Ecko Endgame

by Danie Ware

“We’re where, for Gods’ sakes?”

  “Jayr…!” His voice was crystallised horror. “It’s a tomb, all unsealed.” He was really shaking now. “A cavern, goes on forever. The walls just…”

  The fear in his voice was making her chest tighten.

  “What the rhez are you talking about?”

  “You read it, Jayr.” His hand clutched at her, desperate. “You read the book from the Library. Tell me you remember?”

  Dread crawling all over her skin, Jayr suddenly feared she knew exactly what he was talking about.

  The words were as clear as the day she had read them.

  How could we have believed that the Substance of the Gods, the Ilfead-Syr, the home of the Well of the World’s Memory, could be so utterly chilling to the souls of such as we?

  It was coming back to her now, faster as her memory began to pick up the thread.

  We found at last the island’s inhabitants… their faces were empty – their eyes held nothing but nothing, telling us that nothing had been their deaths…

  “Jayr.” He was still whispering. “The floor!” He shrank back against her. “By the Gods…!”

  “It’s all right,” she said. “I’ve got you.”

  But Ress was trembling. “Their eyes!”

  All were made more terrible by their faces, faces that held not despair, and yet not relief or release… their eyes reflected nothing…

  Do not, I beg of you, ever return here.

  And, as Ress spoke again, his voice melded with the memory, as though the words had all been his. He said, “This is the Ilfead-Syr, the home of the World’s Memory. And its Guardians… they’re all still here.” His voice was soft with dismay. “They go on, into the darkness, into the endless Count of Time. Their eyes are all open.”

  Slowly, Jayr became aware that there was light, glimmering in the stone floor. It was faint, but it was enough for her to see.

  Around her was a vast underground chamber. It had no walls, and the polished-smooth floor stretched away in every direction, limitless.

  Power pulsed softly beneath its surface.

  Ress stood a half-pace ahead of her.

  And he was older – stooped and frail, in the last days of his life. His scalp was wispy and his arms and legs shrivelled and bent. For a moment, Jayr blinked at him – and then she realised what she could see.

  Penya. Triqueta.

  His time sucked like sustenance.

  By the rhez.

  Was she, too, older? Did that explain the odd weakness when she’d awoken? The Kas were jesting with them, teasing them like prey – perhaps they would come back.

  But Ress was pointing, now, out across the emptiness.

  All round them, the shimmering floor was covered in bodies, shadows against the light. Men and women, children, farmers, peasants, merchants. They were unusual in appearance, long-limbed and graceful. Their skins were weathered and their garments preserved.

  Yet they were grey, as if drained of all passion.

  As Jayr looked further and further outwards, the sleepers were numberless – death without end. Most chilling of all, their eyes were still open. They stared upwards blindly, and their expressions were empty, forgotten and forsaken. Expressions of nothing, eyes like windows into the void.

  All were made terrible by their faces…

  These sleepers hadn’t died; this was no daemon-possessed charnel house, no citadel. This was something beyond. And in each face a terrible truth could be witnessed.

  We have lost the Ilfe. The World will die because she cannot remember.

  Jayr was tumbling with fears, with words, with a need to put them together – to somehow make everything fit. She could recall the texts they’d found in the Library. She found herself looking at the remains of Ress’s overshirt, at the ink that had stained his skin.

  Now, she was truly afraid. A vast, bottomless fear, a fear that came with a realisation…

  “The Library,” she said. Her tone shook. “The Guardians of the Ilfe. Is this what you came looking for?”

  “Yes. The words brought me. I came to remember,” Ress said. His thin arm pointed, but the cavern was too dark for her to see that far. “We must walk.”

  His voice had the same determination that she’d heard as they’d left the Palace in Amos – the pure focus of a man who was going to complete his task and not be prevented.

  Directed by his pointing finger, they picked their way across the floor.

  The light was weak and intermittent.

  As they moved through the huge tomb, the space became impossible, stretching back into the darkness as though it had no end. It was bigger than Rammouthe, bigger than the world herself.

