by Jen Williams
Slowly, Terin lowered his hands and turned slightly towards them. Devinia could already see the apologetic cast to his face, and she felt a stab of annoyance. Couldn’t he see that there was no more stringing the woman along?
‘My captain, I fear I am not quite ready. This is a delicate process, and the spirits cannot simply be bludgeoned into lending their help.’
‘Enough!’ The Banshee gestured to the crossbowmen. ‘Take aim. I want him alive when I drag him back on board, so aim for somewhere painful.’
Devinia found her attention caught by something on the coast. It looked like movement in the trees, but as soon as her eyes found it, it was lost again. She blinked and turned back to the man in the water – for the briefest moment he appeared to be looking in the same direction, and then he was turning his face back to the Banshee. Had he seen what she had seen too?
‘Wait! My apologies, Captain. The spirits, they are moved by your plight. It is time.’
‘Time?’ Previously so full of righteous anger, Ristanov now sounded uncertain. There was the tiniest seed of hope in her voice, terrible to hear. ‘What do you mean, priest?’
‘Please,’ he said, and gestured at the shallows where he stood. ‘Bring your men and women down here. It is time to bathe in the healing waters. Time to wash away the illness.’
For a few seconds there was silence. Devinia looked over and met Augusta’s eyes; she shrugged minutely.
‘Yellow watch, you will go first,’ said the Banshee. When no one moved, she gestured at the water. ‘Get in there, do what the priest says. We will see if he can give us what he promised.’
Men and women began to move, stripping off heavy leathers and sword belts before climbing down the sides and wading out into the shallows. Once the first few went, more and more joined them from all three ships, until Devinia was sure that it had to be more than just yellow watch down there, but the Banshee said nothing. She was waiting, she realised, until she was sure there was something to this. If anyone was going to be made to look a fool, it wouldn’t be Ristanov the Banshee.
‘Good, this is good.’ Terin beamed at them all, waving them in. He waded backwards until he found a boulder poking out of the water and climbed onto the top of it. His narrow chest gleamed wetly, like a mottled stone in a stream. He glanced once behind him, into the black trees, and then he turned back to them, smiling kindly. ‘That’s it. Cover yourselves in the healing water, soak in it. The spirits are coming.’
‘I feel better!’ cried one of the men in the water. The red moss covered his throat like a scarf, and lined each of his dreadlocks in red. ‘I feel better already. The magic of the water, it’s real!’
Ristanov took a step forward, watching the bathers intently. Devinia wondered what Kellan was doing, hidden below in the shadows of the ship.
‘That’s it, that’s good,’ called Terin. ‘Now I want you all to sink below the water so your arms are under, yes, all the way up to your neck, that’s good. That’s exactly where I need you.’
Terin’s posture suddenly became tense, and he reached out with both hands as if to pluck something invisible from the air. The good-natured, slightly absent-minded smile dropped from his face to be replaced by an expression of absolute concentration.
‘Cold, come to me.’
Even on the ship, Devinia felt it. The temperature dropped abruptly, a wave of cold that made her draw a surprised breath, and then let it out in a puff of white vapour. The water around the bathers turned cloudy, and then rigid with a layer of ice. The men and women down there cried out, some of them sensible enough to try and stand up fully so their bodies weren’t trapped, but none of them made it: the ice was too sudden and too thick.
On his rock, Terin stumbled slightly, visibly exhausted by the feat he had just performed.
‘What is going on?’ cried Ristanov. She was echoed by her crew, voices raised in confusion and anger. ‘What is this? Kellan!’
Before anyone could react, a dark shadow rose from the treeline and descended on them. They were, Devinia realised as her stomach turned over, a clutch of flying lizards, with wings like bats, leathery blue skin and bright orange eyes, and they had their jaws open wide, revealing row upon row of shining teeth. She thought of her son, Jarath, and his tales of the great dragon that had destroyed his ship, but she saw no fire; instead the dragon-like animals fell onto the ships, jaws snapping and tails flailing. Men and women ran to arm themselves, and she saw crossbows fired. In moments everything was chaos.
