“I am no friend of yours,” said Arrabel.
“No need to be rude, Priestess. We might have been better acquainted in your younger days if you had willed it, though I believe there will still be ample time for that. Now,” said the Beggar King, “what are we inclined to want today? World peace? A cure for death by magic? It is fortuitous that you come to me, for that crack in the darkness you call your Great Light does not seem quite as forthcoming.”
Jordan felt Arrabel tense beside him.
“Do you like my throne?” asked the Beggar King. “You could have one just like it. The Holy City could be yours, Jordan Elliott, if you wanted it. She won’t have a choice in the matter,” he flicked his chin towards Arrabel. “Cirrans would worship you. You could live forever. Glory at last, for the boy who pined for it.”
“Look behind him,” Arrabel said to Jordan. “See what he’s paid for it.”
There was a shadowy simpering figure lurking behind the Beggar King’s throne. “Who is it?” Jordan asked.
“The soul of his best friend,” she said. “Son of a butcher. A dabbler in the dark arts.”
“He didn’t have the blood for it,” said the Beggar King. “But I do. And so do you, boy.”
“The guilt weighs heavily upon the Beggar King,” said Arrabel. “He’ll never admit it, but nor will he ever be free of it.”
Far, far away on the horizon Jordan saw a pencil-thin line of what might have been sunlight. “That’s it?” he asked. “That’s the light I’m supposed to remember?”
“Stand away,” said Arrabel, with authority. She closed her eyes, put her arms straight out in front of her and spoke an incantation.
“Come out, conjuring of darkness. Flee savagery, and reveal the true beating heart of our world.”
Jordan staggered, and had to catch himself to keep from falling. The darkness slid away, as if it were shedding its skin. The river became clear and shimmering blue, lined with rocks, and upon them were beautiful pink-shelled creatures, green barnacles, and yellow-headed snails. Through the water Jordan could see the tips of glorious flowers, their long white petals streaming past him.
The muddy ground upon which he stood was now a meadow of yellow sasapher flowers. Their rich lemon scent filled the air. He was enveloped in a gentle light.
Jordan was incapable of speech. Behind him were the vultures with their pitiful candles — such a paltry light it now seemed — and there was the Beggar King gloating on his throne.
“Listen,” and Arrabel put her hands over his ears. Jordan could hear singing coming in waves and he recognized the voices of the Seven Seers of Cir — Manjuza’s coming from the prison, and Arrabel’s, too — and he saw Ophira lying upon the couch with the covers pulled to her chin, her body wrapped in a glowing light.
“The undermagic is not the only way, friend,” said Arrabel. “In order for shadow to exist, there must first be light.” She unfolded the velvet cloth and bid him to take the candle. “You must go to him.” She embraced him quickly. “Remember the light,” she whispered. And then she pushed him towards the Beggar King’s throne.
“Carver’s son!” cried the Beggar King. “You’ve come to kneel before the one you serve at last, eh? We’ve come to the nub of it, boy, haven’t we? I told you. We all serve something. Whether you realize it or not, it hardly matters. We all make our choices.”
“I haven’t come to kneel,” said Jordan. “I’ve come to return the candle that was given to me. And then I’ll take back the one you hold.”
The Beggar King laughed. “What do you fancy this is, boy, a library? Did you think you could give me the undermagic on loan? Are you a man? If so, you’re a foolish one. But I’ll teach you your place before long. I didn’t choose you just to let you go.”
Strong wet hands grabbed him and forced his arms behind his back. The candle he’d been holding fell to the ground. He gazed into the vacant eyes of the vultures, and his mouth went dry. A wild energy made his limbs jitter and there was that pulsing again in his chest. I could be prince of this glorious darkness.
The vultures holding him forced him to face the Beggar King.
“You’ve developed a taste for the undermagic,” said the sorcerer.
Jordan focused on the thin line of light on the horizon. At first the sound he heard was faint, but then it grew clearer, the Seven Seers of Cir speaking the prayers for a desperate situation — for him. He could hear his name, could feel a new strength rushing into his arms. In the distance, the river glowed and the line of light shone like a beacon. The vultures loosened their grip on him and backed away.
