Circles of Stone

by Ian Johnstone

  “So let me get this straight,” said Naeo, pushing away a veil of leaves, “the Merisi have been taking care of Sylas—”

  “And every one of his ancestors,” said Mr Zhi, turning to smile at Amelie. He extended a hand to help her up a rocky step.

  “And you say Merimaat has been … she’s been taking care of me?” asked Naeo, struggling to believe what she was hearing.

  “From a distance, yes,” said Mr Zhi, continuing his climb towards the waterfall. “We could not reveal what we were doing for fear of altering your destiny, or worse, frightening you away from it altogether. In a world where the truth may be too much to bear, we have become accustomed to working quietly, in the shadows. Merimaat kept this a secret from all but Espasian. She had a special fondness for Espasian.”

  Ash braced himself between two trunks. “Hold up!” he said, looking round at Naeo. “This is like that line from The Song of Isia! The one Sylas read in the Samarok! How did it go? ‘She sings … of the lines … of glove and the hand… ’ You see?”

  Naeo pondered for a moment. “Nope.”

  “The line of the glove – the glove of the Merisi! It’s talking about Sylas’s bloodline, protected by the Merisi!”

  Naeo’s eyes widened. “Of course!” She glanced at Mr Zhi. “And the line of … the hand! Merimaat’s withered hand! Is that what it means?”

  He nodded. “You and Sylas have cracked the Samarok, I see!” he exclaimed, grinning. “Excellent. I suspect you will have much need of it yet!”

  Ash pulled himself between the two trees. “So if the Merisi and Merimaat had been protecting them all this time without saying anything, how come you told Sylas in the end? I mean, if you were so worried about upsetting things?”

  “I’m afraid Thoth rather forced our hand,” said Mr Zhi. “We learned from Espasian that Merimaat had been killed and that Naeo had been seized and imprisoned, so we resolved to bring Sylas and Naeo together. We had to take a gamble that they were the children foretold in The Song of Isia – that they were meant to come together. And, after I met Sylas, I had little doubt that we were right.” The old man turned and began walking down a winding path, which led through a grove of trees. The others had to trot to keep up. “But even then, we had to be careful not to say too much,” he called over his shoulder. “The truth is difficult to accept – dangerously so.”

  “Dangerous enough to fill Winterfern Hospital,” muttered Amelie. “And plenty more like it.”

  “Quite, my dear. No, Sylas’s journey had to be his own – he had to discover his path for himself – as you, Naeo, must discover yours. Espasian taught you to summon the Passing Bell and then, at the right time, I gave Sylas the Samarok and the key to unlock its meaning. We gave you the beginning, but the end is your own.”

  “And so … that’s all you can do?” asked Naeo.

  Mr Zhi turned. “Don’t underestimate the importance of that beginning, Naeo. The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. But no, that is not all we can do. I have given you the Glimmertrome and we will of course offer whatever protection we can without interfering with your journey. Tasker is already arranging to take you back to Stonehenge. But there is one more thing I can help you with. Step this way, please.”

  He walked up to a clump of ferns and pushed into them until he had entirely disappeared, then his hand emerged and beckoned to them to follow. They each plunged into the veil of foliage, relying on their hands to guide them.

  When Naeo finally stepped out, she found Mr Zhi standing in the centre of a glade waiting for them, his hands clasped behind his back. The gardens were laid out before him, with the waterfall directly ahead, encircled by the colourful bands of the rainbow. The grove of trees lay off to one side and in the distance she could see the top of Amelie’s glen.

  “This is what I wanted to show you,” said Mr Zhi, reaching back to take her hand.

  Naeo looked at him in surprise. “The gardens?”

  “Yes,” said Mr Zhi, waving for Ash and Amelie to join them, “but you need to look with new eyes. I don’t want you to see the gardens. I want you to see how they are made. I want you to see the fabric of the world.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Naeo.

  “I want you to see like a healer of worlds,” he said. “A healer of the body knows how it is made; all of its parts – the flesh and the blood, the skin and the bone. And so I need you to see how the world is made, because it is only then that you will be able to find its ills.”

