There, in the centre of the fabric, was a single white feather.
“Do you recognise it?” asked Paiscion, peering keenly through his thick glasses.
Sylas laughed in surprise and delight. “Is it … is it the feather from the Windrush? The one we made dance when you were teaching me Essenfayle?”
The Magruman smiled warmly. “It is,” he said. “But it’s not quite the same as it was. Go on, pick it up!”
Sylas reached into the box and took the feather between two fingers. As he lifted it, he saw a small glass pot of thick black fluid, sealed with a cork stopper. He took a closer look at the shaft of the feather and saw that it had been shortened and cut, so that it looked like the nib of a pen.
He raised his eyes to Paiscion. “You’ve made it into a quill!”
“You have a story to tell and you need the right tools to tell it!” said Paiscion. “I assume you still have the Samarok?”
Sylas nodded and then his eyes widened. “I should write in it?”
Paiscion looked astonished. “Of course you should write in it, Sylas, you are the last of the Bringers! It is you who must write the final chapter of their chronicles.”
“But what would I write?”
“What is to come. You have read the beginning, now you must write the end.” The Magruman frowned. “Oh my, that sounds rather like the inscription on your bracelet, doesn’t it? How strange … it must be on my mind.”
The smile faded from Sylas’s face and his eyes dropped to his wrist. In the short time since the Say-So he had almost forgotten about the inscription. In fact, the gathering had never even discussed it in their excitement about the song in the Samarok.
In blood it began, in blood it must end.
“What do you think it means?” asked Sylas. “‘In blood it must end?’”
Paiscion shook his head solemnly. “I can’t be sure, Sylas, but the song speaks of a war still to come. Wars are never waged without the loss of blood.”
Sylas frowned at the band, trying to see the inscription, only to find that it had vanished. “But why pick those lines in particular?” he asked. “I mean why are they so—”
He was interrupted by the sharp snap of a twig somewhere below the window.
Paiscion launched himself out of his seat and pulled Sylas back into the hideaway, then he whirled about and stood in front of the window. They heard another sharp crack, then a hiss like someone cursing under their breath, and finally a hand appeared on the bottom edge of the window. To the sound of another loud curse a mop of red hair rose into view, followed by a small, weather-worn face.
“Simsi!” cried Sylas, rushing past Paiscion to offer her his hand. “What are you doing?”
Simia glared up at him with narrowed eyes. “I’m here …” she paused to brush twigs and leaves from her hair, “I’m here to say don’t you dare hatch any plans to go without me!”
Sylas gaped at her for a moment and then he laughed out loud. He walked to the window and reached down to haul her up. “Simsi, you got me into this! Do you really think I’m going anywhere without dragging you with me?”
Simia’s pouting lips grew into a wide grin.
“… like the exodus of ancient times, she led them thence, to those fateful plains of Salsimaine.”
THE ANCIENT DOORS OF the Dirgheon thundered as the vast bolts were drawn back, growling their complaint at the city. As they inched open, putrid air gushed through the crack, pooling down the wide steps. The creaks and groans sounded out like a fanfare as the opening grew wide.
And then they came.
First the sounds, not close but somewhere in the depths, out of sight: the quiet chink, chink, chink of chains; the padding of soft feet; the scraping of claws against stone. And then the panting of giant lungs, the hiss of air between teeth, the deep guttural rasps of canine tongues.
Suddenly there was movement in the shadows and they prowled out into the half-light, their gargantuan heads lolling from side to side as they drooled from muzzled jaws, their keen yellow eyes searching the streets below. Chains trailed from wrought-iron collars fastened around their massive, muscular necks. Thirty, forty, perhaps fifty Ghorhund passed in three rows, all straining against their bonds as they paced silently between the gigantic doors. And behind came their handlers: brooding, deadly, marching across the stone in perfect unison, making no sound. At times the Ghor appeared human, but they were too large, too powerful, and they moved with a chilling, predatory ease that betrayed their canine blood.
