by Simon Kewin
“Secondly there is the book,” said the King. “This, too, was recently held by you. I require its immediate return. Stop at nothing to make sure this happens.”
Nod. So the King was as obsessed with this spell book as he was with the girl. More craziness. It barely mattered. Once they tracked down Nox she would take great pleasure in handing both him and the book over as well.
“Finally there is the matter of Spirit. You may ignore our need for Bone for the moment. There will be plenty of time for extending the White City in the future. But I have ambitious plans, and it is Spirit we need.”
She nodded. There were many rumours of an invasion. She thought about the army, waiting motionless on the banks of the An. She pitied anyone standing in its way. It was of little concern to her. As to the Spirit, an increase by another few percent was sustainable for a month or so.
“I require you to triple the amount you send us.”
For a moment she blinked up at him in astonishment. She very nearly spoke, very nearly shouted, No! Tripling the amount was impossible. Milking humanity for its Spirit was a delicate process. Extract a few percent too much from people, and you risked a collapse of their mental state. You'd lose Spirit in the long run as people gave up hope, became angry and depressed. Fought and killed. Tripling the rate would have terrible global effects. Smouldering resentments the world over would break out into wars. Suicide rates would soar. The international economy would slump into depression. Banks would collapse and countries would go bankrupt. Still she kneeled, trying to take it in, visions of what it would mean flashing through her mind. It was utterly insane. What had been the point of all her delicate calculations in the face of this?
“Clara Sweetley? Do you understand me?”
He sat there, calmly awaiting her response. She couldn't object. There was only one thing she could do. Because if she refused him someone else would crawl there and agree.
She nodded her assent and lowered her eyes to the white ground.
“Very good. Return to your own world and begin work.”
Back outside the audience chamber, at the top of the broad sweep of stairs, she stopped to take it all in. A wind had picked up, cold on her face. Her heart fluttered in her chest, from the long walk and the shock of the King's demands. How could she possibly hope to do this thing? The effects on the world would be calamitous.
But still, but still. If she could do what was asked of her, her position in Menhroth's favour would be assured. The price would be terrible, it was true. But it wasn't a price she'd have to pay personally. Genera would have to make enormous changes. Add a second or even a third pipeline. The whole global extraction network would have to be reconfigured. But perhaps, somehow, they could achieve it.
While Charis descended ahead of her, Clara Sweetley gazed out over the walls. The army still stood unmoving, massed on the banks. Beyond them, the waters of the An glistened and winked. Somewhere there lay Andar. The land east of the An. That was the target of the invasion if the rumours were to be believed. That was why the undain required so much Spirit. Well. If that was what they wanted that was what they'd get. One way or another.
She stared into that distance, making plans, until Charis called for her to hurry up and follow.
5. The First Frosts of Winter
Andar
Hellen Meggenwar gazed west over the waters of the An. Curtains of mist hung above the sparkling waters. There would be no visions of gleaming towers and spires today. Still, she didn't need to see the White City to know the undain were there. She could feel them. Or rather, feel where they weren't. Living beings danced like lights to her inner eye, but the undain were the opposite. An absence. A blotting-out. Unseen clouds in the night sky that covered the stars.
Sound travelled farther over water. The splash of a leaping fish or the call of a bird in the mist sounded near at hand. Perhaps it was the same with the inner eye. Beyond the ravenous minds of the river serpents, over the wide waters, that great wrongness was clear. It had the same feeling as the discordant drone she'd heard in the Song on Islagray. Every day a little louder, like the approach of some vast swarm. Standing beside the waters the sound seemed to thrum in the air. Its deep power sent a shiver through her old bones.
But that wasn't why she'd returned to the water's edge. She tried once again to put it out of her mind. She sought another presence, farther west. She'd thought coming here, to this precise spot, the place where the winged abomination had landed, might help. Give her a touchstone, a place of contact. But it wasn't working. She was a fool for even trying. It was just that she had to do something.
