by Martin Ash
A curious thing occurred to her – she had thought about it more than once. Skalatin had followed her across wasteland. How? Through the welter of her concerns came a sudden horror. She raised her wrist, stared at the gleaming metallic serpent dangling there. Did it give her away?
She fought the impulse to tear it off and fling it from her. It could not be. It was the serpent that kept her safe, guiding her along the Path. But could it have a dual function? From where had it come? She cast her eyes about her wildly, then: No. Why would it bring him to me, then keep him from me? It wouldn’t make sense.
Nothing did make sense.
The image of Jans’s mutilated body rose to torment her. Stretched in the sun, surely picked at by vultures by now. She saw the monster squatted on it, the obscene vision of what he had done. She cried out, then silenced herself, knowing that sound could expose her to her pursuer.
But she should have gone back – that was the least she could have done – to bury poor Jans. No! No! She forced herself to accept the truth: to have gone back would have been fatal. Indeed, that could have been Skalatin’s aim.
The thought did nothing to ease her tormented conscience.
Swift Cloud bore her steadily on, her sole constant, her one source of comfort, her link to life, her past, and all she held dear. She spoke softly in the filly’s ear, hugged her neck, stroked her long silvery mane and sleek smoky flank.
Night came and Meglan took refuge in a hollow. She lit no fire and was without appetite. Nor could she sleep. It was a moonless night, too dark for her to attempt to move on. She sat huddled in her blanket, tense, starting at every tiny sound; the close skitter of a lizard, the shift of wind-blown sand or minute particles of rock tumbling between stones, and once, the harsh, ear-splitting cry of some unknown night-bird which hovered unseen in the sky overhead.
~
Midway through the next morning she discovered that she had lost her way.
She did not recall how long it had been since she had last looked at the serpent talisman. Lack of sleep, the day’s enwombing heat, the gentle, uneven rhythm of Swift Cloud’s careful step… it had all combined to lull her senses. Her eyelids grew heavy, too heavy to bear, and closed. She slumped in the saddle, then jerked awake. Seconds later, despite herself, her eyes closed again. It was comforting, nothing could harm her now. She slipped back into cocooning half-slumber, even as a voice within her warned that this was the one thing she must not do.
How long did she doze? She could not tell. A vague feeling of unease penetrated the levels of her slumber, worked through her unconsciousness then became, suddenly, a pitch of alarm which snapped her back into dazed wakefulness.
At first she did not know what it was that was wrong. She stared around her, disoriented. Nothing appeared to have changed. Yet she felt different. The heat was terrible. Her skin burned.
Her skin burned!
Meglan turned to face the sky. It blazed, blinding white, the sun invisible. It was the heat, fiercer than she had ever known, except… except on those occasions when she had left the Serpentine Path – at the beginning of her journey with Jans, and then more recently when she had burst from the Path to flee Skalatin.
A glance at the talisman confirmed her fears. The little serpent faced back the way she had come. In her sleepy distraction she had wandered off the Serpentine Path – how far back? Now she was exposed upon the plain.
She brought Swift Cloud around, her heart pounding, the hairs between her shoulder blades crawling, and moved back in the direction in which the serpent’s head pointed. Watching the talisman, she still glanced around her, fearful of a dark, moving blot bearing down on her at unnatural speed, or a shadow that was more than it seemed, a thing that metamorphosed into the repugnant form of Skalatin.
She had covered less than one hundred paces when, to her relief, she felt the terrible heat diminish. After a couple more paces the serpent swung completely around upon its axis.
Meglan sat for a moment, stilling her fear, reassured in the conviction that she could no longer be seen. But then a new concern struck her. She turned again to the talisman, her brow creasing in perturbation. The serpent faced to her rear, the way she had just come.
She turned around once more, stepped Swift Cloud back. At the third step the heat slammed down onto her shoulders and back. The serpent swung around.
Meglan moved to the side. The snake’s head remained aimed at the one point. She walked Swift Cloud towards that point, moved out of the heat, kept walking, crossing the Path until she entered the heat again. The talisman had reversed its bearing.
