Anger unbridled, Craxor broke the Temple fortifications, slaughtering priests, singers, and whichever of the Grey Sect stood in her way, escaping with her beloved into the Layer. When the Grey Sect realised their mistake, they rode down to the village at the foot of the volcano, slaughtering every man, woman and child with a beating heart, driving their souls upon Craxor’s defences. Unable to withstand the unleashed horror, Craxor lost Beltyra inside the Layer forever.
Heartbroken and ravished with guilt, when Craxor returned to the realm of flesh and bone, she took her own life. The resulting cataclysm is today known as the Dante Gorge, near Rae Morda in eastern Althuisa.
It is said Beltyra haunts the Layer to this day. Her tale is told in this children’s nursery rhyme:
When Craxor lost her bride,
She fell into the Void.
Madness came and took her name,
And now she’s lost inside.
NOTA:
Cataclysm: It is said that if a Bindmaster’s power was not taken by another of their kind upon their death, probability would rupture around them. Several accounts exist of such cataclysms taking place during the Age of Sighs, many giving rise to unusual geological features in the Midlands.
S.G.
29
Blood Brother
A droplet of condensation zigzagged down the inside of the studio window. Guyen stifled a yawn. The adrenalin-fuelled activities of the previous night warranted several more hours sleep, which he’d not had the pleasure of.
Nyra picked up the vial in front of them. “The patient?” he asked.
Guyen nodded, pulling a stool up to the bench. “My brother’s blood. All the way from Tal Maran. My mother added preservative.”
Nyra drew some of the red liquid into a pipette. “Let’s take a look then,” he said, expelling a drop onto a slide. He set it under the eyescope and peered down the viewport. “Are you sure he was Bound?” he asked.
“As far as I know.”
He glanced up, expression serious. “I’m sorry, Yorkov. It’s not good news.”
Guyen swapped places and peered through the eyepiece. The sample contained no Bind Markers, and the blood was strewn with damaged cells. It was a wonder Yemelyan had survived this long.
“Let’s try the Citrine,” Nyra said, sliding a tablet of orange quartz into the eyescope tray. They re-examined the sample. The cells agitated, not wildly like an Unbound’s, but enough to confirm they were reactive to Faze. Guyen banished Toulesh. The telltale sparking between cells appeared, fizzing, crackling, intense.
“You know what this means?” Nyra said.
Guyen straightened. “No, what?”
“Without a Binding to patch, the serum will not take.”
Damn! Toulesh swiped angrily at a fly passing the balcony. The fly didn’t notice. None of this made sense. Yemelyan should have shown symptoms before now if he’d never been Bound.
Nyra stroked his beard. “I suppose he might have a natural immunity to repair,” he said. “He is your twin, after all.”
“You’ve seen my blood,” Guyen said. “It’s immune to Faze. His is breaking down.”
Nyra shrugged. “If you suffered the trauma he did, perhaps yours would too.”
No, they were different to each other long before that night on the Impossible Bridge. “I don’t think it works like that,” Guyen said.
“How does it work then?” Nyra muttered.
“I don’t know,” Guyen admitted. And that was the problem—who did know? But what was the alternative? Give up? Not after everything. “Maybe you’re right,” Guyen said. “Perhaps he does have some immunity we can patch. Come on, I’m feeling lucky today. Let’s get you that Paper to publish.”
Nyra shook his head ruefully. “If this works, it will be worthy of more than a Paper. A promotion at least.”
That would be impossible, Rialto could never know what they’d done.
Nyra went to the shelves, pushing Fetch aside to retrieve some equipment. Guyen opened Milkins, not that he needed to—he’d committed the chapter on patch serums to memory several reads ago. The process was largely trial and error—add various combinations of elementals and stem powder to a sample of the unstable blood until it no longer reacted to Faze. The resulting seed solution could then be developed in the Incubator. Milkins’ method was drawn out, suggesting samples be left for days to observe the effects of different combinations, but they had two advantages: the more modern magnification, and the fact, unbeknown to Nyra, that Guyen could see Faze working on the serum in real time.
