by Jen Williams
‘Noon –’ Vintage took a breath, stamping down on the immediate anger that flared inside her. ‘Noon did absolutely the right thing, and it’s hardly her choice that she – that she isn’t here now. Be cautious how you talk about her. She was very dear to us. That includes me, it includes all the war-beasts, and it certainly includes Tormalin, the great useless fool.’ Distantly, Vintage was aware that her own grief was lying in wait for her; a dark pool of despair and guilt waiting for her to put a foot wrong. There is no time for that, she told herself firmly.
‘You loved her?’
Dizziness moved through Vintage, and she gritted her teeth, cursing Chenlo for giving her such a hard shove towards that insidious pool.
‘She was my dear friend,’ she said. ‘Of course I loved her.’
Chenlo looked away, her face cast into darkness by the lingering shadows. Vintage sensed there was more she wished to say, and when finally she did speak, the words were brittle, as if they barely covered up something else.
‘I’ll talk to them for you,’ she said. ‘I’ll ask them, but I can’t tell you whether they’ll follow you or not.’
‘And you?’ asked Vintage. ‘Will you come with us?’
‘I will follow you,’ she said simply. ‘For my sins.’ And then she too left the courtyard, leaving Vintage in the slowly warming half-light.
‘Explain this to us. Make it clear.’
Bern shifted against his bonds, but they were rigidly tight, adjusting to fit him more closely every time he moved. His hand, the one with the crystal embedded in it, was a white hot agony, but it was nothing compared to the shifting pain in his head. With every crystal on the wall that lit up with images, he felt as though the queen had slid a pane of lethal glass into his skull, neatly dissecting it.
‘I’ve been telling you, hag, you just aren’t listening. Or –’ he winced as more pain throbbed through his body – ‘stones curse you, you just don’t bloody understand. You can’t bloody understand, because your head is full of oozing pus –’
‘Explain,’ the queen said again. This time she pressed her finger to the crystal panel in the wall, and with a lurch of vertigo he was somewhere else. He stood with his parents, inside a vast wooden building that smelled of sawdust and straw. Despite the pain, a residue of old emotion leaked through; he had been demanding to come here all summer, had begged and pleaded, promised to do unending tasks, and his father had finally relented. There was a wide arena in front of them, circled with stone, and in the middle of it a great bear plodded slowly around the ring, ridden by a stocky woman with neatly cropped black hair. The animal was huge, clearly Wild-touched, and wore a thick stone collar around its neck. The woman sat straight-backed and proud, and Bern – he could still feel it, through all the pain – was in awe of her.
‘They get easier to train every year,’ his father said. In this memory he was a huge, looming presence, yet to lose either his leg or his eye. ‘The cubs are raised for it now, as calm and as happy as ponies. Not mine though.’ He looked down at Bern with a twinkle in his blue eyes. ‘My bear-mount I caught in the forest myself, a fierce she-bear I had to wrestle into submission. We fought for days, me and that bear, but she recognised the better warrior in the end.’
‘Ah so, you do talk a lot of nonsense,’ his mother put in. She was watching the bear rider too, her eyes bright.
‘Aye, well, maybe you remember our courtship differently.’
She punched him on the arm, hard enough to make him wince through his laughter. Bern looked at them both: impossible, beloved, irreplaceable. They were his whole world. Then, his father reached down and snatched him up, placing him easily on the top of the stone wall.
‘Look, lad, the little ones are here.’
Smaller bears had come into the ring, little lolloping cubs with ungainly legs. They scampered to be near the bigger bear, and Bern felt the weight of his father’s hand on his shoulder. Impossible, beloved, irreplaceable.
‘Explain.’
Bern gasped, the pain rolling over him again and briefly driving out all thought. He was back in the small room of crystals, and his mother and father were very, very far away.
‘My parents,’ he said. ‘It’s a memory of my mother and father. As a treat they took me to see the training grounds of the stone-bears. I wanted my own bear so badly then, and I’d been on about it for weeks.’ He pressed his lips together, tasting his own sour sweat. ‘That’s it, that’s all it is.’
