Circles of Stone

by Ian Johnstone

  Simia gazed into Isia’s face.

  “Has … has it always been there?” she asked.

  Isia knelt before her, drawing her close. “Always. Your Glimmer was there when you were born and when you were a child on the plains of Salsimaine. Your Glimmer was there when the darkness came – there at the Reckoning – there when you were left alone.”

  Simia’s eyes searched her face, as though looking for a lie. “All the time? All that time I was out on the Barrens?”

  Isia drew her fingertips across her face, sweeping away tears. “Yes, Simsi. You were never alone.”

  Simia gulped down a sob. She shook her head, still struggling to comprehend.

  “There’s something else,” continued Isia. “And you must remember this. There is a chance – a distant, half-dreamed chance – that soon Sylas and Naeo may fulfil the Glimmer Myth. And if they do, no one will need the Knowing Tree. No one. Not you, not the worshippers down there, not even Sylas. If that happens, it will be in large part because of you.”

  Simia lifted her eyes.

  “You have already helped Sylas more than anyone could have imagined, and your work is far from done. So do not doubt yourself. You are caught up in the greatest adventure of a lifetime – of any of our lifetimes – and Sylas needs you.” She rose to her feet and smiled down at her. “We all need you.”

  Something about the strange potion in his blood made Sylas hear this exchange with unbearable clarity, as though it was echoing in the confines of his skull. But now he began to push back, trying to discover his own thoughts – thoughts that he knew were near and important. There was a question – one that he had to ask before the moment passed. He searched for elusive words: words he must form with a tongue that seemed far away.

  “Why me?” he said hoarsely. “If you … if you can see all this … if you know … why not you?”

  Isia turned to face him. “Because I am part of the problem,” she said. “Because I helped to make it happen.”

  The words hammered into Sylas’s mind. “What do you mean?”

  The last trace of a smile fell from Isia’s face.

  “I broke the world in two.”

  “Now is the time to leave Suhlmeer, and Lhayamtor, and Babelset – leave for the fringes of the empire, now, before the entire nation is trapped and destroyed.”

  THE WIND WHISTLED OVER the high terraces of the Dirgheon, clawing at the stone as it had for centuries. The open flank of the fortress bore a scar of deep black soot left by furnace-hot fire, the fire of cascading oil. Otherwise it was featureless, cold and still, offering its silent defiance to the elements. It loomed over the busy huddle of the city, mighty and imperious, dwarfing the puny pillar of the Temple of Isia, mocking the trifling lives of those who hurried and chattered and bartered beneath.

  And then, something moved.

  A faint sound caressed the deserted steps, resonated in the deep dark stone.

  A rustle. A flap.

  A screech.

  It was distant but unmistakable, and it was coming from a small opening in the colossal slope of stone. A place where one of the huge blocks seemed to be missing – at the very centre of that side of the pyramid.

  Then it came again, louder. This time more of a flurry, like the frenzied beating of wings somewhere deep in the bowels, where it was forever dark and dank: where the birthing chambers were. Suddenly the black tunnel issued forth a blast of squeals and screeches, a chorus of unworldly, animal wails. And then there was a wind, a gentle but filthy breeze that poured out of the opening. It quickly picked up pace, becoming an ever-stronger gale, blasting forth from the Dirgheon, carrying on its foul currents a hail of flaps and screams and heaving pants. These sounds became a rumble and the rumble became thunder, bellowing at the darkening sky.

  A shape erupted from the tunnel, hurling itself far out into the void, rolling and tumbling in a fluttering cloak of blackness. Even as it began to fall, another came, and another, and another. They threw themselves from the side of the Dirgheon, rolling through the air, plummeting towards the city below. And then, just as the first of them looked as though it would be dashed against the terraced steps, it changed shape. Two vast, angular wings unfurled from the flurry and in that instant the creature ceased its descent, catching the wind in its leathery folds and soaring up, over the streets, into the great swirls and thermals of wind above. It flexed the jagged planes of its wings, turning them lightly, gracefully until they caught an upward draught. As it gained height it turned its sharp, pale face to its brethren, watching with bloodshot eyes as they too threw out their wings and caught the air, turning in an arc to follow.