They got down to business, Nyra excited at the prospect of a scientific breakthrough, Guyen at the chance to save his brother. However, despite the initial optimism, an hour’s experimentation later, they’d had no success. Yemelyan’s blood continued to mutate under high Faze levels, and the Faze signatures under the eyescope were as chaotic as ever. Not the least of the problem was the stem canister.
“What’s wrong with the damn thing?” Guyen complained. That was the third time it had malfunctioned.
“The valve must be seizing,” Nyra said. He tapped the canister with the measuring spoon, precipitating an ejection of grey powder.
Guyen flinched. “I thought you said it was indestructible?”
“It’s just temperamental, Yorkov.” Nyra coaxed a little powder onto the slide.
Guyen peered through the eyepiece. The stem combined with the latest sample, but the Faze signature was off again, the wiry strands meeting in a chaotic vortex at the centre of the image. “It won’t work,” he predicted.
Nyra raised an eyebrow. “How do you know that?”
“Trust me.”
They waited a moment. Sure enough, the sample degraded as soon as they exposed it to a higher Faze concentration. They binned it and tried again, but the next combination was even further off, and after ten more minutes adding elementals, the sample was ruined. And so it continued. After another two hours burning through Yemelyan’s blood with no success whatsoever, Nyra went for food.
Guyen paced the studio. What was he missing?
“What do you think?” he asked Fetch. “What are we doing wrong, eh?” The dullard sat in his armchair, mending his brush. As expected, he offered no reply, but shrugged like he understood. Guyen fixed him with a meaningful look. “Do you know what we’re doing here, Fetch?”
The vacant man stared over at where Toulesh skulked at the far end of the studio. Could he see him? No, that was a ridiculous thought. Toulesh melted through the wall, disappearing with a sour look. He hated being banished for long periods, but that was tough—Faze signatures were invisible with him folded in.
Frustrated with the lack of progress, Guyen turned back to the list of combinations they’d tried, looking for a pattern. One column noted the time it took for the samples to degrade. In another, he’d jotted down how stable the Faze signatures had looked. How many combinations of seventeen different elementals were there? Thousands? Millions? It was like walking down countless forking paths, disregarding a branch of possibility with every decision. But they weren’t working blind, that’s why this list was important. The only question was what would run out first, Yemelyan’s blood or Nyra’s patience? A short while later, the senior Maker returned with chicken and bread. Time getting on, and despite Rialto’s strict rules to the contrary, they ate as they worked.
The afternoon proceeded with as much success as the morning. They worked through combinations of elementals, trying the rarest powders, increasing stem concentrations, at one point getting close with a Sulphurous formulation, the Faze signature almost normal. But seconds later, the cells decayed. Something was missing. Something the stem could not replace.
The light at the windows faded to grey, and then to black. Nyra unshuttered the studio’s sodalamp, bathing them in an orange glow. Skipping supper, by seventh hour they were down to the last vestiges of blood. Guyen squinted through the balcony doors at the drizzling evening. He’d been staring into the eyescope s
o long, he could make out nothing in the distance.
Nyra looked up, expression resigned. “Shall we take a break?” he suggested. He was probably close to giving up. And who could blame him?
“A short one then,” Guyen agreed.
They took a pot of cacao out onto the damp balcony and sat on the floor, backs up against the glass-panelled doors. Down in the Bustle, citizens went about their late night comings and goings. Nyra took out his pipe.
Guyen poured some cacao. “What are the others up to?” he asked.
Nyra took a pinch of tabac from his pouch. “Moran never comes in on Aylesday. I told Tishara we were cleaning.”
“What’s her deal?”
“Who, Tishara?” Nyra packed the pipe. “Did she tell you of her other Talent?”
“No, what Talent?”
“The flute, she is quite gifted.” He gave his tabac a last prod, lighting the pipe with a taper from the lamp. He puffed out a satisfied smoke ring. “Perhaps you’ve heard her? Your rooms are close, no?”
