Oracle's Fire

by Mary Victoria

  The first thing he noticed as he opened them was that the pain caused by the Masters was gone, and that his fingers, like the rest of his body, shone with the starry glow of the trance-form.

  The second was that he was no longer in the great hall of the ruined city in the World Below, but confined in a cramped space, just large enough to contain him. When he raised his glowing hand to touch the cold grey ceiling above, claustrophobically close to his face, he recognised the deadly, dense material of the Veil.

  Panic rose inside him in a choking wave. They had not killed him, no. Why go through all the trouble of bringing him to the World Below, just to kill him? What the Masters had done was to eject his soul from his body, and incarcerate it in the Veil. This was a burial of the spirit. He pounded both fists against the unmoving ice; there was no change in the grey surface. He shouted, screamed for help until he was hoarse, but no answer broke the silence of the Veil.

  The young man who left the building with the columns was not the same one who had entered it, Zero knew that much. He had already forgiven Tymon for hitting him, knowing his friend had been under the spell of the hungry ghost. After their argument, he had waited for his companion to hurry off through the ruins, then followed, tracking him from afar. He had watched in awe as Tymon battled a flying creature he could only assume was a lesser demon, knocking it to the ground. Then he had followed his friend here, to this Ghost House, the one intact construction in all the spirit-city.

  Zero quailed when he saw Tymon enter the shining double doors. He was not able to summon up the courage to pursue him there, for the building looked exactly like the shrines his people still carved in the Eastern Canopy, complete with surrounding columns and peaked roof. These so-called Ghost Houses, little hollow box-altars built by peasant folk in Nur, were remnants of a religion far older than that of the Grafters or the Argosian priests. They were built to honour the ancestors. The sight of a life-size version filled Zero with superstitious terror. He sat down at the base of a crumbling wall, ashamed of his fear but unable to enter that seat of blue, crackling spirit-power. For tongues of lightning struck the top of the Ghost House at regular intervals, as if called down from the Storm above. The House ate lightning.

  He did not have to berate himself for his cowardice too long. After only a few minutes, Tymon obliged him by walking out of the building again. Zero’s joy was short-lived, however, for he realised his friend had paid a terrible price for entering the Ghost House. The young man walking down the steps had eyes that shone as blue and bright as the lightning that leapt above the roof. Zero had only to glance at the host’s dead, emotionless expression to know that the hungry ghost had possessed Tymon’s body, filling it with its own uncanny essence.

  The Marak boy crouched in the shadow of the wall, his heart beating wildly. But to his relief, the thing inhabiting Tymon’s form did not appear to see him. Or perhaps it saw, and simply did not care that he was there. The blue spark faded from its eyes and it strode away through the gutted buildings. It chose a slightly different trajectory through the city than the one they had taken while coming in, heading almost due east. Zero rose cautiously and followed, feeling that he should at least keep what had been Tymon’s body in sight. He had little hope his friend had survived the possession, but did not know what else to do. Nothing could have induced him to enter the Ghost House. So he shadowed the spirit-Tymon, dodging through the ruins to a point where the shallow, lapping waters invaded the city. There he hesitated, miserably unwilling to step into the cloudy reflection again, though he knew now the loamy base would hold beneath his feet.

  He waited until the figure of the spirit-Tymon was a faraway dot. He was just working up the courage to step into the waters, when he heard a buzzing, whirring sound behind him, reminiscent of the flying demon. Before he could turn around and investigate the noise, however, something hit his neck with a sharp, lancing pain. His hand went up to feel the gently fanning end of a dart; a moment later, blackness surrounded him, and he crumpled unconscious in the shallows of the lake.

  18

  The canopy of stars had already given fair warning of it the previous night, as had the stiff breeze at dawn, but the sky was swept clean of any cloud on the morning chosen for the attack on the Freehold. It was a depressingly clear blue, and provided a perfect contrast to the Argosian dirigibles, with their reddish bark hulls and green sails. Admiral Greenly cursed under his breath as he stood on the deck of the flagship Green Lady, and squinted across the twig horizon, shielding his eyes against the bright sunlight.

  ‘They’ll see us coming from miles away,’ he muttered.

