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

by Sean Williams

  “That depends,” he said slowly.

  “On what?’

  “On how the hearing goes.”

  “Well, there are certain things we can assume,” she said. “Sal’s bargain with the golem led to the death of two people. That fact can’t be ignored. Similarly, there’s no doubt that Shilly will be found guilty of necromancy—too many people witnessed her doing it to judge otherwise. The question is: what will the Conclave do with two children who have caused so much trouble? Setting them free could be dangerous, but locking them up could be seen as unjust. I am keen to know what the decision will be, in order to prepare contingencies.”

  “And you’re asking me?” Skender said. “How should I know?”

  “I’m not asking you that. I’m asking you what Sal and Shilly will do in response to the decision, whatever it might be.”

  “Why don’t you ask them yourself?”

  “We are, after a fashion.”

  Skender almost groaned. He glimpsed hidden purposes and dark secrets in the woman’s intense gaze. The casual use of the pronoun “we” hinted at conspiracies and agendas he still wanted no part of.

  “Why should I tell you?”

  She smiled. “Because you want to go home.”

  Until he heard the words spoken, he hadn’t realised that it was true. He was tired of death and pain and fear. A large part of him longed to be safe in the Keep, where he knew everyone and everything had its place. He wanted to see his father again. He wanted familiarity.

  The glow of Braunack’s light made him feel sad because it was the light of the Interior: that of molten iron, not cold-moon silver. The hollowness in his chest was homesickness, and had been all along.

  “You’re here to threaten me, then,” he said. “If I don’t talk, I don’t go home.”

  “Not at all.” Braunack shook her head. “I am leaving with Belilanca Brokate in three days in order to be home in time for the next Synod. If you choose to come with me, you are welcome to do so. The Conclave has no argument with you. You are free to go any time you want. But it could be weeks—even months—before another caravan goes all the way. You’ll be stuck here until then.

  “I just want some idea of what Sal and Shilly are likely to do if the wardens decided to confine them to the city, say, or to set them loose, or to separate them. That way I can best decide what my response will be to the wardens’ suggestion.”

  Skender nodded, conceding that her explanation made a kind of sense, even if it did smack of blackmail. And covert deals. Why else would she have come to talk to him in the middle of the night?”

  “All right,” he said, “I’ll tell you what I think. But not because I’m helping you. I just want Shilly and Sal to get what’s right for them.”

  “Believe me, that’s what we all want, too.”

  He nodded, remembering his glimpse of Sal and Shilly in the tunnel after the ghost and the golem had been defeated. Part of him envied the bond between them. It went beyond just shared experiences. He could see now what his father—and Lodo, and the Mage Erentaite—meant when they said that Sal and Shilly complemented each other perfectly. She was dark where he was light. He was rich in the Change while she had something arguably much more important: a clear understanding of the Change. They fitted together like lock and key.

  He hadn’t been sure where that left him, though. Sal and Shilly’s biggest battles still lay ahead of them, and Skender wanted to help them—or try to help. He was useful when they needed charms and information, or a friend. That they might not need him forever had saddened him at first. Now he was certain that, despite the sadness, he knew what was best for all three of them.

  “If you want to help them, then letting them go would be the right thing to do. They don’t want to be cooped up here like prisoners. That’s how Sal feels, you know, and Shilly will run with that, assuming she can get Lodo out as well.”

  “Even though she wants to be trained?”

  “I think that’s less of a priority, at the moment.”

  “Would separation help? Of her and Sal, I mean.”

  “It would be a disaster. They want to stay together, and no one has the right to tear them apart. They’d fight that decision even harder than they’d fight being kept here.”

  “How will they fight?”

  Skender shrugged. “I don’t know, but you can bet they’ll find a way. They’ve been trying to escape ever since they arrived here. Look where that’s got them. Imagine if they really tried. Ghosts and golems are just a warm-up.”

  Braunack seemed suitably appalled at that thought. “What about if they were expelled from the city?”

  “That’d probably suit them down to the ground.”

  “Really? Sal would be cut off from the only family he has left. And they have no means to travel.”

  “Well, for a start, I wouldn’t worry about Sal and his family. I don’t think the Mierlos are going to shed any tears over him. Not now.”

  “There’s his father.”

  “His mother’s kidnapper. I wouldn’t put money on those two ever being best of buddies.”

  “All right.” The skin around Braunack’s eyes tightened slightly. “But that still leaves Shilly’s training, and the issue of transport. They’re very young. They have no means to earn a living. What will they do?”

  “They’ll always be welcome at the Keep.”

  “If they can get there.”

  “They did it before. If they set their minds to it, they’ll do it again. All they have to do is smuggle themselves onto the caravan with us and get away from the Haunted City. Belilanca Brokate won’t send them back.”

  “Is that what you think they’ll do? The Synod sent them back here the last time they tried to go to the Interior. Would they really risk that again?”

  Skender stared at her in surprise. “The Synod wouldn’t kick them out again—would it?”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, things are completely different now. There’s nothing for them here. Things didn’t work out with Sal’s family; it all went wrong. How could the Synod think it’d be the right thing to do? Whoever wanted them here in the first place would have to change their mind.”

