by Jen Williams
‘It’s from the worm people,’ said Aldasair. ‘The queen herself.’
The pathfinder raised her head, her eyes wide. ‘Evil times we are living in.’
‘And the Dead Woods are burning,’ said Treen quietly. ‘A huge tower of smoke hangs over the forest, which can only be an evil omen.’
‘That’s our fault, sorry,’ said Noon, from the back of the room. ‘We set the worm people on fire.’
Treen and the pathfinder exchanged a look. ‘They are so close?’
‘Listen.’ Aldasair paused in pushing strands of sweaty hair off Bern’s pale forehead. ‘Can you help him? Will he live?’
The old woman sat back, her hands lying palm up on the tops of her thighs. ‘We can’t leave the wound as it is, this is the problem. All that shattered bone, the torn muscle, it won’t heal like that, no.’
‘And the worm substance is essentially dirt in the wound,’ said Vintage grimly. The old woman nodded.
‘What we shall have to do, is remove this portion of the arm . . .’
‘You mean to cut him again?’ Aldasair sounded close to panic. Silently, Tor went and stood with him, one hand on his shoulder.
‘They must, my dear, can you not see?’ Vintage looked less than happy about it herself. ‘It’s the only way to save him.’
‘It’s risky,’ said the pathfinder. She tapped one thin finger at a point halfway up Bern’s forearm. ‘We cut here, cleanly and quickly. The skin we pull over, and we seal. Then we wait, and hope.’
‘It sounds like you’ve done this before,’ said Tor.
Treen nodded. ‘When you live in a city of tunnels, crushing injuries are quite common.’
‘But he has already lost so much blood,’ said Aldasair. ‘How can he live through being cut open again?’ To Tor, he suddenly sounded very much like the young man who had spent so many decades wandering the corridors of the palace, lost and frightened. ‘He’s a human, he’s not . . . He only has so much blood.’
‘That is the danger.’ The pathfinder nodded. ‘Normally, we would let him recover a little first, but this stuff – if it is in his veins too long, it will make him sick, will kill him. We have to get it away from him, quickly.’ With some difficulty, she got to her feet; the sound of her knees popping was very loud in the crowded room. ‘Our healer is on his way here now.’
‘Then we shall give you some space,’ said Vintage, suddenly all business. ‘Aldasair will want to stay here, of course. Is there somewhere we can wait? And please, we’d very much appreciate it if you keep us aware of what is happening to our dear friend.’
They were shuffled away down more corridors, with Treen quickly showing them to tiny little dorms in some quiet, secluded part of the town, with the fell-witches following Agent Chenlo. Vintage, despite her words to the pathfinder, insisted on staying with Bern and Aldasair, and so Tor found himself alone with Noon in a small mud-walled room. It was warm and cosy, the floor covered in a tightly woven mat, the circular door made of pale, varnished wood. There was a low bed and a couple of stools, a stone basin wedged directly into the wall, along with little alcoves for storage. Someone had thoughtfully put some thick seed cakes in them, and a jug of water.
He turned to her, ready to face all manner of awkward conversations, but she closed his mouth with more kisses, just as hungry as she had been in the forest. She took his hand and slid it inside her shirt to find the soft mound of her breast, and he felt himself grow hard almost immediately.
‘Noon . . .’ He murmured into her neck, trailing kisses down across her shoulder, baring more of her skin. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Please,’ she said, tugging urgently at his clothes, ‘I’ve been alone, I’ve been to some awful places, Tor, and I need you. Please.’
He nodded, removing her shirt and dropping it to the floor. He kissed her breasts, and then moved down, trailing his lips over the soft angle of her ribs, the hollow of her belly. As he tugged her trousers down, she pushed her fingers into his hair, trembling slightly in his hands, and when he bent his head to the place between her legs, she said his name in a whisper, urging him, begging him. All the complex lessons of the House of the Long Night seemed vaguely silly in the face of their closeness – what could be simpler than this?
She shuddered, opening herself to him, and abruptly he was dizzy with need. He picked her up in one quick movement – she laughed, her feet briefly pointed at the ceiling – and placed her down on the bed.
