by Simon Kewin
“This isn't a game,” said his mother. “We'll all die if we don't act. Most likely we'll die even if we do.”
“Aha, so you do have a plan. Then you had better give us our instructions.”
His mother sighed. “Very well. If you can be bothered to listen I'll tell you what I have learned. Cait has gone to Angere. I didn't foresee that. It changes everything. The risk to her is terrible, but the risk to us is terrible, too. She is of the blood. If Menhroth discovers she is there, he will send his entire army to capture her.”
“She's gone for the book?” asked Ariane, disbelief clear in her voice.
“I think so. I don't know for sure. Who imagined she would attempt such a thing?”
“Very inconsiderate of her, not following orders,” said Ariane.
His mother ignored her. “I've been searching for a way to get the book from Angere. Now we have to help Cait, too.”
“But it's impossible,” said Ariane. “No one can cross the An. No one apart from those vile abominations.”
“Unless we head north and cross the ice,” said Ashen. “It won't be long before the waters freeze.”
“No,” said his mother. “There's no time to wait. We have to act now.”
“So what miracle do you plan to bring about?” asked Ariane.
“First, we need to get a message through to Cait,” said his mother. She turned to look at him. Here it came. They'd had only a few days together. A few precious days. He'd been lucky to have that.
“Ashen,” she said. “Will you help?”
“Since when do you ask people if they're willing?” asked Ariane.
“I thought I'd try it out.”
“Well, stick to just giving orders,” said Ariane. “Then we'll all know where we are.”
Ashen held up his hand, laughing at the two of them. “Enough! Of course I'll do what I can.”
“Very well,” said his mother. “There is one in Andar who might be able to send a message across the An. A wise man of sorts. You have heard of the Blind Mapmaker?”
“Heard stories,” said Ashen. “He's real?”
“I believe he is. I've tried to speak to him many times, but he always refuses to talk.”
“Or he doesn't exist,” said Ariane.
“Or that, yes. But if what I've read is true he is powerful enough to converse with those on the other side of the An. He might be able to reach Cait.”
“But why would he listen to me?” said Ashen. “I'm the one who turned his back on Islagray to become a mancer. I'm the one who pursued the dark arts of drawing magic from spell books and artefacts and the aether rather than from myself. I'm the one who works sorcery without paying the price.”
“Some people aren't so tangled up in these petty differences, as well you know,” his mother said. Ariane snorted in amusement but didn't comment. His mother, ignoring her, carried on. “He's a wise man, yes, but I've read he also uses a seeing sphere to help him peer through the mists, like any good scryer from Guilden.”
“And where does he live?” asked Ashen. “Do you know that?”
“South, far down the An on the borders of Azandia. And then east up the Meander, the river that runs from the Azend mountains. There's a tower on a hill from where he stares into the aether with his mind's eye and draws his maps. If you take Johnny's boat and don't stop for food or sleep, you can be there in a week.”
“Assuming he exists,” said Ashen. “And assuming I don't get swallowed whole by curious river serpents, why would this mapmaker help us?”
“Why wouldn't he?” said his mother. “The undain won't make an exception of him. And we have certain items you can take as gifts. Old maps stored in the tunnels that he might appreciate. They say he has the largest collection in the land.”
“And what message should I ask him to send if I find him?”
“Tell him Cait must make for the bridgehead near the White City with all speed.”
“The bridgehead?” said Ariane, shocked. “But that's madness. That is where the undain are massing. It's the one place she should avoid.”
“Perhaps,” said his mother. “But I'm hoping there will be one or two others there. Others who can help.”
“Who?” asked Ariane.
“Isn't it obvious? You and I, of course.”
6. Palaces of the Undain
Cait awoke in cold water, spluttering and struggling as she was sucked down into purple depths. She fought and broke the surface for a moment, gasping, inhaling as much water as air. She sank again, mountains and sky becoming a shifting blur of colour through the waters. Sounds were muffled and distant. She struggled and thrashed, fighting for the light. But it was too far away. There was only water. Her lungs and her blood were ice, and the distant mountains faded to darkness. The only sound was her heart, beating like a bell.
