by Danie Ware
“We’re the crazed ones.” She was young, still prone to sulking. “Still don’t know why you need me.”
He chuckled, the sound oddly subdued.
“Your horse has got to heal. And you can read... feel... basic Kartian, which I can’t. I need your strength.” He glanced at her over the tops of the pince-nez. “This is Amos, and I could do worse for a bodyguard.”
“Against what?” She eyed the shadows. “Is there something else in – ?”
“Not in here, Jayr, out there.” He chuckled. “Any monsters in here are only in the books. Now, make yourself useful. Stuff on ancient, Tusienic discoveries – how they made bretir, and chearl. Whatever those things were, they came from the same –”
“They were no match for us, I’ll tell you that.” The memory of the fight made her grin, brief and tight. “I hope Triq’s okay.”
“You’re both infamous, Infamous.” He shoved his glasses higher up his nose. “Now work!”
Jayr grumbled, “Why’d you teach me to read Grasslander anyway – too many letters.” After a final, uneasy survey of the dimness and the filth, though, she looked at the book in her hands. It was called Reasonless Phemonenæ, the words embossed into a battered leather cover. Something long dead had nibbled the corners. Glancing at Ress, she was tempted to put it back.
Then a word caught her eye.
Listed as part of the contents was “Memory”.
On an obscure impulse, she let the pages fall open, and blew gently at an eternity of insect husk.
The writing had faded to deep blue, ink bled out into the page. She brought the rocklight close and began to read:
Thus it appeared to my eyes upon landing that the Strait has fooled us, and we had failed to disembark upon the much-beloved Substance of the Gods, yet had instead landed upon the cruel shores of a hostile world. The fabled and beauteous inhabitants of the Ilfead-Syr were illustrated in old murals taller yet than a man, and more graceful than the most elegant of women, powerful of mind and body and voice. They bore skin between their fingers and between their toes, and they were able to see in the turbulent waters that surround the island.
We carried gifts to them – the strength of muara, the power of cauxe, the beauty of ghyz, and we carried the greetings of the mainland, not heard in a thousand returns of the spring.
How could we have believed that the Substance of the Gods, the Ilfead-Syr, the home of the Well of the World’s Memory, could be so utterly chilling to the souls of such as we?
The chill could be heard in the silence, felt in the air, it leeched the warmth from our very feet. The weakest of the crew broke and ran for the water to lose the sense of nothingness in the turbulence of the waves.
How long we walked with the chill sinking into our bones, I do not now remember, but we found at last the island’s inhabitants, their beauty no fable and seen even in their deaths. Yet their faces were empty – their eyes held nothing but nothing, telling us that nothing had been their deaths.
Jayr paused and read that bit again. It didn’t make any more sense the second time.
How better can my poor language explain what we have seen? How long they have been dead I do not know, but even now, they are still whole, as if only asleep, and there are thousands of them here.
Aleché, God of Inspiration, grant me only that I may portray the depth of horror witnessed by our eyes. The farther we searched, the more dead we found, slumped in their homes, or curled against walls where they had simply fallen. All were made more terrible by their faces, faces that held, not despair, and yet not relief or release, and yet not even a sense of duty, guilt or fear. Their eyes reflected nothing, they held emptiness, lethargy, apathy, as though a thriving and joyous population, the Guardians of the Ilfe, the Well of Memory, an entire race and culture, had died of simply giving up.
Jayr shivered and rubbed at the back of her neck where her hair was tickling. It was getting colder in here.
And the Ilfe was gone! Gone as if it had never been! How is the World to live without her memory? My horror complete, I turned to my crew, seeking their support and friendship, only to find myself alone in the glade of the Well. Alone on this island of the dead, on an island where this empty death would still be stalking.
My journey back to the ship has been as a nightmare to me. Fallen with the dead of the island are now the dead of my friends, their faces holding the same awful emptiness, even their weapons undrawn. What manner of enemy can cause such utter destruction? Why have I, and only I, been spared the fate of the crew?