‘Augusta?’
She turned in time to see the old woman burying her scalpel into the neck of the man who had been guarding them. She twisted the blade once, finding exactly the right part of the neck, and then stepped away neatly before she could be caught in the torrent of blood. The man fell to his knees.
‘What are you bloody gawping at, Red? I reckon it’s time we made a move, aye?’
Devinia pulled the dying man’s sword from his belt, savouring the fierce stab of triumph at the weight of cold steel in her fingers again, before turning back to the fight. Everywhere she looked there were men and women fighting off the dragon creatures. Up close, Devinia realised that their wings had made them seem bigger and fiercer than they actually were – now they hissed like snakes, snapping and squawking at the crew. A figure climbing over the guardrail onto the ship caught her eye – she had green skin and white hair, and a wicked-looking dagger clutched between her pointed teeth. Catching Devinia’s eye, she took the dagger from her mouth and shouted at them.
‘Get to Terin!’ she called. ‘Quickly, blood of Wydrin!’
‘What did she call me?’
Augusta was already tugging her to the side of the ship. Behind them, Terin had been performing more of his strange magic and the ice was holding the ship where it was.
‘Watch them!’ Ristanov was screaming. ‘Don’t let them escape!’
Two pirates and the Banshee herself came for them, blades flashing – in the overcast light they looked like shambling corpses, their faces and chests streaked with the gore-like moss. Putting her body between them and Augusta, Devinia swept her stolen sword back and forth, keeping them at a distance. ‘Come and meet your deaths then, idiots!’
The two pirates ran at her, bellowing, and it was almost too easy. The sword danced in her grip, so long missed, and the first fell screaming, his guts in his hands. The second took a slice to her arm and fell back, looking around for help. Ristanov hissed in disgust at them both, raising her own cutlass high above her head. Moving faster than she had done for days, Devinia ran at the pirate mayor and brought a fist down in the middle of her face before she could react. Her nose made a flat crump as the bones disintegrated, and while the Banshee staggered, Devinia tore the sword from her hand and threw it to the deck, before grabbing the woman by the throat and pressing the blade under her chin. Other crew members had converged on them, their eyes wild. Devinia edged back towards the guardrail, dragging the Banshee with her.
‘Come near me and I’ll cut your captain’s sorry throat,’ she said. The woman with green skin appeared at her side.
‘We must go now,’ she said in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘We must go before—’
There was a screech of metal, and the Dawning Man lurched into life, red eyes blazing. Devinia took hold of Ristanov and threw her bodily over the side – marvelling briefly at how light the woman was – and then helped Augusta over, before jumping herself.
They landed awkwardly on the ice, Ristanov rolling bonelessly to a stop, obviously unconscious. All around them the trapped crew cried out, caught in the ice, as the Dawning Man started to move.
‘To Terin! Quickly!’
Barely knowing what she was doing, Devinia grabbed Ristanov by the hair and hauled her across the ice, while Augusta, suddenly surprisingly spry, sprinted towards the rock where Terin stood. They got there just in time to see the Dawning Man take a series of steps, one straight through the Forgotten Sun, crushing it into a mess of splinters and ice
. The dragon-like creatures all took flight again, heading back into the trees, and a wretched figure appeared on the deck of the Dragon’s Maw. It was Kellan, his teeth very white in his crimson face.
‘Where do you think you are going, Devinia? Have you forgotten what I am now?’
‘Oh great,’ muttered Augusta. ‘Who woke that bastard up?’
The Dawning Man crashed through the ice between them, heedless of the men and women trapped there. It would be on them in seconds.
‘I’m not sure that I can,’ Terin was saying, his voice no more than a whisper. Devinia looked at him to see the young man pale as milk, dark circles under his eyes. ‘Ephemeral, I don’t know if I can.’
‘You must,’ murmured the green-skinned woman. ‘I know how strong you truly are, my love.’
