Circles of Stone

by Ian Johnstone

  But then something changed. A new light fell on the Garden of Havens. The contorted beams of sunlight suddenly glowed and flared, burning with a new intensity. The shadows stretching across the gardens were dispelled, silencing the crowd. A fresh, white light illuminated the faces of the onlookers, the ancient tree was once again bathed in gold and green, as though it was flooding with new life.

  “Stop this!” boomed a hard, male voice.

  Standing at the cliff’s edge was a dark figure, silhouetted against the bright blue, arms held high overhead.

  Sylas and Naeo hesitated, neither knowing what to do.

  “Sylas, Naeo! Move apart!” yelled the stranger.

  They happily did as they were bidden, walking quickly to opposite sides of the tree. Instantly the rays of light shifted until they once again formed a web of straight lines, and the streams and waterfalls returned to their natural paths down the gullies and crevices of the cliff.

  Filimaya was transfixed by the dark figure. Her hand rose to her mouth, and then she extended the other. Obediently, a beam of light drifted up the cliff face, illuminating the rock like a searchlight, passing over ledge and plant and stream until finally, it lit up the silhouette of the lone figure, bathing it in sunlight.

  His robes and hair were a faded black, but his pale, sallow face shone in the ethereal light, revealing striking, high cheekbones, a heavy brow and eyes bright beneath round spectacles.

  Filimaya’s eyes brimmed with tears.

  “Paiscion!” she whispered.

  “What weird homunculus is this, born from the Dirgh’s dark potion? It is like the ancient gods, forged of both man and beast, and yet it looks more a thing of hell itself.”

  THE GHOR GUARDS STIFFENED and craned their long canine necks, reaching for scythe-like blades. There was a movement at the end of the passageway. The figure was hard to discern in the half-light of flickering torches. One moment it seemed to be human and the next animal; one moment walking and the next prowling, cat-like, with smooth predatory ease, spidering along the floor, riding up the walls. Alarmed by the pace of its approach, the commander swiped its blade over the flagstones, sending a shower of sparks down the passage.

  “Who goes there?” it barked. The figure slowed for a moment and then reared up to its full height, its dark face flashing a white smile of long, cruel teeth.

  It made a strange sound, a gentle rasp something like a purr.

  “It’s Scarpia, you fool!” came the reply.

  And with that she was past his blade, gliding between their mighty shoulders and then rising up on her hind legs in front of the huge ornamented door. The guards turned in bewilderment, then stepped back into the shadows and bowed.

  Scarpia raised a clawed fist and knocked at the door.

  There was no answer, but she cocked her head and listened. She heard a beautiful but doleful music: a cello playing a bewitching lament. Its strains filled the air, the melody seeming strangely out of place in the deathly halls of the Dirgheon.

  As she listened, the junior of the two guards quietly lifted its head to look at her – her powerful, feline limbs, part-clad in rich black fur; her crouching stance, halfway between standing and crawling; her long, sinewy neck, still showing the scars of many burns. But what most caught its attention was the distorted face – that disturbing blend of dark skin and black fur, revealing the angular jaw and heavy brow of a predatory cat, and beneath the brow: one human eye, the other pale and green, its pupil not round but drawn into a slit.

  The green eye flicked to the young guard and a snarl gurgled in Scarpia’s throat. With a sharp hiss she lashed out with bared claws, tearing savagely at its ear and making it yelp and whimper in submission.

  “Do not look at me!” she hissed.

  The guards turned obediently away.

  In that moment, the cello finally fell silent and an answer came from behind the door. It was spoken with many voices: an unnatural chorus of men and women, young and old, boys and girls, all in perfect unison so that the words resonated down the passageway and sent a chill through those who heard it.

  “Enter, Scarpia.”

  She did not hesitate but threw her head back and pushed at the door, stepping boldly into the half-light of the Apex Chamber.

  The great hall was still, the only movement the flickering flames in four giant urns, one in each corner. Scarpia eyed the furthest one, the one now dented and marked, then recoiled slightly as though remembering her pain.

