Myriel rested her chin on her fist. ‘It’s a miracle you survived. The bomb destroyed a fleet and the Idari razed our harbours.’
The memory flooded her. Screaming, running, drowning amidst a horde, women and children trampled underfoot…
‘I… I almost didn’t. I saw people get trampled to death. I ran through crowds. People were fighting. They sealed the gates to Old Town Square. They said the Idari had got inside the city.’
‘But you got through.’
‘I snuck in with another family and ran when I could. The Watch picked me up. I ended up in the orphanage.’
Myriel’s eyes kept analysing her. Serena’s heart quickened, despite telling the truth.
‘Do you believe in the Gods, Serena?’
‘What?’ Did anyone really believe in the Indecim?
‘It’s okay,’ said Myriel, ‘you can tell the truth.’
‘Okay. No, I don’t believe in ’em. If you’re gonna tell me the Gods saved me that day, please don’t. The Gods and the Orinul, they’re all, like, metaphors, right?’
Myriel smiled. ‘Are they now?’
Riddles, double-talk, lies… Now she seemed like a nun. If the Gods were so powerful, why didn’t they bloody talk straight?
Serena crossed her arms, eyes narrowed on the mage. Let’s see how she likes being examined. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Myriel laughed. ‘Nothing at all! I believe we should question ourselves from time to time. You don’t have to be so confrontational.’
‘Do you believe in the Gods? Does being a mage mean you have to believe in magic?’
‘Of course I believe in magic!’ She rolled her eyes and said, ‘Young people today.’
‘I might have believed in magic and Gods and Mother Snowfrost when I was a kid, but not any more.’
‘And nor are you quite comfortable saying the word “ain’t”.’
‘Raincatcher habit.’
‘Or an act to help you fit in. Survival instinct.’
Serena’s eyes pierced Myriel’s. ‘I learned young.’
That answer seemed to please Myriel. ‘Did you know the Pantheon of Gods once held over a thousand names?’ she asked. ‘Oh yes. After Aerulus and all the rest waged war with the Orinul, great libraries and temples were built in their honour… Only to become dust.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Serena said with a smirk. ‘There are eleven Gods.’
‘I thought you didn’t believe in them?’
‘Well, I mean, I don’t, but-’
‘But that’s what you’re taught in that school, yes?’
‘It’s what we’re taught everywhere. “The Fayth of the Indecim”. Indecim means eleven in Old Dalthean.’
Myriel chuckled, and the humour in her face made her youthful. ‘Don’t get me started on “Old Dalthea”.’
‘Gods, you have to contradict everything, don’t you?’
‘No, but I have to question everything—as should you. As should everyone! Honestly, these mindless puppets who shuffle out of the Collegium regurgitating nonsense. It’s a wonder this religion made it past its first century.’
Serena shook her head. ‘But you must have learned from books and stuff too, right?’
‘Of course—but books don’t always agree with one another. Rarely, in fact. They’re much like people in that respect. It’s up to you to make your own mind up.’ Myriel sipped her tea. ‘I do love books. I visited Palthonheim before it fell. The Great Library was a sight to behold. It would have taken three lifetimes to read all her treasures. Sailed for days upon the River Althon to see it.’
‘And now it’s a ruin.’
The brows on Myriel’s face knitted together. ‘Nothing lasts forever, it seems.’ She clapped her hands again. ‘Now, you said you don’t believe in magic. What about ignicite?’
All these questions gnawed at Serena’s nerves. She didn’t come here for bloody lessons—Myriel was supposed to be giving her answers. But the thought of going back out there, with nowhere to go and no-one to turn to…
She decided to play along. ‘Go on then,’ she said, ‘tell me how ignicite is—in any way—magic?’
‘Aha, now things are getting interesting! What was once considered magic is now regarded as science—and sometimes science and sorcery collide. Take our Spires—they allow us to harness the power of lightning. Prevailing thought a hundred years ago told us only Aerulus could wield such power. And here we stand, having wrested it from his fingers.’
‘It’s… not the same.’
