The Stone of Sorrows

by Greg James

  The Herb-Sisters sat across from each other with the mummified body of Ahmen-Ra resting between them. They closed their eyes and took each other’s hands as they began to speak in soothing tones, performing small weaving motions upon their palms with their fingers and thumbs. They then made a series of passes, touching their brows, cheeks, and chins, repeating the gestures in a variety of sequences, all the while continuing to mutter and chant. Their chins sank a little, as did their shoulders. They began to breathe in the rhythm of a light sleep. A hush descended.

  Licking her lips, Jedda waited.

  Finally, letting out long breaths that clouded as if the air of the chamber were winter-cold, the Herb-Sisters spoke as one. "Mistress Ruth, Ianna, Venna, can you ... hear us?"

  Nothing.

  "Mistress Ruth, Ianna, Venna, can you see ... anything?"

  Nothing.

  Then … something.

  Their lips trembled, twitching, curling, hardening then softening, falling open. Their tongues hung loosely in their mouths. A minute vibration passed through the silence, and two more voices answered simultaneously.

  "Darkness."

  "You see only darkness?" the Sisters asked.

  "No ... darkness ... not darkness ... bright ... white ... white darkness ... outside darkness ... outside space ... outside ... time ..."

  "What are they speaking about?" asked Jedda.

  No one answered her.

  The Herb-Sisters continued to speak with the disembodied voices.

  "Ruth, Venna, please, tell us more of who is there with you?"

  Jedda tried not to let her teeth grind together or to squeeze her fingers as she waited on the response. Time passed, punctuated by the staccato breathing of the Herb-Sisters, Mistress Ruth, Ianna, and Venna until the Herb-Sisters were suddenly seized by spasms that made Jedda wince and cringe. Eventually, they settled down, but there was a marked change in them, a firmness and rigidity that had not been apparent before. There was a sense of, not someone, something else being there, inside them.

  Dry and aching, Jedda’s throat caught as a needle catches on torn cloth.

  "Sisters—"

  Their eyes opened, and their fingers wound tight around each other, squeezing with an insidious strength that made tears run from their eyes. There was a power in them now. The colour in their irises was gone. The pupils were gone too. There was only blackness where their eyes should have been. There was only it: a pulsating shadowlight that brought tears to Jedda’s eyes and brought a surge of melancholy and pain to her heart. Despair tore at her as if it were a wild animal with ferocious teeth. From the hanging tongues of the sisters, a haunting echo carried from the depths of somewhere dark and far-off.

  A sudden stillness gripped the air. Jedda realised that none of the sisters were moving. She snatched up the nearest oil lamp, lengthening the wick enough that a healthy light emanated from the glass. She stumbled over to the bed, held the lamp close to the dried-up remains of Ahmen-Ra, and saw what happened next.

  It breathed.

  The ragged mouth, worn down to little more than coarse paper over the centuries, moved of its own volition. The reptilian skin around the teeth crackled as if it were being set aflame. Jedda heard the unmistakable sound of air being thinly drawn into a hollow space where there were no longer lungs left to receive it.

  You will surrender Highmount to me.

  “Never!” Jedda cried.

  She hurled the lamp at the mummy. Its glass burst, sending scalding oil spilling out over the corpse of Ahmen-Ra. The fire found the kindling of the old bones and began to devour them hungrily. Soon the flames were spreading across the frail, twitching horror. Ahmen-Ra screamed—with the voice of E’blis. It was a raging shriek, a terrifying banshee's fury. Soon enough, though, it guttered and choked down into smoke-tinged silence, as did the fire. Jedda stood back and watched the stain darkening the silk, the cloth begin to evaporate. But the paralysis of the Sisters had not been broken. Their eyes were now pouring forth a silent darkness.

  Looking at them, Jedda knew there was only one thing she could now do.

