The Rose upon the Rood of Time (Dark Spiral Book 1)

by Segoy Sands

  Keene affected a benign indifference. “You have to understand the danger of the Moretti to grasp why the Aur must be returned to the Aurum.”

  He couldn’t fault Keene too hard for his pedantry. The mold of a scholar fit him. He could chant back soporific litanies of clan lineages and plant classes and place names. He had the look: high nose, soft limbs, thin hair, bad teeth. Uncle Cogan, when he’d had a bit to drink, would clap Keene hard on the back and declare that the god of wisdom had snuck into Aunt Orla’s bed. Then he’d cast an eye on Dillan and mutter about the cost of feeding such a big lummox.

  One of the best stories Keene had ever told him was supposedly a firsthand report from Aurumnus Bede himself, who claimed to have been a young man when the Nesso first arrived on fair Aina Livia’s shores in their black, bristling ships. Bent and wizened though the Bede was, it stretched all credulity that he could be that old. As Keene told it, anyway, the Bede had been there when Renard called the Blakes to his high castle, Bysshe, in fertile Ganalon at the southwest tip of Galloway, for a demonstration of the Nesso blade. One of Renard’s high lords, an elegant blademan, Lord Gray, was invited forward, despite the Jorro-Blake’s sober warning that once drawn his weapon must taste blood. When the Jorro-Blake drew it from its scabbard, the crowded throne room fell silent. The black blade crawled with ciphers. For the space of several heartbeats, the Blake wielded it with movements so seamless and precise that the Grael lord stepped back in blank confusion. There were no evident wounds, but Lord Gray dropped dead on his face and, through the gules and cendrée of his velvet clothes, blood pooled on the blue enameled tiles, inlaid with lapis, silver, and gold.

  *

  Perle snuffed the cool rippling water almost daintily. Suddenly, he lifted his head, ears pricking. There was a whistling in the air. A blaze of greenish light scorched the sky, screaming west, and then the ground rumbled softer than slumber. He nickered then stepped across the creek.

  Mounted on his back, her lower body sore from hours of riding, Boinn felt grateful for her horse’s vigilance. It was a beautiful night, in spite of everything. The moon had set, yielding its reign to a many-crowned antler rack of stars, like the horns of Nembulo Nucifera himself bursting into the world. At times, thanks to the necromancy of April, skeletal branches, budding with green life, latticed the winking constellations. At other times, the black astral way lay wide open, boundless in all directions, world-engulfing, so she could see the River of Sparks, the Archer, the Maiden, the Sea Serpent, the Wolf, amid streaks of silver, green, yellow, and red, like a volley of burning arrows. Omens of war, some said, signs of calamity, the Urra crossing too near the earth, as they guarded their borders from the Arru.

  Rufus had shown her fragments of sky iron and the scorched places where they had fallen from the astral roads, remnants of weapons, proof that there was no peace even in the heavens. The daggers at her belt were sky iron, as was the short sword at her back. On a chain, hanging between her breasts, beside a piece of rough, molten turquoise, hung a thunderbolt-iron in the shape of a discus slit with vertical rays. It was worth fifty gold coins, maybe more. Rufus had given it to her on her thirteenth birthday. He’d found two, together, which made mother say they weren’t newly sky fallen but part of a barrow, where two warriors of old lay buried.

  The other he gave to Cole, because Cole was eldest, and she was the only girl. Dillan had made a joke, and she couldn’t help but wonder if maybe he was right, that maybe those two warriors in the barrow had been enemies who slew each other, and now she and Cole were cursed to that same fate. Even mother had laughed at that, because Dillan’s jokes were always so callow, and because no one could infuriate Boinn the way Cole could. Still, she knew that under his nonchalance, Dillan was hurt not to receive a thokcha wheel too. Some said if you wore one to sleep, you’d dream of visiting the bright halls between the worlds.

  The night was growing colder and damper. She tried to forget her physical discomfort in the rhythm of earth and stars and in Perle’s inexorable, monotonous hoof beat. She tried to forget that she had run away, afraid. She could not reach Tarn before morning. Once there, she’d have to track down Mihala, a plan that had seemed reasonable hours ago when her mother insisted on it, but now seemed more and more transparently an excuse for her to run away.

