by Jen Williams
They weren’t the only ones, thought Vintage. Out loud, she said, ‘It’s only natural to grieve. You’ve had a shock.’
‘It’s like I left the room for a moment, and when I returned everything has been ruined, or changed,’ said Nanthema. She was looking away from the fire now, but she still did not meet Vintage’s eyes, and her mouth creased at the edges as though she could taste something sour. ‘Like a broken mirror of my old life, like something poisoned. My parents are long dead, my home a stinking ruin. The Ebora I knew has been infected with humans, humans who camp on our beautiful lawns and let their children play in our sacred streams. The war-beasts who should be here for us in this time of war are a sham, a bad joke.’
‘Nan,’ Vintage leaned forward, ‘you can’t mean that? Yes, they have some problems, but they are still extraordinary beings.’
‘You can’t know,’ Nanthema shook her head. ‘You didn’t see them when they were real. No, everything is ruined.’
Vintage looked down at her hands, trying to ignore the slow blossom of dismay seeping through her chest. She had always thought Nanthema optimistic, the sort of person who looked for the brighter things and cherished them, but in truth, had she ever been with Nanthema when she was truly challenged? Had she ever witnessed the Eboran woman deal with a real setback? Or was the truth that Nanthema had always been able to buy her way around problems, or simply leave and abandon anything that could prove tricky? It was easy to appear optimistic when the path was always smooth.
‘There is hope,’ she said firmly. ‘It may not look like it, but while we are here, while we all have each other, there’s always a chance.’
‘Human platitudes,’ said Nanthema, looking back at the fire. If she saw how the words wounded Vintage, she didn’t show it. ‘The stories you people tell yourselves.’
Vintage opened her mouth to reply, only for the brief silence to be broken by a series of rapid knocks at the door. Turning sharply away from Nanthema, Vintage called, ‘Come in!’
Bern stepped into the room, the lines of his face unusually stern, with Aldasair at his heels. There was a piece of parchment in Bern’s fist, and from the crumpled state of it he’d apparently read it a number of times.
‘Lady de Grazon, I’m sorry.’ His eyes flickered to Nanthema and back to her, taking in a lot in that brief glance. In contrast, Aldasair had his hands clasped in front of him and he was looking at the floor. ‘Could we have a word?’
Nanthema stood up, casting down the blanket and moving towards the door.
‘You don’t need me here for this.’
She slipped out of the room quietly and was gone. Vintage smoothed her face into an expression of cheerful query. ‘Bern, of course. What is it you need? There’s some soup here going spare, if you fancy it.’
‘I was opening our letters,’ said Aldasair, ‘and there was one from Finneral. For Bern. Would it be possible for me to have a drink?’
Vintage raised her eyebrows, then gestured to a side table where a bottle of red wine was already decanted. ‘Help yourself. It’s almost as fine as that from my own estate.’
Bern held out the letter to her. ‘We might have a problem. But it could turn out to be a blessing. I’m not sure, but I would like to have your take, Lady de Grazon.’
‘Please darling, call me Vintage.’ She took the parchment. Bern’s big fingers had smudged the ink here and there, but it was still perfectly legible. There was a complex sigil in the upper right-hand corner, an interlocking series of lines that made her think of the tattoos that snaked their way up Bern’s arms, and the handwriting was small and neat.
‘Well, my Finneral is a little rusty, but I shall give it a read.’ To one side, Aldasair was pouring glasses of wine, his fingers trembling slightly.
‘To Bern the Younger, fourth of his name:
‘I hope this finds you well, by the stones. I have heard all you have done to assist our Eboran neighbours, even staying behind to help rebuild what is left when most of your own people had returned to Finneral. Now news reaches us that you have bonded with an Eboran war-beast. We are sceptical, of course – gossip that comes across the mountains contains as much grit as it does diamond dust – and find it difficult to believe that the—’
Vintage paused, pointing at a word.
‘What does this mean?’
Bern pulled on his beard with one hand. ‘Skrodahl. It means, uh,’ he glanced briefly at Aldasair, ‘cursed blood-drinkers.’
