The Bell Between Worlds

by Ian Johnstone

Sylas smiled. “You’ll have to let me know what they are.”

  She gave him a sharp jab with her elbow and grinned.

  As they waited in the darkness, Sylas thought about Bowe’s strange gift and what he must have seen – he had not even been aware of thinking about his mother, which made him feel a pang of guilt and frustration. How could he think of anything else? He really should be trying to find her. What if all this was just taking him further away from her? But Bowe had said that he might find answers if he—

  “Come! Now!” hissed Bowe from the top of the ramp.

  As they climbed, Bowe stood to his full height and hoisted the trapdoor back on its hinges, letting in a shaft of bright light. They squinted but kept moving out on to a muddy lane.

  They found themselves looking at a row of abandoned carts and a long line of stable doors, from which peered the long faces of mules and donkeys. The lane ran parallel with the road on the other side of the inn, leading to the back doors and stores of the many shops and taverns. It was deserted but for some workmen loading boxes and cloth bags into a cart.

  “You should be all right as long as you move quickly,” said Bowe, still flicking his eyes up and down the lane. “Go via the Lord’s Chamber – it’s risky but they won’t be expecting it.”

  Simia nodded and stepped out into the lane.

  “Thanks, Bowe,” said Sylas with a brief smile, turning to leave.

  Bowe reached out and caught his shoulder with his free hand. The Scryer fixed him with his large green eyes and his face creased with a slight frown of confusion. He seemed about to say something, but then changed his mind.

  “Don’t forget, Sylas, you have many friends.”

  Sylas looked quizzically into Bowe’s eyes and smiled. “I won’t.”

  They turned and ran as fast as they could down the lane. The grey canopy of cloud parted a little and rays of sunlight fanned out across the town, touching the alley ahead of them as though to light the way. The golden beams drove away the greyness, glinting off wet rooftops and shining brightly off the puddles.

  As they darted down another small alleyway, the rays caught the bracelet on Sylas’s wrist, sending out a glorious shower of silver light, which for a moment gave Bowe’s eyes new fire as he stared after the running children. A frown passed over his face as he pondered what he had just seen.

  Then, to his surprise, tears welled in his eyes.

  12

  The Lord's Chamber

  “His empty eyes search tirelessly for what drives us on; but

  they see nothing, for what can the soulless see of a soul?”

  THE ALLEYWAY LED BETWEEN two large houses and Sylas tried to peer in at windows as they ran, keen to see a little more of this strange world. But the rooms were usually dark, and when he saw a fire or a lamp, it never showed anything of the interior. He longed to stop and look more closely, but Simia ran as swiftly as ever on her short legs and he found it difficult enough to keep up.

  They turned left and then right and he found himself running a little downhill on a stone pathway between more houses, then clambering up a number of stone steps past some stables.

  Suddenly his senses were assailed by the sights and sounds of a busy street market. Mules, carts and people thronged its centre while the pavements, such as they were, heaved with stalls displaying a baffling array of goods. From where he stood Sylas could see vegetables, dried meats, cakes, pies, eggs, flour, coloured powders and bottles filled with liquids that he could only guess at. But, despite the variety of colours and shapes and smells, there was no doubt about what type of market this was. The silvery flanks of fish dripped from lines above every other counter and carpeted almost every stall, and the stench caught in his throat as he made his way between the crowds of shoppers. Tables brimmed with trout and perch, heaved with pike and eel, and groaned under the weight of salmon. It seemed to him that all the fish were larger than he had encountered before and their scales somehow cleaner and brighter.

  Simia slowed her pace to whisper in Sylas’s ear. “Not far now,” she said, “but this bit’s dangerous. Keep your eyes down and don’t run. Whatever happens, don’t run.”

