by Sam Bowring
For a moment she wasn’t sure what she was looking at. At the bottom of the ravine, hidden between mountains, was something like a white lake. It wasn’t water, however, but silk, cobwebbed thickly from mountainside to mountainside. The surface moved as strange lumps quivered, and here and there a long bone stuck out, or a weakly flapping wing – then a snout broke free, opening to reveal fangs. The silkjaw worked to free itself of the netting, using clawed wing tips to haul itself along the surface until it reached the edge. There it clambered up the rock face to a ledge where others were perched, testing their wings and swinging their heads about to peer at each with hollow eyes.
‘By the Spell,’ murmured Yalenna. ‘This must be where they come from.’
‘Regret’s breeding ground,’ agreed Braston disgustedly.
‘You think he created this?’
‘He must have. No other had the skill to subvert the natural order this way. No rutting, no birth … just things, coming together.’
‘Come, let us away.’
‘We should do something. This evil cannot be allowed to continue.’
‘We have a task, Braston.’
‘Maybe it would burn? Silkjaws have a weakness for fire, and this is the very stuff they’re made of. We should set the whole thing ablaze.’
One of the silkjaws seemed to look up at them, though it was hard to tell from its empty gaze. Still, the effect was unnerving, and Yalenna began to inch back from the precipice.
‘We have no means to make fire,’ she said. ‘We aren’t prepared.’
He kept watching, bristling.
‘Braston, don’t be a fool! We will stir them against us if we remain.’
‘Look!’ He dropped from a crouch to lying flat. On the other side of the crevasse was an outlook, which evidently led to the Dale. Unwoven were appearing there, dragging large sacks, which they upended over the edge. Bones went tumbling down to bounce across the surface of the silken lake, until the webbing caught them up.
‘They’re carrying on Regret’s work,’ said Braston. ‘Giving the silkjaws what they need to form!’
‘Where did they get so many bones?’
The two of them exchanged a glance.
‘The raids,’ said Braston. ‘They’ve been carrying off their victim’s bodies.’
Yalenna frowned. ‘I’d been imagining that was to eat them.’
‘My guess also. Remarkable how that now seems preferable. This further travesty … well, how could anyone know?’ He shook his head. ‘Would that someone had wiped the Unwoven out while we were gone. Or that we did, before going.’
She wasn’t sure if there was accusation in his voice or not.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘that’s why you raise your army, isn’t it? Part of it, anyway?’
He grunted.
Across the way the Unwoven had emptied the last of their sacks. They started to chant, raising their hands to the sky and dancing about.
‘Now what?’ said Braston.
‘Who knows? Now come, please – maybe when we find Mergan, he’ll help us deal with this birthing ground.’
Reluctantly Braston complied.
No sooner had they moved away from the ravine than the sound of many wing beats came from all around. Yalenna felt her skin turn clammy as white bodies rose on mass from the mountainsides. She flattened herself into a boulder’s shadow, pulling Braston after her.
‘Stay hidden! We cannot fight a sky full of them!’
‘Calm yourself – it’s not us they’re after, I think. Look.’
The creatures swirled to a massive flock, biting and buffeting each other excitedly as they continued to rise.
‘There’s so many,’ she said. ‘More than existed in our time.’
‘It’s still our time.’
On the other side of the crevasse, the Unwoven stopped their chanting and gave a single clap. As a group the silkjaws dove, disappearing behind a mountain-top.
‘Do you think,’ said Braston, ‘the Unwoven are controlling them somehow?’
Before Yalenna could answer, all heat went out of the air, though the sun still shone and the rocks glowed orange.
‘Did you feel that?’
Braston sucked his finger and held it up to test for a breeze. Then he bent to a thorny plant that stuck up through a crack and carefully prodded it.
‘Time’s stopped,’ he said.
‘Despirrow.’
Braston nodded darkly. He looked around as if the man would leap out of hiding.
‘He isn’t here,’ she said.
‘I know.’
For a while they trod carefully as they moved on, lest some usually slight but now fixed thing in their path trip or slice them.
Eventually time started again, and Yalenna wondered what their enemy had been up to.
At the top of the path they reached a vast plateau, on a level with the surrounding peaks. At the far side was a building, a crumbling block set against a spurt of mountainside, its columns framing a doorway that led into darkness.
‘Not exactly austere,’ said Braston.
A drier, dustier, deader place, Yalenna could not remember. Birds had long ago abandoned these mountains, and not even twisted thorns grew here.
‘Careful,’ she said, as they approached the building. ‘There’s some strange threads about it.’
‘Isn’t that what we were expecting?’
Braston drew to a halt before the ominous doorway. The structure was wrapped in some kind of protection, a mesh of barbed, tightly interlocking threads that pointed inwards, keeping whatever they held inside.
‘Easy enough to pass in,’ Yalenna said, ‘but not out?’
It was a formidable trap, the threads like none she’d ever seen, shiny and metallic to her senses. They had not been fashioned in any natural way – more of Regret’s abominable work.