  Mother never said to bring back Mihala. “Go to Mihala.” Why did the meaning of the words seem to change like a water snake slithering through her hands? Falling stars continued to streak across the sky in spurious volleys. Tarn was nearly all the way to the sea. Half a day’s ride southeast, the fires might still be smoldering. There’d been a rash of Skårsan raids and the sacked villages were desolated. All the way down the coast to Shard, there was danger from displaced men, the ones smart enough or cowardly enough to flee, and danger too from Skårsan deserters. Whenever there were raids, ripples of violence spread for leagues. She’d heard of no trouble this far north in the Myrrwood. Rovers wouldn’t camp right on the road at night, besides.

  Still, she’d rather fret about rovers than think about the places in the forest where the Sivan and the Nog welled through ancient rock or pool or ring of trees. The Sí were there, who in the folk tales gave gifts to some, strange maladies to others. They were great thieves, and stole everything from household objects to infant babes, and might even steal one’s human form, which is why prudent people slept with amulets. This whole land, the Great and Lesser Isles, was navan, a thing the Orroch understood in ways no Grael ever would. She felt it all in her bones and needed no explanation.

  Maybe it wasn’t the Sí she should worry about, anyway, but the rumor of ferals at large. And, more than that, the certainty of suspicious folk, who would fear her simply for riding at night. In recent months, there had been a spate of rumors in Dalach about the wrachs of the black lily, who venerated Tel Atael in secret. Women traveling the road at night risked cruel conjectures. People said the dark spirals were waxing and the bright spirals waning, and Boinn had seen the crossers with her own eyes. She knew she should be worried about her mother’s involvement, but what did any of it matter when, aloof, the Spiral did nothing to defend the land, nothing to reject the Grael decree of a common age of rights and freedoms, nothing to stop Aina Livia from being split into Ochre and Galloway, the invaded and the invader, nothing to unify the Orroch?

  The orders were old, tired, and stale. Only vapid girls still joined, and good riddance. Let them take the easy path and abandon this world for some fantasy. Let others face reality. She chose the exacting sunlight, with its stern warning that time was precious, and that conscious choices needed to be clean and decisive, and that each moment in time had its specific purpose and task. Let idiots rely on the inchoate mysteries of the moon.

  On visits with father to Tign, Boinn had heard townswomen speak of how L’Ávana was no longer in the world. If there was an ultimate voice in the Spiral, it was L’Ávana, though she was held in secrecy, or in what the sisters of Naarwa had called, more mildly, deep retreat. She was allowed no contact with outsiders, because of her sanctity, they said, but now that the sisters of Naarwa were no more, people openly said she’d been a prisoner. They’d taken her icons, and those of La Nila, down from their altars, because they no longer emanated the bubbling, the qassïg, which it seemed to Boinn only the weakest, silliest women had the privilege of sensing. All the folk wives had left to supplicate were L’Orana, La Sera, and La Vera, the saffron, the yellow, and the green. In truth, the orange and green had been weak for many years. All they truly had was La Sera, the yellow. That wasn’t enough for some.

  Even in larger towns, some folk wives had icons of La Teine and of Tel Atael. If they were discovered, they were driven out. Sometimes an accusation was enough. But Boinn knew what they were thinking: the Red Lady and the Dark Lady would drive the false king from their soil, a brave hope but ill-placed, nonetheless. The land was filling with marauders and bandits. Soon the tax guild would be selling country folk the very seeds they needed to plant. The
younger generation of Orroch men had even taken to squandering coin on soma, a Graelish drink so habit forming a son would rob his own father to afford it.

  Perle had slowed to a walk. The River of Light blazed overhead, undimmed by the yellow sickle moon that, only to set again within the hour, peeked out like an augury above the unearthly red backdrop of the Rune Mountains. Another volley of meteors streaked the sky, red, blue, yellow, but feeble, petering, and that too seemed an augury. They were crossing another shallow brook that spilled across the forest road, between the roots of trees, when she heard the owl hoot, mournful. Moonlight filtered through the forest canopy of plaited foliage sprays, glimmering on the shallow, branching waters. Over the years, many dead trees had fallen across the rivulet, upstream and downstream, occasionally making cool, clear pools. It occurred to her, strangely, to dismount and bathe there in the moonlight, when she saw them, shabby figures on horseback emerging from the trees. She counted a dozen mounted figures, and knew there must be a more, fanned out to prevent her escape. She drew the blade at her hip and cursed, shaking her head.

