by Greg James
The Kingdom of Webs, she thought, I’m such an idiot.
Where there are webs, there will be spiders.
Chapter Thirty-One
The dragging stopped after a while, and Sarah lay still, listening to a series of clickings and chirrups coming from all around her.
Then, a voice said, Who are you?
She didn’t know what to do.
“Who are you? Speak, two-legs, speak!”
“My name is Sarah Bean.”
“And what are you? You are not the same as other two-legs. Speak!”
“I am ... the Living Flame ... A’aron ...”
“Firespawn! A two-legs firespawn! Why are you here?”
“The tower ... I am here ... for the tower ... the Sceptre of Storms ...”
“We are the keepers of the tower, Firespawn. He sleeps here in the caves of crystal.”
“Will you set me free?”
“Yes, you will see the crystals. We do not eat firespawn. Taste terrible.”
The threads binding her were ripped away and scattered by a number of dark, thin, hairy limbs. Sarah blinked in the sudden light and gasped as she saw the creatures surrounding her.
They were all giant spiders, and the cavern of crystals was vast and spectacular. Stalagmites and stalactites of hoar frost, quartz, amethyst, and jade glittered and shone all around while strung from crystal spire to crystal spire were the webs of the spiders. Sarah watched as mother spiders scuttled across them with infants swarming after and over them. Father spiders could be seen hanging down from stalagtites, slowly dropping to the ground and clutching bundles of thread, much like the one that Sarah had been bound in.
“That could have been me? One of those bundles?”
“If you were not Firespawn, yes. The harvest grows thinner and thinner each year on K’th’li’li. We must find a new land, perhaps we go deeper into this world and nest there. We are not welcome on the greater islands by the two-legs. They would spit fire at us again from their unwebs.”
“Again? So, you haven’t always been here?”
The cortege of spiders stopped and Sarah could sense a great sadness in the air as the voices in her head began to speak again.
“We are the K’th and we were made after the Dragons and the Unicorns. The Dragons were magnificent. The Unicorns were beautiful. The K’th were Spiders, and so we were driven away to the edge of the world.”
“So why are you guardians of the tower?”
“We are guardians because we do not care for the tower or its secrets. It can do nothing for K’th, only for two-legs and the power they crave. Also, two-legs fear the K’th, big and small, so few have ever come here in search of the tower. Those who were not ripe enough for the tower, we ate them.”
“What if I am not ripe enough for the tower?”
“Then we will kill you. If you come out alive.”
“Great. That makes me feel much better.”
“Good. Most two-legs do not like this. We are glad that you do.”
“You’ve never heard of sarcasm, have you? Can you show me to the tower?”
“Yes, Firespawn, yes. Follow us, follow, follow us.”
Sarah went deeper into the crystal caves.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Mikka Wyrlsorn stood before the mirror in his chambers, watching his own reflection evaporate from the glass to be replaced by that of the Fallen One’s tomb. Taking a deep breath, Mikka stepped through the mirror and into the nauseating atmosphere beneath the Shadowhorn Mountain.
E’blis sat at the carved feet of the Fallen One’s idol. Mikka felt his flesh creep as he glimpsed the curves and lines of the Creator’s glimmering skull within the folds of his cowl.
“Where is the Flame, Mikka Wyrlsorn? We bid you bring us a token of her body following her demise. Surely, Malus did not consume all of her flesh and bones.”
“The Flame was bound as agreed, O Lord. But she was not slain.”
“Is that all you have to say?”
“No, O Lord. We followed her trail to a village on the outer borders of Yrsyllor.”
“And you claimed her there?”
“Un-unfortunately not. She was able to escape by air. Malus pursued her but was not able to take her alive or dead.”
“Then, she has doubtless flown on to K’th’li’li where the sceptre and Ka’aron wait for her. You are aware of the punishment for those not worthy of His Shadow, Mikka Wyrlsorn?”
“I am.”
