Hinterland

by James Clemens

  Brant craned upward. It seemed not a seat was open.

  “The whole world must be here,” Harp whispered, breathless with the excitement.

  A low roar swelled around them. Down below, flags fluttered, marking clans and families.

  “Over here!” Marron called to them off to the left, waving an arm. “Hurry! My brother has a free bench held up here!” He pointed to the stairs that led up to into one of the Graces.

  Brant ran toward him.

  Farther ahead, his eye caught upon the castillion of the Huntress, perched and tiered in the tenth and greatest of the pompbonga-kees. It rose at the easternmost edge, where the rising sun would first touch its green crown. What once had been crafted and constructed within the branches had long been swallowed as the ancient tree continued to grow. The castillion was no longer built in the tree but was part of the tree. It was a sight that humbled any eye that fell upon it, proof of the power of root and leaf, of the force of loam.

  There was no more fitting home for the god of their realm.

  Brant searched the high balcony of the castillion. The Huntress usually watched the games from such a vantage. But presently it appeared empty. Maybe she would appear when the competition began.

  Brant reached Marron with Harp in hobbled tow.

  “How…how high must we climb?” the younger boy asked, plainly winded.

  Marron pointed his arm straight up, earning a groan from Harp. “Don’t fret. Brant and I’ll carry your bony arse to the top if we have to. Let’s go!”

  Marron was in exceptionally good cheer. He often had little patience for Harp, but this day, nothing could squelch his fine spirit. He led them toward the stairs at the base of the towering pompbonga-kee.

  As Brant followed, he noted a cloaked shadowknight by the foot of the steps. She was inked in darkness, half-melded into the shadows beneath the giant tree. She must be one of the Huntress’s own knights, come to view the games.

  Brant searched around the curve of the hollow. Another knight stood at the base of the next tree. Had there been another at the tree behind them? He glanced back. It would’ve been easy to miss someone hiding in the deeper shadows.

  Straightening forward, he almost ran into the chest of the knight. The woman had flowed so silently out of the shadows.

  “Pardon me, ser,” he said shyly, starting to step around.

  She blocked him. “You are the boy named Brant, are you not?”

  To find his name uttered by the likes of a shadowknight unnerved him. He lost his tongue.

  “Yes-mess,” Harp rhymed, eyes huge on the knight. “He is, ser.”

  An arm smoked out of the darkness and gripped Brant’s shoulder. “The school said you were headed here. We were sent to fetch you.”

  “Why?” he asked, finally freeing his tongue. “I—I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Never said you did. And I can’t say why you’ve been summoned. Only that you have been.”

  “Summoned by who?”

  “By the Huntress herself.”

  Brant was drawn away with the knight. His two friends gaped after him. Harp looked on with awe, while Marron wore an expression more confused.

  Shock silenced Brant all the way around the curve of the hollow. The knight gathered another two of her cloaked brethren, falling into step with him.

  Brant heard them mutter behind him.

  “What does she want with the boy?” one asked.

  “Who can say? Of late, there’s no predicting her mood. Even her Hands have been whispering of her irritable dispositions and strange, prolonged silences.”

  “What’s so strange?” the other said with a snort. “Sounds no different than my wife.”

  They reached the ancient tree and passed through an arched opening between massive roots. Sunlight vanished. The knights melted into the darkness on the stair, fading into whispering shapes. But once they passed up to the first level, sunlight returned, dappled and in a thousand shades of green leaf. The rising levels from here seemed to have grown out of the wood itself: stacks of balconies, hollowed rooms, snaking staircases that wound through the open air or delved deep through the outer layers of the trunk. It was hard to separate what hand had hewn and nature had grown.

  And none more so than the High Wing.

  Here in the canopy of the very world, the crown of the castillion appeared like a carved flower atop the tree, all surrounded by a wide terrace, whose polished planks of pompbonga-kee glowed with a molten warmth. A delicate railing framed the balcony, sprouting leaf and tendril, while the High Wing itself had been sculpted into curves and archways, appearing more like petals. Here straight lines had given way to more natural arcs. Even the rooms and halls bulged out of the central trunk as though they were born of the wood itself. Only when very close could the lines between planks be seen.