‘Why? Because you’re told it’s not? What seems impossible now could be commonplace in the future. Spires, ignium lamps, airships: Technological marvels all! Things evolve, Serena. Sometimes they evolve the way of the Gods, the Mages’ Guild and the Orinul—dwindling into the mists of time, once powerful and now forgotten. Or like ruined Palthonheim—once the greatest city in Imanis, now an uninhabitable wasteland. Do you know why?’
Serena smirked, making sure she looked as smug as possible to annoy Myriel. ‘Because of ignicite.’
‘No! Because of man’s hubris.’
‘You’re wrong. Ignicite extraction caused an accident.’
‘Only to a degree. So, I’ll ask again: Why was ignicite once considered magic?’
‘Because… it regenerates? It’s the only fuel that lasts forever?’
‘Precisely! But if we take too much too soon-’
‘The veins rupture and unrefined gases are released. Like the Poison Veil.’ Serena had to stifle a yawn. Everybody knew this stuff. It was weird to think people thought it was magic.
‘Correct! Which is why we must be careful not to extract too much, to give it time to regenerate—lest we end up like Palthonheim. For all the scholars’ and philosophers’ intelligence, their arrogance spread as a weed does in a garden, bringing everything around it to ruin.’
‘That would never happen here though.’
Myriel raised her teacup. ‘So thought the minds of Palthonheim.’
Spider legs danced down Serena’s spine.
‘Dalthea made its fortune from ignicite,’ Myriel continued. ‘Ignium and igneus are valuable commodities because raw ignicite is only present in a few places in the world, and Dalthea’s deposits are the richest and easiest to mine. What’s to stop our hubris and greed from being our undoing?’
‘Surely no-one’s going to be tempted to take too much of it, just to sell it?’
‘Who knows if the Prime Councillor’s ambition outweighs his common sense? It almost happened before, during the gold rush period. That’s what precipitated the war with Ryndara.’
Serena stifled a yawn. ‘Right.’
‘Strange, that a kingdom as small as ours is gifted with such natural resources. You know they say Dalthea formed when Aerulus punched the earth? Such is his strength that the force of it sent the ground erupting on all sides, like throwing a boulder into a pond. That is how the Steelpeak Mountains formed. Miles and miles of jagged mountains, stretching to the stars. The Fayth tells us he did this protect and shield those special few who lived here. Others say a great lump of ignicite floated through space and landed with a great big wallop.’
Serena thought of Irros’ Beckon and its fields of once-sprawling harbours. The mountains there skirted out on opposite sides, which made Dalthea look like a crooked horseshoe on the maps. ‘Aerulus missed a spot.’
Myriel’s arched eyebrow grew more pointed than a knife. ‘Then perhaps he created the Poison Veil to correct his mistake?’
Serena laughed. ‘The Poison Veil’s deadly. It burns skin from people’s bones.’
‘What better barrier is there?’
‘But if Aerulus did that,’ Serena started, ‘then why hasn’t Irros gifted us with water?’
‘Imanis is a continent surrounded by water.’
‘Yeah, salt water. If they’re so powerful, why doesn’t Irros, like, fix the water supplies poisoned by the Idari? Or make it easier to draw water through the mountain pipelines
?’
‘Perhaps we didn’t pray to him enough. Or perhaps the Idari prayed harder. Perhaps we’re lucky to have any water at all.’
‘That’s stupid.’ Serena shook her head. All this religious nonsense gave a headache.
‘Dalthea is a melting pot of cultures and peoples, Serena. We all believe different things. We have descendants of every colour, creed and culture in the world here. Surnames from every corner of the earth are inscribed in our censuses, and yet we are smaller than any other nation. Logic and stupidity don’t come into it. We can blame or praise the Gods all we want, but real or not, we have to make our own way in life.’
Gods. An hour in this woman’s company and half her education had been chucked overboard. And yet it made a kind of sense.
Still, Myriel could have said ‘Serena—make your own way,’ which would have saved a shitload of time.
‘But today, magic becomes technology—and technology becomes weapons.’
‘Yeah,’ huffed Serena, thinking of the Spires.
