by Jen Williams
Tor leaned over the desk, peering at the map. ‘What about wine supplies? How are they doing?’
Aldasair abruptly turned on him, his eyes wild, and for a strange moment Tor was sure he was going to strike him.
‘Cousin!’ He held up his hands. ‘I’m sorry. You know I make terrible jokes, and at the worst of times.’ With a surge of dismay he saw that Aldasair was trembling, and the hectic colour had vanished from his cheeks. If he has come down with the crimson flux too, we truly are doomed. ‘What is it, Al? What’s wrong?’
The younger man’s shoulders dropped. ‘Bern. He is in so much pain, all the time, and it’s only getting worse. Now that the Jure’lia seem to be split, his connection to them is even more chaotic. He barely sleeps, so I barely sleep . . .’ He turned back to the letters on the desk, and touched one with his long fingers. ‘All these reports, Tor, are terrifying. Every one of them is begging for help, and what can we do? We are a tiny resistance barely clinging to life, half afraid to leave Ygseril in case Hestillion attempts to destroy him.’
‘I don’t think she will do that, at least,’ said Tor quietly. ‘That abomination she calls a war-beast is as connected to the tree-father as the rest of them, and will die just as quickly if Ygseril falls.’
Aldasair continued as if he hadn’t heard him. ‘And we’re missing half our forces. We’ve had no word from Vintage or Chenlo, Vostok is out searching for Noon again, and Noon . . .’ He stopped, and briefly squeezed Tor’s arm. ‘And Noon is lost to us. We cannot face the Behemoths with just the six of us, but Tormalin, if I must read another letter detailing these horrors, I think I might actually lose my mind. Again.’ He half smiled at his own weak joke. ‘What can we do? I am at my wit’s end.’
Tor looked at the map, at the letters scattered across the desk. He dearly wished that Aldasair had not come in here, had not shown him these things. It was significantly harder to ignore the heavy weight of despair in his chest when the evidence of their doom was laid out in front of them.
‘We shall think of something, Al.’ He grasped his cousin’s shoulder and squeezed. ‘We’re not giving up just yet, I promise you. I am going to go outside and get some air – I’ve been in this room too long – and I’ll go and speak to Kirune. Perhaps the war-beasts have some ideas.’
Aldasair nodded, smiling hesitantly, and Tor left him there, rifling through letters. Once out in the corridor he headed not towards the gardens or the main courtyard, but to an old suite he knew to be empty. Inside, it was dusty, the thick embroidered curtains still pulled across the tall windows, and there was no wine, but here at least he could be fairly certain Aldasair wouldn’t think to look for him. He slipped the amber tablet from his pocket and lay down on the musty bed. The glories of ancient Ebora were waiting.
This land was a land of smouldering fires and steaming forests, of black soil and hot, flat skies.
Vostok did not like it.
The fire was not clean and bright like her fire, or even strange and unsettling like Noon’s fire; it was smoky and constant, filling the air with a dark taste and staining the sunsets strange, violent colours. The black mountain responsible for the fire burst up through the middle of the green forests, and the closer she got the more she felt the heat of it pushing against her wings, carrying her easily up and up. Rivulets of molten rock, bright red and orange, moved slowly down the mountain, oozing from its broken peaks and chasms almost lazily.
It was hot here. That was the point. She knew, was almost certain, that wherever Noon was, she was too warm, so it made sense to go to the hottest places. This place, south and east of Ebora, was so hot it was like moving through soup, yet her sense of Noon had grown no sharper, and her repeated calls to her still went unanswered.
Bright weapon, where are you? Can you hear me?
Nothing.
Sometimes, however, she became convinced that Noon was actually really cold, that she was lying somewhere shivering. At those times Vostok would feel her heart beating faster, almost panicked, because none of this made any sense. And if it made no sense, there was a chance – no, it was not a worthy thing to think about.
