Skender could think of a thousand places he would rather be, but it was Mage Kelloman who voiced the concern he didn't dare put into words.
“Why are we getting involved?” Kelloman asked Marmion when the journey was still in its planning stages. “The Swarm is the Guardian's problem. What possible difference does it make to us?”
“It makes a difference because people are dying,” Marmion had said, not hiding his scornful tone. “Because standing by and letting it happen would make us as bad as the things doing it.”
“And because you need the Guardian's help, I suppose. Let's not forget that.”
“Of course not. If we want them to help us, we have to earn it. That's perfectly reasonable to me.”
“Perfectly venal, I would've thought. You're talking about the end of the world, aren't you? A civilised person would willingly help, not have to be badgered into it.”
“A person such as yourself, for instance.”
Kelloman pursed his lips and looked away. He had no comeback, having been carried to the site on a litter, complaining of weakness after his encounter with the wraith. Skender had been appointed his attendant and was forced to walk beside his litter, listening to an endless spiel of discontent. If there was one thing the mage liked less than a forester, it seemed, it was a Sky Warden, and being forced to cooperate with Marmion and the others rankled at every turn.
But Kelloman had no choice now. He had proved his worth and would not be allowed to back out of the hunt, no matter how much he tried. The Guardian had appealed to his vanity in the end, painting him as a force to be reckoned with against evildoers and monsters. He had puffed up at that, and been reluctant to open himself up to charges of cowardice if he chose not to join the hunting party.
Once the insects settled down, the camp rapidly took shape. A ring of tents surrounded the knoll, under cover of the ferns. All those not participating directly in the experiment would sleep in light armour, and all would be armed. No one knew quite what to expect, so they prepared as a matter of course for anything.
Skender took the opportunity to escape Kelloman by helping unload the carts and backpacks. Not only did the foresters excel at growing trees rich in the Change, but they had developed an impressive array of biological tools with which to apply it. A crate of skull-sized growths as hard and dry as almonds and as black as ebony hummed with stored energy, grown and harvested from a species of tree particularly strong in the Change. A dozen tall poles, each composed of three branches coiled around each other, stood in for the crystals or stones used by wardens and mages. The potential each stored in the dense fibres and cells of the still-living wood was as powerful as a fully charged light-sink and had to be moved carefully. If one were to explode, it could easily kill the person handling it.
While the foresters had no distinct Change-working caste—much like the Panic Heptarchy, Skender had learned—two practitioners of chimerical plant husbandry had been allocated to the group. They explained how the poles and other grown artefacts could be utilised to channel and focus the Change around the knoll. Marmion paced out the knoll and its leafy surrounds, indicating where holes should be dug and charms laid. The perimeter formed by the poles would protect everything—tents and all—from the forest outside.
Skender kept himself busy sweeping the ground around Mage Kelloman's chosen site of any loose dirt or stone. As he worked, he kept his eyes down, telling himself to keep his mind on the job. It didn't matter what other people thought of him. He was doing the best he could. No one could ask for more than that.
When everything was in place, Lidia Delfine called the group together. Under the light of glowstones provided by Kelloman and mirror lights improvised by Marmion, Banner, and Eitzen, twenty people met to discuss how best to deal with the wraiths.
“The perimeter is in place,” she said, coming to the point directly. “Once it's activated, nothing will get in or out without our knowledge, so the chances of being taken by surprise are minimal. Still, I want lookouts at eight points within the perimeter, watching in three-hour shifts. At the slightest sign, raise the alarm. The same goes for everyone. Don't be afraid to shout. I'd rather have a dozen false alarms than be taken off-guard once.”
She handed over to Marmion, who stood in the centre of the cleared area on a very solid heavy box and spoke loudly to everyone gathered.
“I want to remind everyone of our objectives tonight. They're twofold: firstly, to attract the Swarm, so we can confront them, and secondly, to do what damage we can while we have the chance. We can try to talk to them, try to warn them away from the forest if we can, but in the end force is likely to speak louder than words.”