‘Lightning, flaming igneus, the device which created the Poison Veil…’ Myriel stared into her teacup. ‘The technology afforded to us by ignicite, and we use it for weapons of war—all that potential squandered. Even those hateful, ugly repeater guns the military use—they’re bad enough now, but they will continue to grow worse. One day soon, swords will be obsolete and mankind will possess the capacity to wreak bloodshed on a scale not yet witnessed.’
Serena chose to ignore the ice running down her spine. Then—so loud she was sure the folk in Dustwynd would hear it—her stomach growled. As often as she ridiculed it, she ached for some of Clara’s vegetable soup.
‘Dear me!’ said Myriel. ‘A hungry stomach is almost as bad as a hungry mind! Let me prepare something for you.’
Serena didn’t protest.
Twenty minutes later, she shoved spoonfuls of a chunky beef and carrot stew into her mouth, rich gravy sparking her taste buds like they hadn’t been used before. Myriel had explained that it arrived on the train with the first waves of Remembrance tourists and that it may be past its prime, but Serena didn’t notice. She could never tell Clara.
‘Life always seems less chaotic with a full stomach and a cup of tea,’ said Myriel when Serena finished. ‘And music. Harmonies bring your troubles into sharp relief and help you realise how petty they really are, don’t you find?’
‘Um… Yes,’ Serena replied. The orphanage didn’t allow music that wasn’t a hymn or the national anthem.
‘Feria! I almost forgot.’ Myriel stood up and padded towards an old, brass-coloured transmitter on her mantelpiece. Serena recognised it as one of the personal models connected to the Info Towers by underground cables, kind of like an intercom on an airship. Only rich folk had them, and why someone would want one in their living room was beyond Serena.
‘Genevieve Couressa is to perform,’ Myriel continued. ‘I hope we haven’t missed her…’ She fidgeted with the knobs and dials on the contraption. ‘Those dreadful propaganda towers leave much to be desired.’
‘You’re right there.’ Without thinking, Serena dug into her pocket and drew her thumb over the edge of the invitation Milo had thrust upon her.
The radio sputtered to life, but instead of melodic strains and soaring angelic vocals, the machine hissed static into the room.
‘Oh, this old thing!’ Myriel smacked the transmitter.
Serena stood. ‘Um, look, I have this…’ She flashed the invitation. ‘It’s for her concert tonight. It’s not my thing, and you’ve been decent to me… Do you want it?’
Myriel turned, her face aglow. ‘My word! How did you get a hold of that?’
Serena detected the note of accusation. ‘A kringla seller gave it to me.’
‘Must be the best kringlar in the kingdom to afford this.’ Myriel took the ticket in her fingers, caressing it like an old family picture. Her face beamed—but as she opened her mouth, the radio transmission cut through:
‘Citizens of Dalthea. This is an emergency broadcast. Our city is under attack from persons unknown. Our city is under attack from persons unknown. The Prime Councillor is dead. As per Proclamation Six Nine Seven Two, a state of Martial law is in effect. Repeat: The Prime Councillor is dead. A state of Martial law is in effect.
‘Citizens are required to stay in their homes. Report all strange persons. Travel rights outwith the city have been suspended. Sir Raleigh Trevelyan Train Station is locked down. The skyport is closed. Passage through Wrenwing Gap is forbidden. Unauthorised airships will be fired upon without warning. Citizens: Do not leave your homes. Stay indoors. Obey the Watch. Obey the military. Keep identification papers on your person at all times. This is in the interests of national security.’
A commotion outside grew louder. Ice water rushed through Serena’s veins. Myriel stood still, eyes fixed on the transmitter.
Serena got to her feet. ‘What… What does this mean?’
‘Sweet Songstress. Six Nine Seven Two. All Council powers are transferred to the military. That means the king must be gone as well, Princess Anabelle...’ He voice trailed away like exhaust from an airship. ‘I… I have to go, Serena.’ Myriel thrust the golden invitation back into Serena’s palm.
A tide of noise rose up from outside—shouting, running, crying, screaming. The music of panic.
‘You’re going now?’
‘I must. Six Nine Seven Two is an emergency. I’m a guildmaster. I’ve been summoned.’
