Circles of Stone

by Ian Johnstone

  “He tortured you?”

  Bowe nodded.

  “What did he want to know?”

  “About the valley, Naeo, Sylas,” said Bowe hoarsely. Then he frowned. “And Naeo’s mother. He wanted to be sure that she was … that she was …”

  “That Naeo is the last,” said Espen, saving his friend from saying it: that his wife was dead.

  Bowe pressed his eyes shut. “I thought if I could hold out … make him think that she was still alive, or perhaps that Naeo was not the only one … that we might have other children, then maybe he would go easier on her.” He shook his head. “Desperate really. I could barely think. He used the Black.” His face creased and tears welled in his eyes. “Not just on me. He used it on her … on my little girl.”

  Espen looked down. “You gave her the time she needed; time for Sylas to come,” he said firmly. Then he added with a laugh: “And amazingly you’re still here, you old boot.”

  Bowe smiled. “But more to the point, Sylas and Naeo aren’t. They’re out there somewhere.”

  Espen grinned. “They are.”

  They fell quiet. For the thousandth time, Bowe thought back to the giant birds circling the pinnacle of the Dirgheon, carrying that most precious of cargoes. And for the thousandth time, he felt a pang in his gut. Naeo had been just there, so near, her face looking down at him. Oh, Isia, the pain in that face! When she had seen him, when he had wished her away. His Nay-no, alone in this cruel world.

  He felt his eyes burning and he bit his inflamed lip. “So what about you?” he asked, wanting the distraction. “What happened?”

  Espen smiled. “That story is way too long for me or for you, old friend. But I’m here because I brought Sylas, and then, when they made their escape, I had to stay. There was still fighting to be done.”

  Bowe’s eyes met his. “So … it was you. You saved Naeo.”

  “In the end, she and Sylas saved themselves.”

  Bowe smiled knowingly. “With your help,” he said. He placed his hand on his heart in thanks. “And you? How did you escape?”

  Espen guffawed. “I’m not sure I did!” The smile faded from his face. “They came in such numbers, there was only one place to hide.” He set his jaw. “The pool.”

  “The pool?” cried Bowe, horrified. “The pool of Black? In the Apex Chamber?”

  He nodded.

  “For Isia’s sake! How long?”

  “Just until they’d cleared the Chamber. Minutes maybe.”

  Bowe was aghast. He looked at his old friend more closely, seeing past the scar and the bruises, and for the first time noticing the dark veins in his neck and in his temples. “You shouldn’t even be here! How did you—”

  “I am a Magruman, you know,” said Espen. He smiled and slapped Bowe’s knee. “I’m OK! And I’ll be even better as soon as I’m out of this place.”

  “But it’ll only get—”

  “There’s no use worrying about it now!” snapped Espen. “We just need to get out of this hellhole!”

  Bowe saw his friend’s frustration flickering in the dark, his flame-red anger licking up the walls. He knew then that Espen was well aware of how sick he was. He chose not to speak any more of it and they both fell silent, gazing at the damp flagstones.

  It was Espen who spoke first. “It’s worse than I thought, Bowe. Worse than any of us thought. The birthing chambers are full, the legions are marching, the whole Dirgheon is on a war footing.” He pressed his head back against the stone. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  The Scryer forced himself to sit up. “Worse … than the Reckoning?”

  “Much worse.”

  Bowe felt a new chill in his bones. “What do you think he’s up to?”

  “What he loves,” said the Magruman. “War. The real question is, with whom? He already has the Four Lands – there’s nothing left to fight. Not in this world.”

  Bowe gaped at him. “In this world …. what are you saying?”

  “That Thoth is about to start the war to end all wars,” said Espen, sinking back against the wall. “And we’re stuck here waiting for it to happen.”

