The Storm Weaver & the Sand (Books of the Change)

by Sean Williams

  Sal emerged from the antechamber, gazing around him in wonder. Shilly knew how he felt. Even through her strange calmness she felt an incredible joy and sadness that they’d made it.

  “We’ll close the Way when we get back,” Iniga said, breaking a silence too full for words. “From then on, you’ll be alone.”

  “I don’t know how I’ll ever make this up to you,” said Sal to his real father.

  “You don’t have to,” Highson said. “Live long. Be free. Don’t hurt anyone.”

  “We’ll try not to.”

  Highson and Sal laughed awkwardly, clearly lacking the means to express what they felt.

  “Goodbye, Sal,” Highson said, his voice even hoarser than usual.

  “Goodbye.” Sal nodded. “Tell Tom he was right. He can go back to trusting his dreams again.”

  “I will.”

  “Peace,” said Iniga, inclining her head.

  Shilly moved to stand next to Sal as the two adults left the workshop. The sound of their movement through the antechamber, and then the Way, faded. Shilly finally began to feel something like nervousness that she was alone with Sal and Lodo. There was no one else but them.

  We must make our own fates, Atilde had said.

  “That’s it,” said Sal. “We’ve done it.”

  “We sure have.” She looked around the workshop, still not quite believing it was real. There was the chime Lodo used to summon his friends from town when he wanted their help or company; there was the kit from which he had made the charms used to disguise Sal from the Sky Wardens; there—

  She stopped, struck by something she hadn’t done.

  “Wait,” she yelled, grabbing something long and rope-like from a stone shelf before running out of the room. “Wait!”

  “Wait!” The sound of Shilly’s voice echoed up the Way just as everyone linked hands and prepared to shut it forever. “Wait!”

  Skender opened his eyes in alarm, imagining all manner of terrible things that might have happened. It was a trap; the exit to the dunes was buried under sand, shutting them inside; Lodo had chosen that moment to die, and the golem had found a way to enact its revenge upon them, where they couldn’t be helped…

  Shilly emerged flustered from the mouth of the Way, bearing something in both hands before her.

  “Skender, this is for you,” she gasped, out of breath. “It belongs to your father.”

  He looked down at the thing she thrust into his hands, not immediately comprehending. It looked like a long whip with metal threads woven through it. He felt a tingle of the Change thrill through him as it touched his skin, and received a confused impression of fire and ice, earth and air. Only then did he realise what it was.

  “The Scourge?” he said, staring at the glittering whip with incredulity. “The Scourge of Aneshti? I thought it was lost!”

  “Your grandfather gave it to Lodo,” she said. “I don’t think he’ll be needing it any more.”

  Skender gaped at Shilly in amazement. The Scourge had been at the Keep for generations, then had mysteriously disappeared during his grandfather’s term as the head of the school. The scandal had been enormous among those who knew about it.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Luan Braunack nodding approvingly.

  “It’ll be yours, one day,” said Shilly with a smile.

  Skender opened his mouth to protest that there was no way he was going to end up a teacher like his father and his grandfather and the Goddess knew how many generations of Van Haasterens. But the words never came out. The protest sounded hollow even in his own head.

  “Dad will be glad it’s back,” he ended up saying. “Thank you, from him.”

  “Does that make us even, then?”

  “What?” Skender feigned outrage. Shilly had declared that she owed him a “big one” on the night Radi Mierlo died. “Not even close,” he said, not meaning it. “And believe me, I’ll collect one day.”

  “You’ll have to find us, first.”

  “Welcher!”

  She smiled, then turned and headed back up the Way. Iniga followed to make sure she was clear, then returned.

  “It’s done,” she said. “Let’s finish it.”

  Skender put the Scourge at his feet, and tried very hard not to think about the friends he was losing. Everyone linked hands again. Arcane patterns swirled in his mind; strange forces blew through him; there was a subtle shifting in the world, as though it was a curled-up piece of paper unfolding flat again. When he opened his eyes, the Way was gone.