  Her mongrel eyes scanned the room, searching for her master, past the dark pool at the centre of the room, tracing the rich tapestries, the long shelves of books, the great stone table topped with manacles and chains, before settling on an elaborate golden music stand and a lone figure sitting on a simple wooden chair, clasping an exquisitely made cello. Even through the many folds of scarlet robes, he looked cruelly twisted and bent and as he began to play again, his sharp joints protruded at ungainly angles. The hooded head was stooped low over the strings and while an emaciated hand danced the length of the fingerboard, the other guided the delicate bow with precision. The motion never slowed, even when he spoke.

  “So, my child,” came the voice of many, “you are reborn.”

  Scarpia’s eyes flared. “If that’s what you call this … this –” she gestured to her body with a clawed hand – “this abomination!” she snarled.

  The bow halted and there was a brief moment of silence.

  “Perhaps you would rather I had left you as you were?”

  Scarpia hesitated, then her eyes narrowed and the standing fur on the back of her neck settled into a smooth, feline coat. A gentle purr rose in her throat. “No, my Lord Thoth.”

  “I would think not,” was the quick reply. “There was very little left of you worth keeping.”

  For a moment Scarpia looked wounded: she sank a little on her haunches and her cat-like ears dropped back on her head.

  “You will learn to appreciate your new form,” murmured Thoth, coolly. “You are no less beautiful than you were.”

  Scarpia purred once again and lowered her head, as though Thoth were stroking her glossy fur. Instead he resumed his playing, sweeping the bow over the strings. For some moments they were both lost in the strains of the cello.

  “Do you know it?” asked her master.

  Scarpia’s ears rose and turned towards the cello. “The music? No, my Lord. Is it from the Other?”

  Thoth nodded beneath his satin hood. “Their music has always been better than ours,” he said, creating a complex medley of notes. “This is Elgar’s great concerto. They say it is meant for an orchestra, but it is best played alone, don’t you agree?”

  He turned his head slightly in her direction, so that the shadow beneath the hood was partly visible.

  “When you play, of course,” purred Scarpia, edging towards him on all fours, unconsciously brushing up against a chair. She drew close to his skeletal form and sat on a cushion near him, drawing her tail around her. She eyed the bow as it darted through its final strokes, ending the recital as sombrely as it had begun.

  There was a pause as the final strains of the concerto died away. Thoth remained hunched over his cello and for the first time his breathing could be heard: a deep, whistling wheeze.

  He drew himself back in the chair and turned to Scarpia. For a moment, a flicker of lamplight penetrated his hood and part of his face could be seen. It was hardly a face at all, but rather a gathering of features, shimmering and shifting in the changing light. It was in constant flux: his narrow jaw suddenly seeming broad and then long and then narrow; the large sockets of his eyes momentarily waning to those of a child, then widening, then falling under an overhanging brow. All this took place in the blink of an eye, so that none of these features reached any definition at all. They were a blur, leaving a vague impression of shaded hollows for eyes, a protrusion for the nose and a wide gash for the mouth.

  “And so to business,” he said, his empty features stretching and mo
ving as he spoke. “While you have been sleeping, I have been tireless. I have been reflecting and planning. I have decided that if we must be infected by this child from the Other, this young Sylas Tate, then we will take the good with the bad. We will reach into his mirrored world and take all that is rightfully ours! We will make these children rue the day they opened the way between the worlds.”

  A low growl rumbled in the back of Scarpia’s throat and her tail flicked the air. “I want them to pay!” she snarled, baring her teeth and snapping at her own tail, which she then eyed with disgust.

  “Oh, they will pay,” murmured Thoth. “But they are strong. We must address our weaknesses, grow our muscle and sinew. And so we will bring forward our plans. We will find strength where they have found it. If they may cheat the division of the worlds, so may we.”

  Scarpia’s eyes flared with delight and a purr rattled in her neck. “It is to begin now? All that we had planned?”

