by karlov, matt
The lines were still there, but they no longer seemed out of place. The man’s face had moulded around them, taking them into itself and giving them a home. Heavy creases marked his brow and eyes. The corners of his mouth turned down in a perpetual frown. A close-cropped beard concealed his cheeks and chin, the dark hair salted with grey, giving him the appearance of one far older than Clade suspected him to be. Even in repose, the man looked tired.
How did Bannard describe him? Intractable. There was little sign of it. Yet he had bound the golems. Against the wishes of the Quill, one assumes. Perhaps even without their knowledge. At the edge of the room a golem stood in silent contemplation, pinprick yellow eyes burning deep in its sockets. Clade frowned. What am I to do with you?
Azador flitted about his head, pulling at his attention like a restless child tugging its mother’s skirts. Oh, go away, already. Let me think. The man had to be moved, that much was clear. Putting distance between him and his new army was imperative. And then… what?
“Clade.” Sinon stood just outside the chamber, half-hidden in shadow, his fingers tapping arrhythmically against the side of his leg.
“What is it?” The words came out louder than he intended, echoing off the chamber’s stone walls. Wincing, he crossed to where Sinon stood and lowered his voice. “Are the prisoners secure?”
“Yeah,” Sinon said. “Only, we’ve got an extra one, and she’s not a Quill.”
“What? What do you mean, an extra one?”
“I found her on the stairs. She killed Yuri.”
Clade raised his eyebrows. “She admitted that?”
“She didn’t deny it.” The big sorcerer hesitated. “Thing is, she’s got a locus.”
“Really?” Had Estelle managed to send someone against him after all? But no, there was a simpler explanation. “She probably took it from Yuri’s body.”
“No, Hosk had that one. I saw him take it.”
“So she took it from Hosk on her way in.” Though even that would suggest an unusual knowledge of Oculus practices. Just what I need. Another loose end.
“Oh.” Sinon seemed to deflate slightly. “I just thought… she didn’t seem…”
Clade waved his hand. “Lock her up. Keep her separate from the others. I’ll talk to her later.”
“Already done.” Sinon glanced at the slumped figure of Tereisa’s husband. “You want me to put him with the rest?”
Yes, Clade prepared to say; but before he could speak, the man loosed a long groan. “Who’s there?” he said, his voice thick with grogginess.
Motion at the edge of the room caught Clade’s eye, accompanied by a low, grinding sound. The golem raised its foot and stepped forward once, twice, coming to a halt beside Arandras.
Shit. Clade stepped hurriedly out of the light, gesturing for Sinon to do the same. Arandras blinked up, raising his hand to shield his eyes from the lamp. “Who…?”
“You have something that belongs to me, Arandras,” Clade called, loud enough to make the words bounce around the room.
Arandras scowled, turning his head this way and that. The chain clanked against the stone wall. “Are you Clade? Where are you?”
“The golems are mine,” Clade said. “Give them to me, and I’ll let you go.”
The man laughed. “Can’t. They’re bound to me now.”
“You can. I can tell you how.”
Another laugh, and a shake of the head. “No.”
“You must know you’re not leaving until you give them over.”
Arandras made a filthy gesture. “The hells swallow you.”
“I have your friends, Arandras,” Clade said, hardening his tone. “The woman who was with you. Some Quill. Give me the golems and they won’t get hurt.”
“The hells swallow you twice.”
Clade folded his arms, pushing away the incessant, seething swirl of Azador’s presence and trying to think. Bannard was right. Intractable. Proud, too. The man seemed almost to be enjoying himself, as though revelling in the chance to defy. This one would resist any demand simply because it was demanded. But what if the pressure were removed? What if I offered a choice…?
The scrape of metal on stone pulled Clade’s attention back to the room. Arandras had slumped forward, head lolling, the weight of his neck pulling the chain taut. Passed out again. Probably.
Sinon touched Clade’s arm. “The cells?” he whispered.