The Beggar King was on his feet. “What have you done? What sort of power do you call upon? Kneel, or I shall force you to your knees.”
“You couldn’t do it if you tried,” shouted Jordan, and he leapt forward to grab the candle from the Beggar King’s hands but the sorcerer was quick, and the heavy candle came slamming down hard on Jordan’s back.
Jordan yowled in pain.
“You will learn to kneel!” roared the Beggar King, and he fell upon Jordan, throwing him to the mud. The blows rained down on him and Jordan struggled beneath the weight of the man.
Jordan heard someone calling from very far away. “Drown him in the River of the Dead. You must drown him, Jordan! That’s the only way.”
He edged towards the river, his feet slipping in the mud. All the while the sorcerer thrashed at him with the heavy candle. When at last they were beside the water, Jordan clasped the man’s legs and they fell together into the frigid river with a splash. Jordan landed on the Beggar King and held his head under the water, but it bobbed up again. Jordan went under with him, his eyes filling with black water. The man’s hands seemed to be everywhere.
Jordan thrust himself up into the air and landed hard on the sorcerer, and he felt a sharp pain in his chest. He coughed, winded, and for a second he lost hold of the man. The Beggar King came up for air and Jordan went for his head again, holding him under longer, and longer. The sorcerer kicked and thrashed, and at last went limp underneath him.
The candle! There it was, floating, still unnaturally aglow, in the river. He swam towards it, struggling in his long Uttic robes.
The vultures crowded together along the riverbank. As Jordan climbed out of the water, the candle in his fist, they shrank away from him.
“It’s gone out,” Jordan said quietly, staring at it.
“He’s dead, he’s dead, the Beggar King is dead,” the cry went up, yet the beaked faces closest to Jordan were silent and blank with shock.
“Long live the Beggar King,” screeched others in response.
One by one the vultures turned from him and shuffled away, and all Jordan could see for miles was a line of candlelight receding into the darkness.
“The world was hard on him,” said Arrabel. She’d startled Jordan. He hadn’t realized she was beside him. “He was a sin-eater once. You have to have the vocation for it now, of course.”
You have to have the blood for it.
“For whatever he did wrong, we must have mercy,” said Arrabel. She put out her hand and Jordan gave her the heavy darkened candle. “Let me dispose of this.”
As she moved away from him, Jordan sank onto one of the nearby rocks, his back to the river, feeling the weight of all that had happened. Above him shone the twin moons. Had they been there all along? If so, he hadn’t noticed them until that moment. He gazed up into their light the way he once had from his rooftop patio.
But now Jordan had the peculiar feeling that he could see the sisters themselves in the moons. There was the darker Maelstrom with her long black hair, her eyes furious slits. He heard someone say, “It will find a way to come back, boy. The undermagic always finds its way.”
Jordan also saw another woman, Lucinda, with flowing hair and gentle eyes that were the blue of the sea. Light shone through her as if she were a prism, scattering colour everywhere.
Arrabel appeared at his side.
“I’ve seen the sister moon
s,” Jordan said, his eyes wide.
Arrabel nodded. “You’ve been touched by both light and darkness.” She offered him her hand and helped him up.
“Come, let’s leave this place and reclaim our Holy City.”
Twenty-Nine
GOAT STEW
JORDAN AND ARRABEL PULLED THE BRASS door open, staggering into the dim light of the palace hallway. Arrabel slammed the door and bent to trace her finger around its edges, murmuring something under her breath. Wherever she touched, a fringe of frost formed. Jordan became aware of the clipped sound of someone pacing, and then the footsteps came to an abrupt halt.
“Sweet sasapher, you’re back! Is it done, then? Is he dead? I thought you’d never show up. Could you hear me shouting? I came as quickly as I could. Oh blast it anyway, I — ”
Jordan clamped Sarmillion in a hug. “It’s done,” he said. “And I did hear you, and thank goodness because I couldn’t have done it without you.”
Sarmillion’s chest puffed out and his eyes were shiny. “You realize they’ll write songs about us, don’t you? You realize we’ll be famous. Glory, groder and Grizelda,” he exulted.
