by Jen Williams
Somewhere behind the fog of rage Frith knew there was something he should be doing, a place he needed to be, but the sight of Fane’s broad shoulders vanishing around the curve of the spiral staircase was more than he could take. No, he would make time for this. Could he let the killer of his father and brothers just run away? Unwanted, an image of Tristan rose in his mind, bloodied and broken. Tristan, who had only just started training with a wooden sword, who still needed a lamp by his bedside to get to sleep at night.
There would be time, or else he would go down with the tower.
He ran up after him, following the sound of his rapid footsteps into a wider, more spacious room. For a few seconds Frith was disorientated as memory and sight folded and doubled; this was the old jarl’s study, where he had once taken tea and slightly stale bread with his father, an eon ago. The bookcases were empty now and the tapestries were gone, but there were the same tall glass doors looking out onto the small stone balcony, and the same high-backed chair where his father had sat.
Fane was dragging bags of coins from the desk and shoving them into a leather pack. He glanced up at Frith, and his face twitched with a mixture of irritation and apprehension.
‘You and I are done, Frith. You want gold? Take it. There’s enough here for you to start a new life somewhere else.’ His lip curled. ‘Bethan should have made sure you were dead. Never leave a woman to do a man’s work.’
‘We are far from done.’ Frith drew his sword. So it would be this way then. He might not be able to control the power of the mages, but thanks to the healing properties of the lake he could wield a sword with skill again. ‘You killed my family, tortured them, destroyed our home.’
‘I did not.’
Frith’s grip on his sword tightened until it hurt.
‘You ordered it! Why? Why even come here?’
‘Why? Because you were rich, and I was not. Or, at least, not as rich as I wished to be, and that’s all that matters really.’ He shoved the last of the coin purses into the pack and slung it over his shoulder. The black rusted helm he’d been carrying in the market was on the desk, and he took it and slipped it over his head so that his brown eyes were narrow and sly. As Frith watched, the rough metal began to glow with the same shapes as those embedded in the gauntlets of the Children of the Fog. Fane grinned.
‘You seek to frighten me with your pretty armour?’ spat Frith, although in truth he was unnerved. Fighting three or four of this large man would be no easy task.
‘Can you guess what it does?’ asked Fane. He drew the sword hung at his side and launched into an immediate attack. He didn’t split and shimmer to become two or three people, and the move was clumsy and obvious. Frith parried it with ease and swept in with a swift stab at the man’s shoulder. To his surprise, Fane spread his arms wide and let him pierce him with the sword; he felt the point of his blade sink into yielding flesh and hit bone beneath. Confused by the ease of his victory Frith withdrew, only to watch the wound close up without spilling a drop of blood. Fane’s grin grew even wider.
‘It is a fine trick, is it not? My blood can only be spilled in honour of Bezcavar, and the power he grants for that is great.’
And then Fane lunged, fighting with the fury and recklessness of a man who knows he cannot be injured. His sword flew through the air, again and again, until it was all that Frith could do to defend himself, let alone cut the outlaw to pieces. He was turned around, forced beyond the desk to the glass doors of the balcony. Fane was grinning, a thin line of saliva leaking from his stretched lips, when there was a meaty thud and his relentless smile faltered. The big man turned slightly to reveal the hilt of a dagger protruding from his shoulder. Wydrin stood in the door to the room, the strange goggles pushed up onto her forehead, making her hair stick up on end. She ignored Fane and glared at Frith.
‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at?’
‘The helm, it makes him—’
‘We don’t have time for this!’
She ran past Fane without another glance and shoved Frith through the glass doors, which crashed open. Some of the panels fell out and smashed to the floor.
‘Unhand me, woman!’ cried Frith. ‘I must kill him, don’t you see? I must—’
‘Even if it means your death? You idiot!’
She pulled Frith up to the balcony ledge, and that was when a tremendous roar filled the air. For a brief second Frith thought of the terrible dragon that had emerged from the ruins of the Citadel, and then the entire tower seemed to lurch under his feet. There was a thunderous, ear-splitting screech as tons of masonry suddenly found that its foundations had turned to powder.
