The Bell Between Worlds

by Ian Johnstone

  His eyes flicked open and he blinked.

  The image of the circle of priests remained, suspended in front of him. He raised his throbbing head, biting his lip as a pain shot through his bleeding temple. He saw at once that he was lying on a great stone table, his hands and feet held tightly in manacles and chains. He lowered his head gently on to the cold surface and the scene appeared once again. It was not in front of him, but suspended high above. It was a huge intricate mural, painted on the ceiling of this great chamber, bordered on all sides by an ornate golden frame. Beyond, he could make out more paintings, each depicting historical scenes of magic and wonder.

  But he took little interest, for as he became more wakeful, the pain raged through his body: in his ankles and wrists where the manacles cut into his skin; in his shoulders and arms, which had been wrenched high above his head; in his skull, which ached with the blow he had received in the passageway. He tried to move, to ease the pain.

  One of the chains slipped. It rattled noisily on to the stone. Bowe held his breath as the sound echoed around the chamber.

  A bolt was drawn back somewhere behind him, across the chamber, and a gentle breeze flowed through the room. The air was not fresh but sweet and putrid. It only took him a moment to place: it was the scent he had come to know on the field of battle, a scent that made him retch. It was death. The unmistakable aroma of rotting flesh.

  But he was aware of it for only a moment, for suddenly his Scryer’s mind was assailed by a devastating calamity of colour, form and motion: torrents of black and grey, mountainous waves of purple and blue, great fires of red and orange, all surging through his consciousness with unstoppable force, ripping through his thoughts, overthrowing his senses.

  He strained against his chains and screamed and screamed and screamed.

  A voice seared through his brain and burned in his chest. It sounded not like one, but a legion of voices: male, female, young, old, deep and shrill, all speaking together, forming one overwhelming sound.

  “And this, the father of greatness?”

  35

  The Name of Truth

  “Despite all perils we must find the Lost Chronicle.

  In the name of truth, we must find it.”

  THEIR EYES WERE FIXED on Paiscion, who in turn stared at Sylas with wide eyes. They filled the lenses of his spectacles, moving slowly, painstakingly over Sylas’s face, tracing every line and shape, every curve and feature. His expression was stern and solemn, but his eyes gleamed brightly in the Bow Room’s faint, shifting light.

  “I should have seen it,” he said quietly. “I should have seen it before – as soon as I met you. Blue eyes, you say?”

  Sylas was still rubbing his aching wrist. He nodded. “Yes, but there’s something about her that… well... looks like me.”

  Paiscion continued to gaze at him wistfully. “I know,” he said, deep in thought. Suddenly he sucked a breath through his teeth: “Sylas, I believe I know who she is.”

  Outwardly Sylas paled, but inwardly he felt a new surge of adrenalin and his heart quickened.

  Simia started to bounce up and down on her toes and finally she was unable to contain herself any longer.

  “Who?”

  Paiscion leaned down to meet Sylas’s eyes, addressing his answer solely to him.

  “Her name is Naeo.”

  Instantly Sylas felt a sharp pain shoot through his wrist. He winced.

  “You know her?” he asked, turning the Merisi Band in an attempt to ease the discomfort.

  “We all do,” replied Paiscion. “All of the Magrumen, though I know her family rather better than the others. I fought with her father during the war – an extraordinary man – a Scryer of exceptional talent.” He smiled reflectively. “He gave himself utterly to the practice of his art. He even resurrected the ancient tradition of his forbears, shaving his head and tattooing each of the mystical symbols of Scrying into his scalp—”

  “Bowe?!” exclaimed Sylas and Simia in unison.

  Paiscion blinked through his spectacles. “You know him?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Simia, glancing at Sylas. “He’s a friend. He was at the mill!”

  The Magruman’s face brightened. “Well, how extraordinary! What a relief to know that he is alive and well! But then if anyone was sure to survive all that has happened—”

  “He was taken,” interjected Simia reluctantly. “When we were leaving the mill – he and Fathray were together.”

