‘And how does she intend to accomplish this?’
‘She’ll come at you in her Absent form.’
‘Then the girl is to be your sole concern. Find her before tonight’s readings and kill her.’
Ormis nodded his approval and left with him. The dust in the mausoleum settled, the only clue to its new resident - a faint scraping on the underside of the coffin lid.
Ceremony
The steps up to the enclosure were choked with people, some of whom hung over the wall like plants in a window box. Kye and Della pushed their way up until they were blocked by a plump man who turned to see who was pressing against him.
‘Our mother waits for us,’ said Della. ‘We’re late and she’ll be worried.’
The man’s face was kind and he smiled. ‘Then you mustn’t keep her. Make room for the young ones,’ he hollered, his gullibility marking him as a visitor. He pressed his flabby girth against the wall and drew a breath that barely changed his diameter. They squeezed by and after some begrudged muttering from the more sceptical amongst them, the people arranged themselves so they could push through. Higher up The Reader came into view: first the rounded slab of its right shoulder and then its head - the underside of its jaw like a mountainous overhang.
At the top a frowning guard stood in their way.
‘Our mother waits for us,’ Della repeated.
The guard had watched their improbable progress and gave them a weary smile. ‘You’ll have to do better than that. You might’ve fooled some folk down there, but I’ve been hearing this tripe all day… The wall’s full. If you’re worried about losing your ma, then wait at the bottom of the east stairway. It’s the only way down.’ He puffed up and looked over their heads.
Kye and Della looked at each other. They had spent a long hot afternoon in Irongate trying to blend in with the crowds and they were tired. When they heard excited talk about the woodcutter who was up next, they assumed it was the man Ormis had spoken of and headed for the enclosure. But half the city had the same idea and they fought hard to get here. For the last hour they had forgotten their manners – pushing and squeezing through masses of sweaty bodies, crawling under carts and sneaking behind stalls. They were so close now and the idea that this guard was going to make them stand out of sight was too much to bear. So when Kye tipped his head to suggest they rush him, Della nodded and they lunged forwards, driving two channels into the spectators.
The guard twisted after Della, fumbled a grip on her collar and lost her to the masses. ‘Come back here right now!’ he bellowed, standing on tiptoes to watch them squeeze through the crowd. But realising the futility of giving chase, he cursed instead and turned back to the stairway, his face flushing an angry red. He shook his head at those waiting on the steps. ‘Kids. If you ask me they shouldn’t be allowed up here.’
Movement along the wall was just as difficult as on the stairs. The walkway was no more than six feet wide, but it was packed seven deep in places. The spectators all faced inwards, chatting and laughing nervously; some swaying with intoxication and others rooted with anticipation. The irritability of the streets was less evident up here, as if stepping onto the enclosure wall had some magical sedative effect. They heard no reprimands for their forced passage and except for one or two disdainful glances the people gave way without acknowledging them. The voices were laced with excitement and spiced with dialects from all across the Westland – amongst them the broad drawl of the White Sea Coast and the clipped cadences of the Southern Highlands. Most of those in attendance had spent the day toiling through baking streets and as a result their faces were flushed and their bodies humming with stale sweat. One or two smelt of smoke – a sure sign they hadn’t changed since the fire.
They squeezed along the wall until they were out of sight of the guard, then pushed forward to look out across the enclosure. The walls were packed on all sides. Most people stood with their heads tilted back, drinking in the enormity of The Reader and the swirling light of the Creator Stone.
Behind the opposite wall stood the Black Tower - a pillar upon which The Reader could lean if it had the mind to. Half way up, two figures were standing on a wide balcony. The one who looked like a city guard Kye assumed to be Lord Beredrim. The other was dressed all in black and reminded him of Ormis. Neither seemed to share the excitement of those gathered on the wall and they were both staring into the enclosure with the same brooding expression.
‘I bet that’s Izle’s man,’ said Kye, pointing.
Della nodded. ‘Making sure the ceremony runs to plan.’
