The Curse on the Chosen (The Song of the Tears Book 2)

by Ian Irvine

  ‘Why are you so hard on her?’ Flydd asked quietly. ‘Without her courage and determination we could not have escaped.’

  ‘I salute her courage and determination,’ Colm said, tight-mouthed, ‘but I cannot forgive her methods, or her morals. I once thought – well, I know better now, after what she did with Nish …’ His face twisted in disgust. ‘She’s the most calculating woman I’ve ever met, and she’s bound herself forever to the God-Emperor. I hope she’s satisfied.’

  Whatever Maelys wanted, and whatever she did in pursuit of it, was no business of Flydd’s. But even so …

  ‘Colm, you’re a bloody fool.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Colm snarled.

  ‘Maelys isn’t pregnant. She made up that lie to save her family.’

  Colm drew in a sharp breath. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘I was a scrutator, on the Council,’ Flydd said simply. ‘One of our unsung Arts was telling truth from falsehood, and I was better at it than most. Maelys is an honest, truthful person and she hated making up such a sordid lie, but she’s a loyal daughter and sister, and there’s nothing she won’t do to save her family.’

  ‘Jal-Nish was a scrutator too. He believed her.’

  ‘He wasn’t a full scrutator long, and only briefly; he never had our training. Besides, he’s desperate for a grandchild. He wanted to believe Maelys and, after all she’s done to defy and thwart him, he’s developing a grudging admiration for her. He realises she’s a worthy partner for the son of the God-Emperor, and a suitable mother for his grandchild.’

  ‘So she’s safe, then,’ said Colm sullenly.

  ‘She would be if she were pregnant, but once Jal-Nish discovers she’s not, he’ll crush her, no matter what her other qualities, for deceiving him. Once we return to the real world she’ll be in peril of her life.’

  ‘Maybe we should leave her here until the job is done.’

  Flydd stared at him. ‘Maelys isn’t a bag of treasure to be hidden.’ He reached over and shook her by the shoulder. ‘Wake up. We can’t stay here.’

  ‘Like it here,’ she said sleepily. ‘Nice and quiet; cool. No flame.’

  ‘We’ve got to find the way out before it’s too late.’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘We’ve got to look now. My portal will have weakened the barrier around the Nightland, but it will soon repair itself, and the longer we take, the harder it will be to get back to the real world …’

  Assuming we can. Flydd wasn’t entirely sure that there was a way out. Taking the four containers from his coat, he lined them up on the floor – first the white crystal phial containing the trapped cursed flame, followed by the abyssal flame in its square stone bottle, and lastly the oval and pyramidal green-ice flasks containing the freezing chthonic flame. The green ice condensed from the chthonic flame showed no signs of melting. Inside the flasks, the white fire swirled, glacier slow, and glacier cold.

  Maelys sat up, combing the hair off her face with her fingers. ‘What are they for?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘What did you mean by too late?’

  ‘The Nightland was the most secure prison ever built and a mancer of my talents, considerable though they once were, should never have been able to make a portal to it. I would not have, had the woman in red not forced my portal away from the shadow realm, to here.’

  ‘But she didn’t get in, did she?’ Maelys peered into the dark.

  ‘No, she didn’t get in,’ said Flydd.

  ‘Then she can’t harm us,’ said Colm. ‘Can’t you get us out the way you got in?’

  ‘The Nightland was designed so no one could get out. There may be no way to open it from inside.’ Flydd got up abruptly. ‘Let’s go for a walk.’

  Maelys followed Flydd and Colm across the black floor for ten or fifteen minutes, but they might as well have been standing still for all the difference she saw. The Nightland was utterly featureless: it had no walls; no roof; no landscapes, structures or furnishings.

  She stopped, looking around anxiously. ‘I don’t think we should go any further. What if we can’t find the way back?’

  Flydd kept going. ‘The barrier that walls the real world off from the Nightland touches all points of it equally, so it should not matter where we are.’

  ‘What’s that?’ said Colm, moving carefully to the left. Flydd let out a sigh and followed.

  Maelys hurried after them. About thirty paces away, a transparent device of wheels and levers, wires and glassy plates, hung in the air. Flydd prodded it with his fingertips and they went straight through.

  ‘The Histories tell that Rulke built all manner of devices here, trying to find a way out, and to make war on his enemies once he did. Virtual devices, formed from the fabric of the Nightland, like blueprints in three dimensions. That’s how he designed his construct.’

