion grasped his shoulder warmly with the other hand. He drew a breath and then looked about him. “Now, how did you find this place? Did someone tell you about it?”

  Sylas shrugged. “No, I was just walking.”

  “Ha!” cried Paiscion. “Then we shall call it good luck, because you have stumbled on the very corner of the Valley of Outs that I wanted to show you!”

  “I have?” asked Sylas, glancing around in surprise. This part looked just like any other.

  A mysterious smile spread across Paiscion’s face. “Step this way.”

  He led Sylas down a small bank towards the lake, then turned to one side. Ahead was a tree of even greater proportions than those around it, with a vast trunk that soared to an astonishing height above their heads. But it was not just its size that caught Sylas’s eye.

  He blinked and squinted. Its aged bark was deeply faulted and gnarled, such that the many ruts in its greyish brown surface coiled and twisted into countless patterns and shapes. But there, a
little above head height, were some lines that appeared far from random. There were two gentle arcs, each side of a long, almost-straight furrow. The effect was simple, but unmistakable.

  It was a giant feather.

  “Do you like to climb trees?”

  Sylas drew his eyes away from the symbol and looked up at Paiscion. He frowned. “It’s been a while,” he said, “but I suppose so … why?”

  Paiscion lifted his glasses off his nose and winked. “Well, imagine what fun it is when the tree is on your side.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The Magruman shrugged. “Ask the tree to help you up. Someone with your gift should have no trouble at all.” Then he raised his hands and gestured for Sylas to do the same.

  “Now, just ask!” said the Magruman.

  Sylas looked up into the great boughs of the tree, his eyes travelling up above the feather, up beyond the mighty trunk and into the heart of the canopy. And then he asked. It was only a thought – a fleeting flurry of words – but instantly the patchwork of orange and brown swayed a little and there was a hiss and swish as though the wind were racing through the leaves.

  But there was no wind.

  Suddenly, in a motion that was at once natural and utterly peculiar, the drooping branches of the tree swept down to the forest floor. Their powerful joints creaked under the strain, but the lowermost limbs fell with ease, then turned, brushing up their own fallen leaves, sweeping them towards Sylas and Paiscion. They flew up in a rush of yellows and browns, dancing about them in a great muddle of colour, and instinctively Sylas raised his hands to shield his eyes.

  He felt something move beneath his arms.

  He threw them down, but to his surprise, he felt the woody limbs sliding up into his armpits. Before he knew what was happening, they had taken the weight off his feet.

  And then the grand old tree hoisted him into the air.

  “Take whichever you want,” echoed the voice of many.

  Scarpia lowered her head and prowled across the passage to the nearest doorway. She snarled, dropping a little on her haunches and pressing her ears back against her head. Her sensitive nose had scented the Black and its stench was still strong in her memory. She peered into the chamber, her cat’s eye adjusting quickly to the darkness.

  There, in the centre of the stone floor, was a pulsating sack of slime. Protruding from its top was a massive head, half covered with dark fur, half with pale, human skin. Its ears turned at her approach and a low, gurgling growl rumbled in its throat, but its narrow eyes remained closed. It was a mongrel, but its angular, predatory features were clearly feline.

  “Made in your own image, my dear,” echoed the voices from somewhere further down the corridor. “For your own little army. You will need more than your mastery of Urgolvane in the Other. It will not be so powerful there.”

  Scarpia bowed, then turned and padded down the passageway after her master, zigzagging left and right as she glanced into chamber after chamber, each containing the same half-born forms.

  “Thank you, my Lord,” she said. “You are truly the master of Kimiyya.”

  “Of course I am!” was the abrupt reply. Then more softly: “Take whatever you need. Take the Scryers, if you wish. Take a Ray Reaper.”

  Scarpia’s head snapped around. “A … Ray Reaper? Will it go with me?”

  “It will go where I tell it!”

  Scarpia recoiled a little, but still seemed unsure. “I would like to take one, my Lord,” she said. “But I worry that … that it may not … obey me. After all, it was once a Priest of Souls, just like you.”

  Thoth whipped around, his cloak flying up about him. “The Reapers were NEVER like me! They are infidels and ingrates and fools!” he growled in barks and screams, his frail body seeming to swell. “They DARED to plot against me? To rise against me? The one who had led them to greatness, who had given them their power?” He spat dust from dry, empty lips. “They are lucky that I let them live at all! That I allow them their simpering dance with the sun and the moon!” He wheezed and panted, then lowered his head, seeming to shrink back down to his normal size. “Take Hathor. If nothing else, you will need him at the Circle of Salsimaine.”

  Scarpia bowed. “Of course, Great Lord,” she said. “And he will do as I command?”

  “He will do precisely as you command,” was the quick reply, “or I will destroy what little of him is left!”

  Scarpia purred and flashed a fanged smile. “Thank you, my Lord.”

  “Do not thank me!” barked Thoth. “Obey me!”

