Absence_Whispers and Shadow

by J. B. Forsyth

  The crowds gave way for them as they rolled in, squashing up against the houses to become two rows of tightly packed faces. Idle gossip and market haggling thickened the air, drowned out at times by the bellow of a vendor or the raucous laughter of patrons. Disparate aromas drifted and mixed – those of fresh bread and roasting meat sickeningly blending with that of stale sweat and sewage. Shops selling everything from boots to fishing hooks passed by on either side, some with displays that spilled out into the street in untidy jumbles; forcing potential customers to slow down and take notice of their goods. In amongst them were two taverns whose jolly patrons were standing outside, drinking from silver tankards and engaging passers-by in good humoured banter. The first was called The Lonely Spirit and on its board was a picture of a ghost, weaving its way through a dark and empty street. The second was The Black Witch and its board depicted a thin woman, dressed all in black. She was holding her arms out to the sides and there were three ravens perched on each one. Her deathly face was glowering at her customers and her eyes followed Kye as he passed beneath.

  The road angled and they saw The Reader standing in its enclosure. It was closer now and it took Kye’s breath away for a second time. From this angle he could appreciate the vigilance in its brown eyes and see its hair shifting in the breeze. It huge swords were glinting in the sun and they looked sharp enough to slice the top off a dozen houses with a single stroke. A crow landed on one mountain-ledge shoulder, bringing on another flip of perception that shrunk it to the size of a fly. But as he marvelled the wagon turned into a quieter street and the spectacle was screened away by a row of houses.

  He settled back and when he saw Della rubbing at her face, he misinterpreted it as a sign of tiredness. But if had looked at her while The Reader was in full view, he would have seen a terrible black interest come into her eyes and would have known what she was trying to rub away.

  The wagon drew up in front of a gated wall almost as tall as the city’s outer defences. There was a short exchange between Ormis and the gatekeeper, then the gates whined open and the wagon lurched through into a sunny courtyard. Kring jumped off, dropped the rear flap and gestured for him and Della to get down. Then Ormis led the three of them towards a huge grey building covered with barred windows. Two naked figures were carved into the sides of its arched doorway. Each was shackled with chains that disappeared into the mouth of a huge gargoyle that protruded from the apex.

  A man emerged from the building and shook hands with Ormis. He was lean and shabby and spoke with a toothless grin. ‘This is no place for children Ormis.’

  ‘We had to extricate them at short notice and there was no time to arrange alternative accommodation. I would appreciate it if you could keep them overnight.’

  ‘They’d need separate cells and it’s tight in there already… But you’re in luck. Eighteen and nineteen on east wing are free at the moment, but I’ll need use of them tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll be back for them first thing. You have my word.’

  ‘Alright then.’

  ‘And they’ll need a good meal.’

  ‘As good as we’ve got.’

  Ormis turned to Kye and Della. ‘This is Azhul the Gaolmaster. Go with him and do as he says. This is the safest place for you until I find somewhere more suitable. You are not in trouble, but there are a few things we need to talk about.’

  Kye looked at the gaol’s barred windows and back at the Gaolmaster. He had heard stories about the harsh conditions in such places and the sadistic ways of those that ran them. Given the choice he would rather have slept on the street than stayed there, but he found himself nodding his understanding and following the Gaolmaster through the archway.

  As they jumped back up on the wagon Kring turned to Ormis ‘I’m going to take a drink down The Haunt this evening. You’re welcome to join me - if only for something to eat.’

  Ormis considered his reply. Kring invited him to a tavern every time they returned to the city and every time he declined. Last time he had made it perfectly clear what he thought about taverns and he was surprised to hear him asking again. He found the intoxication of men despicable and the places in which they became so, intolerable – there was the unguarded talk, the uninhibited familiarity and the clouded thinking that ran into the next day. Drink and its consequences degraded bodies and relationships and he could feel nothing but offence at being invited to partake in such iniquity. He looked at Kring and considered clarifying his position once more. But he realised he was only asking out of politeness and decided to hold his tongue.

  ‘No thank you,’ he managed. ‘I've got work to do.’

  Kring gave him the type of nod that suggested he had been expecting such a response and with that he turned the wagon around and they rolled back through the gate.

  Colossus

  Kass Riole sat at his table, hunched over a large leather bound book. He read the same passage over again for the third time then leant back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. He sighed and rose awkwardly, knitting his brow against the pain in his hip. Age had long since settled into his frame and now whenever he moved after a period of rest, his hip grated like a rusty castle gate. He took a cloak from the back of his chair, drew it about his shoulders and limped out onto the balcony. The coping stones were warm and as he leant against them he shut his eyes, relishing the warmth of the evening sun on his face.

  After a while he looked out. Directly below him was The Reader Enclosure and at its centre, The Reader. It stood in profile to him with the bulk of its left shoulder level with his balcony. This close there was no doubt it was alive. From here he could see its eyes change colour with the weather – brown on clear days, green beneath clouds and brilliant blue during a blizzard. He could see the rise and fall of its chest and if the wind was blowing in the right direction, he could even feel the warmth of its breath. On cold days it billowed from its mouth like a low cloud and if he was really unlucky it would fog up his quarters; soaking into his curtains and covering his mirrors with condensation. At night he could hear its heartbeat. He found it unsettling at first, but quickly got used to it. Now he would lie beneath his sheets listening to the thud of each beat and feeling it reverberate through his body. It was such a soothing sensation to him now that he often relied on it to send him to sleep.