‘I see.’ Vintage cleared her throat.
‘. . . find it difficult to believe that the Skrodahl would part with so precious a possession, but perhaps they truly are that desperate. As it happens, if this is true, there is a chance you could do your people a great service, Bern the Younger. The Broken Field is awake, it is moving, and we are all in terrible danger. We fight daily to contain it.’
Vintage stopped. ‘The Broken Field? I will admit, I only have the most rudimentary knowledge of Finneral culture, but this sounds significant. Like something I should know about?’
Bern had been standing with his arms crossed, and now he shook his head from side to side. Not in negation, she sensed, but in a great reluctance to speak. Eventually, he sighed heavily.
‘It’s not a secret,’ he said. ‘Not really. We just don’t talk about it. When I was a lad, we would tell stories about it, but only to each other, and only after dark, and if we got caught we got a hiding. Aldasair, could you pass me a goblet of that wine, will you?’
He downed the alcohol in a series of loud gulps, and then nodded emphatically, as though that was what he had been missing all along. ‘It’s a worm-people ship,’ he said. ‘A very old one, broken into pieces over our land during the Third or Fourth Rain, we think.’
Vintage blinked. ‘A Behemoth? In Finneral? Why have I never heard of such a thing?’
‘Because it’s not really a Behemoth, it’s just the bits of one, ancient and corroded and broken. Hundreds of years ago my people buried what was left of it under a pile of sacred stones—’
‘Stones!’ Vintage flapped the letter at him. ‘Stones will hardly do any good!’
‘They’re very large stones. As far as we were concerned, it was a buried corpse. An evil one, mind. Just read the rest of the letter.’
‘The sacred stones still stand in most places, but in several areas, portions of the creature have broken through. It is difficult to describe. The thing is not complete, as you know – the initial crash and the slow disintegration of hundreds of years has seen to that – but since the corpse moon awoke, the pieces have grown lively. I can think of no better word. At night, the Broken Field glows and flickers, like lamps being lit and extinguished, again and again, while a kind of black liquid has appeared at the edges of the stones, seeping up, and then draining away again. It doesn’t move as it should. And recently, this has all grown worse. The ground shakes, and sometimes the stones lift, almost into the air. And other things. The black liquid has begun to form shapes, skittering, clutching things that venture beyond the Broken Field. We have chased them back, and they are quick to be reabsorbed, but I fear they are slipping out past our guards at night. People have gone missing. A few young people at high summer, who grow restless and want to explore Sarn – this is normal, the handful who slip off, their eyes bright with the prospect of adventure. But it is not yet the travelling time, and those who have gone are not the young people, itching to be elsewhere. They are our treasured elders or the children. Those who might be slow or unworldly, or too trusting, or less able to defend themselves.
‘I believe that the Behemoth is rebuilding itself under the stones. Slowly and with difficulty, perhaps, but we have had reports of other wrecks coming back to life, and I fear we are close to a catastrophe.’
Vintage stopped again, smoothing the paper between her fingers.
‘What are they taking people for?’ she murmured. ‘Not eaten and emptied, like the drones, but taken.’
Meeting impatient stares from Bern a
nd Aldasair, she coughed lightly into her hand, and continued:
‘I say it is difficult to describe, Bern the Younger, so come and see it. If you truly have bonded to one of the Skrodahl’s war-beasts – and your father assures us that you have – then you could be our only hope of defeating the thing. I ask, not just for selfish purposes, but because this Behemoth is injured – as weak and as vulnerable as a newly born seal pup. This could be an easy victory for Sarn, and I sense that we will desperately need those in the near future. Bern the Younger, come home to Finneral, and bring your new friends with you.
‘I would say I look forward to your reply, but in truth I hope that the next time I hear from you, it will be to hear the sound of legendary wings, and to see a shadow over Finneral that has not been seen for centuries.’
The letter was signed with another of the Finnerals’ complex interlocking symbols. Vintage peered at it closely, before carefully rolling up the parchment and resting it contemplatively against her lips.
