by Jen Williams
There was a door in the green wall of the mountain. It was huge, and at the top it was possible to see that it was made of black iron, etched here and there with intertwined serpents. Beneath that a thick slope of ice covered the bottom.
‘Soot and bones and ruin,’ said Vostok. ‘There is nothing here for war-beasts, just evidence of human greed and unpleasantness.’
‘I’m sorry, Vostok.’ Noon pushed her hair back from her face. The Eborans might have murdered thousands of humans for their blood, but the war-beasts hadn’t.
‘It is hardly your fault, bright weapon.’
The door rose in front of them. Tor and Noon unstrapped themselves from the harness and stepped down onto grass stiff with frost.
‘It looks like they tried to burn the tower,’ said Tor. ‘Which is especially idiotic. The thing’s made of marble. It’s not so easy to destroy what Eborans build.’
‘Yet time has done the rest,’ said Vostok. The dragon peered closely at the ice on the door, and snorted again. ‘Noon, this will require your witch-fire after all. I am likely to blast the door to pieces.’
Noon smiled and walked over to the mountain wall. After a moment, she placed both hands on a small patch of the wall that was free of ice, sinking her fingers onto the soft, springy surface of the moss. She reached out and let the life-energy flow into her. It felt green, teeming with life, thousands and thousands of tiny plants, all clustered together so close they were practically one. Something about that thought gave her a tight feeling in her chest, and her smile faltered, but a slight cough from Vostok brought her out of her reverie.
‘You could not use my energy?’ asked the dragon.
Noon stepped back. The wall in front of her now sported a pair of large brown handprints.
‘I wanted to see what it felt like.’ Without bothering to explain further, Noon conjured up a pair of green fireballs and tossed them gently at the thick band of ice. With a hiss and a series of cracks, part of the ice melted away, and after a moment, Noon produced another two, which she deployed at the thickest remaining sections. Water ran over her boots.
‘I think that’ll do,’ she said, standing back. She caught Tor’s eye and saw the half-smile he gave her. There was a time, she knew, when her control over the winnowfire had been erratic, to say the least. Now, with the help of Vostok’s control and her own growing confidence, the witch-fire was a tool rather than a curse.
Vostok moved to the door. It was slightly ajar, although wedged in place with debris and rust. Carefully, she hooked her claws around it and pulled, and with a terrible screech that made them all wince, the door came open. Inside they could just make out the beginning of a dusty floor, mosaicked with an elaborate pattern of flowers and twisting vines, but it was gradually lost in shadows, and beyond that was a wall of darkness.
‘There were lamps once, that were always burning,’ said Vostok. Some of her anger seemed to have ebbed away, to be replaced with a quiet sadness. ‘A few Eborans lived nearby, in their own quarters, and they would come and do things like that for us.’
‘The Order of the Feather,’ said Tor. ‘I remember them.’ He stepped over the threshold. Just in the door was a wall sconce at human height, and there was an old torch stuck inside it. Tor retrieved the torch and held it out to Noon. ‘Would you do the honours?’
A glove of green flame popped into existence around her hand, and she gripped the end of the torch for a few moments until the papery twigs began to crackle and the flame turned orange. Together, with Tor holding the torch, they made their way down the central walkway. It was enormous, with a ceiling that stretched off into the distance. To either side of them, walls that had been carved out of the rock rose smoothly. Noon thought they had probably been covered with a type of plaster, and then they had been painted over. A huge, interconnected mural revealed itself as they worked their way down. Images of Ebora at its pinnacle loomed to either side, with depictions of tall Eboran men and women. Some of the Eborans wore exquisite robes, relaxing in gardens while they took part in creative pursuits. With their lavish, almost unending lives and their strange, ethereal beauty, she could almost understand why they thought of themselves as godlike when compared with their simple human neighbours. Noon saw some figures writing, their heads bowed gracefully over reams of parchment, while other men and women embroidered vast tapestries or played musical instruments. Some of the Eborans wore armour, and these Noon paused to look at more closely. There was armour of grey and silver, black and gold, even armour of stranger colours, like red and blue and green. Seeing her stop, Tor brought the torch closer.
