by David Hair
She came up on him quickly, and he barely saw her. He tried to parry, but she was more or less back in control of herself, and he was reeling dizzily. She battered his blade aside with her blade, then slammed her hilt into his temple and he dropped like a sack of wheat and sprawled at her feet.
Now what? She stared down at him. Young, handsome, really, with a half-grown beard and thick, dark lips. He was big, much bigger than her. He’d moved like a panther until Mara got him. His shoulder where she’d struck was swollen, the flesh mottled and greenish. He’d probably be dead by dawn. She placed her blade against his throat, then relented: she might be able to keep him alive long enough to question him, perhaps learn who he was; who his friends were, maybe even verify Sindon’s story.
Then a low voice called to her from the shadows, ‘Mistress Elena—?’
She looked up warily as a plump Jhafi man emerged from the darkness, flanked by smaller, more agile shapes.
‘Mustaq al’Madhi? Is that you?’
10
The Isle of Glass
Religion: Omali
You will smile, brother, when I say that every morning we pray to Agni the Sun and bathe in water to cleanse ourselves of nightly sin. We touch the earth and pray to Bhumasi for fertility of harvest and womb. We go to the temples of whichever deity pleases us that day, sometimes to many, and stay as long or short a time as we wish. We pray to Gann the Elephant for luck, and to Hanu the monkey for strength of body and mind. Soldiers revere Ram, and lovers the divine couple Krishu and Radhika. And we never forget the Trimurthi and their consorts. In truth, this must be the holiest of lands, for the gods are never out of our thoughts. Yes, brother, your Lori, who hated every second of Sollan worship, is drowning in faith!
LORENZO DI KESTRIA,
WRITTEN WHILST TRAVELLING IN LAKH, 924
Isle of Glass, Gulf of Dhassa, Antiopia
Shaban (Augeite) to Rami (Septinon) 928
2nd and 3rd months of the Moontide
The flying carpet took them far to the north of Haveli Khayyam, flying through the night at a torrid pace. From time to time Justina waved her hand, almost as if flapping at midges, which puzzled Ramita until she realised that the jadugara was warding off supernatural attacks. She was frightened that Justina might succumb, and then they would fall from the skies.
‘What is happening?’ she called anxiously in Rondian.
Justina glanced behind her. ‘Nothing. Go back to sleep.’
I haven’t slept yet, Ramita thought ruefully. She was tired but not remotely sleepy, not when they were shrieking through the air thousands of feet above the dark earth. The eastern skies were glowing behind them and to the right, which meant they must be travelling northwest. Beyond that, she had no idea where they were.
As the sun rose, staining the vast scarred face of the setting moon pink, she realised in shock that they were flying over water – and not just a lake, but the ocean itself. She had once flown over the sea with Antonin Meiros, but still gave a small shriek of fear, though from so high up the great waves were just ripples in a rain-swept pond. When Justina had said they were going to the Isle of Glass, she’d envisaged an island in a river. She should have known better.
The rising sun revealed how drained and haggard Justina Meiros looked. Normally her face was flawless as white silk, but in the new dawn crow’s-feet were revealed about her eyes and the corners of her mouth. Her eyes were bloodshot, and thin colourless mucus was streaming from her nose.
‘What are you staring at?’ she snapped when she felt Ramita’s eyes on her.
‘You look tired. When will we return to land? You need to rest.’
‘I’ll rest when we arrive,’ Justina replied tersely.
Ramita shut her mouth. There was no communicating with her daughter when she was like this. She smiled at the thought that aloof, arrogant Justina was her daughter-in-law; it was endlessly amusing.
But I am magi too now. There was so much she didn’t know, so much she burned to ask – there was so much to learn, not just about this Rondian magic, but about the world – and how to have children. She’d always ignored the details, for of course her mother would be present. But now her family were who knew how many hundreds of miles away. I should have asked to be taken home. Ha! As if Justina would heed anything I say.
