by Ian Graham
‘Can you hear the silence?’ asked Laike.
Ballas did not reply. It seemed an absurd question.
‘All day,’ continued the explorer, ‘the quarry men labour within the foothills. The sky shakes with their terrible, destructive noise: sledgehammers falling, chisels splitting rock …’ He shook his head. ‘I have lived badly. I have been destroying a beautiful thing. My crime is that of the rapist, the murderer …’
‘Then why did you do it?’
Laike lowered his head. ‘Why did I purchase the quarrying rights?’
‘Yes.’
‘I am blind—what trade can I hold?’ He turned sharply to Ballas. ‘I wish not to speak as Elsefar often spoke. I do not pity myself. I lost my sight through carelessness—and that is that.’ He sighed. ‘When I returned from the Garsbracks, I wished to stay close to the mountains. At the time, the quarrying rights were being sold off—not for the entire range, you understand. No. One could purchase only a small section of the lower slopes. With what money I had, I obtained an area about twenty paces square, a half-mile east from here. I was extremely fortunate: for within this area there was an underground stream, upon the bed of which nestled a cluster of small but exquisite diamonds. I sold them, and with the money bought more quarrying rights. Once you have money, it is easy to make more. My wealth grew. As did my stake in the mountains. Now, I own a five-mile stretch of the Garsbracks. It has made me very rich.’ He shrugged. ‘As I said, I am near to the mountains—which was what I wanted. And I have no need to live in an alms-house.
‘That is why I break apart the Garsbracks. That is why I profane one of Druine’s few wonders.’
Out of the darkness came a clattering of cartwheels. The noise was far off but clear. Laike jumped, startled. Then he tilted his head, listening.
‘Find Heresh,’ he said, ‘and bring her here. Oh—and when you have done so, remain indoors. It is better if you are not seen.’
Ballas moved to the balustrade. A wooden cart rattled closer along a lane. Squinting, he made out a single figure on the driving bench.
‘Who is it?’ he asked.
‘He will ensure Heresh arrives safely at her uncle’s home. He is a good man—loyal, strong, sharp-witted. But he has his limits. If he were to discover that you and I were acquainted, and Heresh was your travelling companion … He would refuse to serve me. As would any man. Druine bristles with your enemies, Ballas. But soon such things will not matter.’
Ballas found Heresh in her sleeping-room. She was seated on her pallet-bed, drowsing.
‘Wake up,’ said Ballas, curtly.
She twitched, then opened her eyes. The whites were bloodshot, the irises unfocused. ‘What do you want?’
‘You are leaving.’
Getting to her feet, Heresh moved to a table in the corner. Upon it rested a bowl of water. She rinsed her face, then towelled it dry.
‘So, we are to say farewell.’ Her tone was bitter. ‘Our parting shall not be tearful. You are a pestilence, Anhaga Ballas. You bring nothing but misery. Because of you, my father is dead. And I am condemned to a life of fear. Of watchfulness. Whenever I hear a footfall, I shall imagine it to be a Warden’s. Whenever I see birds break clear of a forest-top, I will believe they’ve been frightened by the Lectivin. In every patch of darkness I’ll sense a threat …’ Grimacing, she tossed the towel on to the bed. ‘You have saved my life, many times. And my father’s. But only from dangers you have conjured. I cannot forgive you.’
‘I don’t want forgiveness,’ said Ballas, darkly.
‘No?’
‘There’s a cart waiting for you. Get on it and go—that is what I want. Then I can start up the Garsbracks.’
‘You are vile,’ said Heresh. She gazed intently at him. She no longer seemed unfocused. Sharp clarity lit her eyes. ‘Let me ask you something. You still believe Belthirran exists, yes?’
‘It exists,’ nodded Ballas. ‘Laike has shown me proof, so if you reckon—’
‘And is it populated?’
‘Yes.’
‘If you get to Belthirran,’ said Heresh, ‘how do you know that the people will accept you? You’ll be an outsider. A man from beyond the mountains.’
‘They won’t know where I’m from. I won’t tell them.’