So thus do I wait for this death to stalk me at last. I write what I have seen, and it shall be hidden in the hope that it will return to the mainland to be seen by other eyes than mine. All my horror and my grief do I pour into this text, and when it is gone, I feel that this death of nothing will come for me.
The fears of this island are founded in reality. Do not, I beg of you, ever return here. I pronounce this island as Ramm-Outhe – Accurséd of the Gods. We have lost the Ilfe. The World will die because she cannot remember.
Jayr put the book down and rubbed bone-deep cold from her arms and shoulders. Her scars crawled with tension.
“Ress...?”
“I said work!”
“Listen to this.” She read him the tale, watching him, saw his eyes widen and his shoulders shiver as hers had done. His jaw lax, he took off the glasses and his expression washed with perplexity, then rising disbelief. As she finished, he mouthed the word “Ramm-Outhe”, then said, “There’s a tale that the Bard visited Rammouthe on some sort of mission, and came back scragged. Everyone that went with him died. There’s a daemon, a beastie, meant to be incarcerated there?”
“And it cooked him, I take it?”
“He didn’t find a beastie, he got munched by the wildlife. The tale of the daemon goes back further than that though, I’m trying to remember how it goes...”
“What? You lose your memory too?”
That made him blink, almost as if he sought to attach significance to what she’d said – as if the loss of the world’s memory could somehow also affect their own. He unclipped his glasses, pointed them at her.
“Have you ever been to Fhaveon? It’s an odd city – it’s built backwards, like a fortress facing the water, facing Rammouthe Island across the Bava Strait. The tale goes that Fhaveon was built on the site of an older city, a city razed to dust and ashes by the very daemon that Roderick went seeking. When the daemon was defeated, and Saluvarith built Fhaveon, the God Samiel sent a creature of light and warfare to be a guardian, and to ensure that the daemon would never return.”
“Come off it,” Jayr said. “That’s exactly the garbage they tell in the market –”
“Put the book down.” The voice was cold, female. Both Ress and Jayr started. Jayr was on her feet, her stance instinctive and her breathing tense – but the woman stood a way back, cloaked in the library’s shadows.
“Dear Gods.” Ress scrabbled upright, almost dropping his pince-nez.
The woman was tall, gaunt, pale, she wore the gloom like a gown. Caressed by darkness, one long slim leg was visible, one white shoulder, one side of a sharp-boned face.
“My Lord.” As flustered as she’d ever seen him, Jayr watched Ress touch both hands to his sternum and bow, spreading his arms wide. It was an obscure and formal gesture the Banned rarely used. As he shot her a look, she awkwardly did the same, feeling oversized and clumsy. The book in her hand felt like it was made of stone.
“Ress of the Banned. Jayr the Infamous. What brings you to my library?”
“Knowledge, my Lord.” Ress was almost stuttering. “I –”
“The centaurs.” She gave a brief nod. “I understand why the Banned would be curious – half man, half horse, is that not your prerogative?”
Jayr said, “How do you – ?”
“Know?” The woman gave a soft, chill laugh. “This is Amos, and I am her Lord. Little happens in the Greater Varchinde that the grass does not bring t
o the walls of my city.”
“You’re Nivrotar?” The question was out before Jayr could stop it. “Ah... my Lord?”
“You take me for a custodian?” Nivrotar, Lord of Amos, probably the single most feared of the Grassland’s CityWardens, unwrapped herself from the shadow. “There have not been custodians in the library for many returns.”
As tall as Jayr, as lean as a knife blade, face angular and beautiful and cold, she carried herself as if the library was her courtroom. White skin and black hair, a black gown that left one long leg free, that bared her shoulders and whispered on her skin as she moved. The shadows seemed to follow her, a cloak of darkness she bore with long ease.
She wasn’t Grasslander. Her colouring was Kartian, Tundran? Her features and poise Archipelagan? She was every realm of the world and more.
She was alone.
“Give me the book.” Her outstretched hand was not a request. About her wrist there was a black tattoo, a design that curled like creeper up the inside of her arm.
“My Lord, we didn’t mean to intrude.” Ress tucked his pince-nez safely in a pouch. “The door wasn’t guarded – wasn’t locked...”