  He nodded and fell in behind her, forcing himself to keep his eyes ahead, despite the bustle and noise around him. Soon he became aware that there were no longer any stalls on his left and in their place were great white marble steps. The noise from the street market altered, echoing from the mass of stone that now loomed above him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a vast white pillar rising high above his head, so thick at its base that it took him several paces to walk past. Beyond there was darkness: a shady recess that shrouded the rest of the building from view. Moments later they were passing another immense pillar made of the same smooth, white stone and he was desperately tempted to turn his head to see what he could of the great chamber. Very slowly he allowed his eyes to drift from Simia’s back to the lowest of the steps.

  Suddenly a shifting shadow made him hold his gaze. As he drew closer, it moved again – only slightly, but enough to convince him of a figure standing just a few paces away, at the top of the steps. He held his breath and moved his head slightly so that he could see a little more. His skin crawled. Standing almost completely still next to the nearest pillar was an immense stooped shape that looked almost human, but even without looking up he could make out dark, fur-clad, muscular legs that were so distorted, so horrifyingly malformed with their swept-back knees and gigantic hooked claws that Sylas was glad he could see no more. He drew his eyes back to Simia and saw that she was walking faster, seeming even smaller and slighter than normal.

  Then the creature spoke. It was a mixture of low growls, wheezing breaths and the harsh raspings of a long, canine tongue. Sylas imagined unseen eyes watching him from above and half expected to feel the grip of a large hand or claw on his collar. But the figure did not reach for him, or shift from its station. Soon he was past it and drawing close to the next pillar. The reply came moments later: a gravelly snarl that reverberated in the dark recesses of the building. Again Sylas shrank away, expecting to see a gigantic figure emerging from the shadows to seize him and drag him away, but nothing happened. He walked on, head still lowered, and soon the pillars and the sounds and the white steps disappeared behind him. He released his breath and allowed himself to look up just in time to see Simia stop in the entrance to a small lane. She flashed him a triumphant smile.

  He walked up to her. “Were they the Ghor?” he asked breathlessly.

  Simia looked past him back towards the building and nodded. “But those ones weren’t looking for us, they were just guards. They’re only around when something important is going on.”

  “What’s happening?” asked Sylas.

  She raised her eyebrows. “You,” she said. “You’re happening.”

  Sylas pressed his hand to his chest. “Me? They’re all here for me?”

  “Yes, I think so.” She looked at him steadily. “It’s not every day that the Passing Bell rings, you know.”

  He looked nervously back down the street towards the building. It was a vast, white, blockish structure with six huge columns along its front, supporting a gigantic flat stone roof. The edge was decorated with inscriptions and symbols, the most striking of which was at the very centre, between the two middle pillars: it was a huge empty face with no features except two hollow, staring eyes. Sylas found his gaze drawn to it, captured by its ghoulish glare that somehow seemed to look straight back at him, spying him in his hiding place. He recoiled and looked away, turning instead to the long inscription depicted in giant red lettering. He tried to read it, but the alphabet was strange.

  “What does that say?” he asked, nodding in its direction.

  Simia took a cursory look. “It says, ‘Stop gawping and get moving’.”

  He glared at her.

  She sighed. “It’s the Devotion to Thoth. It says, ‘Our Dream, Our Fullest Joy, Our Second Soul.’” She gave a snort of derision. “Or something lik
e that. Anyway, it may mean something to that lot –” she nodded out into the busy street – “but it doesn’t mean anything to us.”

  “Thoth – is he like… a king?”

  “Thoth isn’t like anything – he’s just Thoth.” She glared hatefully at the inscription. “His name is Thoth, but they call him stuff like ‘the Dirgh’ and ‘the Priest of Souls’. They don’t mean anything. They just hide what he really is.”

  “Which is?” asked Sylas, noticing that her fists were clenched tightly at her sides.

  “A murderer,” she said, and then looked away. She was silent for a moment and then added abruptly: “This isn’t the place to be talking. Especially about him. Let’s get going.”

  Sylas took a final look at the strange inscription and the empty face of Thoth. The thrill he had felt after passing the Ghor had now completely left him: in its place was a hollowness, a slow and creeping dread.

  He blew out his cheeks. “I don’t like this…” he muttered to himself.

