“The great Leo Tsu warned us that the way is shadowy and indistinct, that it is dim and dark. But within, he said, is the essence.”
THIS WAS A NEW kind of forest. It was lower, thicker and darker than the majestic woods in the Valley of Outs and it pressed in on all sides, smothering sound and clawing at clothes. Naeo and Ash pushed on through the dense undergrowth, panting from the exertion. To make matters worse, their route took them across a range of hills: it was only midday and already, this was the fifth they had climbed.
“I’m not saying that Essenfayle isn’t the best of the bunch,” said Ash, pausing for breath and pulling a stray leaf out of his hair, “I’m just saying that the Three Ways have their place too. And together, you have to admit that the Three Ways are more than a match for Essenfayle. The Reckoning proved that.”
Naeo turned to him. “And I’m just saying that you’re very sure of yourself.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. I’m sure of myself too. And you’re wrong.”
“Ouch,” said Ash with a grin. “Feisty one, aren’t you?”
Naeo shrugged and carried on climbing.
“I’ve been wondering,” persisted Ash, setting out after her, “how come you’re so pushy? I mean, Sylas is confident in his own way, but—”
Naeo wheeled about. “Did you ask to come because you were short of someone to talk to?”
Ash looked at her blankly and shook his head.
“So stop talking,” snapped Naeo. With that she turned and continued her climb.
Ash pulled a face. “This is going to be such fun,” he murmured.
They climbed for what seemed an age: clambering over tree roots and boulders; squeezing through bush and thicket, scrambling up banks thick with leaves. The forest hummed and squabbled and squawked around them, the air humid and close. This was the highest hill so far, but with ravines and steep slopes on either side, they had no choice but to carry on, no matter how hard the going. At one point they stopped and ate some lunch, but Ash again found his attempts at conversation futile. Naeo ate quickly, then gazed off into the forest, weaving the bootlace between her fingers, crafting her cat’s cradle until he was ready.
As they resumed their climb, Naeo felt a familiar ache inching upwards from her lower back, following the contours of the black scar. The pain was never far away, but it had become more persistent in the past days, and had only worsened with the effort of the climb and the constant rubbing of her pack. She adjusted it so that it hung from her front, but even then, the pat, pat, pat of her loose hair grew unbearable and she soon had to ask Ash to stop. She foraged around in the undergrowth and found two suitable twigs, then coiled her hair behind her head and slid them through it to hold it fast.
“Lovely,” said Ash, sarcastically. “Are we expecting company? Making a public appearance perhaps?” He made a show of looking around.
Naeo gave him a steady look. “Just a sore back,” she said, setting out again.
“Well, of course,” he said, shaking his head in bewilderment. “The wrong hairdo can be a devil for your back.”
It was well into the afternoon before the ground finally started to level off and they allowed themselves to believe that they were nearing the top. They noticed the forest begin to lighten and then, to their relief, they saw a break in the branches and twigs and the grey glow of the open sky. Within moments they were dragging their weary limbs into a clearing and hauling their packs gratefully from their shoulders.
They looked out on a dismal view. Gone was the winter sun and the bronzes and reds of a forest clinging to autumn. In their place they saw a brooding, melancholy scene: a blank wall of grey sky descending to a granite horizon; the rolling, featureless terrain of minor foothills sprawling out on to an empty dust-swept plain as far as the eye could see.
“Ah, the Barrens,” said Ash with a dramatic sigh. “A tonic for the soul!”
Naeo did not smile. The deathly landscape brought back distant memories that were all too real. She remembered the last, terrifying days of war; she saw the surge of armies and the heavens burning with fire; she felt the thunderclap of explosions and the raking sting of howling winds. But most of all she remembered the voices: the screams, the sobs, the last murmurings of despair.
Her eyes filled with tears and she turned away.
If Ash noticed, he did not show it. He was looking up, trying to make out the position of the sun through the cloud. Finally he shook his head. “We’re going slower than we expected,” he said. “We’ll have to get a move on if we’re to get to the Circle of Salsimaine on time.”