  Naeo stared at the plants and the trees, the flowers and the waterfall, but they looked just the same as they ever had. “I really don’t know what you mean,” she said, growing more and more frustrated.

  “It may be more familiar than you think,” said Mr Zhi, drawing her forward. “Merisu and the ancients told us that there are four parts to the world, four key elements, just like the flesh and the blood, the skin and the bone.”

  Naeo’s eyes widened. “You mean earth … and air? Fire and water?”

  Mr Zhi beamed. “That’s exactly what I mean,” he said, turning out to the gardens. “Everything you see draws from each of those elements, from the fiery sun that warms us and lights our way, to the earth that feeds and sustains us –” he pointed to the thundering waterfall – “from the water that cools and refreshes, to the air that we breathe. These four things are the makings of the world. If you and Sylas are to find its cure, you must master these elements.”

  Naeo shook her head. “I thought it was enough that Sylas and I … that we’re meant to do these things.”

  “To a point, it is,” said Mr Zhi, squeezing her hand. “This mastery is yours. You were born with it. But true mastery is in the knowing. You must each prove to yourselves that you are able to control the earth, the air, the fire and the water. Only then will you be ready to heal the worlds.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Naeo felt lost. The end of the journey that she had hoped was drawing nearer now seemed to be drifting further and further away.

  “Wait a minute!” exclaimed Ash. “Naeo, Mr Zhi’s right! You can do this. I’ve seen it myself! Remember at the Reckoning, when you turned the seas? What’s that if it isn’t mastering the waters? And fire – you used fire to save us all in—”

  “… in the Dirgheon,” murmured Naeo. She turned to him, her spirits lifting. “That’s right, we did!”

  Mr Zhi opened his hands. “So you already have two – fire and water. Only the earth and the air remain,” he said, gesturing first to the ground and then up to the glass dome squinting into the sunlight.

  A frown appeared on his face and he lifted his hand to shield his eyes. Suddenly he retreated towards Naeo, pushing her behind him. “Back!” he cried. “Back! Now!”

  She stumbled over her heels, peering over his shoulder at the dome.

  There, high on the sparkling surface, was a shape – black and lithe and slick – neither human nor animal. It was a shape Naeo had seen before, in the half-light of the moon.

  “Scarpia …” she whispered.

  And then she noticed the waterfall.

  Something was happening. Something impossible.

  The rainbow had begun to warp and twist into a new, writhing shape: no longer an arc, but a curling, twisting spiral of colour, unfurling like a bullwhip of fire.

  “Isia’s song is not her own; it is billions of straining souls reaching out for something lost.”

  THE STAIRCASE PASSED IN a whirling rainbow of colour and image, twisting ever downwards into the bowels of the temple. Sylas had given up watching his footing and instead he lifted his eyes and ran by instinct, hopping two or three steps in a single bound, tearing after Isia as she descended with astonishing grace, seeming to float down on a cushion of wind. He could hear Simia behind him, her feet stuttering down the steps, her panting echoing across the chasm.

  Down and down they ran, thundering towards the square below.

  Sylas barely had a moment to think, to ask himself what they woul
d do when they got there. “It’s the only way!” Isia had cried as they left the stone terrace. “We must find a way through!”

  The gale outside suddenly blew the door open far below – or perhaps it had been forced – they could not tell. A great wind howled through the opening, buffeting the ancient branches of the Knowing Tree, surging up the tower until it whipped around them and made the walls moan. Still they ran, their eyes fixed ahead, focused on the sweep of the staircase, the nearness of the chasm.

  Only when they drew level with the topmost branches of the tree did Isia motion for them to stop. She craned her neck and peered below, then continued alone.

  Sylas and Simia fell back against the wall, chests heaving, watching Isia as she stepped cautiously down the final reaches of the staircase. They heard a sound above – a shuffle and a whisper – and they glanced up to see scores of priestesses streaming down both staircases. The women stopped and hushed one another, then gazed down at Sylas and Simia with pale, anxious faces. They looked as frightened as Sylas felt.