Kye looked into all corners of the courtyard, but couldn’t see the ten men whose readings were imminent. Two guards stood either side of the posts that marked The Threshold of Consciousness. Another man was fixing a piece of parchment to an easel. He looked at this man in puzzlement before realising he was the Royal Artist. Should one of the hopefuls be chosen tonight, he would be first to give his service. He would sketch the new King’s face and copies would be sent to every town in the Westland.
It was while he was looking at the artist that Kye became aware of a low thud on the air. He turned to Della.
‘The Reader’s heartbeat,’ she said, reading his question from the expression in his eyes. But knowing it made it more unsettling. He became acutely aware of his own heartbeat and there was a moment when he gripped his chest - sure his heart was synchronising with its slow drum. He was adjusting to the feeling when an iron studded door swung open in the base of the opposite wall and a portly guard with a red beard, led the hopefuls out.
The spectators began to applaud.
Kye studied the men as they crossed the courtyard, looking each one up and down. They were an assorted bunch. There had never been a dress code for The Reader Ceremony and some of them had taken full advantage: one was wearing a hat with an orange feather and another a filthy waistcoat with missing buttons. One man had a hole in his shoe and Kye could see his toes wiggling nervously. On the whole they looked like a bunch of revellers who had taken a wrong turn coming out of The Moon and Cobbles.
‘Do you see him Della? Is he there?’
‘I don’t know. I thought it would be easy, but it isn’t. I didn’t get a good look at him in Joebel.’
Kye looked back into the enclosure, trying to guess which egg was rotten. He had a sudden flash of inspiration and turned to a woman who was looking over his right shoulder. ‘Excuse me lady, do you know which one of them is the woodcutter who’s got everybody talking?’
‘Three from the back,’ she said. ‘The one with the beard and waistcoat.’
Kye studied him. He was standing calmly, arms clasped in front of his hips and his head lowered in humble composure. He leaned in to Della and spoke into her ear. ‘Izle must be in front of him. That narrows it down to seven.’
The guard raised a hand. He waited for the walls to quiet then addressed them in a booming baritone. ‘People of Irongate and beyond, you are here to witness the reading of these ten men.’ The crowd cheered, but the hopefuls looked like they were waiting to be hanged. The Reader loomed above them - an indifferent participant in its own ceremony.
The guard unravelled a scroll. ‘Reading 82 of the 51st Ceremony. Amile Thorban of Irongate - step forward and be judged.’
For this local man there was a cheer from one side of the enclosure and a friendly heckle from the other. But as he walked forwards the walls hushed. He stopped between the posts that marked The Threshold of Consciousness and it looked like he had been robbed of the courage to go further. There was muttering on the walls and just when everyone thought he was going to run, he stepped onto the Judgement Stone. The Reader bent its neck to look down at him. The twisting light of the Creator Stone vanished and the atmosphere was at once charged with the Wakening.
The Wakening had been described to Kye in a hundred different ways - none of which was close to what he was feeling now. A strange fizzing rose from his feet in a wave and travelled up his entire body to sizzle on
his scalp. His senses sharpened and crystallized; as if his whole life had been spent underwater and he was breaking the surface for the first time. But most of all there was the sense of being scrutinised - as though the eye of a god had blinked open in front of him. It was an ensemble of sensation that pleased and disturbed him in equal measure. People gasped and several cried out. The Wakening was what most of them were here for - more than the chance to witness the judgement of their next king. For to experience the Wakening was to step out of their humdrum existences and into the realm of the gods, if only for a few heart fluttering seconds. Lady Demia had told his class the hopefuls were advised to urinate before their reading – so their judgement wouldn’t be blighted by shame. The whole class had laughed at the time, but he felt no humour in it now.