They were not alone, for they shared their formation with their slighter, sleeker cousins: half-breeds of a new and curious kind – sometimes upright, sometimes thrown forward, loping on lithe limbs, their watchful eyes drinking in the darkness, seeing all. Some purred with satisfaction as they saw the city spread out below, while others hissed and prickled at their hound-like companions, baring their claws when they drew too close. And each of these creations grasped the chains of a single Ghorhund, occasionally giving them a vicious yank to keep their charges in check.
This was no ordinary outing, no swift assault upon the slums. It was a quiet, well-planned exodus.
Then there were new sounds: the grating of metal wheels against stone, the clatter of harnesses, the snap of reins and soon a dazzling medley of red and gold passed between the giant doors: a beautiful chariot constructed of ornamental armour, riding on massive, heavy wheels of solid oak. And there, standing resplendent at the reins, was Scarpia, her hood thrown back to reveal her strange, disfigured beauty and her teeth flashing white as she snarled at her newborn horde.
But although she was clearly in command, she was not alone. She seemed to be leaning away from something strange and unearthly at her side, something transparent and ghost-like. The structure of the chariot behind it was still clearly visible and yet it seemed to draw the light, creating an amorphous blur, like a trick of the eye. But what made its presence certain, its being beyond doubt, was its shape. It had all the proportions of a man, standing tall and still at Scarpia’s side.
Then, just for a moment, the light of the moon played across it, tracing its edges in silver. And in that moment the dancing light picked out a face wrapped in rotten rags. The face was flat, revealing no sign of a nose, and its eyes were but empty voids, staring blackly over the city. The wide gash of a mouth lolled open, swinging loose between threadbare bandages.
A Ray Reaper.
Scarpia turned and eyed it with something between fear and distaste, and when it turned towards her she quickly averted her gaze.
Behind came a humbler crowd: men carrying boxes and bags, sleeping rolls and tents, and with them, the lesser beasts – pack-horses and mules, livestock to eat.
As Scarpia’s chariot reached the brink of the steps, she paused. She gazed out over the city – across the huddling pyramids of rooftops, over the cowering slums, through the gathering palls of smoke. She peered beyond, out into the wasteland, into the expanses of the Barrens, to where she knew it lay.
The Circle of Salsimaine: gateway to another world.
She threw her head back and let out a half-human cry that became a wail. As her legion surged ahead, she flicked her tail and the chariot leapt forward, clattering down the steps and careering into the streets below.
It was not so much a chorus as a symphony. Birds of every kind sang to the top of their lungs, each adding a joyous strain to the cacophony of chirps, tweets, squawks and trills. The sound moved in waves across the lake, ebbing and flowing, as though the two sides were vying with one another to raise the more glorious song.
Paiscion closed his eyes and listened, letting it wash over him. To his ears, it was the most beautiful music of all: Nature’s music – the song of life and light. How long it had been since he had heard it, and how it now restored his spirits. He took deep draughts of it, letting it fill him to the core.
So lost was he in the dawn chorus that he did not notice Filimaya coming to sit down on the fallen tree, at his side. She was
there for some moments, just enjoying being there with him, until finally she placed a hand on his. He knew her touch at once. He simply turned his hand over and slid his fingers between hers. They sat like that for a while longer, knowing that they may not have many more moments like this. That things were changing. That the Glimmer Myth was finally coming to pass.
That here, in this place, they would make their final stand.
Filimaya gazed at the Windrush, moored against the bank just a few paces away. She looked at its shattered decks, broken hull and shredded rigging and suddenly felt an overwhelming affection. This poor, benighted hulk wore all the scars of her people – all their pain and indignity, their wounds and losses. The Windrush had seen the worst of their horrors, been there on the darkest of days. And despite all her strength and craft and valour, the ship showed it. The woes of the Suhl were etched into her timbers and written on her sails.
