“Because you didn’t need to know.”
It was Simia’s voice, just a few paces away. He looked about, but saw only blackness.
“How did you find me?”
“I told you – I know this place,” she said, sitting down somewhere to his right.
They were quiet for some time, listening to the silence, staring into nothingness, and Sylas was surprised to find that he did not mind her being there. He wanted to be quiet and she seemed to know that without asking. It was comforting somehow – just knowing that she was there, somewhere out there in the night.
Finally he broke the silence.
“Why did you say that? ‘Because I didn’t need to know.’”
He heard Simia shift on the hard earth. “It’s something my dad used to say,” she said. “I used to ask him stuff all the time, you know, why’s this happening, what’s that for, who did such and such and how’d they do it. And most of the time he’d tell me, even if he made a joke out of it or missed out the interesting bits. But sometimes, just sometimes, when I was asking about the worst stuff, the things even adults didn’t like to talk about – Thoth or the Dirgheon or the Undoing – he’d go quiet. He’d think about it, and then he’d say: ‘Simsi, you don’t need to know.’”
“Wasn’t that just annoying? Especially for you.”
“Yep,” said Simia, a smile in her voice, “and I used to kick up a real stink, but I always stopped after a while. It was something about the way he said it – a kind of knowing and softness at the same time – I knew that he was doing what was best for me.” She drew a sharp breath. “Of course, now, after everything, I understand exactly what he was doing.”
“What?”
“He was letting me be a kid. For as long as he possibly could.”
They fell silent again. Sylas stared into the night, the image of his mother in his mind, her voice sounding in his ears, and he knew that Simia was probably right. Perhaps she had protected him, kept him safe, kept him away from whatever all this was about – the Glimmer Myth, the Undoing, who she was, who he was. Perhaps she’d done it to let him be himself – to be young while he could.
He felt tears start to roll down his cheeks. He did not wipe them from his face. He just sat quietly and wept. And Simia let him.
The darkness closed in about them and both were lost in their thoughts. Sylas thought back over the years, of his relationship with his mother, the good times, the happy times, and then the despair, the grief and the loneliness, when all he had of her was her faded picture, and the few gifts she had given him. His mind turned to the book of science, with its inscription: “Learn all that you are, my dear Sylas, learn all that you are able to be.”
He knew then that she had not wanted to keep anything from him, she had just wanted him to find out at the right time. Find out for himself.
They sat in silence for a while longer and then he said: “We have to work all this out.”
Simia was quiet for a moment. “What?”
“Who I am, who brought me here, this Glimmer Myth, the Undoing – all that stuff. It’s all connected.”
“Well, that’s why we’re going to see Paiscion, isn’t it?”
“I know, but before I was just doing it because everyone seemed to think I should – because everything was leading me there. But now… now I really want to go. I want to go there and wherever I have to go next. I mean, if everything Espen said is right, if the Glimmer Myth is true and my mum and I have some part in it, this could be the most important thing I ever do.”
Simia thought for a moment. “I suppose it could be the most important thing any of us ever do.”
It could hardly be called a dawn. There were no rays of light, no traces of sunshine, no promises of warmth, just endless expanses of white mist glowing ever more sombrely as the day struggled into being. Neither was there any sound, for the Slithen rarely broke the surface of the river and, when they did, their oily flanks caused barely a ripple.
The prisoners huddled at the rear of the ancient, slimy boat, pressing in against the cold, straining their senses for any sign of the world around them, any sign of life. For the most part they had to settle for the occasional looming darkness of a riverbank or withered tree, and perhaps the hunched silhouette of a heron searching for fish in the putrid waters. When there was nothing else, they would look ahead to the tangle of chains that stretched in front of the crude vessel and disappeared into the depths, where the Slithen strained at their harnesses.
So the boat sped on, like a ghost ship, carried forward without sails or breath of wind, cloaked in a deathly silence.