  The Rager paced the dark corridor, flicking its tail impatiently from side to side. Everything was wrong. Not just what had happened at the temple, but here as well. Where were Thoth’s imperial guards? Why had the oil lamps not been lit? Why was the Dirgheon so quiet? It felt like they all knew something it didn’t, and that made it flicker with fire. In a beat of its giant heart, it felt impatience flare into frustration, frustration into anger, anger into rage. It puffed out a blast of air and lashed the wall with its tail, cracking a block of stone. For a moment it gave in to its nature, allowing the wrathful fire to burn, its scales turning from yellow to pink to red, its muscles rippling. But even as the rage began, it heaved a deep breath and worked to settle its nerves, to quench the fire.

  Here, its temper could be dangerous. Here, its temper could get it killed.

  Suddenly the grand doors opened at the end of the corridor and the silhouette of a Ghor guard appeared.

  “He’ll see you now,” it growled, before disappearing back into the chamber.

  The Rager drew in several more draughts of cool air until it was sure that it had tamed its temper, then it stomped up to the ornamental doors. Just before it went in, it reached up and preened the red crest on the back of its neck, making the scales clatter against each other.

  As it stepped into the Devotion Chamber, it squinted into the light, quickly surveying the scene. Directly ahead was the Devotion Wall: a vast expanse of dark stone into which had been carved Thoth’s three symbols, each twice the height of a man – the hunched bird with its long, cruel beak; two circles, one within the other; and the scroll. Below these symbols was the text of the devotion itself, picked out in red and gold paint:

  “Our Dream, Our Fullest Joy, Our Second Soul.”

  Below this was a vast black table covered with books and papers, strewn haphazardly over the surface. A lone figure stood with his back to the door sorting through these papers, his head bowed, his hands busy. His long white robes were not what the Rager was expecting. And there was something about the figure … It was taller and fuller than that of the great Lord, and one shoulder seemed to be slumped, giving an odd, lopsided appearance.

  “Thoth is not here,” came a soft, effeminate voice.

  Instinctively the Rager flicked out its forked tongue, smelling the air as it calculated and adjusted.

  The figure lifted its head and turned.

  The chubby face would have been pasty and white had it not been terribly burned down one side, leaving the skin pink and pinched. The same fire had left one eye closed and the thinning albino-white hair entirely missing from that side of the head. One hand bore the same livid burns, the fingers slightly twisted.

  The Rager let out a low, uneasy rasp in its throat. It was Thoth’s Magruman, Laythlick, scarred and diminished.

  “So what is it, Rager?” snapped the Magruman. “Aren’t you supposed to be guarding the temple?”

  The Rager bowed its head to the floor in full ceremony, allowing its horns to strike the flagstones. “Yes, my Lord,” it murmured in its wheezing, gravelly voice, “but I thought I should inform you of something that happened on our watch.”

  “Well? What is it?”

  The Rager drew in a cooling breath. “Some worshippers came to pay tribute to Isia and asked to pass. I would have kept them for questioning, but the priestess—”

  “We can’t prevent worshippers approaching the temple!” interjected Laythlick, beginning to lose interest and turn away. “Much as we may want to.”

  “I know, my Lord, but this was strange. These were children.”

  Laythlick drew himself up. “Children?”

  “Yes, my Lord. A boy and a girl.”

  The Magruman turned, his face flushing. “I hope for your sake you didn’t let them leave?”

  “No, my Lord. They’re still there.”

 
Laythlick clicked his fingers at the two Ghor guards. “Muster the city guard!”

  “But, sir,” said one of them with a fearful bow, “most of the guard is gone. The Dirgh has sent them—”

  “Then make up the numbers! I want newborn and servant, soldier and jailor! You hear? Every snivelling soul still left in the Dirgheon!” He watched the two guards rush from the room. “And send word to the Dirgh!” he called after them. “Tell him that this time, I will leave nothing to chance.”

  As the doors swung closed, he turned to the Rager. “You did well to bring me your suspicions,” he said with a nod of appreciation.

  The Rager puffed out its massive chest and bowed.

  “Now,” said the Magruman coolly, “start praying that you are right.”

  “And there, on the threshold of Setgur, he saw his chance for empire: an empire that one day would span the four lands.”