“Wasn’t standing,” Jayr muttered, innocently eyeing the roof.
“Knowledge is forgotten treasure.” The Lord of Amos opened the book Jayr had been reading, carefully turned the pages. “Only I walk here still – when the strife of my city wearies me.” She shut the book with a slam – and it burst into a cloud of dust and crumbling leather. Gone. “You know this, Ress of the Banned – the time of the scholar is passing, just as it did for you.” She tilted her hand, let the dead book tumble to the floor. “And you, Jayr the Infamous.” For a moment, she met Jayr’s dark eyes and her smile was almost feminine. “This is an odd place for a Kartian slave.”
“I’m not – !” Ress laid a hand on her arm and she made an effort to curb her temper. “I’m Banned now.”
“Of course you are.” She blew dust from her outstretched palm. “The Banned is the last refuge of the exile, and has assumed its place with pride and power.” Jayr shot Ress a baffled look, but Nivrotar waved a long, white hand. “One day,” she said, “you must tell me the tale of how you fled the... ah... entertainments of the Kartian PriestLords, and joined Syke’s heretical ranks. One day, but not today.” She smiled at both of them, but the expression was sharp, curious, careful. “Today, we speak of alchemy – and of the daemon you so carelessly mention.”
Ress said, “The Bard –”
“Ah, the Bard.” For a moment, Nivrotar frowned – a fragment of recollection, a figment crossing her face. Then she shivered and gathered the shadows about her. “The Bard has been here many times, seeking answers and direction, seeking the very daemon you cannot name.” Her smile was touched – a flicker of sensuality. “I am the Lord of Amos, I have walked here with him and the words have been our sanctuary. There are words we have read and regretted, words we have read and rejected. And there are some words we have dared not read at all. Are you so wise, Ress of the Banned? Are you wiser than we?”
“My Lord...” Ress gathered his breath. “You’re answering my questions with questions.” He was narrow eyed, wary and guarded. “The creatures that we fought, can you tell me what they were?”
“Perhaps I have forgotten.” She smiled. “Perhaps I, too, have lost my memory, and what lore I once knew. Knowledge is power, Ress of the Banned – and a wise foe will take that power from you. Yet hear this.”
She paused, ensuring that she had his full attention.
“You speak of the fall of Tusien and the fate of her lore. And you speak of the founding of Fhaveon the fortress, the might that guards the Varchinde against our foe. That foe, Ress of the Banned, was the daemon Kas Vahl Zaxaar. It was he who destroyed Tusien and her learning, he who made war upon the Grasslands and destroyed the great city of Swathe.”
There was something odd, almost ironic about her tone, as though there was some private jest that she could not share.
“And then Saluvarith came, and Fhaveon came, and Rhan came – and the daemon was defeated and he faded from our ken. Perchance it is Vahl Zaxaar himself who holds the alchemical formulae you seek, I know not.” She smiled thinly and brushed the last of the dust from her hands. “Sadly, neither I nor my library retain the learning of Tusien, such things are not held within these books. You are wasting your time.” She stepped back, and the shadows slid over her skin. “Should you need me, call at my gates. The tan commander will grant you escort. Farewell.”
Another step, and she dissolved into the dust.
“What the rhez?” Jayr took two steps after her, saw no one. “Hey!” The word was gone in the shadows – there was no one to hear it. The Lord of Amos may as well have dispersed into the decaying air. “Hey!”
“Hush!” Ress was on his knees. He replaced the pince-nez, carefully sifted through the remnants of the book. “You can’t shout in here – vibrations – you’ll cause all kinds of trouble.” As Jayr watched, he picked up a corner of leather, turned it over to reveal the paper peeling from the inside. “That was crazed – but she’s right. There’s power in knowledge.” He was almost trembling. He picked up fragments of a page, pieced them together in a pattern on the mosaic. “‘Kas’ means daemon, and ‘Vahl Zaxaar’ – I know the name –”
“She’s completely loco.”
“She not, though.” Another piece – and another. “There’s something here – why else would she destroy the book? Our mention of Ramm-Outhe? Maybe there is something there? Maybe it was a warning?”