  Memories came at her out of the emptiness, fragments with sharp edges. She remembered the Amos Library, the look in Ress’s eyes as the words had taken his mind. She remembered the Banned and Syke, how they’d welcomed her without rancour or judgement. She remembered the Kartiah, the savage darkness of her pit-fighting past.

  Then, earlier still. An image lost – so distant she’d no idea if it was even hers. A mountain city, a mining community, trading openly and in peace with the Kartian priestlords. There had been a hall, and a scarred Kartian trader. Jayr had been very small, her hand held by a young woman. Then there was metal, and the Kartian had taken her arm and pulled her away. The woman had dropped to her knees, given her one last hug, then turned away. She’d been crying.

  And there had been a man there. Arrogant and massive of build, Archipelagan. He’d been wearing blood-red like he was soaked in it. He’d pulled the woman to her feet and comforted her, though his face was like stone.

  Whoever he was, he faded into the cavern’s shimmer. He left Jayr hurting, and she didn’t know why.

  And then, there came another memory. No, not a memory, this was different. It was a figure, a man, and he seemed a part of the cavern itself. He wore an odd white garment, tarnished to grey – an unfamiliar overshirt that reached his knees. His hair was long and black. There were ink marks at the skin of his throat, his pushed-up sleeves revealed scars at his elbows, like open mouths. And he was looking out at the sleepers as though they held a beauty only he could comprehend.

  He said, “It’s beautiful. It’s everything I need. I can bring peace to the suffering, end poverty, end wars. No one will ever want for anything again.”

  She stared at him.

  He looked right through her. His eyes were full of nothing.

  And then he was gone.

  Jayr realised that she’d stopped walking and was shaking. And she could remember something else…

  All this time, the Bard’s been right… Ress’s words from the Library, so long ago and now so clear. The world had a nightmare, a nightmare that Roderick witnessed… Whatever destroyed the world’s memory… that’s what the nightmare was about…

  “Ress? Did you see—?”

  “We must go!”

  “Ress, wait!” The man in grey had scared her, but more than that, she found him oddly fascinating. She wanted to know who he was.

  “In the Library,” she said, “you talked about the Bard’s vision, about the thing he’d seen in the Ryll. What was it?”

  “I remember everything.” The answer wasn’t aimed at her. “I remember—”

  “Never mind everything,” she said. She stood there in the darkness, surrounded by desolation. She could feel the grey man, pulling at her skin and her soul and her thoughts. Give up, he was saying, just trust me, and lay down and it will all go away, you’ll never know pain again. She thrust it from her, kept talking. “The thing the world fears, it destroyed her memory to stop her fighting back. Yes?”

  “Yes.” Ress’s voice was beginning to tremble.

  “Is it still here?”

  “There’s a hole,” Ress said, “sucking the life from the grass. It empties the world. The little man with the black eyes – he knows what it is. Understands.”

  Jayr’s flesh was prickling now.


  The little man with the black eyes.

  “The Ilfe, Ress, the place we’re going. Do you know what we do when we get there?”

  “Yes. We remember. And we show the Bard – he’s seen it, and forgotten. He has to know how to fight back.”

  In among the dying and darkness, their last walk began.

  * * *

  There was a light ahead of them.

  At first Jayr thought she was hallucinating; she rubbed her eyes and looked again. But it was still there, enticing as a figment, calling them on.

  Ress pointed, his thin arm wavering. He started to laugh. Not the high cackle she’d been used to but a sound almost like his former self. It was the laugh of a man proven right at the last, a laugh of wonder and relief.

  They walked faster, stumbling now.

  Across the smooth floor, there were still fallen bodies, shadows stretched away from them like puddles of pure dark. Ignoring them, Jayr and Ress came to the thing that the world had lost, the thing that the Bard had needed and sought, the thing they’d crossed the Rhez itself to find.

  The Ilfe.

  The Well of the World’s lost Memory.

  It was an underground lake, small and curved like an oxbow. And it was utterly stagnant, grown over with a thick skin of green.

  It didn’t smell good.