  Sal and Shilly were gone with it. Just like that. One moment they’d been there, with him, and the next they were thousands of kilometres away, back where they’d started. It didn’t seem possible, yet he’d seen it happen with his own eyes.

  There was a new hollowness inside him as he picked up the Scourge and walked with the others back into the catacombs. Nothing more was said. Nothing needed to be said. The glow of the Golden Tower and all its impossible vistas fell behind them, returning them to a decidedly more mundane gloom. Kemp stayed near Skender, and he was glad of it. He was going to miss his friends from the south. Maybe they would meet again, but maybe they wouldn’t—and the worse thing was that he could never talk about the last time he had seen them to anyone. He would never forgive himself if they were caught because of him.

  The silence weighed heavily on him. His adventure was over. He just wanted to go home, or at least get a good, long sleep.

  As they emerged from the tunnel to see the cold light of dawn creeping through the crack in the hill above, he realised that the chances of sleeping any time soon were decidedly slim.

  “What is this?” demanded Nu Zanshin as they emerged from the tunnel. She and a large party of Sky Wardens and attendants were examining the beach while more descended the ladder, one by one. “Dragan. Explain yourself!”

  There was a terrifying moment when everything seemed to freeze. He felt Highson and the others tense and gather the Change about them. Stories about war between Change-makers were more legends than real history, and he had never expected to see it happen, but for an instant he was convinced he was about to.

  “It’s really very simple, my dear Syndic,” said the Alcaide, slipping easily into the lie. “You let them get away.”

  “I—?” She swallowed an automatic protest. “Don’t be ridiculous. I had nothing to do with this. You—”

  “I left Behenna on watch at the entrance. Did he explain as I asked him to? I instructed him to call for help. It’s not our fault you arrived too late.”

  “He offered some ridiculous mishmash of conspiracy theory and unlikelihood. Are you telling me it’s true?”

  “Only an official inquiry will determine the whole truth.” The Alcaide feigned a look of exasperation. “The salient points are that Sal and Shilly have been kidnapped by an unknown party and taken through the Way. We don’t know where or why. Highson and I learned of the plot in time to save Skender and Kemp, and we were lucky to do that. Luan and the Surveyors were shown papers indicating that these people were operating with our authority. They had no reason to stop them until we arrived to tell them otherwise.”

  “Our authority?” the Syndic exclaimed.

  “Forgeries, of course.” The Alcaide’s expression sharpened. “Unless you’re accusing me of being in league with the kidnappers.”

  “No—no, of course not.” The Syndic looked as Skender had felt upon coming face to face with the conspiracy. Her eyes seemed to glaze over, but only briefly. Within moments, they were as sharp as ice daggers again. “These people. You have no idea who they were?”

  “None. As soon as they saw us coming, they closed the Way behind them. There are no means of tracing where it ended up, of course. They could be anywhere.”

  One of the wardens shuffled nervously behind the Syndic. “The Weavers,” he offered. �
�There have been rumours—”

  “Claptrap!” exclaimed the Syndic. “Whoever is behind this will happily use fairytales to deflect our search. I won’t have it. Mark my words, all of you. These are real people we’re hunting, not shadows.”

  “People who manage to sneak in and out of the city without attracting your attention?” said the Alcaide. “I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss such possibilities, if I were you.”

  The Syndic turned her attention back to the Alcaide, embers of suspicion glowing in her eyes. “The children will be found. We will make every effort. Whoever has them will be brought to justice. They cannot hide forever.”

  She stormed off into the catacombs to inspect the scene for herself, waving for her pack of wardens to follow. The potential for violence gradually ebbed. Skender hid a grin as the remaining wardens guided the Alcaide to the ladder and made way for the rest of them to climb.

  “What now?” he asked Highson.