“If the Lord of Amos wanted to warn you, she’d put a crossbow bolt through your foot. Can we leave now? She’s just told us there’s nothing here.”
“Why give us that name, though? Was she jesting? You’re right, Vahl Zaxaar’s a market tale, a figment –”
“Figments!” Jayr looked at the page, puzzled together on the floor. “She’s loco, and she’s just told us to leave. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“I think she’s hiding something.” He slid a final piece into the page. “The alchemical formula must be –”
“She’s not hiding anything. She said that Roderick’s been through the library –”
“Doesn’t mean it isn’t here,” he said. “Shut up and help me.”
“All right. Just one more.” Jayr tore at a nail, muttering, and gave a short, pointed sigh. Dust danced. “Then we get the rhez out of here.” Sulkily she joined him, kneeling on the tiny, cold tiles.
He said, “Last one. Promise.”
For a moment, she eyed the fragmented page, then she glanced at Ress’s expression and groaned.
“You’d better mean that.” She spat out the nail fragment.
The fine writing was outlined with sigils, all now so faded she could barely see them. They hurt her eyes.
“What can you see?” he asked.
“Looks like someone’s used this as a cleaning rag.” She studied it for a moment, trying to piece together letters and sigils into some form of narrative. “‘Time when Substance of the Gods, In grip...’ Then something about flame. There’s mention of a ‘Promise’, and a ‘Master of Light’.” She looked up. “This is crazed.”
“Maybe,” Ress said softly. “But this has been crazed since poor Feren fled those monsters. Let’s get on.”
“For Gods’ sakes,” she told him. “It’s the damned great prophecy that foretells the end of the world. I mean, I can’t even make half of it out. ‘...When the Final Guardian, is broken at the...’ Past?” She blinked, words swimming on the fragmented page. “Huge chunks of this are missing. I can see something about a ‘darker jest...’ blank, ‘...fear manifest’.
Inexplicably, the hairs on the back of her neck were standing up.
He looked at her. “Do you understand any more of it?”
She held the rocklight close. “‘Time the Flux begins to...’” She shrugged. “That bit’s gone. Then, ‘Nothing is more powerful, at last than...’ The rest
’s too rotted to see.”
Her chill was growing.
“Right at the end,” he told her.
She was almost nose on parchment. “‘When love of life is distant...’ then ‘Time the World becomes...’ The last word of both lines is missing.”
With an odd relief, she pulled her attention away from the mess, rubbed a hand over her hurting forehead, rubbed the prickle from her forearms.
“Okay,” she said, half defiant. “So we’ve got half-eaten verses of poetry.”
But Ress was thinking now, restless and intense.
“‘The Substance of the Gods’ – is Rammouthe, we’ve just learned that. The ‘Final Guardian’ – Roderick is or was a Guardian of the Ryll. The ‘Master of Light’ – at the founding of Fhaveon, Samiel sent a creature of light to defend the city. Nivrotar’s just told us that much.”
Ress was staring at the shadows, unseeing. In his glasses, he looked like a crazed prophet about to disturb the soft air with a rant about the Final War.
“The ‘Flux’ – the Elemental Powerflux that’s supposed to connect their souls, light and darkness, ice and fire. Roderick was right – he was right – this is all somehow connected.”
“You’ll be telling me he’s got a champion from another world next.” Jayr resisted the temptation to scatter the fragments into the dirt. “I don’t know why this even matters!”
Ress began to chew his lip, eyes losing their focus.
“You wouldn’t believe how much it matters! I need to think.”
“You think yourself in circles.” She sat back, crossed her arms and watched him.
“...I think there’s something else here, Jayr. Something more than just the big daemon beastie...”
“What?” Jayr had lost him already. “Why?”
He stood up sharply and began to pace to and fro upon the shattered mosaic.
“The book Nivrotar broke, the loss of the world’s memory. The island’s inhabitants died of emptiness, of apathy. Surely a daemon would be all fire and lightning and torture and hooks?” He turned, his eyes focused and oddly bright. “I think there’s something else.”