Jordan’s face darkened, but Sarmillion seemed oblivious.
“Very well,” the undercat clapped. “I’m off to meet Master Balbadoris in his study. Time to tidy up, and then it’s back to work. We’re going to reassemble the Book of What Is, see if we can’t create a little magic.” He set off down the hall at a good pace, talking to himself about his apartment in Omar and how he had no intention of giving that up no matter what Balbadoris might say about it.
Jordan regarded the sealed brass door as if it were a python. Arrabel was watching him.
“It will get easier with time,” she said.
They set off down the long dark halls of the palace. Jordan was still wearing his Uttic robes, but somewhere along the way they had dried out. Arrabel now bore the bright blue garb of the high priestess, with beads and buttons and many-coloured feathers — and it was pressed and shining, not the shabby mess she’d worn in her prison cell. She walked down the halls like someone who has just arrived home after a long journey, running her hands along the walls, reveling in the familiar.
They arrived at the Meditary. As they were taking off their sandals to pass beneath the archway, a Brinnian Landguard called out, “You there!”
Jordan faced him. “Put down your dagger, feirhart,” he said. “It’s over.”
When the guard saw Arrabel’s robes, his face paled and he hastened away. Arrabel stood before the Meditary’s central font and placed her hands upon the orange stone that had for an entire year given off nothing more than a dull glimmer. Beneath her touch it blazed back to its customary glow.
Outside, the palace grounds were littered with bodies. All of Rabellus’s raised platforms had been flattened or burned. Against the far wall of the courtyard stood a long line of Brinnian Landguards, hands tied behind their backs. There was Mars helping the healer, Malthazar, tend to the wounded, feeling for broken bones and bandaging gashes. Some Cirran citizens were already busy white-washing the stone buildings that had borne Rabellus’s portrait.
Near one of the fountains Jordan made out the tall stoop-shouldered form of Elliott T. Elliott. Next to him stood Tanny, her Uttic headdress removed, her round tanned face angled towards her husband. Jordan ran to them and as Elliott caught sight of him he gasped his name and they came together in a tangle.
Jordan held his father by the arms. “When I’d heard they had taken you away . . . it was my fault. I’m so sorry. And then this afternoon when I saw those guards, I thought . . . ”
“Shh,” said his father. “I’m fine now.”
“May I take him from you?” Arrabel asked when she joined them. Then to Jordan she said, “Come, we have something important to do.”
She led him towards the holy tree. Wherever they passed, the grass became green again. As they stepped onto the mosaic stone pathway closer to the tree, Jordan heard the sound of wings. His heart rose into his throat, but he forced it down. A finch lit in one of the branches.
Someone had already taken down the bodies that had hung from the tree’s twisted limbs. When Arrabel bent towards a thorn bush, it transformed into pink flowers. She returned with two bouquets and handed one to Jordan.
“Phinius,” he said. He inhaled their powerful scent, thinking of Sarmillion. “It’s the flower of the sages.”
“Flower of insight. I thought it might be fitting,” said Arrabel. “Now, do you remember the words we’ll need?”
He grinned. “I said them only a few weeks ago.”
“Blessed is the Great Light, light of all lands of Katir-Cir, light of our path,” they recited together, placing their bouquets beneath the tree. Cirrans who had been bustling around them sensed what was happening and stood still. Before long there was silence across the grand expanse of the palace grounds.
Then Arrabel said, “Get ready now,” and she pulled Jordan back.
The entire tree burst into flames. There was a collective gasp, and then applause. The fire lasted a full minute. Jordan had never stood this close to the burning tree before. The intensity of the heat made his whole body glow with warmth. He watched the flames shift from orange to red to blue, and then abruptly go out. People were hugging each other and offering the Cirran greeting with a bow and three fingers pressed to their forehead.
“Now,” Arrabel whispered to him, “I believe something weighs heavily upon you. You have served well today. Go to her. Give her my fondest regards and tell her I will be down to see her later.”
Jordan gave a solemn bow, and stumbled away from the now blackened tree and down the steep road towards the Alley of Seers, his heart pounding.