  Simia threw her hands wide. “Now do you see what we’re—”

  Just then there was a commotion on the street and they both turned to see what was happening. Among the drab clothing of the crowds they saw a flash of bright crimson flanked by the towering figures of six Ghor guards, which growled and lashed out as they forced a path through the throng. They reached the steps of the Lord’s Chamber in a few strides and then parted to let someone pass. The tall, elegant figure climbing the steps was clad in shimmering crimson robes that flapped and billowed in the gentle breeze. Sylas could see little at this distance, but he could make out her dark skin and her proud, confident gait: the way she brushed imperiously past the attendant guards and, when she turned, the way she commanded silence over the crowd without a word.

  “This is worse than I thought,” whispered Simia. “That looks like Scarpia, the most vicious of Thoth’s Magrumen.”

  Suddenly the crowd murmured and parted as another figure emerged, this time dragged by two of the Ghor guards, his head hanging between his hunched shoulders and a gaping wound in one of his legs.

  They both stiffened. It was the driver of the fruit cart.

  Sylas covered his mouth. “Oh my God...”

  Scarpia gave a small gesture with one hand and suddenly one of the guards lunged at the poor captive, grasping his neck between its jaws and heaving him up into the air, crushing him against one of the columns. The poor wretch let out a desperate scream and struggled weakly, but his efforts only enraged his captor, who threw him even more viciously against the stone. Scarpia turned to the crowd and shouted some kind of pronouncement while pointing at the wagoner.

  “She’s making an example of him,” muttered Simia, shaking her head.

  The Ghor guard swiped at the face of the driver with a claw, which was enough to knock him unconscious, his head slumping to his chest and his arms falling to his sides. Scarpia gesticulated at the guard, who dropped him in a heap on the floor.

  Her point made, Scarpia turned with a flourish of her robes and, kicking the wagoner’s arm out of her path, strode into the shadowy recesses of the chamber. The guards followed her in formation and the last one grasped the poor wagoner’s skull and dragged him inside.

  “That’s what happens when they catch you,” said Simia, turning to Sylas.

  He felt sick. He looked at Simia palely for a moment, then nodded. “Let’s go.”

  They turned and broke into a run.

  He followed her over the rough, cracked paving stones into the gloomy backstreets of the town. They ran and ran, grateful to be leaving the horrifying scene far behind. Sylas kept replaying the awful image of the poor captive falling limp against the column. Because of me, he thought. Because of me.

  The further they went, the more pungent became the smell of fish. Fishing nets lay drying in the lanes and discarded fish heads and tails lay in piles next to open doors, from which issued the clatter of knives against chopping boards. Just as Sylas started to wonder whether they would ever leave this foul-smelling maze of lanes, they rounded a corner and emerged into the light.

  Suddenly they were surrounded by open space. Ahead lay a wide expanse of mud that sloped steeply towards a granite-grey river. It snaked past them, turned sharply and disappeared behind the houses that crowded its banks.

  Sylas’s eyes were drawn to a flurry of motion to his left. There, on the near bank of the river, casting a broad shadow over much of the muddy slope, was a gigantic waterwheel. It rose perhaps three storeys above the surface of the river, almost as tall as the mill house to which it was attached and towering above the houses at the top of the bank. It turned with remarkable speed given its size, powered by a fierce torrent of water that churned at its base. Its huge blades plunged deep into the passing current and erupted in a cascade of froth and foam to soar high into the air, trailing silvery curtains of water beneath. He could hear the thunderous maelstrom even from the top of the bank.

  “Impressive, eh?” Simia looked at him with a proud smile, twisting a lock of hair between her fingers.

  He nodded. “What’s it for?”

  “It’s a Gristmill. You know, for milling wheat, corn, that kind of thing.” She leaned over to whisper in his ear. “Except it’s not. It’s not that at all.”

  She flashed him a grin and walked off at a pace towards the mill, swinging her arms confidently at her sides. Sylas stepped out on to the mud and followed her, hoping that this might be the end of his journey: his knee throbbed and he was all too aware of a gnawing hunger in his stomach and a heaviness in his arms.

