by Jen Williams
More silence. Sebastian set his fingers to the lip of the goblet, waiting.
‘I have decided not to go back,’ said Oster. ‘I will stay here, in this time.’
Sebastian turned to him, nearly spilling the wine in his haste. ‘What do you mean, not go back?’
‘You see, I think your red-headed friend is right. I do not wish to be a god. It seems to me,’ he paused, taking a breath, ‘it seems to me that the best times I have had have been quiet, human times, with you. When we were together in the gardens, I was happy. At peace. When I was caught in the machinations of my family, I was … not happy. That power, and the desperate grasping for it – it twists us all out of shape. And Sebastian, if I return to our Ede, there will be a place waiting for me. Eventually the Eye of Euriale will find some way to regulate itself again – perhaps a new Spinner will be born, to birth new brothers and sisters for me – and I would have to take up the mantle of a god again. I would have no choice. Here,’ he gestured out the window. ‘Here I can slip away into the crowds, and try being human. No expectations here, no roles. No gap waiting to be filled. I want to be myself.’
Sebastian stood very still. He could feel the surge of the other man’s emotions along the link they shared. He wondered if Oster could sense his, too.
‘Sebastian,’ Oster took a few steps towards him, and then stopped. He looked away, and then back, an expression of mingled anguish and hope on his face. ‘I love you. Please, stay with me. Have a life here, with me.’
‘Oster, I …’
Oster stepped into the circle of his arms and then he kissed him, hesitantly at first, as if unsure of Sebastian’s reaction, and then fiercely. Sebastian savoured the taste of him, the rasp of stubble against his cheek, the solid press of his body. The link between them widened and became almost too sweet to bear. For a time they were lost in that silver tide, and Sebastian knew peace for the first time in years.
Wydrin knelt in the red dust of the courtyard, her overly stuffed pack by her side. Feveroot sat before her in the form of a fox, paws folded neatly together. She thought the form suited him.
‘Without you, we would all be dead,’ she said quietly. ‘All of these mages here too. We all owe you an enormous debt, my friend.’
‘You gave me my freedom,’ replied Feveroot. ‘The debt is already paid. Although perhaps I would ask that in future mages could let us be.’
Wydrin frowned slightly. No one had seen Joah since he had fled the Citadel. She suspected he would go to ground for a few years, and that was possibly the worst outcome. There would be no one keeping an eye on him. ‘I’m not sure I am able to promise that,’ she said, truthfully. ‘What will you do now?’
The fox demon tipped his head to one side. ‘Find another tree. Far away from people, perhaps. Fare you well, Wydrin of Crosshaven.’
With that, Feveroot’s form melted away into black ink, seeping into the cracks of the flagstones and vanishing. Wydrin stood up and brushed herself down. To the far side of the courtyard, Xinian was preparing their carapacer, while Frith loaded bags into the back of it: food, drink, medical supplies. He had slept for an entire day after he had banished the ancient dragon, and he still looked paler than she would have liked, but then, he was tougher than he looked. He always had been.
‘Wydrin.’
She turned to see Sebastian walking towards her. He wasn’t wearing his sword, which struck her as odd, and he had no bags with him.
‘Hey you. We’re almost ready to go.’ She punched him lightly on the arm. ‘Back to Euriale, and then back to Euriale, if you see what I mean. And then I am getting the fuck away from Euriale, because I have had more than enough of that shit hole.’ He was watching her too closely. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
He took a breath, and for a moment he didn’t say anything at all. Eventually he took her hand in both of his, and although he smiled his eyes were sad. ‘Wydrin, I’m going to stay here. I’m going to stay with Oster.’
‘Stay here? What are you talking about? You can’t stay here!’
‘If Oster goes back, he will have to be a god again. And I love him, Wydrin. I think we could be happy here.’
‘But, if you stay here – Wydrin looked away from him, the sun suddenly too bright for her eyes. ‘Does he love you?’
‘He does.’