If there was solace to be found on that awful vessel, it was in the form of Bowe. He met frightened glances with a compassionate smile or a nod of the head, in a manner that left his companions in no doubt that their worst fears had been understood and shared. He placed a firm hand on trembling limbs and more than once gathered the frail into his giant frame to give them warmth. Fathray too sat close at hand, gaining some strength from his friend as he cast his eyes out into the nothingness and stroked his long moustache in quiet reflection, humming his strange, tuneless melody. Thus, as shadows became the dismal glow of day, Bowe somehow gave the hapless prisoners a brief, uneasy calm.
It was shattered in an instant.
“No...” moaned one of the women suddenly, “no... no... no...”
Her eyes were wide with terror and fixed somewhere high above the thinning mists. Others followed her gaze and saw what she had seen: a vast pyramid of shadow towering into the miserable sky, looming over the river ahead.
The Dirgheon.
They took up the woman’s lament and Bowe exchanged a knowing look with Fathray. Now, as he looked at his companions, he saw something that filled him with a new fear, for his Scryer’s eyes saw nothing but the coiling, smothering blackness of despair. It gathered about his brethren like the dark wings of a predator, taking from them any last vestiges of hope. He saw tears in the eyes of grown men, and felt the woman at his side become listless beneath his arm.
Great torrents of horror emanated from the prison ahead, from the thousands of broken hearts, lost hopes, vanquished dreams. He searched his mind for light, for stillness, for relief, but all he saw was the thick, oily blacks of despair; the harsh, thin blues of grief and loss; the sharp, cutting reds of hate and anger; all these endlessly swelling and receding within an ocean of feeling.
And then, suddenly, something changed.
The dark rolled back to the edges of his mind. In its place something slow and still emerged. Something light. Warm. Hopeful. It rose like a dawn from the dark horizon, banishing the grim hues of the Dirgheon and, in their stead, offering hope, solace... love.
Bowe opened his eyes and saw a vision of beauty and joy.
He extended his fingers, as though this apparition could be touched, and his large green eyes glazed with tears.
She was there. He could feel her.
His beautiful daughter.
“Naeo.” He spoke the name tenderly, under his breath. He looked up at the dark pyramid and, for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to think of his little girl. He thought of her in a boat similar to this, perhaps seeing this very same sight. He pictured her arriving there. Being taken inside.
He turned to his companions. “We go to those we love,” he said.
29
Of Myth and Legend
“What myth is there that does not here find substance?
What legend that does not here draw breath, or walk in the
light of the sun, or crawl in the shadow of the night?”
It was a picture of sun-spangled beauty framed by the delicate, whiteedged fingers of evergreens. The sun beamed from its bright blue throne, its rays glancing from the frosted fingertips, scattering through prisms of ice so that they sparkled and danced in the icy breeze. Sylas gazed up at this glorious vision, the sun playing warmly on his face, only distantly aware of the creeping cold that inched t
hrough his limbs, working its way sleepily, lazily to his heart. His eyelids began to feel heavy, blissfully heavy, drooping like the snow-laden branches above.
“Wake up. Your journey is not done.”
The voice was gentle but close, as if at his ear. He blinked and drew a sharp, icy breath. The biting chill chased away the encroaching sleep and, as it did, he heard the muffled crumple and creak of footsteps in the snow. He raised his head and looked about him, across the glistening, lustrous blanket of snow, between the stark shadows of trunks and branches, and in the dappled light he saw them: a perfect trail of footprints, leading off between the trees.
He summoned an almost-lost reserve of energy and brought his stiffened limbs painfully to task, heaving himself from his too-soft bed of snow. His breath clouded about him with the effort, obscuring his path, but as it cleared, he saw the trail, straight and true. He staggered at first, wrong-footed by the clinging powder at his feet, but soon he had fallen into her tracks, matching her steps, her easy gait. Like her, he descended a bank and pushed through a pleasant veil of frosted green, feeling the cold-tipped tendrils grazing his face.
