Circles of Stone

by Ian Johnstone

She laughed mirthlessly. “Like he needs a reason.” She was quiet for a moment. “To make my dad tell him what he wanted to know.”

  Ash gazed at the back of her head and shook his head incredulously. He poured a generous dose of Salve on to his fingers. “And what was that?”

  “Who my mother was.”

  He paused with his fingers next to her back.

  “And who was your mother?”

  Naeo shrugged. “She’s dead,” she said. “And that’s all he needed to know. Are you finished yet?”

  Ash laid his hand against the scar, held it for a moment and then pulled it away. He leaned down for a better look and then his eyes widened. The bright green Salve was not lying over the scar but rather draining into it, trailing away as though caught up in some unseen current. Even as it joined the flow, its brightness faded and then went out, until there was no trace of green at all. It had been consumed, becoming one with the Black. The scar was unchanged.

  He sat up and looked anxiously at the back of her head.

  “Yes, I’m done,” he said.

  “Did it work?”

  He paused. “I think so, yes,” he said.

  “Liar,” she said, standing up. “But it’s OK. It’s the Black – I’m not sure there’s anything to be done.”

  “Well, we’ll see about that,” he said, getting to his feet. “But it’s not going to be easy. I don’t think anyone knows for sure where the Black comes from. Or what it’s for.”

  “Well, I don’t know what it’s for exactly, but I do know who’s behind it,” said Naeo, smiling weakly, “even if I wish I didn’t.” She sighed and began working on her buttons. “So, come on, what are we going to do?”

  “About what?”

  She nodded out across the Barrens. “About Grail. What do you think? Through it or around it?”

  Ash turned and followed her eyes towards the ruins below them.

  In truth Grail was not a town. It was not even the ruin of a town. It was like a ghostly apparition, a haunting memory of what once had been. It had the look of something ancient, something that had almost given up its place on this earth, sliding slowly into the dust. Entire streets now appeared little more than gatherings of rubble, marked out by occasional ramshackle walls or the buckled remnants of a cobbled road.

  “I say straight through it,” Ash said firmly, glad of the change of subject. “Sure, it has a reputation, but that was years ago, when it was still thick with the Kraven. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about now.”

  Naeo hesitated. She didn’t like it, not one little bit.

  The few buildings that still stood were missing their roofs and at least one wall, giving them a ghoulish aspect. But what made this awful place even more depressing was the grey. The Barrens had swept through the remains of roads and plazas, homes and temples, parks and markets, coating them all in a deathly blanket. This was a tragic place. A place best left alone.

  “It just doesn’t feel right,” said Naeo. “It feels like … like death.”

  Ash nodded and rummaged in his hair. “That’s just because it’s deserted. Look, whatever the risks, it’ll be safer to camp in Grail than on the open Barrens.”

  “Grail,” muttered Naeo, shaking her head. “I can’t believe they called it that.”

  “A happier time,” said Ash thoughtfully. “I remember how excited my father was when we—”

  “Come on then,” said Naeo, striding off down the hill. “If we’re going to do it, let’s do it.”

  Ash watched her go. “Sometimes I very much prefer your other half,” he said, under his breath.

  “To see is to remember, so they have learned to close their eyes.”

  THEY WALKED DOWN THE open hillside, leaving behind them the last traces of forest. Gnarled roots gave way to broken stones and pounded ash, and they felt the sorrowful gloom pressing in on them. But it was as they entered the town that Naeo’s heart failed. Perhaps it was the skeletal carcasses of buildings with their gaping doors and windows, or the blasted walls, scarred by a ferocious fire that she did not dare remember. Or perhaps it was Thoth’s glowering, empty face etched deeply into the crumbling stone. Whatever it was, they found themselves drawing closer to one another, walking as far as possible from the buildings and shadows, trying not to see too much or look too close. There were too many memories here: too much they had tried so hard to forget.