“So what do you suggest?”
“Well, we’ll have to pick our feet up, I suppose.”
Naeo crossed her arms and gazed out over the lowland hills, tracing the folds and undulations, valleys and dells. Ash was right, it was their first morning and already they were falling behind.
She rocked thoughtfully for some moments and then she frowned, her eyes exploring the terrain.
“I think we can do better than that,” she said.
Ash raised his eyebrows. “How? Don’t tell me you want to fly. I’m not flying again in a hurry.”
“No need,” said Naeo, walking off down the slope. “We have Essenfayle.”
“Well, yes, we do, but how does that—”
“Stop talking,” said Naeo. “You’ll put me off.”
She drew up short of the fringe of trees where a small stream was bubbling off between the trunks, laid her pack on the floor and rolled up her sleeves.
Ash approached from behind. “What are you doing? Not a Groundrush?” he exclaimed. “It’s not worth it! It’ll only get us to the bottom of the hill.”
“Not just to the bottom of this hill,” said Naeo, confidently. “It’ll get us on to the Barrens.”
Ash chuckled and crossed his arms. “And how exactly will it do that?”
“Remember what you said about Essenfayle?”
Ash shrugged.
“And remember I said you were wrong?”
He nodded slowly.
She raised her arms. “Well this is why.”
In a way, it was beautiful: a sinuous snake of silver winding along the valley floor, bordered on both sides by frosted branches and leaves, which drooped into the water as if to taste the muddy gruel. Its wide arcs cut through the very heart of the forest, carrying the three travellers through its wildest and most secret parts, where animals shrieked, insects scuttled and birds twittered, filling the canopy with a pleasant echo.
But Sylas was thoroughly ill at ease.
It wasn’t just that his back and shoulders were aching or that the canoe felt flimsy and unstable. It was also that he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. After a morning of frustrating meanders from bank to bank, he had finally mastered the steering, but even after lunch he was still much slower than the others. He only occasionally saw a flash of Simia’s red hair as she disappeared around another bend and he was certain that he was irritating Triste, who had insisted on guarding the rear and so was always just over his shoulder.
“Use slow, steady strokes,” Triste had suggested. “Hold the paddle lower, around the neck. Dip the blade deeper into the water.”
That had helped, but Simia continued to forge ahead. And then he had an idea. He thought back to the attack on the Meander Mill and their flight in a flotilla of boats, when Filimaya called upon the river to form a mighty wave to carry them all to safety. Why couldn’t he do that? He closed his eyes and extended one hand behind the boat as she had, sending his thoughts down into the waters. He felt their chill creeping into his chest, their dark enclosing his mind, their swell flooding through his stomach. And then he called them up from the deep, up through the swirling currents until they surged behind his boat, rising in a small, perfectly formed wave. He felt a rush of excitement as the canoe lurched forward, borne on by the river itself. And then, even as he grinned in celebration it all went wrong. The sharp bow plunged deep into the water
s. The boat came to a sudden halt while the wave continued, lifting the stern and throwing it around in a graceless pirouette. It left Sylas drenched, clinging to the sides and facing completely the wrong way. Facing a very unimpressed Scryer.
“Just use … the … paddle!” said Triste impatiently. “That’s what it’s for.”
“I just thought that Essenfayle might—”
“Your gift isn’t a replacement for a perfectly good paddle.” The Scryer fixed Sylas with an intent stare. “What you have, Sylas – your feel for Essenfayle – is a sacred thing: a thing not to be trifled with.”
“I didn’t think it would do any harm,” Sylas grunted in embarrassment.
“It would if a Scryer’s out looking for you. Don’t forget, we see connections, and those as strong as you are able to create can be seen miles away. Keep your tricks to yourself until you really need them, understand?”
Sylas nodded. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
“Good then,” said the Scryer, squinting downriver. “In the meantime, you’ll just have to put your back into it. At this rate your friend will be knocking at Isia’s door before dinner.”