“What will you do with her now?” asked Filimaya, breaking their silence.
Paiscion drew a long breath. “I shall make her all she can be.”
She smiled. “Prepare her well, my love. She will be our Ark.”
Suddenly she drew her hair from over her shoulder and ran it through her fingers until she came to the purple braid woven tightly into the silver strands. She began picking at it, unravelling the coloured threads.
Paiscion looked across and frowned. “What are you doing?”
“I’m giving you something.”
He shook his head. “No, they’re yours to—”
“They mustn’t be hidden away any longer, they should be flown high for all to see.” She pulled them carefully out of her hair. “They will be the first threads of a brave new flag – a flag for our people, for what is to come.”
Paiscion gave her a tender smile. “What do you have in mind?”
Filimaya pointed to the broken ship. “The standard of the Windrush!”
Even as Sylas and Simia stepped out from their tree house, the forest felt different. There was a hush, an expectation, a sense that they were being watched. And of course, they were. Hundreds of eyes peered between branches and through leaves, trying to catch their first glimpse of the travellers. Children sat fearlessly on the boughs, their feet dangling as they pointed and whispered. Many of them looked on enviously, wishing perhaps that they too were allowed to join the adventure, to travel to the great city of Gheroth – perhaps even to meet Isia herself. Most of the adults were quieter and more thoughtful, gazing down with worried expressions at these two tiny children upon whom rested so much.
Triste was leaning up against a tree puffing on his pipe, just as he was the day before, but today he was wearing a heavy coat and as they approached he hoisted a large pack on to his shoulder. He nodded impassively as they approached.
“Are you … coming with us?” asked Simia, completely failing to hide her disappointment.
Triste regarded her through tired, sunken eyes. “I am. Didn’t Paiscion tell you?”
“No,” she said, bluntly. “He just said someone would be coming along.”
Triste shrugged. “Well, it’s me. They thought you might need a Scryer.”
“Sure,” she said, walking past him and on, into the forest.
Sylas watched her go, shaking his head, then turned and grinned. “She’ll warm up. She was like that with me at first.”
“It’s OK,” said Triste, setting off after her. “I see more than you think.”
Sylas frowned. He wasn’t quite sure what that meant. He sighed, adjusted his own pack on his shoulder and walked after them.
The further they walked, the more faces they saw peering down at them from the canopy, and they began to realise that the entire community had turned out to see them go. Simia threw back her shoulders, drew her huge coat about her and walked as tall as she could, enjoying her place in the lead. Sylas nodded politely to the many children who waved and adults who bowed as they passed. He was struck again by the warmth of these people: the kindness and generosity in their faces, the open innocence of their features. And yet he also saw in them something darker: the sadness and resignation of a people who knew that, for better or worse, their time was drawing near.
He was so busy looking about him that he almost stumbled into Filimaya and Paiscion as they stepped from the trees.
“Morning!” cried Paiscion. “And what an exciting morning it is!”
Filimaya slid an arm around Sylas and Simia. “How are you feeling?”
“Ready,” said Simia boldly.
“And you need to be,” said Paiscion. “Have you said goodbye to Ash and Naeo?”
“Haven’t seen them yet,” said Sylas. Then he paused, lowering his eyes. “But they’re coming.”
He had begun to feel the familiar pang of pain in his wrist, the sickness in his belly, the sense that something was amiss. And sure enough they all soon saw Ash’s full head of blond locks winding between the trees and beside him Naeo’s tall, slim figure, walking with all her usual grace. Both of them were wearing heavy coats and carrying bags over their shoulders.
As they drew closer Naeo slowed and stayed back. Sylas too stepped away and walked to the far side of the group.
“I guess this is goodbye!” cried Ash, striding up to the gathering.