She bit her lip. Sebastian’s hands around her own were very warm, and the idea of not seeing him again was a sudden physical pain, like a great tearing deep inside. She thought of how he had left the Poison Chalice, how he had walked away from them in his misery and his pain, and she forced herself to look up into his eyes. There was peace there now, she could see it. ‘I want you to be happy, Sebastian. More than anything, I want that.’
‘Wydrin,’ his eyes were too bright. He cleared his throat. ‘Do you want me to come to Euriale with you? See you off?’
‘No, stay here, be happy. Live your life.’ Her voice broke a little, and he pulled her close, folding his arms around her and squeezing her like she might fly away. ‘I love you, brother.’
‘I love you too, Wydrin. My Copper Cat.’
When the carapacer was packed and ready, Frith climbed down and went to Sebastian. Wydrin didn’t know exactly how he knew, but he looked at both their faces and his grey eyes grew solemn. He took Sebastian’s hand in his, and they exchanged some words she didn’t hear, and then they embraced as brothers. When he joined Wydrin back in the carapacer he didn’t offer words of comfort but instead pushed her hair back from where it hung in her face and kissed her cheekbone. She didn’t trust herself to meet his eyes.
‘Are we ready?’ called Xinian from the front of the carapacer. Wydrin forced herself to look at Sebastian, standing with his arms crossed over his chest. He smiled at her, and she nodded.
‘We’re ready, Xinian,’ she said, as firmly as she was able, but then when the carapacer wobbled its way uncertainly to hover above the ground, she leaned over the side of it and reached out for him. Sebastian took her hand, and she grinned back.
‘I will expect your stories to be good ones, Sir Sebastian Carverson.’
‘And I expect you to go on having adventures, Wydrin of Crosshaven.’
The carapacer bumped up into the air then, and his fingers slipped through hers. Xinian took them up into the clear blue sky, and Wydrin’s last sight of Sebastian was his face turned up to hers, a man about to go on living his life. She settled back and let Frith put his arm around her. It was going to be a long journey home.
95
‘Well, it has certainly been interesting.’
They stood back amongst the greenery in the sweltering heat of Euriale. Xinian had put them down where Frith had directed them, as close to the Eye as he dared to come – he had no wish to attempt to explain any of that to Xinian, particularly as he barely understood it himself. Xinian, clearly keen for them to be gone, had helped them unpack, and was now looking faintly uncomfortable. It reminded him of his father, who had never particularly enjoyed the social functions that came with being a lord, and was never sure how to get people to leave after a banquet. The unexpected memory made him smile.
‘It’s definitely been that, Xinian.’ Wydrin had been quiet during their journey to Euriale, but she was putting a brave face on it now. She would miss Sebastian a great deal. We both will, thought Frith. ‘Take care of yourself, Xinian the Battleborn. Give Selsye a kiss for me. I hope –’ She paused, and her smile faltered, but Frith thought that she recovered well. ‘I hope you have long, happy lives together.’
Xinian gave a faintly puzzled smile, and then reached for one of the bags still in the carapacer. ‘I thought I would make you a gift of these,’ she said, opening the bag. ‘Do not tell anyone I gave them to you, though. I wouldn’t last long in my new position if people knew I went around gifting magical artefacts to the unbound.’
Wydrin pulled a pair of glittering, delicate gauntlets out of the bag, and her face split into a genuine smile. ‘Oh, thank you. I will get some
good use out of these, believe me.’
They watched Xinian leave, and then turned and walked into the deepest part of the forest. The concentric stone rings of the Eye loomed through the trees ahead of them. It looked exactly the same as it did in a thousand years’ time. Perhaps there are fixed points in time, thought Frith. Or perhaps some places never change.
‘So, how do we do this then?’ asked Wydrin. They stopped at the bottom-most circle, looking up. The air was full of green light and the ripe, alien smell of the island. It felt wild and strange.
‘It’s a reversal of how I’ve been using the magic so far. Instead of pushing an object through time, I will push us through time. Or I will push everything but us through time.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s difficult to describe.’
‘I can’t say that sounds particularly reassuring, princeling. We do not need to travel through the Eye, then?’
Frith shook his head. ‘It is just a landmark. We know this exists in the future. We know the rough shape of it. We won’t …’ He struggled for the right words. ‘We won’t pop back into existence in the middle of a tree. And we’ll know where we are.’