A hand grasped hers, the grip strong, hauling her upward. She broke into air. For a moment she couldn't remember how to breathe. She struggled and spluttered, but another hand cradled her head, supporting her. Finally she gulped hungry mouthfuls of air.
Sound returned. Vision returned. She floated in the freezing waters of the mountain lake, and the dead witch-girl was beside her, supporting her.
The undain. The Bone Harvester. She must have used up all her strength trying to defeat it. “Am I dead?” she asked.
The other girl laughed. “No, silly. How can you be dead and still talking to me?”
Her lips were blue and water streamed off her hair as if she'd just emerged from the depths herself. It was hard to see where dark hair stopped and the water began. A ragged doll floated a short distance away, bobbing on the ripples.
“You're dead and I talk to you all the time,” said Cait.
“It's not the same, is it? You do know where we are, don't you, Cait? You do know where this pool really is?”
She could see only the ring of jagged mountain-peaks and the deep blue of the sky. For some reason there was no sun, although bright light illuminated the scene.
“The mountains somewhere,” said Cait. “I don't remember exactly.”
The cold throughout her body was intense, but she wasn't shivering. She felt more alive each moment.
“It's inside you,” said the girl. “In your head. Your memories. Your mind. This is how you picture magic working. That's all. This isn't a real lake, although it must be based on one you saw once. But you can't be dead otherwise we wouldn't be here, would we? Not you. Not me. Not the lake.”
Cait worked her way to her feet. The waters were suddenly shallow enough to stand in. Here eyes were level with the witch-girl, who still held her hand.
“So does that mean you're not real either?” said Cait. “I'm making you up?” The thought was terrible. The witch-girl was her only friend in Angere. The only one she could talk to.
The girl giggled again. “Of course I'm real. I came with you from Manchester. A part of me did, anyway.”
“So part of you is still there?”
“Oh, yes,” said the girl, shrugging as if this was the most normal thing in the world.
“But how is that possible?” asked Cait. “How can you be alive in my mind?”
Her blue lips curled into a smile. “Isn't it obvious? Haven't you worked it out?”
“What?”
“That we're related.”
“We are?”
“Of course, Cait. How else could this work?”
“I don't know. Magic?”
“You know,” said the girl, “you haven't even asked me my name.”
She hadn't, it was true. The girl was a ghost, a spirit, a long-dead memory. But she was also a child, a year or two younger than Cait when she died.
“I'm sorry,” said Cait. “Will you tell me your name?”
The girl smiled brightly. “It's Bethany. Bethany Weerd. My sister was one of your mother's mother's mothers. Many cold years ago.”
“So you're my … great great great aunt or something?”
“I am. Or I would have been.
We're the same blood. I knew it as soon as I saw you by the towers.”
It made sense. Her great great great great grandmother had come from Andar in 1819, so her mum had said. They were Weerds because the family tradition was for the husband to take his wife's name, not the other way round. Something her dad had gone along with. He'd pretended to complain, but had secretly liked it. Perhaps doing names like that was how they did it in Andar, and her forebears had brought the tradition with them.
“And let me make sure I have this completely clear,” said Cait. “I'm definitely not dead.”
“Trust me. I know what it's like to be dead, and you're not. You blaze far too brightly. It was close, though. When we attacked that second monster it almost finished you. You and me. It was a good job I was there, showing you what to do. Showing you when to stop.”
“So I'm unconscious?”
“The pain was too much.”
“But how long have I been asleep?”
“I only see the outside world through your eyes. I've been alone while you slept. Minutes, days, weeks, I don't know.”
“But where am I? What happened to the Bone Harvester? And Ran and Nox?”
“The only way to find out is to wake up. I think you're ready now. You'll ache something terrible for a few days, but you'll survive. You're not one to give in. My mum always said the same about me.”