‘They would enamel the metal,’ he said. Kirune appeared at his elbow. The big cat’s yellow eyes glowed a ghostly green in the dim light. ‘A vaguely ridiculous practice, but it was fashionable to have the showiest armour, particularly during a Rain – it showed that you were so confident in your abilities as a warrior that you weren’t worried if your armour attracted attention to you personally. It’s amazing we weren’t all wiped out by our own stupidity much earlier, really.’
‘There are war-beasts too,’ said Kirune quietly. They were huge figures on the murals, stalking across fields and forests like giants. Noon thought many of them had to have been exaggerated for emphasis. She saw enormous griffins, dragons, giant wolves with thick ruffs of fur around their necks, foxes with wings like kestrels, and other less identifiable creatures, things like giant birds with halos of fire around their heads, and one thing that looked like a hulking wild boar, its tusks capped with gold. The war-beasts were also engaged in pastimes, most of which were difficult for Noon to make out. In some scenes they appeared to be playing games that involved chasing or flying, and in others they scooped great furrows of earth out of the ground into obscure patterns. In other paintings, the ones where the Eborans wore armour, the war-beasts were clearly attaining glory on the battlefield. They also wore pieces of armour, much of it shining with jewels and brightly coloured enamel. Curiously, the Jure’lia were not depicted in any detail – there were just anonymous grey shapes where the age-old enemy stood.
‘Our artists often didn’t like to paint the worm people,’ said Tor, as if guessing her question. ‘It was considered unlucky, and many said it spoiled the beauty of their work.’ He turned slightly to Kirune, who was still staring at the walls. ‘Any of this look familiar to you, Kirune?’
In answer, the big cat growled low in his throat.
‘Let’s keep moving down,’ said Noon. ‘See what else we can find.’
The passageway ate deep into the mountain. Around them, great pillars appeared, revealed like sentries by the flickering torchlight. Eventually, they came to a huge circular central cavern. The ceiling here was a vaulted dome covered in gold – it glinted and shone in the torchlight – and a number of passageways led off like the spokes in a wheel. In the centre, there was a circular arena, with rows of huge steps leading down to a sandy floor.
‘A meeting place,’ said Vostok. She was looking at the steps as though she were seeing the war-beasts who had once reclined there. ‘The passageways lead to nooks in the rock, places where we could go and sleep, to be alone. They were deep enough for it to be silent in the nooks, even when a great discussion was going on in the hall. Sometimes,’ she tipped her head slightly to one side, ‘there would be singing contests. Or we would recite poetry.’
Noon moved closer to the edge of the arena, peering down. She tried to imagine Vostok in the centre of the sand, singing to an adoring audience. With some difficulty she suppressed a smile.
‘None of this means anything to me,’ rumbled Kirune. Noon’s amusement faded. ‘I want it to become clearer. But it’s not. It’s just not.’
Vostok sighed noisily. ‘Of course it’s not. Your memories never returned to Ygseril’s roots. You grew in his branches without them.’
Kirune circled around, his paws padding against the stone with barely any noise, despite his weight. His tail was swishing back and forth again, and Noon coul
d see Tor frowning slightly.
‘Are there any other places we can look at?’ she said, placing a hand on Vostok’s shoulder. ‘We may as well see all of it, now we’re here.’
‘There was another place,’ said the dragon. ‘We kept our most favoured artworks there, the items we gave special honour. Our hoard.’
‘Come on, then. Let’s see it.’
Vostok led them down another passageway. This one did not have a softly curved ceiling like the others, but rather the walls met overhead in a square archway. The paintings here had become much simplified too – there was only a long, unbroken landscape on the walls, a series of soft, rolling hills in ochre and brown, and overhead, a single golden river led them along the path. Noon found herself glancing up at it again and again; the torchlight seemed to travel on ahead in its waters, glittering and chasing itself. Eventually, they came to another set of huge iron doors, only these were standing open.
‘They came in here too! An outrage.’