  They passed a row of broken buildings, glancing warily into the recesses, trying not to notice the belongings of those who had lived there: furniture carved from the woods of the forest, now splintered and charred; broken pottery; faded murals on the walls. One mural showed an image of the Valley of Outs between the two forested hills, and in the foreground, the lamplights of Sylva twinkling in the trees. But there was something scrawled across the centre of the mural in black ink or soot. It was a long-beaked bird, hunched like a vulture over the valley as though preparing to feed. The Ibis: the symbol of Thoth’s private legion. They turned away and fixed their eyes ahead, walking swiftly past.

  They reached the end of the street, passing the shattered timber columns of a once-grand building. As they rounded its corner they suddenly halted and stared.

  Ahead of them was a wide plaza strewn with dried weeds. At its centre was a giant statue, towering towards the bleak grey sky. They knew at once what it was. They remembered it from their childhood, from their schoolbooks and their parents’ tales: the Monument of Maat. But it was different from how they remembered it, not only because it was broken and defaced, but also because like everything else, it was in shadow. Its smooth, lovingly carved surface was shrouded in the same miserable gloom as the buildings and rubble. In the past this effigy of Merimaat had glowed, seeming to draw to its surface the barest traces of light. It had been as much a beacon as a statue – a reminder of her presence, her teachings, her love. Now its white stone was covered with freakish, illiterate scrawl and every part of it was chipped or mutilated. An entire arm had been hewn off – the arm that had held the Maat feather; the feather of truth. Both now lay discarded at the corner of the square, the feather in pieces beside the broken remains of delicate fingers. Merimaat was left with only her other, withered hand, turned upwards with an empty palm in that way that Naeo had always found so strange, so mysterious.

  But worst of all, those who had attacked the statue had taken her face. Her beautiful face. It had been set upon by a thousand chisels until nothing remained of that gentle smile, those generous eyes, that radiance.

  “Why would they do that?” murmured Naeo.

  “So we don’t remember,” said Ash, his voice empty. “So we don’t hope.”

  They gazed at the broken statue, trying to understand the hatred that had done this. It was as unfathomable as any atrocity of the Undoing, but there was something worse about this. As Naeo looked at the monument, this beautiful image that had once stood for joy and togetherness and hope, a thought wrapped itself around her like a blanket of ice.

  It had been made into a new kind of symbol.

  It was a monument to despair.

  Sylas laughed and shook his head. “What is it with you and water, Simsi?”

  Simia smiled guardedly. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, the whole reason you got caught up in this was that you threw yourself off the side of a wave into my boat, and now you throw yourself out of—”

  “It’s not funny!” snapped Simia, dropping her eyes.

  He gave her a sidelong look. “Not even a bit?”

  “No,” she said firmly. “If I hadn’t been so pig-headed, we wouldn’t have to walk the rest of the way.” She kicked at a weed. “It was stupid!”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You couldn’t have known it would turn out like this and anyway, as Triste said, we needed to leave the boats behind soon enough anyway. The river isn’t safe near the city.”

  “Sure, but we wouldn’t have had to walk through this!” said Simia, pointing ahead.

  They were on mars
hland, surrounded by clumps of sparse undergrowth and undersized trees, and between them countless pools of filthy, stinking, greyish-brown water. There were still occasional signs of life – a bird flitting between rotting stumps; a broken branch bearing a few green leaves; the splash of something moving in the marshy mud. But there was no doubt that the Barrens were drawing near. These scant sightings of life had become fewer and further between and the dying light was now taking on a greyish hue, killing all the remaining colour. Worst of all was the stench: the chilling, musty scent of rotting vegetation and putrefying sludge.

  They picked their way as carefully as they could between the deepest pools, following Triste’s sure-footed, loping step, but even then they occasionally stumbled into pools of slime that sucked thirstily at their boots.

  It was slow going and already the night was drawing in. As the sky passed through deepening shades of grey, they gave up hope of finding their way on to dry ground before dark. Triste slowed his pace, searching for a place to camp and what scarce dry firewood could be found. Sylas and Simia soon joined the hunt, each scavenging for the smallest piece of wood or brush.