‘You still have too many clothes on,’ she said, pulling at his shirt. He yanked it off, and he saw her glance at the bandages on his arm, but it clearly wasn’t the time for questions. Instead, he brought his hips to meet hers, gasping as she wrapped her legs tightly around him. In small movements they came together; her face was flushed, her dark eyes shining.
‘Noon. Noon.’ He became aware he was saying her name in time to the movements of his hips, but there seemed to be nothing he could do about that. He was already lost. ‘Noon, I love you, Noon.’
She moaned, her back arching, and he felt her reaching her climax underneath him. He held on as best he could, until she opened her eyes again and pulled him back in deep.
‘I love you, Tor.’
He cried out as waves of pleasure so sharp it was akin to pain moved through him, and she whispered her words again and again into his ear. It was an exultant spell against all things, against all sadness and horror.
Later, they lay together in a sweaty heap. Tor had reached up into one of the alcoves for the flat cakes, and they were eating them in small pieces. They were made from seeds and something very like honey, but much darker in colour, and Tor found that he was ravenous. Despite everything – the crimson flux, Bern being close to death, the actions of his sister – he felt at peace. He had told her. Whatever else happened, he had done that.
‘What happened to you?’ he said eventually. ‘Where did you go? It almost destroyed us, you know. You just vanished, or, well, it looked like you exploded. It was only Vostok who really believed you could have survived it.’
Noon chewed for a while, considering her answer.
‘You remember the Aborans, and how they got here? To Sarn?’
Tor frowned, tearing off another piece of the cake. ‘I could hardly forget.’
‘The being of energy that powered their ship, or whatever they called it: I met her. It was her that took me, and she’s – well, she’s winnowfire. She’s the reason we have it, that it exists on Sarn at all.’
‘It’s possible I am just delirious from a mixture of blood loss and, uh, overexcitement, but none of what you just said makes any sense to me. I doubt, somehow, it would even make sense to Vintage, and she loves this sort of thing.’
He had expected her to laugh, but she just nodded slowly, still thinking. ‘I don’t think it makes any sense to me either,’ she said eventually. ‘But that was the truth. She exists in a glass castle, in the middle of the Singing Eye Desert, and I think . . . I think time there is strange. She takes on different bodies, and wears them out, and she – she gave the winnowfire to us. She thinks it’s a gift. I think she did it partly because she hates the Aborans – hated their superior attitude – and because she wants to be a god too. A better god than them, maybe.’
‘And what did she want with you?’
Noon shifted on the bed, looping one leg over his comfortably. ‘I’m not sure I know. I was amusing to her, I suppose. She felt it when I accidentally brought their ship to life on Origin, felt it through the fire, I think. She wanted to know who had done that. It’s like proof of what she did, in a way. That I reactivated their ship, and then left them again – I bet that feels like a victory, to her.’
‘Well.’ Tor sensed strongly that Noon wasn’t telling the whole story, but he didn’t want to push her. ‘We are living in strange times.’
She pressed her head to his chest and he kissed the top of her head. ‘I wanted to leave. I knew I’d left you all in the middle of a fight, that you’d have no idea wh
at had happened to me, so I demanded to be taken back. She wouldn’t do it. She kept me there. Until . . .’ She shifted again. Tor looked at her back, the line of stippled shadows where her spine sat. He felt like he could look at it all day. ‘Until she’d had enough. And then she sent me back to Vostok.’
‘She kept looking for you, you know,’ said Tor. ‘Wouldn’t give up. So stubborn.’
‘That sounds like her,’ agreed Noon, and he could hear the smile in her voice. ‘When I found her again I was very ill for a while, some sort of fever, and as much as I wanted to, we couldn’t go anywhere. Eventually, when it had burned through me, we started to fly back to Ebora, but Vostok felt very strongly that you weren’t there. She insisted instead on flying to the south, across that jungle.’
‘We’re bloody lucky she did,’ said Tor. The image of the cavern, busy with shadows and fire, would not leave him. ‘We’d all be dead otherwise.’