  Some of the familiar weariness returned to Paiscion’s face.

  “Ah,” he said. He was silent for some moments, then he murmured: “I’ve never seen such a gift for Scrying. Not before, and not since. He had such insight, such feeling… he would tell me not only where the enemy legions were, but who led them, where they would attack, whether they were resolute or undecided, whether the men were loyal or rebellious. Envoys and scouts arrived to find that Bowe had given me their message hours before. And traitors and liars… well, they gained no quarter when Bowe was at hand…”

  “That sounds like him,” said Simia, smiling sadly.

  Paiscion nodded. “And now it seems that he is again lost to us. In truth I thought we had lost him at the Reckoning, like so many thousands of others.”

  He drew a deep breath and glanced over at the mirrors.

  “That was the day that his daughter, Naeo, came of age.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “At the battle...” said Paiscion rather absently as his mind drifted back. “She... she was magnificent.”

  “Naeo was there? At the battle?”

  “More than that,” said Paiscion solemnly, “she very nearly changed the course of it. The battle and perhaps even the history of our people.”

  He moved past Sylas and sat down in the chair, then stared at each of the mirrors in turn as if trying to catch a last glimpse of the young girl.

  “After the fall of the Circle of Salsimaine she and Bowe travelled by night to join those of us who sought escape upon the sand flats. Of course, Bowe was much needed and he joined our ranks, but Naeo must have been told to wait, because she found herself a little spot high on the rocks, overlooking the bay. And there she watched. She looked on as Thoth appeared upon the headland and our army began to panic; she watched as the sky was filled with fire and the beach became a boiling morass. She saw the caves give way and she watched her people sinking beneath the sands. Finally she looked on as mighty waves rose from the depths of the sea, their foaming peaks clawing at the sky before tumbling towards the shore, bearing away all who remained.”

  “And where was Bowe?” asked Sylas.

  “Until now I thought he was among those who were lost,” said Paiscion. “And I’m certain that Naeo thought the same.”

  Simia put her hands to her face. “How could she bear it…?”

  “She couldn’t,” said Paiscion. “At that most horrifying moment, she found something in the very darkest, the most hidden parts of her soul. For, even as the first of the waves threatened to bear her father away, she was seen standing fearlessly, high upon some rocks. She held her arms aloft, stretched out across the bay, and she glared defiantly at the passing waves.

  “At first her gestures seemed futile: the seas continued on their devastating path, pounding the cliffs and hurling legions of men to their deaths. But then an onlooker called out, and soon there was an entire chorus of hopeful cries. Espasian and I turned to see an astonishing, glorious sight. The waves were turning. Instead of crashing into the few survivors they slewed to one side, collapsing under their own weight, falling on one edge and rising to impossible heights on the other, banking sharply away from our brethren. They began to travel across the bay, away from the rocks on which she stood. Every new wave that Thoth sent to crush the survivors instead fed a mounting surge of water that careered directly towards the headland. Before he was able to rally, a monstrous mountain of water was bearing down on him, threatening to sweep him from the clifftop. For some moments �
� some blessed seconds – we all dared to believe that this tiny girl – this great natural force of Essenfayle – might just succeed, that she might strike him down. But alas, the crest of the wave was not quite high enough. It struck the cliff face on the headland with a thunderous clap and sent a sheet of water high into the sky. When it fell, Thoth remained.”

  He took a long breath. “It was an act of greatness,” he added, “for few have come so close to harming the last of the Priests of Souls. And the fact remains that, in those few moments, Naeo saved many lives.”

  He turned his tired eyes to Sylas. “And she is your Glimmer.”

  Sylas had listened with growing awe. This girl seemed more strange and distant than ever, and yet he felt curiously proud, as though her triumph was in part his own.

  “How did she do it?” he asked.