The bewitching flute which floated in through the window—that was her? “She’s a good musician,” Guyen agreed, “for a Bindcrafter.”
Nyra laughed. “She is a good musician, how do you say, full stop. She was set to enrol at the Symphonia in Alomar until they assigned her here. All her family are there. I think she took it quite bad.” He sighed. “Still, best she fulfils her true Talent. We would struggle without her enchanter expertise.”
It was true, she was an excellent Bindcrafter, and pleasant company to boot. Cacao pot empty, Guyen pulled himself up. “Better get on,” he said.
Nyra relit his pipe. “I shall be with you in a moment.”
Guyen let himself inside, sliding the glass door shut behind him. Offering Fetch a smile, he sat at the bench to set up another sample. This one had to count. They were nearly out of blood. They’d been so close with the Sulphurous mix. If only he could see the problem. He added the carrier solution and another drop of blood to a fresh slide, then some Bromide—perhaps a more acidic mix would help—then the Sulphurous, Chlorate and Dumortierite. Now for the stem powder. He picked the canister carefully up with the tongs and tapped it over the silver spoon. Nothing happened. Cursing, he tapped it again. Still nothing. In frustration, he bashed it on the bench.
The canister emitted a sharp pop. Grey powder jetted from the valve. He jumped back, dropping the tongs. The hissing canister rolled across the bench.
Shit!
He coughed, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Grey powder glittered on his cuff. The stuff was everywhere, cascading out of control. They’d be buried in a mountain of poison.
Fuck!
Fetch stared. “Get out of here!” Guyen bellowed, cursing his stupidity. The canister streamed, a grey cloud gathering in the air. He could taste it. He’d inhaled it. Fuck! He coughed, clamour rising, an exponential curve of rushing, whistling sound. The sodalamp intensified, glittering like rust in the airborne particles, as golden nether light outlined benches, stools and equipment like a line drawing. This was bad. This was really bad.
Nyra thumped on the glass. “What have you done, Yorkov?”
Fucked up, that’s what.
“Seal the canister,” Nyra bawled. “Quickly!”
Guyen looked between the spouting cylinder and the glass doors. Maybe he should just get out, run? But that wouldn’t end well. What did Nyra mean? “How?” he shouted. “How do I seal it?”
“Water,” Nyra yelled. “Put it in the fire bucket.”
There. Beneath the bench. The red bucket. Would that work? Screwing his eyes up against the jetting dust, Guyen grabbed for the canister.
His fingers made contact, and every muscle locked in place.
His hand burned first, then his arm, then his chest.
A gale filled the air, but only its sound.
The canister overlaid with flickering images—thousands of different versions of it, different colours, shapes and materials morphing in and out of being. Powder jetted over his hand, fingers glued in place. He couldn’t let go. He couldn’t move at all. Fear surged. He was a dead man.
Unless…
This was the same as the dice and the coin, wasn’t it?
Could he tell the canister how to be—choose a better version, a sealed one?
Remembering how he’d done it before, he tried focussing in on an alternate copy. Nothing happened. He tried again.
BECOME!
But the fleeting images strobed too fast to hold on to. The expanding carpet of stem powder fizzed, the canister glowing cyan, silhouetting the bones in his hand. Defences crumbled, the rushing clamour filling his mind like a song. He let it, blindly reaching out for any other version, grasping, willing anything into being. The canister compressed, wrinkles appearing, the bench creaking under its weight.
The stream of powder snuffed out.
Energy exploded.
He lay on cold stone, the air changed, the room replaced by a few feet of jutting rock. A dark red lake stretched out in every direction as far as the eye could see. A pink sun hung low in a dusky orange sky, a gentle breeze blowing warm, moist, and sickly sweet. Guyen stumbled to his feet, legs unsteady, vertigo building at the lack of space on the tiny island. Was this actually happening? Where the hell are you?
Water lapped at the rock outcrop, something amiss. He crouched, dipping in a tentative finger. Shit. Not water. Blood.
