Darkfall

by Isobelle Carmody

  The healer glared at her as if her words had been an intended insult. He turned to the shipmaster. ‘After Acantha, where do you go next?’

  ‘Fomhika. But if you would cross there from Acantha, it will cost you three hacoin. A healing will pay only for the crossing to Acantha from Eron isle.’

  ‘You will have to tie up here for the night,’ Argon said coldly. ‘I built the pier. The cost of tethering for a night is four hacoin.’

  Carick turned on his heel and stalked out.

  ‘Well done,’ Solen drawled when he was gone. ‘Handling Vespian coin-pinchers is a definite art. I do apologise for my manners a moment past.’

  Argon grunted. ‘It is long since I expected anything but ill from Acanthans under Jurass’s rule.’

  ‘Though he is chieftain of Acantha, all of us do not share your half-brother’s attitudes, exile.’ Solen leaned indolently against the wall as he spoke, and crossed his arms loosely over his chest. ‘Nor are you the only one out of his favour. After this delay, I may well rate even lower than you in his eyes.’

  ‘What does a delay in your journey have to do with Jurass?’

  Solen shrugged. ‘I will miss a wing ceremony, and he is fanatical about punctuality and reliability; neither of which qualities I possess. But in truth, that will incense him less than the discovery that I travelled to the Darkfall landing. If it comes out, which of course I shall endeavour that it does not.’

  ‘It is your right to put a question at the landing if you are fool enough to want the wisdom of the misty isle.’

  ‘I did not go for wisdom, white cloak, and I was not alone.’

  The older man’s face seemed to fold in on itself. ‘You offered a girl to Darkfall?’

  ‘She offered herself,’ Solen said mildly. ‘I was merely the chosen protector for her crossing. I have no idea why she asked me but she is not the sort of person one can refuse.’

  ‘So, another poor fool of a girl has sacrificed herself to the sisterhood with your brainless aid.’ Argon spat the words out. ‘If Jurass forbids girls travelling to the Darkfall landing, I applaud him. Better his women should end up in the Iridomi pleasure gardens than on the misty isle where darkness will truly fall for them.’

  ‘His women?’ Solen laughed outright. ‘I do not think Flay would consider herself a sacrifice. If you met her, you would do well to think twice before calling her a poor fool. At least, to her face. Besides, surely it is her right to make her own choice in such matters, be she fool or no.’

  ‘Choice! A child intoxicated by the glamour of the misty isle,’ Argon snarled. ‘By the time she is old enough to regret her choice, it will be too late.’

  ‘In my estimate, soulweavers do not seem prone to regrets. Flay does not see Darkfall as you do, exile.’

  ‘No one sees the misty isle as I do, you idiot, for no one who is not a soulweaver sees it at all,’ the older man snapped.

  Solen shrugged. ‘I will not argue with you, white cloak. You are entitled to your opinion. Such matters weary me and generally I do not concern myself with politics; however, in this case it seems politics has made up its mind to be concerned with me.’ His eyes came to rest on Glynn. ‘You know, if you are bound for Myrmidor you might just as well take her with you. If I know Carick, he will try to leave her on Fomhika so that he will not have the trouble and expense of returning her to Myrmidor as his ship code says he is bound to do. Fomhika is in something of a turmoil these days, what with one thing and another.’

  ‘It is none of your affair whither I am bound. I have done my duty as a sworn white cloak, and I have neither coin nor kindness to spare for a half-drowned girl who may or may not be a myrmidon.’ Argon glanced indifferently at Glynn. ‘Besides, I do not think you need worry about her welfare on Fomhika.’

  ‘Why is that? Have you woven of her a future of peace there?’

  ‘I need not weave of a future any fool can see if they have wit enough to reason. I suggest you keep her warm and feed her well, and she will soon enough garner strength to speak and walk and fend for herself. Then she will not burden you.’

  ‘Me?’ Solen said. ‘She is not my responsibility. If you knew me at all, you would know I am a fit guardian for no one. Not even for myself.’

  ‘I do not doubt it but your fitness as a guardian is not at issue,’ Argon said, curling his lip. ‘I may be mistaken but I understand that you pulled her from the water?’