‘Your blood kin,’ said the queen. She turned her lean body towards him. ‘You are blood to them, part of the same great web. Yes. This is what connects you, although it is a very limited, very weak version of what we experience. We understand this.’ She held up her arm, and a thin spur of black fluid sped out from it to touch the wall. There it joined the endless teaming lines of fluid that were present all over the Behemoth. ‘That which runs liquid inside you, joins you.’
Despite himself, Bern frowned slightly and shook his head. ‘In a way, aye, but it isn’t just about blood. If my mother and father had found me in the woods, and raised me, we would still share our bonds.’
The mask-like face of the queen barely changed, yet Bern registered her displeasure anyway. ‘Lady Hestillion Eskt, born in the year of the green bird, shares blood with Tormalin Eskt the Oathless. It is why she cannot separate herself from him, not truly. It is why she creates life with his face. This fluid inside them is at fault.’
‘She’s done what?’
But the queen had already moved to a different crystal panel.
‘This one. Explain it.’
In this new memory, Bern found himself on board a ship, the sea around him grey and choppy. It was the old whaling ship, the Foundation; he knew it from its dark wood and the greasy smell of whale oil and salt, blood and sweat. He had served on board it for a few years in his adolescence, the sort of service kings’ sons and daughters were often loaned out for, on the understanding it gave them some useful skills, and got them out from under their mother’s feet. All around him men and women were busy at tasks, while the sky above them got ready to bless them with rain. A young man scampered across the deck towards him, grinning readily. He had hair so blond it was almost white, but all Bern could see of it were a few stray curls from under his thick woollen hat.
‘Alya,’ he said, remembering.
‘Come on.’ Alya grabbed his arm and yanked him towards the hold, having absolutely no effect. Even at the tender age of fifteen, Bern was already taller and stronger than most. ‘Our shift’s over, you great stone head. Stew will get cold.’
They went below, into a cramped room thick with the scent of fish. A sour-faced woman with fish hooks pinched through her ears served them up bowls of thick brownish muck and they sat at a bench together, spooning the mixture into their mouths as fast as they could. Before his bowl was finished, Alya pulled a thick wad of paper from his inside coat pocket, and brandished it at Bern, grinning around a mouthful of stew.
‘Your letters?’
Alya nodded. He was the son of another king, in another warlord kingdom of Finneral, and he had an enormous and complicated family, all very dedicated to writing to him. At their last port stop, he had picked up his latest packet, and finally had got around to reading through them all. He rifled through some, and extracted one piece of particularly creased parchment.
‘She wrote to me again. See? She hasn’t forgotten me.’
He passed the letter to Bern, who raised his eyebrows, impressed. ‘This is Katyyin? The redhead?’
Alya made a disgusted noise. ‘She has brown hair, like otters’ fur, and freckles, and brown eyes, like . . . like a bear’s eyes.’
Bern laughed. ‘I don’t think girls like it when you compare them to furry animals, Alya.’
His friend grinned, the tops of his cheeks turning faintly pink. ‘Like you would know, Bern the Younger. Speaking of which, my brother asks me to remember him to you. As if you would forget.’
‘He does?’ Ber
n put his spoon down, suddenly interested. ‘Which one? Show me the letter.’
‘Explain.’
The eerie frond-lights were too bright after the gloominess of the ship’s mess. Bern squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, his head thumping.
‘My friend, Alya. We knew each other when we were lads. That’s it. That’s all there is to know.’
‘But this memory is so strong.’ The queen sounded agitated. ‘No blood link between you and this human, so why does it matter?’
‘He was my closest friend. We spent months together on that miserable boat, stinking of oil and whale muck. We were cold and overworked and we made each other laugh.’ He paused. He hadn’t thought of Alya in years. ‘He ended up loving it. The sea. I was glad to go back home, at least for a break, but Alya stayed, convinced his family to start their own fishing business. We wrote to each other sometimes, but I was never much good at it, and then a few years ago my mother told me he had died.’ For a moment the relentless pain of the queen’s torture lessened, dulled a little by another type of pain. ‘Something Wild-touched in the sea dragged him from his deck. His crew barely even saw it.’
