When the Heavens Fall

by Marc Turner

  After a few heartbeats the passage opened out, the walls to either side dissolving into a starry night sky. In the foreground a dozen stakes had been hammered into the earth in a rough semicircle, a shrunken head on top of each one. Farther away she could make out tall swaying grasses and a grove of trees lit by a flickering fire.

  The Ken’dah Steppes.

  She released her shadow-spell. I made it.

  “Welcome,” a man’s voice said.

  Parolla halted.

  A figure stepped from the shadows to her right, a glint of silver at his brow that might have been a coronet. He moved to stand between Parolla and the rent. His features were hidden in darkness, except for his eyes, bloodred and unblinking.

  “Lord Mezaqin,” Parolla said, struggling to keep her voice even. “I was wondering when you’d make an appearance.”

  “Of course you were, my dear,” the demon lord’s voice purred. “Would you have me believe, also, that you are pleased to see me?”

  “I’m not so foolish as to think I could cross your realm uncontested,” she lied.

  “And yet you were foolish enough to come back. Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear when we last spoke.”

  Parolla hesitated. Mezaqin’s tone was good-humored, almost friendly. Was he as magnanimous as he seemed, or was he just taunting her? She needed more time to judge his mood. “I see you’ve taken human form to greet me, sirrah, as you did when we last met. Should I be honored?”

  The demon lord shrugged. “I fear you might find my true form … disturbing.”

  “How considerate. I think you overestimate my sensitivity, though. I am no longer the child I was eight years ago.”

  “Your powers have grown,” Mezaqin conceded. He took a step forward. “But we are in my realm, lest you forget. Here, you are still as a child to me.”

  Parolla swallowed. This was not going as she had hoped. “You misunderstand. My words were not meant as a threat.”

  The demon lord sighed. “Parolla, Parolla, whatever am I to do with you? The last time you were here I set a dangerous precedent by allowing you to live. Now you take advantage of my restraint by testing it again.”

  “I had no choice—”

  “Your reasons for coming are irrelevant. The penalty for trespass is death, you know that.”

  “Then why are we still talking?” Parolla retorted, her voice sharper than she intended.

  Mezaqin chuckled, and the air within the cave shook. Parolla’s blood stirred in response to her growing fear, and her vision darkened. She should strike! Now, before the demon lord raised his guard! Digging her fingernails into her palms, she fought back the rising swell of bloodlust. Mezaqin had yet to call on his power, and Parolla was not going to force his hand while his intentions remained unclear.

  The demon lord glanced at the heads on the stakes. “Do you like my collection of trophies? A little crude perhaps, but it seems a reminder was needed of the welcome we give to uninvited guests. You are not, after all, the only one reckless enough to enter my realm of late.”

  “I saw footprints on my way here,” Parolla said cautiously. “A giant and a fire-magus.”

  “There have been others. People who should have known better. An Everlord. A Beloved of the White Lady. Even one of the Deliverers.” There was a hint of a smile in Mezaqin’s voice. “As with you, the Deliverer’s intrusion required my personal attention.”

  “Did you ask him why?”

  The demon lord turned his back on her and stared out over the Ken’dah Steppes. Parolla’s gaze shifted to the fire in the distant grove of trees. If she could make it through the rent, the balance of power between herself and Mezaqin would shift. But then if the chance to escape truly existed, he would not have left it open to her.

  In answer to Parolla’s question the demon lord said, “Why the Deliverer risked coming here, you mean? I did not need to ask him. The threads of death-magic … I can sense them as well as you.” He paused. “Their touch is unsettling, yes?”

  His admission left Parolla feeling strangely troubled. “What effect has the sorcery had on your realm, sirrah?”

  “Little as yet, though the same cannot be said of your world. You will see what I mean when day dawns.”

  Parolla raised an eyebrow. Am I to live that long, then? “And you fear the same will happen here?”

  “I fear nothing,” Mezaqin said. He turned to face her again. “I may, however, be forced to act if the … contamination … persists. I will not tolerate any violation of my borders, whatever the source.”