  Simia spotted a large branch and bent down to pick it up, but as she pulled at it she felt it yanked out of her hand. She lifted her head in surprise only to see Triste looming above the reeds, hoisting the branch over his shoulder.

  He smiled down at her. “We’ll share it,” he said.

  She grinned and walked on beside him as they continued through the swamp.

  “Triste, I just wanted to say again how sorry I am. It really was—”

  “It’s done,” said Triste dismissively. “No need to go over it again.”

  He went to move on, but Simia held on to his arm.

  “I need to explain why I was so pig-headed – why I’ve been so rude to—”

  “I understand.”

  “No, you don’t. You see … the thing is—”

  “I remind you of your father,” said Triste softly. For the first time he gave her an unguarded smile – a smile that banished his gloominess and the dark rings beneath his eyes – a smile that was warm and compassionate. “I understand.”

  Simia’s mouth fell open. “You … You saw …”

  “I’m rather good at what I do.”

  Simia grew pale. “You Scried it? When?”

  “A while back, before we set off.”

  Simia turned away.

  He put his hand warmly on her shoulder and turned her back round.

  “Don’t be nice to me,” she snapped, glaring at him. “It makes it worse.”

  “Sorry,” he said, taking his hand away.

  Simia looked him full in the face, now so close, so very close. Her eyes travelled over his features, taking in the angular jaw, the shape of his mouth, the darkness around his eyes, and then the eyes themselves: deep eyes – the eyes that opened her wide.

  Her hand rose haltingly towards his cheek. But then she seemed to think better of it, snapping it away again.

  “It’s all right,” she murmured, walking off into the marsh. “It’s not your fault.”

  Triste started out after her, but Sylas, who had overheard the exchange, came up behind him and pulled him back. “I’ll go,” he said.

  Triste nodded. “Not too far. I’ll set up camp here.”

  Sylas followed her, but did not try to catch up, staying several paces behind. How strange, he thought, that here they were again, on the Barrens, and this time it was Simia who was in tears and he who was trailing behind. At least he could follow her example, because she had known exactly how to be. He walked with her for a while, winding through scrub and mud, wandering on towards the feeble, lifeless smudge of a setting sun.

  When finally she sat down, he sat down too. They were silent, listening to the occasional croaking of a frog or the chirrup of a grasshopper – perhaps the last living things in this ghostly place.

  “I miss him, Sylas,” she said eventually, her voice thick. “I miss him so much.” She took hold of the lapels of her father’s coat, pulling it tight to her chest. She fought her tears, and when they came, they came in deep, swelling sobs that wracked her body but made no sound. These were tears she had shed many times before, quietly, so that no one would know, tears she had first shed not far from here, somewhere on the Barrens. But then she had been alone.

  Sylas shifted to her side, putting an arm around her shoulder and pulling her closer. His gaze followed hers out across the desolate terrain, past the twisted silhouettes of famished trees, out towards the dying sun.

  But he saw none of that. All he saw was his mother’s face, soft and warm but far away, like she was behind glass. Like in the picture still hanging in his room.

  “I know, Simsi,” he said. “I know.”

  The last light had almost died and the marshes were still. The grasshoppers had ceased their song and the rodents and slithering creatures stirred no more.

  They were glad of the fire, while it lasted. Exhausted by the trials and traumas of the day, Simia had already curled up next to it and fallen asleep. She had barely even kept herself awake to eat their dinner of stew and bread. Triste was somewhere out in the darkness, searching for more firewood. The flames were already burning low and it was important to keep it lively while they slept, to deter any animals. And so Sylas found his eyes drifting from the fire to the shadows, wondering what kind of creatures would live in such a place. Eventually he decided that he didn’t really want to know.

  He reached over to his bag and brought out the box that Paiscion had given him, and the Samarok, drawing both closer to the fire. He laid the Samarok carefully in his lap and then pulled open the lid of the box. Placing the box gently down again, he unscrewed the bottle of ink and picked up the quill. It was as light as air but it felt substantial, because what it lacked in weight it gained in other ways: the elegant shaft; the fine detail of the nib; the fact that it just felt important, as if it was destined to write great things.

