The Ale Boy's Feast

by Jeffrey Overstreet

  You saw a world of death and desperation. It made you lonely. Cal-raven thought of some of the horrors he had sculpted—monsters that had troubled his mother by their violence, figures that had offended his father by their ugliness. This was the safest way for Auralia to scream. To wring light from the darkness. To name her fears, know them, and leave them behind. She knew if others saw this, they’d condemn her as a danger.

  He touched her outstretched hand, the figure’s most complete detail—small, fine boned, and pointing forward through the dark. As he squeezed her hand in sympathy, his fingertips found the ridge of a ring on her finger, and he felt a pang of shame.

  Something in her hand shifted, like a lever giving way. He looked ahead into the shadows, for he heard the sound of rusty hinges flexing in an adjoining chamber. Slowly he discerned faint light on the outline of a narrow door.

  “Full of secrets, aren’t you?” He stepped down and moved toward the hinges’ fading echo. As he did, he glimpsed other faces gazing from the wall. Even there, sculptures waited, watching Auralia. But these figures were not reaching out to her. They were forbidding her to reach her destination. One had a stone mask sculpted like a sneer. Another had a jaw that hung open in derision.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another statue with lifelike detail. He turned and leaned in closer to study it.

  It looked like Ryllion with a dagger drawn.

  It was Ryllion.

  Cal-raven swung his makeshift sword, but Ryllion seized his wrist with astonishing speed, halting the blow, and drove his dagger’s tip up beneath Cal-raven’s jawbone. He dropped the stalactite. Ryllion kicked it away, then pushed Cal-raven back between two of the towering figures carved into the wall.

  “Are you alone?” he hissed.

  “Well,” Cal-raven gasped, “there’s you …” The blade bit into flesh, and he felt warm blood trickle down his neck. “Two men,” he whispered. “By the lake. They’ll come at a run if I shout.”

  “It would be a short shout,” said Ryllion. “And your last.”

  Cal-raven sucked in two deep breaths, then relaxed, as Scharr ben Fray had taught him to do. It would be funny, wouldn’t it? Auralia, imprisoned by Abascar, dies in its dungeon. But Cal-raven, new king of Abascar and free, dies in Auralia’s cave.

  “These are my caves now. Take your men away, and never come back.”

  “They’re not my men,” said Cal-raven. “They only brought me here.”

  “Tell them the caves were empty. Give up the hunt.”

  “The hunt?” Cal-raven’s mind raced.

  As he gained a measure of calm, he could see his attacker more clearly. Ryllion was bruised, battered, ugly with scars, as if he’d been mauled by a fangbear. Teeth were missing from his distorted mouth, and his eyes, once blood red, were pale, as if he were half-blind. The crimson mask around his eyes from a burn he’d suffered was painted with purple bruises. Scraps of a timeworn bandage clung to his face. Patches of his striped mane had been ripped from his scalp, leaving scabs of dried blood. He held his knife with only three fingers, the others crooked and useless.

  Beaten half to death. And hiding. Ryllion’s on the run. The plot failed. Cal-raven felt a thrill of relief.

  “Who are you?” Ryllion demanded.

  Thinking fast, Cal-raven replied, “An Abascar survivor. Trying to make it through another day.”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “I don’t,” he lied.

  Ryllion leaned in close, and his breath caused Cal-raven to recoil. He had been eating fish from the lake. “I’m a survivor too.” Cal-raven heard something more than anger in that voice. He heard bitterness and despair.

  “You’re not from Abascar.” Cal-raven spoke tentatively. “The accent’s wrong.”

  “What does it matter where I’m from? World’s been poisoned. We’re all going to die.”

  “Bel Amica.” It was a risk, but Cal-raven took it. “I heard rumors of trouble there. Something about the Seers.”

  His captor, in a rage, threw him into a scattering of bones. Cal-raven fumbled backward on all fours, gathering his thoughts. If he could press his fingertips through the debris to the stone floor, he might gain an advantage.

  Ryllion sheathed his dagger, picked up a tree-branch spear he had fashioned, and thrust it at Cal-raven’s face. “Seers are liars.” His voice was like ice breaking. “You haven’t heard? They betray anyone. Even those who gave up everything for their promises. Tried to kill me.” He spat out curses.

