by Peter Newman
PETER NEWMAN
The Seven
Copyright
HarperVoyager
an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2017
Copyright © Peter Newman 2017
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017
Peter Newman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008180171
Ebook Edition © April 2017 ISBN: 9780008180195
Version: 2017-03-15
Dedication
To my parents,
for your unfailing support.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
One Thousand and Fifty-TwoYears Ago
Chapter Three
One Thousand and Fifty-One Years Ago
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
One Thousand and Forty-Nine Years Ago
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
One Thousand and Forty-Six Years Ago
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
One Thousand and Thirty-One Years Ago
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
One Thousand and Twenty-Seven Years Ago
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
One Thousand and Twenty-Three Years Ago
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
One Thousand and Nine Years Ago
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
One Thousand and Nine Years Ago
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Acknowledgements
Also by Peter Newman
About the Publisher
CHAPTER ONE
Alpha of The Seven stands in an alcove, encased in rock that is eggshell thin. A fragile prison made of grief, of stone tears that flow briefly, hardening, smothering.
For a thousand years, he and his siblings have dwelled in their chamber, wallowing, their gaze turned inward, falling further and further from humanity. It was not always this way.
Once, when the Breach first stirred, they sent their sister, Gamma, to aid their people. It was her time to shine, to do the creator’s will and do glorious battle against the infernal.
But there was no glory. Only death.
When Gamma did not return, The Seven wept anew, a river of tears for the life that should have been. Endless.
And when a lowly vagrant returned Gamma’s living sword, the relic had changed. They offered it rest at their side and it rejected them. It judged them.
So they retreated from pain and grief, returning to a haven of memories.
Years passed and a new threat arose from the Breach.
The Seven turned their backs.
And Gamma’s sword ventured into the world once more.
This time a girl bore the sword back to them, and where the man had been silent, she had plenty to say.
Alpha remembers her words. They sting and stir, making grief into anger, inaction into action. Rage shakes him. Cracks form in the eggshell-thin layer of stone. Individual chunks fall, like a jigsaw of a man unmaking itself, each piece revealing a glint of silver, a hint at the form that dwells beneath. Wings stretch: a cascade of stone as Alpha steps, shining, from the alcove, a halo of flying dust around him.
As his essence flares into life, so too do his brothers and sisters. They wake slowly, reluctantly. Compelled but hesitant, curious but afraid.
Alpha’s eyes are the blue of the sky. He looks to each of the alcoves, to his brothers, Beta and Epsilon, and his sisters, Delta, Theta and Eta. Silvered wings flex, and stone crumbles away, revealing bodies that gleam. The fragments shatter in a cloud. A wing-beat, two, and the cloud is dispelled.
They stare at one another for a long time as dust settles and thoughts begin to form. Then, one by one, they step out from their alcoves to join Alpha in the centre of the room.
Six metal figures, perfect, gather together in a circle. Their voices are music, each weaving with the others, harmonious. Slowly, they sing of what has happened while they slept, of all that has gone wrong, and begin to debate what is to be done and how many will have to die.
Nearby, Vesper fidgets as feathers are woven into her hair. ‘Is this really necessary?’
At her question, hands pause, and three sets of eyes flick to the other authority in the room.
Overseeing the team of people dressing the girl is Obeisance, the only human allowed within The Seven’s inner sanctum. Wrapped in her feathered cloak, her skin is hairless, her toes and fingers without nails, her life and body dedicated to service. Obeisance’s voice can soothe immortals, it has no trouble with Vesper. ‘You do not approve?’
‘It’s not that,’ says Vesper. ‘I’m sure it looks … lovely. But it’s not really me. I think they should see me as I am.’
‘Do you believe you are defined by your appearance?’
She scratches at a cluster of tiny white scars on her cheek, thinking. ‘No.’
‘Then appear to them as a leader. You are the chosen of The Seven, Bearer of Gamma’s sword. It will be your voice that leads us into a new age. Change is unsettling, and the people of the Shining City must put their faith in you. This,’ she gestures to Vesper’s outfit, ‘will make it easier for them.’
Vesper shrugs, Obeisance gives a nod, and the team get back to work.
Adjustments are made, tiny details agonized over. Her long coat is carefully arranged, the plates on the shoulders given a final polish. Vesper’s boots add an inch to her height, her hair another two. She does not feel any taller.
‘Are you ready?’ asks Obeisance.