‘We will make you look at another,’ said the queen. ‘And another. Until we understand it.’
‘What is there to understand? You don’t understand because you’ve the brain of a weevil, because you –’
‘Explain.’
This memory was a recent one, so close it made him ache. He had woken in the night, in the bed he shared with Aldasair in the Eboran palace. It was too warm, and he’d kicked the covers off in the night – he never slept peacefully, these days – and his lover was not beside him. Despite the heavy weight of recent sleep that hung over him, Bern had been curious, so he had rolled out of bed and left the chamber. Aldasair had been standing by the tall windows that looked out on a small, forgotten courtyard, wearing only a loose pair of silk bed-trousers that hung low on his narrow hips.
Bern had stood where he was, caught by this vision of the man he loved. Aldasair’s face was turned to the window, and the cold moonlight seemed to find and illuminate everything that Bern found most extraordinary about him: the strange, radiant hue of his skin, the delicate line of his brow, his spare frame and the way he held himself. His auburn hair, midnight-blue in the shadows, was a tousled mess, and a wild section of curls lay across his forehead. They made Bern think of the elaborate inky brushstrokes he’d seen on the few paintings that could still be found in remote corners of the palace.
The endless muttering chatter of the Jure’lia had quietened for him, and he’d even forgotten about the awkward lump of crystal embedded in his hand. In that moment there had just been their room, and Aldasair, standing in the window.
‘This.’ The queen tore him from the memory and he tried to roll onto his side, gasping with the shock of it. ‘This is the root. You will explain it.’
Bern shook his head. Seeing Aldasair so clearly, and then having him taken from him, was too much. ‘No. I’ll not be talking to you anymore. Not about my memories, and not about Aldasair. Do whatever you like. By the stones, I’m done.’
The queen looked at him for long, quiet moment, her fingers flexing and unflexing like the legs of dying spiders.
‘Attachments outside of blood,’ she said eventually. ‘Connections. This is what humans build.’
Despite himself, Bern replied. ‘It’s what makes us stronger. Stronger than you, anyway.’
‘That is where you are wrong, human. We do not die when one part of us is destroyed – our body and mind are, always, truly, one. But if we kill you now, squeeze the life out of you or pierce your flesh with our body, the connections you have made die also. It is so easily broken, everything that you are.’
Bern thought of Eri and the pain they had all felt when he died. He thought of the deepening of bonds that came after.
‘You still don’t get it,’ he said.
The queen reached down for him, and Bern braced himself to be throttled or torn to bloody shreds, but instead she yanked him from his bonds and, trapping him inside a net of shifting black ooze, dragged him to another chamber. She dropped him to the floor and then left, the tendrils of the Jure’lia fluid slithering after her like an army of obedient snakes.
‘Bern?’
There was a series of thumps as something huge hauled its weight towards him. Bern lifted his head wearily and saw Celaphon, the enormous black and purple dragon that Tor’s sister had ridden into battle. Again, the memory of Eri was very close; this creature had murdered the boy, left nothing but a ruined corpse staining the mud and snow of the Bloodless Mountains. Curiously, the dragon did not look so fearsome now. He was crouched low to the floor, his blocky head held at a slight angle. Bern thought of a curious dog in an alley, uncertain if the hand before it held meat or a stick.
‘She’s left me here with you?’ He looked away, disgusted. ‘The queen says she doesn’t understand us, but I reckon she understands well enough what an insult is.’
‘I am to guard you,’ said Celaphon. Bern sat up. Every part of his body felt abused, but equally he did not want to lie prone in front of such a creature.
‘Aye, that makes sense. I mean, as a human man with no weapons or allies I am obviously a very serious threat that needs to be guarded by an enormous, murderous dragon that can vomit lightning bolts.’
Celaphon raised his head at this, clearly uncertain what to make of it. Bern noticed that he still bore the discoloured marks across his horned face where Helcate had spat acid over him.
‘I am very mighty,’ the dragon rumbled eventually.