  The Priest of Souls inclined his head. “It begins now.”

  Scarpia clawed the stone floor in excitement. “Tell me what to do!”

  Thoth gave a low laugh. “You always were a happy predator, Scarpia.” He gestured at her body with the bow. “Perhaps this is the form you were destined to take.”

  She seemed to consider this a compliment. Her scarred lips showed a wicked smile.

  Thoth lifted the bow once more and placed it on the strings of the cello. “Do you know what draws me to this concerto?” he asked.

  Scarpia looked at him inquisitively.

  “War,” he growled. “They say that Elgar wrote it in mourning, at the end of their great war.” A cackle sounded in the void of his throat. “For us, it will be our call to arms!”

  Scarpia’s smile widened.

  “Meet me in the birthing chambers,” breathed Thoth, beginning to play. “You are not the only thing to have been born today.”

  “ The Merisi Band is a clasp of intrigue, enclosing mysteries that only its maker may ever understand.”

  WHEN PAISCION FINALLY EMERGED from the tunnel into the Garden of Havens, the gathering was in a frenzy of excitement. As people caught sight of him, there were spontaneous cheers and cries of delight, then unrestrained, joyous applause from all sides.

  At last, the Magruman had returned.

  But Paiscion himself hardly seemed to notice these attentions. He smiled and nodded politely to all he passed, shaking any hands that were offered and embracing those who lunged at him, unable to contain themselves, but his eyes were fixed on the river’s edge. His eyes were on Filimaya.

  For her part, she stood entirely still as she had since she had first seen his face, her fingers at her lips, her eyes on his. When finally he found his way through the last of the crowd, his pace quickened and he half ran beneath the branches of the tree, then pulled up and came to a halt shortly before he reached her. For a moment he simply took in the sight of her, as if hardly believing that she was there, and then he rushed forward and caught her up in a close embrace. They laughed and wept with joy.

  Sylas smiled and glanced over at Simia. She was sitting on the side of the boat wearing a crooked smile, tears in her eyes.

  “So it’s true,” he said, sitting down next to her. “What they said about Filimaya and Paiscion.”

  He waited for the inevitable rolling of eyes and sarcastic “obviously”, but Simia just smiled, still watching the elderly couple.

  After a moment she turned and looked Sylas up and down. “So … are you OK?” she asked.

  Sylas said nothing, but looked pale and tired.

  Simia leaned forward, peering at his wrist. “Did you see what happened to the Merisi Band?” she asked, reaching out towards it. “It was weird! For a moment, I thought it was going to …”

  She trailed off and slowly her eyes crept up to his. “Have you seen?”

  “Seen what?” He followed her gaze down to the Merisi Band. For the first time he saw that it was still glowing, not with a bright fire like before, but with a dim, rippling light, and running along the circumference of the bracelet was something that he had never seen before, stark and black against the light. It was a string of lettering that made no sense. But as he gazed at them the Ravel Runes began to show themselves, until soon they revealed true letters and words.

  He blinked, frowned, then grew pale.

  “So? What does it say?” asked Simia.

  Sylas turned to look at her.

  “It says, ‘In blood it must end’.”

  Suddenly the gardens fell silent. Sylas and Simia dragged their eyes from the Merisi Band to see Paiscion with his hands aloft, calling the assembly to order.

  “Thank you! Thank you for your welcome,” he shouted over the last excited heckles. “I apologise for my entrance. I had wanted to travel with my friends here, but I had a challenging time getting out of the city. I am sorry to say that there are dark things afoot in the city of Gheroth, and, I fear, throughout these lands. Thoth is gathering his forces and tightening his noose. I have seen new and foul creatures spilling from the Dirgheon, marching I know not where. I have seen messengers dispatched and received. And I have seen new patrols throughout the city, terrorising our poor sisters and brothers in the slums. All this in just the past few days. I need not tell you that such things have not been seen since the Reckoning.”

  A new and solemn quiet fell over the gathering. Faces paled and shoulders drooped, as though under some terrible weight.