Clade frowned. It was the safe thing to do, no question. With his mercenaries dead, and two bound sorcerers still to dispose of, he could ill afford another loose end. Yet he knew in his gut that if he threw Arandras in a cell, he’d eventually be forced to either kill the man or abandon the golems. Or, most likely of all, both.
But the other way, there was still a chance…
“No,” Clade said at last. “No cell for this one.” He looked across at Sinon. “We’re going to let him go.”
•
He woke to a raucous cawing beside his ear. Something pecked at his shoulder and he started upright, setting off a flurry of wings and receding croaks. He cracked his eyes open, grimacing at the hard rocks beneath his buttocks, and peered around. He was back on the shore of the lake, the sky above him the dim, expectant grey of the hour before dawn. Blinking blearily, he took a deep breath; then heaved it out again, gasping and retching.
Weeper’s breath, what is that smell?
Gingerly, Arandras gathered his legs beneath him. His side felt like one gigantic bruise, all the way from his shoulder to his ankle. He groaned, trying to remember what had happened. I was talking to Mara when someone came in. One of Clade’s men. He threw me against the wall. Then there was someone else, talking… demanding the golems… and then…
The memory trailed off. Then they dragged me out here, I guess. But why attack us and then let us go? He shook his head, trying to think past the fog. Unless someone rescued us. Someone like Mara.
That must be it.
He looked up. The shore was bare. “Mara? Where are you? Mara!”
A chorus of harsh caws rose behind him. He turned, wrinkling his nose as the foul smell assaulted him once more; then he gagged, clasping his hand over his mouth and staring in horror at the scene before him.
Bodies lay scattered across the shore, their limbs and trunks marred by ghastly wounds. Hook-necked, eagle-like birds fed on the corpses, pecking at sightless eyes and digging out organs from beneath exposed ribs. One of them looked up from what appeared to be Ienn’s corpse, cocking its head and blinking its beady eye as though inviting him to join the feast. He reeled back, unable to watch, unable to look away.
Weeper’s cry! How? But there was nothing of the Weeper here, and no mystery as to its cause. The Oculus. Clade and his men had come upon them unawares, cutting a swathe through the Quill like the Gatherer’s own angels. And he, Arandras, had led them here. I did this. Gods forgive me. I killed them all.
But no, that wasn’t true. He had struck no blows, darkened no eyes. That burden belonged to Clade, and to those he had brought with him. He killed them. Not me.
All I did was give him the opportunity.
It was enough.
He started forward, shuffling into the mess of scavengers and remains. It wasn’t until he’d peered at a few faces and moved on that he realised he was looking for someone. I’m sorry, Narvi. I never meant this. He wondered what Narvi had thought as they cut him down. Would you forgive me, if you had the chance? But Narvi had already forgiven him so much. Could he ask for still more? Tears slid down his cheeks and into his beard. Ah, Narvi. You deserved so much better than what I gave you. He looked around. Where are you, anyway?
Narvi wasn’t there.
Arandras scanned the area. Nine of the bodies were clad in Quill colours, including one near the entrance to the cavern. Three more wore no identifying marks and were presumably from Clade’s group. Nine Quill, out of eleven. Leaving two unaccounted for.
Hope rose in his breast. Narvi could still be alive.
Who else? He moved from corpse to corpse, arm clamped over his mouth, peering at each in turn. Fas lay face-down near the centre of the group, a trio of scavenger birds squabbling over a gaping wound in his back. Ienn sprawled nearby, his arms spread to the heavens in silent appeal, and beside him the gangly Jervian who had ridden beside Arandras for a time. The man lay curled in a ball, face half-covered by Ienn’s hand, and might almost have been sleeping but for the dried pools of blood on the rocks beneath him.
A breath of wind curled the stench of waste and viscera into Arandras’s nostrils and down his throat. He doubled over, gorge rising, stumbling out from the carnage and dropping to his knees at the lake’s edge, the birds behind him cawing their laughter. The breeze coming in over the water was cool and fresh, and he knelt before it, eyes closed, letting it wash over his face as he willed his stomach to settle.