The Dawning Man loomed above them. Terin extended one trembling hand, and again the temperature dropped drastically. Caught in the middle of it, Devinia gasped, feeling the cold pinch at her face and steal the breath from her lungs. The air was filled with a brittle cracking sound and the water immediately surrounding the rock turned white, freezing the Dawning Man’s legs where they were. It faltered, and for a moment looked like it might just fall over, and then it simply stopped. From behind it they heard Kellan’s howl of frustration.
‘We’ll have seconds, if that,’ said Devinia. She gathered the limp body of the Banshee and flung it over her shoulder. A threat to the captain’s life might keep the pirates from their backs for a moment, and at least she would have the pleasure of killing her slowly at a later date. ‘Make for the trees, and run as far as you can.’
60
The stew was watery, with more potato than meat to its name. Wydrin chased a scrap of what she thought might be lamb around the edge of the bowl with a chunk of bread.
‘You would think they’d have better food here,’ she confided to Frith. ‘Remember that feast under the Citadel that Gallo gave us? That was proper bloody food. There was a ham as big as your head.’
‘I am surprised they have any food at all,’ said Frith. ‘Whittenfarne isn’t the most attractive stop for trading vessels.’
They were sitting at one of several long tables, eating a late dinner with around a hundred black-clad student mages. The dining room was in another large draughty hall – Lan-Hellis appeared to be riddled with them, with no particular thought given to their layout. It made Wydrin think of a rabbit warren – a warren filled with pasty young men and women who didn’t get out enough. At a table at the head of the room, Xinian and Selsye sat with several other mages, obviously of a higher rank. Joah was there too – when Wydrin had seen him for the first time, Frostling had found its way into her hand without her even having to think about it. Her head had been full of Nuava, the girl who had ridden a great stone monster to her doom in an effort to stop him from taking more lives, but Frith had slipped a hand around her arm and murmured in her ear, and Frostling went back to its scabbard unbloodied.
‘How is it going? With the magic lessons?’
Frith looked up at her, his grey eyes serious. Over the last few days he had grown obviously weary, dark circles appearing under his eyes, and he slept deeply at night, not stirring until morning. ‘I am gradually learning how to control it,’ he said. He glanced around at the mages sitting closest, and lowered his voice. ‘It becomes easier to summon. I would not have thought that I would end up back on Whittenfarne, learning how to control magic again. But we are no closer to understanding where it comes from. Joah asks me endless questions, and I know he senses that I am holding back. Selsye is kinder. I think she believes that I lost the Edenier due to some sort of traumatic event, and will not force me to talk of it.’
She’s not that far wrong, thought Wydrin. Out loud, she asked, ‘Do you have any ideas in that direction?’
‘I think it was the spirit on the island,’ he said. He swirled his spoon through his untouched stew. ‘I think it magnified something that was already there. And then the Eye brought it into focus. Who knows what sort of magical forces we passed through, to bring us so far into the past? And this magic is time related. It must be linked.’
‘Except that you can’t really tell them that.’
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘I really can’t.’
There were raised voices from the table. Wydrin turned to see that a solidly built bald man in travelling leathers had entered the room, and he appeared to be remonstrating with Xinian. The Commander had stood up, and there was a look of shock on her face. Wydrin felt a shiver of unease move down her spine.
‘Who is that, do you think?’ The low murmur of conversation in the hall had grown to a hubbub, and Wydrin could see mages at the lower tables staring at the bald man, or leaning their heads together in urgent conversation. The man’s face was red, and he was stabbing his finger towards Xinian repeatedly. Next to her, Selsye had half risen out of her chair. Wydrin blinked. Sometimes, when she was sailing with her mother, the air would change in some imperceptible way and they would know that a storm was coming – perhaps it would be hours or days away, but it would always come. In a room crowded with people and no ocean in sight, Wydrin felt that same sense sweep through her; a change of atmosphere that promised some oncoming disaster. It was never wrong.
As casually as possible, Wydrin slid out from the bench, wiping her fingers on her trousers as she did so.
‘Stay here,’ she told Frith. ‘Keep an eye on them. I’m going to check on our little friend.’