  SYLAS AND SIMIA WERE shoulder to shoulder as they climbed the final steps. They paused and looked at one another.

  “Go on,” murmured Simia, “you should go first.”

  Sylas took a moment to settle his nerves, then hoisted the rucksack on his shoulder and clambered up into the light.

  He found himself standing in a vast circular hall, which rose high above his head and spanned the full breadth of the tower. It was wonderfully bright, lit by a circuit of huge archways that cast a mosaic of light on the white marble floor. The faint rays met at the centre of the chamber, weaving together before diving downwards into the great chasm of the tower, beginning their journey through the history of humankind.

  Sylas saw the priestess disappearing through a side door, then he glanced about for the owner of the voice. He looked in one direction, then another, then another.

  There was not one face, but thousands.

  He saw faces painted on the walls and on the ceiling, gathered between the archways and covering the open spaces. He saw statues, carved from the white stone of the temple, to show all shades of emotion – joy or fear, anguish or tenderness. There were men, women, the young and the old – each depicted in some moment of drama or poignancy. It was a vast collection of the human image, showing every state of mind, every attitude, every thought and emotion.

  All of these thousands of eyes seemed now to rest on Sylas.

  Any yet he was strangely calm. He knew he was safe. He remembered the voice that had greeted them.

  “Welcome home,” it had said.

  Suddenly the room resonated with that same voice: “I must begin with a warning.”

  It knocked the air from his lungs. That tone, that trace of an accent … the way it made him feel lost and safe at the same time. It was her, his mother! He was sure of it.

  And yet, when he turned to Simia, he saw his own feelings reflected in her face. She too looked bewildered, like the child she really was, young and vulnerable.

  “It’s him, Sylas,” she breathed. “It’s my father!”

  They stared at one another and then looked all about them, searching again for the owner of the voice, daring to believe.

  “In the beginning, you will find me unsettling,” said the voice.

  Sylas saw a movement in the corner of his eye, among some of the statues. He drew closer to Simia. She stepped into his shoulder.

  A figure was walking towards them. They strained their eyes to see, but the bright arches behind made it hard to make out any features.

  “My voice is not my own but the voice you most wish to hear,” said the figure drawing ever closer. “I am sorry, this will disappoint you. I am Isia and this is the way.”

  Sylas felt a piercing pang of loss. The hope had been half formed, but for a moment it had been real: his mother, almost within his reach. But then he heard Simia catch her breath and saw her reaching instinctively for the lapels of her missing coat, her lips quivering. And he knew it was so much worse for her. She had heard a voice from beyond the grave.

  He reached out and took her hand.

  The voice came again: “You will also find my appearance … disquieting.”

  The figure suddenly emerged into a beam of light and she could be seen. She was young and astonishingly beautiful, with long flowing jet-black hair and eyes so dark that they too looked almost black. Her long doe-like face was fine and delicate, but her features were strong, with high cheekbones and a full mouth. Unlike the priestesses, her fine bronze skin was unpainted, with no heavy make-up around the eyes, no pigment on the lips. Her robes, too, were made of simple white muslin without any elaborate trim, and she wore no jewellery, no headdress, not even shoes. Her manner was bold and commanding, and yet so gentle and graceful that, even across the cavernous room, they felt drawn to her.

  But as she had warned – there was something wrong. It was in the way she moved, the way the light caught her form.

  Simia shuddered. “Look at her arms!”

  Sylas looked and blinked and looked again. There was a blur, a confusion behind the sharp lines of her fingers. Then he saw that it was less a blur than a second image. A repeat. A double. As her hand swung forward, another hand trailed behind. As it paused to swing back, its double caught up and the two became one.

  He looked at her other hand, then at her flowing gown and hair. All of them were a blur, all were chased by a second form.

  “Do I alarm you, Sylas?”

  He started and looked up. “No – no, of course not …” he said, trying not to stare at the way her lips blurred as she spoke.

  Isia gave a slight smile. “I would have thought that if anyone might know what it is to have a second self, it would be you.”