She is not. ‘Yes,’ she replies, lifting the sword and putting it onto her back.
Obeisance gives a rare smile. ‘Good. It is time.’
They gather around the steps leading upwards to the sanctum of The Seven. Thousands of them: a ceremony to welcome the Bearer back from her travels. Prominent residents of the Shining City and proud members of the Empire of the Winged Eye. The Seraph Knights in their gleaming armour, the soldiers in their perfect formations, and the citizens, modestly dressed, uniform in appearance and thought. Even the children are here, organized by choir, synchronized and silent.
Like a living sea they swell around the great silver steps. A dazzling monument of seamless metal, fifty feet high, that ends
, abrupt, in mid air. Another thirty feet of empty space separate the steps from the great floating cube that is the sanctum itself, turning slowly, featureless, suspended above by powers no longer understood.
A small opening appears at the base of the cube, two figures framed within.
Far below, the assembled crowd lower their heads in reverence and the knights draw their singing swords in salute.
One of the figures, Obeisance, steps out, her feet finding purchase in the air, descending, her weight borne by The Seven’s love. This is an act of faith she makes daily. The second, Vesper, draws the sword and holds it out. Silver wings unfurl from the hilt, feeling the currents of essence mixed with the air. An eye is revealed set within the crosspiece. It opens and Vesper looks into it.
The young woman gives a half smile and steps out after Obeisance.
Neither falls.
One walks gracefully, the other with a quiet confidence.
When they arrive on the uppermost stair, Vesper frowns. The eye in the sword has not closed, instead, staring up over her shoulder, it is wide and worried. She risks a glance but sees only the side of the great cube and the two suns above.
Such concerns are soon banished from her mind, for the eyes of the Shining City are upon her. When she speaks, they will listen. And, at her request, every word will be spread throughout the remains of the Empire, via chips whispering into the mind, via runners, traders and all of the networks at the disposal of the Lenses.
Her own chip feeds the words of the speech to her now. She knows what to say but, as Obeisance tells her, only the ear hears the words. It is up to her to win their hearts.
She looks for support, a last boost of confidence before beginning.
She finds it in a pair of amber eyes watching from several steps down. Her father appears strange dressed in armour. Even groomed in the style of the city, he stands out, uncomfortable. Despite all the honours, she knows he’d much rather be at home, tending goats and making wonky additions to the house.
The thought makes her smile. She is both surprised and warmed to see him there.
Her father smiles back.
It is enough.
She takes a breath and begins to speak, holding up the sword. ‘Our war with the infernals has been over for ten years. The Breach remains sealed. But the wounds from those times still linger.’ For the briefest of moments, she pauses, searching for any kind of reaction. There is none. ‘The south has been ravaged by war. When the demons first came our people called to the Shining City for aid and we did nothing. Time and again they repeated that call. Time and again, we did nothing. Now, we have to put that right.
‘Some of our colonies, like Sonorous, felt abandoned by the Empire, and so they left us. And they were right to be angry because we let them down when they needed us the most. We’ve lost Sonorous now, just as we’ve lost the southern Empire. But it isn’t too late to form bonds with them again and make amends. They don’t need our swords anymore but they do need our help.
‘You see, the world out there has been forced to change. There are new powers across the sea, human, demon and half-breed, and wonderful mixes of all three. Some of those powers stood with me against the worst the Breach had to offer.’
She falters, her gaze travelling across the hundreds of staring faces. Only her father’s head moves as she speaks, nodding, encouraging. The others, in their multitude, are motionless, their expressions frozen. Do they agree with what she is saying? Do they even understand?
‘We can no longer see the infernal simply as our enemy. Some are hostile, yes. But not all. And some of them have extended their hands to us in peace.
‘In New Horizon, our people were made into slaves and it was not the might of the Empire that freed them. It was an infernal. It was not the Empire that tended their wounds or saw them fed and clothed, it was an infernal.
‘I’m going to go south again soon to visit our estranged people. But I won’t be marching at the head of an army, I’ll be going there as a friend.
‘If we want to find our place in the new world, we need to change too. We need to find a new way. To that end, I’ve arranged a gathering of the greatest leaders of the age. Together we will find a way to live and work alongside each other. Put the past behind us and make a better future for our families and friends, together.’
There is no applause when she finishes, no sign from the crowd that they have heard.
Her father smiles up at her, eyes scrunched with pride.
