Aranfal closed his eyes, and the words took on a different shape. They were building blocks, he realised; the speaker was constructing something. But what is it? What is she making?
‘On the fourteenth night I wept for him. On the eighteenth night I laughed.’
She speaks of memories. He did not know if this was his own voice.
‘In the stars I saw a name. It was … torturer.’
Aranfal’s eyes snapped open.
‘What did you say?’
But the newcomer was not listening. She had climbed onto the side of the well, into which she poured her ceaseless words.
‘Fire,’ she said. ‘I saw a fire, in the deep, ten thousand years ago. Such things were put there; such things.’
The figure leapt onto the rope, feet resting on the bucket, gazing into the pit.
‘The cat is so unhappy!’
With that, she descended into the well.
Aranfal stood staring into the darkness for a moment, feeling utterly helpless in this desert. Mother should have picked another. He searched within for the Strategist’s knowledge. Mother, come to me. Tell me what to do. But she did not speak to him.
He looked once more at the sand, at the blackness that rolled on and on. It seemed to shift as he stared. Was there a breeze here, now? The red sun flickered in the sky.
He turned back to the well, where the bucket was slowly creaking its way upwards. There was only one way to go.
‘Where are we?’ he asked in the darkness.
No answer came.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘Let me see you.’
‘I thought of something I wanted, once, and it came. That is the way to do it. There are five men and three women, standing at the doorway. The hat is on the stand …’
I thought of something I wanted, once, and it came. Aranfal’s mind turned irresistibly to home. He saw in his mind’s eye the great fireplace, and imagined the light it cast, the scurrying shadows that played across his collection …
He opened his eyes.
‘How?’
He had come to his quarters in the See House. Standing at the fireplace was the figure he had met in the desert, the person he had followed down the well. This time, however, she had revealed herself. She was a young woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties, though he was wise enough to know that appearances could be deceptive, especially in the Underland. She had a bedraggled, hunted look, as if startled from sleep. She was plump, and pale, with small brown eyes. Her thick hair stuck out from her head like a brush.
‘How did we get here?’ Aranfal asked.
The woman opened her mouth, and Aranfal steeled himself for another onslaught of nonsense. But this time was different. Even the way she spoke had changed; her voice was lighter and softer.
‘Memories,’ she said. ‘All that matters in this world, or any other.’ She seemed confused. ‘Ah. We can think in straight lines, now. It isn’t always easy for us.’
She looked at the fire. She flicked a glance at him, and it appeared as though she might say something else. But she seemed to think better of it and turned her gaze back onto the flames.
Aranfal took a step towards the woman. She glared at him, and he stopped walking.
‘What were those things you were saying?’ he asked her. ‘Up above?’
She spun away from the fire and crossed the room, until she was an inch from his nose. She grasped him by the shoulders.
‘Torturer! Is it you?’
Aranfal nodded, and the woman glanced at the ceiling with fear in her eyes.
‘You are here for the game.’ She turned her head and a hundred different faces flickered before him, men and women of many ages and complexions. ‘There has not been a game since the last one. When was that? A moment ago, or a lifetime?’
‘Ten thousand years,’ said Aranfal.
‘Ah – good, only a moment.’ A look of confusion entered her eyes. ‘The game has begun. Why are you here?’
‘I do not know. I thought that perhaps you would show me the way.’
She looked over his shoulder. Aranfal turned and saw another room, far ahead, cast in a gloomy light.
‘What is in there?’ He turned back to her. ‘Where are you sending me?’
The woman cocked her head to the side. ‘Far from the road, it stood: the tree that never was.’
‘What?’
‘I saw a star, in the distance, though it did not see me.’
Oh no.
The woman smiled at him.
‘There was a frog, and a pond, in the golden glade. But I could not go there.’
She turned away, and shadows surrounded her. Her voice grew softer as she faded away.
‘I was with a child: my child. But it all soon came to an end.’
He was alone, then. He turned to face the new room, and went deeper into the Underland.
CHAPTER 4
‘Time is a funny thing,’ said the King of the Remnants.
His prisoners did not reply.
‘Not so long ago, I lived at the top of a pyramid,’ he whispered. ‘What was it called again?’
He gnawed at his lower lip. How could he forget the name of that place, the black monstrosity that had been his home? He toyed with it, plucking his way through possibilities, until it came to him, floating on the stew of his mind.
‘The Fortress of Expansion,’ he said at last, clapping his hands. ‘Yes, that was it. I lived there, you know, for many years. I was pitiful, back then. I was like a little animal – do you understand? I feel so different, now. But it took a while to get me here, didn’t it? I didn’t just wake up one day, feeling better about things. It wasn’t even my … not even my powers, I would say. Not even the things I can do, and the titles I’ve got, down here. No – it was nothing but time.’
Far above, through a ceiling of thick glass, Canning could make out the sky outside. Sky. Could it even be called a sky, that tempest of storms? A swirling darkness hung above the Remnants; even in the daytime, the light of the sun peered out only occasionally from behind the clouds, as if by accident. What did that to the sky?
‘Was it you?’ he asked, turning to his prisoners and pointing a finger at the great ceiling above. ‘Did you do that?’