‘And maybe my mother will be there, somewhere.’ Wydrin sighed. ‘We have to try, at least.’
‘I can do it,’ he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. He held out his hand, and she took it. ‘Hold tight to me, Wydrin, and I’ll take us home.’
They stood close together, Wydrin’s hands holding Frith’s belt, Frith’s arms around her waist. He looked into her eyes, reached out with the magic, and pushed.
Time sang through them both, surging like a riptide and pulling them on, and on. The history of Ede flowed past them, leaving them gasping in its wake but alive. The magic twinned and flowed and crashed together again, and it was almost possible to see how they all worked together; separate chords in a song, different colours coming together to become light – the secret soul of Ede. Frith reached for it even as he held them together, needing to know, finally, how it all worked …
And then mud, the smell of rain, and the sound of Wydrin laughing next to him.
The Dawning Man stepped out of the trees into the clearing, and Devinia the Red stood to meet him.
‘Finally.’ She allowed herself a small smile. Here, at last, it would be over. She had lost her ship, she had lost Augusta, and she had lost her daughter. This fight was all that was left to her, and she went to it gladly. Next to her, Ephemeral and Terin stood ready.
‘I can summon the cold,’ said the Narhl, although he sounded less than certain. They had had a run of hot days, and he was on his last reserves of strength. Devinia met his eyes, and nodded. He had nothing left to give, but he was standing with her anyway. That was what a crew did.
Ephemeral stretched, like a cat getting ready to hunt. ‘Do you have any orders, Captain Devinia?’
Kellan was in sight now, an emaciated crimson corpse. He shuffled along beneath the legs of the Dawning Man, and with him were five pirates. Devinia was surprised at that. She had expected the red disease to have killed them all by now.
‘Terin, if you can, slow that big golden bastard down. Ephemeral, I expect you to make short work of those walking corpses. Kellan is mine.’
‘As you say, Captain.’
Devinia paused. ‘Thank you,’ she said, suddenly shamed by how her voice cracked. ‘Thank you both.’
Ephemeral squeezed her shoulder, and then Kellan opened his mouth to speak. Whatever words he said, Devinia didn’t hear them, because she was already running, already leaping down the stone steps with her sword at the ready. Battle-rage settled over her like a red shroud, and the next few moments came to her in vivid flashes.
She saw the Dawning Man looming above her, giant golden fists raised to crush her, and then its shining surface crackled with hoarfrost. It shuddered to a halt, held in place for the moment by thickening ice, while the last of Kellan’s desperate pirates came to meet them. She saw Ephemeral, as lithe and as dangerous as a length of severed rigging, dancing her blade to meet the throat of some unfortunate creature crusted in red moss. She saw blood bursting over her own hand as she sank her sword deep into the stomach of someone else, and then she was pushing them to one side. Kellan stood just beyond, just out of reach. If only she could—
There was a thunderous crash, and abruptly she was on her side in the dirt, the breath knocked from her lungs. The Dawning Man had pushed past its icy manacles and had thrown its fists at the ground. Scrambling to her feet, Devinia found herself face to face with a wall of golden crystal, speeding towards her. There was no chance of getting out of its way. She had a moment to think that Augusta would find this amusing – a pirate, killed by gold – when a red-headed blur jumped in front of her, silver fists swinging. There was a deafening crump, and the wall of golden crystal skidded back and away, a serious dent in the middle of it. The scruffy-looking red-head turned to her and grinned.
‘All right, Mum?’
Devinia opened her mouth, but no words came out. Lord Frith appeared at her side, his staff held in one hand, but when he raised his arms he burned all over with a bright white light. The Dawning Man shuddered ominously, turning a dark, burnished copper in front of her eyes. The glowing red pattern traced over the golden figure dimmed and sputtered out, and then, unceremoniously, the whole thing fell to pieces, collapsing into a collection of shattered crystals. When it had settled, there was a stunned silence. Devinia could hear the calls of distant startled birds, and the wind picking up. She was vaguely aware that she was swaying on her feet slightly.