  Solen nodded. ‘Quite possibly a brain spasm. I hardly know what possessed me. I assure you I am not given to mad heroics as a rule.’

  The healer smiled unpleasantly. ‘I am sure you are not. But you saved her, nonetheless. It will not be long before this occurs to Carick for, according to the ship code, you are responsible for her, body and soul.’

  He turned away and stumped up the wooden steps.

  3

  In all the world there was harmony

  for the Chaos spirit dwelt in the Void and could not leave it …

  LEGENDSONG OF THE UNYKORN

  Glynn woke to a disorienting tangle of memory and dream. She had been eating tzatziki with Ember at the little taverna, then she had gone for a swim. That much was clear.

  What had happened between getting in the water and being rescued? Had she dived down and come up under a caique? Concussion might explain the weird hallucinations that had followed her rescue.

  She shook her head experimentally but there was no tell-tale ache. She was also relieved to find the paralysis she remembered had only been part of the dream.

  At the sound of boots approaching, she opened her eyes and turned her head to see the entrance of the purple-eyed Solen, who she had just decided was a figment of her imagination. He was wearing the same dove-grey body suit and cloak that she remembered from the night and, as she watched, he put a small bundle on the bed.

  ‘I see you can move now. That is encouraging.’ His tone verged on mockery, but his almond-shaped eyes were unsmiling. ‘You will find something to wear among these.’

  He spoke English with the strong unplaceable accent Glynn remembered from the dream.

  Only, she thought confusedly, it can’t have been a dream. Unless I’m still dreaming.

  Solen moved across the cabin to the porthole and Glynn watched him fold back a shutter to let in a slice of sunlight. On deck a man cried out something and she recognised the nasal voice of the shipmaster, Carick. Was it really possible all the strange people from the previous night were real? she wondered.

  A gust of air flowed into the room through the open porthole, and Glynn froze as the missing gap in her memories slammed into place. She had not hit her head. She had been swimming in warm seas, then the water had become suddenly and inexplicably icy cold. Her body had reacted by going into some sort of hypothermic convulsion. She must have fainted and the tide had carried her out to sea where these people had rescued her. Specifically this man. It was a miracle she had not been drowned or eaten by a shark.

  Some thought stirred sluggishly at the idea of sharks and being eaten, and this told her that there were still gaps in her recollection, but those might be closed with a little information. She opened her mouth to ask where they were, but found she could not speak. The muteness, then, was as real as the paralysis had been. The scarred healer had spoken of mental confusion but he had also said that the muteness and paralysis would subside, so there was no reason to panic.

  Solen turned away from the window to face her. ‘Very soon now we will reach Acantha.’

  Acantha must be one of the smaller Greek islands, Glynn reasoned, for she had not heard of it. The name triggered more memories from the previous night, though. Solen had spoken of his ‘chieftain’. Ignoring the beginnings of a headache, she tried to think where in the world people called their leaders chieftains. American Indians had chiefs but, as far as she knew, Scotland was the only place that had chieftains. However, Solen’s accent was no more Scottish than it was Greek and, anyway, how the hell could she have been swept all the way from
an island in the Aegean to freezing Scottish waters?

  Unconsciously, she had touched her fingers to her throat.

  ‘You have swallowed bittermute algae,’ Solen said, taking her gesture for a question. ‘It is generally dispersed in agitated water, but you must have passed through calm water for a time, where it can mass.’ He suddenly dropped to his knee by the bed, fixing her in his purple gaze. ‘Are you a myrmidon, or perhaps Myrmidori?’

  Taken aback, Glynn shook her head.

  ‘Are you Fomhikan, then, as Carick thinks? That would be an irony.’ Her face must have reflected her incomprehension. ‘I thought not. You are tall enough to be Fomhikan, but too lightly fleshed. Are you from Vespi, then? No,’ he answered himself. ‘Carick would have known you. Sheanna? No, you do not have their look. But surely you are not from Iridom? The isle of Ramidan, then.’

  Glynn shook her head helplessly.

  Solen sat back on his heels. ‘A nice mess this is. You do not remember where you come from, do you? Argon said your prime chakra was clouded, but you are rather more than merely confused if you cannot even remember which island you were birthed on. Well, this is what comes of obeying dreams,’ he muttered.