Her heart sank. She knew now, and looked about her despairingly, hopelessly, filled with a sense of bitter betrayal. She was nowhere. She had reached the end of the Serpentine Path. It had brought her this far, deep into arid wasteland, and then abandoned her.
For long moments she sat motionless in the saddle, no longer caring that she might be seen. Seconds passed. Perhaps because of the unbearable sun, perhaps through a self-preserving instinct, she moved Swift Cloud back onto the Path. She felt suspended. Her mind no longer seemed to function. She was at a loss what to do. Go back..? There was nowhere to go. Remain here? She would starve, eventually, if Skalatin did not find her first. But all around her was only shimmering waste.
Ahead, in the direction she had been travelling when she drifted off in the saddle, the land rose steeply to a long ridge, its slopes made liquid by the heat-maddened air. Meglan judged it to be southwards. She realised she had no other choice. Bone-tired, she prompted Swift Cloud on, moving out into the burning land, becoming visible again to any who might be watching.
The ridge was further off than she had thought. After half an hour’s laboured travel it seemed scarcely any nearer. But she kept her focus on the ragged blur of the high land. It was her one hope that she had not been led false, that beyond that ridge there might be something other than arid wasteland, some indication that she was returning to the world.
The parched ground began to rise, gently at first, then at a greater cant. Meglan dismounted so as to lead Swift Cloud, navigating the ascent by long traverses. She paused frequently to regain her breath. Eventually, she broke out onto the crest of the ridge.
A road ran along the ridge, stretching from north to south. Beyond it, below her, were trees. Green trees, a small, glittering stream twisting between them across a broad, flat plain. In the further distance she could make out fields planted with maize, dhura and other crops, some bounded by low stone walls and irrigation ditches. She saw sparse ranks of vines, olive, pistachio and peach trees, as well as firs and cypresses. And at the limit of her vision, dotted here and there among the trees, were four or five little white cottages.
~
Meglan passed that night on the flat roof of the cottage of a family of peasants who worked for a local landowner. Despite her exhaustion, sleep came just intermittently. She woke frequently, believing that Skalatin had found her, was climbing the wall or stairs, was crouched upon her, feeding on her flesh.
When morning came she replenished her stock of rations and water, and paid the good folk with coins from her pouch. Following their directions, she carried on across the country and topped a rise some hours after setting off, to see far in the distance the hazy, shimmering towers, domes and cupolas of Dharsoul.
In due course Meglan found herself descending a long rubbly incline, at the foot of which, on the far side of a small, bare pasture, was the road which led to the capital’s main gate. There was some activity on the road. Soldiers were clearing travellers to the verges to make way for a large company of knights and mounted troops coming from the city. The troops were an impressive sight. Meglan stopped to watch as they passed by. She estimated two hundred or more, their brightly coloured banners fluttering in the hot air. She wondered about the identity of a rider at their head, who was flanked by a personal retinue of magnificently bedecked knights. Clearly this was a personage of no minor stature. Further to the rear came
two gilt carriages, and at the tale were baggage and support wagons in some number.
Dust rose in dense clouds behind the cavalcade, and obscured the view beyond. Meglan was overcome with a strange feeling of longing. Her thoughts had been drawn to her twin brother, Sildemund. She turned her gaze towards the city, which rose now no more than three miles distant, beside the mighty Tigrant river. Somewhere among the teeming mass that lived and laboured behind those massive red stone walls her brother had to be. How could she find him in such a place?
She did not know if Sildemund had ever reached the city, but she had to believe, and for some reason she felt convinced that he had. Something within her, some echo from an unknown, was telling her Sildemund had found his way there, that he was actually with the crown prince, but that all had not gone well. What was it that made her so certain of this? She scoured her mind, seeking a memory from an unknown.
Meglan turned back to the great cavalcade. She was suddenly uncertain of her goal. A question had arisen, but would not be framed, that put her in two minds. She struggled to analyse her feelings, and caught her breath as a shadow moved on the slope before her. From the shade beneath a massive rock, Skalatin stepped.