  *

  Cole couldn’t sleep for the meteor showers. He’d never seen such volleys in one night, though he’d had plenty occasion to watch the astral ways. Tonight, they kept coming, always westward. He was heading northwest toward Rune, so there was a slim chance of coming across something, though the promising scorches would be in the high scree. You could always find good sky iron there. At least one of the night’s meteors had struck nearby, burning itself into the fabric of the night, a huge, shimmering emerald smudge, and then the ground had hummed. A bit later, there was a whistling sound. Worth tracking, he thought. He had a knack for finding sky iron, and wore a chakra wheel that made old Merbwill whistle.

  “A chakra wheel don’t fall by accident. They fall from the Zambuling, where the demi-gods war. Finding one don’t happen accidental.”

  Gap-toothed, his mottled skull sprouting a frenzy of sparse gray hairs, the old man had given him the hard squint that had earned him the name Screw Eye. Cole didn’t bother making the warding sign behind his back. He spent so much time with Merb that all he could do was trust that the wheel around his neck really worked. The geezer had taken an interest in him, early on, ever since Cole had started riding with the Cora, over two years now. Old and emaciated he might look, but he had a wiry strength. Most men took minor hurts in skirmishes, but not Merb, though nobody paid attention. They didn’t notice how many Grael the old man put out of action, either. But Cole had been watching. Merb always seemed to catch his opponent off-guard and injure him just enough to seem lucky. It wasn’t luck if it kept happening. No, Merb worked with the minimalism and rude efficiency of an old butcher.

  Cole made a general practice of not asking questions. He hoped to keep his own secrets. Anyone and everyone had their reasons for riding in the Cora. Some were criminals, some had blood anger, some were tortured by guilt, most were cracked in all three places, the head, the heart, and the balls. Cole wasn’t naive. He knew the Orroch were nearly as bad for vendettas as the Skårsans, and would grow bored if they didn’t have the Grael. For now, the glorious ideal of beheading the bloody false fox king was good enough for him. Ha! As if an Orroch chieftain – or an Orroch king! – would be any less a tyrant.

  Cole knew what he was: uisisui, wild at heart. If he lived to a ripe old age, maybe he’d burn it all out of him, but he didn’t plan to live to old age. He’d be a law-abiding person and give good counsel to the young, tell husbands to be faithful to their wives, and wives to be faithful to their husbands. So be it, if it came to that, but for now he was in love with death, and the nice thing about death was never knowing its next move. But Merb was a curiosity. He had lived to an old age, but he kept on fighting, like he enjoyed being skilled, doing things right. The one thing the men of the Cora avoided talking about was the cause. Who did they want for their king if Risard was ever persuaded to gracefully, or preferably short a few limbs, go back where came from? The Orroch weren’t particularly good at electing reliable leaders. Give them the chance, they’d raise up an arrogant blockhead too dumb to doubt his worth.

  What else could he be, though? A farmer? Rufus was right about farming. It was better to pour water on the ground than blood. He’d seen young men turned into puddings and jellies. Hurt a man and, funny thing, he didn’t sound like a beast or a monster but like your own father or brother or son in trouble. Something crawled all over your skin, with too many black hairy legs to count, something tainted and old. He believed in evil spirits well enough. Every time he hurt someone, they burrowed a little closer to his heart, so that he started to look and feel different.