He smiled at the Duet. Once he had feared these creatures with such a burning intensity. He had feared their cruelty and their power, the sense that he was an insect, waiting to be crushed. But I’m not an insect any more.
They were lying on the ground, utterly still, curled together at the side of his throne. My dogs. He chuckled at the thought. They stared blankly ahead at the cavernous hall, this great space of steel and stone. They belonged to him now; they could do nothing unless he willed it. How did this happen? His recollection of those events was hazy. They had taken him to a memory, and he had trapped them inside it. Him. At first, they had been suspended in a kind of flickering light. Now, the light was gone, but they were still trapped; they were still in his power. Perhaps the light was never there. Perhaps it was only in my mind.
What had he done to them? They had gone to a great forest, high up in a tree. He had grown angry with them; he had felt himself capable of tugging at the memory, feeling his way through its power and using it for himself. And then he was back in the real world – if the Remnants could be called that – and they were his prisoners. When he looked at Boy and Girl, prostrated at his feet, utterly helpless, only one word came to mind. It was a word from the old books, a word from an age before science, before civilisation, before the Machinery.
Magic.
There was magic in memories, and he was very, very good at using it. He was so good, in fact, that he had trapped two ancient powers and made them into his pets.
I am a magician.
‘Your majesty.’
Canning snapped back to reality, to find Arch Manipulator Darrlan standing before him. The boy grinned, though it was uneasy. He always seems so uneasy, these days.
‘How long have you been there?’
‘Oh, five, six minutes, your majesty.’
‘And I have been …?’
‘In a reverie, my lord, positively in a reverie.’ He giggled and cast a nervous glance at the Duet.
Canning nodded. He found that his own memories could take a strange hold of him, if he allowed them. Getting drunk on the past.
He glanced at his surroundings. I am here. I know I am here. But somehow, it does not feel true. How could it be true?
This was a throne room like no other he had seen or read about. It was a vast space, formed largely of metal, like so much of the Remnants: functional, durable, with no regard for beauty. The throne was a small, ugly affair, built into the wall itself and reached by a series of narrow steps. Canning was now sitting in this blackened metallic lump. There were no paintings on the walls, no tapestries, no artefacts to commemorate the history of this world. Good. Why would we want to remember anything in a world like ours?
The glass ceiling did nothing to relieve the gloom; on the contrary, it added to it, forcing the occupants to look at the world outside, that dark and bleak panorama of misery, torn and ruined by the wars of the Manipulators and Old Ones.
He looked down at himself, at the white robes he now wore: the uniform of a Manipulator. Pure, light, and free of blemish. Perhaps that was how the Manipulators saw themselves. But none of us are spotless, are we? None of us can ever be truly clean. Not with our memories …
‘Great Manipulator.’
Canning started again, flicking his attention back to Darrlan. It felt strange being called that. So many titles to remember: Darrlan was the Arch Manipulator, a grandiose mouthful for a child, and the head of the Remnants until Canning’s arrival. But now he, Canning, the one-time Tactician of the Overland, was the Great Manipulator and the King of the Remnants, successor to Arandel, who led a war against the Old Ones ten thousand years before. Titles, titles, titles, rolling through the endless years …
There came a sound from the far side of the room, in the corridor beyond.
‘Ah!’ Darrlan cried, clapping his hands. ‘The Protector of the Secondmost City has arrived!’
The footsteps grew closer: great, thudding steps that echoed through the metal room.
‘Who is this, Darrlan?’ Canning asked. ‘I didn’t know there would be visitors.’
‘Just one, my lord, just one!’ Darrlan shot him a worried look. ‘I am sorry to surprise you. But you must meet your people!’
The door to the throne room was a great gash, sliced into the side of the wall as if by some gigantic blade. Even it struggled to accommodate the figure that entered, a creature of greater proportions than anyone Canning had seen before.
‘May I present to you, my lord,’ Darrlan cried in the loudest voice the boy could muster, ‘Arna, Protector of the Secondmost City, Mistress of the Night Shore, Scourge of the Old Ones, Wielder—’
‘Enough, enough,’ the woman said. Her voice was surprisingly soft: not the great boom that Canning expected. ‘Arna will suffice.’
The woman strode towards the throne, her dark eyes never leaving Canning. She was the tallest person the new king had ever seen. Her skin was a light brown, and her hair was entirely black, tied up into a functional bun. She wore a billowing cape that was as dark as her hair, folds of the material falling away from her powerful frame. She was not fat, though it was difficult to tell under her layers of clothing; rather, she had a solid look that made Canning think of the trunk of a tree. She held a walking stick, which she thumped rhythmically on the ground as she traversed the throne room. Canning very much doubted that she needed it for support. Perhaps it is a weapon.
He was briefly reminded of Tactician Brightling. You are inferior. This is her world, her game, her rules. She will toy with you, and she will break you. But he shook these thoughts away. This was not Amyllia Brightling, and he was not the same man that had cowered in the Fortress of Expansion. You are the Great Manipulator. You are the—
‘King of the Remnants,’ Arna said. She fell to her knees before the throne, and bowed her head, staring at the metal floor.