  “You’re missing an important point, Skender.” Braunack’s eyes gleamed in the depths of the shadows cast across her face. “You’re assuming that this is a fight over who wants access to Sal and Shilly. And that is true, to a certain extent. But there exists another group with a quite different agenda. The opposite, in fact.”

  Skender opened his mouth to ask her what she was talking about when the meaning of her words sunk in. The opposite of those who wanted Sal and Shilly were those who didn’t want Sal and Shilly—who were, presumably, arguing behind the scenes to keep them at a determined arm’s length.

  “Why?” Skender asked weakly. “What’s wrong with Sal and Shilly? Are they dangerous?”

  “They could be. That’s part of what being a wild talent is all about.” Braunack leaned back in her seat and folded her hands before her. “Too much is uncertain, Skender. The future is in a state of flux, and much depends on how we behave right now. We have played an important role in keeping Sal and Shilly tied to established methodologies, but it is, perhaps, time they decided for themselves what path they will take.”

  “So that’s what the Conclave is going to decide?” he asked, remembering that Mawson had spoken similarly of the ambiguity of the future, and wondering how anyone could ever be certain of anything. “Sal and Shilly are going to be set free?”

  “I can’t say that,” said the mage. “No one can. The Conclave will make its decision, the same way the Synod did.”

  “But you—”

  “I’m just an interested party.” Braunack rose softly to her feet. “Don’t mistake me for something I’m not.”

  She raised the glow-stone to her li
ps and uttered a short string of words. The light dimmed and went out.

  “Thank you, Skender,” whispered her shadow, looming over the bed. “You have helped me reach a difficult decision. Sleep well.”

  She glided around the bed and to the door. It swung open, spilling silver mirror-light into the room. Skender’s night-adjusted eyes caught sight of a hand holding the door open for her, and the face of someone who had kept a watch while Braunack visited him. The face was a familiar one: it belonged to Shom Behenna.

  I’ve done what they told me to do. The words the ex-warden had spoken to Radi Mierlo came back with perfect clarity. They knew they could trust me, and I’ve proved them right.

  Perhaps Shom Behenna had found his reward after all.

  Radi Mierlo’s face floated up from memory…

  “Three days, huh?”

  Kemp’s voice made Skender squeak with surprise.

  “Goddess! One more shock like that and it’ll be the end of me.”

  Kemp chuckled. “Serves you right for sneaking around in the dark while people are trying to sleep.”

  “It wasn’t me doing the sneaking.”

  “Whatever. It’ll be quiet around here without you guys.”

  There was a hopefulness in the albino’s voice that made Skender wonder if he was about to ask if he could come to the Keep. The thought struck him as ridiculous until he thought it through. Kemp’s pale skin would fit in perfectly up north, and it wasn’t as if he was having a ripsnorter of a time in the Haunted City, or had much to look forward to back in Fundelry. Perhaps it wasn’t so ridiculous after all…

  But it was the middle of the night. “I’m tired,” Skender said. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

  “No worries.” He heard Kemp shifting on his bed. “I guess no one’s going anywhere tonight.”

  I hope not, thought Skender to himself as he tried in vain to go back to sleep.

  Chapter 18. Submission to the Future

  The Syndic rapped three times on the floor with her stout wooden staff. The echoes rang out over the assembly waiting to hear the verdict, watched over by the giant sea creature mural in the ceiling, with its single, glowing eye. Instead of the five silver and gold-robed judges appointed to inquire into the death of Sal’s grandmother, no less than forty-three members of the Conclave had turned out to judge this case. It would have been forty-four, Sal had overheard someone say, except for the requirement that the number of judges must always be a prime. That way, there could be no ties when it came time to cast a judgment.

  And it was time, at last.

  “The evidence has been gathered before you all,” rang out the Syndic’s voice, “and the examination of this affair is complete.” Luan Braunack hadn’t joined her this time, as at Radi Mierlo’s inquest: since neither Sal nor Shilly were legally Interior nationals, the Syndic had no need to check with her that everything had gone according to the rules. “All that remains is to cast judgment.”

  Every gaze in the hall turned to the judges behind her. “What say you?” she asked. “How does the Strand decide in these matters?”

  Sal held his breath.

  “We find,” said the first spokesperson for the judges, “that the Golden Tower should be studied with maximum discretion in order to ascertain the truth of its nature. We will contact the Interior Synod to advise them that they should seek a similar artefact beneath the Nine Stars, and we will mount an expedition to the Broken Lands to do the same there. Once the truth has been revealed, the chamber or chambers containing the Tower will be sealed and all knowledge pertaining to it will be restricted to the highest ranks only. This way we hope to ensure that the power contained within the Golden Tower will not be abused again.”

  Sal had expected that, although he thought the argument against it had merit. The Golden Tower was only dangerous if people didn’t know what it was for. Perhaps someone in the distant past had made just this decision, and all knowledge of the Tower had fallen by the wayside as a result. Who was to say that these circumstances wouldn’t arise again: that a golem wouldn’t tempt another innocent in a world that had similarly forgotten the dangers?