  ~ ~ ~

  It was a bitter night upon the walls of Highmount. Venna was so light in Jedda’s arms. The weight of her vitality had been drawn away completely, and Jedda did not know how to bring it back. She wept as she carried her sister along the wall, wrapped in sheets to keep her small, empty body warm. They did not stop her, the Herb-Sisters and whatever possessed them; they merely sat there and watched as she had gathered Venna up in her arms and fled to the walls of Highmount. Whatever else had been done to her sister, she would not stand for further harm to come to her. Jedda was sure it had seen her, and that it had been watching her as she bore the child away from the chamber. Jedda felt it: the gaze of those eyes on her skin. But why did it not pursue her?

  As she walked, she thought on how wrong she had been. On the battlements, she stopped and swayed, her eyes on the ground below which resembled a sea so deep and so dark, and so faraway.

  Can I do this?

  It was murder. Venna was the only family she had left.

  Jedda hesitated. Her eyes were fixed on the darkness below and the darkness of death she would be consigning her sister to. But she would be safe there. No further harm would come to her. Jedda knew that standing here she risked hands falling upon her, tearing Venna from her arms. She felt the world lurching under her feet, and then out of the darkness, it came forth, carved from the night itself. Jedda could hear the screams and shrieks that were its voice. The sounds of blood being drawn, metal tearing flesh, and the living falling dead into the dirt. The Fallen One stood before Highmount, invisible and colossal, eager to shatter the city with His might. One of His awesome hands unfurled before her, shaking the air with the merest motion of its fingers.

  Place her here. Consign her to my mercy. Then you will be free of me, at last.

  Jedda thought she felt Venna stir in her arms, the sheets of her makeshift shroud slithering away. A hand, dangling freely, began to twitch. Jedda looked up at the towering mass before her and stepped forward. She thrust out her arms. If there was a cry from Venna at that moment, Jedda did not hear it.

  One last, desperate sound.

  Then, Jedda found her arms held, and Venna snatched from them.

  But not by the Fallen One.

  Turning, she saw General Kella and the Herb-Sisters, with Mistress Ruth—conscious and alive.

  “What—”

  She could see that Venna was moving, awake and alive, in General Kella’s arms. Jedda turned back to look out into the space before the battlements. Nothing was there. Nothing had been there. She looked below, to the ground where she would have sent her sister tumbling to her death. Jedda shook her head and wrung her hands. Her eyes prickled with tears. Mistress Ruth came to her side and laid a motherly hand on the princess’s shoulder.

  “It’s all right, Jedda. It wasn’t your fault. You were deceived by His Shadow. His taint was working ill upon you.”

  Jedda looked back to General Kella and the Herb-Sisters. It had all been a lie worked on her by the Fallen One and his curse, a dark design to make her sacrifice her sister.

  “He wanted to crush my soul. He wanted me to despair.”

  “He did,” said Mistress Ruth, “but General Kella saw your plight. He prepared for this moment and saved you from ruin.”

  “I have been weak,” Jedda said.

  “We all have our moments of weakness,” replied Mistress Ruth, “but these are often followed by times of strength. Come, we have much to discuss.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Though it was late, they were able to make a light dinner of dried fruit and meat from what remained in the kitchens for Mistress Ruth, Ianna and Venna. They gathered at the table in the Council Chamber. It seemed to be an empty, sparse place without the old men and women of the Council; all slain when Mikka Wyrlsorn took the throne.

  “Mistress Ruth, Venna,” Jedda began, “you have been in the mind of the Fallen On
e himself. You know what is coming for us. We ... I need your help, so we can prepare what little defences we have.”

  Ianna said nothing.

  She picked at the food on the plates and stared off into the distance. Venna shivered, rubbed her arms and looked around the faces at the table, “His breeding pits and cocoons have been creating more Dionin, Fellspawn, Larvae, Dracken, Mind-Reavers and Drujja than ever before. All of His captives are being turned into Fellfolk and Phages to swell the ranks of his hordes. Thousands upon thousands are leaving the borders of the Nightlands by the hour.”

  “Dear Mother ...”

  “There is more,” Mistress Ruth said, “He is breaking free of the tomb beneath the Shadowhorn. Some traces of His essence have already seeped through and been bound by E’blis.”