  Brant traced a finger along one as they climbed the last stair to the upper terrace. It reminded him of the curve of a flippercraft’s bow. Was it from this example that the ancient wrights had learned to craft the mighty airships of Myrillia? Brant intended to ask Master Sheershym, the chronicler of Saysh Mal.

  When at last they reached the great terrace, Brant caught a glimpse of the Grove below. Flags fluttered and cheers rose. The games had begun. But Brant had all but forgotten them.

  “This way,” the knight ordered.

  Brant was led through a great carved archway into the High Wing proper. Even after they crossed the threshold, the sunlight seemed to follow them, flowing through windows and reflecting off mirror and crystal. The air almost danced with the spring light. Brant inhaled the spiced air, heady with the natural oils of the pompbonga-kee.

  Despite the beauty and wonder of it all, Brant’s legs had begun to tremble. He was not worthy. He grew acutely aware of his poor attire: leggings patched at the knees, a loose jerkin that was missing two hooks. Even his soft boots, gifts from his father two years ago, were scuffed to a dull brown. He combed fingers through his hair, working away some old knots. At least he had bathed two days ago.

  He lost track of the turns through the High Wing.

  Suddenly he found himself before a set of tall doors, carved like a single leaf of the pompbonga-kee, but split down the middle in an S-shaped curve, following a vein in the leaf.

  The knight pulled a twined rope of leather and a bell rang beyond the door. Moments later, a thin woman, wearing an ankle-length white dress sashed at the waist, pushed open one leaf of the door. Her eyes, pinched at the corners, glanced over them, then she bowed them inside. Only Brant and the lone knight, the woman, stepped through.

  “Matron Dreyd,” the knight said. “We’ve come with the boy your mistress asked us to bring.”

  “Thank you, Ser Knight. The mistress will be pleased.”

  The matron’s words were spoken staidly, as if she doubted them herself. Brant noted how she glanced out the door as she closed the way, almost as if she weighed fleeing through it and away.

  Still, she turned and offered a wan smile of welcome.

  The chamber here was lit by an arched window to the sky. It shone down upon the floor, where the graining was so fine that Brant could not discern the individual planks. Smaller archways branched off the hall, some open, others sealed.

  “My mistress has instructed that she would like the boy to join her in the Heartroom.”

  “Truly?” the knight said, unable to mask her surprise.

  A nod answered her.

  The knight stepped back. She placed a palm on Brant’s back and gently pushed him. “Go. Do not keep the Huntress waiting.”

  Brant tripped a step, then followed his new guide, Matron Dreyd. She led him straight down the hall to another set of doors, a smaller version of the ones through which they had entered. The matron led him through those and deeper again down a narrower hall. Here lamps flickered on wall hooks as the sunlight was left behind. The spicy scent of tree oil grew stronger.

  Brant realized they must be within the very trunk it
self.

  Gooseflesh prickled his skin.

  They continued to the end…where a single plain door stood closed.

  Matron Dreyd knocked softly. “Mistress, I have the boy named Brant.”

  Silence answered her.

  The matron glanced back to Brant, then back to the door. She lifted her arm to knock again—then words whispered through.

  “Send him in. Alone.”

  The matron nodded, though her mistress plainly could not see her assent. She stepped back and motioned Brant to the door. “Go inside.”

  Brant took a deep breath, then reached for the latch.

  Fingers gripped his shoulder, stopping him.

  “Do not upset her.”

  Brant glanced up to her. She clasped a hand over her mouth as if surprised the words had escaped her. His shoulder was released, and he was pushed forward.

  Hands in full tremble now, Brant tried the latch, found it unlocked, and creaked the door open. A slightly foul smell wormed through the spiced oil.

  Brant glanced again to the matron. He was shooed inside, but the matron’s words were stuck in his head. Do not upset her.

  He had no choice. He stepped into the room.