Steadily they flew on, the enchantments woven into the carpet keeping the winds from plucking them off the rug and the rain at bay. They were flying lower, and slower, and the waves were greater now: mighty troughs and peaks in constant motion, each one dozens of feet high. The Leviathan Bridge was out of sight, away to the west, Justina told her when she asked, but she could see massive cliffs in the distance, far to the north and east: the coast of Javon, apparently. More information was not forthcoming.
Gradually their destination came clear. A series of huge jet-black pillars of stone jutted above the waves where the land to the east ended, a jagged range of hills running into the sea. Waves crashed about them, massive white explosions of spume and spray, but never covered them. It was only when she got closer that Ramita realised the peaks were hundreds of feet above the surface, and as wide as they were tall. They gleamed like glass.
‘They are called the Pillars of the Gods,’ Justina told her. Her harsh, clipped voice held grudging resignation, as if she’d decided that she would have to communicate with Ramita at least a little. ‘They’re the cores of old volcanoes, eroded by the sea. There is no stronger stone, for it is fused in heat that melts metal like butter. They will stand for all time.’
Ramita stared in wonder. They did indeed look as if Sivraman and Vishnarayan had made them, or perhaps Agni had forged them in his smithy. They looked utterly inhospitable.
As they swooped towards one of the larger of these great pillars, Ramita realised that it wasn’t really flat; in fact it was hollow, like a cylinder. Justina guided the carpet in closer, fighting the winds ripping at them; they pitched and steadied as she fought the air-currents until she’d brought them directly over the opening at the top – then she dropped them within. and they fell into shadow until the carpet struck stone some forty feet down. Ramita squealed in relief and fright at the same time. The winds howled above them like a pack of jackals, but beneath the rim they did little more than whip at her hair and clothing. She crawled to the edge of the rug, feeling weak-limbed and ill. Inside her belly her babies were squirming. She kissed the smooth glassy stone, pressed her forehead to it and let it steady her.
Beside her, Justina moaned and flopped onto her back, panting as if she’d run all day – in a way she had. Ramita had only seen her mask slip once or twice before and she found it oddly comforting, to see her spent and frail. It reminded her that Justina really was a person, not some animated statue.
‘Come on!’ Justina scolded herself, sitting up and glowering at Ramita. ‘Feel that?’ She held up her long white fingers, like sun-bleached bones. The air was frigid, Ramita realised as the wards about the carpet faded. ‘The temperature here is barely above freezing. We must get below.’
Below? Ramita looked about, and saw a small door in the stone walls. She groaned, but stood up and hefted her bags. Justina went to the door and pressed her hand to the single knob. Gnosis-light flared from it, seeping between her fingers, then the door opened of its own volition. The jadugara turned. ‘Hurry. It’s starting to rain.’
Ramita staggered past her as raindrops began to splatter about them, the water mixed with chips of ice. She’d never seen such a thing before. The frigid cold was going straight to her bones.
With a gesture, Justina caused the carpet to roll itself up, then she drew it through the air with one hand while opening another unseen door in the wall opposite with her other hand, her kinetic-gnosis doing all the work. In a trice the carpet was sealed away in the storage compartment. Then she closed the doors, leaving them momentarily in darkness, until lights like little stars flared on the walls, revealing a rough-hewn chamber. Justina gestured imperiously towards s
tairs spiralling down into the pillar of stone. ‘Follow me.’
They descended many flights, and as they did, Ramita felt the air becoming steadily warmer. At the base of the long stairs, Justina spoke aloud in a strange tongue, and doors so cunningly made they were invisible in the wall slid open, revealing a warm darkness. She called again and light flared inside, brighter than those which had lit the stairs. Ramita blinked hesitantly, but Justina pulled her inside quickly and spoke again, and the doors slammed shut with a frightening boom.
‘What is this place?’
Justina scowled. ‘Father created it as a secret refuge. We have stores kept on ice, enough for more than a year. The earth supplies heat. Air is taken from outside and constantly circulated. There are books and musical instruments, anything one could need.’ She looked down at Ramita in that way she had of emphasising that she was almost two feet taller. ‘And the only rukking company I have in this damned place is you.’