  ‘They won’t be able to do much about it, sir,’ barked his companion by the deck-rail.

  The stiffness of Sergeant Pumble’s posture was only exceeded by that of his coat collar. To the surprise of his baffled associates, his linen seemed to have suffered little diminution of starch since their last encounter with the laundry services of Argos city. But the gruelling voyage to Farhang had taken a toll on his appearance, all the same, which was why he now had to keep his double chin rigidly down in the breeze, clamped over his shirtfront, even as he fixed his eye on the far horizon. It was an awkward position, giving him an air of severity that was not normally appropriate when addressing a superior officer. But he felt he had to keep his collar from flapping. A man could not fulfil his duties properly if his collars were limp, in the sergeant’s opinion.

  Pumble was suffering a promotion to the colonial forces due to his deft handling of an awkward case in Argos city, several weeks before. In his more lucid moments, when the collar was off and he had allowed himself the latitude of a cup or two of Treesap wine, the sergeant heartily wished he had not been quite so deft in the discharge of his duties. He wished he had not alerted anyone to the possible Lantrian connections of the seminary lad, Tymon, who had caused so much trouble to the authorities. Had Pumble not been raised to the rank of Greenly’s liaison due to that episode, he might still be wearing clean collars today.

  The admiral shifted away from his companion at the rail. There was an unpleasant odour of frogapple blossom hovering about his secretary, who was inclined to anoint himself liberally with perfume. Greenly sometimes suspected that Pumble communicated with the Saint on the basis of long-distance odours. But however stiff the sergeant’s collars and malodorous his choice of ointments, he was blessed by a far-seeing eye, as well as a gratifyingly literal mind. He was now using both to excellent effect, thought the admiral.

  ‘Those fools in Farhang have joined up with rebels from Majad and Tuman,’ continued Pumble, gazing at the distant twig-forests. ‘They’ve formed a United Front against us. Not that it’ll help them.’

  Admiral Greenly, who suffered from dry eyes and a condition known by the medical establishment at the seminary as ‘spider vision’, could not see a thing on the horizon but the usual wafting of cobwebs across his sight — an irritating effect that caused his eyes to sting and water in the bright sun. After a few moments of straining uncomfortably, he finally glimpsed, in the uncertain distance, the masts and ether sacs of a pitiful cluster of dirigibles bobbing up and down in front of the village. The admiral smiled to himself in relief. If this was all the Nurian rebels had to show for their unification, then the crusade would soon be over. Perhaps one of his adjunct’s United Shirt Fronts might have served the lice better, he thought scornfully.

  ‘But if we can see them, Pumble, can’t they see us?’ he asked aloud.

  ‘Not for much longer, sir,’ said his poker-faced secretary. ‘It seems we have the advantage, sir, under current meteorological conditions.’

  And he pointed towards the western horizon. When the admiral turned obediently to gaze in the opposite direction, he saw to his astonishment that a black cloud had appeared out of the clear blue sky. He was certain it had not been there a few moments ago. He blinked at it several times but, unlike the usual trailing wisps that complicated his vision, this cloud was dense and did not slide to one si
de in order to reform and drift before his eyes again. It was scudding towards them at a considerable rate, growing larger by the minute.

  ‘Good grief, man, get them to lower the sacks and lash the sails immediately!’ gasped the admiral. ‘It’s a freak storm!’

  The Argosian ships were not at first visible to the refugees in the hideout nestled beneath the bleak twigs, some miles east of Farhang. Noni could not even see the western horizon from the edge of the Saffid camp. It was only as she was making her way back to Oren’s tent that she glimpsed the ominous green smudge of the armada drifting over the distant branches, bearing down on the Freehold.

  She had spent an uncomfortable and indignant night away from her fellow Grafters, and awoken early to news of the fleet’s arrival, when a Farhang runner had reported the lookout’s sighting soon after dawn. But Noni had remained with the Saffid until Ishi and Tudah, the fledgling Grafters, came to fetch her. Together, they trudged wearily back up the slope to the upper camp. The sad irony was not lost on Noni that Gardan had sent the message about the approaching armada to Adhama Sing, the grey-robed steward-in-chief, and not to Oren.

  ‘There was no message for the Grafters at all,’ Ishi told her breathlessly as they walked.