There was some odd refuse scattered about the entrance too – a wicker basket full of decaying bread crumbs, a bunch of flowers withered to stalks, a small knife, a few stains on the rock.
‘Hello?’ called Braston, making Yalenna jump. ‘Are you in there, old man?’
‘Braston!’ she cautioned.
The threads rippled gently as his shout went through them, yet no echo returned from the dark interior.
‘What?’ he said. ‘It’s why we’re here, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but …’
Maybe Mergan was standing right there on the threshold, calling for help, unheard. The thought made her shiver.
‘We have to get in,’ she said.
Five thousand, four hundred and sixty seven …
That was the number of tiles on the floor, if he counted broken ones and corner ones as whole.
Five thousand, two hundred and twelve …
That was if he only counted intact ones.
Five thousand, three hundred and seventy.
That was if he matched broken ones to count as whole ones, putting together halves or thirds as best he could.
Sixteen.
That was how many vases had been in the entry corridor.
Two thousand, three hundred and fifty one.
That was how many pieces the vases now lay in, including the only whole one remaining, which counted as a single piece.
Sixteen.
That was how many stands for the vases. Or maybe they weren’t vases, but urns? Perhaps the vessel was defined by what it contained, and since these contained nothing, or had contained nothing, it was hard to tell which they were, or had been.
Urns or vases, urns or vases … urns or vases … URNS OR VASES?
Panic seized him.
One.
A dead spider – or, at least, there had been one, a long time ago … dust now, not even a mark on the ground where it had been, so maybe it did not count anymore. He pressed close, inspecting the place … was that still a tiny hair there, the last identifiable piece of the animal?
One.
That was the number of coffins – a sunken
stone troth that had never seen Regret’s corpse, its heavy lid resting against the wall beside it. There were little dents and imperfections in the lid, but they ran into and crossed over each other, so it was difficult to tell where one ended and the next began, and thus he had given up trying to find a way to count them.
He watched the last standing vase, tall amongst the broken shards of the others. He could break it too, he thought. He could change the number of pieces on the floor, give him something new to count. The temptation was great, especially when the rage came, yet this last vase he revered. There wasn’t much he could affect down here, not much he could change, except this last vase.
Saving it for a special occasion?
He giggled, and the sound of his own voice frightened him.
Maybe he feared that when the last vase fell, he would truly be gone, his tenuous grasp on his sense of self finally broken. Maybe the fact that it remained proved he still had some control. Maybe it was important to know there was still a decision he could make. He could keep making it too, keep deciding to leave the vase alone – whereas, if he smashed it, there would be no decision left. Although sometimes there seemed to be another – he could decide to try and escape Regret’s maze.
Not much of a maze, he would laugh, or cry. Just one corridor, really, running in a circle. Enter, and it seemed like there were two, one to the left and one to the right, but they curved towards each other and met at the entrance to the coffin room, enclosed by them in the tomb’s centre. Sometimes he would see how fast he could make circuits of the corridor, around and around and around and around – but when time had no meaning, how could he measure speed?
He could still see out the entry door, could see the sun rise and set, so there was that. How many circuits could he do in one day? He never kept going long enough to find out – he would always forget what he was trying to achieve, and dwindle down to rest, only to realise later that he had failed again in his meaningless task.
Sometimes he would lie at the door looking out, but the view was the same bleak piece of rock. Sometimes he saw silkjaws or Unwoven out there, but that was an infrequent break in the monotony.
One.
That was how many bodies he had, and currently it was crawling into the coffin room. He could still make its arms and legs move, slowly getting about in his endless prison. Was he going to get into the coffin? Not today, though sometimes he did.
Why won’t you die? he screamed.
Like the other Wardens, he had stopped ageing. And if starvation was going to kill him, it was taking a really, really long time.
How he cursed his resilience as the years crept by. He had tried to kill himself in every way he could think of. A couple of times he had charged headfirst into a wall, and while he had blacked out for a time after that, his eyes had eventually opened again. These days, he barely had the strength to gain a running start.
He had tried using pieces of vase to dig around in his chest, but stabbing his heart never did any good. While he was unconscious his body would always push out the shard, and he healed and woke again. Perhaps, he had thought, if he could actually get his heart out, get it away from him … but as soon as he cut enough flesh away to attempt gripping it, he would always pass out. Then he would dream of throwing it away to bounce across the floor, until he woke up healed.
If only he still had his magic. He had been powerful, once, especially after the change. Unlike the others – what were their names? – he had not acquired any new talents, though his native skills had grown remarkably in potency. Time and again he imagined using them to rip himself apart, yet that option had left him at the door. He had parted the barbed threads to make his way inside easily enough, yet as soon as he’d crossed the threshold, his abilities had become stifled, somehow unusable. The threads had snapped closed, and he had not been able to affect them since. He tortured himself thinking that there must be some way, that his magic was still there, buried somehow … he went on living, after all.
After a while he had stopped trying to kill himself. There was no point. While a period of blankness seemed enticing, the fact was, it made no difference. He would always awaken to the same circumstances. There was no actual break for him, just because a few days had passed in the world without him knowing it.
