by Markus Heitz
Being stuck was not the worst thing; she was hopelessly lost. The palace was twice as big on the inside as in the normal accommodation.
I can’t die here like a rat in a trap! Firûsha cursed and went distractedly back along the slender corridors, sometimes turning sideways to squeeze through. Anyone built more solidly than she was would get jammed.
She was so desperate to get out now that she considered the prospect of finding Marandëi to let her out. Anything, as long as it meant escaping from this prison. She’d be able to come up with some excuse for her presence here. But I shan’t forget what I saw. That altar with the peculiar skull. And those strange incantations . . .
Suddenly she came up against an unlatched metal grille. She almost fell through it into a chamber.
A diffused light came from overhead. It did not look as if Marandëi had been here recently. Dust lay thick on all surfaces. Firûsha saw a desk with a tilted top; sketches and formulae were pinned to the walls.
What have we got here? She studied the drawings: there were exact representations of the depth of the palace foundations, room dimensions, lists of materials, pillar cross-sections, designs for metal supports, rows of engineering calculations, buttress diagrams, copies of ancient runes . . .
Firûsha came across the plans for a tower.
She couldn’t believe what she held in her hands. By all the gods of infamy. Marandëi erected that prison tower she and Sisaroth were trapped in! No one else built it! She folded the blueprint and stowed it under the pitiful shreds of her filthy dress. Something malicious is afoot. She’s playing with us, this is a game to her. My brothers will . . .
‘Firûsha!’ came a soft friendly voice. ‘Where are you?’
She pressed her face against the wall. ‘Tirîgon! Here I am! Here!’ she shouted, hitting the stones as loud as she could.
‘Go along to your right,’ she heard the voice say. ‘I’ll guide you to where the walls aren’t as thick.’
‘Okay! Please keep talking!’ She was so relieved. Now everything would be all right. She ran along, following her brother’s instructions – and the floor opened up beneath her feet.
Twisting in her fall, she narrowly missed the long upright floor spikes as she landed. They bore the skeletons of less fortunate intruders.
She rolled to one side, panting hard. She had ended up in a room with no other exit than the shaft she had fallen down. Another of Marandëi’s secret traps for unwanted visitors.
Firûsha collected some sharp bones to help her climb. She made use of the cracks in the rock and worked her way back up, jamming bones into any gaps that were too small to get a finger hold. The fragile bones protested but held her slight weight.
I’m not due for endingness yet! Bathed in sweat, she crawled back into the design room.
‘Firûsha? Are you still there?’
‘Yes,’ she groaned. She realised now that the voice did not belong to either of her brothers. Is it the walls themselves that are speaking? Trying to entice me along to the next death-trap? Marandëi was a cîanai; she might have put a spell on the walls of the palace. The first assault failed. What will the next one be? ‘Which way do you want me to go?’
‘Follow my signals, sister.’ A soft knocking sounded from the other side of the wall.
‘I will.’ This time Firûsha was more wary. Feeling her way cautiously, she managed to avoid two further traps: poisoned spikes shot up from the ground and blades darted from the wall. The knocking led her from one trap to the next. You won’t get rid of me so easily.
She heard a loud impact. Dust came raining down on her from the roof. ‘You wretched little rat,’ the voice raged. ‘Why don’t you die like all the rest?’
‘Because I know you are trying to kill me. I knew you weren’t trying to help. Who are you?’
‘I am the master of this palace,’ the voice said winningly. ‘I’m sorry I was so unwelcoming. I thought you were a monster. Nobody has come to visit me for such a long time – apart from Marandëi, of course. She’s a good friend. Let us be friends, too, Firûsha. We should get to know each other, face to face. I love the way you sing. When you practise, the sound travels through the stones. Come to me and we’ll talk.’
A spirit? A shiver went down her spine. She was not taken in by the change in approach and wanted to find out more about her foe. I’ll pretend to trust him. ‘Where shall I find you?’
‘Follow the sounds. Nothing will harm you.’
Firûsha heard a bell. She intended to look carefully at every stone she passed.