They remained like that for a while, Canning staring at the kneeling woman and wondering what he was supposed to do. He eventually glanced at Darrlan, who made a gesture with his head. Canning knew what it meant. At least, he thought he did.
‘You may rise, my lady,’ he said, in what he hoped was a suitably king-like tone of voice.
Arna remained where she was for a moment, before slowly unfolding herself into a standing position.
‘It is a delight – a delight – to have the honour of meeting you, your majesty,’ Arna said. ‘Many of our people thought this day would never come. There were even times when I began to despair myself. But you are here, now – finally, we have a weapon that even the Old Ones fear!’
She glanced to Canning’s side, her gaze falling on the Duet. Strange: this was the first time she had looked at them since entering the throne room. Even now, she fears them. My little pets.
‘What have you done with them, your majesty?’ she whispered. ‘Your abilities are incredible. Once, you know, I held them for half a heartbeat – I was so proud of myself!’ She laughed. ‘I shudder with mortification, as I look upon what you have achieved. They are your prisoners completely.’ Her eyes flickered towards Canning. ‘What glories have you seen within their minds? They hold such memories, that pair: memories from long, long ago, from ages of savagery and glory. I saw such things in the moment I defeated them. What have you taken from them, my king?’
Canning glanced at the Duet. He had taken nothing. He had thought about trying, of course, but something held him back. He was unsure how to do it, in truth.
There was another reason too, though: something deeper. He was afraid of breaking the spell he had somehow cast, and which seemed now to operate entirely independently from any effort on his part. What if he tried something and accidentally freed the Duet? What would they do to him? Despite his newfound confidence, he knew the way of the world, and what would happen if he unleashed these beings. If I freed these enraged gods …
‘I—’ he stammered, before Darrlan interrupted.
‘The king will discuss his activities when he sees fit,’ the boy said. ‘Until then, we should not ask.’
‘No,’ said Arna with a bow. ‘Forgive me, your majesty.’
Canning studied the people before him, the wise little boy and the statuesque woman. His time in the Remnants played before his eyes, rolling forward in a river of memory: the weak man, proclaimed a king. What is the point in your power? What have you done with it, except sit on a throne, gathering dust?
Were these thoughts the workings of his mind, or was one of his guests doing this to him? He could not tell.
‘Why have you come to me?’ Canning asked. His voice was heavy, almost slurred. He felt out of balance. He turned his head sluggishly to the Duet, fearing for a moment that they would use his fragility to free themselves. But they remained just as they had before. He could still feel his hold over them, an invisible cord that ran from his mind to theirs, binding their vast and unknowable greatness.
Arna came closer to the throne. ‘Your majesty – we need your help.’
It was the first time Canning had been outdoors since he had arrived in the Remnants. He had felt no desire for fresh air, no impulse to feel the wind on his face. Little wonder: there was no fresh air here, and the wind stank of death.
They were in a large courtyard, its surface paved with cracked and weed-infested stones. The main building loomed behind them, a great mongrel of a structure, stone and steel and wood. Scattered around was a mismatch of other structures, twisted and hulking shapes. Occasionally a pale sun would shine through the sky above, and the courtyard glowed with a dull light.
The space was filled with people, all wearing the white robes of Manipulators. Canning associated that uniform with power, with vitality, but there was none of that to be found here.
The Manipulators w
ere lying on the ground, very still indeed. The Great Manipulator did a quick headcount of his prostrate subjects: eleven of them, crumpled up on the floor. He would have taken them for dead, though their eyes were open and burning white.
‘They are Manipulating,’ Canning said.
‘Yes, sir. That’s what caused the trouble,’ came a voice from the edge of the courtyard.
A man appeared before them. Canning recognised him, he thought. A face from another time: before I became a king. The man seemed to be about as old as Canning, and just as bald, with dark skin and wide, lively eyes. He was no Manipulator, this man. He wore a brown cloak, and his gaze held no hint of the power of the Remnants.
‘I know you,’ Canning said, screwing his eyes up.
‘Arlan,’ the man said. ‘I met you, your majesty, before you … back before you came down here with us. When you were being held by the Duet – before you held them.’
Canning nodded.
‘Controller,’ he said. He placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘I remember you, now.’ He smiled. Memories are such precious things.
Arlan nodded. ‘There’s no time to reminisce, your majesty.’ He seemed to catch himself. ‘Apologies … I did not mean …’
Arna was at Canning’s side, then. ‘These are Manipulators from the Secondmost City, your majesty. Our part of the Remnants has been under great … strain, in recent times. We’ve become the focus of a particularly nasty Autocrat, and it’s almost broken us.’ She gestured at the unconscious Manipulators. ‘All of these warriors fought him at once – and all of them have been defeated. I took them here, to seek your assistance.’
‘I’ve been keeping watch on them,’ Arlan said. ‘They’ve not moved a muscle. Sometimes you can see a Manipulator fighting back, even in this state, just by the flicker of a finger or the blinking of their eyes. But not with these ones. I think they might be gone for good.’
‘Don’t say that,’ Arna snapped.
‘Apologies, my lady.’ Arlan bowed, before returning to the side of the courtyard.
The Memory Page 3