‘Well, this is interesting, isn’t it, my darlings? On the one hand, a massive shit in our collective breakfasts – help needed, and desperately, when half our fighting force is somewhere over the Barren Sea. On the other hand, as the letter says, a chance for an easy victory. And a chance, potentially, to learn more about our enemy.’
‘There’s something else, too.’ Bern nodded towards the letter, which Vintage passed back. ‘You see this sigil here?’ He indicated the sigil in the top right corner. ‘Do you see how it’s slightly different to the one underneath the letter?’
Vintage narrowed her eyes. It wasn’t immediately obvious, but there was an extra flourish to the bottom of the second shape, and on that part of the design alone, the ink was a slightly different colour – greener, somehow. Not noticeable from a glance, and even if you did see it, you would likely assume it was a mistake. She nodded.
‘Well, that in itself is a message, you see.’ Bern took a deep breath. ‘It means this letter comes directly from Valous, the Stone Talker.’
Vintage blinked. ‘The Stone Talker? You mean . . .?’
‘We don’t speak of her outside Finneral,’ said Bern hurriedly. ‘Only a handful of us even know that she didn’t die in the conflict with the Winnowry.’ Bern glanced around, as if Winnowry agents might be hiding in the curtains. ‘But if this letter is from her directly, then it’s very serious. They knew I would recognise this sigil. I would be very grateful if the knowledge doesn’t go beyond this room.’
‘You can absolutely rely on my discretion, of course.’ Vintage shook her head; despite everything, she felt a smile curling the corner of her mouth. ‘I had hoped that the rumours were true. It’s such a victory against the Winnowry, even if you must keep her continued existence a secret. How old is she? She must be . . . well, I heard about those rumours when I was in my teens –’
‘What are we going to do?’ said Aldasair. He seemed to have calmed down a little, as though he had passed the problem and, therefore, the decision on to Vintage and he could relax. His eyes, though, were still glassy. ‘Do we . . . do we have to send Bern away?’
Vintage bit her lip to keep from smiling, and then sighed noisily. ‘It’s not the best situation, is it? But what good are we doing here, anyway? Feeding and training, it can only do so much, and you need experience. Perhaps one way to do that is to take on an already wounded enemy.’ She paused. ‘And perhaps it is best that Vostok is not here, after all. I suspect that such a mission would insult her dignity. How long will it take you to fly to Finneral?’
Bern raised his eyebrows. ‘There’s a question I never expected to hear. I’ll be honest, Lady de Grazon, I don’t rightly know. A few days?’
‘You should go. Go now.’ Sitting up and hobbling forward, she grasped Aldasair’s arm briefly. ‘Go together.’
They both looked shocked. ‘And leave you here alone, Lady de Grazon?’
Vintage shook her head at them, her throat suddenly tight with words that couldn’t be said. What should she say to them? That she saw their youth, the potential of them, and wanted them to take the chance? Those were the sorts of things that elderly women in stories said, wise, and ancient and toothless. Well, balls to that. Her own mistakes were not yet unfixable, after all.
‘I will have Eri and Helcate here, and besides which, you won’t be gone that long. A week, perhaps, maybe a little more, and we could have Tor and Noon back at any moment, making the place look untidy again. Go home, Bern the Younger, and show them what a fully operational war-beast is capable of.’
‘Good luck. Let’s hope we don’t need you too soon,’ murmured Vintage.
She was standing in the central plaza, watching as Sharrik and Jessen became distant points in a sky almost too bright to look at. Around her, the busy ecosystem of traders and messengers that had grown up around the Eboran city was in full flow, and she took a brief moment of pleasure in the sound of so many voices, so many languages, ebbing around her like the tide of a great sea. It was true that their situation was dire – so few war-beasts, and those they had were lost and confused – but she strongly felt that where there were people, there was hope.
There was a tug at her sleeve, and shifting the crutch awkwardly she turned to see Eri, his pale face looking especially delicate in the sunlight. Helcate was at his elbow, as ever.
‘There are people asking to meet you, Vintage.’ Eri smiled uncertainly, and Vintage returned the smile, unable to worry too much on such a sunny day. ‘A man and a woman. They said they’ve travelled a long way.’