‘This looks like a bloody mess.’ Wydrin lowered her gauntlets. ‘So I’m guessing we need to go and—’
Devinia cupped her daughter’s face in her hands, and then kissed her on the cheek.
‘It’s good to see you, Wyd. Now shut up for a moment, please.’
Stepping past Wydrin and her Lord Frith, skirting the pieces of the Dawning Man, she found Kellan, cowering in the dirt. He was holding his claw-like hands over his head.
‘But I am the Red King,’ he said. ‘I am the Red King reborn.’
‘You are fuck all, is what you are,’ said Devinia, and she thrust her blade into his chest. She waited for his eyes to grow still before she pulled it back out. There was no blood. ‘Fuck all.’
96
At the sound of the bell the librarian shelved his stack of papers and hurried along the towering aisles. It was very unusual for someone to visit here at this time of year, let alone at this time of night. It must, he reasoned, be someone very important in need of vital information. In the midst of his alarm he felt a small flicker of irritation. Did no one pay attention to the formal visiting hours these days?
When he reached the front desk he was surprised to find three figures in shadow, conferring amongst each other just as if they weren’t wasting his time. The librarian cleared his throat and peered at them pointedly.
‘May I help you?’
Two of the figures turned towards him, stepping eagerly into the small circle of his lamplight. There was a man with mottled skin – untidy, hardly fit for a library visit, but then he had seen students who gave even less thought to their appearance – and then there was the woman. The woman was a monster. She had green skin and eyes like a snake, and when she smiled she revealed pointed fangs. The librarian made a small strangled noise in his throat.
‘I do hope you can,’ said the green-skinned monster. ‘We would like to look at the books. At all the books. We have coin to pay, if you wish.’
‘Coin?’ squeaked the librarian.
‘Lots of it,’ said the man. He had a strange accent. ‘We have been very busy.’
The librarian took a strangled breath. Once, a student had suggested he keep a weapon behind the desk for occasions when people insisted on speaking too loudly or folding over the pages of a book, and the librarian had laughed politely. What a fool he had been. Still, dignity at all times.
‘It is not a question of coin.’ He s
ummoned his chilliest voice, the one reserved for people who dared to bring food into the library. ‘We do not allow your sort in here. This is a civilised place, for civilised people. It is not a place for … monsters.’
‘Is that right?’
The third figure stepped fully into the light for the first time, and somehow she managed to be more frightening than the other two. She was an older woman, her tan skin riddled with scars, her blue eyes full of barely concealed rage. Was that a bone tied in her hair? She unsheathed a dagger, of all things, and struck the desk, embedding the blade deep within its polished wood.
‘Well, I, that is to say—’
‘I am Devinia the Red, you snivelling bookworm, and these are my civilised friends.’ She leaned over the desk towards the librarian, baring her teeth at him in a madwoman’s snarl. ‘They have a mind to visit some libraries. All of them, in fact. And we’re starting with yours, my good man. So go find me some fucking books.’
Wydrin wiped the sweat from her forehead, and took the letter from her pack again. It was already crumpled and stained, and the ink was smudged, but it barely mattered; she knew the thing by heart by now anyway.
‘Do you think this is it?’ asked Frith. They had spent all day travelling to the very bottom of this valley, the sun beating down on the tops of their heads, and finally they had come to a collection of stones and rocks, the shadows they painted as black as ink on the scrubby ground. If you squinted and tipped your head to one side, it was possible to see how they had once been a building of some sort.
‘I bloody well hope so,’ she replied, but she knew it was, in her heart. She followed Frith into the ruins, where a rough archway still towered over their heads, offering thick bands of shade. Beyond that there was a wall that still had part of the roof attached – Wydrin supposed that was how the mural hadn’t been washed away by a thousand years’ worth of weather. Frith poked around the stones, looking for other magical artefacts that might have survived – he had developed a keen interest in such things, just as Wydrin had found a renewed interest in the history of Ede. Wydrin held the letter up to the light. The handwriting was still that of someone who was new to the concept, but it was also the hand of someone who enjoyed the act of writing very much. She smoothed her thumb across the page, smiling.