  Paiscion shrugged. “How did you open a chasm in the riverbed? It seems that there is something special about you both, something that makes you gifted in the arts of Essenfayle. And why should it not come to you naturally? After all, Essenfayle draws upon the most natural of all powers – the energy that flows through us and between us; an energy that is everywhere, in everything. All it needs to show itself is someone who understands it, senses it, feels it. Like a great composer feels the song of the flute, the yearning of the horn, the thunder of the drums, and from those things creates a symphony.”

  Sylas looked at him blankly. “But I really don’t feel any of those things,” he protested.

  “It is in you, Sylas, just as it is in Naeo,” said Paiscion, with a resolve that left the matter beyond doubt. “You felt it when you summoned the life in the river at the bridge and when you defeated the Ghor on the Barrens; you felt it when you ran at night through the dried streams of Salsimaine and when Naeo spoke to you in your dreams. You felt it when she summoned you with the Passing Bell.”

  Simia had been scrutinising Mr Zhi’s piece of paper, absentmindedly twirling a lock of her hair round a finger, but she now blinked and looked up. “I thought only Merimaat and the elders knew how to use the bell?”

  “That’s what we thought,” said Paiscion with a shrug. “But Naeo has surprised us before – why should she not do so again? Sylas knew nothing of Essenfayle three days ago, and yet the very next day he defeated a company of the Ghor!” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “What if Sylas and Naeo have a power the like of which no one has ever known? What if they – together – are all that Essenfayle promises to be? Two parts of a magnificent whole!”

  Sylas shook his head and looked appealingly at Simia, but she had turned back to Mr Zhi’s message, holding it reverently between her hands.

  He wanted to change the topic. “What happened after the Reckoning?” he asked. “What happened to Naeo?”

  Paiscion lowered his eyes to the creaking deck. “Ah well, there lies the problem,” he said. “I’m afraid Naeo had made herself far too conspicuous and Thoth had no intention of letting her get away. He sent a legion of Ghor to find her and – despite Espasian’s efforts to protect her – they were both eventually taken. I was far across the bay by then, trying to help the few survivors to escape, but I heard reports that they fought even as they were carried away. When he was finally captured, Espasian was limp and lifeless – we assumed that he was dead.”

  “If only,” mumbled Simia without raising her eyes from Mr Zhi’s note. She reached into her jacket, pulled out her notepad and began scribbling.

  “So where do you think she is now?” asked Sylas, feeling once again that he already knew the answer.

  Paiscion dropped his head. “There is only one place she can be,” he said reluctantly. “The Dirgheon.”

  “Of course,” muttered Sylas, shaking his head. “How do we get to her in there?”

  The Magruman sat up straight and looked surprised. “My dear Sylas,” he exclaimed, “I think the real question is how is Thoth going to keep you apart?”

  Sylas looked unconvinced.

  “You are clearly destined to come together!” exclaimed Paiscion, getting to his feet. “Can’t you see that? Now is the time! Now, when the people of Essenfayle are defeated, when our nation – Naeo’s nation – lies in ruins, when Thoth threatens to consume us all! This is Nature’s balance! Nature’s hand reaching out to set things straight. She is working through Naeo, through you both!”

  Sylas shook his head, struggling to comprehend.

  “Hey!” shouted Simia, staring wide-eyed at her notebook.

  “You must have faith in the gifts you have been given!” said Paiscion, placing a hand on Sylas’s shoulder. “You have to see beyond…”

  “I said, hey!” cried Simia, raising her head. “I’ve found something!”

  “What?” snapped Paiscion irritably.

  “Something… really, really strange.”

  “What is it?”

  Simia looked back at the piece of paper. “I was just reading this,” she said breathlessly, “the secret message... you know… ‘So at last we may be one’…”

  “Yes, yes, we’ve talked about that!”

  “I know you have,” snapped Simia, glaring up at Paiscion. “But you missed something. Something really important.”

  Paiscion’s eyes suddenly dropped to the paper on Simia’s lap and a look of interest passed over his face.