Swift Cloud nickered in alarm and took several slithering steps backwards. Meglan fought her own shock. Should she try to flee, or charge forward again, knocking him from her path. Something told her neither would meet with success.
‘Oh, Meg-lan, my sweet, sweet mal-kin. At last.’
He was hideously disfigured, neither the fleet-footed creature that had pursued her across the Despair, nor the man-fiend that had entered her father’s house. But the voice was the same. That wheedling, coaxing, mocking sound, rising and falling from plaint to purr. She shuddered. Fighting for time, she forced herself to respond, but her own voice shook. ‘What do you want? Your stone? I don’t have it.’
Skalatin took a step forward and raised a hand as if to take Swift Cloud’s rein, close to the bit, but the filly shied, so he stood there with his deformed hand raised to shoulder height, skeletal and discoloured. The fingers curled and slowly extended. At their tips Meglan saw cruel brown claws.
‘Meg-lan, Meg-lan, why did you run from me, pret-ty?’
Meglan found no answer. Her voice caught in her gullet. It struck her that Skalatin showed no sign of a wound from her sabre-stroke.
Skalatin’s voice became harsh and grating. ‘What have you done with my heart?’
‘I told you, I don’t have it.’
Skalatin suddenly snatched the rein beside Swift Cloud’s muzzle. The horse pulled away, but he held her, casually, with no apparent expenditure of strength. In the shadow of his hood his mouth formed into a travesty of a smile. Meglan felt the filly trembling beneath her.
Skalatin brought his other hand around to touch Meglan’s calf. He let the tips of his fingers run up to her knee. She stiffened in fear and revulsion.
‘I’ve come here to find your heart, so I can return it to you,’ she said, the words tumbling out. ‘As soon as I find it, it’s yours. I want no payment.’
Skalatin peered at her for a moment, but seemed distracted now. He turned his head to look back over his shoulder at the cavalcade passing on the road below.
‘My heart,’ he said. There was a queer, questioning tone in his voice. ‘You have my heart.’
‘No. You’re wrong. I’m trying to find it. It’s somewhere in the city. I’ll find it and give it back to you.’
He turned to her again. ‘Give it to me. It is my heart.’
Meglan nodded. ‘That’s what I will do.’
His hand had gone from her leg. Now he released the rein and gazed back once more at the disappearing cavalcade. Meglan sensed a change in him, and was not sure what it was. He still menaced, that was certain, but something else had his attention. He moved away a couple of paces, continuing to gaze intently towards the road. Meglan thought again of trying to break away, to make a dash for the road and the city. But there would be no safety there. Not anywhere. Somehow, harrowing and distasteful as it was, she had to work with him if she was to survive.
Skalatin’s head turned towards Dharsoul, then back to the cavalcade. The last of the troopers had almost passed from sight. Skalatin was muttering to himself, words that Meglan could not make out. A breeze fluttered the dark folds of his clothing.
‘Let me get it for you, Skalatin. Let me find it and bring it to you.’
He turned back as if recalling her presence. But he seemed reluctant to dismiss the company on the road. With a distant air he said, ‘I shall accompany you.’
The thought appalled her. ‘That’s not wise, is it? You’ll be conspicuous. You’re a creature of the shadows, whereas I need to move in daylight, talk with people, perhaps in their homes. Your presence would cause alarm.’
Skalatin stood close again. His head was almost against her thigh. He turned his face upwards and she caught a glimpse of what lay beneath the hood. She looked away, repulsed. A whiff of something noxious reached her nostrils and she gagged.
‘I will wait,’ said Skalatin, and Meglan breathed with relief. ‘You will bring to me here my heart. Do not try to deceive me, pret-ty Meglan. I can always find you.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, you can. How? How do you find me?’
She knew he was smiling, if such a face could be said to smile, even though she kept her gaze averted. ‘I have your essence,’ he said.