Noon grimaced. There were bodies on the floor just in the doorway, ancient skeletons now but it was clear there had been a fight. Swords, rusted and brown, lay next to outstretched finger bones, and one skull had been cracked open with an axe that was still embedded in it. Inside, statues had been pushed over to shatter into marble pieces on the floor. Tapestries had been slashed, left to hang in ragged pieces like rotting skin, and paintings had been torn down from the walls, their delicate frames shattered.
‘The humans must have had a disagreement over who got to steal what,’ said Tor softly. ‘That makes me feel a little better, at least.’ In the centre of the room was a circle of looming figures, each a wooden model of a war-beast. They were simply carved, each facing out towards them, their faces blank.
‘What were those for?’ asked Noon.
‘We would keep our finest armours displayed there,’ said Vostok. ‘Works of art, every one.’
‘Whoever survived the fight must have made a fortune,’ said Tor, looking around the room.
It was a sad sight. There were alcoves in the walls, spaces where, clearly, beautiful objects had once been stored, all empty now, and a stale old smell permeated everything. The taste of it tickled the back of Noon’s throat, and she swallowed hard.
‘Kirune, does any of this seem familiar?’
The big cat lifted his head, then looked away. Noon pressed her lips into a thin line.
‘It was still a good idea to come here,’ she said. ‘It’s still important to Eboran history, isn’t it? Even if it’s all empty now.’
Vostok stalked along the far wall, where a deep alcove stretched the length of the room. ‘There was a great piece of Eboran history stored here once, but it is also gone. How swiftly we were disregarded.’ The dragon lowered her head, and the arrow of sorrow she felt seemed to pierce Noon’s own chest. She rubbed her dusty hands on her shirt and went to the dragon. The long alcove was dusty, and above and below it were many wall sconces for lamps. Once, someone had wanted this area bathed in light. There were rounded indentations in the stone, as though lozenge-shaped objects had been stored there in the past.
‘Tell me about it,’ she said. ‘What was here?’
‘It was a record, or at least the beginning of one,’ said Vostok. ‘A record, still in progress at the Eighth Rain, of all the war-beasts that have ever lived and died. Their names, their forms, their accomplishments. We never knew which souls would return or when, and so often the forms were different.’ Vostok paused, and when she spoke again it was hesitantly, as though she were revealing some sort of weakness. ‘In the Sixth Rain I was born again as a griffin, my feathers like amber and gold. That would have been captured, in the record, along with my accomplishments, my deeds, my associates. An Eboran man instigated the project, drawing together all the histories and accounts into a central work, and he had sworn to dedicate his life to it. Now it is gone.’
‘You mean, a book?’ Kirune came padding over. He had been prowling the room in circles, sniffing the broken statutory and muttering quietly to himself. ‘What’s so important about a book?’
Vostok hissed, and Noon blinked in alarm at the sudden surge of anger she felt from the dragon. Hastily, she reached out to her. Calm, brave one. Calm.
‘Ignorant cub,’ hissed Vostok. ‘It was not a book, but . . . a unique creation. And it is lost.’
‘Well,’ said Noon, keeping her tone reasonable, ‘couldn’t he have come and taken it away, this man? Perhaps he meant to continue to work on it, when you were all gone. You said it was still in progress.’
‘I remember this.’ Tor approached, holding the torch closer to the alcove. ‘I mean, I never saw it, but I heard about it. Micanal the Clearsighted’s great project.’ He turned to Noon. ‘He was, many Eborans thought, our greatest artist. A genius. And we don’t know what happened to him. He upped and left, with a group of dedicated followers – he was probably sleeping with most of them – and went in search of some mythical island in the Barren Sea. The idiot never came back.’
‘Would he have taken this thing with him?’
Tor shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. Maybe he came here and put it somewhere safe before these idiots tried to destroy the place. I suppose we’ll never know, now.’
‘Fire and blood. A thing like that would have been really useful.’
Behind her, Vostok hissed. ‘It would not have helped them! Nothing can help them, save for listening to me.’
Kirune growled, a low, deep rumble in the back of his throat, and Noon felt her own anger flare up.