  “This is it, isn’t it?” said Simia, quietly.

  She stared at him with wide, terrified eyes, as though it was already over.

  He shook his head. “We’ll be fine, Simsi,” he said, as strongly as he could. “They have to get past Isia first.”

  They watched Isia walk slowly towards the large oak door, which was banging against the stonework. She moved as surely as ever, without fear. As she reached the threshold she paused, then walked outside. Instantly there was a deafening, frenzied howl from the assembly of creatures.

  “Sylas?” said Simia, without looking at him.

  “Yes?”

  “Did I have one of those trails? Those silvery trails?” She turned to him. “Did I?”

  “Yes, you did,” he said, taking her hand.

  She welled with tears and a sob escaped her lips. “Good,” she said. “That helps.”

  “Why?”

  “Because part of me isn’t here.”

  The bloodthirsty wail outside had reached a crescendo, echoing through the temple until it was a deafening thunder. Then they felt the stone of the tower resonate to the stomping of thousands of feet: Boom, boom, boom.

  The horrifying rhythm gained pace, building and building to a gut-wrenching roar.

  And then something in Sylas broke. The tension, the exhaustion, the confusion of the past days welled into anger. Perhaps it was Simia looking so frightened, or the thought of Isia out there on her own before Thoth’s horde, or perhaps he had just reached the end of his tether. Whatever it was, it burned within him like a kindling fire.

  “Come on!” he said to Simia, setting off down the stairs, taking them in twos.

  “What are you doing?”

  Sylas turned. “We either wait for them to come for us, or we go to them,” he yelled. “And we have to help Isia!”

  A trace of Simia’s spirited smile flickered across her face. “OK then,” she shouted.

  The two of them ran down through the swirl of wind, their eyes never leaving the dark doorway. They ran without thinking, without measuring the danger. They ran because there was nothing else to be done.

  Sylas led the way up to the opening and then out, into the wild black gale. Instantly they were shoved to one side by a vicious crosswind, which almost tore Sylas’s bag from his shoulder.

  He saw Isia first, standing a little way ahead, out on the open plaza. Her plain white robes were flying about her, furling and snapping in the wind, making her seem larger than she really was. She was framed by a titanic scene: by a black jumble of buildings, towering on all sides; by the immense spectre of the Dirgheon looming in the near distance; by the colossal dark clouds and great streaks of lightning that sliced across the sky.

  Then, in a flash of fire, Sylas saw the full force of Thoth’s mongrel army. Legions of Ghor and Ghorhund advanced in formation on all sides, heads raised in a triumphal cry. Above them, hanging from the walls of the buildings and screaming deliriously like baboons in an urban jungle, were the giant, apish forms of the Hamajaks. And pressed in among the Ghor were the Ragers and the Tythish, snorting and stomping angrily as they jostled for position behind Thoth’s Magruman.

  Sylas felt a terror squeezing the air from his lungs and closing around his throat. He stood transfixed as all this thundered and seethed around Isia, vying to defy her greatness, to make her small and frail. But she did not cower nor flinch – she stood tall, facing the Magruman and his army across the open square. Sylas recognised the albino at once from their fight in the Dirgheon, from the deluge of fire. He saw the pinched skin, the scarred features, the missing hair, the gaze of icy eyes.

  Thoth’s Magruman stared at Isia, taking her measure, considering his next move. And then he raised his arms. Suddenly, the baying, screaming and stamping ceased. All that remained was the whistle and howl of the wind and the deep rumble of thunder.

  The Magruman and Isia eyed one another in silence, each seeming to wait for the other to speak.

  Finally Laythlick pointed to Sylas and Simia. “Let us have the children, Isia!” he shouted in dry, high-pitched notes. “Our quarrel is not with you!”

  Isia tilted her beautiful head to one side. “But, Laythlick, it is.”

