Who had that boy wished to become?
ACT THREE
THE GREAT MOTHER
Reunion
‘Go no further!’ a prophet warned. ‘Turn back now! Nothing but tragedy awaits!’ He stalked the road, unburdened by clothes, eminently comfortable with his gaunt and hairy body. All around him travellers shuffled past without as much as a glance. Horses brayed and pooed disinterestedly.
‘The Goddess is generous in her anger!’ the prophet insisted. His matted hair and shaggy beard gave him the wild authority of an ascetic. ‘She both gives and receives wounds, each more grievous than the last. Her season will be enjoyed by crows!’
Only Daimonia watched the prophet perform among the accumulating travellers. She noticed his lively face and his determination to contort his body into a wild variety of expressions and shapes. He used gesture and intonation to elicit attention, but not a single person would meet his gaze. Even the horses focussed only on what lay ahead.
Khorgov was a maze of shade and darkness, a tenebrous city with no clear beginning or end. Refugees simply arrived at the expanding outskirts and sought to establish themselves on the spot, surrounding others who had done the same. In the far distance dark turrets, citadels and towers defined the boundaries between earth and sky, but they seemed an adventure away.
‘Behold the terrible city,’ the prophet insisted, clawing the sky with his hands. ‘Go on,’ he encouraged a child whose attention he had snagged. ‘Really take a look at it.’ The boy clung to his mother’s skirts, preferring to explore his nose with his finger.
The prophet danced and flapped, expending enough energy to wake the dead. ‘Behold the great mother,’ he tried again. ‘Her tits are dry and she is unable to give her children aught to succour them.’ He reminded Daimonia of the narrator of a play, being both within and without the scene simultaneously.
‘Go back!’ he commanded Daimonia as their eyes met.
She was in the thick of the crowd, her blood-red tabard like a beacon to those who journeyed alongside. ‘Why?’ she replied, meeting his gaze with a frown. ‘Do you see my fate?’
‘Ah, go on with you.’ He waved her past dismissively. ‘Everyone thinks they are special.’
Daimonia rode slowly through the expanding urban fringe. Here homes had been made of whatever was at hand. Walls were mud and straw packed between wooden slats. Doors were merely blankets and skins. Fires burned everywhere and for every conceivable purpose.
She proceeded through the impoverished community, feeling shame at the relative wealth she had enjoyed at home. Undernourished babies sobbed, their cries competing with the bark of dogs. Waste poured from a collapsed dwelling, flooding the occupants who remained stubbornly within. Every human act occurred in the open, from childbirth to cremation.
Daimonia negotiated a path for some hours, refusing to buy some famous bones and trying not to ride down a gang of obstreperous chickens that blocked the way. She was surprised when she finally came upon stonemasonry and the edge of the city proper. The western gate was patrolled by scores of sour-faced militants garbed in grey-black tunics and feathered caps. They were haunted by the mocking caws of birds, who shat liberally over them and all over everybody attempting to enter or leave.
It was becoming dark as Daimonia advanced through the threshold, her heart burning with trepidation. Now that the moment was close, her mouth ran dry at the thought of informing her mother of Niklos’ death. Would her mother scream and hurt herself? Would she blame Daimonia? What form would her mother’s grief take before they could avenge the deed together?
She needed to be back in her own bed at Jaromir, but how very far away her home seemed now. The distance could be measured in corpses, the route traced by painful moments never to be forgotten. She longed for her small world, for her leaky room and for gruff old Jhonan. Most of all she wished that Goodkin were by her side, protecting and guiding her onwards. Without him she began to feel unshielded and weak.
Daimonia found herself beside a series of cages hung above the street. They were filled with bony, bearded men who stared hungrily at the people below. Daimonia drew alongside one such cage and stared wide-eyed at the occupant, who had made a tidy home of his incarceration. The man had created curtains from his cloak, which were fastened to his cage with boot laces. His hood hung, thick with excrement, from beneath the cell. His finger and toenails were exceptionally long and thick with filth.
‘Why are you here?’ Daimonia asked.
The man looked genuinely surprised. He licked his sore-covered lips and leaned over towards the girl, pressing his nose through the cage and sniffing loudly.