  Scarpia bowed her head a little nearer to the flagstones. “I will not disappoint you again, my Lord,” she said. “But do you not want me to leave some of this army with you?” She swept a clawed hand back down the corridor. “For your own … security?”

  A dry chuckle sounded in the back of Thoth’s wasted throat. He stepped up to the doors at the end of the corridor, seized the handles and threw them wide.

  The whites of Scarpia’s eyes flared. Beyond the doors was what looked like an infinite void – a passageway without end, flanked on both sides by hundreds, perhaps thousands of the same dark little doorways: the gaping mouths of birthing chambers.

  Thoth drew the gash of his mouth into a crooked smile.

  “I am prepared,” he murmured.

  “Just relax!” cried Paiscion. “It won’t let you fall!”

  Sylas winced as the crook of the branch swept out from beneath his armpits and dropped him on to a wide bough. He teetered forward, his arms circling in the air. He hardly had time to regain his balance before that bough too was sweeping him upwards, bearing him even higher into the crown of the tree.

  He glanced across and saw Paiscion standing on a broad limb, being borne ever higher into the canopy, but that he was entirely relaxed, his arms resting at his sides, watching with amusement as his companion struggled and fretted.

  Sylas tried to relax as another branch swept down from above and approached him head-on. Before he knew it, a fork was straddling his chest, lifting him beneath the arms and leaving him dangling in mid-air. Already he was in motion, sailing up between branches and somehow weaving a path between the twigs and leaves. He fought the urge to resist the tree – relaxing his shoulders, dropping his arms – and for the first time looked about him. The canopy was in constant motion, bearing them upwards with the deliberate but graceful path of its limbs, swaying this way and that in such a natural manner that if anyone had seen them from a distance they would have imagined the branches caught by the wind and thought no more of it. When he glanced up he saw to his amazement that he was already nearing the top: he could see a sparkle of daylight between the leaves.

  “Nearly there!” cried Paiscion at his side.

  And then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. Sylas was dropped on to one final limb, which swayed to allow him to gain his balance and then drifted up towards a large bough above his head. As it came level, it slowed and then halted, allowing him to step off.

  Panting and sweating, he found himself at Paiscion’s shoulder. The Magruman smiled at him and nodded over the edge of the wide bough.

  “Have you ever climbed such a tree?”

  Sylas peered over the edge. His head swam as he saw most of the canopy far below him. He could not see the ground at all.

  He squatted down and had to resist the temptation to wrap his arms around the bough. “No,” he said, with a dry throat. “I really haven’t.”

  Paiscion laughed and slid a hand under his arm, drawing him back to his feet. “The longer the drop,” he whispered in Sylas’s ear, “the greater the reward. Look at that view!”

  Ignoring his wobbly knees, Sylas followed the Magruman’s gaze. The rolling roof of the forest was far below, the billowing clouds of orange, green and brown flecked with the golden sun. And there, framed by the leaves of trees and stretching almost as far as the eyes could see, was the vast span of the Valley of Outs.

  “I’ve never tired of this view
and never will,” said Paiscion wistfully. He drew a long breath. “It reminds me of her.”

  Sylas pulled his eyes away. “Her?”

  “Merimaat,” said Paiscion, as if it should be obvious, “the mother of our people. This was her retreat, her hideaway.” He nodded along the branch of the tree. “Well, to be more precise, that was her hideaway.”

  Sylas turned and his eyes grew wide.

  “Wow,” he whispered.

  There, crowning the very pinnacle of the tree was what looked like a gigantic nest. But this nest had not been made by the peck and weave of birds, nor by the labour of men, but rather by the tree itself. Each of its uppermost branches had become part of the structure, bending and looping into the floor, walls and roof of a glorious chamber. Its outline matched the curves of the tree, such that from a distance it would look like nothing unusual. But from here, it was a thing of wonder. The branches formed regular, looping beams and curling struts, the leaves blanketing the roof to form a perfect shelter, and some of the branches seemed to have grown in generous, empty arcs, to create two huge windows and a doorway.

  “Come along,” said Paiscion, stepping along the bough. “It is best seen from the inside!”

  Sylas spread his arms wide and teetered along the branch behind the Magruman, trying not to let his eyes drop into the void below. Finally he stepped with relief into the strange hideaway.

  He found himself standing on a soft, springy surface, a tightly woven web of twigs and leaves so dense that there was only the odd gap, through which he spied the long drop below. Around him was a beautiful, domed structure, in which there appeared to be no straight lines, no clasps or fixings. It looked to have just grown that way, weaving around the space as though it contained something precious and untouchable. And yet that space was entirely empty, except for four chairs – two facing out of each huge window – and a table at its centre, which was also bare except for a small wooden box.

  “She would often sit there in the morning and watch the sun rise over the valley,” said Paiscion, pointing to one of the chairs at the nearest window. “And in the evening, she would sit and watch the sunset.” He turned to the other window. “Take a look – it’s quite special.”