  The space was small, almost cozy, oval-shaped, with a low-domed roof and a hearth on the far side that glowed with red embers, the flames long died away. Still, it was the only light in the room. The glow washed over the walls and roof, bathing it in dark crimson. Brant noted the graining, all whorls and rings. This was no planked construction, but a chamber hewn from the tree itself.

  The Heartroom.

  On the far side, a chair rested before the hearth, alongside a small table. A single figure sat there.

  Brant froze at the threshold.

  “Do not fear, Brant, son of Rylland. Come forward.”

  The words were spoken with soft assurance, sweetly melodic, though with a deep trace of melancholy. It spoke to the sorrow in his own heart.

  He crept forward, unsure if he should bow or scrape a knee. He circled wide, edging around the oval room, attempting to keep as much distance between him and the speaker.

  The Huntress of Saysh Mal.

  One of the Hundred gods of Myrillia.

  She sat, head bowed, brow resting on her folded hands, elbows on either arm of her chair, a posture of forlorn concentration. She was dressed in green leathers and white silk, a simple hunter’s cut. As he stepped into view, she lifted her head. Eyes glowed at him, rich in Grace. Even her skin seemed to shine with a waxen sheen.

  He sagged to his knees.

  A cascade of curls, as dark as shadow, framed her dark skin. Full lips formed the ghost of a smile, like a memory of innocence. Brant felt himself stir, deeper than his loins.

  “I knew your father,” she said, glancing away, releasing him. She stared into the dying embers. “He was a great hunter.”

  Brant stared at the floor, unable to speak.

  “I’m sure you still miss him.”

  Grief and pride freed his voice to a quiet squeak. “Yes, mistress, with all my heart.”

  “Just so. He sifted many great treasures out of our sea here. A pelt of a balelion. The head of a manticrye. The antlered rack of the rare teppin-ra. Did you know teppin-ra comes from ancient Littick? Tepp Irya. Meaning fierce buck.”

  “No, mistress.”

  “So much forgotten…” She sighed. She remained silent for several breaths. Long enough for Brant to peek up.

  Her gaze had shifted to the table at her side. A single object rested there, draped in black sailcloth, which appeared damp as it reflected the ember’s glow.

  “But this was the greatest treasure your father ever attended.”

  Curiosity drew Brant straighter.

  She reached to the heavy cloth and tugged it free. Brant caught again the waft of stench. Only now did he recognize it. Black bile.

  Dread flared in his chest.

  In the ember-light, the skull glowed like blood.

  At his throat, a fire exploded. Gasping, he clutched at the stone, the bit of rock that had been rolled to his toes by the dying rogue. The same fire that had consumed the trespassing god had come to claim him. Brant tore at his jerkin, ripping hooks.

  The Huntress seemed oblivious, focused on the skull.

  “He brought this to me…not knowing…surely not knowing.”

  Brant cried out, digging for the stone. He had known his father had collected the skull after the god’s body burnt. He had picked it free of the ashes with the tip of an arrow through an eye socket. He had wrapped it in his own cloak. Brant had not known what had become of it. Of course, his father would have brought word here, of such a trespass by a rogue god. But afterward, Brant assumed the foul thing had eventually been destroyed or laid to rest in some manner. All but forgotten.

  The only remnant of the frightening adventure was the small black rock, no bigger than the end of his thumb. His father had let him keep it so long as he swore to tell no one of it. The stone was a secret bond between father and son.

  And now the stone meant to burn him to ash.

  The Huntress finally seemed to note his writhing. At some point, he had collapsed to the floor. She rose to her feet.

  “Do you hear its call, too?” She drifted toward him. “Poor boy. It can’t be resisted. I try to stay away, to keep it steeped in the blackest of biles, but still it calls. Day and night. And now I hear words…but I can’t quite understand…not yet. Only that somewhere it asked for you.”

  Brant gasped out, “Help me…”

  She knelt next to him, her face strangely calm as he burnt.

  “I wish I could.”

  She reached out and touched his cheek. Where her fingers touched, a cooling balm pushed back the searing agony. But the pain had to go somewhere.