‘And now . . .’ Noon shook her head, then moved to face him. Her eyes were wide, and she looked younger than she had a moment ago; the face of a child who has braved the darkness of the night and found it free of monsters after all. ‘Do you think we killed them, Tor? Do you think we killed her? Do you think it’s over?’
‘Honestly? I don’t know.’ A thin thread of fiery pain worked its way down his right arm, and he resisted the urge to rub it with his free hand. ‘There was no sign of my sister or even the dragon at the end, and I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. After all, the recent attacks have all been orchestrated by her. When Bern wakes up –’ If Bern wakes up, his mind added traitorously – ‘I’m hoping he’ll be able to tell us more about what was happening.’
Chapter Thirty-nine
Hours later, her eyes thick with grit and hands still covered in dried blood, Vintage walked slowly back to the small room Treen had allocated her. Inside she was surprised to find Chenlo sitting waiting for her – not on the small bed, but sitting on the floor with her knees up to her chin. She looked oddly childlike for a moment, and not at all like the fierce and stern Winnowry agent Vintage had come to know.
‘How is he?’ she asked.
‘Oh, well.’ Vintage looked down at her hands, and grimaced. ‘He is still with us, at least.’
‘Here –’ Chenlo got up from the floor in one fluid movement – Vintage had to admire her grace after such a long and tiring day – and went to the basin in the corner, into which she poured some water. ‘I have some soap you can use.’
It was a small waxy white cube, which Chenlo produced from her belt, and it quickly made a thin sort of lather that smelled rather wonderfully of tea-roses and spice.
‘Thank you,’ she said, meaning it. Chenlo just nodded, slightly awkwardly, and gestured to the small table by the bed. On it was a small clay pot, which was steaming slightly.
‘I thought it likely you would want some tea.’
Vintage smiled, and then found that she felt perilously close to crying. Instead of speaking, she nodded and went and sat on the bed. After a moment Chenlo brought her over a small cup of fragrant tea, her own cup held carefully in her other hand.
‘This is your own tea,’ said Vintage, when she had tasted it. ‘The one from Yuron-Kai.’ It seemed a silly thing to say, but the thoughtfulness of the gesture had touched her, and she wasn’t sure how to let the woman know it. ‘It’s expensive.’
Chenlo shrugged one shoulder. ‘My once-sister used to say that tea was best for shocks.’
‘Your . . . once-sister?’
Chenlo had sat on the very edge of the bed, the cup cradled in her hands, and now she shifted uncomfortably. ‘In Yuron-Kai, when a child is taken for the Winnowry, in all the ways that matter she no longer exists to her family. I had a family once, but not for a long time. Do you see?’
Vintage pursed her lips, trying to think of the right thing to say. As if sensing her objections, Chenlo looked away.
‘None of which matters now. Tell me what happened with Bern, please.’
‘Ah, that poor boy.’ Vintage looked down into her tea. ‘They did as the pathfinder said they had to. I have seen some unpleasant things in my time, but that . . . To watch as someone dear to you is hurt, and then hurt worse in an attempt to heal them . . . I knew perfectly well what they did was to help him, but even so I almost had to sit on my hands to stop myself wrenching their tools away.’ She sighed, trying to gather her thoughts. ‘They strapped him down, and brought in a couple of burly young men to help, just in case he should wake up while they were doing what needed to be done, and they tied a belt around his arm, just under his shoulder, very tight. Aldasair was there of course, standing behind his head, talking to him all the time. They had a very fine saw, thin and tough with an incredibly sharp edge, and with it they cut off the lower portion of his arm.’ She glanced up at Chenlo, her voice hushed. ‘It was so quick! I’d never even have guessed it was possible, but, well, I suppose they are used to dealing with such injuries after all. They had it off and – and I think I could quite happily go the rest of my life without seeing such a thing again.’
‘He did not bleed to death?’