  “We agree then,” said Cal-raven. “The Seers planned a slaughter for Abascar’s people, even as we struggled to survive.”

  “Look what they did to me!” Ryllion turned the spear upright and spread his arms. “I was their servant. They promised me a throne. And they made me half a monster.”

  “But you’re free now,” said Cal-raven. “Free of a lie. And you’re not alone. I hate the Seers as much as you do.”

  Ryllion stood still before the candle-ringed statue of Auralia. Panting like a frustrated hunting dog unsure which path his prey has taken, he narrowed his eyes and said, “Get up.”

  For a heartbeat Cal-raven considered melting the floor to bring down his assailant. But Ryllion still held that spear, and Cal-raven knew, in his weariness, that he might not have the strength.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” said Cal-raven. “We can talk.”

  “Don’t presume to instruct me.” Ryllion’s eyes flared, but his legs were shaking, and his arm wavered. He was weakening.

  “I would never instruct you,” he said, making an appeal to the soldier’s pride. “You’re the most powerful soldier in the Expanse. Yes, I recognize you now, Captain. The Seers may have cast you aside, but they’ve underestimated you. You’ll surprise them someday.”

  Ryllion grinned. “I’ll surprise everyone.”

  Cal-raven stood, holding his hands open before him. “Let’s surprise them together.” He advanced slowly, unsure where this courage was coming from. The scar in his left eye burned bright as a star. “No man in the Expanse is in a better place to help you strike back at them than me.”

  Ryllion raised the spear again.

  “Test me. Let me prove it.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I have Partayn’s ear. Cyndere trusts me. They know the Seers are deceivers. I can win your pardon.” Every word was a step on a razor-thin wire. “I’ll tell them that you’re with me and that you’re ready to pay every debt. You’ll become Bel Amica’s champion again. They’ll listen to me.”

  Ryllion nodded slowly. Then he pushed the tip of the spear between Cal-raven’s ribs. “You’re clever, King of Abascar, but you’re wrong. Cyndere might play along to bring me within reach. Then she’ll feed me to the Deathweed.” He laughed, and every bark struck Cal-raven like a slap. “She’ll kill me and enjoy it.”

  “Cyndere forgives beastmen, Ryllion. Imagine what—”

  “I murdered Deuneroi!” Ryllion drew back the spear and raised it over his head, then snapped it in two and cast it aside. Cal-raven was stunned. “I … I didn’t know.”

  “Neither did Cyndere for a while. But she knows now. The hunters are out. What kingdom would ever give me better than prison?”

  “Mine.” Cal-raven stood very still, astonished at his own answer. “New Abascar will be a safe place for you, Ryllion, if you’ll leave your old ways behind.”

  Ryllion glared at him.

  “You’re sleeping beside Auralia’s pool, Ryllion. You’ve heard her story. You’ve seen her colors. I know where they come from. I’m taking my people there. We need all the help we can get. We’ll set up a refuge, safe from the beastmen, safe from Seers, safe from Deathweed.”

  “I can’t risk it.”

  “It’s your only chance to have a new life, Ryllion. If I had my Ring of Trust, I’d offer you that.” He glanced toward the candlelit statue. “Abascar’s a house of failures and crooks who want a second chance. I’ll see them all safely to a strong foundati
on or die trying. I know what it’s like to fail, Ryllion. To raise a house is to fail much and succeed on occasion. But that is how the best things are built.”

  The despondent Bel Amican’s attention shifted. He looked toward the dim adjoining chamber, and Cal-raven could see light reflected in his eyes. Cal-raven turned and walked into the brightening room.

  The room was small with a broad wall spread before him like a canvas. Through the ceiling window that the statue’s trigger had opened, the sky was pink with clouds. Light spilled over him like honey.

  Approaching the far wall, he discerned a painted scene, and a sculpted man stretched out his arms between him and the painting.

  Cal-raven stopped. His scar flared faintly, but it was not just in his left eye anymore. He touched his temples and blinked. The image flickered in both his eyes now. And it was brightening as the sunrise brightened. Even stranger, when he tilted his head, it remained in place, shining.