“Then it is well that you have brought us something of worth. The Reavers have sung their song to His Shadow of the knowledge gleaned from the Herb-Sister and the Highmount heir and warden. There is much of the Wayfarers and the Flame that we did not know, and the blood-history of King Ferra. You have done well in this regard.”
Mikka felt his body relaxing at E’blis’s words.
“Then I may go, Lord E’blis?”
“After one more matter, Mikka Wyrlsorn.”
“What is that?”
“Your punishment.”
Before Mikka could say another word, E’blis raised one of his arms, revealing the bones beneath; from them leapt a lance of indigo lightning that strafed over Mikka’s face. His screams echoed around and around the tomb, causing the idol to creak, grind and groan in such a way that it might have been thought to be in the grip of a sick, dark ecstasy as the mortal man writhed, thrashed, and howled until his voice was gone. Mikka fell to the ground as the lightning died away, and E’blis returned his bony arm to his robes.
“On your feet, Lord of Highmount.”
Mikka struggled to his feet, smoke trailing from his face. Something clattered to his feet. It was a mask of crude iron with eye-slits and mouth-slit roughly cut into it.
“You will have need of this in the presence of others.”
Gingerly, Mikka took the mask in his hands without a word.
“Now go, Mikka Wyrlsorn, and be more worthy of His Shadow henceforth.”
Mikka retreated through the portal into his chambers, stumbling into a heap on the smooth marble.
What has he done to me, he thought. What has he done?
A knock sounded upon the door of his chamber.
“My Lord, the Lady Rennara to see you. You sent for me.”
Mikka got to his feet and, as he did, caught a glimpse of himself in the black glass of the mirror. He opened his mouth to speak, but the flesh within was too dry and burned for him to utter a word.
The mask, where was the mask?
He had dropped it and could not see where it had slithered away to.
Too late, the door to his chambers opened and Lady Rennara entered. She was radiant, with a heart-shaped face, hazelnut-coloured eyes and a rich tumble of chestnut curls. She had come to beg mercy for her father in the dungeons. Mikka had had a few ideas for things he would do to her before he extended such mercy. But now, there was nothing he could think to do, because her eyes were as wide as her mouth at the sight of his face. He walked towards her, hands out, to stop what was going to come next. She let out a scream and ran from the room. Her cries echoed back to him as he slumped to the ground and began to sob.
“Be worthy of His Shadow henceforth. Or the next punishment will see you weeping truly, Mikka Wyrlsorn.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
The tower was a shaft of smooth, polished stone that shimmered in the light cast by the many crystals hanging overhead. It was windowless, doorless; there seemed to be no sign of a way in. The lack of any visible sign of manual workmanship reminded Sarah of the Mountains of Mourning, the cities that had been carved out of the rock of that forbidding range by the magickal arts wielded by the First Wayfarer. It stood to reason, really, that his tower would be much the same as those cities. But no windows or doors—how could anything survive in there like that? What kind of a tower was this? And, more to the point, how was she going to get inside?
The Sceptre of Storms was here, she was sure. She could feel a resonance in the hilt at her side, as i
f the Sword of Sighs felt something like its kin nearby.
“How do I get in?” asked Sarah.
One of the spiders clicked its mandibles and trilled as the words took form behind Sarah’s eyes.
“No, Firespawn. No get in. There are no holes in this unweb. It stands tall. None go in. None come out.”
“That’s just what I needed to hear,” Sarah said. “So what do I do now?”
“Wait, Firespawn. You must wait for him to come to you.”
“Him? Him who? Not His Shadow.”
“No, Firespawn. Him. Ka’aron. Son of A’aron. The First of Men and the Wayfarers. He will come to you when you cross the threshold of dreams.”
More dreams, more nightmares, Sarah thought.
Well, I should be used to that by now.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Jedda walked the halls of Highmount alone. Her skin was still as deathly pale as her hair was black, but there was something in her eyes other than the red glow of the Fallen One. She remembered how the palace had once been, before Mikka, before Ianna.