She banked low over a thick cloud of treetops and came upon a human settlement. There was a tower of dark orange clay, and branching off from it a tall wall of the same substance. Within that, she could make out a busy village, various cooking fires adding to the general smokiness of the area, and there were people patrolling the walls. All of them, now, were looking at her, their eyes and mouths round like moons. Pleased, she spread her wings wide and did a slow loop in the air, letting them see the full glory of her brilliant scales and her glorious feathers. Voices were raised in welcome and she saw more people waving at her from the top of the tower. None of those she could see were Noon.
Regardless, she flew closer, watching with faint amusement as the humans gathered on the smooth top of the tower scattered backwards, not quite daring to get so close. Delicately, she landed on the very edge, grasping with her claws – she wasn’t sure she would fit on the platform without knocking a few of the humans off.
‘I’m looking for someone,’ she called to them. ‘A fell-witch, you would call her.’
There was a great deal of talking amongst themselves, and then a tall man with bright yellow hair was pushed out of the crowd as a general spokesperson. He wore only loose cotton trousers and a thick leather belt, and he had a beard, like the human Bern, although he wasn’t nearly as large or as impressive. Vostok sniffed.
‘Greetings, glorious one!’ The man’s voice wavered, and she saw him clear his throat and try again. ‘Greetings, and welcome to our home, glorious one! Can we – can we help you?’
Vostok twitched her tail, feeling it slap against the surprisingly cool clay. Did humans need everything repeated to them? It was very tiresome.
‘Do you have any fell-witches here? Has a woman recently arrived? She is young, with black hair. She is kin to me.’
The man looked blank, and on the back of that, worried. ‘No, great one. All fell-witches . . . Fell-witches are taken by the Winnowry as soon as they are discovered.’
‘Yes, I know that,’ snapped Vostok. Perhaps this was, after all, the wrong kind of heat. Too wet, too cloying. There was no moisture where Noon was. ‘This one has already been to the Winnowry, and left it. And the Winnowry is no more,’ she added, with some satisfaction.
This didn’t seem to have the response she had expected from the crowd. Voices were raised, and people were looking at each other in surprise and consternation. While the tall yellow-haired man was considering what to say next, a woman came forward, short and round with so many freckles she almost looked brown all over.
‘You have come to fight the worm people though?’ she called. ‘We saw them, just four nights ago, passing over. They’ll come back. You’ll stay and fight them with us?’
Vostok shifted on the edge of the tower, her claws digging great furrows in the soft material. She sensed it would not hold her much longer, and that only added to her irritation.
‘Do you have Noon here or not? Noon! Bright weapon! I am here!’
The crowd edged back again, and Vostok thought she recognised new expressions on their faces: fear, confusion, frustration, even annoyance. A flicker of violet fire danced around her teeth.
‘But that’s your job!’ The freckled woman had not moved back with the rest. ‘It’s what you’re supposed to do! How can you let this happen?’
‘You know nothing of us, tiny creature. Do not presume to tell me what my “job” is.’ Vostok began beating her wings to dismount, and was pleased to see a few of the humans holding up their arms to cover their faces. I could burn you all now, she thought, and it wouldn’t matter. ‘Noon is not here. I would feel her if she was.’
She pushed away from the tower, causing several cracks to splinter across the smooth surface of the clay, and then she was in the air again and the faint cries of the humans were nothing to her, already forgotten. What did they know of
the duty of a war-beast? Or the bond between her and her companion? She was simply in the wrong place. She would find the hot place that was also sometimes freezing cold, and there she would find Noon.
The bright weapon was not dead. Could not be, because Vostok still felt her within her own heart.
Spreading her wings wide, Vostok turned her back on the burning mountain and headed further south.
Chapter Nineteen
It was a particularly tough plant. That was the only explanation for it.
Noon frowned at her knife, willing it to break the skin, but all it seemed able to do was press a narrow line into the flesh. She took a deep breath, trying to breathe past the throbbing in her head, and redoubled her efforts. Finally, the knife edge sank into the plant, and a thin line of watery liquid oozed up. Noon bent her head to it and licked up what she could – don’t waste it, don’t waste it – and then got back to sawing the appendage free.