  “This is just what I have been saying!” shouted a tall woman wearing a long purple gown. “The winds, the birds, the waters, all have been telling us of new and terrible things beginning across the Four Lands! And the Black! It’s everywhere – even here, in the Valley! The mines are full of it, and now the tree is infected …”

  Paiscion turned sharply and looked towards the tree. His face darkened as he saw the fingers of black spiralling up the rumpled trunk.

  “When did this begin?” he asked Filimaya.

  “In the past days and weeks,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “It seems to be rising from the mines. Nothing we’ve tried has stopped it – if anything, it gets worse.”

  “Indeed,” said Paiscion grimly. “Whatever it is, the Black sinks its claws as deep as evil itself.”

  “But now, now we have reason to hope!” shouted someone from high above, to which everyone who heard nodded enthusiastically. “Our Magruman has returned!”

  Paiscion frowned and pointed towards Sylas and Naeo. “My dear sisters and brothers, here is your hope! Surely you see that?”

  There was only silence.

  “But you’re our Magruman!” came the same, anonymous voice from high on the cliff.

  Paiscion turned his eyes to every part of the hollow. “I am your Magruman and I will serve you and the Suhl until my final breath. But Magrumen alone are powerless to stop the Undoing – these years of suffering leave us in no doubt of that. Even with the blessing of Essenfayle, we have failed to defend ourselves against our enemy and now, now that Merimaat is dead, the nation is weaker than ever – just as we enter what may be the final crisis.”

  A new hush fell over the proceedings, and those who moments before had glowed with excitement became quiet and reflective. Filimaya’s eyes never left Paiscion’s face.

  “As you know,” he continued, “since the Reckoning I have lived on the Windrush, in the shadow of our enemy, where he would never think to look. And there I watched and I listened. With the help of our sisters and brothers in the slums, I spied on Thoth and his agents, on the Ghor Command and the legions of the Dirgheon. I studied their plans and their works. I drew maps and kept records. But nothing I saw offered a way to free our people from their torments. That is why I never returned to you. But now, my friends, I am here.” He extended an arm in the direction of Sylas. “I am here because of this boy.”

  All eyes turned to Sylas, who found himself shrinking a little between his shoulders.

  Simia grinned. “He’s talking about you!�
��

  “You think?” he hissed.

  “Let no one be in any doubt,” continued the Magruman. “Sylas Tate changes everything. His arrival offers more hope than I ever dreamed possible in those dark days on the Windrush. He brings a hand of friendship from the Merisi – that sage order that knows many of the secrets of these two worlds and which has been our ally since the birth of our nation. He brings the wisdom of the Samarok and a mastery of Essenfayle that is quite miraculous. But he also offers something quite unexpected. He brings a promise of unity, of togetherness, of an end to the divisions that plague our world and upon which Thoth has built his empire. He shifts the lines of whatever battle may come.”

  A murmur of excitement rumbled around the gardens.

  “You do all that?” whispered Simia sarcastically.

  Sylas felt a little sick.

  “But I’m telling only part of the story,” said Paiscion, turning and walking towards Naeo. She looked at him warily, but he simply took her hand and drew her forward, presenting her to the gathering. “Because it was young Naeo here who called Sylas into this world. And for that we owe her an immense debt of gratitude. Not only because of what Sylas brings, but also because of who he is. You see, Naeo has shown almost unimaginable courage in doing what she has done. And that is because Sylas is Naeo.” He turned on the spot, looking at the entire assembly. “Naeo is Sylas.”

  A surge of excited energy moved through the congregation and everyone leaned forward to try to improve their view. A thousand eyes shifted between the two children and a thousand minds struggled to comprehend what they were being told.

  “But Paiscion, if I might say,” said Glubitch, scratching in his red locks, “the reason we may have failed to appreciate the importance of these children is that it is hard to believe that they are what you say. They look perfectly normal! They don’t even look the same, or behave alike – they’re different. How can they be each other’s Glimmer?”