  ‘What’s a construct?’ asked Maelys.

  ‘A metal conveyance that could create its own portals and jump from one part of Santhenar to another.’

  ‘The Aachim built constructs on Aachan,’ said Colm. ‘Thousands of them came to Santhenar through a portal when Aachan was being destroyed by volcanoes.’

  ‘But they did not invent them; they merely copied Rulke’s, and imperfectly.’

  They continued, seeing other suspended devices every now and again. Some were large and complex, and seemed almost real, while others appeared mere afterthoughts which hung in the air as thin as smoke.

  ‘I could use a drink,’ said Colm. ‘My throat tastes like dried mud.’

  Splash. Maelys, now a few paces ahead, had walked straight into a waist-deep pool. The chilly water stung her injured calf; it was black, motionless, and seemed thicker than normal water, for it barely rippled as she moved. She climbed out hastily. Black droplets wobbled through the air, taking ages to fall, and skidded across the floor in globules like spilled quicksilver.

  ‘How could I have missed that?’ she said, irritably flicking drops away.

  ‘It wasn’t there,’ said Flydd.

  She stared at him, hands on hips. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The Nightland was designed to keep its prisoner alive for as long as he lived, so it had to provide water, food and air, if nothing else. Colm wanted water, therefore it appeared.’

  Colm scooped a handful of the dark liquid and held it up. It quivered on his palm and he looked at it askance. ‘I’m not drinking that.’

  ‘It’s a trifle black, I admit,’ smiled Flydd, ‘but what would you expect in the Nightland?’

  ‘I’m afraid to expect anything,’ muttered Colm.

  Flydd dropped to his knees by the pool, gathered a double handful and drank noisily. ‘It has a slight taint, but I’m sure it’s not harmful.’

  ‘I’m not.’ Colm tasted the water, very tentatively, then shrugged. ‘But if there’s no way out, what does it matter?’ He drank deeply, and washed his face and hands. ‘I’m starving,’ he announced loudly. ‘I’d like a grilled rump of young buffalo, with mustard and pepper, a mug of dark ale and a plateful of those nut and honey pastries Mother used to make when I was little.’ He looked around expectantly.

  Flydd chuckled. ‘It doesn’t work like that. We’re in a prison, after all. Whatever it provides for us will be nourishing, but I doubt it’ll be tasty.’

  Maelys went back to the pool. The globules were hard to swallow and made her burp, sending a host of tiny droplets soaring out of her mouth and away. ‘Pardon me,’ she said politely, then giggled and turned her head, firing more droplets in a soaring arc. She crouched under the water and scrubbed the worst of the mud off.

  They continued, and shortly came to a low oval table, as black as everything else in the Nightland, on which sat three loaves of bread, plus platters, knives and a large black mound with a strong, yeasty smell.

  ‘I’m not eating that,’ said Colm, staring at the mound. ‘It looks like a flappeter’s dropping.’

  Flydd, unperturbed,
sat on the floor and extended his legs under the table. Maelys’s mouth flooded with saliva. She sat opposite, drew one of the loaves towards her and began to cut neat slices from it, as if serving guests at Nifferlin Manor. She passed three slices to Flydd.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said gravely, inclining his head to her.

  She pushed a platter of slices towards Colm, who ignored them, then took a single slice for herself and bit into it. ‘It’s not as good as we had at home, before …’ Maelys stopped chewing as the memories flooded her, and had to wipe her eyes. ‘It hasn’t got much flavour.’

  ‘Try the black stuff,’ said Flydd, watching her, like an emperor his food taster.

  She felt like retorting, ‘Try it yourself!’ but dug the knife into the mound. It had a soft consistency, like butter, so she spread it on a corner of her slice and tasted it.

  ‘Yuk!’ she said, swallowing without chewing. ‘It’s horrible.’

  ‘But nourishing,’ said Flydd. ‘Pass it over.’

  ‘So I’m your official taster now, am I?’ said Maelys.

  ‘Someone’s got to do it.’ He spread the black paste thickly on his slice, took an experimental bite, gagged and swallowed hastily. ‘Delicious!’

  ‘Liar! It’s absolutely disgusting.’

  ‘I’ve eaten worse.’

