by karlov, matt
Clade knelt before the manacled golem, his back straight, his shoulders rising and falling with the slow, smooth breaths of one deep in sleep. The second golem stood a short distance away, its hand once more by its side. The stench of Azador hung thick in the air. She hesitated, unwilling to break the charged silence.
“What went wrong?” The words were soft and calm, almost melodious, and it seemed to her that the voice was as much Havilah’s as it was Clade’s.
“I’m sorry,” she said to his back. “I couldn’t…” She trailed off, swallowing hard. “It won’t happen again. I promise.”
There was no response.
Eilwen bit her lip. It didn’t matter what she said. She’d failed, and her revelation had come too late. She hung her head, waiting for him to tell her how badly she’d fallen short. It was no less than she deserved.
At last Clade spoke, his voice remote. “Arandras will be back to take the golems. All but this one. You’re to allow it.”
She blinked, hope rising in her breast. “All right.”
“My binding is almost complete,” he continued. “Its effect may be… unpredictable. You’re to stay with me until I say otherwise.”
The god’s presence billowed around her, making it difficult to breathe. “I will.”
“I’d prefer to delay this until Arandras is gone,” Clade said, a note of strain appearing in his voice. “But I think that is no longer a viable option.”
He fell silent, his breaths slowing further. Eilwen nodded, no matter that he couldn’t see it, no matter that she had no idea what she was agreeing to. Against all hope, Clade had given her another chance. And this time, she would not let him down.
The sorcerer took a long, deep breath, and bowed his head.
Something shifted around her, vast and inexplicable, as though the air itself broke apart and reassembled in less time than it took her to blink. The god’s stifling presence wavered, then snapped back in place with a devastating howl of rage and distress.
Clade screamed, a raw, visceral cry. For a moment he seemed suspended by an invisible thread, his shoulders arched back, his chin thrust toward the ceiling. Then he collapsed, slumping sideways like a rag doll and toppling onto the rough stone.
Eilwen stared at Clade’s still form, her heart sinking. Then the beast growled in her belly, low and deep, and she straightened. She was a soldier, and not even the gods themselves would prevent her from seeing her assignment through.
There was a place near the middle of the chamber that seemed good. She could see both doorways from there, and keep an eye on Clade and the golems at the same time.
Folding her arms, Eilwen took up her position.
•
Arandras turned on his heel, picked up the lamp and strode from the room.
It was over.
Behind him, his wife’s killer still breathed. It would be an easy thing to turn around, march back in, and have the golem squeeze the life from the man’s body. But he knew he wouldn’t.
He’d been wrong, before. This wasn’t a repeat of what had happened at Chogon. Chogon had been the beginning, and this was the end. If the price for his refusal then had been his life, Arandras would have paid it gladly. Instead, the gods had taken Tereisa; but they had left him his resentment and his vengeance, and he had clung to them, nurturing them, not realising that this was the true price, the true test of his resolve. Little by little he’d forgotten himself, gradually surrendering himself to them; and in return they’d stripped him bare, until at last they’d cannibalised even themselves and left him empty of everything but the crushing weight of his loss.
Or not quite. Somewhere inside, a part of him had remembered, lost among the ashes like a phoenix’s egg. Finally, he had found it again, warming it before his frail, dying candle until it roared back to life. A small part of that fire seemed to be with him still, warming him as it pulsed through his veins. He felt somehow both lighter and more substantial, as though he had been asleep for years and now, at last, was awake.
The stairs were steep and winding, but Arandras scarcely noticed. The passageway at the bottom branched twice before it twisted out of sight, his lamp casting odd patterns of shadows across the uneven floor. His sleeve snagged on the wall, and as he pulled it free it threw a puff of dust into the air. He sneezed.
“Arandras?” The voice came from somewhere nearby. “Is that you?”
“Mara?” Arandras hurried toward the voice, paused at a fork in the passage. “Where are you?”
“In here.”