‘You owe me one,’ said Wydrin, before taking his arm and jumping from the tower.
37
Later, much later, when Wydrin tried to recall the leap from the Queen’s Tower, she found she could only remember fragments, like the brightly coloured pieces of a broken vase.
And when she faltered over the telling of the tale her audience would normally call loudly for the truth, convinced that not even the notoriously reckless Copper Cat would jump from such a distance, and eventually Wydrin learned to grin and do what she was best at; order another round of drinks, and make the rest up.
In truth, privately she would pore over the details that were left to her and marvel that they survived at all. She remembered a great cloud of dust rising up from the base of the tower as the bottom section crumbled, a plume of grey smoke covering them like a shroud. She remembered holding tight to Frith’s arm, his touch warm and solid, and then she lost him, unable to keep a hold as the ground approached. She remembered the scent of fire and the evening sky lit with stars, and a jarring impact that forced the hilt of her own dagger into her stomach, winding her badly, and the sudden lightness of her head as the Secret Keeper’s goggles flew off to shatter elsewhere. And then there was, thankfully, the golden smell of hay in her nostrils.
‘Of all the luck,’ said Crowleo for possibly the tenth time. Wydrin had lost count. ‘You couldn’t have known there would be something there to break your fall.’
They were seated around a table in The Alynn’s Pride, with several plates of fresh meat and vegetables steaming away in front of them and more tankards of ale than even Wydrin could safely drink. Pinehold was free and prosperous once more.
The commotion had taken some time to calm down, with many of the townspeople believing that Fane himself had destroyed the Queen’s Tower, and although all the guards had been killed or driven from the town in the ensuing chaos, a number of people had died in the fighting. Initially, there were those who demanded the three adventurers be taken prisoner, for reckless endangerment if nothing else, until Dreyda had stepped forward and quietly explained everything. Wydrin had been impressed with that. The Regnisse had an icy, precise manner that dampened the outrage and turned the townspeople friendly, grateful even. Now Frith wore a fine bearskin cloak with a silver pin, and at her hip Wydrin had a brand new short sword. It was fine work, the blade as sharp as a winter chill, and the pommel glittered with a piece of the blue crystal they’d salvaged from the Secret Keeper’s broken goggles. They had been unable to find Ashes, her beloved dagger, amongst the wreckage of the tower; much like the body of Fane. Equally, there was no sign of Roki, although a few of the townspeople claimed to have seen him running through the southern gate shortly after the explosion, cradling what was left of his hand.
‘Luck? Skill and forward thinking, more like,’ she said, waving a chicken leg for emphasis. ‘I took note of the hay carts beneath the tower as I ran towards it, of course. It’s not my fault you are so unobservant.’
Next to her, Dreyda coughed with laughter.
‘Born under lucky words,’ she said. ‘I knew it as soon as I saw you.’
There were a few moments of silence then. Wydrin looked at Sebastian. He’d taken a number of small injuries in the fighting, but it had been days since the tower had fallen and he still looked ill and withdrawn. His
smiles were brief things, like the sun poking through on an overcast day, and he seemed to have little energy for conversation, instead making the occasional comment and looking away. She was worried about him.
Lord Frith looked as stern as ever, distracted even, and yet they had won a great victory here. It was all quite annoying really. Wydrin threw the gnawed bone down on the plate and wiped her greasy fingers on her shirt sleeves.
‘Speaking of words,’ she said, raising her eyebrows at Dreyda, ‘I believe you wanted to speak to our princeling about the mages.’
Frith looked up sharply.
‘What have you said to her?’
Wydrin waved at him dismissively. ‘Oh, keep your britches on. You’ve not exactly been hiding it, have you?’
Dreyda leaned forward, her thin face intent.
‘It is true, then? You have absorbed the power of the mages?’
Frith glowered at Wydrin.