She wonders whether to go off-script, to say more, find some way to reach past the numberless masks, inscrutable, and get a reaction.
In her hand, the sword begins to hum.
She looks at it.
It is looking past her, looking up.
So is Obeisance, her father, and the crowd.
Twin shadows lengthen, falling across her, making her shiver. Behind her, something moves between her and the suns, red and gold, something vast.
As realization dawns, the assembled drop to their knees, a great wave of dominoes, toppling together.
Vesper does not need to turn round to know what is happening.
She turns anyway.
The sanctum of The Seven, a cube of shining metal – one mile across – is rising. Turning slowly as it goes, the Sanctum blocks out the suns.
Everyone watches the ascension, open mouthed, confounded.
A curve of blood-red light peeks from beneath the cube, glimmering, then a second of gold can be seen. Clouds part long before the cube reaches them, seeming to bend away, reverent.
Still higher the cube floats.
None dare take their eyes from the sight. Unspoken questions hover on the edge of lips. What does this mean? Is it a sign of The Seven’s triumphant return, or of worse things to come?
Like a balloon on an invisible string, the colossal cube continues its journey, straight up, until it appears smaller, a silver moon joining the stars.
When it is nothing more than a glinting speck in the sky, attention returns to the top of the steps. Vesper looks across the sea of faces, licks lips suddenly dry. She has no idea what to say. No pre-prepared speech is fed to her via her chip, and she has no insight into The Seven’s actions.
Seconds tick by, agonizing, slow.
A bead of sweat appears on Vesper’s forehead and runs down to her ear.
Her father gives her a nod, then, after a beat, raises his eyebrows and circles his hand three times.
She opens her mouth, takes a breath … and then Obeisance speaks.
‘People of the Empire, attend to me. For truly, today is a day of greatness. The Bearer stands before us all and asks us to rise and meet the challenges ahead. And behold! The Seven have risen, an inspiration to Their people. For Their eye is upon us, and They expect only the best. We must not disappoint. Go now, back to your duties, and carry the words of the Bearer with you, and the grace of The Seven in your hearts, and know that They are watching.’
In orderly rows, the crowd disperses. Fervour fizzes within measured steps.
Obeisance turns to Vesper. ‘It seems The Seven do not leave you to toil alone any longer.’
‘It’s true,’ she replies, forcing a smile. ‘We’re very lucky.’
But the sword in her hand suggests otherwise, its eye still staring at the sky, troubled.
Vesper meets her father on the outskirts of the Shining City. It is the first time she has been alone with him since she left on her great tour five years ago. It takes a moment for her to marry up the man standing before her with the image of her father. The amber eyes are the same but they seem to have been transplanted into a different face, a younger one. Long hair has been trimmed short, stubble banished. Though the collar is loosened, his clothes are crisply cut, a symbol of the Winged Eye woven into the shoulders. The scarring on the side of his head has been treated. There are still stripes running into his hairline but they are less stark than she remembers them. His frame is fuller too.
‘Wow,’
she says.
When he steps towards her there is no sign of his limp and when he hugs her, she is lifted from the floor, just as she was as a child.
For a few precious moments, the worries of the world disappear, unable to break through her father’s arms. She hugs him back, fierce.
The sound of a nearly human shout makes her jump. It comes from the other that has been waiting for her to come out of the city, and Vesper’s face shifts instantly to delight. The kid has grown, become a buck. The buck stands tall, struts proudly where once he scampered. Where the kid’s bleat was cute, endearing, the buck’s is a thing of horror. Sometimes a shout, sometimes closer to a scream, not quite a goat’s call but neither a man’s. An awkward, ugly, in-between noise. Vesper alone finds it charming.
The buck dashes over to her side, eager, his mouth already watering.
She doesn’t disappoint, popping a thick, fibrous shoot into his mouth. ‘You’re looking magnificent today.’
The buck’s eyes sparkle, though whether this is due to the food or the compliment is unclear. Jaws set to work and the shoot squeaks, indignant. Vesper chuckles, ruffling his ears. The buck whimpers and her fingers retrace their path slowly, until they come to rest on the edge of the buck’s right ear, finding a jagged edge where things were once smooth. ‘And don’t worry, I’ll be talking to that monster when we get home. She won’t bite you again.’
The buck’s expression is forlorn.
Vesper sets off, arms waving as she talks to her father, while the buck trots alongside, chewing, enthusiastic. On her back the sword’s eye is open, staring hard into the horizon.