Skender listened with the rest of them, unable to avoid filling in what Marmion wasn't saying. Only a quarter of those on the knoll had been present that morning, during the planning session with the Guardian. Only a quarter knew just how many uncertainties they had to negotiate.
How do we know they'll come? Marmion had said in response to criticism of his plan. Well, we know the Swarm likes blood. We can use that to our advantage. But blood is everywhere. How can we be sure they'll want ours?
Skender had glanced around the group, from Lidia Delfine's pale, tight-lipped expression to Kelloman's studiously maintained air of nonchalance. He wondered what he himself looked like, and decided terrified was most likely.
As well as blood, I propose we offer them something more substantial. In the last twenty-four hours, in an environment lacking specialised Change-workers, they've attacked me, Sal, Skender, and Mage Kelloman. That suggests quite strongly to me that we have something else they want, apart from blood. Those who know us will agree that we have little in common but the Change. That, I think, will draw them in.
A trap, said the Guardian, baited with the Change.
Exactly. Marmion had met her gaze unflinchingly. And we will be at the centre of it. Well away from the city, of course, so innocent people won't be hurt.
Of course.
And in the event that nothing happens at all, that our best efforts produce no response whatsoever…Marmion had shrugged. Well, we still have something up our sleeve.
To the group assembled on the knoll, with the dark sky above and whispering forest on every side, Marmion was brisk and businesslike, discouraging speculation.
“In a moment, Mage Kelloman and I will begin the work that we hope will draw the Swarm to this location. Wardens Banner and Eitzen will assist me. Skender, you will assist Mage Kelloman. I advise everyone else to stand well clear, as far back as the perimeter will allow, and to keep distractions to a minimum. We'll call if we need anything. The only circumstance in which we're to be interrupted is if you see the enemy coming.”
“What about the Panic?” asked the woman called Navi, who had first named Chu an “Outcast.” “What if we see them?”
An awkward silence fell. Marmion glanced at Lidia Delfine, who shook her head slightly. The Guardian had made it clear before they left that Seneschal Schuet's return to Milang and the message he carried was not to be made public unless absolutely necessary. Preempting hostilities would be the worst possible outcome.
Reinforcing that message, Schuet himself had remained behind at Milang. He would have come but for an order from the Guardian herself, insisting he recover his strength before throwing himself into danger again. The Seneschal had wanted to argue—Skender had seen it written in every sinew, every pore—but loyalty had won out, and perhaps a small amount of exhaustion too. Schuet's time with the Panic had drained him. He looked older than he had the night he'd fished Skender and Chu from the mud.
“If the Panic come instead of the Swarm, at least we'll know our charms aren't completely worthless,” said Marmion. If it was an attempt to relieve the tension, it wasn't entirely successful. “Let's not make problems for ourselves before then. That's all I have left to say. I suggest we press on before we run out of nighttime to do it in.”
Lidia Delfine broke up the gathering with a strin
g of snapped orders. People moved off to follow them, dispersing to the shadowy fringes of the knoll. Marmion climbed down from the box and ran his hand through his thinning hair. He looked tired but determined as he examined the paraphernalia laid out before him.
“Well, my boy.” Kelloman managed to sound both bored and put-upon. “We'd best get started. Do you want to darken those “stones down for me?”
Skender crossed to each of the glowstones in order to reduce the light they cast. Eventually, the knoll would be lit by three natural bonfires, stoked by Lidia and Heuve. The flames would release a noisy chimerical ambience, as well as provide light and warmth. As Skender went to adjust the last glowstone, a tiny, dark shape scampered across the ground and ran up his arm.
He squawked in alarm. Tiny claws gripped the skin of his neck. Two of the foresters ran over, asking him what was wrong.
“Goddess. It's nothing.” He felt like an idiot. “It's just Warden Kelloman's pet.”