  Jedda’s fingers tightened into fists on the table, “E’blis has remade them?”

  “Yes,” Mistress Ruth said, “There will be Fallen-born leading the armies.”

  For the first time since she had known him, Sarah saw General Kella’s face turn white. “Fallen-born,” he muttered, “what ever can we do against them?”

  Jedda’s hand rested on her breast, on the place where the Sword of Sighs had pierced her when she fought Sarah atop the Fellhorn. A plan was beginning to form in her mind.

  “Perhaps, there is something we can do. Mistress Ruth, can you prepare anything with the Herb-Sisters that we can use against the armies facing us?”

  “Yes, there are some old conjurations that we may be able to use.”

  “What of Gorra ... and the White Rider?”

  “Majesty,” Mistress Ruth said, “They are not of this world. They are of our legends and bound to the Wood Beneath the Worlds. It is not our place to disturb them.”

  “It may not be, according to tradition, but our need is dire and our allies number few to none. Can you summon them?”

  “It ... can be done. With difficulty. And some cost.”

  “Is it a difficulty and cost that we can bear?”

  “Yes ... yes, I believe so.”

  “Then, I would ask you to break the traditions of your order and summon Gorra and the White Rider to our side.”

  “Majesty, be warned, Gorra was grown from the seeds that fell from the branches of the Great Tree. He is the gardener of the Wood Beneath the Worlds. Without his tending, even for a moment, the Wood may become fatally corrupted by the foul witch, Yagga.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’m afraid I do not think that you do. The White Rider is an aspect of the Living Flame. He is the man to Sarah Bean’s woman. The power that Sarah holds is fearsome but it flows, conjures and can be controlled. The White Rider is a being of pure force and fire. None stand in his path and he acknowledges none that are not as he is. If we unleash the White Rider onto the battlefield, it may be Highmount that falls to his fury as much as the beasts of the Fallen One. No-one may live to see the end of the day.”

  “And,” Jedda said, “if we do not summon them, none may live anyway. We do not have Sarah Bean here with us, do we? We have no Living Flame – the one power that we know can stand against the Fellspawn. Without her, I say we need the White Rider and we need Gorra.”

  A heavy silence fell around the council room table.

  “Mistress Ruth, I am not asking you to do this for me. I am asking you to do it for the frightened men and women out there. Their lives are my responsibility – a responsibility that I wish had never come to me. Please, I beg you, as another frightened soul trapped within these walls, summon them. They may be the difference between life and death for all of us. And if they bring death upon us, it will be better to be dead than live in thrall to His Shadow.”

  Mistress Ruth steepled her fingers, frowned, sighed and looked deep into Jedda’s eyes.

  “Very well, Majesty. It shall be done.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “There is no greater abomination than that of innocence. There is no lesser curse than to be afflicted with decency. Those who crawl from the warmth of a mother’s womb into this cold world and find it to be a damned and cursed place, are those who truly see and understand its nature.”

  E’blis sat upon his throne in the heart of the Shadowhorn before his Mind-Reavers, who bowed so low the tips of their malformed noses scraped the ground.

  “There are few places of sanctuary for those who understand the world. They are sought out by the multitude and slain, for witless humanity cannot let them be. They cannot bear the truth spoken thus. But here, in the Nightlands and in His Shadow, you have found understanding and belonging. Soon, all of the world will fall under His Shadow, and you shall be the ones who persecute and slay.”

  Kiley and Woran sat in the corner of the chamber, listening to his oration. After their failed attempt at escape, E’blis had ordered them brought to his throne chamber and permanently bound. Whenever he left the chamber, Mind-Reavers remained to watch over them. They were fed and watered every day, so they did not lose too much strength, but Kiley could see they were in far more danger than they had been when they were in the cells. Whatever E’blis was preparing for the war against Seythe was here, and the closer they were to it, the closer they were to harm.

  “How do you fare, Kiley?” Woran asked.

  “Tired,” she answered. “I don’t like being here. It’s like there’s evil that’s almost a solid thing, you know. It’s hanging in the air and it’s inside everything.”