Fer had it bad enough, pursued by the horrors of that other world. But it was much worse for Cait, across the waters in Angere and quite possibly alone. The faint message through the aether from the wise man, this Lizard King, had been clear enough, whispering in her dreams. Cait has left this world for Angere.
The girl would be a great witch one day, if she lived that long. Right now she was a girl: brave and clever and resourceful and surprising, but also inexperienced and ignorant. And no doubt terrified. And with all the undain of Angere standing between her and the waters of the An.
Hellen sighed. It was her fault. She had set these things in motion. Sent Fer off through the Tanglewood. Got Cait caught up in the whole business. She was to blame. Here she was on this sunny riverbank while Cait and Fer and the rest were out there facing horror and death. Oh, you could point the finger at others. Menhroth. Ilminion. Or you could pretend Cait was some sort of chosen one, that fate had picked her for this role. But that was nonsense, a way of avoiding blame. She, Hellen Meggenwar, had chosen to do these things. She could have sent someone else. She could have gone herself. But she hadn't.
Out of fear? She didn't think so. In truth it was hard to be sure. But if she had gone, who would have stayed to deal with everything else? Ariane could mutter all she wanted about keeping your feet on the ground. The plain truth was that peaceful, beautiful Andar lay slumbering, and someone had to try and wake it up. Hellen had done what she'd thought was best. Maybe she'd got it wrong. Trying was always better than giving in and doing nothing.
She sighed again, slumping to the ground with her scuffed boots dangling over the lip of the bank. This early in the day, frost gilded each blade of grass like slivers of delicate glass. At least the remains of the winged undain were gone. The dragonriders had seen to that. She smoothed her hand over the ground, watching the ice crystals disappear with the warmth of her touch. The first frosts of winter. Ice was coming as the days shortened. It wouldn't be long before it crept down the An, freezing it from bank to bank. Unwittingly building a bridge for the undain army.
A tiny spider, little more than a speck, crept its way among the grass, traversing with difficulty its vast forest. She watched it work. If the undain came and Andar fell, would this tiny spider notice? Or would it and its children be here for the rest of time, oblivious to larger events? She almost envied its ignorance.
She reached out with her mind again, pushing with all her strength toward that distant void. The effort of it made her gasp out loud as sharp pains shot up her arms and across her chest. Nothing. She gave in, her breathing rapid and ragged. She wasn't powerful enough. She would never be powerful enough. The great Hellen Meggenwar, eldest of Andar, could do nothing.
She hauled herself to her feet. Sitting there and feeling sorry for herself wasn’t going to help anyone. She had her part to play, and she would play it to the best of her abilities. She owed it to Cait and Fer, at least, to do what little she could. The magic the witches could wield was ill-suited to the task of defending Andar. Witchery was weak, it was a craft of coaxings and cajolings, of working with things as they were. They did the things people needed doing even if the people didn’t realise they needed it yet. They could ease a woman through childbirth and take away the pains of ailments and agues. At a pinch they could work the weather, persuade wind and water to behave themselves, and they could commune
with living plants and animals. It would all be of some use, perhaps, but none of it would be enough. They needed others.
Half a mile north, the uppermost tower of Caer L'dun jutted through the mists. It was the tallest building in all of Andar, it was said, taller than the Wycka, taller than the Sun Tower in Guilden. It was modelled on the riders' original fortress in the far north of Angere. Now that tower, Caer D'nar, was abandoned, and the remnants of the riders lived here in its replacement. Today she would go there. There was someone she had to meet, but she also had to learn more about the dragonriders' intentions. They were not all like Borrn and Beltaine. Different individuals bore their guilt in different ways. She needed to understand their minds. Discover whether they were as willing to help as she hoped.