She soon started to recognise her surroundings and ended up in front of the trapdoor that led to the opening above the cellar room with the small altar. That was where the sound of the bell was coming from. She could see candlelight.
So it is Marandëi after all, doing her best to make a fool out of me. She went carefully down the steps. ‘Where are you?’
‘Over here.’
She looked round but could not see anyone in the flickering candlelight. ‘Come out of the shadows,’ she demanded, thinking the cîanai had concealed herself in a blanket of darkness.
‘You are standing right in front of me.’
Firûsha turned to the altar. The skull? ‘Is it you I’m hearing or am I going mad?’ she mouthed.
‘No. What you are thinking is correct.’ The eye sockets of the decorated skull were black and empty. ‘I am the lord of the palace and of the molten glass sea that surrounds the island.’
She knelt down by the altar, fascinated by the skull’s appearance. She had no explanation for the misshapen dimensions and she had never seen a forehead as flat as this. A birth defect?
‘Not at all. My parents went to some trouble to make my skull this shape,’ it retorted. ‘You can touch me if you like.’
Firûsha did not have the slightest intention of laying a finger on that head. Not until she knew what was happening here in these secret passageways. There was powerful magic streaming out from the artefact; it was making her face tingle. Whatever it is is pretty potent. I must keep my wits about me. She examined the carvings, which had without doubt been executed by an älfar craftsman.
Decorating an object to such a high degree of perfection must have taken a considerable time; even at this distance she could see some of the fine detail: pearls were embedded, silver beads, gold leaf. The precious materials were polished to a high sheen. The yellowish tinge and general state of the old skull itself only served to emphasise the splendour of the ornamentation.
What cult does Marandëi follow? ‘Tell me what you are,’ said Firûsha hoarsely.
‘I am everything and anything you desire,’ the skull replied in velvet tones. ‘I am your fate, and your fortune.’ The dark sockets grew larger until they swallowed up Firûsha’s entire field of vision. ‘I am here to fulfil all your dreams, my child.’
Her temples throbbed and ached, her eyes smarted and her mouth went dry. She blinked and when she looked up she saw the smiling face and dear features of her own mother. There was Ranôria in her favourite black dress with the white embroidery.
‘But how . . .?’ Firûsha scanned the room. But it was no longer the cellar room. She was standing in Dsôn Sòmran in her own chamber, looking out past Ranôria and down to the town itself. ‘What happened?’ There was a spring fragrance of blossoms in the air and the gentle sound of music from outside.
‘You just had a bad dream, my darling girl,’ her mother reassured her. ‘You had a fever and we have been so worried about you.’ Ranôria turned to the door and called for Sisaroth and Tirîgon to come. ‘Your sister is awake!’
Her brothers hurried into the chamber, one of them in armour, the other in the robes of a priest. They embraced her warmly and she was overcome with joy, sobbing and pulling her family tight to her. ‘It was only a bad dream? I’m awake now?’
‘Yes, indeed.’ Ranôria took half a step backwards and clasped her hands, so that the bone jewelled rings clinked. ‘My child, I can’t tell
you how delighted I am. Let us sing together. The competition is nearly upon us and I want to establish you as my successor. Your voice is my legacy to you.’
‘Sing for us, sister,’ Tirîgon encouraged her.
‘Oh yes, that would be splendid,’ Sisaroth urged, clapping his hands. ‘Show us what Mother has been teaching you.’
Firûsha felt completely at home. The sounds and smells of her hometown, the sight of her family, that dress, it was all so familiar . . . How marvellous! I am awake now! She smiled at her brothers and sang a ballad about homecoming, the joyous celebrations that followed the return.
Hardly had the last note faded when Tirîgon asked for an encore.
Firûsha was flattered and fulfilled his wish; Sisaroth asked for more and she consented graciously. Finally her mother requested a whole song cycle.
One melody gave way to the next. Firûsha did not notice how much time was passing.
All that mattered were the syllables she was forming, the lyrics of the songs, the dynamics and the melodies, the glowing faces of her appreciative audience. She sang and sang and sang until she was near exhaustion.
‘I must have a rest,’ she finally croaked. ‘Can I have a herb tea sweetened with honey for my throat?’