Amile Thorban jerked as if The Reader’s concentrated scrutiny had dealt him a physical blow, then he took a wobbly step back over The Threshold of Consciousness. The Reader straightened its neck to look over the city again and the Wakening lifted. With his reading complete, Amile Thorban was ushered towards the open door, his head lowered and his jelly legs barely keeping him up. Before he got there, two of the other hopefuls broke from the line and fled across the courtyard, just in time to file out behind him. One was the man with the orange feather in his hat and it came loose as he ran, floating down to settle on the cobblestones. There was nervous laughter from the walls and several jeers. But it was light hearted. The Wakening was believed to be overflow from The Reader’s scrutiny and there wasn’t one among them who knew how they would fare under its full force.
Kye watched them go then studied those that remained. Lady Demia had also told his class that those who were judged were in some way changed by the experience - its divine scrutiny sparking an introspection that built better character. He wondered if that would be true for these men and if it would last beyond their next belly of ale.
Seven remained.
The guard walked down the line speaking to each in turn. He made some adjustments to his scroll and returned to the front. ‘Reading 83 of the 51st Ceremony - Dorn Collistone of East Yaridge - step forward and be judged.’
This man went forwards to take his turn. He was tall with a horseshoe moustache, dressed in a blue velvet overcoat with silver buttons – the best dressed by far. The Reader lowered its head and the Wakening infused the crowd once more; its force undiminished by their first experience of it. This man endured the Wakening to the point of judgement and when The Reader’s eyes blazed red, the guard called for him to withdraw. Kye saw him blow out and smile his relief. He would get mileage from the experience - a tale he would recount and embellish until long after his hair grew white.
It was then Kye spotted Ormis on the opposite wall, squeezing between rows of rapt spectators and turning his head. ‘Look. Ormis is here,’ he said, pointing. ‘I thought he said it was too dangerous for him to help us.’ When the exorcist stopped to look over to their side of the enclosure Kye risked a wave. It was enough to draw his focus. He gave them an expressionless nod and continued around the wall.
‘He’s not trying very hard to blend in,’ said Kye, frowning at the way Ormis was shouldering people aside. ‘If Izle’s man looks down from the balcony he’ll spot him straight off …’ But Della wasn’t listening. Her attention was nailed down in the enclosure – her eyes blazing as she studied one of the remaining hopefuls. ‘Do you see him? … Della … Do you see him?’
‘Two in front of the woodcutter,’ she replied without shifting her gaze. Kye studied him. He was dressed in a plain tunic and britches; his hair long and black and streaked with grey.
‘Are you sure?’
She shook her head. ‘There’s just something about him. I can’t stop looking at him.’
‘What are you going to do? He’s second in line now.’
‘I don’t know. Just give me a minute, I need to think.’
Kye searched for Ormis and was reassured to see he was a third of the way across the back wall now. When the guard called the next name he looked back down into the enclosure. It was the man with the hole in his shoe and with each step he took forward the leather upper of his boot separated slightly from the sole, giving it the look of a mouth. But as the Wakening returned and his judgement began, Kye watched the man Della had picked out, looking for something to confirm her suspicions. But there was little to see. The man stood in line with his head bowed and shuffled forward when The Reader rejected the subject of its current scrutiny. His reading was next. He felt a rising panic and looked at Della, willing her to think of something.
‘Looks confident this next one,’ said a rough voice behind him. ‘But I’ll stake a silver moon against two coppers he’ll be rejected.’ Gambling on the ceremony was forbidden on the walls, but it was rife. There had been hushed bets going on since the guard led the hopefuls out, but with this mention of the man they were watching, Kye’s ears pricked up.
‘Yeah… I’ll ’ave some of that,’ said another voice.
‘Good man,’ said the first voice. ‘I don’t like the look of him. Looks just the sort to outlaw drink if he became king. And if that happens my friend, I’ll not be needing that silver moon.’ There was a ribbon of laughter at this.
‘Reading 85 of the 51st Ceremony - Arrhul Culshel of Low Banford step forward and be judged.’
‘Where in a cow’s arse is that?’ said someone else. More laughter, quickly dying to silence as the man stepped beyond The Threshold of Consciousness.
Arrhul Culshel or Izle Rohn? thought Kye.
‘I have to stop him,’ said Della, with panic stricken eyes.