His heart suddenly leapt, and a new, unexpected warmth flooded his veins. He wanted to cry out for joy, cry out to her, but he had no voice. She sat with her back to him, only her cheek visible beneath the hood, which glowed radiantly by the light of a crackling campfire. Her head inclined towards him and she extended a delicate hand, motioning for him to join her by the heat of the flames.
He sat down, his heart full, tears in his eyes, and he turned to look into her lovely face. She turned away, and her soft voice sounded somewhere in his mind. “Know me, and you will find me.”
SYLAS WOKE TO A fearsome, crippling cold. It cracked his bones, thickened the air in his lungs, slowed the blood in his veins. He yearned to return to his sleep, to his dream, to his mother. There had been no time, no chance to reach for her hand, to look into her eyes, to see the face he loved so much.
“Know me, and you will find me,” she had said. Perhaps, he thought, he was only now coming to know her. Know all of her mysteries, her torments. Only now, in this terrible place, so far from her.
He drew a gasp of icy air and slowly, painfully, forced himself awake. After some moments he mustered the energy to push himself up on to his elbow.
The camp was entirely still beneath a shroud of thick, dark grey cloud and a low mist, which drifted over the figures of three sleepers huddled beneath their blankets. The fire had burned down and now glowed a deep red at his feet, though he felt no warmth, heard no hiss or crackle. The sombre blackish-grey of the Barrens lay about them like a deathly blanket. There were no birds heralding a new day, no scent of dew, no glint in the sky; only the reluctant light of a day that would rather be night.
“Let’s bring this fire up,” came a low voice from somewhere behind. “You’ll feel twice the cold this morning.”
Espen’s broad figure loomed into view, carrying fresh firewood under his arm. He stepped over the bank of earth and laid it down quietly so as not to wake the others, then took up a handful of twigs and threw them on to the fire.
He sat down next to Sylas, leaning forward to warm his hands.
“How do you feel?” he asked, without turning.
Sylas thought for a moment. “Cold.”
Espen smiled.
Bayleon stirred on the other side of the camp. He stretched his thick arms above his head and yawned noisily, which woke the other two.
They were all soon sitting up and eating a breakfast of porridge and dried fruit. Simia was white from the cold, but she ate heartily and it was not long before she had regained some of her colour and cheer. Ash too looked much recovered and to Sylas’s astonishment, when he removed his bandages, they revealed no sign of the cut on his temple: healed by Filimaya’s strange balm.
The conversation soon became lively, though it was Simia and Ash who did most of the talking. Espen sat quietly watching the others, while Bayleon seemed altogether detached, gloomy and preoccupied. Sylas was still too busy thinking about all he had been told the previous evening to take much interest in the discussion, but as the warming, sweet porridge had its effect, he too found himself smiling at Simia’s wild stories of life on the Barrens.
After a while there was a lull in the conversation and he decided to ask something that had been on his mind.
“Espen?”
“Yes?”
“If we all have one of these twins – these Glimmers – and they are a mirror of us, doesn’t that mean we would have to be born at the same time?”
Espen nodded. “That’s what we think.”
“But doesn’t that mean we’d have to have the same parents?” he asked. He screwed up his face and rubbed his temples. “Or is our Glimmer born to the Glimmer of our parents?”
Espen smiled. “Now you see why many think it to be a myth,” he said. “The truth is that nobody knows.”
“But do we live and die at the same time as our Glimmer? I mean, how does that work?”
“Yes and why don’t we feel like half a person?” added Simia. “I mean, surely we should feel weak or... something?”
Espen opened his palms and shrugged. “Again, I’m afraid that—”
“He doesn’t know...” mumbled Bayleon. “What a surprise!”
Sylas looked from Bayleon to Espen. He so wanted to ask more, but he stopped himself: talk of the Glimmer Myth had done little to improve the tension between the two men. He decided to change the subject.
“I’ve been thinking... Now that you’re here, Espen, do we really need to see Paiscion?” he asked. “I mean, you’re a Magruman: don’t you know just about as much as he does?”
