The Diamond Isle

by Stan Nicholls

  ‘It’s so smooth,’ Serrah muttered, skimming her fingers across a surface. ‘What is it?’

  Caldason shook his head. ‘No idea, but for all its smoothness it has friction. Have you noticed how the floor slopes, yet we’re not sliding down it?’

  ‘I have,’ Kutch replied. ‘We’re going deeper. And it’s a lot warmer, too.’

  ‘How does the magic feel to you?’ Serrah asked him.

  ‘It’s…heady. Definitely building.’

  They took yet another left turn.

  ‘Is it my imagination,’ Serrah said, ‘or is it getting lighter down here?’

  Kutch wiped the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead. ‘We’re close now.’

  ‘Ssshh.’ Caldason had a finger to his lips. ‘Do you hear that?’

  Serrah strained to hear. ‘There’s something.’

  ‘What do you think? Flowing water?’

  ‘No. It’s too…slithery.’

  They carried on. The light grew brighter, the air hotter. They turned, turned, turned again.

  The labyrinth abruptly ended.

  They faced a wall. It had a single entryway carved into it, identical to the one they came in by. Beyond it was light, unidentifiable sound, and the weight of an awesome presence. Each of them felt it.

  Caldason moved forward, drawing a sword. Serrah did the same and made to follow. She looked to Kutch, saw the expression on his face, and waited. Smiling, she pocketed her orb and offered him her hand. He took it, squeezing hard, and they joined Reeth.

  For a second, the three of them hesitated at the threshold.

  Then they went through.

  23

  The Bone Temple at Earth’s End. Gazall’s bridge over Teardrop Valley. The five remaining towers of Akhom-Behtz. The statues of Crae and Fornarr at Dragon Spine Mountain. All were chilling partly because they were colossal, and size is naturally intimidating.

  However, it was mainly their great age that was disturbing. It had something to do with the eons they’d weathered, and the countless mortals they’d outlasted. As though, like vampires, they drew into themselves the life essences of short-lived things to prolong their own monolithic existence. It was as if they imbibed the detritus of the ages; every windblown particle of human skin, every stray hair, every speck of sweat or drop of shed blood, absorbed.

  Kutch, Serrah and Caldason felt that dread. They knew the terror of vast antiquity, and of gigantism, a feeling compounded by the fact that what they were looking at was imbued with such a sense of otherness.

  The maze had led them to a massive cavern. It was brightly lit by sorcery, though no glamoured orbs were apparent; the light seemed to bleed from the yellowish rock itself. The air was perfumed by a mingling of aromas, sulphur being the strongest by far.

  Big as the cavern was, a single artefact utterly dominated the space. It was the size of a mountain peak, and seemed to be fashioned from the living rock, along with a commingling of other materials that might have included steel, quartz, zinc, ceramics, and even gold. The great broad face of the edifice was adorned with unknown symbols in vivid colours that kept their brilliance despite the passing of countless ages.

  Much more striking was a dowel, wide as a mature tree, long as a street, suspended from the upper reaches. It was similar to a pendulum, but appeared to be stationary. Closer scrutiny showed that it must have moved, imperceptibly slowly, from a point on the far left towards a corresponding point on the far right. A green symbol marked its start and a red symbol its terminus, which the pendulum’s tip had almost reached. The whole contrivance was attended by a deep, rhythmic throb that massaged the soles of their feet.

  ‘I don’t know what I thought the Clepsydra would be,’ Serrah whispered, ‘but I never imagined it like this.’

  Seen head on, the relic looked as though it sat on an islet. It gave that impression because a small river ran the length of its base, flowing between openings on opposite sides of the cavern. But it was no ordinary river. The liquid was quicksilver.

  It didn’t run straight from one aperture to the other. On the way, the pewter stream fed itself to the Clepsydra, as water pours through a mill. Sluggish, glutinous, it made a pulpy sound as it slipped into artfully carved ducts.

  ‘No wonder it’s stood for so long,’ Kutch said, awestruck. ‘It draws directly from magic’s chariot. The amount of power involved–I wouldn’t go too near, Reeth. This level of energy’s really dangerous.’

  Caldason didn’t reply. He looked distant.