Narvi was still alive. He had to be. Mara, too, was missing, though that probably didn’t mean anything. They’d hardly bother to drag her all the way out here if she were dead. Then again, they’d dragged him out here. Arandras exhaled, racking his numbed brain for an explanation. They want me out here because… well, because they don’t want me in there.
So that’s where I should go.
He stood, brushing away the tiny pebbles that clung to his trousers. Holding his breath, he skirted the feasting birds and made his way into the cleft.
A woman stood half-concealed in the shadows of the cavern entrance. For a moment Arandras thought it was Mara and took an excited step forward; then she shifted slightly and he saw that it wasn’t so. She was too short, similar in stature to Arandras himself, and her skin was too light. On the ground before her was a pan, apparently taken from one of the dead Quill. A thought crossed his mind and he peered into the shadows, straining for a glimpse of her feet. As he suspected, they were bare.
A waterbinder. Another of Clade’s. Arandras settled back on his heels. How many people had he brought? Somehow Arandras had imagined him following alone, or with one or two companions. He’d never pictured the sorcerer bringing a force strong enough to overpower a dozen Quill. For all I know he’s got twenty more in there. How can I contend with that? I’d practically need an army…
Which I have.
Arandras felt at the edge of his mind for the place where the buzzing had been, and where the soft, alien presence had settled. Golems! Are you there? Talk to me. Tell me what you see.
Silence answered him, lifeless and dark.
He tried again, smothering a murmur of panic. Golems? Speak. Answer me!
There was no response.
He probed his awareness, searching for the gossamer whisper of the golems, for anything not of himself; but all he found was the circle of his own churning thoughts, curving back on themselves in an endless, unbroken procession. Whatever he had felt before was there no longer.
Arandras dropped to his haunches and clasped his hands over his head. The golems were gone. They were either out of reach, too far away to hear him, or else they were gone, really gone, stolen away by the same man who had stolen his wife. Is that what you’ve done? Was robbing me of Tereisa not enough? Gods witness, Clade, I will find a way to end you. I swear it.
He pushed himself to his feet. The woman in the cavern might have blinked, or he might have imagined it.
“Hey!” Arandras called, striding toward the woman and waving his arms. “Hello, in the cavern! I’m Arandras. Who are you?”
The woman placed a foot in the pan of water before her. A tentacle of water edged upward from the pan, swaying like a python, and the woman spoke in a soft, lilting tone. “That’s close enough.”
Arandras halted. “That’s very impressive,” he said, resisting the urge to stare at the undulating column. “Really. But I need to talk to —”
“There’s a note,” the woman said, gesturing with her chin. “Just there, under the rock.”
Arandras frowned. “I see it.” A single sheet of paper, folded in thirds, one end sticking out from under a fist-sized stone. He reached for it, then hesitated.
“Take it,” the woman said. “It’s for you.”
He lifted the rock and retrieved the paper, turning it over in his hands. There, in the hated, familiar script, was a single word. His name.
“Read it.”
He unfolded the paper with trembling hands, scanned the lines within. The message was brief.
Your friends will be killed at sunset. Please do not interfere.
Beneath were three names, each written in a different hand.
Halli. Narvi. Mara.
Weeper, no. Not again. Please, not again.
The sun crested the edge of the gorge, its light striking the woman full in the face. She squinted, raising her hand to shade her eyes, and for a moment Arandras saw not her but Tereisa, standing on the balcony and looking out at the sunrise, just as she had on that last morning before he’d come home to find her gone. In his memory she closed her eyes, embracing the light, and he turned away, smiling as he closed the door, leaving her behind. Forever.
Gods, no. Not again.
•
The thick-limbed Oculus took Eilwen to a small, bare cell with fetters set into the floor. He snapped a shackle about each ankle, pocketed the keys, then departed with her bag, her lamp, and her daggers, leaving her alone in the dark.