‘No, you can’t,’ roared Tirîgon, grabbing her arm and holding it in a pincer grip. ‘Don’t stop singing.’
‘But I can’t,’ she protested, crying out when Sisaroth pulled at her other arm.
‘Sing!’ her second brother insisted menacingly. His fingers hurt like ice cutting through the flesh.
‘Mother, help me!’ she implored in terror. ‘Tell them to leave me alone!’
Ranôria slapped her across the face and her head jerked back; the diadem slipped from her black hair and fell to the floor.
‘You ungrateful piece of nothingness,’ snarled her mother, grasping her hair and yanking whole tufts out of her scalp. ‘Do what we tell you to do!’ With her right hand she clasped Firûsha by the chin and forced her to look out of the window. ‘Can’t you see what is happening? And it’s all because you are refusing to sing.’
Firûsha opened her eyes wide: a monster the size of a house, a cross between a human and an óarco, was stamping its way through the city and punching holes in the rooftops, plucking out the residents to hurl them into the depths of the funnel-shaped valley where an abyss had opened up. The beast’s victims hurtled screaming to their deaths.
‘Only your voice can halt its progress,’ Tirîgon whispered in her right ear.
‘Only your voice,’ muttered Sisaroth on the left.
‘Now raise that voice of yours,’ their mother said, her smile as lifeless as that of a painted doll, her face motionless as a mask.
Ranôria’s black chignon came loose and her hair with the eleven fair streaks fell loose on her shoulders. Her scalp rotted away from her brow to the back of her head, her hair dropping to the floor in clumps. Her ears turned into shrunken beans and fell off. The skin came away from the skull, which shone damp and bloody and before clearing to a white gleam.
Tossàlor stood behind her mother and laughed as he carved designs into her head as Ranôria went on calling for her to sing, sing, sing . . .
Sisaroth and Tirîgon and the dying hordes from Dsôn joined in the shrill plea, torturing Firûsha’s soul even more than the sight of her poor, tormented mother.
I have to do it! The young älf-woman opened her mouth to sing.
But the sound that she uttered made all the glass in the room shatter.
Tossàlor drew back in horror and drove a needle into Ranôria’s brain. She shrieked with pain.
By the gods of infamy! Firûsha attempted to shout her mother’s name but could only make the ugliest of sounds.
‘What are you doing?’ Tirîgon kicked her in the stomach, making her retch.
‘Are you trying to kill her?’ Sisaroth kicked her, too, striking his sister on the chest.
Ranôria’s arms shot up and her hands grabbed Firûsha’s face, squashing it with all her might. ‘Are you trying to kill me?’ she snarled reproachfully. ‘Are you trying to kill us all? Dsôn will collapse! The whole city! All because of you!’
This is lunacy! Firûsha threw herself this way and that but could not escape the älfar grip on her arms. ‘You are not my family!’ She stared at the needle sticking out of her mother’s skull. Tossàlor has never been in Dsôn. I am here, in the cellar, by the altar. I am not at home. Focus, focus.
Firûsha shut her eyes, pumped her lungs full of air and gave the loudest scream she was capable of. No tune, no words. Just pure, ear-splitting noise.
When her eyes snapped open she recognised the painted and engraved skull in front of her. She was in the small room, kneeling at the altar, her whole body shaking violently. The spell was broken.
But for how long? Before the magic being could address her again, Firûsha seized a candlestick and slammed it into the fleshless ancient head.
The fragile bone shattered into many fragments. The lower jaw broke in two and yellow teeth rolled out and onto the floor.
‘What do you say now?’ Firûsha groaned as she went on smashing at the skull until there was nothing left of the eye sockets but a handful of splinters, ‘Have I shut you up? Have I made your evil illusions vanish?’
She got to her feet and swayed as she climbed the steps.
The lord of the palace and the glass sea was gone. If it were up to Firûsha, Marandëi would soon be following him.
Chapter III
Arithmetic
can be a demanding branch of knowledge.
One and one
makes two
But one and one
are not one,
they become one.
