The Storm Weaver & the Sand (Books of the Change)

by Sean Williams

  Sal’s uncle and aunt stepped forward. Between them they held the glass urn. As the sun slipped below the horizon, they raised it between them and held it aloft for a moment while the warden said a few more words.

  “We consign these ashes to the sea, where they may mingle with the world’s waters and spread to cover the earth. Radi Mierlo, beloved of those gathered here today, may you rest in peace and be forever missed. From the Void you came and to the Void you return. So be it.”

  With a cry of grief, Sal’s uncle and aunt hurled the glass urn over the edge. There was a moment’s silence, then from far below came the sound of glass smashing on rocks. Sal’s aunt fell sobbing into the arms of her brother, and her husband and children closed in to comfort her.

  Sal didn’t feel any grief, but he felt bad for those who did. His guilt urged him to offer some form of apology or recompense, but how that would be possible was beyond him. As the stars came out one by one above them, and the blank faces of the towers turned from pink to grey to black, he stood in silence, unaware of just how tightly he was squeezing Shilly’s hand until he let it go.

  “Is that it?” asked Skender restlessly.

  “No, there’s more.” Highson smiled at the boy. “There’s a memorial to plant.”

  “Why are they using Strand customs?” asked Tom. “I thought she was from the Interior.”

  “Well, you thought right. She was cremated, which is an Interior tradition, but I doubt her family could afford a full burial at sea, so they probably had no choice there.” Sal’s real father shrugged. “I suppose it’s an appropriate blend of who she was and who she wanted to be.”

  The knot of grieving Mierlos loosened. Sal’s uncle and aunt picked up the stone totem between them and led a procession from the stone lookout back into the city. Stars were beginning to appear in the darkening sky above. Sal, bringing up the rear with the others, was sad to abandon them quite so soon. He missed them in the claustrophobic canyons of the city, where the sky was little more than a remote sliver.

  They wound in silence through the narrow streets. Passers-by occasionally stopped in respect, but most walked on, wrapped up in their own concerns. That struck Sal as the most profound thing of the entire ceremony: that no matter how important Radi Mierlo was to her own family and how dramatic an effect she had had on Sal’s life, or how awful her death had been, most of the world had never known who she was. Her absence would be noted only by a few dozen people; whether they mourned or celebrated was largely irrelevant.

  He wondered if it would be the same with him. After all the effort some people had expended to ensnare him in their traps, would his death make much difference in the greater scheme of things? Would the Weavers—whoever they were—just shrug their shoulders and move on to the next promising wild talent?

  The procession reached the massive clearing in the centre of the city and fanned out around the section containing his mother’s marker. The one other time he had seen the stone pole carved with Seirian Mierlo’s name, Sal had been unaffected by it, unable to connect it with a living person, especially one he had never known. This time, however, as his grandmother’s marker was planted firmly in the ground next his mother’s, it began to sink in that his mother had been as real as his grandmother—had been a woman who had left behind loved ones and friends, and enemies. She had been a real person, not an iconic image from his distant past with the barest bones of a story attached. He knew her face, now. The picture Gram had given him was kept close, in a pocket near his heart.

  Highson Sparre was standing nearby, hands folded in front of him. “What happened to my mother’s body?” Sal whispered to him.

  His real father didn’t seem startled by the question. “She was cremated, like Radi.”

  “And thrown into the sea?”

  “No. She was sown into the soil on the mainland, as was her wish.”

  “By who?”

  Highson hesitated. “By me.”

  One of the mourners shushed them, and Sal was forced to let the obvious question go unasked. Why would the man who had expended so much energy to track down his treacherous wife honour her with the burial she wanted, when he could just as easily have tossed her remains off the edge of the island, as had just happened with her mother?

  The warden finished installing Radi Mierlo’s marker with a simple charm to protect it from weathering. It stood next to her daughter’s, slightly taller and broader and carved with the names of the family members she left behind. As Sal filed past for a closer look, he was surprised to see his own name there, at the very bottom of the list. He wasn’t surprised, however, to see it written incorrectly as Sal Graaff, his parents’ married name.

  Could I alter that? he wondered. Could I reach down with one finger and make the stone melt to cover the name? Could I make the letters themselves change shape until they spelt “Hrvati”?

  He was tempted to try, knowing how it would irk the Mierlos. But he didn’t seriously consider it. The Change was supposed to be put to more important uses.

  It’s a powerful gift and a terrible responsibility, that’s for sure, Lodo had once said, and big things don’t mix well with little people.

  Sal didn’t want to be a little person—but he was increasingly unsure he wanted the big things, either. It seemed sometimes that he had little choice about the latter. Only the former was under his control.

  Stone Mage Luan Braunack, resplendent in a deep rust-red robe, stepped forward out of the shadows to place a brass collar around the top of the memorial, like a metal cap. Sal hadn’t seen her during the first part of the ceremony. He assumed she had joined the procession on its way back into the city. She didn’t stick around, either. Having put the metal cap in place, she bowed stiffly and left, apparently unaware of the dark looks she earned doing so.

  “What was that all about?” hissed Skender.