‘No, although I am sure that he is not quite safe from that fate just yet. They sealed the end of his arm with a brand – again so fast I barely saw it – and then they covered it with this thick brownish stuff, like treacle. It’s made by the queen ant here, apparently, and it will dry quite hard. He was as white as chalk by the time they’d finished, and the dark shadows on his face looked like bruises. Aldasair was with him still when I left, he won’t leave his side, but hopefully the two of them will sleep now.’ She swallowed the last of her tea. ‘And Sharrik! I should go and speak to him, let him know how it’s gone too.’
‘Enough.’ Chenlo plucked the empty cup from her hands. ‘You need to sleep also. I will go and speak to the griffin for you.’
‘You will?’
Chenlo nodded, and once Vintage had lain down on the bed she left, slipping out into the tunnels as silently as a ghost. Vintage was certain that despite the exhaustion that hung over her she would not sleep, but very quickly she was lost in a blankness thankfully free of dreams. At some point she became aware of someone in the room again, and she opened her eyes a crack to see Chenlo, her black and white hair hanging loose over her shoulders. The woman turned the lamps to their lowest glow and resumed her place at the foot of Vintage’s bed, her knees drawn up to her chin, her head bent in thought.
Vintage half thought to speak to her, to offer some of her own warmth in return, but sleep surged up like a floodwater and took her away again.
The enormous tower of black smoke hung over the distant line of forest like an ominous sentry. Noon stood and watched it, waiting to see the familiar shapes of the Behemoths moving through it, or perhaps some small movement that could be the dragon Celaphon, but she saw nothing. The sky otherwise was a deep blue, unmarked by clouds save for one lost lamb far to the east.
‘We should go and look at it properly,’ she said to Vintage. The older woman grimaced.
‘Not while it’s smoking like that, we won’t,’ she said. ‘We won’t be able to get close enough to see anything, and I don’t like to think what that sort of muck would do to your lungs.’
‘You’re right,’ said Noon. She turned to look at where Vostok and Sharrik stood together, drinking from one of the shallow rivers. The big griffin was miserable; you could see it in every line of his body. ‘How’s Bern?’
‘He’s sleeping still, but the pathfinder is hopeful. He’s bloody strong, she says, and, well, we certainly know that. He woke up earlier this morning and said a few words.’ Vintage smiled a little ruefully. ‘Aldasair said he was quite grumpy, like he’d had too much ale the night before, but Tor got some information out of him. Hestillion wasn’t there, he claims, even though Celaphon was. He said that the queen was trying to understand how he had broken their memory crystals – she couldn’t believe that his memories of Aldasair were so strong they overwhelmed the memory the crystal
already contained. He said she was slowly pulling his mind apart.’ Vintage took a big breath and sighed it out. ‘It’ll be a few days before we can think about moving him.’
‘Well, then,’ Noon looked back at the smoke; on this windless day, it didn’t appear to be moving at all, ‘I suppose we’ll just have to wait.’
In the end, it was three whole days before the tower of smoke became nothing more than a half-remembered smudge on the horizon. Noon and Vintage flew out there together on Vostok and Helcate, staying high and close to the clouds until they got to the crevasse, or at least, what used to be the crevasse. The jungle immediately surrounding the broken ground was covered in a greasy black soot, and the earth itself appeared to have caved in – it was no longer possible to see the huge rent in the ground that had led to the Jure’lia caverns. Now there was a thick black soup on the ground, dried hard and covered in odd bulbous shapes, and the rest of it was a confusion of stone and mud. Nothing moved in that broken landscape; not even flies.
They stayed there for a little while, poking around and making notes, but eventually Noon met Vintage’s gaze and a mutual shiver passed through them both. This was not a place to stay for long.
When they returned to Deeptown it was early evening, with the sky just shading into mauve, and Tor was waiting for them next to a line of oil lamps.
‘The Jure’lia have met their end, it seems,’ said Vostok as Noon climbed down from her harness. The dragon was tossing her head as though proud, but Noon sensed an undercurrent to her emotions that made her uneasy. ‘The Ninth Rain was their last war.’
Tor didn’t look convinced by this either. ‘I was there, I saw the queen shrivel up like a leaf caught in a flame, but even so –’ He shrugged. ‘My sister wasn’t there. Where is Hestillion? What is she up to?’