  “Is this it?” he called after Simia.

  Simia frowned and put her finger to her lips. “Yes,” she whispered. “Don’t worry, there’s a lot more to it than you’d think.”

  They reached the bottom of the bank and mounted the stone platform at the base of the mill, heading for a staircase that led up to an arched door. The platform and steps were made of large blocks of white stone so neatly finished that the cracks were hardly visible, giving it the appearance of a single piece of rock. When Sylas looked up, he saw that the towering sides of the mill house were made in the same way and to his left he could see another similar high wall winding off into the distance, which looked as though it bordered a garden.

  Sylas expected to start climbing the steps to the door, but before they reached them, Simia changed direction. She walked confidently through the spray, leading him towards the river’s edge and the great wheel. He watched the raging torrent as it rushed past where they stood, its boiling surface forming great standing waves as it flowed out into the main stream of the river. The only other noise he could hear was the groaning of the vast limbs of the wheel – each the size of a tree trunk – emerging from behind the wall of the mill and sweeping through the air, climbing upwards at dizzying speed.

  Simia turned. “It’s OK, just follow me!” she shouted, barely audible even though she was only inches away.

  He watched doubtfully as she walked to the edge of the platform, let her foot drift out over the side and then dropped down directly into the path of the gigantic wheel. He was about to exclaim when she seemed to find her footing and was soon descending steadily out of view. He stepped to the very edge of the platform and peered over. There, leading directly down to the foaming water, was another small stone staircase that could not be seen from the bank. A metal ring was set into the last step, to which was tied a rowing boat that danced and bucked on the waves. Simia jumped into it, regained her balance and busied herself fixing a pair of oars in the rowlocks.

  Sylas cast his eyes warily up at the passing blades, then lowered himself carefully down the steps, taking care not to slip on the wet, mossy surface. When he reached the bottom, he stepped into the boat and quickly nestled down among some empty sacks, glad to take the weight off his legs. The blades of the wheel passed terrifyingly close to their heads and the timbers of the boat trembled as they were pounded by the waves, but Simia seemed entirely unconcerned as she prepar
ed the boat. After a few moments she leaned fearlessly over the side, untied the rope from the metal ring and pushed off.

  The boat was whisked downstream in an instant, but she pulled on one of the oars and turned it out into the river, away from the main current. She then began heaving them through the water, drawing the vessel back towards the water mill. The sight of her rowing was both marvellous and comical to behold, for the oars were far too long for her tiny frame. At the top of each stroke she had to stand to her full height, leaning backwards to draw the oars through the water, and then she would sit down with a thump on the seat, gritting her teeth and yanking them out of the water to begin the cycle again. All this she did with an expression of fierce determination, which brought a quiet smile to Sylas’s lips.

  She propelled them in this fashion until they were alongside the wheel, just an oar’s length from where its huge blades plunged into the water. They were pounding the surface of the river so violently that he began to get alarmed, but Simia remained reassuringly calm. She seemed to be waiting for something. He followed her eyes back to the wheel’s slicing blades and thought that he saw them slow a little. Moments passed and he became certain: the wheel was gradually coming to a halt. He could now see between the sweep of each beam that formed the spokes of the wheel and although they still dropped sheets of water he could make out the mossy stone of the mill house. The more he looked, the more he realised that there was something strange about it. There was a small rectangular opening at its centre – a door that led into the depths of the mill, flickering dimly with torchlight.

  “Is that the way in?”

  “Yep,” said Simia, her eyes still fixed on the wheel.

  Sylas looked at the thundering waters. “So how do we get to it?”

  She flicked her red hair back. “Like this!”

  She stood up and yanked on one of the oars, spinning the boat in the water, then with two swift heaves, she propelled them directly between two of the passing beams. He threw himself down into the bottom of the boat and was drenched by a deluge of water. The boat rose and fell alarmingly on the waves and he felt the firm clunk of the bow striking something.