  “Point-scoring,” Highson replied, his brown eyes turning to black in the deepening night. “The cap signifies that the person remembered by the memorial was an Interior citizen. Mage Braunack was reminding the family that, try as they might to believe otherwise, the Mierlo Clan remains just that. It will never be a Line of the Strand.”

  “My mother’s doesn’t have a metal cap,” Sal said.

  “That’s because we joined the Rain Line when we wed.” Highson shrugged. “It’s splitting hairs, I know, but there you have it. Politics is ever about this sort of thing.”

  The long-faced warden closed the ceremony with a word of thanks on behalf of the family to everyone who attended. They were grateful, he said, that so many people had turned up to honour their loved one. The words rang hollow at the obvious fact that so few had turned up, beyond the family itself. There were only a few faces Sal didn’t know in the mourning party. If he hadn’t brought his friends with him, it might almost have been just Sal and his real father watching from the sidelines as the family grieved. He hoped his grandmother hadn’t been expecting military honours.

  Shom Behenna was still hovering in the background, glaring from the shadows.

  Shilly nudged him. She too had noticed the ex-warden’s baleful stare.

  “What’s up with him?” she asked.

  “Didn’t you hear about his disciplinary hearing?” asked Tom, whispering conspiratorially.

  Sal and Shilly both turned to face him. “No,” she said, “what happened?”

  “He was formally stripped of his rank.”

  “I thought they did that already,” said Skender.

  “They had to give him a chance to appeal. It didn’t get him anywhere. The charges stuck. Yesterday, the Alcaide destroyed his torc and took away his robes. He has until the end of the week to leave the city.”

  “Where will he go?” asked Shilly.

  “I don’t know,” said Tom, blinking at her as though the question had never occurred to him.

  “What
does it matter?” asked Skender. “The point is, he’s taken a well-deserved fall for what he did.”

  “But what was it you said?” Sal tried to remember how Skender had summarised his grandmother’s conversation with the ex-warden the night they arrived in the Haunted City. “Wasn’t there something about the Weavers contacting him before the hearing?”

  Skender shrugged. “I guess they didn’t.”

  “And I guess they didn’t help him out, either,” said Shilly. “What does that tell us about them?”

  “That they don’t care,” said Sal, “or they don’t exist at all.”

  A twinge of guilt nagged at Sal, deep down. I did this to him, he thought. I encouraged Behenna to break his vows, and the Mage Van Haasteren—who had guessed Sal’s plan and could have warned Behenna—did nothing to prevent it from working. We’re as guilty as the Weavers, in his eyes. We destroyed him.

  But there was nothing he could do about it now. Sal had done the best he could in a difficult situation; it wasn’t as if he’d done it out of malice. Sal had simply opened the trap and let Behenna step into it.

  The ceremony ended. The attendants closed in as the grieving family moved off in a group to their temporary home, not inviting Sal to join them. They seemed to be making a point of not noticing him, even though his aunt had asked him to be there. That was fine with him. When they did notice him, their resentment was obvious. He could live without that.

  “Well, that could have been worse.” Highson’s expression was one of sober relief as the small crowd thinned around them. “I presume you don’t intend sticking around here all night…”

  “No,” said Sal, “we have to get back to the Novitiate.”

  “You know the way?”

  “Yes. Thanks.” Sal felt awkward. “I, uh, guess we’d better go.”

  Highson nodded farewell to him and his friends. “I’ll see you again—soon, I hope.”

  Sal didn’t know how to respond to that, so he let himself be led away in silence. When they reached the edge of the memorial grounds, he looked back. Highson was already gone.

  “He’s not so bad,” said Skender.

  “What do you mean?” Sal responded, more sharply than he intended.

  “Well, just that. He’s not as bad as I thought he would be.”

  “And what did you think he would be?”

  Skender laughed. “Look at you, Sal. You don’t know whether to attack or defend him. I can’t tell you what you should do. I just know that he answers your questions. That counts for something in my book.”

  “And did you notice that no one talks to him?” put in Shilly. “The Mierlos ignore him as much as they ignore us.”

  “Probably for the best,” Skender joked.

  Sal felt his face grow hot. It was true. He didn’t know what to think any more. The reality of Highson Sparre conflicted with the image he had built up in his mind. It had been so much simpler before, when his real father had been a terrible ogre far-off in the distance, someone to avoid and fear.

  The small of Sal’s back itched as they hurried through the streets of the Haunted City. He imagined that he could still feel the cold weight of Behenna’s stare dogging his footsteps, even though there was no sign of the ex-warden behind them. Apart from Sal and his friends, the streets were now empty; the citizens of the Haunted City seemed to have retreated into their makeshift shelters, wary of what else might walk the night. And there was definitely something in the air. For the first time, Sal was glad of the two attendants accompanying them. It was with some relief that he recognised the Novitiate buildings ahead.

  They passed through the entrance without incident and walked the long, windowless corridors to Sal’s room. The lead attendant opened the door and both attendants positioned themselves outside it once Sal and his friends had filed inside. Sal closed the door while the others went to help Aron remove Mawson from his harness. The man’kin had remained silent throughout the funeral ceremony, and Sal was unsure why he had felt the need to be there, but there was no point questioning him. Mawson kept his own counsel.