  “It seemed strange to me that the message wasn’t quite the same as the poem,” she said excitedly, holding up her notebook. “You see? It says ‘So at last’ instead of ‘For then at last’. Well, you wouldn’t expect Mr Zhi to make a mistake, so I started thinking that maybe there was a reason. Maybe the letters themselves are important. I started playing around with them – you know – mixing them up, reading them out of order, as if they were Ravel Runes or something…”

  “Yes, yes,” said Paiscion impatiently. “What did you find?”

  Simia crossed her arms and looked at him steadily. “I found the word Naeo,” she said, “and her father’s name, Bowe. As in Naeo, daughter of Bowe.”

  Paiscion looked unimpressed. “I don’t see how that—”

  “You will in a minute,” continued Simia defiantly. “When you take those letters away, only a few are left… an S… a Y… an L… an A…” She grinned as she saw a look of astonishment pass over their faces. With a flourish, she turned her notebook around so they could see her workings.

  Sylas’s eyes moved rapidly over Simia’s scrawled letters.

  Impossible.

  “Our names…” he muttered.

  “You see!” cried Simia. “The letters in ‘So at last we may be one’... they spell ‘Naeo Bowe’ and ‘Sylas Tate’!”

  Sylas glanced from Simia to Paiscion.

  “So your very names are a message!” exclaimed Paiscion excitedly, rushing over to grasp the piece of paper. His quick eyes flew across Mr Zhi’s message and he mouthed the names under his breath. “Yes! Yes, of course!” he exclaimed, the corners of his mouth twitching with excitement.

  “Oh,” muttered Simia, poring over her notebook. “I think I made a mistake...”

  The smile fell from Paiscion’s face. “Why?”

  “Because there’s an ‘M’ left over. The ‘M’ in ‘may’.”

  Paiscion thought for a moment and then slowly the smile returned. “Oh, this really is TOO perfect!” he exclaimed, looking reverently at Mr Zhi’s message. “Yes, that’s it! You see, over the years the Merisi have sent the Suhl many messages, some in the Samarok, some in letters, some in codes parchments or encrypted texts. There have been many authors too: Mr Zhi, the Bringers, other elders of the Merisi. But one thing always remains the same...”

  “What?” probed Simia impatiently.

  “They sign their messages with a single letter... ‘M’!”

  Simia frowned, but slowly her face filled with wonder.

  Sylas grew pale. “So you’re saying that my name is just part of a message?”

  “Not just your name, and not just any message,” said the Magruman, his
voice quivering with excitement. “You yourself are part of the ultimate message! The message we have all been waiting for since Merisu wrote his poem! The ancients – at least the ancients of our world – believed that the soul had five parts: the shadow, the essence, the spirit, the soul and, very importantly, the name, the Ren as they called it. They believed that the name was more than just a label, much more. It defines you. It makes you who you are.”

  “But hold on a minute...” muttered Sylas, rubbing his temple. “That’s… that’s the name my mum gave me,” he said.

  “Well indeed, and there’s only one explanation!” cried Paiscion. “She must have known about all this, all along.”

  “She couldn’t have…”

  “Why shouldn’t she have known?” said Simia, her cheeks now flushed with excitement. “We already know that she knew the Merisi – her Glimmer even! She might have known them since before you were born! And if she did, she’d definitely know Merisu’s poem!”

  Sylas shook his head and stared at the deck. “But why? Why would she?” he exclaimed. “It’s my name!”

  “To speak to us, Sylas,” said Paiscion, with a solemn expression. “To tell us beyond any doubt that you and Naeo are those foretold by Merisu and our whispered myths. That you are meant to be here, that you are meant to find Naeo. That together you will do the unthinkable.”

  Sylas raised his eyes and stared out of the nearest porthole, trying to gather his thoughts. A grey wave crashed against the glass and fell away to reveal a wild, churning expanse of water stretching as far as he could see. How could any of this be true? Just days ago he had been forgotten and alone in a dusty corner of Gabblety Row, and now he was supposed to believe that he had some kind of special destiny? It was ridiculous.

  Aware that the room had fallen silent he glanced at Simia. “I just can’t make sense of it,” he said, for once hoping that his strong-minded companion had something to say.