  The Huntress screamed.

  Brant forgot the remaining burn. He struggled to roll away from her touch. He could not let her come to harm. But her fingers dragged down into his cheek and, nails scraping, her hand grabbed his throat. His skin flamed with her touch, more fiery than even the stone. Her eyes fixed upon him. The Grace within her flared brighter.

  “No…you must not be here. You must go.” These words were spoken with a sudden intensity, shedding the strange malaise that had haunted her earlier words. She threw him aside by the neck. He smelled his burning flesh. Then the stone flared anew at his chest with its own flaming agony.

  He writhed on the floor.

  She stumbled to the table and ripped the bile-encrusted cloth back over the skull. The flames from the stone immediately vanished. He pawed at his chest, expecting crisped skin and burnt bone. But all he found was smooth skin. There was not even a residual warmth.

  Not so his throat.

  Where she had throttled him, his skin blistered and weeped.

  The Huntress stood by the table, trembling from head to toe.

  A pounding erupted from the door. “Mistress!”

  Brant recognized the shadowknight who had led him here. They must have all heard the god shriek.

  “Attend me! Now!” she barked out.

  Brant remained on his knees on the floor.

  The Huntress turned to him as the door burst open and a flow of shadows swept into the room, shredding into individual knights. Brant kept his focus on his god. He watched the flare of Grace subside in her eyes.

  But before it was gone completely, she shoved an arm toward him. “Take him, chain him, get him out of my land by nightfall.”

  Brant’s mind refused to make sense of her words.

  Her eyes bore upon him, fading with Grace, full of sorrow and certainty. “I banish him.”

  A world and a lifetime away, Brant wept in a chair. He could not stop the tears. He had told no one of his full story, his full shame, until this moment.

  Tylar came forward and placed a hand on his shoulder.

  Rogger had sheathed his dagger. “You and your father witnessed the rogue’s trespass and demise?”

  Brant nod
ded.

  The bearded man shared a studied glance with the regent.

  Tylar tilted up Brant’s chin to examine the scar. “And you’ve been marked by a god, too,” he mumbled and stepped back.

  The regent’s hand drifted to his shadowcloak.

  Brant knew that beneath that blessed cloth Tylar bore the black handprint of a god, pressed into his chest by Meeryn of the Summering Isles, branding him a godslayer. He met the regent’s eye, sensing some bond between them—for better or worse.

  “May I see this burning talisman of yours?” Tylar asked. “This stone.”

  Brant reached up and tugged the black stone free. Tylar leaned down and reached for it.

  “Take care with that,” Rogger warned.

  The tall stranger edged closer, one hand on the serpent-headed pommel of his sword.

  Tylar picked up the stone between two fingers. Nothing happened. He turned it around, examining all the surfaces. “Appears like a shard of rock, rough-hewn. I sense no great power here.”

  “Let me see.”

  Rogger shouldered up and bent down.

  Tylar stepped back and to the black-cloaked stranger. “Did the Wyr mention anything about a black stone associated with the skull?”

  “No,” the other intoned dourly.

  “Those Wyr-lords do like to keep their secrets.” Rogger straightened, a fist resting on one hip. “But there must be a connection. I find it awful fateful that this boy ends up trapped here with us. The skull and the stone brought together again.”

  “But is that a boon or a curse?” Tylar asked. “If the Huntress exiled him, banishing him away, perhaps she thought it best to keep them as far apart as possible. The way we keep Dart and the sword separated.”

  “I don’t think we can place too much weight on the Huntress’s word. It sounds like the seersong had already sapped her in some way.”

  Brant finally found his voice. “Is it true? The rogue’s skull? The one possessed by the Huntress is here? How…?”

  Tylar nodded to his companion, permitting him to speak. “He should know.”

  Rogger sighed and related his own experience in Saysh Mal. His description of the state of affairs in Brant’s former home helped push back his grief, replacing it with anger and horror. Over the four years he had been here in the First Land, ruin had settled over the cloud forest and its denizens.