  She did not seem to have raised her voice but nevertheless it sounded across the square, echoed among the rooftops.

  Laythlick squared his stance. “Come now, Isia, they may be your guests but—”

  “They are more than that.”

  Laythlick shifted again. “How so?”

  Her eyes sought Sylas and Simia and then she smiled and beckoned to them. As they started to walk over she turned back to Laythlick.

  “Simia is my friend,” she said with icy calm. “Sylas is my blood.”

  The Magruman was visibly startled. “But he’s from …” His wet eyes darted to the boy, then he took an unconscious step back.

  Isia ignored him, smiling as Sylas and Simia drew close. “So brave, my young Sylas,” she said. “And you, dear Simia.”

  Laythlick seemed to regain his composure. “Isia!” he cried. “You must obey the will of Thoth! You must give them to us!”

  Isia paid him no attention. “Remember what you have learned, Simia,” she smiled. “Do what I cannot. Take care of my Sylas.”

  “ISIA!” cried Laythlick. “This is your last warning!”

  And then Isia reached for Sylas’s hand. “This is your time, my child,” she declared. “Remember all that you have learned about me, about us, about yourself. And this, remember this: you have mastered the earth, and the fire and the water. Now, master the air.”

  Suddenly there was a deafening rumble from behind her. At first Sylas thought it was another roll of thunder, but then his eyes widened.

  There, rising high into the air beyond Isia, was a gigantic mass of rubble and flagstones, some broken or shattered, some still whole. Many hung ominously still, others spun and twisted, propelled by the terrible force that had ripped them from their footings. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands of them, shifting in the gusts of wind as one ominous whole. The Magruman bent this perilous mass to his will, his eyes flaring wide, his face set with rage. He stood on the very edge of a vast pit where the plaza had been, his pale skin now a deathly white, his body quivering with the effort.

  “GIVE THEM TO ME!” he screamed.

  Sylas stared in horror and had to fight the urge to back away. He snatched a glance at Simia and saw his own fear mirrored in her face, but when he turned to Isia, she was smiling. It was a sad but generous smile – one that, in that moment, seemed utterly out of place.

  Then she turned to face the Magruman. “No, Laythlick,” she said, walking towards him with slow, assured steps, “I will not.”

  Laythlick’s eyelids flickered in surprise. “Then you leave me no choice!” He heaved his hands back and prepared to hurl the swirling mountain of stone. He staggered with the strain of it, sweat pouring down his face, his body trembling.

&
nbsp; Isia’s step did not falter. “It is time for you to hear what I hear. Hear your crime, Laythlick, Magruman of Thoth, the Slayer of Souls. Then let judgement fall where it may.”

  She made a gesture as though offering him something, extending her open palms. In that moment everything fell still: the winds died, the thunder echoed into silence, the storm receded. Nothing remained but Isia, and the Magruman, and the hanging mass of rock.

  As she reached the edge of the pit, there was a distant sound, like a sigh, or perhaps a whisper. It seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere: from the pit at her feet and the storm clouds above, from the windows of the buildings and the brooding darkness of the Dirgheon.

  Words, half formed and indistinct. They drifted from the darkness, an ocean of them, borne up by a thousand whispering breaths. Quick and urgent, pained and yearning; words of love and grief, of joy and despair. They came in a new storm – a storm of feeling issuing from an unknown place, spoken in a million unknowable voices.

  Sylas looked at Simia but she was gazing into the skies, into the great darkness around them, and there were tears in her eyes.

  “I can hear them!” she said.

  In that moment the whispers grew into a murmur, and the murmur grew into a voice, and the voice into a clamorous cry. It shook the buildings and churned the clouds, it rumbled beneath the city and echoed in the heavens. Myriad voices searching for something lost, seeking the answer to a riddle they barely knew was there. These countless voices gathered into a single, human sound – a sound that spoke to the heart and soul of everyone who heard it.

  “Do you hear what you have done?” cried Isia over the tumult, her voice thick with rage. “Do you HEAR?”