‘It hardly matters. The power is largely useless. It bursts forth without any say so from me, yet when I wish it to do something, the magic remains dormant.’
Dreyda raised her eyebrows.
‘By all the words – it is true, then. Where did you find such a thing? We thought that the last traces of the mages had all been long discovered.’
‘Lord Frith gained his powers in the bowels of the Citadel at Creos,’ said Sebastian. His voice and face were grim. ‘A place where we also unleashed a terrible creature on the world.’
Dreyda looked horrified.
‘It is forbidden, strictly forbidden, to explore the Citadel.’
‘Well, it’s all rubble now, so I don’t imagine it makes much difference,’ said Wydrin.
Frith ignored her, leaning over the table to focus his attention on the fire-priestess.
‘You know of the mages, then? Can you tell me why the magic is so unreliable?’
Dreyda nodded gravely.
‘Our sect reveres the mages as repositories of great wisdom. We aim to use what knowledge they left us to bring peace and better lives for all. I can tell you some of what you need to know.’ She paused to take a sip of her ale, and Wydrin saw Frith bristle with impatience. ‘It makes sense that you are unable to use the power as you wish, I’m afraid. The ancient magic was said to be tied to the emotions of the mages. The most terrible were those who could not control their anger.’
‘I was filled with rage when I first laid eyes on Fane, so the flames came forth. I was frustrated and angry in the tower, so the magic held everything still.’
‘It works through the medium of your most powerful emotions,’ agreed Dreyda.
‘That can’t be entirely right,’ said Wydrin. ‘You healed my fractured arm just after we arrived in Litvania. That magic worked.’
Frith frowned, but said nothing. Sebastian cleared his throat.
‘So how did the mages control it?’ he asked.
‘By using the correct words.’ Dreyda rolled up her sleeves, revealing the closely packed blue and black letters etched into her skin. ‘An ancient language. The fire-priests of Relios have studied it for hundreds of years.’
‘Words?’ asked Wydrin.
‘The words are control,’ said Dreyda. ‘You write something down, and it becomes fixed in place.’
‘But without the magic of the mages your words are all useless,’ said Wydrin.
Dreyda smiled thinly.
‘One day, child, you will learn that the written word is powerful precisely because anyone can use it. We learn the words and find great meaning in them, even if we lack the raw power of the mages to work spells.’
‘How does it work?’ asked Frith. His grey eyes were ablaze.
‘They would bind their bodies with the words, and the words would act as a conduit for the magic, forcing it along certain paths.’
Wydrin’s eyes widened.
‘Remember the Culoss?’ she said. ‘Their bandages looked like they once had writing on them, and they said they were created by the mages.’
‘You must tell me all you know immediately,’ said Frith. ‘You must teach me every one of these words.’
For a moment it looked as though Frith was going to reach across the table and grab Dreyda’s tattooed arms. She hurriedly withdrew them.
‘These are not the right words. The words we took from the mages’ teachings were the words for peace, words of wisdom. You require the forbidden texts. We long thought the power of the mages lost for ever, but even so the last words of power were hidden away. To keep them safe. To keep us all safe.’
Frith thumped his fist against the wooden slats of the tavern wall, causing a shower of dust that glittered gold in the sunlight from the window.
‘By all the gods! And where are those?’
Dreyda sat back in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest. Wydrin thought for a moment that she wasn’t going to speak again, but in the end she looked down at the table and gave the smallest shrug.
‘It is no secret, not to the children of the Regnisse, anyway, although you would be a fool to go there.’
‘Where?’ said Frith again.
‘Whittenfarne,’ said Dreyda, her voice a whisper now. ‘Whittenfarne in the Nowhere Isles.’
38
Emerald-green blood dripped onto the red sands of Relios. Ephemeral, until recently known as the Thirty-Third, found she couldn’t look away from it. Her sister knelt on the ground alone, while the rest of the brood army crowded against the walls of the ruins. Y’Ruen loomed above them all, her enormous claws scratching huge furrows in the ancient brickwork, and all around there was silence. A number of words occurred to Ephemeral in the darkness of her own head: threat, danger, alarm, betrayal. Death.