  Barely had Aron begun undoing the first buckle, however, when there came a solid thump from the other side of the closed door. It didn’t sound like a knock. Opening the door, Sal came face to shadowed face with a hooded, black-robed attendant.

  “What is it?” he asked, not yet alarmed.

  The figure took one step toward him, forcing him back into the room. Only then did he see the bodies of two attendants slumped in the hallway.

  His first thought—bright and sharp, fuelled by fear and guilt—was: Behenna.

  Then the attendant spoke. It wasn’t Behenna. It was far worse.

  “It’s time,” said the golem.

  From the depths of the hood, cold eyes glittered.

  Shilly looked up from helping Aron to see Sal take a hasty step backwards. It was almost a small jump, he moved so quickly. Wrapping his arms tightly around himself, he said, “Did you kill them, too?”

  Fear leached all strength from her good leg as the golem pulled back the hood of its robe and smiled at Sal. It was worse than she had imagined.

  There was Lodo’s face before her—the craggy, tattooed features that were more familiar to her than her own—but they were thin, haggard, and filled with a malevolence that he had never possessed. Lodo’s hair had been torn out in patches, and hung in lank, dirty tangles where it remained.

  This wasn’t the man who had been the only family she had ever known—the man who had raised her, taught her, and ultimately sacrificed himself to save her from those who wanted to take her and Sal captive.

  Skender uttered a small cry, and the face turned to him. “Did I kill them, too?” the golem repeated, drinking in the boy’s fear. “A fair question. Why don’t you find out, Galeus?”

  The use of Skender’s heart-name seemed to give him a speck of strength. “Don’t call me that. I didn’t tell you my name, so you can’t use it.”

  “You’re wrong.” The golem’s smile stretched even wider. “I can use whatever name I like. You!” The creature inhabiting Lodo’s body suddenly pointed at Tom, who recoiled from the attention. “You’ve seen me before. You know what happens. You check the bodies. Galeus will help you drag them inside before someone sees them.” When Tom didn’t move immediately, the golem’s smile disappeared. “Do it,” it snarled, its fingers curling like claws, “or your time will come early.”

  Tom edged around the golem to where the two attendants lay in the hallway. He nervously checked their pulses, and looked up with something like relief. “They’re alive.”

  “That’s right,” said the golem. “I don’t kill unnecessarily. But they’ll be unconscious for a long while. Drag them inside and put them under the bed. If they’re found, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  Skender, barely able to take his eyes off Lodo’s twisted face, edged around the golem and helped Tom drag the bodies into the room. It took all their strength, and Sal went to lend them a hand.

  The golem stepped between him and the others. “Stay away from the door. You’re not going to escape me now.”

  “Why would I?” said Sal, his expression flushed and angry. “We have a deal. There’s no need for all this.”

  “Oh, there’s need.” The golem poked him hard in the chest, making him stagger back a step. “I’ve tried to approach you in the open, but you’re watched too closely. Only in here could I get near you, and even then it was difficult. Ever since your grandmother so tragically passed away, they’ve been extra careful with their prize student. With both of you. You’re watched from the moment you enter to the moment you leave.”

  “But you’ve got us now,” said Sal, “and you’re going to take us to the Golden Tower.”

  “Yes.”

  “You still want us to open it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”


  “That you will find out in good time.”

  “Why did you kill her?” Skender blurted, pale-faced.

  The golem turned on him with an awful, gleeful grin. “Why? Because I could, and to attract Sal’s attention. That’s reason enough.”

  “No one told you to do it?”

  “Of course not. I obey no will but my own.” Skender quailed as the golem loomed over him. “I kill as I please. It would be wise to bear that in mind.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Shilly said, finding her voice but hating the tremor in it.

  “I can’t lie,” the golem spat. “Remember?”

  “You can still trick us. You can let us believe something that’s wrong. You can still…” She stopped as the cold, grey eyes turned to her.

  “Is that so, Carah? Such a pretty name, by the way. The old man couldn’t have done better, had he the chance.”

  The golem reached out a hand to touch her hair. She slapped it away. Its skin was clammy to the touch, and there was too much bone showing even for an old man.

  “Don’t touch me.” Her anger flared brightly. “We didn’t ask for this. This isn’t what we wanted.”

  “Yes, it is. You want the old man back. And you—” The golem pointed at Sal, “—you want to escape. Well, this is the way to get both. If you turn back now, you’ll have neither.”

  The golem didn’t try to touch her again, but that was only a small victory. She hated the way it took things that were dear to her and twisted them into something horrible. First Lodo, then her heart-name. What next?

  I kill as I please. It would be wise to bear that in mind.

  If it was telling the truth, that meant that the Weavers hadn’t ordered it to kill Radi Mierlo. But as the ghost had said, there were ways to deceive using only the truth. Perhaps it was still lying to her, in ways she couldn’t decipher. She didn’t know what to believe, except that Lodo’s body was standing right in front of her, animated by a creature that had already murdered one person and might easily kill again.