Ramita smiled sweetly. ‘Think how much worse it is for me. I’ve only got you.’ She looked around curiously. There was a fireplace surrounded by couches, and rugs on the floor. A tabula game-board. Another stair going further down. ‘Are there more rooms?’
‘Below,’ Justina answered shortly. She strode to a cabinet shaped from stone and pulled out a bottle and a glass. ‘Father’s room is off-limits. Mine is the larger one with the red wall-rugs. Pick any other.’ She poured a drink and turned away.
‘Thank you for coming for me,’ Ramita said to her back.
‘I did it for the children.’
Ramita screwed up her courage. ‘Where were you, the night my husband was murdered?’
Justina’s voice cracked a little and her rigid demeanour sagged. ‘Alyssa hosted a party to celebrate Odessa’s birthday. They had new wines from Bricia. There was no reason to believe that anything was going to happen …’ She turned her face away.
‘And since then?’
Justina made a half-sobbing sound. ‘I’ve been with Alyssa and my other friends. They told me you were dead. That your body and Father’s were torn apart by a mob. There was nothing to go home for.’ Her voice broke and her shoulders heaved. ‘Alyssa was so kind to me …’ She fell into a chair and cradled the wine bottle as if it were a newborn child.
Ramita took a few steps towards her, reaching out.
Justina’s head snapped around and her eyes blazed. ‘Do not presume to give me your sympathy, you dung-skinned parasite! You’re the reason he’s dead!’
Ramita went rigid in shock. Does she know about Kazim? Then she realised that Meiros’ daughter was only lashing out blindly from the pain inside. She swallowed her fright, backed away quietly and picked up her bags. As she left, Justina rocked soundlessly in her chair.
She found a room below, disentangled herself from her clothing and crawled between the sheets. She didn’t know how to make the light stop shining so she pulled the blankets over her head and let all the fear and the ache of the long weeks of captivity gather behind her eyes, pressing her down, until she was nothing but darkness herself.
*
It was amazing to her how quickly wonders could become commonplace, ever since Antonin Meiros had chosen her, of all people, to wed. The devil-magic of the Rondians had once been just a legend, like the old Amteh tales of pale-skinned afreet, the servants of Shaitan. Then, suddenly, she was married to one, and frightening magic became ever-present, buildings that were like dream palaces compared with her own humble family home in Baranasi were a daily part of her life. She scarcely noticed marble and gold now; flying carpets were just another way to travel …
But even by the standards she was now used to, this place was strange and uncanny.
There should have been no natural light, this far below the surface, but Meiros had created massive transparent skylights high in the walls of the top-floor lounge. Elsewhere, he had set pale glowing lights like tiny candles, each little filament that glowed bright as the sun controlled only by a touch to the glass bubble that protected it: one touch to light it, another to brighten, a third to extinguish: simple, wonderful. The first day she played with one for hours, turning it on and off over and again, feeling each touch draw a little from her reservoirs of energy. By the second day the lights were just another fact of life; likewise the fire that consumed no fuel, the heat that flowed through the ventilation holes, and the fresh water that poured from taps set cunningly over marble basins. There was always hot water for her bath without any need to build a fire.
These everyday miracles did not mean there was no work. She still had to prepare their meals from the icy-cold chamber below filled with row upon row of animal carcases and bins of frozen vegetables of all kinds. She fell into the role of maid for the two of them without complaint; she’d been brought up to labour and had never expected anything else – and Justina seemed incapable of anything useful.
However, doing the maid’s work was one thing; being treated as such was quite another. When Justina ordered her about, Ramita snapped that she should do it herself; if asked respectfully, she would acquiesce. Not that Justina asked for much, rudely or otherwise; her protector spent most of her days in her room, with opium smoke seeping through the cracks of the door. She knew that her husband would not have stocked his sanctuary with such a thing, so Justina must have brought her supply with her.