“OK,” said Cait. “So what do I do? How do I wake myself up?”
The girl lifted an arm, water cascading off it as she pointed. “There's a path there, leading out of the valley. It's very steep. Steep and slippery. I've tried to walk it, but I can't. I get so far and fall back. I think only you can take it.”
The path was a zig-zagging line up the side of one of the mountains. “I have to go that way?”
“You can do it. And I'll still be here when you leave.”
Cait hugged the girl. Bethany's flesh was cold but her heart pounded in her chest.
“Go on,” said the girl.
Cait waded ashore, hauling herself onto the soft grass. She stood and looked back as Bethany retrieved her doll and clutched it.
“You're younger than me,” said Cait. “But you're also a lot older. What should I call you?”
The girl shrugged. “Call me Bethany. Everyone else does. Now climb that path so we can find out what's going on.”
Golden light filled Cait's eyes as she surfaced into the real world. She'd climbed the mountain path, each step an effort. Now there was light and warmth and softness. Where was she? Not the lane, that was clear. There was no sound, no breath of air on her face. For a moment she let herself hover on the edge of wakefulness, enjoying the sensation of floating, of hovering between worlds.
One by one, aches and agonies prodded her, as if she were repossessing her own body with all its bruises and cuts. The pains in her chest were sharp as she inhaled. She tried to take in shallow breaths. She felt like she'd been beaten with sticks. Not that she'd ever been beaten with sticks, but it had to feel something like this.
It was tempting to drift away, back to sleep. Back to the safety of the mountain lake. Instead, she let her eyes flicker open, the world an indistinct blur through her eyelashes.
She lay on a bed in a cream-coloured room, a pearly light suffusing everything. Sunlight filtered through the shades, making the air in the room glow. Specs of dust like tiny fairies thronged and danced in the beams. Someone had carried her to the big house, the palace they'd glimpsed.
She hauled herself around to sit on the edge of the bed, an act that seemed to take all her remaining strength. She sat with her head in her hands while the room lurched. The walls took several moments to decide which way round they should be.
She tried to understand what had happened. She must have killed the second Bone Harvester, she and Bethany. She'd passed out. And now she was a prisoner, a prisoner with barely enough strength to stand.
Great. She was doing a fantastic job of saving the world, wasn't she?
The room was weird. Gold edging and touches of rich scarlet highlighted an otherwise white bedroom. Walls, floor, even the furniture: it was all a polished white, translucent where the sun caught it. For some reason it put her in mind of her mum's bone china tea set, the one she kept for best in a cupboard and never actually used.
As prisons went it was pretty luxurious. Maybe they'd locked her in while they sent messages to the White City, which meant she might not have much time. They could come for her at any moment. She had to get away.
And where were Ran and Nox? She had to find out what was going on. She forced herself to stand. The floor canted, as if she were aboard a boat upon a lurching sea. Her stomach heaved, and she fell to her knees, retching. A bitter taste filled her mouth, but she wasn't sick. How long was it since she'd eaten? Since she'd drunk? Too long. She retched again dryly, then kneeled there, panting.
The floor beneath her nose was smooth and white, a mosaic of tiny fragments cemented into swirling geometric lines. Wood, maybe, or some grained stone. She tried to follow the pattern but couldn't. For some reason staring at the floor made her feel worse, made her stomach flip. She turned to lie on her back.
She needed water. Cold water and cool air. There were two doors in the room, one shut but the other half-open. She crawled that way, glad none of her friends were there to see her.
As she'd hoped, the door led to a bathroom. More polished white tiles covered every surface, but at least there was a basin, with ornate gold taps. Kneeling, she found the cold, then thrust her mouth into the stream of water.
She gulped, feeling the water sliding to her stomach. She'd read somewhere not to drink too much if you were parched. She couldn't resist. The water was crisp and clear. She'd never tasted anything so wonderful in her life.
