by Marc Turner
A sixth of a bell later, he rode into the gatehouse and sent a guard to inform the king of his arrival.
Ebon dismounted. The muscles of his thighs and back were sore from his time in the saddle. He left Vale to stable the horses and headed for a nearby fountain. Cupping his hands to hold the water, he drank until his stomach ached, then washed the dust and dried blood from his face. The sight of his reflection brought a furrow to his brow. A day’s stubble cast a shadow on his chin and jaw, but a darker shadow lurked behind his cold blue eyes. As if the spirits were staring back at me. He needed to speak to Mottle before the King’s Council convened. What had the mage sensed at the forest? Did he know the voices were back? If so, Ebon needed to make sure of his silence.
He followed the ramparts round to the east and entered the Dawn Gate at the foot of Pagan’s Tower. A soldier stepped from the guardhouse to challenge him before moving aside with a hasty salute and a muttered apology. Inside, the coolness of the vaulted stone corridors made Ebon shiver. He kept his gaze on the floor, anxious to avoid the eye of anyone who might slow him with questions. At the Hall of Paths he took the arched portal that led to the East Wing. Its architrave had been sculpted to resemble a row of fangs, making it appear to Ebon that he was stepping into a dragon’s maw. Beyond, the passage ran arrow-straight into the gloom.
The sounds of the palace faded behind until the only noise was the tread of the prince’s footsteps.
It was years since he had last ventured into this section of the fortress. Running his hand along the wall, he could find no cracks or joints, as if the entire building had been carved from a single piece of rock. Over the years a handful of servants had disappeared in this labyrinthine part of the palace, though whether they had become lost or fallen victim to something prowling the leagues of corridors was not known. Ebon had always smiled at the more lurid tales of their fates, yet today he found himself grateful his destination lay but a short distance ahead.
He passed through a second arch and began counting passages to the side. The way sloped downward. As he descended he felt a draft against his face. It strengthened as the moments passed, rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Like breathing. The voices in his head had receded to a murmur. He took the next turn on his right and entered a huge chamber. Dark and featureless, the only light came from long, linear openings in the roof. The wind passing through them carried on it sounds and scents that changed each time the breeze veered: first an icy tingle of mountain air; then a dry rasp of windblown sand; then a moist tang of salt like a memory of the sea.
A crumpled robe lay discarded in the center of the floor. Looking up, Ebon saw Mottle floating naked, high above. The old man’s arms were outstretched to form a cross, and his body was slowly spinning round. Ebon cleared his throat.
Mottle continued turning for a few heartbeats before starting to descend. Barefoot, he touched down beside his clothes.
“I hope I am not interrupting anything,” Ebon said.
“On the contrary, my boy,” the mage replied as he donned his robe. “Mottle is glad you are here. Your coming is like a pebble dropped in a pool of water.”
“Meaning?”
The old man straightened. He had put his robe on back to front, but either had not realized or did not care. Spreading his arms to take in the chamber, he said, “Your presence has sent ripples through the Currents. An image was beginning to take shape, but now all is confusion once more. The fragments are scattered anew, the pieces yet to settle.”
No arguing with that. No understanding it either. “Speak plain, mage.”
“Plain? Why, Mottle is the epitome of clarity and eloquence, though his mind does on occasion wander paths that others cannot follow…” His voice trailed off. “Ah, what was Mottle saying?”
Ebon sighed. “Pebbles.”
“Of course! The stone that triggers the avalanche, yes? It seems you have a pivotal role to play in what is to come.”
“And that is?”
“Unknown, at least for now. Patience is called for. The pattern is still forming, the final picture only hinted at.”
This is like trying to catch a fish in my hands. Every time I think I have him, he wriggles free. Ebon looked up into the empty gloom. “What are you talking about? I see no pattern.”
“No pattern?” Mottle said, aghast. “Why, it is all around you. Can you not sense it? A tremor in the air, a snatch of sound—they are like threads of a tapestry still in the weaving. Some fragments are as young as the words we speak, others as old as time itself.” The old man’s voice was bright with excitement. “The fall of civilizations, the machinations of gods, the endless grinding turn of time’s inexorable wheel: in the end, word of all things reaches this place. No secret can stay hidden forever from Mottle’s perspicacious regard.”
Ebon paused to listen but could make out nothing above the mournful whispering of the spirits in his head. Maybe I’m not the only one who hears voices. “I will have to take your word for it, mage. Your senses are clearly sharper than mine.”
“Perhaps.” Mottle tapped his nose with one finger. “Or perhaps your attention is occupied by other matters at present.”
The spirits’ voices rose in consternation. He knows. Ebon found himself battling against the urge to draw his sword.
Mottle went on, “It is not so hard to detect the Currents, my boy, for those who know how. But perceiving is not the same as understanding, yes? So much information to take in, it can overwhelm the senses. One must learn to separate each fragment from the others.” His gaze was calculating. “To isolate one voice from the crowd.”