  Soon they were a constant stream of black bodies, spiralling up and up towards the heavy clouds, until they passed the pinnacle of the Dirgheon. There, they lifted their heads to the heavens and mounted a triumphal cry, a chorus of squeals that shocked the clouds and chilled the dying rays of the sun.

  The bat-like swarm circled around a cloud and sailed out from the city towards the rising moon. They looked down upon the twinkling lamplights of the streets below and the thin silver ribbon of the river winding out towards the distant estuary. They flew on, stretching their newborn wings, delighting in the mounting winds of a storm. A vast dark front loomed over them from the east, and as it flashed and flickered it silhouetted their devilish forms.

  They twisted and spiralled upon the fingers of the storm, hungrily upon the dark, rolling lands below, eyeing the vast expanses of the Barrens, and at its fringes the towns and villages, the farms and homesteads. Between the faint lights of distant towns were three columns of blackness, snaking across the countryside, two headed for the silver lines of the coast and one out on to the Barrens. With their bat-like ears the creatures heard the curl and snap of scores of flags, the heave and push of giant bodies, the measured march of troops.

  The sight warmed their chilly blood. They were born for war and they would not wait for long.

  As the first finger of lightning escaped the towering clouds, the creatures turned a loop in front of the moon and swarmed back towards the Dirgheon, screaming their homage to Thoth.

  Ash rocked back on his chair, tapping his fingers on the marble table. For some time he had been quietly engrossed in the grand meeting of the Merisi. He had wondered at the careful, decisive exchanges – so much more orderly than the Say-Sos of the Suhl. He had been impressed by the quiet, unassuming command of Mr Zhi, drawing out just enough information to take decisions. He had been fascinated by the occasional display of a map, or a chart, or a fantastically realistic picture on a piece of glossy paper, normally of a Ghorhund or another of Thoth’s creatures. But as the talk turned to the many sightings and incursions and abductions, his face darkened. For a while he continued to listen, but finally he had to speak up.

  He rose to his feet. “This sounds like the Reckoning,” he said.

  The gathering turned to him enquiringly.

  “This is how it all started,” explained Ash. “Loads of – what did you call them – excursions?”

  Mr Zhi smiled and nodded. “Incursions, excursions – all the same. Go on.”

  “Well, yes, those – we called them raids. Never very big – just a unit of Ghor or Ghorhund. But targeted, and all at once. They knew exactly what they were looking for: food stores, armouries, command posts. And they usually took something back with them – charts, maps, people …”

  “People?” probed Kasumi.

  “Adepts and Scryers mostly. Spoorrunners and Leaflikes too.” His brow furrowed as he remembered. “Quite a few of each, I think.”

  “What for?”

  He shrugged. “To use against us,” he said. “When the real war began.”

  There was a murmur of concern around the chamber. “The real war,” somebody said. “You see? It hasn’t even started yet!”

  Suddenly several conversations began at once. For some moments Ash listened to the mounting alarm, but there was something else he needed to say, something t
hat had been on his mind since their drive to Winterfern.

  “But there’s another thing,” said Ash. The room soon fell silent. “You say that they’re coming through all of the stone circles? And some other, new places too – these places where the Ray Reapers have been seen?”

  “It seems so,” said Mr Zhi.

  “Well, in the Reckoning they did the same. Thoth positioned his forces all around the plains of Salsimaine and, before we knew it, they controlled every way in and out. By the time the war began, everyone was trapped; we didn’t stand a chance.”

  “Well, we don’t need to worry too much about that,” said Kasumi. “He can’t exactly trap us in our own world.”

  Everyone mumbled their agreement. And then, slowly, they seemed to understand. All eyes turned to Ash.

  “He can’t trap you,” he said, “but he can trap Naeo.”

  Kasumi frowned. “You’re saying that Thoth knew Naeo would come? That he’s trying to keep her here?”