When he burst through Mama Petsane’s blue door Mama Appollonia nearly shot out of her rocker and through the ceiling.
“Blasted billy grain, Jordan, why you always be waking old ladies?”
Mama Petsane was at the woodstove, stirring a cauldron of goat-meat stew. “You ever hear of knocking, boy?” she said without turning around.
“Where is she?” he panted, and in the same moment he saw Ophira stretched upon the divan. Her skin was almost translucent, but her eyes were open, and she managed a small smile.
“Jordan,” she said weakly.
He came over and knelt beside her. “You’re all right.” He stroked the hair away from her face. Her cheek was cool. “I was so worried.”
“Her fever broke a few hours ago,” said Grandma Mopu as she came down the stairs carrying a fragrant basket of dried sage. “It was the strangest thing.” She regarded Jordan. “There she was thrashing about as if she were possessed by the darkest curse, and shouting your name. And then — it just stopped.”
“We be thinking the dear girl’s dead.” Petsane held up her stew spoon. “I would’ve come after you, ye rapscallion, I tell ye that.”
Ophira’s eyes were on Jordan. “Is he gone? For good?”
“He’s gone.”
Jordan looked at his hands. They were covered in scratches and one of his fingers was swollen and blue. Mopu patted him on the shoulder and handed him a bundle of dried sage. She distributed the other bunches to Petsane and Appollonia.
“We have to smoke the sickness out of this place,” explained Mopu. She opened the front door and all of the window shutters, then lit each of the sage bundles on fire. The women made their way around the room, waving the aromatic sage smoke into every corner, but Jordan wouldn’t budge from Ophira’s side.
“Give me that, then,” and Mopu took the sage from him, bumping him playfully with her elbow.
“While I was there, at the River of . . . ” he struggled, “I heard — ”
“What did ye hear?” interrupted Petsane. She glared at him.
“Nothing,” mumbled Jordan. “I guess it was a desperate situation.”
“So it was,” said Appollonia, fixing him with her good eye. “So it was.” Her glass eye seemed to be pointed at his sho
es. “I reckon you’ve grown into ‘em now.”
Mama Cantare came through the front door calling, “Praise freedom. Praise the blue sky.” Behind her came Bintou and Willa leading Mama Manjuza each by one arm.
“I told you she was making a goat stew,” said Manjuza. “Didn’t I say that’s what was cooking?”
“Take off those damn boots, Sister,” said Petsane when she saw Willa. But Willa didn’t take them off, and Petsane finished smudging the room with sage smoke. Willa looked over at Jordan and gave him a satisfied nod.
“I already told your parents you’d be here,” Mama Bintou said to Jordan. “I invited them for supper. They’ll arrive in nine and a half minutes, unless they stop to pick some eucalyptus which . . . they are doing right now. Twelve minutes, then.”
Jordan went into the kitchen to fetch a glass of cold water and brought it to Ophira, helping her to sit up and bringing the glass to her mouth. She took small bird-like sips.
“I’m feeling a little hungry,” she said faintly.
“Then we’ll set a place for you,” said Mopu. She was practically dancing as she placed wooden bowls around the battered kitchen table.
That evening the conversations started and ended in mid-stream. Everyone had too much to say. In the distance came the shouts of celebration and the music of flutes and lyres.
Jordan ate his fill of goat stew, keeping close to Ophira and basking in the sound of her gentle voice.
And yet, something hummed beneath the surface of the evening, beneath Jordan’s thoughts, under his skin. It was the memory of those vultures, thousands of them, each with a lit candle, retreating single file into darkness.
He dropped his napkin and as he bent to pick it up, he tested the air, pulling with just one finger — and it gave way. He could still do it. It was like learning how to nock an arrow. You didn’t forget.
On the walk home, Elliott smoked a pipe filled with dried sasapher while Jordan chewed on a long stalk of mellowreed. Tanny was strolling with her hands in the pockets of her yellow baker’s robes, breathing deeply of the night air.
“You’ve become a young man,” she said to Jordan. “Hard to believe you’ll be taking your robes next week.”
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