  “There really will be an inquiry,” said Sal’s real father, a look of heavy resignation on his face. “Another one. You’ll be held for that. But afterwards, I’m sure you’ll be allowed to leave. Brokate’s caravan is on standby to take Mage Braunack back to Ulum. Behenna has already booked passage with her. He’ll be taking Mawson back north. You could ride with them.”

  Skender shrugged. The ex-warden would be dour company, but he might lighten up as he left the scene of his disgrace. Behenna had proved himself strong and capable enough to survive something like this.

  “Why don’t you come with us?” Skender asked Kemp, remembering the albino’s dissatisfaction at being in the Haunted City.

  “And do what?”

  “Study at the Keep, of course.”

  “But I’m not talented like you. I wouldn’t fit in.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that. Can you cook?”

  “Sure, I can cook.” Kemp looked puzzled. “You don’t have cooks at the Keep?”

  Skender shook his head, remembering the best efforts of Raf and the other students. He had thought them perfectly acceptable at the time, but one thing he would definitely take away from the Novitiate was the memory of breakfasts fit for royalty. If Kemp could come close to that, he was sure the other students would welcome him. And his father would come around, he was sure of that. With both his son and the Scourge returned, most things would be easier for a while.

  “Well, I’ll think about it,” Kemp said. “I have to decide if I can put up with you, first. It’s one hell of a long trip.”

  Skender punched Kemp’s shoulder, but felt warmed by the bickering. It made up for the thought that he might be travelling all that way home on his own. It was a long way, and he couldn’t do it in a handful of steps like Sal and Shilly had.

  And he had decided that there was something outside the Keep beyond murder and boredom. If he took nothing home but memories of the friendships he had experienced, that easily outweighed the rest. There was always room for more…

  By the time Skender reached the top, the sun was well and truly up. He rode to the city on the back of the buggy with Highson and Kemp. Mawson, facing backwards, watched him stonily in the bright sunlight.

  I should be more like him, Skender told himself. Nothing seemed to faze the man’kin. Death, conspiracy, strange monsters, lost minds: he carried with him an air of having seen it all before.

  “I have,” said the man’kin into his head.

  Skender stared at the stone head. “You knew it would end like this, didn’t you? You knew I’d go home. That’s why you told me to watch the golem kill Radi Mierlo.”

  “That is correct.”

  “You said it would change the path of my life.”

  “It changed it from what it might otherwise have been.”

  “Who’s to say I wanted it changed? No, forget it.” Try as he might, he couldn’t find the energy to be truly angry. “What about Sal and Shilly? Do you know what happens to them?”

  “They are less easy to predict.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s different every time. If it wasn’t, all stories would be the same, in the end.”

  “But this isn’t a story. It’s real life.”

  Mawson smiled. “It is now.”

  Skender gave up trying to get sense from the man’kin, and went back to watching the shining towers of the city grow closer against the backdrop of a restless sea.

  Epilogue:

  Light And Hot Water

  “Sal, look.”

  Shilly’s urgent whisper roused Sal from a puzzled examination of one of Lodo’s many cupboards. There were an unexpectedly large number of repositories tucked away in all sorts of nooks and crannies, and their contents were uniformly puzzling. One held coins scrimped and saved, Shilly surmised, after years of favours for the people of Fundelry. Another held roll after roll of parchment, bound with string, that appeared to be blank until held up to a glow-stone, whereupon they revealed writing in an unfamiliar language.

  This one contained samples of sand in tiny jars, ranging in colour from dark grey to deep red. There were dozens of them, none labelled. Sal doubted he’d ever know what they were for.

  “What?”

  “Look.” Shilly pointed to where Lodo lay swaddled on the pile of skins.

  The old man’s eyes were open.

  They approached him with caution. In the three days since they had left the Haunted City, Lodo had woken only once, and then to rage and curse at the top of his voice. The golem, embittered and venomous, was still trapped inside the old man’s dying body by the Sky Wardens’ charm on its wrist, and it voiced its displeasure in no uncertain terms. Fortunately, the outpouring took a heavy toll, and the golem was soon dragged back down into unconsciousness.