  He rose and went away up the steps, leaving Glynn to formulate the chilling thought that he had been trying to tell her that she had swallowed contaminated water. Maybe a tanker had sprung a leak near the islands and had dribbled some sort of lethal chemical in its wake. She thought again of the crippling cramp and the paralysis that had all but drowned her. She had got more than a mouthful of water then. She remembered coughing and choking and, now that she considered it, the water had tasted peculiar.

  Her attention shifted to all of the places Solen had named. She had not heard of any of them. But why had he not mentioned one of the larger Greek islands?

  Of their own volition, her eyes sought out the octagonal porthole where a narrow stream of light poured through it onto the dark timber wall. Driven by a strange apprehension, she threw her legs over the side of the bunk and made her way unsteadily across the cabin. She found herself remarkably weak but determination kept her on her feet. Reaching the porthole, she pulled it wide open, and was momentarily bludgeoned by the brilliance of the light. She squinted against the glare, wondering at the coolness in the air.

  As her eyes adjusted, the first thing that struck her was the incredible cerulean blue of the sky; then the boat listed slightly, bringing her to face the sun. Only, whatever the enormous golden ball of light with its red-tinged corona was, it was not the sun!

  Glynn gagged, this discovery dragging the air from her lungs and all coherent thought from her mind. She crept back into the bed and curled into a tight ball, convinced she must be dreaming and had only to sleep in the dream, to waken in the real world. She could not sleep.

  She tried, but gradually the prosaic sounds of the ship around her and the sea outside, the buzz of voices, forced her to accept that there would be no relieved waking. It was stupid and cowardly to lie there hiding her head in the sand like a brainless ostrich.

  She sat up, and forced herself to examine the clothes Solen had brought for her. There was a small shape-hugging grey suit like the one he wore. It had no factory or design labels. The fabric felt like a combination of supple leather and lycra, yet was neither. The fastening was a kind of sticky patch fixture. There was also a heavy pair of pale trousers and a soft fleecy tunic, and sandals. They looked like wool and canvas, but closer investigation revealed these to be unknown materials, too.

  Glynn stared blindly in front of her.

  The sun was not the sun; the clothes were strange; she had never heard of any of the people or places they talked about …

  She found she simply could not bear to take the next logical step in her argument because it was too fantastic. She had no idea how long she sat clutching at the clothing before Solen came back down the steps carrying a flat ceramic bowl.

  ‘Ship meals are generally a punishment by anyone’s standards, but food will help you recover more quickly. You should eat in any case, simply because I have gone to the trouble of bringing it to you. I assure you, I do not usually wait on anyone.’

  Despite the chaotic nature of her thoughts, Glynn found herself taking the bowl and lifting it to her lips. From the first sip she was ravenous, as if she had not eaten for days. The soup reminded her a bit of mashed-up and watered-down refried beans. She drained the bowl and wiped the back of her hand over her mouth.

  Solen had crossed to the open porthole again. ‘It is good to see Kalinda rise unveiled,’ he murmured. He stopped abruptly, shook his head and turned to face her, seeming to shed his languid air as if it were a cloak. As he did so, she discovered with a shock that Solen’s face was familiar to her.

  ‘There is something I must say to you, girl,’ he said. ‘I hope you are clear enough in your mind to understand me. The ship code says Carick is responsible for anyone his vessel rescues from the waves, but he does not want to be stuck with a passenger who can stay aboard until they name their sept, eating and drinking at his expense. Especially since you may be a myrmidon, which means he would not even be rewarded for his efforts when he returned you to Myrmidor. If his people had rescued you, he would have had no choice but to take responsibility for you. But since I saw you and brought you aboard, Carick claims that, technically, I am responsible for you. He is determined to put you off on Acantha with me.’ He frowned, then shook his head a little. ‘If only Argon could have been persuaded to intercede, Carick might have been forced at least to agree to let you leave the ship at Fomhika. The worst of it is that this is what he intended originally. I am responsible for you being left on Acantha. You do not look Fomhikan and I was so anxious to get to Acantha that I … Damn Argon’s selfishness and Carick’s love of coin!’ he said with unexpected force. ‘They know as well as I that Jurass hates the soulweavers, and because myrmidons are their protectors he hates them too.’