  “I don’t know if he knew she’d come, but he definitely knows she came. Scarpia knows, which means he knows.”

  Mr Zhi sank back in his chair. “You’re right, Ash,” he said, stroking his beard nervously. “Now that Thoth has seen what Sylas and Naeo are capable of, he will do all he can to keep them apart. Whether he intended it or not, this attack is also the perfect defence.” He cast his eyes around the room. “And we must decide what to do about it.”

  “… a girl, a young, pure girl – a girl in whose veins ran the blood of all of its nations.”

  “YOU?” SAID SIMIA, MORTIFIED. “You broke the world in two? Why?”

  “Because I had no choice.”

  Simia shook her head. “Why not?”

  Isia walked forward and caught up her hand. “To understand you need to reach back into our history,” she said, turning and reaching out to Sylas too. “Come, I’ll show you.”

  She led them back towards the arch, away from the windy ledge, from the darkening skies and the mesh of silvery trails. Even as they approached the archway, Sylas noticed that the few tendrils still clear to him were fading, as though they had only been sustained by the full evening light. The day was fading rapidly now, driven away by a vast storm cloud that spanned the sky: a gash of blackness, flickering with distant lightning. The great pyramid of the Dirgheon seemed to draw in the darkness, swelling in the shadow of the storm. Perhaps that was why they did not see a sudden movement on one of its sides: a thin line of black forms trailing from one of the high terraces, spiralling up towards the clouds and then looping around the rising moon.

  Isia led them around the great banquet table and guided them back to their seats. The further he walked from the ledge, the more Sylas felt he was coming to his senses. The colours were not so stark, the sounds not so jarring. He was grateful, but he also felt a pang of loss.

  Isia reached down beside the table and held up Sylas’s bag.

  “Would I be right in thinking that the Samarok is in here?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Let’s take a look,” she said, passing the bag to him.

  Sylas took the bag and began untying the drawstring, pulling out the ancient volume and laying it carefully on the table.

  “Have you read anything of the first part of the book? The passages known as The Histories?”

  Sylas shook his head. “No, I’ve read the poem, but …” He hesitated and frowned. “Hold on, yes, I have. When we were on the Barrens – when we camped at the Circle of Salsimaine.”

  “Which part – the beginning?”

  “Yes, just a few paragraphs. They didn’t mean much to me.”

  “About the Priests of Souls?”

  “Yes, yes, that’s right,” said Sylas, rubbing his eyes and then lifting the cover. He turned to the opening page and ran his eyes over the first few lines. Instantly the handwritten scrawl shifted and changed until all he saw was the familiar shape of the Ravel Runes. He recognised the passage at once. “Here, right at the beginning – it talks about the priests and some kind of king …” He hesitated as he waited for the runes to open themselves to him.

  “Read it,” said Isia. “Just the first page or two.”

  Sylas glanced up at Simia, who was at his shoulder poring over the page herself, as though the runes meant something to her.

  He settled himself, cleared his throat and began to read:

  “Here are recorded the chronicles of the Merisi, begun by our hand in this year of Our Lord one thousand two hundred and twenty-nine. Know that we, followers of Merisu, Master of the Sacred Arts, do set down this History willingly, in good faith and without evil disposition. In His name, we hereby give witness of the nature of these two worlds, of the history of our peoples, and our account of the evil and cruel infamy of the Priests of Souls, who have brought suffering and misery to the people of all the world such that they are, forever more, the enemy of Mankind.

  They came from the cool of the sand-scented temples: from the long dark of the coiling passages and the oily flicker of many-columned halls. They rose as leaders of men in that ancient land, men of words and vision whose mystery brought hope to the squalor-born. But while the people lifted their eyes upon the gentle countenance of these blessed men, they saw not the cool and dark of their hearts, nor the oily flicker behind their eyes.

  In the beginning there were twelve: one from each of the great Kemetian temples, devout priests, worthy priests, each and all. So they were until one day summoned by their king to a valley between the cataracts, to a secret place, not known to common men but hidden deep within the rock. There they bound their minds and souls to a great task: to forge a magic true and absolute – a magic of such power that the emperor king would forever reign supreme.