The branch turned once and abruptly terminated. Cells lined the walls on either side, the odour of stale urine hanging thick in the enclosed space. Holding his breath against the smell, Arandras shone his lamp into the first cell. Mara sat within, her limbs shackled to chains sunk into the cell floor. She blinked away as he entered, shielding her eyes against the light, but her face bore a wide grin.
“Not dead yet, huh?” she said, and nodded her chin at the front of the cell, beyond the reach of her chains. “Key’s there.”
“Mara. Weeper’s cry, it’s good to see you.” He found the key and crouched beside her, pulling the manacles free from her wrists. The flesh beneath them was bruised and raw. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she said, but her breath caught as he turned to her ankles, betraying her words. “What’s happened?”
“We’re free to go,” Arandras said. “Where are the others?”
“Right next door,” Mara said, hissing as Arandras loosed the final restraint. “What do you mean, free to go? Did he come? Is he…?”
Arandras shook his head. “I’ll tell you later. Here, take my shoulder and try to stand.”
Mara grimaced, levering herself upright against Arandras’s proffered shoulder with a groan. “All right. I’m all right,” she said, shifting her weight gingerly from Arandras to her own feet. “Gods, I feel like someone dropped a wall on me.”
“Yeah,” Arandras said. “Come on, let’s find the others.”
Narvi lay huddled in the corner of his cell, a nasty gash running from his eyebrow to just below his ear. Arandras removed his restraints, massaging his wrists just above the wounds left by the manacles. A cup of water sat inexplicably at the edge of the cell, and Arandras lifted it to Narvi’s lips, tilting it just enough to allow a trickle into his mouth.
“Narvi,” he said, searching for even a flicker in the man’s half-lidded eyes. Weeper, please let him be alive. “Narvi. Are you there?”
Narvi’s mouth sagged open, water dribbling over his chin; then he coughed, blinking groggily up at Arandras. “Huh,” he whispered. “What happened?”
Relief surged through Arandras. “It’s all right. You were hurt, but we’re going to get you out. Can you move?”
Narvi grunted. “Head hurts,” he croaked. “Ribs, too.”
“Arms and legs?”
He shifted experimentally, then gave a ghost of a smile. “All still there.”
“Good.” The light shifted as Mara moved the lamp, and Arandras settled down on the cell floor, pressing the cup into Narvi’s hands. “Just sit tight for a moment. We’ll head out soon.”
Narvi took a sip of water. “Thought you’d be gone by now,” he said, his voice firming slightly. “Off with your new toys.”
Arandras shook his head in the near darkness. You really thought that? Weeper forgive me. “I —” He broke off, groping for words. What was there to say? “I’ve done badly by you, Narvi,” he said at last. “And not just now. For a long time. I’m sorry.”
Narvi gave a long sigh. “So you damn well should be.”
Mara’s shape appeared in the doorway. “Halli’s in a bad way,” she said. “Good news is that they left my gear in the cell opposite. Don’t see anyone else’s, though.”
“Still outside,” Narvi said, coughing again.
Arandras frowned. “Is she all right to move?”
“Maybe with a little help,” Mara said.
“Can yo
u…?”
She gave an amused snort. “What, you’re not going to save us all single-handedly?”
They left the cells together, Arandras holding the lamp high in one hand and supporting Narvi with the other, Mara following with an arm around Halli’s waist. The stairs almost defeated them. Arandras and Mara had to all but drag the others up in turn, pausing for breath every few steps. At last they passed through the mouth of the cavern and sank onto the rocky ground in exhaustion. Arandras leaned back, gazing up at the darkening sky as the breeze caressed his face.
“We can’t go back the way we came,” Mara said, retying her long ponytail. “We’ll have to just pick a direction and walk. There’s bound to be a settlement sooner or later, somewhere we can find a boat.”
Arandras nodded. “You pick. I need to go back in and fetch something.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
He looked at her, saying nothing.
Realisation dawned. “You mean they’re still yours?”