  The older of the two fledglings, a gangly youth from the north holdings, had broken a front tooth some time in his rough and tumble past and had a ramshackle grin; he was very keen to get into the ‘action’, as he called it, and was in a continuous fidget. When Noni had first seen his young female companion, she had not thought such a milksop could ever prove to be Grafter material. Tudah was a rosy-cheeked girl from the outlying western farms, as different from Ishi as a lamb to a wolf. But she had proven to be remarkably lucid.

  ‘They’re on high alert at the Freehold,’ she said. ‘All the men and ships have come from Majad and Tuman to join them. But it’s not enough, Noni.’ Even though her voice was low, Noni could see the glow of ardour lighting her warm brown eyes. ‘Can’t we help?’ she urged. ‘Can’t we stop the attack?’

  ‘Surely we can!’ exploded Ishi. ‘That’s what Grafters are for!’

  Noni sighed as they walked together up towards Oren’s tent. It would take patience to disabuse these young ones of their illusions. It would take time before they learned that a Grafter’s power lay in the knowledge of its limitations. Oh, Tymon! she thought sadly. How much we miss you! But she knew that Oren had summoned her for the same reason. Something had to be done to protect the Freehold.

  The others were already sitting in their circle when she lifted the tent flap. Ara and Mata rose to their feet and embraced Noni, asking anxiously how she was, for they had been grieved by their parting the previous evening — not because she had taken a stand in going to the Saffid camp, but because she had been forcibly separated from her companions as a result. They hovered protectively over her. Oren, however, did not waste time on greetings. His glance told her all.

  ‘Have you seen it?’ he murmured eagerly.

  There was no shred of reproach in his tone. He was in no way rebuking her for her absence. But he was clearly preoccupied by an important matter that went above and beyond the Freeholders’ sleeping arrangements.

  ‘The fleet?’ began Noni. ‘Yes, I saw it just as we were coming up —’

  ‘No,’ her brother interrupted. ‘I meant the cloud.’

  Her eyes widened. The fledglings had mentioned no cloud. Neither had the message from the Freehold that morning. What she had heard whispered among the Saffid was that a fleet of at least fifty Argosian warships was hovering over Farhang, the Saint’s army, poised to obliterate the Freehold. But there had been no talk of a cloud.

  ‘It’s no ordinary one, Noni,’ murmured Oren. ‘It’s accompanying the ships like a blanket, shrouding them from view. I’m afraid the Envoy is with us.’

  Even as an intake of collective breath rippled round the Grafters at his words, they heard a shuffle of steps outside the tent. The entrance flap was lifted and a tall, grey swathed figure blocked the morning light. They could see Adhama’s broad feet in the doorway, like some old statue’s, in heavy bark sandals; they could see the thick folds of her woollen cloak caked with grime. Noni felt her throat tighten as the implacable steward bent her veiled head to peer inside the tent.

  ‘What’s this?’ snapped Adhama. ‘Why is she here?’

  There was no doubt whom she was referring to, though she evidently did not consider Noni worth addressing to her face. Ara and Mata closed ranks on each side of their fellow Grafter, standing by her defensively, but Oren remained seated and still.

  ‘This is my sister,’ he said quietly, to Adhama.

  ‘There’s a war out there, you know,’ rasped the overseer.

  ‘I know,’ answered Oren. ‘And we have urgent work to do.’

  ‘Can’t have this sort of hanky-panky going on, in wartime,’ continued Adhama imperturbably. ‘Rules are rules. She’s a bad example for the younger ones. Come on, you. Out.’

  Her eyes flicked over Noni at last, dismissive. The fledglings stared open-mouthed as Adhama yanked the tent flap open and held it up. She was evidently waiting for Noni to bow her head and go out after her, like a five-year-old child or an obedient margoose.

  ‘She’s staying here,’ said Oren, with rigid calm.

  ‘If it wasn’t fine for her before, it won’t be now,’ sneered the grey-robed overseer. ‘She’s going back to ’em, in the other camp. Her choice.’

  ‘It’s not going to be fine for anyone much longer,’ replied Oren coldly, ‘if you don’t let us do our work. Now. We cannot delay.’