His words made her skin crawl, and prompted something deep within her, another memory that she could not recall. ‘My essence?’
‘Yes. I took it into me. At your home, when we… touched. I breathed you in. Love-ly chi-ld. So-o pret-ty. Part of you is already mine.’
Meglan choked back her revulsion, and the searing anger that urged her lash out and strike him. Instead, she encouraged Swift Cloud forward, pushing past Skalatin, saying, ‘Let me go, then, so I can bring it to you all the sooner.’
‘I will be waiting, love-ly, love-ly Meg-lan.’
~
She stood in the wide court inside the main city gate, wondering which way to go. The crowds milled, folk of all kind, making their way to the city centre, to places of trade or entertainment, to family or friends or perhaps, unknowingly, to enemies. Others passed in the opposite direction, leaving Dharsoul for the fields or further destinations. Meglan withdrew to one side, to take stock in the shadow of a tall building away from the jostling crowd and the harsh sun.
She had names, gleaned from a conversation overheard between her father and brother as Sildemund had made ready to depart Volm. Kemorlin was the first name and, she believed from her father’s emphasis, probably the most important. But she knew nothing of him, had no notion of where he lived or worked. Similarly with the next name, Zakobar.
There was another, called Ractoban, a professor and administrator at the university of Dharsoul, and this seemed the most logical place to begin. She could find the university with little difficulty and was hopeful that the professor might also have knowledge of the other two.
Meglan found a stable behind an inn where, for a modest fee, she was able to leave Swift Cloud to be fed and watered. A word with the ostler put her on course for the university, and she set off immediately.
In due course she found herself in the vaulted and columned reception chamber where scribes and clerks worked at their desks. Not one looked up at her entrance. She approached the first desk. ‘I wish to speak to Professor Ractoban.’
The clerk’s quill continued uninterrupted on its journey across the page of the ledger in front of him. Presently it halted and the man lifted his head. Small, dull brown eyes looked Meglan up and down, seeming nonplussed by what they saw. Narrow lips twitched and the man’s features clouded with an affronted expression.
‘What did you say?’
‘I wish to speak to Professor Ractoban. Is he here?’
The clerk glanced to the side, towards his nearest colleagues, then back. He looked her directly in the eye, then said, quietly,
‘You are a woman.’
Meglan stared him down. ‘I’m aware of that.’
‘The professor does not entertain women here. In fact, do you not know, the professor finds no pleasure in women at all.’
Meglan’s ire rose. She spoke through clenched teeth. ‘I’ve come here for neither entertainment nor pleasure. I’m here on business.’
The clerk gave a sardonic smile, and glanced again at his colleagues who, Meglan now saw, had ceased their work and with schoolboy smirks were observing the exchange.
‘It is one and the same,’ the clerk muttered, and bent his head back to his work.
‘It is not! I have urgent business. I must see the professor!’
‘You are a woman,’ the clerk repeated, now matter-of-factly, his eyes staying on the pages of his ledger. ‘And even if you were not, you would find the professor unavailable. He is an important and busy man. He does not concern himself with your kind.’
It was too much. Meglan’s sabre flew from its sheath and she brought the flat of the blade down with a resounding slap! onto the counter top. The sound reverberated off the stone walls of the chamber, and the clerk jumped in his seat, spilling purple ink across the page.
Meglan raised the blade and pointed it directly at him. ‘He will concern himself, or it will your blood that next colours your book!’
All eyes were glued on her, but she already knew her temper had taken her too far. Two guards she had not previously noticed were advancing upon her, pikes levelled. She drew back, quickly sheathing the blade, and raised her hands in a conciliatory gesture, praying for a way out. She tensed, anticipating the penetration of cold brutal pike-tips.
The clerk, his face drained of colour, had risen and stepped back out of her reach. ‘To the cells!’ he ordered, his voice cracking.
Desperately, Meglan protested. ‘No! I’m sorry! You don’t understand! I have to see the professor!’
The guards seized her by the arms and proceeded to march her away.