She walked north, following the curve of the bank. Flying was all very well, but the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other let her think. Ariane would approve. Keep your feet on the ground, down here with the rest of us. Hellen wished her oldest friend were with her. But Ariane lay in the infirmary, recovering from their efforts to heal the woman in the other world, Cait's grandmother. The effects on both Hellen and Ariane had been hard, but it had been worse for Ariane. She'd given everything she could.
A line of twelve dragonriders stood at the arched entrance to Caer L'dun. This was how their ancestors had guarded the rulers of Angere five hundred years ago. The dragonriders liked their traditions. Or perhaps they did it as another reminder of what they were, what they'd done. Their betrayal. She could well believe it of them.
The sun had burned off the mists, and the ancient stones of the fortress glowed like the red embers of a fire. The soaring building looked immovably strong, as if the blocks had stood so long they'd fused back into mountain. Perhaps there was hope here, in the stones' strength and the watchfulness of the dragonriders.
The peninsula of Forness jutted into the waters of the An, making this arc of land the nearest point to Angere. That, of course, was why they'd built their fortress there, reusing the stones from the shattered bridge. A watchtower for Andar. For five centuries the dragonriders had gazed over the An, ready to defend the land from the nightmares they'd helped create. Defend the land or die trying.
It would be a good place to talk, a place for perspective. She spent too long cooped up in Islagray, hatching plans. The summons from Beltaine was unexpected, but welcome. Late the previous evening one of the dragonriders' ensorcelled falcons, darting low over the treetops of Islagray, had landed on her windowsill, drawn to her like a moth to the flame. Around its leg was a metal ring. The falcon had regarded her with a predator's disdain as she gently unclasped the message. Then the bird had ruffled its feathers as if shaking itself from a dream and flew away. Hellen had unfurled the slip of paper and read.
Come to Caer L'dun. There is one here you should meet. Beltaine.
Now, the twelve guards stood unmoving as she approached. Six women and six men. They were stationary, but in the tense way a cat about to pounce is stationary. Their serpentine blades were held ready. For a moment she thought they'd refuse her entry. That this was all some deception and they'd attack with those cruel blades. Twelve of them together might be a test.
But then another emerged from behind them. The red tattoos winding up his arms glistened with sweat. For a moment she thought it was Borrn, finally returned to them from the far north.
But, no. It was Beltaine bowing low to her. “My Lady. Thank you for coming.”
He looked as sombre as before. His chest heaved in his leather armour. Did the dragonriders ever let their hair down? Did they even smile? Probably not. Too busy maintaining their state of grim readiness. She didn't approve in the least, but perhaps it was something they'd all be grateful for, sooner or later.
“And I told you to call me Hellen, dragonrider. I have no claim of lordship over you.”
Beltaine dipped his head in acquiescence. “Forgive me. Hellen.”
You couldn't win with them. That damned guilt of theirs. Children couldn't be held responsible for the mistakes of their forebears, but the dragonriders revelled in it.
“Are you going to allow me entrance into Caer L'dun? Or must I stand here until I die of old age?”
Beltaine looked mortified. “No, please, come in. You are always welcome here. My apologies.”
They couldn't take a joke, either. Which only made goading them more irresistible. “And this mysterious visitor? Has Menhroth himself come to surrender to us?”
“No, My Lady. Not that. It is someone from Andar. He awaits in the Watchtower. I will take you to him. We can talk there.”
Hellen sighed. Goading people without a sense of humour was no fun. “Very well, My Lord. Show me the way.”
Beltaine led her through echoing stone passageways and up numerous winding staircases. She was soon disorientated. Perhaps that was intentional. Caer L'dun had one purpose: to withstand an onslaught.
Ranks of dragonriders drilled in the courtyards, shouting and moving in perfect synchronisation, their actions somewhere between a dance and combat. Elsewhere, wooden seats like outsized horses' saddles had been set up. More dragonriders sat astride these, wielding their weapons in choreographed sequences of thrusts and parries. After all this time they still practised the arts of fighting from dragon back. Though only a ritual now, their single-mindedness was impressive. Even the lack of actual dragons didn't deter them.