  ‘Reeth?’

  Serrah went to the Qalochian and grasped his arm. ‘Reeth!’

  He came back into focus. ‘What?’

  ‘You were away there.’

  He shook his head to clear it. ‘It’s hot down here, and the magic…’

  ‘It’s pretty overwhelming,’ Kutch agreed.

  ‘All I can feel is the heat,’ Serrah said. ‘Here.’ She handed Caldason her water pouch.

  He took a long drink and seemed better for it. Then he turned to Kutch. ‘So what do you reckon? What is this thing?’

  ‘I think the scholars were right; it’s a timepiece.’

  ‘Measuring what?’ Serrah asked. ‘Hours? Days?’

  ‘You have to think on a much larger scale than that.’ He was gazing up at the thing. ‘Look at the symbols.’

  ‘You understand them?’

  ‘Mostly, no. But one or two are in remaining Founder fragments, and we think we know what they mean.’ He pointed. ‘See that one? At the beginning of the pendulum’s track?’

  ‘The one that looks like a figure eight with a billhook through it?’

  ‘Yes, the green one. It means…well, it means a lot of things, but chiefly something like birth or beginning. One interpretation is “seed”; another’s “Spring”, or “a well”.’

  ‘Not too difficult to interpret, then,’ she said.

  ‘No. It’s fairly obviously a starting point. All those other symbols the pendulum’s passed on its journey presumably mark important stages or events.’

  ‘Events in what? Somebody’s life?’

  Caldason had been taking this in silently. Now he spoke. ‘All of our lives.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Kutch is beginning to understand. Aren’t you, Kutch?’

  The apprentice nodded. He was pale, despite the heat.

  ‘Don’t keep me in suspense,’ Serrah complained. ‘What is it?’

  ‘That symbol right at the top, in black and orange,’ Kutch explained hesitantly, indicating an image the size of a wagon wheel. ‘It’s the Founders’ glyph for all. Everything.’

  ‘And by everything…’

  ‘Scholars believe it meant just that; the whole thing. The world.’

  ‘I still don’t–’

  ‘Look where the pendulum is now,’ Caldason said. ‘You see? Where the tip of the arrow’s pointing? I’d put money on what that symbol means.’

  ‘It’s end,’ Kutch confirmed. ‘Not death exactly, because the Founders didn’t seem to have a symbol for that. But “cease”, “expend” and “ultimate” all fit. It’s a symbol we always see in relation to the Founder concept of the Last Days.’

  ‘Oh, great,’ Serrah exclaimed. ‘We come looking for help and find the world’s about to end. Assuming the Founders knew what they were talking about.’

  ‘They were an extremely perceptive race,’ Kutch replied.

  ‘It doesn’t follow that they were right about everything. I mean, if they were so clever, how come they aren’t still around?’

  ‘I suppose even the Founders weren’t infallible. But they had the most advanced civilisation the world’s ever seen. They could have been right about this.’

  She sniffed dubiously and studied the pendulum. ‘What do you think that means in terms of time? How long do we have left?’

  ‘This thing was designed to measure eons. So who can say? Centuries? Weeks?’

  ‘More likely weeks than centuries,’ Caldason said.


  ‘How do you figure that out?’ Serrah asked.

  ‘Because we’ve arrived here at just this time.’

  ‘That sounds very mystical for you, Reeth.’

  ‘It…feels right.’

  Kutch nodded in agreement.

  ‘You’re saying we were somehow meant to be here at this time?’ she pressed.

  ‘I don’t know what I’m saying, only that being here now seems a kind of…fit.’

  ‘Getting here as the world’s due to end is good timing?’

  ‘As you said; maybe they were wrong about that.’

  ‘But you think something’s going to happen?’

  ‘I’m hoping we’ll find the Source.’

  ‘We’re all hoping that. It’s why we came, remember?’ She took in the vastness of the cavern. ‘So where is it?’ There was a trace of mild derision in her voice.

  He shrugged. ‘Perhaps Kutch’s spotting talent…’

  ‘I don’t think I can,’ the boy confessed.

  ‘I thought you were trained to filter things out,’ Serrah said.