  After they’d finished, Flydd lay on his back beside the table. ‘Before I attempt the portal again I’ve got to rest, but my mind is too full for sleep. Has anyone got a tale to divert me?’

  ‘You both know my story,’ said Maelys. ‘But we don’t know Colm’s –’

  He glowered at her. ‘Why don’t you mind your own –?’

  ‘An excellent idea,’ Flydd interposed smoothly. ‘Tell us your story, Colm. Down at the abyssal flame you gave me just the bare bones.’

  ‘The tale is so bitter I can scarcely bear to begin it,’ said Colm.

  ‘Half a million families were dispossessed during the war with the lyrinx and they all have bitter tales.’

  ‘My family dwelt at Gothryme for more than a thousand years,’ Colm said, tight-mouthed, ‘and we were robbed of it.’

  ‘Maelys’s family held Nifferlin for just as long, and her entire clan is dead or scattered. Why is your tragedy worse than hers?’

  ‘She can go back, but Gothryme Manor and all its land, poor though it is, has been given to others.’

  ‘Maelys can’t return while the God-Emperor lives. You’re holding out on us, Colm.’ Flydd didn’t look curious, merely expectant, as if he already knew what Colm was going to say. ‘Gothryme,’ he repeated.

  The name was vaguely familiar to Maelys, in the way that hundreds of places she’d heard about were.

  ‘You know all about it!’ Colm said fiercely. ‘The scrutators knew everything. They had the Tale of the Mirror banned.’

  ‘That was long before my time,’ said Flydd. ‘Later the tale was rewritten to correct certain grievous inaccuracies inserted by the Teller. I’m told that Llian the Liar was a most unreliable narrator –’

  ‘He was the greatest Teller of all!’

  Flydd shrugged. ‘What’s it to you, anyhow?’

  ‘Gothryme belonged to Karan Fyrn, and she was the heroine of the Tale of the Mirror, as it was originally written. My ancestor Macolm, nine generations ago, was her distant cousin and never expected to inherit anything. It should all have gone to Karan and Llian’s children …’

  ‘Until she murdered them, and Llian too,’ Flydd said softly. ‘Then killed herself. Karan Kin-Slayer she’s been called ever since. She was no heroine; that was another of Llian’s lies. She broke the Forbidding, or caused it to be broken, which brought the lyrinx to Santhenar and began the greatest of all wars. No wonder her name, and Llian’s, are among the most reviled in all the Histories. Your family gained no honour from inheriting Gothryme.’

  ‘It’s still tainted to this day,’ said Colm softly, ‘and so is my family name, but Gothryme is my heritage.’

  ‘You won’t get it back while the God-Emperor remains in power.’

  ‘It’s not my only heritage, and I’ll gladly accept your aid in recovering the rest.’

  Flydd frowned. ‘You’re asking for my aid?’

  ‘I’ve done all you asked of me, and I’d thought I’d earned a little consideration in return. Evidently not.’

  Flydd sighed. ‘Long ago I vowed to help overthrow the God-Emperor, Colm. Surely you realise that must come before any personal matters, no matter how pressing? But do go on.’ He sounded as though he was humouring Colm.

  ‘Karan was left a treasure by Faelamor, the leader of the Faellem people, just before she led them back to her own world of Tallallame.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Flydd, his eyes lighting momentarily. ‘Faelamor’s fabled trove. I’ve wondered why it was left to Karan.’

  ‘Faelamor had done her a great wrong and wished to atone for it.’

  ‘Well, that’s what the original tale said,’ Flydd conceded.

  Two angry red spots appeared on Colm’s cheeks. ‘Faelamor left the remaining treasures of her people to Karan, and that trove lies under a perpetual concealment in a cave in Elludore. An ebony bracelet handed down the generations will dispel the illusion and reveal the treasure.’

  ‘I’d like to see it,’ said Flydd with rather more interest than before.

  ‘Where’s Elludore?’ asked Maelys.

  ‘It’s on the eastern side of the Island of Meldorin,’ said Flydd. ‘Elludore is a rugged, forested land north of Thurkad, between the mountains and the sea. Do you have the bracelet, Colm?’

  ‘Mother gave it to my sister, Ketila. She was three years older than me, but my family were lost in a lyrinx attack not long after I met Nish. I told you that.’

  ‘Then the bracelet is lost or destroyed,’ said Flydd.