  Tentatively, he dipped the nib in the ink. He glanced down at the Samarok, seeing its beautiful stones glinting in the firelight, then flicked through the rough-edged pages to the very back. There, after the last entry, were two blank sheets that he had never noticed before. They were unmarked on either side, but that would still only give him four pages to tell his whole story – even the parts that were yet to come. He blew out his cheeks – that would be a challenge.

  He lowered the nib opposite the scrawl of the last writer then closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. Not only did he have to think about what to say, but he assumed he would also have to write in Ravel Runes, which he was not even sure he could do. He cleared his mind as best he could, thought of his first line and then tried to picture the runes that would make up the first two words. In his mind they were even more fluid and shifting than they were on paper, but when he thought he had grasped them well enough, he opened his eyes and lowered the nib. Wincing as it scratched the precious page, he began.

  To his surprise the quill moved swiftly and fluently, completing the first rune in three confident strokes. He did not pause to examine his work because he was already on to the second, and then the next word. Only when he had finished these two words did he stop and cast his eye back. Even as he looked the runes altered, taking a new, more coherent form:

  “My name”

  He smiled. This wasn’t as difficult as he had thought. He closed his eyes again, concentrated for a moment and then resumed his writing. The quill moved more gracefully than before, and soon it was looping and dancing across the page. This time he looked back as he wrote, his eyes tracing the runes he had written even before the ink was dry, seeing them shifting and morphing. The effect was startling at first but beautiful, and Sylas felt his heart quicken.

  Moments later he had completed his first two sentences and he turned the book towards the firelight, admiring his handiwork. He read the words out loud:

  “My name is Sylas Tate and I am not a Bringer. I am my mother’s
son, and that seems to be enough.”

  He lowered the book and grinned; that was a good start.

  Suddenly a low, barely audible hiss seeped out of the night.

  “I am my mother’s s-s-s-son!”

  Sylas started. Then he heard it again, this time from the other side of the camp.

  “I am my mother’s s-s-s-son … that should be enough.”

  He sprang to his feet. “Simia!” he shouted. “Simia, wake up!”

  She looked up with bleary eyes, pushing back her blanket.

  “Did you hear it?” he whispered.

  Simia said nothing, her eyes searched the darkness beyond the halo of fire. Then it came again – a low hiss – louder this time, closer.

  “Do you h-h-h-hear it?”

  “The fire!” cried Simia, looking frightened. “Get closer! Quickly!”

  “Why? What is it?”

  “Just come! Now!” She kicked at the embers, sending up a shower of sparks.

  “DO YOU H-H-H-HEAR IT?” echoed the voice in the dark.

  “And so it seems certain: the Undoing is not just about empire or culture or politics or greed. For the Suhl, it is about life and death.”

  THE NOISES CAME FROM all sides. It was not one sound but several – a chorus of eerie whispers drifting around them, taunting them, moving close and then sliding away.

  “Little ones-s-s-s …” hissed one voice.

  “So s-s-s-small,” whispered another.

  As Sylas peered out into the darkness, he saw a mist forming before his eyes. It passed away as quickly as it had formed, and then reappeared. His breath was clouding in front of his face.

  “Why’s it so cold?” he murmured.

  Suddenly he felt an overpowering chill clawing through his clothes and biting his face. It was a vicious, painful cold that passed quickly into his bones and seized his muscles.

  He turned to Simia and shouted through clenched teeth: “What’s happ—”

  Then something hit him. It came at him from the front, colliding head-on. It was not solid nor could he feel its touch. Instead it seemed to enter him, passing through skin, flesh and bone, bringing with it a new, paralysing, hideous cold that lodged itself in the very centre of his chest. There it lingered, spreading outwards through his torso and limbs, infusing them with an awful, aching emptiness, smothering all feeling and warmth. As his limbs faltered and he began to stagger, his mind was filled with a horrifying nothingness: a black, meaningless void that felt like madness.