‘Get away from there!’ someone shouted haughtily.
Daimonia turned to see an obese nobleman wearing resplendent robes of office. He promptly waddled up to the girl, a train of men chasing hurriedly after him, carrying food, books and cushions.
‘Young woman,’ the noble addressed her curtly, ‘clearly you are a stranger here, or you would know that speaking to the Vendicatori implies sympathy with the rebellion.’ He pointed to the wretched cages. ‘If the militants see you, you’ll end up with a cage of your own or locked away beneath the fortress.’
‘Vendicatori?’ Daimonia looked at again at the cramped prisoners. Were these ragged men the dangerous revolutionaries plotting to undermine the Accord? They didn’t look like much of a threat, having been deprived of every dignity, their shame exhibited to the world.
‘I’m no rebel,’ she assured the noble. ‘I seek my mother, Captain Catherine Vornir of the Knights of the Accord.’
‘Captain Vornir is the castellan of Khorgov Fortress.’ The noble pointed eastwards to where a mountainous structure loomed over the city like a dark glacier. ‘She both serves and protects the Benevolent Council.’
‘Well?’ The squire crossed his arms. ‘What is it?’
‘I’m the daughter of Catherine Vornir,’ Daimonia answered in the most polite voice she could muster. The fortress was a huge and confusing place, around which she’d wandered questioning unhelpful strangers before finding the castellan’s squire.
‘And I’m Prince Moranion,’ he sneered.
‘Is that so?’ Daimonia’s eyes flashed at the impertinent remark. ‘It seems your majesty and beauty have been much exaggerated.’
‘Har, har!’ The squire chuckled with a show of grotty teeth. ‘Very funny. Now be off with you.’
‘I need to see my mother,’ Daimonia pressed. ‘I’ve come all the way from Jaromir.’
‘I wouldn’t know my own mother,’ he replied, ‘let alone yours.’
Daimonia bit the air. ‘I’ve not come this far to be stopped by you. Let me in!’
‘Calm down,’ the squire surrendered. His eyes flicked over the girl’s scowling face. ‘I can see the resemblance well enough.’
Daimonia followed the man through chambers both busy and dark. A quivering prayer escaped her lips. ‘Mother, I am finally here,’ she whispered. The length of her journey tailed her, like the train of an extravagant dress.
They rose up a narrow staircase, taking three steps at a time. ‘Here we go,’ the squire said. They came to a small door embellished by feather-shaped hinges. ‘This room is Captain Vornir’s private quarters. I’ll give her a shout for you if you like.’
Unable to hesitate, Daimonia opened the door, intruding upon a chamber of darkness. The air was hot with candle flame and the reek of human sweat. Within the warm cell, shadows wrestled and grunted.
‘Mother,’ Daimonia called softly into the dark. ‘Mother, it’s me.’
Daimonia thought she heard curses before a voluptuous figure uncoupled from the shadows and stepped towards the doorway. Candlelight revealed a familiar curve of cheek and chin, enough for Daimonia to be certain.
‘Mother,’ she exhaled, throwing herself into the dark shape and hugging with all her might. She squeezed the woman’s flesh, her tears rolling onto the cool skin. Dry thirst found a point of boundless gratification. This
moment, Daimonia rejoiced. This moment forever.
At first it seemed she held a corpse, so stiff was the reaction. Then very gradually a hand rose and placed itself on Daimonia’s shoulder. It rested briefly before pushing the girl away.
‘Why are you here?’ the shadow asked.
Another figure emerged, a young man panting heavily as sweat shone on his body. His eyes met Daimonia’s and then explored her figure with an appraising smile. ‘Did she just call you mother?’ he asked Catherine.
‘Hush, Kasamir.’ Catherine removed the young man’s fingers from her thigh. ‘Daimonia, I asked you a question.’
‘Yes, sorry.’ Daimonia wiped her eyes. ‘It’s just a bit overwhelming. I’ve come so far.’
‘If Jhonan has died, then you’re to live with Adjurator Ivan. It’s been arranged.’
‘Grandfather is alive,’ Daimonia assured her mother. ‘The first news I have for you is simply that I am here.’