  “And what is the source?”

  “You mean you don’t know? Why, then, are you heading toward it?”

  “Because I seek answers,” Parolla said. At her first encounter with Mezaqin she had told him of her quest to find a way into Shroud’s realm. “The magic is death-aspected, is it not? Perhaps it is a portal to the underworld.”

  Mezaqin was a long time in responding. “A portal,” he said. “You may be right. Something has been opened, of that I am sure.” His gaze bore into her. “Now it must be closed.”

  The hordes above the mountains … “Is that why your kin are gathering?”

  The demon lord’s eyes flashed. His form appeared to bulge and lose cohesion, and for an instant the starry sky behind him was blotted out. “Careful, my dear,” he said. “Your next shot might hit the mark.”

  Parolla voice was strained. “My apologies. I did not intend to pry.”

  “What do you intend, then?”

  She stared at him blankly for a moment. Then his earlier words about the portal returned to her. Now it must be closed. And since the demonkin were apparently occupied on other matters … “Perhaps my goals are not irreconcilable with yours. It may be that I can perform a service for you.”

  Mezaqin nodded. “I think we understand each other. Your feud with Shroud is of no interest to me. If it is a portal, pass through first if you wish, but the way must be shut. If it is not a portal, do whatever is necessary to destroy the source of the infection.”

  “You have my word.”

  The demon lord nodded again, but did not move out of the way. His gaze held to Parolla’s, and she felt herself wilting beneath his scrutiny. Had he heard something in her voice to give him reason to doubt her? Was he reconsidering his decision to let her go? Or questioning her ability to make good on her promise? Perhaps she should say something to reassure him, but she wasn’t sure she trusted herself to speak. Her tainted blood stirred again.

  Then Mezaqin stepped aside, drawing back into the shadows near the wall to his left.

  Parolla needed no second invitation. As she hurried past, she angled her path to give the demon lord a wide berth. His gaze was like a weight on her back. After a handful of paces she drew level with the blood-soaked wooden stakes and their grisly trophies. The face of the head closest to her—a man with a thick, black beard—was turned in her direction, and she saw maggots crawling in his empty eye sockets. Another day, she knew, that head might have been hers.

  Conscious that her back was exposed, she did not slacken her pace until the demon world was far behind.

  * * *

  Ebon knew it was a dream, yet still he could not wrest free from its grip.

  Ahead the stag was a blink of movement as it flashed between the trees. Steering his horse with his knees, Ebon thundered in pursuit, his breath steaming in the air. In one hand he held a spear; his other hand was raised to shield his face from low branches. As the gelding pounded through a clearing, a swarm of icewing butterflies rose from the ground. Through them Ebon saw the stag disappear into a thicket, and he spurred his horse after it, hurdling a fallen, moss-covered tree before plunging down a steep incline. The gelding snorted as its hooves skated through mud.

  Suddenly on one of the forest tracks ahead a figure appeared—a young woman with long strawberry-blond hair. Her eyes were wide, and she stood rooted to the spot as the horse bore down on her. Just a handful of steps away. Ebon dropped his spear
and hauled on the reins, knowing already that it was too late. The gelding hammered into the woman, punching her from her feet. Ebon’s efforts to slow the horse’s descent served only to make the animal rear, and when its hooves came down he heard bones break with a noise like splintering wood. Lamella screamed, and in his dream the scream seemed to stretch to eternity.

  Ebon had relived the scene a score of times, and each time it played out he attempted to alter its course. He had tried shouting a warning to Lamella before he reached the incline; tugging the reins left or right instead of hauling back on them; even throwing himself from the saddle as the gelding plunged down the bank. The result, though, was always the same.

  Still, I should have found a way.

  The dream shifted, and Ebon found himself on his knees in the mud, Lamella’s blood staining his hands as he supported her ruined leg. She lay on a carpet of silverspark flowers that glittered like frost. Shattered bone protruded from mangled flesh. Ebon remembered waving a hand at the needleflies that settled on the wound; hearing the questioning calls of his hunting companions as they drew up round him; glancing up to see Vale looking back at him, the timeshifter’s expression even grimmer than usual. Yet more than anything, Ebon remembered Lamella’s quiet fortitude. Blinking back tears, she had thanked him as he draped his cloak round her shoulders, even managed a small smile as he scooped her into his arms and carried her to his horse. And on the ride back to Majack she had made no sound though her face had twisted in pain with each of the gelding’s steps.