Heresh laughed—a harsh, shrill, harpyish sound. ‘You idiot,’ she said. ‘Sweet grief—for the first time in days, something has amused me. What of your accent, Ballas? Do you suppose the Hearthfall burr is heard often in Belthirran?’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ replied the big man. ‘I’ll pass myself off as a mute. Until I’ve learned a Belthirran accent. It won’t be hard.’
She shook her head sardonically. ‘You imagine Belthirran to be a marvellous place. Yet anywhere that welcomes you can’t be a paradise. For you are a taint, an evil stain. You will not belong there. It will be their duty to keep you out. Any land that accepts you must, by definition, be awful. You belong in a midden, Ballas. You are a stinking wretch, suitable only for squalor, decay, bloodshed.’
‘At least the Masters won’t be able to find me.’
‘Oh—the Masters are the only people you’ve offended? Is that what you are saying?’
Ballas didn’t understand. ‘You are drunk,’ he said.
Heresh nodded sharply. ‘What of it? A truth is true no matter who utters it. Wherever you go, there is upset. You anger people. You lie, steal, cheat. It is in your nature. You can’t escape it. Leave Druine if you wish. But soon, you’ll be hunted in Belthirran. Someone will seek to destroy you. You’ll never find peace.’
Ballas’s anger flared. ‘What do you know of the world?’
Heresh flinched, surprised.
‘What do you know, eh?’ repeated Ballas. ‘You’ve spent your life in a bloody marsh! What have you seen? What have you done? Piss-all, woman. Nothing except kill eels.’
Heresh drew a breath. ‘I hate you, Anhaga Ballas. But I wish you luck.’
Her words surprised him. ‘Bad luck, I suppose?’
‘No. I hope that you find Belthirran. And that it does turn out to be a paradise. And the people count you as one of their own. And you live a long, happy life. And the Belthirran whores are the finest in the world. And the ale is cheap but pleasant upon the tongue.’
Ballas frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I have learned that all life is a joke.’ Heresh closed her eyes, as if the words pained her. ‘You are a wicked man. Yet you thrive. Many have tried to kill you—yet you have escaped them all. My father, however, died. He was fair-hearted, … But he died. And it was a painful death. There is no logic to this. No sense. No reason. I can only assume everything is just a cosmic joke. And to be happy, you must choose whether to laugh or weep. The humour is in poor taste—but it is humour nonetheless.’ Her eyes opened. ‘I have chosen to laugh. Every savage irony, every harsh twist of fate, will fill me with mirth.’
There was a change in Heresh. Something deep, something brutal. The wine hadn’t created it, thought Ballas. But it had given it strength.
‘My father was a good man. He was not brave, I admit that much. When he acted courageously, it was always a pretence …’ She hesitated, gazing at Ballas. Some involuntary expression must have touched his face. Heresh smiled, knowingly. ‘Yes, you are right, Ballas: my father did not merely lack bravery: he was a coward. When I was a young girl, I admired him, believing he had a lion’s heart. But later, when I grew up, I began to understand that he had deceived me. This did not stop me loving him, though. Why should I turn away from him for lying, when the lies were born out of devotion? Even though we lived way out in the marshes of Keltherimyn, we were still treated badly by almost everyone who knew anything about us … about my father’s old profession. He wanted me to believe he could protect me, no matter what happened. So he had to make believe he was strong and capable. But once I realised the truth about him, I found that I had to protect him. Not from other people, but from myself. Because if he knew I had seen throu
gh his ruse, he would have been heartbroken. It would have destroyed him.’ She sighed, wearily. ‘If you reach Belthirran, fate will have created another joke. The worst of us, finding the best of places. I shall laugh so fiercely that I’ll spit blood. Good luck, Ballas. I hope you bring me such dark joys.’
Snatching up her cape, Heresh moved to leave.
Ballas caught her by the arm. ‘I reckon I was wrong. There’s a lot of your father about you.’
Heresh jerked her arm free. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You’re both cowards. But at least your father didn’t choose it for himself.’
Heresh blinked, puzzled.