  Noni did not know what power her brother used then, but Adhama shrank back. Perhaps it was because of the fixed intensity in Oren’s eyes, which Noni knew was worse than any curse. Or perhaps it was because of the strange rustling that passed through the twig-forests at that moment, followed by a perceptible darkening of the air. There was no time to lose. Oren called out urgently to his companions as the tent filled with whispering shadows and a whirl of invisible wings.

  ‘Quick!’ he exclaimed. ‘My friends! Form the circle!’

  The others hastily gathered in the Grafter’s ring, while Noni stepped forward and pulled the flap of the tent out of Adhama’s grasp.

  ‘I’ll leave as soon as I can,’ she said. ‘But now I must work.’

  And as the chant of her fellow Grafters rose up in the tent, swelling out, drawing her into the circle of acceptance, she closed the entrance flap and knotted it firmly shut in the face of the outraged overseer.

  Farhang was built for defence. The houses were constructed deep within the twig-forests at the summit of the canopy, surrounded by a labyrinth of dense growth and inaccessible by air, all paths inward equipped with booby traps and mobile blocks. When one protective circle was broken, another always remained; the Freehold leadership itself was divided into separate cells, self-sufficient in case of emergency. The dining hall had been set up as the main battle headquarters, but it was not the only one. And yet, thought Gardan, as she stood just outside the hall, squinting up at the vast black cloud rolling over the twig-forests, one could not be prepared for everything. One could not foresee all consequences. The freak storm cloud had completely engulfed the Argosian fleet, rendering the enemy ships invisible. The usually level-headed judge felt a shiver go down her spine, as she gazed up at the roiling vapours advancing over the Freehold. She did not like the oily density of the cloud. She did not like the way it moved so quickly, and without the benefit of the wind.

  A moment later, she noticed that the men and women who were meant to be defending the perimeter of the hall were standing idly in the clearing outside the building, staring up at the unnatural cloud, even as she did. She realised that they were all wasting precious time.

  ‘Battle stations,’ she called, with some irritation.

  The Freeholders responded to her command, shaking off the numb daze that had taken hold of them, and returning to their posts at the palisade of cut and sharpened
twigs around the hall. Gardan took a deep breath and strode up the ramp into the building, taking up her position at a western window. The cloud gradually cut off the sun, plunging the environs of the village in shadow.

  ‘That’s odd,’ remarked Galliano, from where he sat on the floor of the hall. ‘The temperature’s rising. That’s not seasonal.’

  ‘Weather’s gone all muggy,’ Gardan answered briefly. ‘There’s a freak storm coming up. It’s hiding the enemy ships.’

  ‘A freak storm?’ The old scientist had turned his empty eye-sockets on her, frowning. ‘Now? In the month of Sunlight Return? I doubt it.’

  But Gardan was not listening, her gaze fixed on the darkening sky. She realised she was being assailed with emotions she had not experienced since the last Argosian attack on Sheb, when she had watched her colleague, Kosta, inexplicably lose his mind in the midst of negotiations with the enemy. She was overcome by the same clammy sense of horror she had felt that day, the desire to run and hide, entirely contrary to her character and training. She looked about her and saw the expressions of the other soldiers in the hall reflecting similar sentiments, their faces drained of all colour. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to remain calm.

  ‘Battle stations,’ she repeated to the Freeholders in the hall, more to rally and comfort them than to remind them of their duty. And then, with a stab of compunction, she remembered Oren’s warning to her the day before.

  We will not win a final war. Not now, in the End Times.

  Perhaps she should have listened a little better to the Grafters, thought Gardan.

  On board the Green Lady and the other ships of the Argosian fleet, sails had been rolled up, ether sacks double-lashed and anchors dropped to the twig-forests below. The entire flotilla was poised for a battering in the tempest. Pumble held surreptitiously onto his collar as he stood on deck, for the cloud that had been scudding towards them from the west was now directly overhead. It was dense and almost tangibly dark, a seething mass of shadows. But it was also remarkably un-moist, for a storm cloud, and very well-behaved, thought Pumble. No wind. No rain. His collar had not budged. As the cloud continued to hang over them without releasing the slightest speck of humidity, an idea occurred to the sergeant.