  Sylas was thrown. “Sorry … I—”

  She flashed a stunning, unguarded smile. “This is no place for apologies, Sylas! We are alike, you and I. You might even say we are family. You have a unique connection with your Glimmer and the same is true of me, and mine. But in me, there is almost no separation at all. In me, the two are almost one.”

  She stepped up to them in a blur of motion and caught up their hands in her soft, warm fingers.

  “It is wonderful to meet you, Sylas! And you, Simia!”

  They suddenly realised they had no idea how they were supposed to address her, and so they bowed awkwardly, muttering a confused medley of thanks and greetings.

  Isia laughed a girlish laugh that echoed from the walls and ceiling.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” she said. She looked at them for a moment, taking in their dishevelled clothes, dirty faces and tired eyes. “Come, you are tired and hungry. We must give you something to restore your spirits.”

  Naeo woke confused and disoriented. The pain was unbearable at first, scouring her back, across her shoulders and up into her neck. She pushed away from the seat with her elbows and arched her back. That helped a little. She opened her eyes, seeking something to take her mind away from the pain, and found herself staring out of the car window. She saw a pink blanket of light, fringed in amber and yellow. She saw a blur of trees whisking past at impossible speeds. She saw a broad valley, streaked with shadows. And these things helped, because they took her away from the Black. She felt herself falling through the blur of trees, tumbling into the valley of shadows. Slowly, her eyes fell closed. She moaned something, the word barely formed.

  “Isia …”

  She shifted in her seat, settling into the strange comforts of its springs. Slowly her head dropped to her chest and she slipped off once more into a troubled sleep.

  The solitary car wound up the hillside, its twin beams sometimes ranging out into the waking valley, sometimes turning into the dark, forested folds. Above, the pink light of dawn laced the singing treetops, and golden beams rose like a halo across the deep blue sky, crowning this new day as though it were any other.

  Tasker held the phone to his ear, steering with a single hand.

  “And have we heard from Claude? … There as well?” He glanced across at Mr Zhi, but the old man did not meet his eyes. “And you say you spoke to Jens? …
Yes, yes, I understand. We’ll find out more when we get to Winterfern. We’re just arriving … OK, yes. And you, take care.”

  He lowered the phone stiffly from his ear. He had barely been off it for two hours. He jabbed at it with a stiff thumb, then dropped it on the dashboard.

  “The crisis before the fever breaks,” said Mr Zhi quietly.

  “And I didn’t even know we were sick,” muttered Tasker.

  “Come now,” said Mr Zhi, patting his arm, “we both know that isn’t true.”

  Tasker turned the wheel sharply to the right and the car veered between a pair of high stone pillars, one of which had been engraved in stark lettering:

  WINTERFERN HOSPITAL

  He peered in the rear-view mirror, watching the high iron gates whirr closed behind them.

  “Well, at least we know we’re safe here,” he said.

  Mr Zhi raised an eyebrow. “For now, perhaps.”

  The tyres crunched and gravel rattled in the wheel arches, waking the sleeping passengers. They blinked blearily as the car trailed down a snaking avenue of trees. Then the driveway wound on through a forest and over the crest of a hill, before finally descending through thinning trees to a clearing. Ash grabbed Naeo’s arm and pointed ahead, between the last of the trees.

  Something glinted in the rusty light. Rising from a deep bed of ferns they saw a gigantic wall of glistening glass, its wide aspect facing out over the valley. It was a dome many storeys high and twice as wide, but it was not complete: the hillside climbed steeply behind, meeting the steel and glass not far from the apex, giving the appearance that half of the dome was deep in the bosom of the hill.

  Mr Zhi turned in his seat. “Welcome to Winterfern,” he said, with a growing smile.

  Corporal Lucien pushed back on his chair and took a long slurp of coffee from the polystyrene cup. He eyed the doughnut on top of the monitor, the sugar coating winking by the light of the radar screen.

  No, one was enough. He drew his eyes away from the doughnut and back to the monitor. If he wasn’t careful, this desk job would make him soft at the edges.