‘But I-’
‘The military will barge through here, Serena. I’m to be escorted to a secret location to sit on a committee full of fat men with no more sense than a stoneroach. They will do what their instinct tells them to—if they stop arguing long enough to make a decision. I’m sorry, I wish there was more I could do.’
Stunned, Serena muttered: ‘I don’t have anywhere to go. You heard it! The train station’s been shut down. No air travel.’
The cacophony outside. Myriel floated towards her window and nudged he curtain open. ‘Gods. It’s chaos. You have to hide in here. I have a basement. They likely won’t check here but while the Confessors are looking for you, it’s better to be safe. This emergency has bought you some time, but that man Cronin… He is a dog with a bone in his mouth, and I doubt he’ll relinquish it because a bigger piece of meat is available.’
‘I can take care of myself.’
Myriel rounded on her. ‘Serena, I do not doubt that you are a capable young woman. But for some reason we don’t understand yet, the Confessors and Watch are after you. You said it yourself—you have no-one. There is no shame in hiding, child. At the very least, wait for me here. I may have answers when I return.’
Serena hated to admit it, but she was right. Sneaking past one or two moron watchmen on a night full of tourists was one thing—sneaking past legions of them during a citywide emergency was another.
‘There is a trapdoor under the table that leads to my basement,’ said Myriel. ‘I use it to store texts that are too enlightening for the Fayth. I’m afraid that will have to do.’ Myriel wrapped a bright pink shawl around her head. ‘There’s more to you than meets the eye, I think. You survived Amberfire Night—you’ll survive this.’ A fist hammered at Myriel’s door. ‘Gods, they’re quick.’
‘I…’ Serena started, but found she had nothing to say.
‘I promise I will return,’ said Myriel, disappearing outside.
Flicker stuttered in the air, chirruping his song, not a care in the world. Serena dragged the table across the floor, lifted a rug, and felt for the handle of the trapdoor. It moved with next to no effort, which told Serena that Myriel went down there often.
‘Citizens of Dalthea. This is an emergency broadcast…’
‘She wasn’t in control!’ screamed Gallows. His head buzzed with exhaustion, not to mention the impact of Tiera’s fist. He was having a hell of a time explaining what happened in the tower, and it was only blind luck a passing watchman found him. ‘This is a mistake.
You’re going after the wrong people.’
Arch Vigil Verimedes laughed, the folds around his face vibrating as he did so. ‘She pulled the trigger, man! You saw it yourself!’
‘You’re talking about rounding up every visiting foreigner and torturing them.’
‘Extreme methods of interrogation are legal, Mister Gallows. Some hunter, hey? You let her escape.’ The Arch Vigil’s jowls quivered with every word. ‘A terrorist and murderer of fine officers of the Watch.’
‘They tried to kill her after she surrendered. We were trying to make it out of there and Constable Faraja almost knifed her. I saw it. Arch Vigil, she was manipulated into killing the Prime Councillor. Some mystical Idari spell or drugs or some shit. I’ve seen it before.’
‘Ludicrous! My watchmen would have arrested her had it not been for you.’
‘Your watchmen would have killed her. Either way, we’d have got no answers. I begged her to hand herself in.’
‘Why are we listening to this man? He rescues a killer, my men end up dead and their murderer is in the wind! Pah! Peddling a story to justify your disobedience, Hunter, is the mark of a weak man. You should be arrested for treason.’
‘Listen, asshole, she told me someone working with Captain Vaughan of the Raincatchers manipulated her. Question his crew. Speak to-’
‘The Watch has already conducted a thorough sweep of the Hurtling Whimsy,’ explained Verimedes. ‘No illicit materials were found—nor any trace of this “witch” you speak of.’
Gallows wore his smile like a slash. ‘That’s pretty damn efficient, given I just told you about it.’
‘Every craft in the skyport has been grounded and checked, Mister Gallows,’ spoke Junior Councillor Enfield. The kid looked out of his depth. Confessor Cronin and Commander Lockwood flanked him across a long, blackwood table. ‘We began our investigation at the skyport with the Raincatchers’ airships. Despite the contempt you clearly hold for authority, Mister Gallows, we are doing our jobs.’
Symphony of the Wind Page 24