There were five levels to the living quarters of the Isle of Glass and it wasn’t long before Ramita knew them all. The top floor with its high ceiling and daylight shafting through the rock was the lounge, and she lived according to its rhythms, sleeping when the skylights were dark, working when they were lit by sunlight. Next level down were functional rooms: the kitchen and laundry, and a separate stair that went into the food-storage area on the next level down. Below that, accessed by the main stair, were the sleeping rooms, seven of them. She’d never entered Justina’s, or her late husband’s, but the other five, including her own, were spartan and cold. She hung some of the blankets on the walls of her room, as much to make them more welcoming as to bring a bit of warmth to the chamber.
The next flight down were a large library and office, where two desks were well-stocked with writing implements and stacks of unused parchment. The final floor housed the ice-room and storerooms and a large chamber with bathing pools, which had huge doors to the outside. The pools could be heated, but Ramita didn’t bother; she was quite happy with the one-person bath in her room.
She had quickly decided the library was the nicest room in the Isle of Glass sanctuary. The rounded outer wall was filled with books, mostly histories of Urte written by the Ordo Costruo. Ramita nosed through them with difficulty; she’d learnt how to read only recently, and was not yet proficient. But she started reading the observations of the Bridge-Builder magi about their world, and found that she agreed with some while others made her wrinkle her nose. Some threatened her, contradicting things she regarded as true – she didn’t enjoy reading those passages but she made herself do so anyway.
She spent hours staring at a massive map of Ahmedhassa, or Antiopia as the Rondians called it, and Yuros that covered one wall of the library. It had been rendered in plaster stucco, with the mountains and valleys shown in relief; she’d never seen such a thing before. Cities and major towns were marked in both Rondian and Keshi alphabets. First she found Baranasi and stroked the name longingly, then she traced her journey north, through the deserts and southern Kesh to Hebusalim. She eventually found the Pillars, where she was now, jutting from a peninsula west of Javon. They were depressingly far from anywhere else, which made her feel all the lonelier.
It was even more frightening looking at Yuros, she decided, where such a vast expanse had been rendered in greens depicting the forests and lush plains. They had so much water – there were lakes and rivers everywhere – while Antiopia was depicted as brown and dry.
The most puzzling thing was the line of the Bridge. The mapmaker – her husband, she presumed – had shown it as a thin red line, bu
t he had also moulded an underwater landscape of ridges and highlands, and it was these the Bridge followed. On one of the rare occasions she found Justina in the library she gathered up her courage and asked her about it.
‘Do you not know?’ Justina replied loftily, then, ‘no, I suppose not. Yuros and Antiopia were once one continent, linked through the Pontic peninsula by a mountain range to Dhassa. The Ordo Costruo believe we were linked as recently as fifteen hundred years ago.’ She poked a finger at the map. ‘Father believed men began to farm and settle in villages about three thousand years ago – before that they were all nomads, constantly travelling around.’
Ramita frowned. She’d been taught that the gods had created men and women in Lakh, thirty thousand years ago; non-Lakh people were the spawn of the Rakas demons who stalked the edges of the civilised lands. She could almost hear her husband chuckling quietly as she explained this to him. ‘Why is there no mountain range now?’ she said out loud.
‘Father thought a meteor strike took it out.’ At Ramita’s blank expression she explained, ‘A massive rock, fallen from the heavens. Father said there were strange rock types found when they built the bridge.’
‘Guru Dev says the Gods cursed the Rakas, and Agni hurled a huge boulder down to destroy their king.’
Justina snorted softly. ‘Primitives,’ she muttered to herself, just loudly enough.
Ramita kept her temper. ‘Perhaps the gods wished to divide East and West,’ she observed.
‘There are no gods, only us.’
Ramita made the sign against blasphemy, but having Justina actually talk to her was a rarity, so she let it pass. ‘How can our peoples be so different if once we were all in one land?’
Justina raised her eyebrows, almost as if the question had impressed her. ‘Well … we believe that groups of people evolve – successive generations take on characteristics after long periods in certain terrains or climates, things like fairer or darker skin, or they’re taller, or smaller and quicker – things which help them to survive. We used to debate why, after being divided so long, the peoples of our two continents are so similar.’