She remembered her father sitting on the throne with his lion’s mane of golden hair and his beard plaited into three, in recognition of his position as the king of Highmount. When people came before him, he did not ask for them to kneel or prostrate themselves. He allowed them to remain standing, and none had to beg or plead, merely to ask. Sometimes, he granted them what they wished for; other times, he did not. But he was always fair and just and he would tell the people why they could or could not have what they desired.
Such a king cannot live for long.
She remembered hearing those words whispered around the court by unkind lips, even as a child. She never understood what they meant until she had grown much older. Jedda had found her father dying in his bed, his lips stained with the distilled juice of Rosara carna. It was Jedda who had roused the Earlmen and Earlwomen when she discovered Ianna sitting upon the throne before his body was even cold or in the ground. She knew, then, who had taken his life. After the coup failed and she was imprisoned, Jedda had long, lonely years to reflect on how unkind and unjust humanity could be.
His Shadow had found her in the depths of her despair, and had given her what she thought had been a chance at hope and the promise of her sister being spared, even if her own life was to be lost. Now, Jedda had learned the truth of the Fallen One’s lies. Venna was alive, yes. Her life had been spared. And she was no longer at the mercy of Ianna’s cruelty. But she was a dead-eyed, staring doll in a cell, the same as Ianna and the Herb-Sister they said had been helping Sarah.
Sarah ...
The girl from another world whom she had doubted. She had thought that Sarah would go running home at the first chance and would never return to Seythe, but she had been wrong. Sarah was out there and Mikka Wyrlsorn’s will was bent on killing her, which meant that the Fallen One still feared the girl, that He was not the only thing that could offer hope in this world.
Jedda walked on through the halls, not meeting the eyes of those who passed her. Her gaze was turned inward, and she had much to think on as the word spread through the whispers of the court.
The Flame is coming. She will be here soon.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Mikka sat upon the throne, peering out from behind the iron mask that covered his face. Earlmen and Earlwomen, as well as Fellfolk, stood in the court this time, and he could see them regarding him with guarded looks, wondering at the reason for the mask. Mikka’s fingers scrabbled at the arms of the throne as he considered his next pronouncement. The Earlmen and Earlwomen had come to plead for mercy for the people of their lands and to ask for winter provisions. Mikka listened absently to their entreaties, denying each one in turn.
Mikka’s gaze travelled across the court. Following a few gasps of horror, silence had fallen. He broke it with words that sounded harsh and distorted from his recently roasted throat.
“Understand that I am not King Ferra, neither am I as the Lady Warden once was to you. I serve His Shadow. He does not grant mercy nor listen to the pleas of the poor or the weak. He lets those who cannot live under his rule die. Only those who are worthy will survive.”
His eyes fell upon someone in the crowd, and he beckoned. “Lady Rennara. Come forward.”
Courtiers parted around her like a divided sea. Her face was pale and her lips trembled as she took tentative steps towards Mikka.
“Yuh-yes, muh-my Lord?”
“Kneel here. Please.”
She readjusted her long skirts and dropped to her knees at the foot of the steps that led up to the throne. Her eyes were downcast.
“Look at me. Now.”
Her shoulders shaking, Rennara raised her eyes to look at Mikka.
“Do you find my countenance comely, my Lady? Does it appeal to you?”
She swallowed hard. He saw the ghost of memory pass across her face as she composed herself to speak. “Yes, my Lord. Your countenance is most comely. More handsome than any man in Highmount and all the Three Kingdoms.”
“You speak well and are most kind, Lady Rennara. A kiss.”
“Muh-my Lord?”
“You heard me well enough, my Lady. Your ears are not stuffed with cotton. A kiss. Now.”
She rose to her feet and took one slow step after another up the steps until she stood before the throne. Mikka rose too, and leaned in over her. He undid the fastenings on the leather straps that held the iron mask in place. He loosened it and removed it. He heard the courtiers’ cries at the sight of his face, but he had eyes for no one but Rennara.