‘You are certainly very large,’ said Bern. He picked himself up and walked slowly to the far wall, where he sat down again, his back to it. ‘But where I’m from, mighty is a word kept for champions and heroes. Don’t talk to me, worm-lizard.’
Chapter Thirty-three
The hill was teeming with activity. The war-beasts were there, their harnesses being attended to by a handful of men and women who had become a kind of team over the last few months. They were humans who had stayed to help, only to become attached to Ebora and its strange, unlikely heroes. More humans were there with supplies, handing out breakfast to anyone who hadn’t eaten, or loading up beasts and bats alike with enough food and water to keep them going for days. Tor was there, looking tense and unusually serious in the first light of the day; he was examining his sword, hefting its weight. The fell-witches who had come were a ragtag bunch – Aldasair saw that a few of them wore similar clothes of green and grey, the colours of the Winnowry agents, he assumed, while an even smaller number wore shirts and trousers and travelling jackets that looked like they had been begged and borrowed from any number of sources. Each of them had the bat-wing tattoo emblazoned across their foreheads. They all looked nervous, uncertain, but they also looked ready, attending to the bats that sat in a neat, almost military row.
And none of it was happening fast enough for Aldasair.
‘Are we ready?’ He addressed the question to Vintage, who, as ever, seemed to be at the heart of all the activity. ‘We have already wasted one day.’
‘Darling, we’re almost there.’ She squeezed his arm briefly. ‘We’re just getting the heartbright where it needs to be, and then we’ll be off.’
Aldasair nodded and met the eyes of the human woman Chenlo. She seemed to take this gesture as a demand for an explanation, as she planted her feet on the ground, arms behind her back, and addressed Aldasair directly.
‘Even the fell-witches I could convince to come are not happy about it,’ she said, a touch tersely. ‘I hesitate to say it, but I suspect that they’re mostly doing it out of a sense of loyalty to me.’ She paused. ‘I will not lie to you, Lord Aldasair, I am concerned that I am leading them to their deaths. Can you give me any assurances –?’
‘I can give you nothing.’ Aldasair took a breath. He did not want to snap at the woman, but now they were so close to leaving, his impatience had become an almost
physical weight. ‘This is the Ninth Rain, Agent Chenlo, and all our lives are in danger. I can only tell you we desperately need your help.’
The woman nodded once, her lips set into a grim line. Aldasair felt a shiver of some unexpected emotion from Jessen – anger? – and turned to see the man Okaar making his way up the hill, carrying several leather bags over his shoulder. He looked wary, approaching the mounts cautiously, despite Vintage waving him forward.
‘The thief!’ boomed Sharrik. The big griffin pawed at the ground, his claws tearing the grass up in clumps. ‘A lying, lowly scoundrel. You are not fit for my sight!’
Kirune too had crouched low to the ground, the enormous muscles in his shoulders and flanks bunching as though he were contemplating leaping at the slim human man.
Okaar stopped, clearly believing he was about to be disembowelled. Aldasair went to them, his temper prickling with both the anger of the war-beasts and his own desperate need for everyone to hurry up.
‘They won’t kill you,’ he said to Okaar. ‘Not yet, anyway. If you could please get the drug packed away swiftly, I would be most grateful.’
A murmur of dissatisfaction arose from the war-beasts, so Aldasair sent them a plea via their connection. Bern, he reminded them. That is all we must think of for now.
Eventually, they were ready to go. Tormalin took them up, leading on Kirune, and after the war-beasts came the fell-witches, led by Agent Chenlo. Once they were up in the sky, Aldasair allowed himself a glance back over his shoulder to see them all. The bats were a mixture of black, white and grey animals, and the women on their backs looked like they had come from every part of Sarn imaginable. Something about the sight caused a twist of excitement to uncurl in his stomach; the peoples of Sarn flying with the Eboran champions. It was like something out of one of his oldest history books, except of course, their numbers were greatly reduced and they had little idea what they were doing. Grimacing, he turned back in the harness and settled his gaze back on the far horizon. Find Bern, bring him back to safety. Then they could worry about everything else.