The plant water was thin and tasted awful, but it was better than nothing. The water in her jug had gone alarmingly fast, and each journey to the next plant copse seemed longer and more fraught. It did not help that she was light-headed, and uncertain on her feet. She didn’t like to think what would happen if she fell over in this desert.
The plant section free, she sat back on her haunches and sucked at it, gazing blankly out across the sands as she did so. The Singing Eye Desert was, she had decided, pretty dull. Just sand, these plants, lots of sun, and then at night, lots of cold. Even the sky didn’t change much; brilliantly blue, no clouds in sight, or pink as the sun sauntered off, or black, when the cold came.
‘Fuck this place,’ she croaked. ‘Fuck it in the ear.’
The taste of the plant water sour in her throat, she closed her eyes and tried to think clearly. ‘Targ is to the north,’ she said aloud, picturing one of Vintage’s maps in her head as she did so. She remembered the mountainous region because it was said to be home to the species of giant bat flown by the Winnowry – home to her old friend Fulcor, or her distant ancestors, at least. To the west was Kesenstan, which had cities and farms and people and water. And to the south, she was reasonably sure, was the Thousand Tooth Valley, but she didn’t know how far south, or even what was actually there. Vintage had mentioned it once, she was sure of it, but why? ‘. . . And go far enough south and you get to the plains eventually.’
The thought of the plains was a weight in her chest. She Who Laughs’ keen interest in her childhood was unnerving to say the least, and a whole set of memories that she had hidden from all her adult life were trying to resurface; the tent-cat with its soft black fur and the tender pink pads on the bottom of its paws; roasting birds over the communal fire, ten of them at once sometimes, skewered and dribbling hot fat; the sound of her mother’s laugh.
She rubbed the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, and not for the first time, reached out to Vostok.
Where are you? I’ve been taken. You need to come and find me.
There was no response, although whether that was simply because she was too far away, or because She Who Laughs was disrupting their bond somehow, she couldn’t have said.
‘I have to get back. They need me.’ She didn’t even know if they were still alive. When she had been taken, they had been fighting desperately against the Jure’lia. For all she knew, the war could already be over. Aldasair and Bern dead or prisoners. Tor lying broken in the surf, the war-beasts torn to pieces . . .
The plant nub was dry. She threw it on the ground in disgust and then spent some moments picking the knife back up; her fingers weren’t working properly. As she started trying to hack off another piece of plant, she was suddenly reminded of the hours after she had escaped the Winnowry; when she and Fulcor had landed on the roof of a tavern and found a little garden there. There had been a tomato plant, covered in ripe fruits, and Noon had picked one and eaten it, her hands still grimy with ash. That tomato . . . a taste like being alive, finally. Like being able to see after years of blindness.
Sitting in the dust of an unfriendly desert, Noon shuddered violently. Abruptly she wanted to cry, and that made her angry enough to be able to cut off several lumps of plant in a row, letting them drop to the black sand in sticky lumps. Viciously she sucked the fluid from them, ignoring the other memories this summoned – Tor’s head bent to her wrist, the slight pressure of his teeth against her skin, and the powerful wave of desire she had felt for him – before standing up unsteadily and turning to look west. There was another copse in the distance, and gathered around it, a group of the strange long-necked creatures she had first spied from the castle. She had seen signs that they ate these plants – tooth marks in hard, white flesh – and she had entertained many fantasies about blasting one to bits and eating its flesh, but they were twitchy bastards who vanished long before she got in range.
‘But I just want to be friends,’ she said aloud, staring at the distant beasts. ‘Get to know you. Have little chats. Share some manky plant water. Eat you a bit.’
As if in reaction to her imagined feast, her stomach cramped violently, and for a few seconds she was bent at the middle, her head spinning. A few days in the desert, that was all, and she was close to dead.