  The white flare was not in his eyes at all. It was a shape painted on the wall—the very shape that had burned in his vision since Mawrnash. A magnificent snow-white peak. The mountain’s slopes spilled down to empty space, a span of unpainted stone above a jagged line of green treetops that had been painted to represent a forest.

  Auralia never finished this picture, he thought. But it’s important. Look how the man stares.

  The statue’s face was blank, a question, as he leaned toward the blaze of the mystery, the white mountain, before him.

  Looking over his shoulder, Cal-raven could see Auralia reaching forward, flickering in her circle of candles as if sparks had fallen to bless her. She’s not fleeing from death and darkness. She’s trying to drag the world with her. To the mountain.

  “Cal-raven.” Ryllion’s voice from the darkness behind him bore a note of unease.

  Sensing his time might be short, Cal-raven drank in the sight of the painting. Daylight increased, the mountain gleaming as if it were painted with the dust of crushed diamonds.

  “This is what I saw from the Mawrnash lookout on top of Tammos Raak’s tower,” he said. “This is what caught the light and marked my vision. This is what Auralia hoped we would find.” He touched the gap between the painted forest and the high mountain. “If only you’d finished the painting,” he whispered. “You didn’t show me how to climb there.” Even on tiptoe he could not reach the lowest stroke of the mountain’s chalk.

  Fetch me a ladder. I’ll get there.

  Something momentarily obscured the light. Cal-raven looked up in time to see an array of kites pass over. “Wait!” he cried.

  A blast of shattering stone from the cavern behind him shook the ground.

  “Cal-raven!” roared Ryllion. “Deathweed! Breaking through!”

  He heard a wall crumbling behind him and a flood rushing in.

  Ryllion leapt into the chamber. Beyond him, the candles went out around Auralia’s statue as a massive, dark arm wrapped around it. The bone-littered ground rose as if someone were shaking out a blanket. Water poured toward them, carrying a chaotic clamor of debris.

  Ryllion sprang to balance shakily on the arm of the unfinished statue, staring toward the ceiling. Reaching down, he seized Cal-raven’s hand and pulled him up onto the other arm.

  The wave of sludge broke against the painted scene, surged back to splash against the statue and rise as high as Cal-raven’s knees, battering him with branches and bones.

  Ryllion twisted Cal-raven’s hand sharply, and he cried out in alarm. “I’ll play along with your game,” the Bel Amican growled through unnatural teeth. “For now.” Then he bent his knees and jumped straight for the opening, caught the edge and, grappling, pulled himself through.

  The Deathweed snaked in, thick as a tree trunk, spiked and smashing at the cluttered tide, searching. As it struck and broke the statue, Cal-raven leapt for the wall, sank his fingers into the stone, and pulled himself up like a spider.

  A tree branch came down through the window. At first Cal-raven thought it was another Deathweed tendril. But then he grasped it and heard Ryllion groan. He was raised up through the window and out into the day. Behind him, Deathweed struck the walls of the chamber.

  On a grassy hillside, Cal-raven lay shaking at Ryllion’s feet.

  “I’m not safe out here.” Ryllion watched the edge of the forest.

  “Nobody’s safe anywhere,” said Cal-raven. “Not anymore.”

  “What do we do?”

  “We go on. Together. Two failures beginning again.”

  “It’s not just Bel Amicans who want to kill me.” Ryllion’s eyes narrowed. “Your own people sharpen their arrows when they hear my name. Do you mean what you’ve said? About protecting me?”

  “If the word of Abascar’s king is worth anything,” said Cal-raven, “you have it.”

  7

  DOWN TO THE DEEPER RIVER

  he underground river writhed and turned, an angry snake seeking to shake off its anxious riders. But the ale boy clung to the raft behind his companions, who held to their battered boats as the line of crowded floats descended. Kar-balter shouted from his vantage point at the front, informing them all of what little he could see ahead.

  Between them, the awakened Abascar dead murmured as if rousing from a dark dream. When they spoke, such strangeness! They described vivid visions of threads, lights, and boats that had carried them north through the earth. They claimed encounters with Northchildren in luminous veils. And the ale boy was troubled, for it seemed like a beautiful song he’d forgotten.