So it is
that two and one
can only make one.
‘Aphorisms’ from the epic poem Young Gods
composed by Carmondai, master of word and image
Phondrasôn.
Tirîgon woke, sensing Esmonäe was not at his side. He missed the warmth of her body. Where has she gone? He could see the firelight glow even through his closed eyelids and could hear stifled laughter. The mood out there seemed to be excellent.
Something told him not to show he was awake. He cracked an eye open.
The curtain across the sleeping niche had not been fully closed and he could see Esmonäe sitting with Sisaroth by the fire. She was feeding him pieces of bread dunked in sauce. She wiped his lips and sucked her thumb. Sisaroth had his arm round her and the message in his eyes was urgent and clear.
Tirîgon’s suspicions were substantiated. He felt rage against his brother. Who does he think he is?
It was the norm among his own people that sexual relationships never lasted long. The creator goddess Inàste gave them the gift of immortality; nobody would wish to spend eternity with the same person. However, the moral code dictated that partners stayed true to each other until the end of the relationship was officially agreed upon and declared in front of witnesses. The partner being left should be the first to know.
Tirîgon was not aware of having released Esmonäe from their understanding, and she had never mentioned the possibility of leaving. That meant the partnership was still valid. So what she and his brother were up to was . . .
Well, what is she actually doing? They’re good friends, aren’t they? Why shouldn’t they share a laugh? They’re not doing anything wrong.
His reasonable side said he was kidding himself and his emotions demanded that his companion explain her actions.
Tirîgon turned over in bed so as not to be tempted to watch the pair. Esmonäe isn’t doing anything forbidden or morally reprehensible. If anyone’s guilty then it’s Sisaroth. He knows she and I are an item and yet he’s not holding back.
Tirîgon forced himself to take deep breaths. Tactical thought must take precedence over clamouring emotions and growing indignation. He did not want a confrontation with his brother. Not during their mission. He was
unable to prevent his hand from forming a furious fist. Self-control. That’s what is needed here. Always gets you what you want.
‘Aha, the lovey-dovey black-eyes are having breakfast!’ chortled the groundling. There was a metallic clanging sound. Everything about Tungdil was noisy. Even his boots squeaked.
‘Hold your tongue!’ Esmonäe hissed. ‘We were cooking together.’
‘Indeed you were. Sibling-love is quite usual among black-eyes, I understand. It didn’t do the Inextinguishables much good in the end. Think on that.’ Tungdil came and shook Tirîgon by the shoulder. ‘Up you get. We need to move on. My master will be waiting.’
Tirîgon feigned waking; he stretched his limbs and then swung his legs over the edge of the bunk.
Sisaroth and Esmonäe were now sitting a good arm’s length apart with no hint of the previous intimacy. I can’t see any trace of guilty demeanour. He jumped to the floor. ‘What a night. Don’t usually sleep so soundly. Have you two been up long?’
‘No,’ Sisaroth replied cheerfully.
‘But plenty long enough to get breakfast on.’ Tungdil went over to the fire and took a look in the pot. ‘And long enough to eat it, I see.’ He picked up a bowl, spooned himself a hefty portion from the pot and broke off a piece of bread to go with it.
Tirîgon’s common sense told him to pretend he saw nothing going on between his brother and his companion. He came over to where they sat. Esmonäe handed him a bowl with a warm smile. A loving smile. You see? It’s all fine. ‘You sound as if there’s a big hurry, groundling. Is there a set time we have to be there by?’ he asked.
‘We shouldn’t take too long about it, that’s all. Else the palace and the sea will disappear.’ Tungdil dipped the bread in the sauce and ate quickly; some of the juices trickled down into his beard. ‘It’s a security arrangement my master came up with. If anything happens to me on the journey, then you and your headquarters also have an accident. Give a little, take a little.’
Esmonäe frowned. ‘What if it isn’t our fault? What if you just tripped and fell?’
The groundling grinned, wiping the crumbs from his mouth. ‘As I said, if I have an accident, the palace and the sea will go. Look after me well!’ He washed his face at the fountain and adjusted his eye patch before stomping off down the passageway.