  At its centre was a single stone statue. Jayr could only see its head and shoulders above the slime-filled water. It was pitted with long returns, stooped like an old man, and its face was twisted into an expression of both humour and great cruelty.

  It, too, was overgrown, stone eyes and skin slick with weed.

  Ress stumbled forward and stopped, teetering, on the edge of the water. He looked almost as if he would jump.

  “We come – to the face of the Count of Time.”

  The Count of Time.

  “Apex of the rule of Heal and Harm. Time heals all wounds, yet Time takes all things from all beings.” Ress was taking off his ink-stained overshirt, laying it on the rock. The ink had smeared into his skin, covering him in symbols, in words. In the odd light, he looked like some ancient, saga-bourne priest, some aging prophet of the God before him. “In the beginning, there was Kazyen, the void. And into that void came Cedetine, first Goddess – and so began the Count of Time. Cedetine bore Time three sons, the Gods of one birth, red and white and flesh, and their names were Asakat, Dyarmenethe and Samiel. When Samiel bore twins, the Gods made the world as a plaything for the children. And this island was crafted first, from their very flesh.”

  Jayr was staring at Ress, and at the statue.

  “You know the rest,” he said. “The two children, Calarinde and Alboren, loved each other, and so were destined to turn their faces away forever. In time, they each took a mortal lover and so we have our ten Gods. Our ten days of the halfcycle.”

  She barely breathed; she was staring at Ress’s strangeness, at the odd sense of power that he now radiated.

  “Jayr.” Ress turned to look at her. “You must go home.”

  The word sent a shock up her spine. “Home?”

  “You must go to Fhaveon and tell them who you are.”

  “They know who I am.” Her snort of humour was brief. “I’m staying with you.”

  “I won’t be here much longer.” Ress turned back to the water and looked out over the green. “Find the Bard. And find Rhan. Tell them who your father was.”

  “I don’t know who my—!”

  “Jayr.” Ress eased further forwards. She sensed him trembling, but it felt like elation, an eagerness to be free. “Your father was Phylokaris Valiembor, Merchant Master of Fhaveon. You were traded to the Kartians in your fourth return. You are the direct descendent of Saluvarith the Founder. Rhan… Rhan will know. As soon as he sees you.”

  “What the rhez are you talking about?” Jayr wondered if his mind had gone again.

  He didn’t look at her; the water compelled him. He took another step forwards.

  “Ress…” She knew what was coming, but he was her friend and dear Gods she couldn’t let him do this…

  Ress, please. Don’t leave me…

  The statue watched the pair of them through stone eyes older than the world herself.

  Ress eased forwards again, until his toes were over the slick green.

  “Jayr,” he said. “You’re the bravest person I’ve ever known. You’ve faced the Kartiah, the Banned, every warrior the world could throw at you. You’ve faced the Kas themselves, barehanded, and been fearless.” He looked back at her, smiled. His pupils were focused, the same size. “If I can trust any one person with the words I’ve carried this far…” He passed her the ink-stained overshirt. “The Bard will remember everything, and soon. It will show in his skin, in his heart, in his mind. But take this, keep it. I don’t need it any more.”

  She could see some of the words, faded though they were.

  Time the Flux begins to crack…

  “Ress, please…” Jayr had never known panic in her life, but she knew it now. “Please, don’t leave me down here, I can’t find my way back through all of that, the sleeping army, the citadel, everything. And I couldn’t leave the island, even if I did. Please…”

  “You can, and you will,” he told her. “You’ll remember.” He was still smiling at her, at thoughts only he could see. “And one last thing – the last thing of all.”

  She was crying. She, who’d sworn as a child that she would never shed another tear, she was cursed crying. “Ress!”

  “I understand it now,” he said. The statue was staring at both of them as if it were listening to every word. “At the very beginning, when Cedetine came into the void, then it lost itself. It was a void no more. It’s been longing to regain its emptiness, its grey perfection, ever since. This is not about ‘good’ and ‘evil’, about Rhan and Vahl, and their endless war. This is about the end of all life, all existence, all passion, the end of Time itself. A return to Nothing.” His gaze was mesmeric, the most powerful thing that Jayr had ever seen. The sheer focus that had carried them away from the Palace in Amos was now aimed at her, willing her to understand.