Sylas dug his paddle in and turned himself around. Simia was so far ahead he could barely make her out and even as he watched, she disappeared around a bend.
He cupped his hands and shouted: “Simsi! Slow down!”
When Simia showed no sign of stopping they both plunged their paddles deep into the river and set off after her at a feverish pace.
“She’s mad to leave us so far behind,” grumbled Triste. “Mad!”
In truth, relations between Simia and Triste had only become more strained since they had left the valley. At lunch she had continued to talk to him as though he was more hindrance than help and now, even though he had implored her to stay close for her own safety, she seemed wilfully to be extending her lead.
“She’s like this,” said Sylas, panting as he struggled to pick up speed. “Feisty. Always doing things her own way. She has … you know –” he grinned – “sharp edges. But it’s never boring.”
“Well, I’m not against feisty, but I am against stupid,” said Triste archly. “She has no idea what’s around that bend. I can’t Scry so far ahead and even if I could, I wouldn’t be able to warn her. She could paddle straight into a shoal of Slithen – or worse.”
Sylas thought back to the hideous reptilian creatures that had chased them from the Meander Mill. “Worse than Slithen?”
Triste looked surprised. “Much worse.”
Sylas glanced into the murk of the river and wished he hadn’t asked.
“I guess she’s just tired of waiting for me,” he said, pulling his eyes away.
“No,” said the Scryer. “It’s not you, it’s me.”
“You? Why?”
“Because she doesn’t want to be near me.”
Sylas laughed. “I think that’s a bit—”
“I remind her of her father,” said Triste, stopping his paddling.
“Her father? What makes you say that?” asked Sylas.
“I see it,” said Triste, tapping his tattooed skull. “Whether I want to or not.”
Sylas searched his face. “Is that what you meant this morning … ‘I see more than you think’?”
Triste nodded. “Just bad luck, I suppose. Especially since she was so close to him.”
“She was. Very close,” said Sylas. He gazed ahead. “That’s his coat that she wears all the time.”
Suddenly he felt unforgivably selfish: he had almost forgotten about her father. Over the past few days he had spoken endlessly about finding his mum and Simia had just been doing her best to help – it couldn’t have been easy for her. Was that why she had said nothing to him about Triste? Because he was too wrapped up in his own problems? His own mother? At least his mum was still alive.
Poor Simsi.
As though sensing Sylas’s darkening mood, the bright winter sun faded above their heads, not because it was late but because a blanket of grey cloud had rolled in, obscuring it from view. The forest too seemed drained of its colour, losing it to the thirsty grey skies. Its bare canopy no longer rang with the sounds of its residents, but had fallen silent and still – a stillness that they knew.
The Barrens were drawing near.
“High upon the headland stood a tiny girl, turning Neptune’s own tempest to her will.”
AS SYLAS’S PADDLING FINALLY grew more confident, Triste no longer insisted on following him and drew alongside. When he thought he might not be noticed, Sylas could not resist the occasional glance over at the Scryer – and most of all at the strange tattoos around his scalp. He was drawn to the two mutilated eyes – the ones where the skin seemed to have been burned or twisted until they had lost their shape, almost as though they had been closed behind mangled lids.
“If you’re so interested, you should ask,” grunted Triste without turning.
Sylas dropped his gaze, horrified that he had been seen. But then, of course he had been seen.
“I was just wondering what happened to your tattoos,” he said. “The eyes … the ones that look … burned?”
Triste let out a long sigh. “I tried to close my Scrying eyes. It was the first time I ever used Kimiyya. It’ll be the last, I can assure you.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” said the Scryer with a bitter laugh. “I became tired of seeing as a Scryer sees. Like I told Simia, wars are no place for Scryers. Normal people see all the violence and the death and the suffering, which is awful enough. We see great tides of anguish and oceans of hate. We see despair and loss surging like great waves over the battlefield.” He looked at Sylas with his dark, tired eyes. “You see the broken bodies; we see the breaking of hearts again and again and again until the entire world seems full of sadness and pain and grief, until there is nowhere to hide, no hope of sleep. Until all we can dream about is being able to close our eyes.”