‘So I see,’ Catherine replied. She looked to the squire, who was staring determinedly at the ground. ‘It’s late. Magpie will find you a room. Tomorrow you can tell me what this is all about.’
‘I knew you’d be pleased.’
The door was closed and Daimonia realised she was trembling.
‘Come along, girl.’ Magpie beckoned. ‘Best you sleep on this happy reunion. After all, the heart can only take so much.’
Glass
Morning found Daimonia peering from a high window, hair drifting in the smoky breeze. From the fortress she could glimpse the city’s labyrinthine depths, the deep paths and passages where light faltered. Prosperity decreased from the centre out, from the decorated council mansions to the farthest shanties.
Daimonia leaned sleepily into the wind, allowing it to dry the tears on her cheeks. Last night’s curt dismissal had scared her, kept her awake with doubts. Was she still the unlovable girl her mother needed to escape from? Perhaps she should be buried, like an unwanted doll in the earth.
She climbed onto the window ledge and sat, her long legs dangling over the drop. From this height she could fall and die twice over; it would be a splendidly violent death. She closed her eyes and rehearsed it, saw the moment when skin left stone and exhilarating free fall spun her. Her skull would bite the earth and she would wash the whole city with blood.
Voices roused the girl from imagination and drew her attention to the sight of knights gathering on the bridge below. Clad in armour they stood, legs apart, shields slung on arms or backs. Their Accord tabards were grey with wear, blemished according to their years.
One veteran knight wore a tabard that was black with experience. He was regaling the others with a story that involved impersonating girls’ voices and won a crescendo of laughter at the end.
Daimonia’s mother strode out to join the men. Captain Catherine Vornir was a dark-browed woman with cropped hair and a short sharp nose. She wore a leather tunic armoured with hundreds of overlapping rings and a white woollen cloak. Seeing her again, Daimonia stopped breathing.
Each knight nodded or saluted as Catherine approached. She smiled at them as if they were her sons, gave instructions and watched as they proceeded to organise patrols of city militants.
Daimonia was aghast to realise that Catherine was leaving with them. ‘Mother!’ she shouted, leaning out as far as she dared. ‘Mother, you’ve forgotten me!’ But the knights were already marching their units purposefully across the bridge.
‘Forgive me, brother,’ she prayed. ‘There is not enough love for the living, let alone the dead.’
Daimonia retraced the route by which Magpie had led her until she rediscovered her mother’s room. This time she paused at the threshold, placing one hand on the door as solemnly as if it were a tomb. Is this a trespass? Daimonia wondered. Biting her lip, she pushed open the door.
The room beyond was as silent as a temple, the shadows suggesting still figures in the dark. Daimonia crept inside, her fingers tickling the air like a thief’s. She went first to the damp bed, where her mother had writhed with that man, the young lover who had invaded Daimonia with his eyes. She cringed at the recollection, wanting to shed her skin and scream. Instead she rent the sheets with her dagger, laughing with each rip. The Visoth steel came to life at her bidding, shredding fabric as it had once shred flesh.
When it was done, she began to examine everything, seeking some evidence of her mother’s affection. There must be something here of me, Daimonia mused. Something of our old life together.
Her fingers ran along a shelf of books. Stories had given Daimonia pleasure when lonely. She had found solace in the troubles of heroes, loved their weaknesses more than their strengths. Lost in words, she had lived a dozen other lives, but those tales had little prepared her for real adversity and sorrow.
Fine gowns lay cast across a table, discarded carelessly. Weapons and armour lay everywhere, evidence of Catherine’s determined crusade against the disobedient Vendicatori. Dead flowers hung limp in a jar.
Pillars of wax surrounded a small shrine, upon which stood a crude wooden effigy. The idol was a shoddy likeness of the Great Mother, a deformed representation of the Goddess. Beside it sat a birth-rite bell and a sheet of dusty glass.
As Daimonia approached, a wild figure rushed up to meet her. She saw a ferocious girl with wolfish hair, scarred lips and muddy cheeks. Her eyes were half-closed and appeared guarded and cunning, as if she had crawled through a battlefield to get here.