  The after-effects of that outburst weren’t so easy to shake. Shilly hadn’t spoken for hours, and Sal could still hear the icy voice hissing: “Your mother is in here, Sayed Hrvati, and she’s forgotten you. Set me free and I’ll take you to her.”

  There had to be a grain of truth to the plea, since the golem couldn’t lie, but Sal had learned his lesson. No more deals with supernatural creatures, no matter what was at stake. He would rely on his own wits from now on.

  Lodo’s slate-grey eyes stared evenly back at them. There was no sign this time of rage or despair. There was just stillness, with a hint of resignation.

  Afraid that the old man might have died already, Sal put the back of his hand to Lodo’s mouth. He felt the faintest hint of breath. The pulse beating in the wrinkled neck was irregular and almost impossible to detect.

  “I don’t think he has long,” said Sal, although he couldn’t explain how he knew. There was an aura of weakness about the old man that came from more than his physical symptoms. The Change was shifting around him as though preparing for something new. Or the end of something old.

  Shilly nodded. She had been readying herself for this moment since their escape. Her eyes were red, but she wasn’t crying, yet.

  “Let’s call the others.”

  Sal left her to sit the old man upright on her own. In one corner of the workshop, near where Sal had put the light-sink Lodo had given him to absorb more light, a long, brass cylinder hung suspended from the ceiling. He struck it with a small hammer. It rang with a deep, vibrant note that echoed in four houses across Fundelry. The people who heard it would know what to do.

  Then he returned to help Shilly lift Lodo upright. She had graduated from the crutch to an old walking stick they’d found in one of the cupboards, but the weakness in her leg meant that she couldn’t lift anything for long, even something as insubstantial as Lodo’s body. Sal pulled the old man’s left arm around him, ignoring the smell of decay and age, not returning the vacuous stare. Shilly went ahead to open the original exit from the workshop. Sal followed, carefully.

  When they’d first tried to open the door
, they’d found the way buried under a thin layer of sand that had poured in and left them choking. They still hadn’t got all of it out. But it had camouflaged the entrance and ensured that the workshop wasn’t disturbed. Stepping out into the dunes for the first time had been like going back in time. They had stood side by side for a long moment, letting the familiar reality sink in. The air stank of the ocean. The only sounds were the squawking of seagulls and the unhurried breathing of the tide. When the pounding of waves on the foundations of the Haunted City had been relentless, insistent, determined, this was almost peaceful, something Sal would never have believed himself capable of thinking about the sea.

  As he staggered out of the entrance with Lodo draped over his shoulder, Sal was surprised to see that it had been raining recently; the dunes were sticky with moisture, hard beneath his feet. The sky was grey with clouds. Somewhere behind them, the sun was sinking.

  Rain, whispered yadeh-tash to him, through his skin. The tiny man’kin had adopted him when Shilly had put it around his neck, safe in the knowledge that Lodo would never need it again. He was still learning to interpret yadeh-tash’s strange voice. On this occasion, the warning had come too late for him to do anything about it. It seemed appropriate, though, that they should get wet on an occasion like this.

  Sal had accepted Shilly’s gift on the condition that she would accept one from him in return. A glint of silver from the open neck of Shilly’s dress as they began the hike up and over the dunes revealed that she was wearing it. His mother’s clasp, freshly polished, gleamed like a piece of the sky at her throat, suspended from a dark leather thong. What it lacked in richness of the Change, it more than made up for in significance. As far as he knew, Shilly had never taken it off.

  They were halfway to the beach when the first of Lodo’s friends arrived. An old woman with hair as white as bone and a face that had scared Sal, once, came striding over the sand hills. Without saying a word, she slipped an arm under Lodo and took some of his weight.