‘Then let’s not keep them waiting, Eri. Lead the way. Not too fast, though. I am so dreadfully slow with this ankle.’
Eri led her to the chamber to the side of the palace entrance that had, over the months, evolved into a sort of receiving room. It was clean and lined with tall windows, and it contained several heavily padded chairs – very inviting for those who had travelled across Sarn – and there was a well-stocked drinks cabinet. Vintage dismissed Eri and Helcate, and stepped inside. A slim man stood at the window, the bright sunshine outlining a sharp profile. He had brown skin, not quite as dark as her own, but warm against the soft green tones of the walls, and his tousled hair was black. A neat black beard, heavily hooded eyes and a pair of sharp cheekbones added to the impression of a quietly handsome man, although he wore an odd, mismatched collection of clothes: soft, dark leather trousers, worn at the knees and scuffed all over; tall black boots, and a long jacket that had been patched repeatedly – much too warm for the weather, even though spring was still melting away its icy bones. He did not seem surprised to see her enter the room, as though he had listened to her progress from a great distance.
The woman sat in one of the comfortable chairs, sprawled as though she were determined to enjoy the rest as much as possible. She was young, not much older than Noon, in Vintage’s estimation, and she had blond hair, shaved close to her scalp at the sides but left long and messy on top. Her eyes were blue and narrow, making Vintage think of broken glass, but then she was standing, and whatever expression had been in those sharp eyes vanished. The young woman smiled, and Vintage noticed for the first time a sizeable scar at her throat; it was a jagged red line, and she thought that the young woman had been very lucky to survive that particular injury.
‘Lady de Grazon?’
‘Hello, and welcome to Ebora.’ She shook her head, grinning. ‘I never thought I would be the one saying that, somehow. And please, call me Vintage, it’s so much easier.’
‘Thank you. This is my partner, Okaar,’ the woman gestured to the man at the window, who did not move. ‘And I’m Tyranny Munk.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
The woman grinned lopsidedly. ‘It’s a long story, Lady Vintage. Maybe I’ll tell you sometime, but I reckon you want to know why we’re here, first off.’
‘You’re from Mushenska?’
The woman nodded. She wore a simple vest of bright-orange cloth, loose brown trousers and boots that looked like they h
ad fallen down a mountain several times. There was a thick silver chain around her neck, and hanging from it was a fat gold ring. The skin on her bare arms and across the sweep of her breastbone looked blindingly white to Vintage, caught as she was in a shard of light from the window.
‘I was born there. I’m guessing you can tell from the voice?’
‘I’ve been there often enough to recognise that twang. Can I offer you and your companion a drink?’
The woman accepted on behalf of both of them, and Vintage poured three cups of steaming-hot tea; Aldasair, ever thoughtful, made certain that there was a pot brewing in the receiving room as often as possible.
‘If you’ve come from Mushenska, you’ve travelled a long way. What can I do for you, my dear?’
The woman calling herself Tyranny glanced towards the man at the window – if he reacted in any way to her questioning look, Vintage did not spot it.
‘Actually, we’ve travelled from Jarlsbad, and we’re here to offer our help. I think . . . I think something we have could be significant. To your cause. To everyone’s cause, really.’
Vintage took a sip of her tea. It was bitter and spicy all at once.
‘We’re happy for any help, as you can imagine.’
‘Yeah, I bet. Well,’ Tyranny tipped the cup of steaming-hot tea down her throat without a blink. ‘Well. You know, I can’t believe I’m in Ebora finally. War-beasts, the Wall, Ygseril, all of it. We saw the branches as we came down from the mountains. I’m not sure anything can prepare you for that – all this history, in one place.’ She looked up, and caught Vintage’s eyes, smiling lopsidedly again. ‘Sorry, it’s just all been a lot to take in, you know?’
Vintage nodded. ‘By the vines, yes, I know that well enough.’ Behind them, the man called Okaar was quietly blowing on the surface of his tea; he had yet to take a sip. ‘We are still figuring everything out here, and I will admit to a certain amount of chaos. But I like to think we still have time for a cup of tea and a chat.’