  That was for the future to worry about, he supposed. Clearly the Conclave thought so, too.

  “On the matter of the ghosts,” said another spokesperson, “we find that their presence comprises no direct threat to the citizens of the Haunted City. Only when summoned can they do any harm. In order to deter such a summoning, necromancy will remain a Category A crime, punishable by expulsion from the Haunted City.”

  A mutter rose up from the audience at that. Sal had expected this result, too. It would take more than the odd death to require the wardens to uproot their entire government and leave the island. Rather than do that, they would simply discourage people from taking risks by maintaining the high penalty. It was quite likely that the original stigma attached to necromancy had been to protect against such occurrences. Once again, the reason for the ban had been lost in the mists of time.

  Two aisles across, he saw Shilly swallow. He knew what she was thinking. The Conclave didn’t keep her waiting long.

  “Therefore,” said a third voice, “on the matter of Shilly of Gooron, we find her guilty of necromancy and recommend that she be punished accordingly. She may live freely in the Strand provided she does not attempt to practise or teach the Change, or re-enter the Haunted City. Any deviation from this course will result in exile beyond our borders.”

  Expulsion. Exile. Shilly’s face froze into the familiar mask behind which she hid her most powerful emotions. Sal couldn’t tell if she was happy or sad about the decision, or whether the decision being taken away from her altogether had made her angry. He wasn’t sure how he himself felt, yet. It would depend entirely on what happened to him.

  “We find,” said a fourth voice, “that the combination of Shilly of Gooron and Sal Hrvati is a potent one. The evidence points to a strong and synergistic meeting of talents, one that should have been nurtured from an early age. The fact that they did not meet until relatively late in life has had a profound effect on the combination. We mourn what might have been under other circumstances, and defer to caution in the matter of what might result if they are allowed to continue unchecked.

  “We find that Sal Hrvati should remain in the Haunted City to complete whatever training is possible of his wild talent. He will be bound to ensure his cooperation and the safety of those around him. Master Warden Atilde will be authorised to use whatever means are necessary to ensure these ends. That is all.”

  Sal’s head rang with the words in the short silence that followed. Shilly was being kicked out while he was going to be imprisoned. The result couldn’t have been worse. He couldn’t look at Shilly as the ramifications slowly sank in. The Syndic’s closing remarks barely impinged upon his consciousness.

  “Very well,” she said, turning back to face the audience. “The judgment of the Strand has been heard on this matter. Unless or until evidence to the contrary is presented, that is the way the ruling will stand. All decisions will be enforced—”

  “Wait.”

  The interruption came from a most unexpected quarter. Heads turned to stare at the Alcaide where he had risen from his seat in the front row.

  “As Alcaide of the Strand,” he said, “I have the power to veto judgments cast by the Conclave.”

  “That is correct.” The Syndic was staring at him as though he’d gone mad. “Do you wish to exercise that power now?”

  “Yes.”

  A growing whisper spread through the chamber until the Syndic rapped her staff to silence it. Sal felt the stirrings of hope.

  They were quickly dashed.

  “I do not challenge the decision itself,” the Alcaide said, his burned head standing out brightly at the centre of the hall. “I dispute only the sentencing. Sending a girl out into the Strand alone is callous and i
rresponsible. She deserves a second chance. I require that Shilly be kept here in the Haunted City and trained as is suitable for her talents, with two provisions: she will have no access to the Change or to Sal. She too will be bound, as required to enforce those two conditions. If they are not met, then the original sentence will take effect. That is my decision.”

  The Alcaide sat down. The Syndic, tight-lipped, rapped her staff again.

  “So be it,” she said. “Let the amended ruling stand. All efforts will be made to ensure that the sentences are carried out immediately.”

  There were no protests. Sal felt a moment of panic as the knot of attendants surrounding him closed in, preventing him from moving as the Alcaide, Syndic and judges filed from the room. The crowd began to break up, talking excitedly among themselves. Sal could no longer see Shilly over his guards, even when he stood up on tiptoes.

  “She’s okay,” said the nearest attendant, the woman who spoke to him more pleasantly than the others, “and she will be okay. She can have a good future here, if she wants. She could even become one of us.” She indicated the attendants with a sweep of one hand.

  Sal bit his tongue on a sharp retort. He couldn’t imagine Shilly settling for a life of anonymity and servitude, but he didn’t want to belittle this woman’s choice. It wasn’t her fault the Alcaide had chosen that way.

  The crowd thinned, its babble fading to a murmur then a whisper. Sal couldn’t believe that this was how it was going to end. There had to be a mistake. It was worse than the Nine Stars, when the Stone Mage Synod had decided to send him and Shilly back to the Strand.

  When the whisper of the crowd had completely faded, a timeless silence engulfed the chamber, followed by the slamming of the chamber’s doors. The cluster of attendants surrounding Sal loosened, allowing him to see again. He was ushered forward, with Shilly, to the centre of the room where the Syndic and several Sky Warden aides were waiting. To one side stood Highson Sparre and Sal’s uncle, Ranan. Both wore grim expressions.