She left the hall at a normal pace, not hurrying, not wanting to draw attention to herself – particularly not wanting to draw the attention of the angry bald man currently making Xinian’s life a misery. Once out into the labyrinth of corridors, she walked faster. The sense that something had gone wrong was only increasing, and there was a taste in her mouth, brackish and sour, that had nothing to do with the stew. The way back to the artefact room was easy enough to remember and soon enough she approached the door that led to the Moon Gallery.
At first she did not see them. The lamps closest to the door had been extinguished, and the two guards were dark shapes half hidden in the shadows. Wydrin knelt and tried to pull the nearest one upright, but he was limp in her arms, boneless as a doll filled with sand.
‘Yohan?’
She pulled her hand away to see it slick with blood, still warm. Rafe hadn’t fared any better. Swearing, Wydrin unsheathed her dagger and opened the door to the Moon Gallery. The white powder on the floor had been disturbed; a pair of boots had left their prints – light, but noticeable all the same. The mages who stood in the windows did not seem alarmed. They were talking easily to each other, comparing notes and tying lengths of silk around their arms.
‘Of course,’ murmured Wydrin. ‘If she doesn’t want you to see her, then you won’t. Hoy!’ She cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled up at the windows. A few perplexed faces looked down. ‘Raise the alarm, you idiots!’
With that she ran across the Moon Gallery, taking no care with the powder as Estenn obviously had. The door to the artefact room was unlocked and pushed almost shut, resting on its hinges, and that gave her pause. Where had she got the key? Cautiously, Wydrin opened the door.
The room was still and dusty, the lights burning steadily. There was no sign of anyone there, but that didn’t mean she was alone. Wydrin advanced into the room slowly, Frostling held at the ready, her other hand hovering over the pommel of her short sword. There was silence, and the smell of old things and raw wood.
Moving as quietly as possible, Wydrin edged her way to the back of the room, keeping close to the left-hand wall. Stark shadows stretched across the floor towards her, and she imagined the tattooed assassin in every one. There was a flare of anger in her chest, and she welcomed it. Bring her to me, she thought, and I’ll cut her bloody heart out.
She reached the far end to see that the hatch in the floor was standing open. If the dead guards on the door hadn’t been enough, here was the final proof. She skirted over to the
hole and peered down into the dark.
‘Echo?’ she whispered, unable to help herself. ‘Are you down there? Echo?’ Inevitably she was reminded of exploring caves with Jarath as children. Echo, they had shouted, and then told each other that it was ghosts who answered them. ‘Echo?’
There was the tiniest flicker of shadow to her right and Wydrin was already turning as Estenn appeared out of the dark. She brought Frostling up and across to catch the woman’s cutlass against the blade, before forcing it up and to one side with all her strength. Estenn staggered back, perhaps surprised by the force of the blow.
‘Where’s the Echo?’ she spat, but she’d already spotted the sack at Estenn’s feet, pitifully small.
‘You came all this way to stop me.’ Estenn was paler than she had been, the red faded from her lips, and the circles around her eyes looked like bruises. Frith’s staff, formerly Selsye’s staff, was strapped to her back. ‘Wydrin the Godless, you are a fool.’
She brought her curved sword whirling round again, but Wydrin already had Glassheart in hand and they crashed their blades together with a discordant clang. Wydrin tried to push her away again, grunting with the effort.
‘You won’t get out of here with that thing,’ she said through gritted teeth.
‘You have no idea what I can do now.’ Estenn dropped back suddenly, bringing her hand up with the palm held out flat, the cutlass hanging from her splayed fingers. Wydrin jumped away in time so that Estenn’s hand only brushed her cheek, and she felt a sudden heat across her face there, as though she had been slapped. Ignoring the sensation, Wydrin launched herself at the other woman, blades flying. She danced and parried, slapping away each attack with ease. Estenn looked momentarily confused, retreating back against the crates, pushing the hessian sack back with her foot. It was, Wydrin realised, her advantage – Estenn couldn’t leave the sack, and it would slow her down no matter what she did.