  Striking stone wedges that jutted from the walls, the floats spun and sailed around bend after bend. The passengers were dismayed at how far and how deep the beastmen had burrowed. Steep riverbanks rose to fissured walls where broad-backed toothbeetles clung in clusters, scrabbling and chewing at the earth’s oily seepage, their scalloped purple shells aglow. And in the scavengers’ pale light, a sickening spectacle was revealed—beastmen in a cacophonous travail, desperate to break through the walls, panting like dogs beaten bloody.

  We can’t slip past unnoticed, the boy worried. Some see in the dark, like gorrels and viscorcats.

  And yet, the beastmen gave only weary glances to the passersby. Spread along the base of the walls, they bashed at the earth with pickaxes and stones, even with their bare and bloodied claws, single-minded, desperate as men drowning beneath a layer of ice. Their chieftain was dead, and the Keeper had burned his ghastly throne to ashes. The veins through which he had poured Essence for his servants were gone. Cut off from the source of their strength, they dashed their bodies against the rock, seeking to restore their spoiled illusion of power.

  They might be helped, the boy thought. If only we could lead them to the well …

  As if reading the ale boy’s mind, Jordam said, “Bel’s well. Gone.”

  “What do you mean, gone? We need that water. Look what it can do.”

  “rrGone. Stones, scattered. rrRiver, dry.”

  “Did Bel Amicans destroy it?”

  Jordam shrugged. “No water. Do rivers … move?”

  As the raft rocked and spun, Mulla Gee, a Gatherer woman the ale boy had known from their harvest work together outside House Abascar’s walls, struggled to bind a sling around her broken arm with a roll of rag-strips. “I miss the sky,” she said to herself. She seemed bewildered to find herself here and touched the dark patch of dried blood on her temple where an arrow had gone in. “The sky was so near, I think. And the bright ones, the Northchildren … Where have they gone?”

  Several of the riders turned, but instead of mirroring the ale boy’s bewilderment, they seemed to share the old woman’s longing.

  The floats surged quietly along through the earth, carried like dry leaves through an unmapped world.

  If I’m right and this river falls to join the deeper river, it will happen soon. What will we do then? These people are weak, unfed, and hardly capable of rowing north against the current.

  “O-raya’s boy is sad,” said Jordam, watc
hing him warily.

  “If I escape with these from Abascar, I doubt I’ll ever make it back to help the Bel Amican prisoners. And I promised I’d see them all to safety. But it’s too far. And I’m too tired.”

  Jordam huffed a sigh. “rrMany promises. Too many promises. O-raya’s boy can’t do everything.” He splayed his large right hand across his chest. “Bel says heart has one hand.” He shrugged. “One … not big enough to catch everybody.”

  The boy looked over his shoulder at nothing but coursing water and darkness. Wisps grew into a thicker fog, concealing what lay ahead, and the torches hissed and sparked. When the current slowed and the waters quieted again, the parade glided steadily, and the passengers relaxed their grips, catching their breath. Jordam dipped the torches in the bucket of pitch, letting them flare.

  Their relief was short-lived. The torchlight found two beastmen crawling along the nearest bank. The creatures saw the floats just as the passengers saw them.

  One was a female, resembling sketches the ale boy had seen of stout, tree-dwelling Fraughtenwood trolls. She struggled along, one arm embracing her red and swollen belly to keep it from touching the ground. The other—a chalk white, hairless male—moved with a wolf’s predatory stride. His face was marred with a toothy grin, joyless and drooling, more a muzzle than a mouth.

  The creatures overcame their surprise and sounded shrill appeals for help.

  “rrDying,” said Jordam.

  The creatures’ anguish was clear; rib bones jutted out through translucent flesh. The female’s belly bulged with the effort of something struggling and unborn. The male’s canine grin groaned a wretched spray. But when his baleful gaze met the boy’s, he turned his head, and a second face, this one more like a man’s, appeared on the side of his head, a visage that seemed to have been melted down by a hot iron. This second mouth spoke, pleading in the Cent Regus’s rough, barking speech.

  The ale boy held up the empty water flask. “What can we do?”

  Jordam steered the raft closer to the shore. “Won’t hurt us,” he said. “rrCarry them for a while. Find help. Somewhere.”