Arandras pushed himself to his feet with a grunt, turned, and re-entered the cavern.
He heard the golem before he reached the chamber. She watches. It watches. He sleeps. It screams. Stone and sorcery. My brother in chains and chains.
Silence, he told it, and entered the room.
Clade lay in a heap before the shackled golem. A woman stood behind them, the same woman he had passed on his way in, her face and stance showing a resolve that had been entirely absent earlier. Arandras stared at Clade’s still form, a sea of conflicting emotions filling his chest. “Is he… did he finish it?”
The woman bit her lip, uncertainty slipping through her facade; then her expression hardened and she folded her arms. Glaring at Arandras through narrowed eyes, she moved across to stand over the motionless figure, the message clear. Leave him alone.
He nodded his understanding. Don’t worry. That man is not my concern. Not any more.
With a final glance at Clade, Arandras stepped into the adjoining chamber. Golems, he said, looking down on them from the low platform. Attend me.
An immense grinding filled the room as the golems stood and turned in place to face him. Behind him, the free golem did likewise, though he thought the shackled golem remained unmoved. There was something in the restraints, then, that blocked his commands. Good. That makes this easier.
He looked out at the thousands of pinprick lights gazing up at him from the dim room. Golems. In a moment I will walk out of this cavern. When I do, you will form up behind me in ranks of four and follow me out. He paused. Do you understand?
Their response roared in his mind. WE UNDERSTAND. MASTER.
Arandras bowed his head. There was something awful about the title, something breathtaking and terrible, even from mere constructs of earth and sorcery. How much more so when bestowed upon you by a man or woman no different to yourself? He shivered. He would never accept such a title from another living person. Never.
He turned, making his way back through the chamber and beginning the ascent to the surface. With a sound like a slow, rolling avalanche, the golems followed, marching up from the caverns and out into the cool evening air.
•
Consciousness returned with the slinking reluctance of a whipped dog. Clade groaned through the pounding in his head and opened a slitted eye. A rough stone floor stretched before his face, its uneven surface casting tiny shadows in the dim lamplight. Stifling another groan, he levered himself up from the floor into a seated position, then paused, bowing his head against a wave of dizziness. A fine sheen of sweat covered his skin.
Panting, Clade raised a hand to his brow — but the fingers that touched his forehead were not the long, slender digits he knew. His breath caught and he snatched the hand away, holding it up before his squinting eyes.
His entire forelimb was withered. Tendons strained in knotted ropes beneath taut skin. Claw-like fingers curled inward like ghastly parodies. Hand, wrist and forearm alike had shrunk as though drained of both life and flesh, leaving nothing behind but an unresponsive lump of muscle and bone. Clade stared in appalled fascination, unable to take it in. It’s crippled me. The damn thing has taken my hand.
“Gods, Clade, what happened? Are you all right?” Eilwen crouched before him, her concern twisting to revulsion as she caught sight of his deformed limb. “Gods preserve, what happened to your hand?” Her gaze flicked to his other side. “Are they both…?”
A fresh wave of fear filled him and he raised his other hand, his left; but it remained as it had been, narrow and unmarked save for a cut he had sustained while descending the cliff path. Thank the gods.
He reached out tentatively with his good hand and took hold of a crabbed finger. It felt stiff, artificial, like a mummer’s false arm. When he tried to pull the finger straight it moved only a little, stubbornly refusing to unbend any further than a half-crook. Eventually he let it go, allowing the withered appendage to fall to his lap and gazing at it with hollow resignation.
His limb was lost. The fingers with which he had first learnt to trace the runes of sorcery; the hand with which he had struck down Estelle and Garrett, and each of his kills before that; ruined, all of it. Even the Quill would struggle to heal something like this, even in one not resistant to fleshbinding. Despite his best efforts, something in the sorcery had failed to balance, and the binding had found its own way to rectify the fault.
He supposed he should be glad it hadn’t killed him.