  ‘I was. But this place is so saturated, it’s impossible.’

  ‘We don’t have a plan then.’

  ‘Yes we do,’ Caldason corrected. ‘The oldest one in the book. We search.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘This cavern might not be all there is down here.’ He nodded towards the rock wall furthest from the Clepsydra, where shadows were deepest.

  ‘Fine by me. This thing gives me the creeps; I’ll be glad to get away from it.’ She turned her back on the dreadful, pulsating mechanism.

  They set out. As they neared the wall, they activated their glamoured orbs. The outlines of several tunnels could be seen, darker than the surrounding gloom.

  ‘Which one?’ Kutch asked.

  ‘We could split up,’ Serrah suggested.

  Caldason shook his head. ‘Not wise.’

  ‘Hey,’ Kutch said, ‘look at this.’ He was scraping at the dusty ground with the sole of his boot. ‘I hadn’t noticed it before.’

  Serrah gazed down. ‘What is it?’

  ‘A marked energy line.’ He’d revealed part of a dark blue stripe, still vivid after an eternity.

  ‘Here’s another.’ She exposed a patch of yellow.

  ‘Nothing surprising about that,’ Caldason decided. ‘The Founders started the tradition, didn’t they, Kutch?’

  ‘Hmm, it’s thought so.’ He was preoccupied with clearing the dirt.

  Between them, shuffling about, they uncovered half a dozen or more. Red, green, orange, purple, criss-crossing the cavern’s base and slicing into the Clepsydra.

  ‘At least three run straight from that tunnel,’ Kutch pointed out.

  Caldason took a look. ‘So let’s go that way.’

  ‘As a system for finding something,’ Serrah protested, ‘this is crazy. You do know that, don’t you, Reeth?’

  ‘Got a better idea?’

  She hadn’t.

  They moved towards the opening, orbs held out and weapons ready. The entrance they’d chosen was generously sized, easily wide and tall enough for them to pass through comfortably, but they felt no ease as they went in.

  They found themselves in a tunnel that turned sharply to their right. As it progressed it slanted, taking them gently but decisively deeper. When the path levelled, a few hundred paces on, it opened out and led into another chamber. This was large, but nowhere near as huge as the one above.

  Everything here looked natural, unlike the unknown substance the maze was fashioned from. Stalagmites and stalactites bristled like serpents’ teeth, and there were stone hillocks and granite arches. Tunnel mouths riddled the cavern. In places, the rock resembled grey frozen waves, as though it had flowed before hardening. The air was fusty.

  ‘I wonder how far this all goes on for,’ Serrah said.

  ‘Could be miles,’ Caldason reckoned.

  ‘So how do we go about searching?’

  He turned to Kutch. ‘What do your senses tell you now?’

  ‘The magic’s less oppressive, but it still feels like a blanket. Though…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It seems a little weaker in that direction.’ He nodded.

  ‘All right. Come on that way.’

  Serrah caught his arm. ‘Should we be going the way Kutch senses less magic?’

  ‘We’re going the way of difference. It’s all we’ve got at the moment.’

  They fell in beside him and moved in the direction Kutch had indicated. Tramping the irregular floor, they were aware of the humidity and the unmoving air.

  Then Caldason stopped and held up a hand. ‘Feel that?’

  A cool draught blew gently from a nearby tunnel.

  It caressed Serrah’s cheek. ‘So we go in there, right?’ She viewed the prospect sourly.

  ‘Yes, let’s keep following our hunches.’

  ‘I think you mean your hunches, Reeth.’

  They entered the shaft. It was narrow and winding, and it reminded Serrah of why she shunned enclosed spaces. However, eventually it opened into yet another sizeable cavern, not unlike the last.

  ‘How many more?’ Kutch wondered.

  Serrah shushed him.

  There was a rushing noise. The light from their orbs threw back the glint of a subterranean river. At first they thought it was more quicksilver, but it proved to be water, and it was cold, despite the sultry atmosphere.

  Serrah knelt on the bank and scooped a little with her palm. The taste was intensely brackish and she spat it out.

  ‘What did you expect,’ Caldason teased, ‘honeyed wine?’

  She rose and looked about. ‘This is hopeless, Reeth. We could wander around down here forever.’