  The memory was a bittersweet one for Ebon. Were it not for the accident he would never have met Lamella, yet his contentment since that time had been founded on her loss. If he had the chance, would he rewrite the past if it meant giving her up? I would not hesitate, he told himself.

  The scene changed again, and Ebon was back amid the mud and flowers, Lamella cradled in his arms. Her drawn expression gave way to a ghoulish smile, her image fading like mist. Ebon stiffened, looked round. Darkness was closing in. The silversparks withered and crumbled to dust, and the trunks of the trees blistered and blackened, their leaves falling to the ground in a steady stream. The shadows came alive with the sound of whispering voices. Figures materialized between the trees, wearing long, flowing robes over pale, almost translucent skin. Ebon had seen these people before, he realized. The spirits from the White Road. Vamilians. His jaw clenched. Was there no part of his mind they could not access, no memory they would not despoil?

  The spirits stood watching him dispassionately as if awaiting some command. There was nothing to distinguish a leader among them, but Ebon could sense another presence lurking in the shadows, something ancient and cold and vast as the empty sky. Not part of the dream, he decided. A silent spectator. Who, then? The mysterious entity Mottle had detected in Ebon all those weeks ago? He groped with his thoughts toward it, only to feel it draw back out of reach.

  Suddenly the spirits swept in from all sides, their footsteps leaving the mounds of fallen leaves undisturbed. Cursing, Ebon reached for his saber, but found his scabbard empty. The hordes came howling over him, their forms blurring together into a ghostly wall. Hands tore at him, each touch sending a stab of ice through his body. He had to fight back, but when he lashed out at his attackers he made contact only with air. Amid the murk he saw fragments of faces, hollow eyes, gaping mouths. There was no escaping them. Four years ago in the Forest of Sighs he had used a swordsman’s detached focus to fashion shields against them, but here in his dream they were already in his mind. He stumbled forward, half-blind in the spirit-mist, no idea where he was going or what he hoped to find there. His legs were so heavy he might have been pushing through water. The shadows deepened. What little daylight remained was fading, and the forest with it. The spirits tugged at him. Shaking with cold, he felt life flowing from him as if someone had opened the veins at his wrists. His struggles became weaker.

  Then he heard someone calling to him, so faintly they might have been on the other side of the world. Lamella. He shut his eyes to block out the spirits, only to find they remained visible through his closed eyelids. Lamella’s voice came again, louder this time, more insistent, and slowly the Vamilians started to dissolve around him, their cries fading to whispers. As if sensing their prey’s escape, they doubled the fury of their attacks, but their hands now passed through Ebon without effect. The cold began to thaw, and his shivers subsided.

  His dream shattered, the images falling away like broken glass.

  Ebon opened his eyes to a new darkness.

  He could hear Lamella more clearly now, repeating his name over and over. Her arms were wrapped about him, but the contact made him feel claustrophobic after the suffocation of his dream, and he shrugged her off. He swung his legs round and sat on the edge of the bed. He was shaking, and his body was drenched with sweat. Lowering his head into his hands, he listened for a time to the sound of his breathing.

  Lamella spoke, a quaver in her voice. “Can you hear me?”

  He nodded.

  “I couldn’t wake you.”

  Ebon could only grunt in response. The room was spinning, but he feared to close his eyes in case the spirits were waiting for him. “Where is the ossarium leaf?”

  There was a pause. “Ebon, please…”

  “I will find it myself.” The room lurched when he stood up, and he leaned against a wall for support. He waited a dozen heartbeats, then padded to the heavy curtain leading to the living quarters and tugged the cloth aside. The room beyond was dark, a mere trickle of light coming from the windows along the walls to either side. The outline of Lamella’s harp and chair was black beyond the divans in the center of the floor. In the corner to his left was the shrine to her forest gods, and beside that a wooden bureau. He shuffled through the shadows toward it, the stone floor cold against his bare feet.