She tried standing again. This time the world decided to remain stationary. That was good. She held on to the side of the large, rectangular bath. How long was it since she'd washed? Or brushed her hair? She didn't like to think.
She came to a decision and turned on the bath taps. Maybe the Witch King himself would turn up and cart her off to the White City. Maybe the undain hordes were about to enslave everyone she knew back in Manchester. But one thing was clear. She'd find it all a lot easier to deal with if she were out of her filthy clothes and clean. It felt like she'd been wearing the same things for weeks.
As the water gushed into the bath, she peered into the bedroom. Someone had laid out a long gown on the bed. White, inevitably. It wasn't the sort of thing she'd normally wear, but it would have to do.
She peeled off the clothes she'd been wearing since the day at the library and sank into the waters of the bath. It was five minutes or more before it occurred to her what the white walls were, what the building was constructed from. A vision of metal containers travelling through the waterfall at the refinery came to her, and she retched again. They carved it with such delicacy, such care. Such craftsmanship. She had to get away. They were sick, all of them.
When she was dry, she pulled the flowing white robes over her head, the material silky on her skin. She studied herself in the mirror. The clothes weren't her style at all. She usually went for the goth look, not hippy angel. The blue dye in her hair was fading, too. Still, perhaps it would all help her fit in. Disguise her as she tried to escape. She slipped on the white shoes they’d provided, too.
The dizziness had faded a little. She could walk, although she doubted if she was up to much magic. Her muscles ached like they did after she'd run a cross-country race at school.
She was preparing to leave when shouts sounded outside her window. Her heart raced. They'd come for her. She'd waited too long. Fearing what she'd see, she peered around the shades.
She was on the second floor of the palace, overlooking a wide courtyard. Intricately carved spires jutted around the yard, white walls gleaming in the rays of the sun. Down on the ground, three figures posed upon horses. The beasts were tall, their white flanks powerful. Two had six legs and one
– it took her a few moments to count – had eight.
As a young girl, Cait had once clopped along on a docile pony as a birthday treat. These beasts, by contrast, looked as though they could run like the wind. They bridled, eager to be off. Around their legs jostled a pack of animals, something like hounds but with larger mouths full of too many sharp teeth.
The riders shouted to each other, laughing at some joke. One of them was clearly a lord of the undain. He sat tall and proud in flowing white robes trimmed with scarlet and silver. His hair, also, was silver, flowing down his back as he controlled his eight-legged steed with a gloved hand. He turned his horse, revealing a face that was striking in its beauty. Ancient and young at the same time.
Nox was there, too, riding a six-legged horse. It was Nox the undain lord was laughing with. She saw how it was. Nox had brought her there after all. It was what he'd planned all along. He'd handed her to the undain and now he was enjoying a ride with his new friends while she was kept prisoner.
The first inklings of anger arose within her. The first stirrings of that cold fury that she could bend to her will to fuel her magic. Soon she would be stronger. Soon she would be able to fight back. And when she did, it would be Nox she'd deal with first, she promised herself. To think she'd trusted him, believed he was trying to help them. How could she have been so stupid?
The third rider was the boy from the cart. He stood apart from the other two, astride his own six-legged horse. He sat unmoving, sullen, staring into the distance. He clearly didn't want to be there. Servants wearing white veils offered drinks to Nox and the undain lord, holding the delicate glasses on silver trays, but no one offered the boy anything.
Shouts went up from the opposite side of the courtyard and another group of servants appeared. A huddle of them, hauling a prisoner along by the arms. A man, struggling and screaming as he fought his captors. The servants brought him to the undain lord.
The lord broke off his conversation with Nox and glanced down at the prisoner, assessing him. The hounds milled around in a frenzy of excitement, sniffing at the man, jumping and snapping at his face. The undain lord nodded to the servants, and they released the prisoner. The man stood for a moment, gaze darting around, terror bright on his face. He stepped backward, and the boiling mass of hounds followed. A word from the undain held the beasts in check.