  They laboured for one score years and ten, until each grew old and frail and the world had all but forgotten their academy in the hot rocks of the desert. And then, one day, the greatest of all the priests, the priest of Thoth, sent forth a messenger to the mighty king Ramesses, who was yet upon the throne …”

  Sylas paused and frowned. He knew that name, Ramesses. He was sure he had heard it in history lessons at school. Yes, Ramesses, the Pharaoh of ancient Egypt.

  Ancient Egypt.

  Suddenly his mind was a whirl of connections: Egypt … the pyramids … the Dirgheon … Isia’s priestesses … the Egyptian-looking paintings in the tower. Suddenly all these things seemed far from a coincidence.

  “You are beginning to see, Sylas,” said Isia, smiling. “But go on, there is more.”

  He leaned over the Samarok and continued.

  “It was a message that told of the impossible, a proclamation that shattered the known and the knowable.

  The magic had been found.

  Only two things would be needed to forge this magic to end all wars, this so-called Ramesses Shield: first, a circle made entirely of stone – stone taken from the four corners of the empire; and second, a girl, a young, pure girl – a girl in whose veins ran the blood of all of its nations. So proclaimed the priest of Thoth, scribe to the Academy of Souls.

  And so commanded Ramesses the Great.

  As work began on the stone circle, thousands of clerks and servants and priests began the search for the child – the girl in whose very being was the perfect union of the empire. This proved the greater task. Long after the stone circle was built and six years after Ramesses’ command, a young peasant girl was found. A girl …”

  Sylas retraced the line. He glanced up at Isia then spoke the words quietly, breathlessly: “… a girl called Isia.”

  He stopped reading and looked up at her.

  “And so you see I am no more a god than you or Simia,” said Isia.

  Simia stared at her. “You … you were that girl?”

  “A normal girl born to peasant parents,” said Isia, breaking into a radiant smile. “Just like you.”

  While they had been deciding what to do about Naeo, Ash had been at the centre of the meeting. He had quietly enjoye
d being consulted on strategies and tactics, on Thoth and the Suhl, and Sylas and Naeo. But now that the decision had been taken, the meeting droned on about things of which he knew little and his attention started to wander, his mind soon turning to the strange gift Mr Zhi had given him: the golden egg.

  “A Thing for a master of magic; someone like yourself,” the old man had said. “Someone for whom Essenfayle is simply not enough.”

  Ash glanced about him and then rummaged in his bag. He felt the cool weight of the egg in his hand and pulled it out. He turned it over, marvelling at the beauty of it, the craftsmanship of its making. It was seamless and untainted, shined to a high polish, seeming brighter than the great discs of light that lit the room. He turned it over in his fingers, the golden light playing over his youthful face.

  What’s inside? he wondered.

  “That is where the true gold lies,” Mr Zhi had said.

  He laid it on the table and stared at it. Druindil might work. He had done it before – a challenge in the Mutable Inn. He had amazed the Muddlemorphs with his astonishing ability to see through a thick container of stone.

  But that would be too easy.

  He drummed the table with his fingertips. This was perplexing.

  Urgolvane. That would do the trick. A little egg would be no match for the way of force, no matter what it was made of.

  He placed a hand on either side of the egg, closed his eyes and settled his breathing. He felt the weight of his body in his chair and the great mass of the marble table beneath his fingers. He took all this and he began to press it between the confines of his mind, turning it in upon itself, rolling it up into a smaller and smaller centre of mass – a dense, dark force that shuddered under its own weight.

  All this he placed upon the little golden egg.

  He opened one eye. Then two.

  The egg was trembling a little on the table but its smooth golden surface was still perfectly intact, sending back a laughable reflection of his face.

  He snapped his eyes shut.

  His mind reached out to the vast granite slabs of the walls, gathering up the might of their ancient rock, folding it in with the forces he had already assembled, pressing it into that tiny space, just above the little golden egg.