He fell back to the centre of the rock, disgustedly wiping his hand on his britches, trying to process the impossible. A lake of blood? It was the stuff of nightmares. A wooden post protruded from the ground, the only feature in an otherwise empty scene. He clutched it for support, concentrating on breathing, trying to calm himself. What the hell was happening? Was this a dream? It didn’t feel like one—there were no time jumps, and a pinch on the back of his hand hurt. Was he hallucinating? If so, it was an award-winning delirium. The blood lake oozed and congealed, ripples slow and thick. Was this hell? Did you kill yourself?
He slumped against the post, waiting, but nothing changed—just a malaise of orange fog and clinging red mist. Was this a Faze thing? Was this place like the others he’d visited—the blank space in the Assignments office, the garden at Whitefriars? How did he escape? He’d picked a flower in the garden, a sliver of shadow appearing like a door back to reality, but that was no use here, the place was devoid of plants—of any life at all. He’d be trapped until he died from thirst.
He screamed. “Help!”
But no help came.
Frustrated, he thought back to the solid world, at least he tried—memories were foggy. That’s all wrong, he thought. It’s dreams which are supposed to be dim, not reality. Then he remembered Toulesh. How had he forgotten him? Of course, the simulacrum could help now.
Return, he sent.
A shiver snaked up his spine.
Damn. No connection. He was truly alone, not even the ringing clamour for company. Nothing but dead air.
Then he noticed it—something bobbing out on the lake, shrouded in red mist. He got to his feet, trying to work out what it was. It floated closer. He made out a raft, with something or someone aboard.
“Hey, over here,” he shouted. The words fell dead in the blanketing silence, the only sound allowed here the macabre, slurping blood. He stared, transfixed, the gap narrowing. He was right—it was a person, an unmoving form. His jaw dropped. That pale complexion, the stringy blond hair trailing in the blood lake. Yemelyan? It can’t be…
It was.
But how? Shit! That was irrelevant. He had to help him. But what could he do? He was too far to reach. If he stepped off the rock, he’d be in the blood lake. The thought was abominable. He willed the raft closer. Ever so slowly, it floated nearer, then within touching distance. Testing the limits of balance, he caught it with a fingertip and coaxed it towards the island.
“Wake up!” he demanded. No response. Gritting his teeth, bracing himself for maximum effort, he pulled Yemelyan onto the rock
. He slid easily across, no heavier than a child. Guyen smoothed the hair away from his brother’s eyes, fingers sticky with congealing blood. “Wake up,” he pleaded. But he slept on.
Guyen sobbed, drained, useless, bereft.
Blood slurped behind him. He turned to see the raft floating away. Damn. He’d let their only means of escape slip through his fingers, like all his dreams and good intentions. He slumped over his brother, scared, alone, angry as the gods.
This couldn’t go on much longer. He’d lose his mind if he hadn’t already. There had to be a way back, some trick, some method he should know. Maybe you’ll never escape, he thought. Or worse, give in to sleep and drown in the putrid blood. Oh, for that life he’d had, so fleeting now, so confusing. This wasn’t all of him. It couldn’t be. If only he could remember. He’d been somewhere, doing something important. Vague, nameless faces floated through his mind, a blonde girl, an angel…
The sky darkened, the breeze strengthening. Guyen scanned the horizon, worry growing as powdery particles whipped his face. He coughed. A dust storm? How did that make sense in the middle of a lake? Gritty wind encircled them, stinging skin and eyes, layering his hair with silt. It grew more violent, whistling, singing, strange timbres and harmonics there one minute, gone the next. He crouched over Yemelyan’s sleeping form, pulling his shirt over his head to protect them both. “Help!” he screamed. “Please, anyone, someone—help us.”
“You, over there.”
Guyen whirled in the direction of the voice. A yellow light twinkled out on the lake. He jumped up, blinking away dust. Who was that?
The light grew brighter—a lantern—and a rowboat appeared, blood slurping around its oars. An old man worked them.
Nether Light Page 32