Sylas had stopped paddling several strokes back, and now just gazed at Triste as he rowed on. He hadn’t really thought about what had been said by the lake – he had been too consumed by his own emotions – but now he understood. What a torture it must have been to be a Scryer during the Reckoning. He thought back to Bowe at the Meander Mill, struggling with the gathered emotion even of a Say-So … what must it have been like when people were gathered to kill and be killed. He shuddered. How insensitive his question seemed now.
He dug in with his paddle and set out after Triste, but he could not quite bring himself to draw alongside. He felt too ashamed.
They travelled on in silence, passing deeper into the dreary landscape, and only spoke again when they finally caught up with Simia. As they rounded a bend, they saw that she had pulled into the outside bank, her red hair sharp against the drabness of the forest. Sylas noticed how quickly he was gliding between the trees and saw that the entire river was surging forward, swirling and churning as it veered around the bend.
And then they heard the unmistakable roar and thunder of rapids. The air became cool and moist and carried traces of spray, as though to warn them of what lay ahead. When they drew near to Simia, they found themselves having to back-paddle to control their speed.
The river divided, turning slowly away to the right while the left bank fell away down a slope, spilling the winter flood in a deluge of frothing, bubbling water over the rough ground beyond. They could not see all the way down, but even in the topmost stretch there were giant standing waves, deep, churning whirlpools and great eruptions of angry foam.
“This should be a bit more interesting!” grinned Simia over the roar.
“We won’t be taking the rapids,” said Triste firmly. “We’ll follow the meander – the two stretches join up again later.”
Simia’s face fell. “We took the meander on the Windrush – it took ages!”
“The canoes are fast enough. And anyhow, we’re going downstream now.”
“But the rapids will be so mu
ch quicker!”
“And much more dangerous,” said Triste, his tone final. “The stakes are too high to take that kind of risk.”
“Well, I’m going down the rapids,” announced Simia, launching herself out from under the trees. She plunged her paddle into the water and wheeled the canoe around. “Sylas, are you coming?”
Sylas dropped his head between his shoulders. “Simia,” he sighed. “Triste’s right, and anyway I’m not as good in a canoe as you are.”
“You’ll be fine. It can’t be very long.” She looked from one to the other. “Look, if you won’t come I’ll go on my own and meet you later.”
“Simsi, it just doesn’t make—”
“Oh, come on, Sylas,” cajoled Simia, pushing back into the main current. “Think of everything we’ve done together! This is nothing!”
Later, Sylas would struggle to understand why he gave in. Perhaps it was because he was still feeling a little guilty about her father, or because he didn’t want her to think him a coward, or because he was genuinely worried that she would attempt the rapids alone. Whatever the case, it went against all his better judgement.
He shrugged and said: “OK.”
Triste whirled about in disbelief. He grabbed Sylas’s boat. “Don’t, Sylas! It’s insane!”
“It’ll be OK,” said Sylas with more confidence than he felt. “We’ll take it one stage at a time. Anyway, you heard her, if we don’t go she’ll try it alone.”
“Let her!” shouted the Scryer. “You’re too important to risk this kind of nonsense!”
“Yeah, because I don’t matter! I’m just here for the ride!” said Simia, with fire in her eyes. “That’s what you think, isn’t it?”
Triste let out a long, exasperated sigh.
“Come on, Sylas, let’s get going,” said Simia, heading off in the direction of the rapids.
Sylas looked from Simia to the Scryer, then dipped his paddle.
Then he said: “Let’s just get this over with,” he said.
It was a tumult of rocks and stones and trees. Naeo was thrown this way and that, hurled from bank to boulder, slammed against tree and trench, as she snaked across the forest floor.
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