‘Okay. But what are you going to do?’
She didn’t answer. Before his question was out, her body sagged and she flopped over the enclosure wall. As the Wakening rushed through his body again he put a stabilising arm around her and looked for the exorcist.
Ormis was ten feet away when Kye craned his neck to look for him – a distance he could have leapt across if the walls had been empty. In the boy’s eyes was a communication of urgency and a plea for haste – a sure sign they had identified Izle. He redoubled his efforts, driving his shoulder through tight ranks of spectators - hoping to reach the girl before she could act. The Wakening was rushing through him again, but the motivation to do Izle’s bidding was strong and it allowed him to keep moving.
But then it all changed.
High above The Reader’s eyes narrowed and the Wakening deepened, sending snaking fingers of expectation into the crowd, snuffing out any last murmurs and pulling all faces towards the courtyard. To this he was not immune. The change in the Wakening demanded his attention and his bond to Izle was no longer strong enough to deny it. He took one last step and it was like walking through honey. He came to a stop only an arm’s reach from the boy and turned to look into the enclosure with the rest of them - thoughts of murder slipping from his mind.
Mindscape
Unseen by anyone but Kye, Della streaked into the man. On the journey back to Irongate she had promised herself never to trespass another soul again. But she broke her promise now, without so much as a raised eyebrow from her conscience. Something more important was at stake and an ancient sense of responsibility was at work inside her. She swept into the man at the same time as the Wakening and felt its full force – the difference between standing in front of a closed furnace and enduring it with the door open. As she settled into his skin she readied herself for a fight. But he offered no resistance and she slipped into him as easily as a hand into a silk glove. Perhaps it was her timing she thought – perhaps he had mistaken her to be part of the Wakening.
The Reader’s consciousness came into their combined soul and, at least for Della, it resolved into seven faces. She knew these faces. They belonged to the elders who sacrificed themselves to give mind to The Reader’s brawn. They dispersed, scouring every inch of his mind with divine appraisal. Della was overwhelmed by their invasive power, but couldn’t afford to stay passive. Readings we
re over quickly and she needed to act right away. So with a tremendous call on her willpower she turned her mind inwards and became part of the scour.
A couple of his thoughts rose through her like bubbles, but both were benign - one a call on himself to stay calm and another a fleeting thought about what was happening on the tower balcony. The first was to be expected, the second, probably nothing more than a wandering of his mind. She searched his feelings and emotions, but found nothing in his mindscape that caused her alarm. Wherever she looked there was nothing but humble serenity. She realised she had the wrong man and her invasion now felt obscenely inappropriate. As The Reader washed through her she felt a sudden pang of shame – that of a child caught trampling flowers by a face in a window. She began to detach from him, intent on leaving him to a fair reading…
…But then she stopped.
The man’s composure was all wrong.
She had been witness to many reading ceremonies over the years and this evening’s proceedings were a fair representation: the jelly legs, the premature flight of hopefuls and even the wiggling of a nervous toe seen through a torn shoe. The Reader’s scrutiny reduced men to quivering wrecks. Even those who became king were seen to shake and in some cases stumble onto their rocky throne. But this man hadn’t so much as twitched in the full force of The Reader’s glare and he was standing on the Judgement Stone in confident serenity. And what about his wandering thought up to the balcony? Wasn’t one of Izle’s men standing up there? A crawling current swept up her neck. It was him.
‘I know you’re in here! Come out from where you’re hiding!’ she said, turning her voice inwards on her tranquil host.
Nothing happened – the seven faces continued their scour. She started to panic. It seemed like an eternity had passed since the man stepped onto the Judgement Stone. In a few seconds The Reader would pass its judgement and from what she could sense, the faces were seeing nothing to warrant his rejection. Izle had constructed a lie – an elaborate mindscape of virtue and serenity beneath which his wickedness was buried. ‘I know what you’re doing. I know you’re in here somewhere. Come out now! Come out you coward and face me.’
Absence_Mist and Shadow Page 28