‘Shut up, both of you!’ She saw Tor give her a startled look, and ignored it. ‘Vostok, of course this might have helped! We would have had names, dates, pictures. Even if they didn’t remember, it would have given them something to start . . . to start building themselves with. Knowing your history is important.’ She took a deep breath, remembering that her own history was something she’d rather forget. ‘Perhaps we should go. I’ve seen enough ruined things for one day.’
10
‘We would speak with you, Hestillion Eskt.’
Hestillion looked up from the gruel-pod, feeling her cheeks flush with shame. She had been so intent on eating that she had the stuff all over her fingers and her face, and there were dark, stiff patches on her gown where she had cleaned her hands at previous meal times. Next to her, Celaphon was equally intent, his snout buried deep in his own food pod. Hestillion had not seen the queen herself for some time; the only contact she had with anything that could be said to be living were the strange half-formed homunculi that brought her the pods, and she had long since ceased to be ashamed to eat in front of them. The queen, though, was something different. Scrambling to her feet, Hestillion lifted her chin.
‘Remembered I am your prisoner, have you?’
The queen cocked her head, as though she didn’t quite understand the question.
‘We do not forget you, Lady Hestillion. We make sure of it. You are supplied with food here? There is a place for your waste?’
Hestillion felt her cheeks burn again, and furiously ignored it.
‘What do you want?’
The queen came further into the room, moving with her strange liquid grace. To Hestillion’s eyes, she looked different – the stringy matter of her limbs was more defined, and the black fluid that formed her body was less wet-looking, even lighter in colour, a sort of dark grey-green. Celaphon removed his snout from the pod with a wet smack and stared up at her.
‘Your dragon creature. He does not grow.’
Hestillion stepped in front of him, putting herself between the queen and the war-beast. ‘He lives.’
The queen blinked, eyelids as white and as hard as shells over glossy black eyes. ‘We remember them, you must realise, back through the centuries. Waves and waves of enemies, with scale and tooth, feather and fire, pressing us back, always back. It is possible to see glory in a pestilence, and although all must be consumed, there was respect. That,’ she nodded to Celaphon, who had sat
back on his haunches to regard her with wide, pearly eyes, ‘is an afterthought. An act of desperation by a dying creature.’
‘If we are so unimportant, let us go.’
The queen turned away from her at that. ‘Come with us. We want to show you something.’
The wall peeled apart and she stepped outside. Instead of shrinking shut as it usually did, the hole remained open.
‘You will follow, Lady Hestillion?’
Hestillion glanced down at Celaphon. The dragon was looking with longing at the remaining gruel pods.
‘Stay close to me,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Do not leave my side.’
Hestillion went to the hole, and climbed out somewhat awkwardly. Celaphon tried to follow, but the height of the gap was taller than him. He flapped his poorly formed wings once or twice before Hestillion reached back through and picked him up. He might not be growing, she reflected, but he certainly felt heavier. She put him back down by her feet.
The space beyond her cell was a narrow corridor, the walls curving softly so that when she looked up, she could see only shadows. Now that she looked closely, she could see thin dark lines in the walls, glistening slightly. More of the ubiquitous black fluid.
‘We could pull you through the walls, but we imagine you would not find that comfortable.’ The Jure’lia queen gestured and the curved surface in front of them split down the middle, peeling back to reveal another, identical corridor. The wall on the far side of that opened too, and then another. The queen began to walk briskly down this impromptu passageway and Hestillion followed with Celaphon scurrying at her ankles. She had the impression of being inside something with many flattened layers, like an onion or a fruit of some sort.
‘When I spoke to you before, when you were in the roots –’ Hestillion paused, gathering her thoughts – ‘you would refer to yourself as I, sometimes. Now it is only we.’
The queen seemed to stiffen, her shoulders curving in slightly as though Hestillion had dealt her some sort of blow. ‘We had been separated for a long time,’ she said eventually. ‘It is not natural for us to be alone, for so long. It was like decaying, and sometimes . . . it was hard to remember our connections. What we will show you here will help you understand.’ Her shoulders shifted, and her tone changed. ‘When we come to a new place, we must burrow beneath the land.’