Hellen and Beltaine strode on, past rooms filled with racks of serpentine swords and long, barbed spears. Past the individual cells where the riders slept: plain, square rooms empty apart from a raised wooden cot. Everything was plain stone, bare wood, hard surfaces. Nothing comfortable or decorative or beautiful.
Except for one thing: the great tapestries that covered the walls of the larger halls. Hellen stopped to consider one. Red and blue dragons twisted and curled in the air. Whether they were dancing or fighting she couldn't tell. On their backs sat riders, each wielding a sword and one of the spears. In that gilded, vibrant scene, the dragons flew again.
“You brought these cloths with you from Angere?” asked Hellen.
“The originals. These are copies.”
“I have read of them. And the dragons? Do they still exist? Must we fear them, too, when the attack comes?”
“They are long-dead,” said Beltaine. “Even great Xoster, the mother of them all, must have succumbed to age and grief by now. But there would be no need to fear them. The dragons despised the undain and would never have allowed one to ride them.”
Hellen studied the tapestry, picking out more and more detail. She had no eye for such things, but she could admire the craftsmanship. The thread used was very fine, silky smooth as she brushed her fingers over it. She must show Ariane, if there would ever be a chance, now.
“How do you decide your colours when you have no dragons to bond with?”
“We take those of either our father or our mother.”
“Never both?”
“No. A choice is made when the boy or girl comes of age.”
“There are none of you with black markings any more?”
He looked puzzled at her question. “No. Black was reserved for the King's personal guard.”
“So there were black dragons, too?”
“No. The black tattoos were added to the normal markings when a rider was chosen.”
“Those who remained in Angere. What colour dragons did they ride?”
“All colours. There was no one Wing that remained loyal. Now, if you will follow me to the Watchtower?”
Another long flight of winding stairs spiralled upward, rotating sunwise, the better to defend against right-handed attackers. Beltaine sprang ahead of her. Hellen took her time, thinking, listening. The curving stones of the narrow stairwell were smooth to her touch. The air was close, but a breeze breathed from above, bringing with it scents of open air and river. She could hear raised voices, some fierce argument. She tried to make out words but couldn't.
&nb
sp; At the top, the stairs opened into a light, airy room, its narrow windows open to the wind. They were in the highest tower. From this room the dragonriders had watched for five centuries for the coming of the undain. Three riders stood with their backs to her, one at each window, staring west, northwest and southwest, out over the flowing waters.
But it wasn't the watchers who'd been arguing so fiercely. A square wooden table filled the centre of the room at which five others stood. A map of Andar covered the table, the whole land laid out, with the An taking up the western edge. A memory of a dream flashed through her mind: a dream of flying over the patchwork landscape of Andar. She thrust the thought away. Old fool. She had to think straight, now. She looked around at the five faces that had turned to regard her.
Four of them were dragonriders. A woman with red tattoos like Beltaine, a man with blue like Ran's, a younger woman with green and finally a second man with bronze-gold tattoos. Each had five silver studs in their ears, compared to Beltaine's three and Ran's one. It was the fifth figure that drew her attention, though. This was no dragonrider. Instead of a grim scowl, he grinned at the sight of her. A tall mancer from Guilden, decked in his finest robes. His hair was a dishevelled mess, as it always was. Hellen crossed the room, and threw her arms around Ashen Meggenwar, her son.
“Ah, it's been too long since I saw you, boy.”
“I should have come south sooner,” he said into her ear. “I've been lost among the books of Guilden. Don't know where I get that from.”
She held him at arm's length to drink in his features. He was his father's son, no doubt about it. She remembered that same roguish smile on Borrn's face. Her old heart quickened at the memories.
“How long have you been at Caer L'dun?” she asked.
“Three days now. I came down the coast road as quickly as I could.”