  ‘Perhaps we should be a bit more methodical about it,’ he conceded.

  ‘It’d make sense to have some kind of system. Maybe we could–’ A sound cut her short. Then she caught a movement on the edge of her vision. Something darted into one of the tunnel entrances.

  Caldason saw it too. ‘Stay with Kutch!’ he yelled, racing off.

  ‘Like hell! Come on!’ She dashed after him, dragging the boy with her.

  Caldason sped into the tunnel, with Serrah and Kutch pelting in close behind. They ran headlong, navigating twists and tunnel splits. Their giant shadows were grotesque against the craggy walls.

  Serrah could hear Kutch breathing hard behind her. She saw Reeth’s back, some distance ahead, but he was drawing away. She was losing sight of him.

  Caldason wasn’t sure what he was chasing. The figure was lithe, and moving fast. It obviously knew these tunnels well, judging by the fluidity with which it traversed them. He began to think it was going to get away.

  No sooner had the thought occurred than the figure came to grief. It tripped, tumbled, fell. He put on a burst of speed, hoping to get there before it found its feet.

  There was a collision. A tangle of limbs. He was struggling, fighting with something wild, feral. Something that scratched and spat with sharp teeth and raking nails. A mass of black hair.

  He had hold of a girl. He thought it was a child at first, then realised she was a young woman. Slimly built, perhaps half-starved. And she had a knife. Its curved blade flashed. He caught her wrist and arrested its arc. Although her frame was slight, she was strong, but no match for him.

  Further along the tunnel they’d been running down there was a stirring. Pinning the frenzied girl, Caldason looked up. Someone approached in shadow. A voice sounded. He couldn’t make out what was said, but the girl heeded. She let go of her knife and went limp.

  Caldason hardly noticed. He could see the figure clearly now as it slowly approached, and was transfixed.

  Serrah and Kutch arrived, panting. She had her sword drawn. He clutched his dagger.

  ‘What is it?’ she said. ‘Who…?’

  Caldason wasn’t listening. He was staring at the new arrival.

  He had no recollection of ever meeting him, but he k
new him well. He’d seen him a thousand times before.

  It was the old man who lived in his dreams.

  24

  An observer could have mistaken them for a tableau of wax mannequins.

  Then Serrah said, ‘What the hell’s going on, Reeth? Who are these people?’

  Caldason said nothing.

  The old man took a hesitant step forward, a look of consternation on his face. ‘Reeth? Can it be?’

  Caldason slowly rose, ignoring the girl he’d been pinning down. She scuttled away, scooping up her knife, and dashed to the old man. Blueberry-eyed and her hair bedraggled, she stood defiantly at his side, blade at the ready. She was scrawny and dirty, and dressed in brown rags.

  The old man was no better outfitted, in tattered, rough-woven cloth. He was liver-spotted, and his beard was white. ‘Reeth?’ he repeated. ‘Is that really you?’

  ‘Don’t you recognise me?’ Caldason whispered, finding his voice at last.

  The old man gently shed the girl’s protective arm and moved into the light.

  His eyes were milky and disfigured, and unmistakably blind.

  ‘My gods,’ Kutch let out.

  ‘There are three of them,’ the girl explained, glaring at the outsiders. She addressed the old man exclusively, as though the others couldn’t hear or understand. Her voice had a surprising purity, despite its harsh tone.

  ‘Thank you,’ he responded. To the rest, he added, ‘You must excuse Wendah; it’s been a very long time since either of us knew company.’ He took another few paces until he stopped by Caldason’s outstretched hand. ‘May I?’ he asked. Taking the Qalochian’s silence as consent, he reached up and touched Caldason’s face, his fingers gently tracing its contours. ‘It is you. I thought…I feared you were dead.’ He threw his arms around him.

  Awkward in the embrace, Caldason replied, ‘And I was never sure you actually existed.’

  The old man backed off, his ruined eyes moist. ‘Being muddled about the past, not remembering, that’s only to be expected, given what you’ve been through.’

  ‘One thing I do seem to know is that you looked exactly the same. You haven’t aged a day. What are you doing here? And what happened to your sight?’