His greatest hope was that the threads which trapped him would one day lose their strength. Surely they wouldn’t last for all time! They had shown no signs of losing their potency, but he hoped nonetheless – if someone was to heal the Great Spell, maybe they would finally fail.
He had given up thinking that his friends might come to rescue him.
Why hadn’t they come?
He had not told them where he was going. What a fool. When he had discovered this place, he’d thought perhaps there was some clue here, to help him heal the Spell once and for all, and, in his impatience, he had entered alone.
Impatience.
It was a strange word now, for one who had lived centuries in the dark.
Even though he had not told them where he was going, surely his friends would have searched for him? If either Yalenna or Braston had disappeared, he never would have given up trying to find them. So, had they given up on him? Or had they died? Did Forger and Karrak rule out there now?
Sometimes he saw things that weren’t really there. Beautiful Yalenna and courageous Braston, at the front door, finally come to set him free! Then he would wake, and how he would have wept every time, had he any moisture left in him. Sometimes he thought he saw markings on the walls, but when he looked at them, they faded away. Sometimes he imagined that the smashed vases were restored, standing proud, all sixteen of them.
Maybe he would go and look at his precious vase now.
He moved along the floor, running his fingers over the tiles. If he cracked some more of them, it would make for new counting. The thought made him angry, as mostly everything did. Along the corridor he went until, there, some ten paces away, the last vase stood. He sighed, relieved by the sight of it, and slumped against the wall.
Light shining through the door from outside rippled, as if something moved out there. He thought he heard voices, and grinned. More ghostly company, more illusions. He would not believe in them, but at least they broke the monotony.
A figure moved into the corridor, feeling her way.
Here she is again, he thought. What does she have to say today?
‘Mergan?’ came her sweet voice. ‘Where are you?’
Always here, dear Yalenna.
A piece of vase cracked under her foot. It was a big piece too, one of the biggest left. She gave a little cry, took a stumble forwards, and knocked the stand where the last vase stood. His eyes opened wide as it tumbled, seeming to turn forever in the air. Then it smashed against the ground, into a hundred pieces – or maybe a hundred and three?
No, no, he told himself, clutching his arms, it hasn’t really dropped. Hasn’t really dropped because, if it really dropped, she would really be there. I still have my vase, my precious last, it’s still there. I’m just imagining that it dropped, but it hasn’t really.
‘Everything all right?’
Braston’s voice, from somewhere outside.
‘Yes,’ she answered.
Everything all right, he laughed. My friends are here, my good old friends.
She stepped over the debris and came a little closer, squinting down the dim corridor.
‘Is someone there?’ she said.
He gave a faint croak, all that he could muster from his bone-dry throat. It did not matter. Words spoken in his head were as real as the ones he heard from her.
Yes, yes, I am here. For the rest of time, I am here.
He laughed to himself, idly tracing the edges of a tile with his fingertip. It was a good one – one of his favourites.
Suddenly she was standing over him.
Sit down, he said irritably. Don’t loom! Sit down and we’ll talk about old times, if that’s what you wish.
; ‘Mergan?’
She reached for him, touched his shoulder. The illusions never touched, they never touched him! He gave a strangled gasp.
No, no! Ghosts of tears formed behind his eyes. I cannot stand it, do not touch me! It is false!
‘He’s here!’ she called back down the corridor.
‘Do you need help?’
‘Don’t step beyond the threshold!’
He slid upwards against the support of the wall, as she stared at him with amazement and horror.
Go away, torment!
‘Can you talk? Mergan, you must come with me.’
She reached for him again, and he gave a little cry and tried to twist away. It was no good – she caught hold of his arm and he was too weak to resist, nothing but skin stretched over bone.
‘I’m sorry, but I have to get you out of here.’
Now she was dragging him as he struggled lamely.
You will not get the better of me, spirit! I do not believe in you!
As they passed the place where the last vase had stood, he willed it to appear back on the stand. Then he realised, with growing despair, what had really happened – in his hallucinating, he must have smashed it! It really was gone!
A cracked expulsion trying to pass for a wail parted his lips, and still she dragged him, cutting his feet on the other vase pieces, carefully laid out in patterns he’d arranged.
No, no!
Towards the door they went, where Braston stood, holding the threads open for them from the outside.
It’s not true!
Panic seized him as Yalenna thrust him towards the opening – how he hated bouncing off the barrier that trapped him here, hated knowing how strong and impenetrable it was – but suddenly he was through, falling to his knees in the blazing light, trying to blink away the pain it brought to his eyes.
‘Mergan!’ exclaimed Braston, coming down by his side. ‘By the Spell, what has happened to you?’
And then Yalenna on his other side, weeping and trying to gather him up. He felt the realness of her, her bosom heaving against him, her arms soft and enveloping. Her tears fell upon his cheeks, ran down to slip into the cracks of his lips, bringing the sting of salt. He spluttered as if he had swallowed a river.