“Indeed. And how is this done?”
“By riding the Currents. By surrendering to them—letting them take you where they will. Such is Mottle’s fate, like a leaf borne on the breeze—”
“And what if the Currents drag you under? What if there is no coming back?”
Mottle shrugged before turning away. “Come!” he said, setting off for a doorway at the far end of the chamber.
For a few heartbeats Ebon could only stare at the old man’s retreating back. Then he followed.
He had to bend low to enter the passage Mottle had disappeared into, edging forward in a shuffle. After a dozen steps he felt a resistance in the air as if he were pushing through cobwebs. The room beyond was even gloomier than the main chamber. Scattered across the floor were rolls of parchment that rustled as Ebon picked his way through. Alcoves were set into the walls, like resting places for the dead. One contained a tattered sheet and a rag scrunched into a pillow; the others were filled with a jumble of scrolls, animal skulls, and piles of roots and dried petals. The prince felt somehow lighter here—as if, were he to jump, he might not come down again. Looking up, he saw scrolls resting against the ceiling.
From the darkness at the far end of the room came a series of irregular click-clacking sounds. Peering into the gloom, Ebon said, “You have something against daylight, mage?”
Mottle glanced across at him. “What? Ah, more light. Of course.” He gestured with one hand. The shadows retreated to the corners of the room, forming unnaturally dense pools of blackness and leaving the center of the chamber filled with a pale, indeterminate glow. At the edge of the light, Ebon saw an apparition that made his skin crawl. Suspended from a noose was a skeleton the size of a child. Two stubs protruded like broken horns from the top of its skull. The other bones had evidently been collected from a number of different donors. Some were charred, or discolored with age; others were gnawed, splintered, or carried the marks of weapons. The figure rocked back and forth, its bones striking each other to produce the clicking sounds Ebon had heard earlier.
“Fascinating, is it not,” Mottle said, “the unseen powers that act on us.”
“What is that thing?” Ebon asked.
“Mottle has not given it a name,” the mage replied, frowning as if the oversight troubled him.
“I meant, what does it do?”
“It detects energies. For
ces that would otherwise be imperceptible, even to someone with senses as acute as Mottle’s.” The mage approached the skeleton and began to circle it, moving from shadow into light, then back into shadow again. “Mottle has felt a growing power of late, riding the Currents like an infection. The resistance you experienced as you entered … it is a seal about this room to prevent outside interference. Similar barriers exist round the other walls, the ceiling and the floor. The air in here should be still, yet the figure continues to move as if a soul were bound to it.”
“And you are using that thing to, what, gauge these forces?”
“Precisely. Mottle seeks a way to manipulate them, perhaps block them entirely.”
“Have you been successful?”
“Not yet.” The mage gestured to the scrolls resting against the ceiling. “Thus far, your humble servant’s changes to the composition of the atmosphere have had little effect on these mysterious forces. Mottle thought to remove all of the air from this chamber, but then how could he be present to observe the result of his experiment? The solution proves elusive, alas, but Mottle will persevere.”
The skeleton jerked, and Ebon tore his gaze away. “And the bones? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know where you acquired them.”
“Their previous owners no longer had any use for them, Mottle assures you. And he has found bone to be more sensitive to these energies than either wood or stone.”
“Indeed. What type of forces are we dealing with, then?”
The mage stopped pacing. “Ah! The same thought has been troubling Mottle. Death-magic, for sure, although as to which denomination, Mottle knows not. Worrying, yes?”
Ebon looked round. Was it just his imagination, or were the shadows closing in? “And where do they come from, these energies?”
“This fortress, in part,” Mottle said, placing a hand against a wall. “Centuries of conflict have seeped into the stone, leaving scars that will never truly fade. But these should cause only the slightest of tremors. This”—he gestured to the twitching skeleton—“this potency … Mottle has never before seen the like.”
Ebon held the old man’s gaze. “What did you sense at the forest? What do you sense in me?”
The mage’s forehead creased. “In truth, Mottle does not know. But there is something different about you, yes? A change since the spirits last took you.”
“In what way?”
“Your humble servant is unsure. There is a shadow upon you, but when Mottle tries to concentrate on it, it escapes him.”
“You speak as if it were some conscious entity. Something that withdraws when it senses your scrutiny.”
“That is Mottle’s fear, but then would it not leave some trace of its passing? Mottle can find none, and he is not easily thrown off a scent.”
The clicking of the skeleton was beginning to set Ebon’s nerves on edge. “All I hear is speculation, mage. Not good enough. I need answers.”
Mottle raised an eyebrow. “Then search for them within, my boy. The solutions await you there, if you have but the will to seek them out.”
“You don’t understand. The spirits … If I relaxed my guard, they would drag me down. Theirs is a world of torment, Mottle. I will find no answers there, only madness.”