“Do you still regard my countenance as comely, my Lady?”
“Yes ... my Lord.”
“Then kiss it, and kiss it well, or I will have your head and it will decorate a spike on the Far Gate.”
Rennara stifled a sob, though her eyes shone with suppressed tears.
“My Lord ... please ...”
“Kiss me well, Rennara, and your earlier rudeness is forgotten, I swear it.”
They kissed.
The air in the court grew heavy. All eyes were upon the unsuited couple before the throne. Then, after what felt like an age, they parted and Mikka replaced the iron mask upon his face.
“There now, my dear. That wasn’t so terrible was it?”
Rennara shook her head.
Mikka made a gesture as he sat back upon the throne.
“Now, execute her.”
Cries went up from the assembled throng, and Rennara turned, her skirts hitched so that she might run. She stared into the raw red eyes of a Fellfolk guard for a moment. And then, her head was falling down the steps of the throne.
“Take it away,” said Mikka. “Put it on one of the spikes on the Far Gate and let the crows and ravens make a feast of it.”
Mikka looked out at the pale, drawn faces of the assembled throng. The fear there, the feel of it in the air, the taste. It was intoxicating.
Perhaps, he thought, it is time, at last, for my coronation.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Sarah awoke. She had lain down by the tower, as the spiders had instructed, and let sleep overcome her. It wasn’t all that difficult after her exhausting journey. When she awoke, she found that she was no longer where she had been. It was dark, but in her mind she saw the Flame and she brought it out, just a little, a small flickering arrowhead of fire, dancing above the palm of an outstretched hand. She turned and turned and saw soaring walls of perfectly polished stone encircling her. No doors. No windows. No openings of any kind. It was as spacious as a cathedral but less ornamental in design. Numerous oil lamps were scattered across the curving walls, lighting the way with a sacral glow.
I’m inside the tower.
A voice came from out of the dark and musty air. It rolled like thunder and made her bones tremble down to their marrow.
“THIS IS THE GAME OF KA’ARON. WHO COMES TO DISTURB ME HERE?”
“I am Sarah Bean ... the Living Flame.”
“AND WHY HAVE
YOU COME HERE, CHILD OF FIRE?”
“To save Seythe from the Fallen One.”
“BE SURE, BE VERY SURE. EVEN NOW IT IS NOT TOO LATE TO DEPART IN PEACE.”
“I am sure.”
“THEN ASCEND THE TOWER, CHILD OF FIRE. COME TO ME. AND KNOW THAT WHATEVER GHOSTS HAUNT YOU AWAIT. AND THERE WILL BE NO ESCAPE FROM THEM.”
With that, the voice was gone.
Sarah took the steps up the tower carefully, watching the shadows and listening to the sounds made by the dark.
A ripe breeze blew into her face, carrying with it moans and whispers from up ahead. She rounded a corner and saw phantoms standing in a line before her; they were sinking their starving fingers into a soft-yellow yielding wall of matter. Their faces were tired, lined, and haggard. The sounds on the breeze came from their receding lips. Sarah watched them draw glistening handfuls out of the wet yellow wall, raising the lumpen material to their mouths and taking functional bites. Gnawing without pleasure. Swallowing without satisfaction. When they were done, they began pulling at the stuff of the wall again.
They’ll never get through to the other side, she thought. They think they will, otherwise they would stop, but they are incapable of stopping or thinking, or thinking and stopping. There is nothing else they can do.
Then, they stopped—all of them—cocking their heads on one side as if they’d heard her thoughts. They turned to face her. Sarah took a step back down the stairs. A spectral arm spat out, across the distance between her and them, and its wasted fingers snagged into her hair. It was pulling at her, dragging her towards them. The breeze was getting stronger, building into a wind. A wind blowing the wrong way. Like the arm, it was drawing her towards them and that horrible, wet wall. She could smell it, pungent and unprocessed. Sickly and rotting.