  ‘I imagine so, but surely with your powers you can dispel illusions?’

  ‘You’re asking me to abandon the struggle against the God-Emperor to help you find a few trinkets?’ Again Maelys got the impression that Flydd was toying with Colm.

  ‘You have to hide until you’re fit to take him on,’ said Colm. ‘You can hide in Elludore as well as anywhere.’

  ‘You’ve got a nerve!’ said Maelys. ‘We’re supposed to be finding the Numinator, not fighting your battles for you.’

  Flydd raised a hand to her. ‘Go on, Colm.’

  ‘You can dispel illusions, can’t you?’ Colm looked pathetically eager now.

  ‘Many illusions, if my powers come back fully, though a perpetual illusion created by the greatest illusionist of all is another matter entirely. But Colm, Faelamor’s treasure trove is mentioned in the Histories, and therefore thousands of people must have known about it over the past two centuries. Even its location in Elludore – in the ridge-and-valley land called Dunnet – must have been identified long ago.’

  ‘No one else knew the location of the cave, or even which valley it lay in,’ said Colm. ‘There are millions of caves in Dunnet.’

  ‘Or Karan Kin-Slayer would have taken it,’ said Flydd, ‘before she went mad and slaughtered her family.’

  ‘It was always said, in our clan, that she spurned the gift of her enemy.’

  ‘A rumour she may have put about herself, to conceal the treasure from marauders.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s still there,’ Colm said heatedly, ‘Will you help me?’

  ‘Do you know the location of the cave?’

  ‘The secret was told to me when I was a boy.’

  ‘And you still remember where to find one small valley among thousands in a trackless wilderness?’ Flydd said with a trace of scorn. ‘Elludore must be two hundred leagues from Bannador. Have you ever been there?’

  ‘Once, when I was little. I’m sure I can find it, and I’ll know the place when I do. It has one particular …’ he shivered, ‘landmark that can be found nowhere else – if it still exists after all this time.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me what it is?’ said Flydd, clear
ly intrigued.

  Maelys was too, but Colm had that familiar tightness about the mouth and jaw, and the fixed look in his eye, that said he wasn’t going to say. It was the first thing that had struck her about him – how closed off he was. His past was a nagging thorn that he might never get over, even if he recovered the treasure trove.

  ‘I’ve got to have it, Flydd,’ Colm said, ‘with your help or without it. Our line has been tainted since Karan’s time, and I’ve lost my family and my estate. This is the only thing I’ve got left.’

  ‘I don’t even know if the portal spell will work here,’ said Flydd.

  ‘But if you can make it work, why not head for Elludore? It’s the perfect place to hide while you regain your Art.’

  Flydd was breathing heavily. ‘Perhaps I will. Faelamor’s fabled trove – what mancer wouldn’t want to set eyes on that?’

  Maelys thought there was an odd, greedy tone to his voice. Surely not.

  ‘Assuming we can get there,’ Flydd continued. ‘Portals can only be opened in a few special places.’

  ‘But surely Faelamor’s cave is a special place?’ said Colm.

  ‘Not necessarily a special place for portals. Elludore, Elludore,’ said Flydd, uneasily. ‘That reminds me of something unpleasant.’ He walked around the table several times. ‘No matter; whatever it was, it happened long ago. I can’t think about this now, Colm. Losing Nish has thrown me and I don’t see how we can defeat Jal-Nish without him.’

  ‘We were going to find the Numinator,’ Maelys pointed out. ‘That’s why you took renewal in the first place, Xervish.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Flydd didn’t look pleased to be reminded. ‘And the Numinator must be approached carefully. It may have been weakened by Jal-Nish’s rise, but it will not be powerless.’

  ‘How do you know it still exists?’ Colm burst out. ‘This quest seems like a waste of time to me.’

  ‘My deepest scars – the ones that survived renewal – still throb at intervals, the way they used to when I was tortured. The Numinator is still alive, all right, and it guards its privacy jealously.’

  ‘It may have fallen under Jal-Nish’s control by now.’

  ‘I don’t think so. At the end of the war, just after he reappeared so shockingly, I mentioned the Numinator to Jal-Nish in passing, and he didn’t know what I was talking about. Not being on the inner Council, he had never been told that most secret of all secrets. And the Numinator would have had plenty of time to hide itself, after the nodes were destroyed.