‘Life isn’t a joke. Your father was brave enough to treat it seriously. He was frightened, much of the time. But he made an effort. You, though? You’re going to pretend nothing’s important. Nothing matters. It isn’t so—and you know it. But pretend that it is, and you have an excuse. An excuse for weakness. For turning away. Crask didn’t ever do that.’
Heresh’s expression tightened. ‘You have no right to utter my father’s name. How dare you speak of him, you bastard! He was a thousand times better a man than you!’
‘Sure. But he’s dead, and I’m not. Now laugh, will you— it’s the kind of joke you reckon you like, isn’t it?’
Heresh spat in Ballas’s face. The warm liquid struck him on his cheek, then trickled down to his jaw. Slowly, he wiped it away.
‘I hope you rot,’ said Heresh, pushing past him to leave the room.
‘One day I will,’ said Ballas, half to himself. ‘But not yet.’
For a short while, Ballas lingered in the sleeping-room, supping the dregs from a wine flagon left upon a table.
When he returned to the veranda, he saw a cart moving away along the lane.
‘She has gone,’ said Athreos Laike.
‘Good,’ grunted Ballas.
‘I sense there is little love lost between you.’
‘She’s had her uses,’ said Ballas. ‘But, like those of any woman, they were few.’
Turning away from the balustrade, Laike said, ‘Gather your things. The hour for leaving is upon us.’
In his sleeping-room, Ballas put on his rucksack. It was stitched from ox leather, waterproofed with animal fat. It was heavy, stuffed with provisions—a bland mix of dried meats and vegetables—and his fur clothing, which would be needed only on the upper slopes. On its outside, it was hung with various implements. An ice axe and a grappling hook each hung from a leather strap. There was a furled groundsheet, a rain-cape and a water canteen. Banded to the underside was a short bow; in a side pocket, two dozen arrows.
Ballas walked through the house. In the banqueting hall, he drank several goblets of water. He was thirsty—his throat felt like a parched river bed. He was nervous. A sensation that was largely unfamiliar. Yet, over recent days, it had struck him again and again. Licking his lips, he drained the final goblet and went out on to the veranda.
Athreos Laike was already there. He stood in his customary stance: hands flat on the balustrade, his face turned towards the Garsbracks. Upon his blind eyes, moonlight glistened: and, visible in each iris, the mountains hung reflected.
For a long time Laike didn’t move. He appeared uneasy. Doubtful, even. Through his nostrils he inhaled breath after deep breath. As if savouring the corrupt odours of lowland humanity before rising into purer altitudes.
‘Let us go,’ he said abruptly. He clambered smoothly over the balustrade.
Ballas glanced back at the house. The windows were lighted, the veranda door stood open. It seemed almost as if Laike were abandoning his home.
Or maybe, he was leaving a place he considered—had considered for many years—a temporary lodging place.
Ballas looked further off. The lights of Dayshadow pierced the dark: frail glimmers, seeping from the town’s houses, taverns, brothels. This, he realised, would be his final glimpse of Druine. Soon, he would be above cloud level. The lower world would vanish.
He stared hard at the lights.
He wouldn’t be sorry to leave Druine. For a long time, it had seemed like a prison. Not merely since the Church had begun hunting him. No; Ballas had felt incarcerated long before that.
He knew no place other than Druine. Yet his departure would cause him no grief.
Then why this faint unease? Why did a tiny part of him wish to stay?
It didn’t, Ballas decided.
Turning, he found himself confronted by the Garsbracks. Vast black slopes, surging into the night sky.
He feared them, he realised. They were unfamiliar, dangerous—and that was why he wished to remain in Druine.
He grunted dismissively. He would grow used to the mountains soon enough. Within a day and a night, they would cease to be strangers.
The doubts lingered for a fleeting heartbeat—then Ballas saw, once again, his dream of Belthirran: the placid sprawl of fields, the cattle and cook-fires and gently labouring figures.
His doubts evaporated.
Swinging over the balustrade, Ballas started walking.