  The Reader was a marvel to which the eye never truly accommodated. It never slept or ate and it never twitched or blinked. Its hair and nails never grew and it never aged. The Reader stood indifferent to the wind and rain, to the tonnes of snow that flattened its hair and the icicles that grew off its nose. Even a lightning strike couldn’t stir it and anyone who had been in Irongate when it was struck by one would likely rate it as the most dreadful and most exciting experience of their lives. Lightning strikes were heralded by small orbs of purple light igniting on its head and shoulders. They would increase in number and fizz together, forming eerie streamers of light that shot up into the clouds and triggered the lightning; engulfing The Reader in white brilliance too strong to look at. In its aftermath sizzling coils of electric light would blaze around its body before disappearing off the tips of its swords.

  The light show was spectacular, but it was nothing compared to the resulting thunder. For The Reader’s thunder was like no other. It had become known to the locals as The Bristles and only those who hadn’t experienced it would ever ask why. As The Bristles rolled over the city it subjected the populace to what could only be described as a flesh hovering sensation, during which the little hairs on their skin became as stiff as the bristles on a broom. To say it was disturbing was like saying holding one’s hand in a fire was uncomfortable. The Bristles made children cry and adults tremble. But mercifully it only lasted a few seconds and its only after effects were an occasional muscle twitch and a slight ringing in the ears. Even so, there was a significant fraction of the population who feared it so much they left the city whenever a storm approached, paying good money to shelter in large tents that were erected beyond its
field of influence.

  Some people thought it helped to hold hands during The Bristles, but Kass wasn’t so sure. His preference was to take a little wine as the storm rolled in and find somewhere comfortable to see it through. But never with company though. There was nothing worse than nervous people pacing up and down and wittering on about how the waiting was nearly as bad as The Bristles themselves. If the amount he drunk was just right, he could turn a thoroughly unpleasant sensation into a euphoric one. But the dosage seemed to vary each time and if he drank too much it would make him violently sick.

  Then there was The Reader’s shadow. Each day the sun was out it swept across the city from west to east, bestowing providence some believed, on anything it touched. Many swore their health and fortune were enhanced by standing in it and properties regularly touched sold for a great deal more than those that weren’t. Shops and street vendors added a shadow tariff to their prices whilst it was over them and although it could run as high as fifty percent if the sun was strong, people were more than happy to pay. They were in no doubt a pie had more flavour, a shirt more wear, and a flagon of ale more life when bought in The Reader’s shadow. Kass didn’t believe such nonsense but there was one effect he couldn’t deny: an almost zero crime rate within it. But he suspected the cause was more to do superstition than any effect of the shadow itself. People believed The Reader saw everything that happened in its shadow and dispensed swift and harsh justice to those who displeased it. On their own, such beliefs were enough to deter would be criminals, but the apocryphal stories helped as well. Those foolish enough to ignore such superstitions were rumoured to have been struck blind, cursed with boils and warts or to have arrived home to find their houses burnt to the ground.

  The Reader’s origin was unknown, but its discovery and subsequent history were well documented. It was found, or rather stumbled upon, in the year of the Great Exodus - after the last wave of people fled through the Pass of Joebel into the new land of the West. By then the Eastland had degenerated to a point where life, at least for its human population, was untenable. Back then the Westland was covered with forest all the way from the mountains to the sea, and it was within its great green expanse that the colossus was discovered – standing on the same lump of granite it still stood on today.

  A hunting party came by it late one afternoon when the dim maze of trees they were travelling through opened up around a muscular calf wrapped with spirals of flowering ivy. As they ventured closer they were afflicted by a dreadful malady of the soul which forced them into a panicky and confused retreat. It was assumed later that the malady to which the account referred was the same phenomenon they now called the Wakening. Even the hunting dogs were affected and the very instant they padded into its field, they darted back to their owners with their tails between their legs.

  One of the hunters, whose name the account did not record, resolved to go back - to brave the malady for as long as it would take to reach the break in the trees and look into the face of the colossus. It was an ill-fated decision. His run ended prematurely, when a huge blade swept down, felling a whole strip of forest down to five foot stumps and lopping his head off. As the severed trees collapsed the rest were given a sudden heart stopping view of the colossus and the iridescent jewel around its neck.

  The historical record was frustratingly spare on what happened next. What they did know was that the hunting party returned to their homes and in the days that followed brought others to see their discovery. At some point they decided to settle around the mysterious colossus – a decision seemingly based around an evolving belief that they would flourish in its proximity. They stripped away the forest and laid the foundation of the city that would later become Irongate. A stockade was built around the colossus just beyond the point at which the strange malady was provoked and the area it enclosed decreed sacred.