“Did it work?” Eilwen’s voice was anxious. “Because that thing’s still here, whatever it is.”
Clade looked up. “It’s still here? You’re sure?”
She shot him a harrowed look. “I’m sure.”
Tentatively, he lowered his defences, opening himself to the presence of the god. Silence answered, still and undisturbed, beautiful in its emptiness. He probed further, questing outward for any sign of Azador; and there, just on the edge of his perception, he felt a hint of the old, familiar weight. There. Eyes closed, he cast about for its touch, like an archer licking his thumb to test the wind. Where are you? It was faint, ephemeral, barely moving at all. He could almost sense its direction…
“The golem,” he whispered, turning to face the shackled figure. “It’s in the golem.”
A slow grin spread over his face. It worked. There was a slight flutter from the golem, faint as butterfly wings, and Clade began to laugh. I did it. It worked. I’m free.
“See me!” Clade threw open his arms, gazing up at the golem’s distant yellow lamps. “I am no longer your eyes and ears. I am no longer your plaything. I am Clade Alsere, and I renounce you!”
His voice echoed around the chamber. Somewhere far away, Azador’s flutter settled into something else, something cooler. Clade nodded.
“You will come for me,” he said, pointing at the golem with his unmarred hand. “I know. But know this, Azador. You have an enemy. As you marshal your forces, I marshal mine. As you stretch out your hand, I seek to cut it off. I am coming for you.”
There was a pulse from Azador, thin and distant; then the faint presence lifted.
“It’s gone,” Eilwen whispered.
Clade turned away, his ruined hand dangling at his side. The space where Arandras had brought in the second golem was now empty. He walked to the doorway, peered into the chamber where the golems had been. The room was bare.
“He came back a couple of hours ago,” Eilwen said. “Led them out like the damn Kharjik Emperor.”
Clade nodded.
As you marshal your forces, I marshal mine. He sighed. What forces do I have? One good hand and an erratic part-time assassin with a limp. Look out, world.
Eilwen shifted behind him. “Did you mean what you said just then? About fighting back?”
“Yes,” Clade said. “I meant it.”
“Why?”
Because I was Oculus, once. True Oculus. An agent of restoration and renewal. And now we are corrupted, turned against our true purpose, and bent by Azador toward
our own destruction.
Clade sighed again. There was no way to explain it. Not to someone like her.
He turned to face her. “You’ve felt it,” he said. “You know.”
She nodded. “It killed the Orenda.”
“It did.” Though if the reason were good, Clade would have killed the ship himself.
“Why?”
“Because it could. Because the ship had something it wanted.” Clade shrugged. “Does it matter?”
A pause. “I suppose not.”
He forced a smile. “Come,” he said. “There’s no reason to stay here any longer.”
She picked up the lamp, glancing over his shoulder at the shackled golem. “What about that?”
“It’s still bound to Arandras, I would think. But now also to Azador.” Frowning, he felt for his purse, loosening the clasp with his good hand and reaching awkwardly inside. Coins clinked and jangled as he dug beneath them; then the jagged edge of the shackle key brushed his finger and he nodded, satisfied. Here you stay.
Eilwen flinched and raised her arm. “It’s back,” she said, her voice taut with strain.
Clade slung his bag over the shoulder of his ruined arm. He had nothing more to say. Turning, he extended his good hand to Eilwen and she accepted it with gratitude, leaning heavily against it. Somewhere far away, at the edge of his mind, Clade thought he heard a scream, or the echo of one: a sound of bitterness, and futility, and vast, unappeasable rage. He smiled.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Epilogue
The world is not as it should be. You know this to be true. Yet this is the only world you have ever seen, so whence comes this knowledge?
— Jeresani the Lesser
The boy slid his hand into the frigid water, shivering as he reached blindly for the concealed shelf and the row of sealed clay bottles.
“Come on!” Jon cast an anxious glance back at the collection of huts that made up their village. “Mother asked us to fetch them before mealtime!”