‘So useful,’ she muttered as she set the copse behind her and set out west again, ‘so useful to be able to summon fire. In this place. Great. Hooray for me.’
Except that wasn’t entirely true. When the sun vanished, the temperature dropped, and then being able to summon her winnowfire wasn’t just useful, it was life-saving. And even curled around the tiny fire she would wake several times in the night, shivering so hard she had cramps in her legs and back.
As expected, the strange long-necked creatures fled when she was still far enough away that a fireball would do little good, and she plodded the rest of the way with her head down, her eyes on the black sand. When she reached the little copse, she swayed for a moment on her feet, trying to remember what she was doing there, who she was – and then she sat down next to the plants, trying to make the most of the small amount of shade they provided. When she had her breath back and the throbbing headache had quietened a little, she reached down for her knife, ready to harvest more bits of plant – only to find that her knife wasn’t there.
She had left it behind, discarded on the hard desert floor back the way she’d come.
A shudder moved through her body, like a sob that had no moisture left to express itself. She would have to go back there, waste what little energy she had left to retrieve the bastard thing. In a sudden movement, she stood up, furious with herself and everything else, and began to half walk, half run back to the small copse of white plants. She had got just beyond the outermost plants when the faint wobbles in her legs became tremors, and the world span around her: the ground beneath her feet was blue, her sky was grey, and then everything was black.
When she came round, it was to a painful burst of green light. Groaning, she pushed her face into the sand, hoping that she could escape her thumping head in more sleep, but a strong hand gripped her shoulder and shook it. With enormous reluctance, Noon opened her eyes and squinted up at the figure that stood over her.
‘Look at you,’ said She Who Laughs. ‘You have fair cooked yourself.’
Noon groaned and sat up. The sun had gone down and the only light was the eerie eldritch crown of flames that flickered around the woman’s head. She was crouching next to Noon, no longer in the body of the short, stocky woman; instead she inhabited someone tall and lithe, her hair a listless pale colour. Her cheekbones were stark under her skin.
‘My knife.’ Noon’s voice was a shrivelled thing. ‘Was going back. For it.’
‘I think you’re done out here, don’t you? Made your point, whatever it was.’
‘My point is. Fuck you.’ She coughed. ‘I can’t do what you want me to do.’
‘You didn’t even try,’ said She Who Laughs. There was a smile in her voice, as though she were talking to a cheeky child who had re
fused a plate of vegetables. ‘If you die out here, Noon – and you will die out here if you stay, I can feel your body breaking itself down as we speak – then you will never be reunited with your precious war-beast, and Sarn will have to cope without you. Normally, that wouldn’t mean very much in your little human life, but you’ve managed to make yourself quite important, haven’t you?’
Noon opened her mouth to reply, but her throat was much too dry.
‘Come back with me, try to do as I ask, and you may yet return to win your war. If you’re not going to do it for me, or yourself, do it for the conflict that is eating your world alive.’
In the silence that followed, a harsh barking sound echoed across the desert. Whatever it was, it was clearly some distance away, but Noon did not like the wild, hungry sound of it. After a moment, she raised her arm, and She Who Laughs looked down at her. She smiled.
‘I will take you back now.’
Vintage shifted on the dresser, pulling her knees up under her elbows and ignoring how the furniture wobbled under her weight.
‘Tell me more, darling. I’ve never been south of the Elru mountain. Didn’t think there was much to see there, if I’m truthful.’
The voice on the other side of the tiny window chuckled warmly. ‘Perhaps not for a woman as widely travelled as you, Lady de Grazon, but for me it was a wonder.’ The prisoner, who had introduced himself as Harlo, tapped on the window. ‘I can tell that you have seen the world, handled its trinkets and found them wanting. The beaches of Zanth are covered in scuttling, jewelled crabs, all with the sweetest meat and none of them Wild-touched, can you believe it?’
‘Zanth is pretty remote,’ said Vintage, nodding. ‘A little untouched corner of Sarn. How few those are now. What were you doing there, Harlo? And how did you end up in here?’