Bayleon scoffed and jabbed at the fire. “You’d think so...” he muttered.
Espen levelled his gaze at the Spoorrunner for a moment, then turned back to Sylas. “But you still don’t know who you really are, do you?” he asked. “You still don’t know how or why you were summoned here. Neither do I. I know part of your story, Sylas, but by no means all of it. Nobody does, because it’s still unfolding. Of course you’re right to be seeking Paiscion, because if anyone can help you to discover more of those final truths, he can.”
“But what’s so special about Paiscion?”
The Magruman smiled. “Oh, there’s much that is special about Paiscion. He was always the most powerful of the three of us, and certainly he has the greatest powers of seeing and communing, which in your case could be very useful. He is the one that the Scryers and the Scribes always looked to, and he certainly has the best understanding of the Samarok. You must meet with him.” He paused and kicked the embers of the fire. “Where exactly are you hoping to find him?”
“Don’t answer that,” instructed Bayleon gruffly.
There was an awkward silence. Espen regarded him with a perplexed expression.
“Bayleon, you really don’t need to keep secrets from—”
“We’d better get moving,” said the Spoorrunner, getting to his feet and beginning to stuff his bag with pots, blankets and utensils. “We must reach the circle before sundown.”
Espen raised an eyebrow. “Bayleon, we were—”
“Let’s just get one thing clear,” snapped Bayleon, turning towards him. “None of us answer to you – not any more. And I for one don’t trust you. Filimaya told us to make sure that Sylas reaches Paiscion by tomorrow and that’s exactly what we’ll do.”
Espen regarded him calmly for a moment, then shrugged his broad shoulders and bowed his head. “As you wish,” he said.
Ash looked nervously from one to the other, then clapped his hands.
“What finer day for a stroll in a wasteland?” he chirped.
Nobody smiled.
Sylas and Simia heaved their aching, heavy legs over the earthen bank and set out on to the Barrens. The thought of leaving the fire behind was almost too much to bear, but deep down both wanted to press on and reach the city. They took a wary look at the dar
k, glowering horizon and shuffled on.
Bayleon strode out far ahead of them to scout their route, quickly becoming a smudge of grey, almost invisible against the relentless murk of the plain. Espen stayed back, watching the open plains at their rear, leaving Sylas, Simia and Ash to walk together.
“What is it with those two?” said Simia, keen to take her mind off her legs and stomach. “Bayleon’s been at Espen’s throat ever since he turned up.”
“I know,” said Ash. “Old scores, I think. Bayleon hasn’t forgiven him.”
“What for?”
“The Reckoning.”
Simia frowned. “But why’s Espen to blame? Surely that was all Thoth’s doing.”
“When you lose your wife and your children, you need more than one person to blame,” said Ash soberly, looking ahead to Bayleon’s solitary figure on the plain. “Espasian – Espen – ordered the Spoorrunners to find a way out for the others. It’s because of Espen that Bayleon wasn’t there… at the end.”
“But that means it’s because of Espen that he’s still alive,” said Simia.
“Precisely,” said Ash.
There was a pause. “Oh,” said Simia.
“We all have a sorry tale to tell, don’t we?” said Ash, with a weak smile.
They fell silent for some moments as they trudged over the parched, dusty surface of the plain, lost in their own melancholy thoughts. But, with the passage of time, the sombre light and deathly emptiness of the Barrens had a way of turning melancholy to sadness and sadness to despair. Sylas was keen to revive the conversation, no matter what the topic.
“Tell me about it,” he said. “The Reckoning.”
There was a long hesitation.
“We don’t often talk about it...” began Ash.
Sylas saw the look on his face – a mixture of awkwardness and distaste – and immediately regretted raising it. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”
“No, you should know. It’s important,” said Ash, drawing a long breath.
“People call it a battle, but in truth it wasn’t a battle at all. It was hopeless from the start, wasn’t it, Simsi?”
The Bell Between Worlds Page 29