“Not mine, lad,” came the immediate protest. “Filthy vermin.”
“It must've hitched a ride on the litter.” He managed to disentangle the bilby from the collar of his black robe and placed it more securely on his shoulder. “Sorry to give you a fright,” he announced to the group in general and to the two who had run over to help in particular. “I'll try to keep it down from now on.”
As he returned to his duties, he caught sight of Chu watching him from further around the perimeter, frozen in the act of pulling a coil of rope out of a crate. When she saw that he had noticed, she brushed the hair out of her eyes with an irritated flick and went back to work.
The wardens dimmed their mirrorlights, plunging the heart of the knoll into a deep gloom, but not for long. Sparks flared as, with a crackle and a flicker of flame, the first of the bonfires caught. Skender hurried to Kelloman's side and helped him arrange a series of small jars next to where he sat cross-legged on the naked stone. The jars contained sand of numerous different colours, from pure white to deep red. Each had to be uncorked—carefully, so not even a single grain spilled—and placed within arm's reach of the mage. Skender tried to put all thoughts of the wardens and their activities from his mind, even though out of the corner of his eye he could see them making their own preparations on the far side of the knoll. He also tried not to keep looking over his shoulder at the dark sky and forest. If the Swarm came, others would raise the alarm.
And if she's worried about me, he told himself, then she can find a better way of showing it.
Finally they were ready and Skender completely extinguished the glowstones. Flames cast towering shadows all around the knoll, dancing and writhing like demented spirits. His skin crawled as Kelloman closed his eyes and began a simple deep-breathing exercise, focusing his concentration on the task ahead. Already the Change was gathering around the knoll, building up an invisible thunderhead as the Change-workers looked inside themselves to the source of their power.
Kelloman reached out with his left hand and picked up a pot of yellow sand. With eyes still tightly closed, he tipped the pot onto its side and traced out a single curving line across the bare stone. Switching to his right hand, he repeated the process on that side of his body. Then he selected another pot and another colour in order to create two more lines. He repeated the process nine times, until a complex charm lay completed around him, humming with potential. Even the partially empty pots became part of the design, signifying points of focus where energy gathered.
The night was growing unnaturally warm. Despite this, the bilby quivered on Skender's shoulder as though freezing cold. He reached up and stroked its ears in an attempt to reassure it. Tiny teeth nipped his fingers, and he hastily withdrew the hand.
Kelloman's breathing slowed to the brink of stopping entirely. Skender stood well back, wary of disturbing the mage's intense concentration. The charm was one he had read about, but had not seen practised before. Requiring advanced proficiency in a number of meditation techniques, it stood far beyond the abilities of most students—and masters—at the Keep.
As Kelloman's concentration deepened, his appearance seemed to change shape. The slight young woman whose body he inhabited became blurry and a glimpse of his true self came through. Skender detected more than just his tattoos this time: a new roundness to his cheeks; large hands with square fingernails; a long nose, hooked like an eagle's. His skin paled to white and he seemed to swell, as though holding his breath, but the exhalation didn't come.
Then he began to glow, faintly at first and only around the edges, but becoming stronger by the minute. Skender was reminded of the times he had held a glowstone in his hand and watched the light shining through the flesh of his fingers. The mage took on the same sense of translucent pinkness, as though at any moment he could become fully transparent and disappear into sunlight. The light grew brighter, self-contained, self-defining. Skender could see it, but it didn't touch him or anything else outside the limits of the charm. It simply was.
The mage's efforts reached equilibrium. Filled with the Change, at one with the deeper energies and patterns of life, he hung poised on the brink of the world, experiencing neither time nor thought. He could, theoretically, stay that way for a thousand years if undisturbed. Past mages had sought immortality through such suspended modes of being, but all had failed. No one on record had maintained the state for longer than a month at a time, and always at great cost. Some had never woken.