  “I know. The heart of the Nightlands is the Shadowhorn, and the heart of the Shadowhorn is this chamber; from here, there is only the path down to the crypt of the Fallen One in the roots of the mountain. None go there, other than E’blis.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because only he can survive in the presence of His Shadow for long without being driven insane. The Fallen One is not of this world. He should not be here. To be near Him is to be near aberration and abomination. No mind, other than one divine, can survive that kind of exposure. E’blis may no longer be truly divine, but he once was, and that is enough.”

  “What you say is the truth, old man.” E’blis approached them. “And that is why she is here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A common sacrifice would not be enough to raise the Fallen One. But the blood of the divine will do the work.”

  “No. You cannot. Not her.”

  “Why not? Will you stop me, old man? Will you impede me in any way? She shares blood with the Living Flame. She is potent enough for my purposes. She will die so that He may arise once more and cast His Shadow over the Thirteen Worlds.”

  “But you promised—” Kiley began.

  E’blis leaned in close so that she could see into the dark, pitiless hollows of his eyes.

  “I lied.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Jedda listened as the people came and kneeled to entreat her. They were scared—of course they were. There were few enough of them, and the Fallen One’s armies were coming at them from the Three Kingdoms and the Nightlands. A soldier kneeled before her, ahead of the crowd of tired nobles and bedraggled infantrymen.

  “My Princess, we cannot go on like this. We must treat with the Fallen One’s generals and ask that they spare our lives.”

  “And you would believe the word of those who speak for the Black Lord Under the Mountain?”

  “Majesty ...”

  “I understand your fears. They plague me every night, and again when I awaken to the days. But we must not give into such fears. We will die otherwise and likely be crucified for sport by the Fellfolk. Is that what you want for us? For those whom you care about? He will offer you no succour.”

  “Majesty, it is hopeless. There are too many of them and far too few of us. We must, at least, surrender so that we can save the women and children.”

  “No.”

  “Majesty—”

  “I hear your words, soldier, and I say no.” Jedda stood and raised her voice. “Listen to me, all of you. Would you have
your memories be of acquiescence? Would you be remembered for going quietly into His Shadow? I grant you that we are not many and that Highmount may well fall. But if it is to fall then we should stand proud against the Fallen One. If we surrender, we shall all die. His offers of life are a lie. Even slavery is not something that you can hope for. He will destroy everything when He awakens and walks upon the earth.”

  Murmurs and mutters passed through the shifting crowd of tired warriors and nobles before her.

  “I know because I was under His sway. I have seen inside His mind, as do all who follow the Path of the Fallen. If you would surrender, then you must depose me and walk through those gates to prostrate yourselves before His servants. But, if you would fight and make a final stand against the Darkness That Is Not Darkness, join me now. Man the battlements. Brace the gates. Let us show the Fallen armies that we will not die so easily.”

  It began as a whisper but soon became a shout, and then a roar as the defenders of Highmount raised their fists. Their faces were wearied and dirt-streaked, but Jedda could see that she had won them over.

  They would fight on.

  To the death?

  Jedda dismissed the gathering and sat in the court chamber until it grew dark and the lanterns were extinguished. Shadows closed in around her, and she felt a certain comfort from their presence. Her recent years had been spent in darkness, that of the cell Ianna had sealed her in and the greater darkness created by the deal she entered into with the Fallen One. She wondered if it were just her imagination that the shadows around her seemed to be thickening, darkening, and hissing.

  ~ ~ ~

  Jedda dreamed of Ianna taking her to see her father, King Ferra. She walked into the dust-shrouded interior of the King’s chamber and already she began to feel unwell. The curtains were drawn. The walls were decorated with the battered animal-head trophies of his hunting days, their tusks, antlers, and fangs bared. The creatures looked cobwebbed in the gloom. They watched Jedda make her way towards the bed chamber, their glass eyes blinking blindly in the low light. Jedda wished she were as blind to the state of things as the dead animals were.