  Glynn had a flash of comprehension. These people thought she was a myrmidon and the chieftain of Acantha hated myrmidons.

  ‘Whether you are myrmidon or no,’ Solen went on more calmly, ‘you look myrmidonish and on Acantha feeling runs especially high against soulweavers and myrmidons. People do not mention the misty isle without spitting. Some, it is true, spit in public and are loyal in secret. One can not blame them when Jurass has all but outlawed any mention of the misty isle, but that is no help to you. Your appearance …’ His voice trailed off, and his thoughts travelled on in silence.

  After a long moment he shook his head yet again. ‘What I am trying to say is that since you must come to Acantha with me, it would be safer for both of us if you will allow me to name you Fomhikan while you are there. If people are told you do not remember where you are from, it will be assumed you are from Myrmidor, and possibly that you are a myrmidon spear maid. We will say you are a Fomhikan who fell into the water and swallowed so much bittermute algae that you have forgotten who you are. You could pass as Fomhikan if no one is given reason to question it. Until we leave the ship, answer no questions and simply let it be thought that you are still confused.’

  I am confused! Glynn thought. It struck her with a feeling of incredulity that this was the day she and Ember ought to have been flying home. That brought her back to the thing she was trying so hard not to think about: the not-sun she had seen from the porthole. What had Solen named it? Kalinda. She pushed away the word with a renewed urge to curl up in a ball.

  Solen seemed to sense her withdrawal. He took the bowl up and pointed to the clothing. ‘Dress yourself. I will return to bring you up on deck. The fresh air will help you recover your wits and, believe me, you will need them about you on Acantha.’

  Left alone, Glynn got out of the bed and removed her bathers. The body suit looked like too much effort, so she did not bother with it. She pulled on the tunic and trousers, and was amazed at how much even this small exertion tired her. There was nothing she could do about her hair, which hung in stiff whi
te blonde spikes down her back. Solen had not offered a brush but Glynn felt uneasily sure untidy hair was the least of her worries.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed to lace on the loose sandals, she ran her mind over everything that had happened. She was in a place where doctors were known as healers and the sun was called Kalinda; where the waves were sour as unripe plums and political leaders were called chieftains.

  This time she did not baulk at taking the next step. If these things had no place in her world, then she was no longer in her world. Insane as it sounded, she had managed to get herself Somewhere Else.

  A different kind of person would have resisted the conclusion; would have made excuses; perhaps put all of the strangeness down to concussion or fever. Indeed, Glynn prided herself on being level-headed and sensible, but Wind’s suicide and the death of her parents had taught her that the impossible could happen. In many ways, it was easier to accept she had gone from one world into another than it had been to accept those deaths; easier to accept that she had fallen through some sort of hole between worlds, than that Ember was dying.

  She tried to think what it could mean that the man who had rescued her reminded her of Wind, but was defeated. In any case, the likeness was not obvious and perhaps she had simply imagined it because of Solen’s oriental eyes.

  Her father’s voice rose in her mind: ‘You’re strong for a reason, Glynna-love. The strong are made to protect the weak and it’s your job to watch over Ember when your mother and I are not around.’

  Glynna-love; his pet name for her, and Wind’s as well.

  Of course, when her father said those words, she had been a sturdy seven-year-old, and merely being left to watch over her fragile sister at a neighbour’s birthday party. Her father could no more have known then that Ember would develop a malignant tumour, than he could predict the road accident that would kill him and his wife. Yet after their funeral, Glynn had remembered his words and embraced them as if they were a solemn counsel. Taking responsibility for Ember prevented her focusing on the grey emptiness at her core which her parents’ death had grown. There had even been a strange poetry in being left to take care of Ember because sometimes she had wondered if the tumour was her fault. Often as a child, she had been scolded for being too rough in play with her smaller twin – though not identical, they had dwelt for nine months in the confines of a single womb. Who really knew what had gone on in that soupy red darkness of pre-birth? They must have been very close because no one had even known there were two of them until she had come squalling out in Ember’s bloody wake. Perhaps she had been as clumsy in the womb as out of it.