Eilwen stretched out her legs as the pulses of the black amber egg slowly faded, leaving only the painful throb of her abused knee. Her chains clinked oddly as she pulled them across the cold stone floor, and she lifted one in her hand, frowning at the strange lightness of the unknown metal. Twisting around, she drew up her ankle and took hold of the shackle, striking it repeatedly against the stone floor. But there was no strength in the blows, and at last she gave a long, shuddering sigh, leaning her head back against the wall and allowing the tears to course down her cheeks.
After a time, she slept.
Havilah walked beside her, his face hidden in shadow, his hands behind his back. They climbed a steep, rock-strewn hill, the scent of salt thick in the air, emerging at last atop a windswept promontory.
“Where are you?” he said.
Eilwen raised her arm against the gale, shielding her face from the stinging spray. Havilah rested his elbows on the timber railing, apparently untroubled by the storm. The wind snatched at her clothing and hair, pressing her backward and reducing her vision to a watery haze. “I don’t know.”
Havilah shifted beside her and she tensed, anticipating his displeasure; but when he spoke, his tone was sorrowful. “Where are you?”
The wind eased. She lowered her arm and looked onto a roiling sea beneath an angry, crimson-streaked sky. A distant speck rode the waves near the horizon, disappearing from view as it plunged into a watery valley then reappearing as it crested the rise.
Eilwen pointed at the speck. “There I am.”
“Yes,” Havilah said.
The speck was a ship, no longer distant but close enough to hear the terrified shrieks of those on board. The sea bucked and heaved beneath it, tossing it in the air then slamming up to meet it on its way down. Eilwen saw men and women thrown from its sides into the churning sea. A horrible crack tore the air, the sound of something immense splitting apart.
“It won’t last long,” Havilah said conversationally, his chin propped on his hands.
Lightning stabbed from the boiling sky, transfixing the floundering vessel. With a great, tearing screech, the ship broke in two, folding as though hinged in the middle and sinking beneath the heaving waves. In the space of a dozen heartbeats it was gone, pulled into the murky depths. Nothing remained above the surface but wild, foaming water.
Havilah folded his arms and looked out over the restless, featureless sea. “Where are you now?”
She opened her mouth to respond, and heard a low, wordless growl. Fear pierced her belly like a spear. Hands trembling, she felt for her mouth. Her fingers closed over a snout, furry and bestial, lips curled in a snarl. Fangs j
utted from her lower jaw, curving over her cheeks. Panic rose in her breast and she reeled backward, clutching her face and screaming at the sky.
Eilwen jolted awake to find herself lying sideways on the hard cell floor. Heart pounding, she reached for her face, and sighed in relief as her hands touched smooth, familiar skin. Thank the gods. She struggled upright, cursing as her elbow struck a glancing blow on the wall behind her, and hugged her legs to her chest.
The dream’s meaning was plain enough. I am becoming the beast. It had survived all her efforts to put it down, and in the end she’d come crawling back, surrendering herself willingly to its embrace. I pushed it away, and it pushed back even harder. She’d given herself over to it, and it had led her out of Anstice, given her a kill in the forest above, and finally brought her here.
And where am I? Locked in a cell by my enemies, barely able to stand even before they snapped the chains shut.
Defying the beast hadn’t worked. In the end, it had just made it stronger. But giving it its head hadn’t worked either.
What else is there? What can I do, other than resist or yield?
The surge and ebb of the beast’s hunger was like a river: sometimes rushing, sometimes crawling, but always there; sometimes calm for a while but never truly exhausted. No dam she could imagine would be enough to contain it forever. She frowned. I need something else. A weir, maybe. Some way to control the flow, let a small amount out sometimes, but keep it from becoming a flood.
Perhaps she had already begun without realising it.
I am a soldier. A soldier fights, but does not kill indiscriminately. She has a mission, a purpose that eclipses her own desires. A soldier is not her own master. She shifted position, causing her chains to clink against the rough stone floor, and loosed a bitter chuckle. Not her own master. No sooner thought than accomplished. See what progress I make.