Daimonia wiped dust from the glass, wondering at the revelation. Was this the face her mother had been confronted with?
The knights returned as evening fell, their arrival made loud by drunken shouts.
Daimonia was in the dining hall, freshly bathed and wearing one of her mother’s gowns. Petals had perfumed the water and their scent hung about her still. Her hair was freshly oiled and combed into glistening waves. All afternoon she had worked with Magpie to clean and prepare for the knights, before using her mother’s bathtub and clothes.
‘Service is its own reward, I suppose,’ Magpie had reflected as he scraped shit from Sir Kasamir’s boots.
‘What kind of person is my mother?’
Magpie had leant up quickly with one hand on his crooked back. ‘Well, the castellan has a great deal of responsibility,’ he mused. ‘Everyone here answers to her, excepting the Benevolent Council themselves. And she’s one of those women – begging your pardon – with a will that won’t bend one inch. So the whole fortress has to kind of bend itself around her.’ He raised one eyebrow while lowering the other, making a lopsided expression.
‘I wish I was like that.’
‘It’s a poor description,’ he admitted. ‘I’m a squire not a poet.’
The returning knights were less gallant than Daimonia hoped, treading muck into the hall and helping themselves to food without as much as a prayer. Daimonia moved among them, offering bread she had baked herself. Most grabbed a roll while slurping down soup, but one man took a fistful of the girl’s backside in his hand.
‘Daimonia!’ Catherine Vornir’s voice pierced the hall. She stood by the door, her chin high and eyes narrow.
Daimonia put down the food and ran to her mother. The gown clung comfortably to her body and her chest swelled with pride at how she had made herself pretty. Scars and bruises aside, she could pass for a noblewoman’s daughter. Drawing close, she went to initiate a hug, but it became an awkward wave.
‘You’re going home,’ Catherine informed her. ‘It’s been arranged.’
Daimonia’s eyes widened to see a white-bearded Way Knight lurking in the porch. He was weighing a payment of silver, squeezing the coin pouch like a tit.
‘I’m not leaving!’ Daimonia clenched her fists.
‘Yes, you are.’ Catherine placed a gloved hand on her daughter’s shoulder. Her grip was uncomfortably tight. ‘You’re not well.’
‘Not well?’ Daimonia pulled away.
‘I know you can’t see it.’ Catherine smiled faintly.
Catherine sighed and made the sign of prayer with her hands. ‘You really don’t remember, or are you just pretending? However much love I gave you, it was never enough. And when you couldn’t get what you needed, you hurt me, Daimonia. The truth is you’re dangerous and it’s not safe for me to be around you.’ She reached for Daimonia’s hair, caressing it with her fingers. ‘Please understand; I have another life now. I’m not your mother anymore.’
Daimonia tried to scream, but the air had become elusive. Instead her cheeks became redder and redder until they were roasting on her face. Her mother’s words became a series of incomprehensible noises such as an animal might make. ‘I’m staying!’ Daimonia finally screamed and when nothing happened she screamed again, her throat straining. Every eye in the hall was fixed on the impassioned youth, but no one was moved to intervene.
She saw it then. It lurked in the merest corner of her mother’s otherwise concerned smile, but it was unmistakable. It was contempt.
Daimonia broke away. She fled through the doorway and down the plummeting steps to the bridge below. She descended into the city falling deeper and darker through shadow.
Skin
Khorgov never knew silence. Grunts and cries emerged from countless buildings. Screams and sobs were present in every dingy street. Intrusive voices made a dirge of the night as thousands of lives intertwined.
Adrift in the city, Daimonia searched for a quiet place to die. It was over. Her dream of reunion and revenge had been a fantasy. There was no heroic mother who would save her. There would never be any justice for her brother’s death. There wasn’t even an enemy to fight unless the indifference of the world could be called a foe.
Baron Leechfinger, Prettanike, the Geld Knight and even Catherine Vornir, they had been the sovereigns of her nightmare, the murmurers in the dark against whom she was powerless. But in truth they were nothing but shadows, echoes of a Secret God that worshipped itself.
The Way Knight: A Tale of Revenge and Revolution Page 15