“You remember everything I told you,” said Filimaya, embracing him, “about the Other, and about those tricks of yours. The Three Ways are strictly off limits there. They could get you into—”
“I’ve already forgotten,” said Ash, breaking into a playful grin. He squeezed her hand, then turned to Sylas and Simia. “OK, you two, see you afterwards. I trust you’re going to make as much mischief here as we’re going to make there!” He winked playfully and leaned closer. “But just look after yourselves,” he whispered, glancing at Triste. “I won’t be there, and these Scryers are no match for a Muddlemorph and sorcerer like myself.”
Simia grinned. “You be careful too. And don’t eat their food.” She screwed up her nose. “Like I said to Sylas, it can’t be … natural.”
Ash laughed and patted his stomach. “My diet starts here!”
As everyone said their final goodbyes, Filimaya walked over to Naeo, who was still standing at a safe distance. Before she even drew close, Naeo raised her hand.
“I’m fine,” she said. “I just want to go, if that’s what I have to do.”
Filimaya opened her arms and drew her close. “Well, I know you don’t need this, but I do.”
Naeo looked puzzled and awkward, but she returned the embrace.
“Take care of yourself,” said Filimaya, stepping back. “And remember what I told you. Try not to worry about your father. I know that Sylas will do all you would do.”
Naeo looked unconvinced. “I hope so,” she said.
Paiscion wandered over and took both her hands in his.
“Now remember what I said about the Circle of Salsimaine. Get there as quickly as you can – don’t give Thoth any more time than you have to. And when you’re through, remember to look for—”
“You think I’ll just … know what to do?” said Naeo.
“At the Circle?”
She nodded dubiously.
“You’ll know,” he said dismissively. “You summoned the Passing Bell! The Circle of Salsimaine will be no challenge at all. When you’re through, remember to look for our friends – if you don’t find them, they’ll find you. And whatever happens on the other side, remember this: we are in a race against a dying moon. Keep to our plan and do not delay. Is that understood?”
He lifted his glasses and eyed her closely until she nodded.
“Then you’re ready. Filimaya, perhaps you could guide Naeo and Ash out of the valley?”
Filimaya nodded and turned to leave, but Naeo stood rooted to the spot. She was looking across the clearing, searching for Sylas. The impulse confused her. It did not come from a thought, nor a feeling: it was a need – a powerful, consuming need.
Sylas was already looking at he
r.
It was a peculiar moment, a moment when as individuals they were unsure what to do, but something beyond them, something between them, left no doubt at all.
They each turned and walked towards the other.
Everyone fell silent, transfixed by what they saw. Paiscion opened his mouth to call them away, but stopped himself. The people in the trees craned their necks and leaned over branches to get a better view. Children ceased their chatter and adults held their breath. They, like Paiscion, could see that this was not like the Say-So. There was something different in their manner, in the way they held each other’s gaze. They were single-minded, confident, fearless.
As they drew close they slowed, extending their hand to the other.
Their fingers touched, their palms met and they held on.
The instant they came together the bands of silver and gold around their wrists morphed, losing lustre and form. The edges became blurred as though they were no longer solid but shifting vapour. Then, sure enough, the band around Naeo’s wrist issued a wisp of silver, curling up into the air like a trail of smoke, and in that moment Sylas’s did the same, sending forth a twisting tendril of gold. It was as if the two parts of the Merisi Band were reaching out, trying to become one.
The forest fell absolutely silent. Not a normal quiet – the kind of quiet that consumed the forest at night, this silence was complete: birds ceased their singing; animals stopped their foraging; the breeze fell away. Nothing shifted or called or breathed.
And while the world fell still, in Sylas and Naeo, there was a storm. A violent, ravaging storm like before, when they had met in the Dirgheon. They felt sick to their stomachs and winced from the pain in their wrists, but at the same time something else grew within them, something greater than their physical selves, something that caught them up and consumed them.
It was the knowledge that each was the other. It was a pact – a certainty that one would do for the other whatever they wished for themselves.
But it was also something else.
It was the joy of being whole.
Circles of Stone Page 9