Kelloman had only to hold it for a few hours—or until the Swarm noticed him, at least. If Marmion was right and they were attracted to the Change as well as blood, then the mage would shine out like a beacon, brighter than the three bonfires to the right kind of eyes.
The bilby leapt off Skender's shoulder and curled up by Kelloman's charm on the side facing the nearest fire and appeared to go to sleep. Every now and then, its black eyes opened, as though checking on the mage.
Skender's attention wandered. There was little for him to do since Kelloman had achieved the concentration required except wait for sharp-toothed death to descend from the sky. Over in the Sky Warden camp, Marmion was staring into a wide, shallow bowl of water watching ripples form and intersect. The patterns they cast constantly shifted but never descended into chaos. These were the equivalent of Kelloman's static, sand-painted charm.
Skender thought about calling Sal, but decided that conserving his strength was more important, and he didn't want to distract his friends from whatever hunt they were pursuing.
It seemed like months since they had all been on the boneship and the Hanging Mountains had been a vague objective, growing only gradually closer…
A light wind sprang up, sweeping sparks from the bonfires high up into the sky. Skender tracked them with his eyes, picking sparks at random and following them as long as he could. In the absence of stars, they were the only lights in the sky. He wondered what it would be like to fly in such a dark void with only the three bonfires below, and was reminded of the first time he and Chu had glided together over the Divide at night.
Forcing the memory down, he kept watching the sparks, wishing he could float aloft as easily as them. His legs were aching from the long walk that day. Unable to rest properly, and with the fear of the Swarm dropping out of the sky at any moment constantly hovering, he sat on a crate and rested his chin on both hands.
Lamia…
The voice came from nowhere. Out of the wind and the crackling fires; out of the rustling foliage and the whispering of the foresters; out of the pulsing of Skender's heartbeat and the air in his lungs.
Lamia, come for me.
He looked around, wondering if anyone else had noticed. No cry went up. No one looked around questioningly. Only he heard it, like a whisper in his bones.
Come, Striga. Come, Lemu. Come, Camunda. Come, Phix!
As insidious as a cold breeze down the back of his neck, the recitation continued.
Come, Kukuth. Come, Kiskil-lilla. Come, Kalar-iti. Come, my sisters. Come!
He looke
d around again, expecting a reply although he didn't know where from. He wasn't even sure the voice was real.
I, Giltine, await you!
Silence greeted the cry. Skender held his breath, mentally and physically. A log fell in the nearest bonfire, sending a spray of sparks up into the air. He jumped as though a light-sink had explosively discharged behind him.
“Are you all right there?” asked a forester doing the rounds of the perimeter.
“Yes, yes,” he said, hastily standing and brushing down his robe. “Fine, thanks.”
“Are you sure?”
Only on second glance did he realise that the woman addressing him was Chu, not a stranger at all.
He shook his head, wondering what was wrong with him.
“I could hear someone,” he said. “Someone whispering.”
“Voices in your head, eh?” She looked at him thoughtfully. “I thought you'd be used to them by now.”
She went to walk off, swinging a glowing barbed staff over her shoulder.
“Chu, wait.” He took a step towards her, stopped when she turned to look over her shoulder.
“Yes, Skender?”
“I—” He found himself at a loss for words. I don't know how to undo what I've done. All I know is that I don't know anything. Except…
He couldn't say that.
“Nothing.”
Expressionless, she turned and continued on her way.
Utterly dispirited, he went to sit down on the crate again—and consciously noted exactly where he had been sitting. The crate was unmarked in any way. Nothing distinguished it from the others, which was how Marmion wanted it, but Skender could tell which one it was because it alone had not been opened. It alone was still locked.
The heaviest crate.
Skender lay his left hand flat on the top, unsure what exactly he feared most: hearing the voice again, or not hearing it.
Come, my sisters. Come!
He flinched, but kept his hand in place.
I, Giltine, await you!
The wraith Kelloman had nearly killed and which Marmion had entrapped was calling for the rest of the Swarm.
The Hanging Mountains Page 25