  “Take my words, Jayr, and go home,” he said. “The future is more yours than you know.”

  Ress’s last smile was like the sunrise, the rebirth of hope – it burned into her head and her heart. The ink-stained shirt in her hands, she watched as he waded into the Ilfe and was gone.

  22: MASTER APOTHECARY

  TUSIEN

  As Triqueta and Amethea reached the hilltop, the campsite ahead of them surged into life.

  More than four thousand tired warriors rippled to their feet; four thousand ragged throats gave a cheer that challenged the sinking night.

  Triqueta stopped. She found a lump in her throat, more water in her eyes. They shouted her name, a blur of faces and flags and bodies and voices. They cheered her almost frenziedly, blades crashing on shields, spear butts thumping on the frozen cobbles.

  The noise gathered into a rhythm, gained speed to a rising crescendo, and then scattered again.

  Her heart swelled to breaking, and she lowered her gaze.

  “Welcome to Tusien,” Amethea said wryly.

  “Thanks,” Triq muttered. “It’s everything… everything I was expecting.” The sentence started as a jest, but finished in pain.

  Amethea squeezed her hand, then let her go and stepped away.

  “Go on,” she said, with a shove. “This is all yours.”

  Triq could see, stern above the shouting force, Tusien’s damp walls looming severe – as if they asked her what the rhez she thought she was doing. Through the dead windows, the air was a clouded grey and it glittered, sleet-cold.

  Amethea poked her again. “Go on,” she said. “You’re a hero. A warrior of legend, with your Red Rage and your centaur lover. The Bard’ll be making up sagas before you can squeak.” Her voice dropped slightly. “Besides, these people need this, so you’re not getting out of it.”

  “Shit.” Triqueta wanted
to deny all of it. She didn’t want to be a hero, didn’t want everyone’s hopes resting on her shoulders – but still, some part of her thrummed to the shouts of her name. She’d led her force here across the dying Varchinde, she’d tamed the centaurs, she’d fought a battle and won. By the bloodied Gods, maybe she could do this, could lead this force to victory. Maybe…

  She turned to Amethea, but the girl had gone, her grey cloak lost against the neat rows of tents.

  Your Red Rage and your centaur lover.

  Triqueta wished he could have seen this moment…

  What do I win?

  Anything you want.

  She scrubbed her chapped and bloody hands across her face.

  And she walked, alone, to the top of the hill.

  * * *

  Tusien’s two remaining outer walls stood at right angles, cornering the remainder of a moss-grown, raggedly cobbled floor. It was wide enough to cover the hilltop, stepping down in places, and it bore broken statues and a few half-height remnants of inner walls. It also housed neat rows of barrack tents, their pegs dug into the soft ground between the stones.

  Down the steps, Mostak came to welcome her. And the Bard came with him, his odd garments swathed in a cloak the colour of dried blood.

  They looked like they intended ceremony.

  The commander took her wrist. Then he turned to face the assembled troops, warriors of three cities, and he raised her hand to the sky. The cheers redoubled. Drums sounded, echoed. Howls came from the Banned.

  “We live in an age of legend,” the Bard called. “This is Triqueta of the Banned. Master warrior, wielder of the Red Rage, blessed by the Gods themselves. She has faced bweao, defeated the centaur herd, battled the vialer and won. She has fought Vahl Zaxaar himself and beaten him down!” The shouts rose again. “She brings us Roviarath, the fighting men and women of the Banned. And today, she brings us victory!”

  The speech was predictable, perhaps, but the cheers came again, an emotional rush that all but knocked her on her arse. And then they were all there, down the steps and all over her – friends and hugs and back-slaps, shakes of her shoulders, and the Banned’s ribald jesting. And so many questions – no, she’d never had the Red Rage before, no, she hadn’t killed a bweao. Yes, she had faced Vahl Zaxaar. And beaten him, dammit.