  Five years later an orphan boy sneaked past the guards and climbed into the sacred area. He was only discovered when the guards heard his laughter and when they looked in they found him climbing on the colossus’s foot; seemingly untouched by the malady. One of Kass’s favourite pictures was a pencil drawing of the boy sitting cross legged on its foot - his face lit up in a broad and mischievous smile.

  When the boy finally tired and climbed out he was taken straight to Irongate Holdings and thrown into a cell. His actions were seen by many as sacrilege and there were calls from some quarters for his execution. In the end the prevailing and fateful view was that the boy’s immunity to the malady was some kind of sign – an indication of some quality that set him apart from the rest of them. Could it be, some asked, that the colossus had identified him as a potential leader?

  The idea gained traction and was taken up by some of the most influential among them. The boy was released and mentored and when he turned fifteen, they took a leap of faith and declared him King. Time revealed him to be a man of exceptional quality - a man of extraordinary talent, temperament and tenacity; a man under which Irongate prospered. Ibra the boy king reigned for twenty-two halcyon years, until one snow crusted day he fell from his horse and broke his neck. The subsequent mourning was said to have gone on for a whole month; such was the people’s love of him. When they reflected on his reign, they decided it was a proof of concept – that the colossus could be trusted to select a rightful and successful leader. The council appointed by King Ibra decreed that the King’s successor and all future rulers were to be chosen the same way. And so The Reader Ceremony was born - a system of selection that, with only a few changes over the years, had continued to the present day.

  The ceremony was simple. The subject of a reading would step over the Threshold of Consciousness and attempt to endure a concentrated form of the Wakening, through which The Reader would appraise them. Kass had never been the subject of a reading, but another exorcist had told him it was like being scoured by a god. If the subject could endure this scrutiny to its conclusion, The Reader would judge them. If deemed unfit, they would sense hostility in the Wakening and be forced to retreat. But if judged worthy, the Wakening would leave them and they would be granted unopposed access to the granite boulders between its feet. The first person to achieve this during The Reader Ceremony was duly declared the new and rightful King of the Westland.

  The system was thought to be infallible. But as the years turned to centuries and the succession of kings grew longer, its weakness became apparent. The problem was that although The Reader’s approval guaranteed a king’s good heart and morality, it didn’t guarantee his regal competence. Wisdom, diplomacy and backbone were just a few of the qualities required of a successful leader, but some of the Reader’s choices were lamentably lacking in such attributes.

  One example was King Iceth. He was a good man, but possessed of little courage and wit. In a stroke of bad luck, his reign coincided with the appointment of Arran Hygol as High Exorcist - the author of the infamous Witch Laws. The book preached a radical an intolerant ideology, dictating harsh laws and punishments to govern all aspects of Membrane transgression. The Witch Laws were widely distributed and brutally enforced, creating a web of terror and suspicion that stretched out from the Caliste and left no community untouched. Thousands were killed and innumerable others suffered terrible pains and hardships as a direct consequence of Witch Law doctrine. King Iceth was appalled, but was powerless to do anything about it. Lord Hygol was the embodiment of the Cragg and the King could stand up to him no more than a strip of wet paper could stand against a charging bull. King Iceth lived out his reign in fear and isolation as the Westland plummeted through its darkest chapter - The Reader’s fallibility, or at least that of the selection process, at its most evident.

  Kass had spent long hours musing over The Reader’s mysteries, but today he looked upon the colossus with new eyes - the way a man would look at his dog after it had bitten a friend. Last night The Reader had killed the King.

  Over the years three kings had been murdered and two had taken their own lives, but thi
s was the first time one had been dispatched by The Reader itself. Thirty-two kings had followed the boy, each honoured by a stone slab imprinted with their name and set into the enclosure. This morning he had helped the guards wash the king’s blood from the cobbles and scrub it from the depressed letters that celebrated his name.

  He had been alerted to the tragedy in the early hours when he was jarred from his sleep by an incessant banging on his door. He opened it to find a white faced enclosure guard.

  ‘Come quickly Lord Riole.’

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, squinting at him through a blur of sleep.

  ‘The King…Forgive me but I think you need to see.’

  Kass threw on a robe and hobbled down the stairs after him, pushing through the grating in his hip. They rushed from the tower into a cloudless night. The moon was in hiding and the constellations shone down on them in cold brilliance. Another guard met them inside the enclosure with an expression of appalling gravity on his face. His mouth quivered as though he was going to say something, but whatever words he had prepared remained unsaid. As Kass strode up to him he could only jerk an arm out and point a shaky finger. Kass squinted. It was dark, but his tired eyes were just able to resolve two black shapes beneath The Reader. He started towards them, the knowledge of what they were already forming in his heart. He reached the first shape and saw the King’s dead eyes staring up at him. His arms were spread wide on the cobbles – one of them was bent at the elbow and would have resembled a farewell wave if not for the way his dead fingers were curled. He knelt in the pool of blood that was forming beneath his severed waist, pulled his sickeningly light remains onto his lap and cried. The Reader loomed behind him, black and watchful; the steady thump of its heartbeat resonating through his grief.