And who else has participated in this folly with you?
Mother’s voice rang in all their heads at once. Talisman, who had once been the Ninety-Seventh, cringed, her body trembling all over. The initial lash from the dragon’s tail had been little more than a tap, but it had easily broken half the bones in Talisman’s face, and now blood was oozing from her nose and mouth. She tried to speak, and instead spat a mouthful of blood and teeth into the dust.
That’s it, child. Tell me who else has these false names.
The Ninety-Seventh made another strangled noise. When she gets the words out, I will be up there with her, sharing the punishment, thought Ephemeral. Crocus and I will be bleeding into the dust too. More words came: fear, despair, pain.
Why you ever thought anyone but your mother could name you, I will never know. For a moment Y’Ruen sounded amused. Ephemeral felt her stomach turn over. Their mother contained no real humour, because humour required you to see things from another’s perspective. There was no mercy in Y’Ruen, no empathy. And no humanity.
The dragon shifted her huge bulk on the wall, causing a small cascade of stones and dust.
Tell me. Now.
This is it, thought Ephemeral. She sought out the Twelfth in the crowd, now Crocus, and saw her pressed amongst her sisters, her eyes wide with fear. How different she seemed to them now, although Ephemeral wasn’t really sure why. We’ve never felt this before, she thought, this fear of our lives being ended. Not truly.
‘There’s no one,’ said the Ninety-Seventh suddenly. Her voice was thick with blood and slurred, but loud enough for them all to hear it. ‘There’s only ever been me. I was the one with the book, no one else chose their own name.’
Ephemeral’s breath caught in her throat. More words came: deceit, lies, shock. Hope. Why is she lying? Why is she protecting us? The brood army were one, a single unit moving together. To lie to one part of it to save another made no sense. It was unthinkable.
That is what you are saying, is it? All the fake good humour had vanished from Y’Ruen’s voice. She lowered her huge scaled head, deepening the shadows around the Ninety-Seventh. That is what you choose?
‘I choose to be Talisman,’ said the Ninety-Seventh. ‘To be me.’
There was a low growl of anger from Y’Ruen, so l
oud that the ground beneath them shook. Her tail lashed out once more, the very end curling around the body of the Ninety-Seventh like a vast snake, covering her up to her neck, and then she flexed, just once. The sound of bones shattering was terribly loud within the walls of the ruins, and Ephemeral watched as her sister vomited a great river of green blood. When it was over, Y’Ruen dropped the body on the floor and took to the skies again. The brood army moved listlessly for a moment, uncertain what to do until the call came from their mother to move on again.
‘She was brave.’
Ephemeral turned to find Crocus at her side. Her voice was low and she wasn’t looking directly at her; instead her brood sister also seemed unable to look away from the crushed body of Talisman.
‘Brave,’ agreed Ephemeral. She tested the word in her mouth, tasting it and all the other words it brought to mind. Strength, risk, choice. She took her sister’s hand and squeezed it. ‘Talisman was brave, and we shall be braver.’
39
A few days later, Wydrin and Sebastian walked through the forest in the early afternoon’s light to visit Crowleo. The apprentice had gone back to the Secret Keeper’s house to see if there was anything salvageable left amongst the blackened timbers. Frith had left the tavern they were staying in earlier that day, muttering something about some business he had to wrap up. Wydrin had still been in bed at that time, of course.
‘It’s a fine day,’ she said, nodding at the greenery around them. The forest itself seemed a more forgiving place with the disappearance of Fane; sunshine filtered through the leaves, casting a cool green light over everything, and from all around there were the sounds of small animals and birds preparing for another day of virulent life. ‘When it’s like this I can almost see why he wanted to come back here.’
Sebastian grunted in response, not looking up from his feet. He was paler this morning, with dark circles under his eyes, and he’d barely touched their breakfast of eggs and cured sausage.