  The bureau’s compartments contained scores of pungent-smelling bags. Ebon raised them one at a time to his nose until he recognized the herbal scent of ossarium. His fingers fumbled at the drawstrings.

  Lamella’s hands were suddenly round his. “Let me,” she said. Ebon allowed her to take the bag from him. She lifted a goblet from the bureau and poured a little of the bag’s contents into it.

  “More,” Ebon said.

  Lamella ignored him, closing the bag and pushing it back into its compartment. Taking up the goblet, she hobbled across to one of the divans and sat down. There was a jug on one of the tables. She tipped some liquid into the goblet, then set it down on the table.

  Ebon went to join her.

  When Lamella turned to look at him, her face was hidden in shadow. “Let it steep for a while.”

  They sat in silence.

  “Talk to me,” Lamella said finally.

  Ebon had no wish to remind her of the events in the Kingswood. “Just another nightmare. The spirits—”

  “It’s more than that,” Lamella cut in. “These last few days … It feels as if you’re drawing back from me.”

  He watched the gauze curtains ruffle in the breeze. Drawing back, yes. Drawing back from everything. “In the throne room today, I saw someone I did not recognize. It turned out to be Domen Geffin. A lifelong companion of my father. I have known him for a score of years.”

  “We all forget—”

  “He is not the only one. Every day, another friend becomes a stranger, or I am reminded of a conversation I do not recall having.” Ebon reached for the goblet. “How much have I lost already? How long before I forget … all of this.”

  Lamella’s voice was toneless. “Why haven’t you told me before?”

  Ebon did not meet her gaze. He swirled the goblet once, then lifted it to his lips. The liquid tasted bitter, but he drank it down in one go. “My days are filled with waking dreams—people and places I’ve never seen before, or the same place but through someone else’s eyes. And the nights … they are more than just nightmares, Lamella. I fear the spirits will drag me down. That one day I will not wake.” He looked acr
oss at her. “Or that someone else will wake in my place.”

  “Ossarium will clear your mind for a while, but when it starts wearing off…”

  “I know.”

  “The drug will not drive the spirits away.”

  “I know!” Ebon said, setting the goblet down on the table. “What would you have me do?”

  “The voices came back when you approached the Forest of Sighs. Perhaps if you moved away—”

  “While the consel is here? He would see it as a sign of weakness. And who would take my place? Rendale? Janir? Perhaps I should drag my father from his deathbed.”

  “The consel will not be here for long.”

  “And if I leave after he does? How do I explain it to the King’s Council? They will know the spirits have returned.” Ebon shook his head. “I am trapped, Lamella. I have to stay.”

  “And when the ossarium takes hold of you? I don’t want to lose you to it as I did last time.”

  “You would rather lose me to the spirits?”

  Lamella’s response was lost beneath the sound of raised voices from the front of the house. A fist pounded on the outer door, then Ebon heard footfalls in the atrium. He rose and looked round for his saber before realizing an assassin would not knock before entering. Light blossomed as someone pulled aside the curtain on the far wall, and the king squinted against the brightness.

  Vale strode into the room. He was holding a sword in one hand, a burning torch in the other. He gave Lamella a nod, then swung his gaze to Ebon.

  “You’d better come,” he said. “The consel’s camp is under attack.”

  CHAPTER 9

  A HUNDRED PACES away a fire flickered within a stand of trees, a single point of light in the black emptiness of the Ken’dah Steppes. Mezaqin had warned Parolla the tendrils of death-magic had left their mark on the plains, and even in the darkness she could sense what he meant. For while she was relieved to have left the Shades behind, there was something about the steppes that reminded her of the demon world—a feeling that, in a place that should have been teeming with life, she was alone beneath the stars. The only sound that broke the deathly silence was the hiss of insect wings as gelatas converged on the fire. Gelatas. The harbingers of death.