  For all that, there were old eremites in the Cora, holy men who’d taken up the sword. Old Merb might have been one of those. Maybe they were fighting for some higher cause. But, in Cole’s experience, skirmishes had nothing to do with higher causes. On the contrary, they kept a body tainted enough to live in the real world, and they kept a heart honest with itself. Some men spent too much time avoiding the blade. Slower pains cooked them alive until they were nothing but clean bones. But the blade was quick. You couldn’t argue with its two simple edges: life and death. Too long without a fray and he lay awake at night. Indefinable fears crept over him, the sense that his life was a waste, that, like an arrow that missed its mark, he wasn’t doing what he should be doing and didn’t know the people he should know. He felt like a fire that was burning where no one could benefit. The fuel would burn out all the same. He dreaded that haunted feeling. It sawed and sawed, too dull to go deep, producing a mess of lacerations. Maybe it was because he’d been sleeping on the ground so many nights now, the earth under him a living, monstrous power. You were a body on the ground, like you would be, tomorrow, or the next day. You could actually feel your heart beating. You had no customs or comforts or places of shelter. Nights lying wide awake, he could feel the stars crowding over him, pressing him to yield up his lies.

  “I’m crazy,” he muttered.

  No one but a crazy man worried more about falling into habit than falling into the grave. When they were younger, he and Dillan used to spend whole days just scouting up and down the river, searching for those miracle fishing holes where they could jump off cliffs thirty feet high into deep red pools where the metal trout were so big they didn’t spook. It didn’t make sense to jump into those pools, but they did it anyway, knees trembling, screaming all the way down, then whooping it up like bandits. It was a kind of voluntary purification, a trial of courage, because fear polluted you, and grew on you like mold, and you had to kill it, make it do the thing it didn’t want to do so that it burnt itself away. They had wanted to be men, and now they were men, drawn into the craziness that other men had made in the world. They still had a sister back home, a little brother. He hoped they wouldn’t have to rage as soon as childhood ended. But then, they were Orroch.

  4 NESSO TOWN

  After the long haul up the road from Tummo, passing round a pot of toe-curling groc, shouting idiot bursts of song into the biting April wind, Dillan swayed queasily before the black iron gate of Lower Tor Cael, demon door of Neserre, or what locals called Nesso Town. He’d heard about it in bits and scraps from his duns Hogan and Budoc, but in greatest detail from Keene. Seeing the gate brought it home to him. Druk. Old spirit magic out of the Nog, out of nightmares and visions one couldn’t control. The iron was worked in an endless knot, horses turning into eagles, eagles into snakes, snakes into fishes, fishes into foxes, foxes into lions, lions into long-winged lizards, and on. He’d drunk too much to think clearly, but just the right amount to feel that gate. The more he stared, the more the creatures flowed into each other.

  Bu and Hog were too busy greasing gatekeeper palms to worry about Nog sorcery. They’d been here before and were on a mission tonight, that mission being his seventeenth birthday, and his protracted state of virginity, which they intended to terminate by engaging the services of a Nesso cailín trained in all the secret
s of love. To that end, they thought nothing of spending their collective life savings. Hog and Bu (or, as he affectionately called them, Bog and Hu) were the closest thing he had to brothers now.

  When he was little more than ten, Rufus had taken him from his mother, timid little brother, and brash little sister. Then, after a few months of pretending to be a parent, in the odd moment between drinking, womanizing, and gambling, he’d dumped him with Cogan, to work like a mule until the mannerbund would take him. Not just any band. Aegle Band. Je, Hamlet, and Walder’s band. Dillan could never be angry at their father, the way he knew Cole was. He felt sad for Rufus, heart heavy. It was the Sei Sí that had done this to him. It was the times.

  Anyway, joining Aegle was his future, now that Hog and Bu had joined. They were both from neighboring farms, and both the last born of large families with no prospect of either land or living. They’d trained a bit with master Frye growing up, for what it was worth. Frye was a flamboyant freelancer, who loved the taverns, but maybe more for the men than the women. He was thrown out from the bund for unspecified reasons, but not for lack of fighting skills, and so he took what little coin he could get for knocking some finesse into lads of lesser means, the ones most likely to join a mannerbund if they could make it to slag. He’d taught them more maybe than they credited, though many of his former pupils shunned him as a lush and a lecher once they gained a footing in the bund.

  Hog and Bu had been two of his favorites, to the extent that Frye allowed himself to care about his ingrate students. They’d made it into Aegle their first year. They didn’t have to work on the farm and they could lyme their hair. Not everyone could say that.