Chapter 18
Upon Scarrendestin, the true Pilgrims
Sought to destroy Asvirius, for they recognized
His intent: he wished to steal their powers
As his own, and gain the powers of the mountain
And of the creator-god …
And become a half-god,
Strong, unstoppable …
Over open grassland, they walked towards the mountains. Laike moved briskly but cautiously. In his right hand he held a staff, which he planted firmly into the ground with every step. With his left hand, he gripped Ballas’s forearm. The big man guided him onward. Occasionally Laike’s boots struck a rock. Each time he stumbled, but quickly resumed his determined pace.
They left the grassland and entered the quarry.
Offcut stone shards carpeted the ground. The mountain walls had subsided jaggedly, chiselled away by decades of labour. It seemed as if some elemental force had ripped away at the rocks. The terrain grew difficult for Laike. The scree shifted under them. Stone lumps littered the area. Again and again, Laike half-tripped. Once or twice, only his grip on Ballas’s arm kept him from falling. Every time he lost his balance, he swore. His expression hardened to a mix of anger and shame. Under his breath he muttered, ‘When this was mountain, not rubble, I could walk it with ease. I have done this … Ihave created this ruination.’
Ballas ignored him. He wanted to leave the quarry as quickly as he could. He fought an inexplicable urge to run into the foothills. To vanish amid the rock upthrusts, where no one could see him. Yet he resisted, patiently helping Laike take step after step.
Eventually, the quarry ended. A vertical rise confronted Ballas. It was twenty feet high, more or less. The stone was chisel-cropped, uneven: a jumble of gashes and juts.
‘What do you see?’ asked Laike.
Ballas told him.
‘I shan’t be able to climb it,’ said Laike. ‘Not without help. We have ropes, though. You know what you must do?’
‘Yes,’ said Ballas, unknotting a rope coil from the side of the rucksack.
‘We have walked—what—five hundred paces?’
Ballas glanced back along the quarry. ‘Something like that.’
‘If memory serves—and I am certain it does—there will be a couple of rowans a little further on. They will make good tying posts.’
Ballas shrugged out of his rucksack. Slinging the rope over his shoulder, he started to climb. The chisel-shattered rock was full of easy hand- and toeholds. It took Ballas only fifty heartbeats to reach the top.
Hauling himself over, he looked for the rowans.
Laike had miscalculated. They grew fifty yards away—too far to act as tying posts. Ballas swore, loudly. His profanity rolled through the night air. From somewhere there came a skittering echo—as of one hard surface sliding over another. In the darkness around the rowans, something moved—a mere flash of dirty white. The moo
nlight glinted upon a pair of eyes. Ballas reached for his dagger, imagining that the Lectivin was there. But he glimpsed a pair of curved horns. And a tail.
A mountain goat stared at him.
Ballas swore again. Turning, the goat fled into the gloom.
Ballas tied the rope around a boulder, then tossed the free end down to Laike. Groping, the old man located it, then tied it around a shoulder strap of Ballas’s rucksack, and a shoulder strap of his own. Ballas hauled the rucksacks up, then dumped them beside the boulder. He threw down the end once more. Looping it around his wrist, then tightly gripping it, Laike started to climb. Leaning back, allowing the rope to take his weight, he merely walked up the rock face. When he neared the top, Ballas grabbed his coat collar and heaved him over.
The explorer lay on his back, gasping. ‘Hard work, for one of my years,’ he said.
Ballas gazed at him.
‘But do not be troubled. I get my breath back quickly.’
After a few moments, Laike got to his feet. Stooping, he followed the rope to the boulder around which it was tied. ‘The rowans have gone?’
‘They’re over that way,’ said Ballas, gesturing—even though Laike couldn’t see his action.
‘Too far away to be of use?’
‘Yes.’
Frowning, Laike walked to the trees. For the first few steps, he remained cautious. Then he grew confident. He took long, easy strides, his staff clacking on the path. He was on familiar territory, Ballas realised. The quarry had disorientated him, for it had changed since he had last climbed the Garsbracks. But the rest of the mountain remained unaltered.
Laike halted near the rowans.
‘I was not too far off,’ he said, touching the branch tips.
Ballas carried over the rucksacks, and the two men pulled them back on. With his staff, Laike pointed to a block of stone lying close by. ‘There is a fissure running down its upper face,’ he said. ‘It tracks down through the dead centre.’