“Certain, are you? Do not be so quick to reject Mottle’s sagacious counsel. Centuries ago, the spirits—the Vamilians as they were known—were a powerful race. Civilized, yes, but expansionistic. Their empire was so vast that the sun would rise over one part even as it set in another—”
“You have told me all this before,” Ebon interrupted. “What is your point?”
“Mottle’s point? Simply this: There may be a way for you to exploit the Vamilians’ presence. You have some of their memories, yes? You share their knowledge.” Mottle’s eyes glittered. “Perhaps there is power, too, that you can use. Power you may need before the end.”
“The end of what?”
Mottle smiled innocently. “Why, whatever is upon us, of course.”
Ebon regarded the old man sourly. For a moment there, I thought I had him. I can only hope the mage is as careful with my secrets as he is with his own. He batted aside a roll of parchment as it floated upward past his face. “Tell me, this presence you sense … Has it marked me in some way? Will others be able to detect it?”
“Mottle doubts that,” the mage said, puffing out his chest. “There are few as perceptive as your humble—”
“Good. I would have it stay that way.”
Mottle was silent for a time, then nodded. “As you wish. Mottle is not unmindful of the complications that would arise if such information were to fall into the wrong hands. His lips are sealed. Discretion is but one of Mottle’s many virtues.”
“I am grateful for that, my friend.”
The old man nudged Ebon in the ribs. “Does this mean you will not be wringing Mottle’s scrawny neck?”
My conversation with Vale … He heard! Ebon’s lips quirked. “Your point is well made. In future I will be sure to speak more carefully when others may be listening.”
“A valuable lesson, yes? But fear not, Mottle does not hold such hastily voiced words against you. You are not the first to underestimate Mottle’s talents, and he would not have it any other way. So many secrets tumble unbidden into his lap.”
“You have an interesting take on eavesdropping.”
The mage drew himself up. “Think Mottle a spy, do you? He is not.” His tone softened. “Though if he were, there would be none better. A whispered comment spoken even at a distance booms loud in his ears…” The old man tilted his head. “And so it is now. The time is upon us, my boy. It seems the King’s Council is convening, and Queen Rosel laments our absence.”
“Then we had better not keep her waiting.” Ebon made for the doorway before pausing and looking back. “I don’t suppose you would care to enlighten me now as to the reason for this gathering?”
Mottle gave a secretive smile and strode past.
Ebon sighed. “I didn’t think so.”
CHAPTER 3
SOMEONE WAS following Luker.
The feeling had been with him since he left the Sacrosanct, and it wasn’t the sort of feeling you ignored unless you wanted a crossbow bolt between your shoulders. He looked back, half expecting to spy some fool ducking into an alley, but there was nothing to see except the rain sweeping down in thick gray sheets. He scanned the doorways of the buildings along the street. Deserted. A corner of one of the shop’s awnings had torn loose and now shuddered and cracked in the wind. Otherwise, all was still. The sense of being watched would not leave him, though, and he had learned to trust his instincts on such things.
Loosening his swords in their scabbards, he set off again at a measured walk. No point in hurrying. He was already as soaked as if he’d taken a dip in the harbor, and besides, he didn’t want his pursuer to know he’d been spotted. For a quarter of a bell Luker followed the twists and turns of Dock Street as it wound toward the port, trying to work out how it felt to be back on home ground. Wet, he decided. He passed the gates to the Gamala Clock Tower on his right, then ducked into a cobbled passage, keeping to the wall where the shadows were deepest. The alley ran like a river, and water seeped into his boots.
He waited.
The tower bells clanged to mark the second hour of eventide, and the wall at the Guardian’s back trembled. Above a grumble of thunder he heard chirruping overhead. Looking up, he saw a pair of chitter monkeys watching him from the top of the Clock Tower. A squad of Bratbaks emerged through the gloom along Dock Street, their heads bowed as they labored up the hill. For a heartbeat Luker wondered whether they could be his pursuers. Then he realized they were heading away from the harbor, not toward it.
He swore. His hunter should have passed by now. Unless the bastard saw me enter the alley. But then why hadn’t he followed Luker in? Had the chitter monkeys given away his presence? He’s good, Luker thought grudgingly. Another Guardian perhaps, or one of the emper
or’s men, sent to make sure he did not flee the city? Whoever he was, Luker couldn’t allow himself to be followed—one unwelcome guest would be enough for Jenna tonight. Nor did he have time to play hide-and-seek across the whole Shroud-cursed city. Let’s see if he’s got the stones to follow me into the Warren.
Luker retreated down the passage and began threading his way through the streets until he came to the Old City Wall. Following it south, he stopped when he came to a breach leading into blackness. The Wall was an armspan lower than when he’d last been here, the missing stones no doubt pilfered to build more of the hovels that crowded the district beyond. What remained of the Wall was covered with writing in a score of different languages: Kerinec, Fenilar, Remnerol, Maisee, along with others Luker did not recognize.
The black skulls painted to either side of the breach needed no translation, though.
Luker stepped through. He entered an alley so narrow that if he stretched out his arms, his fingers would brush the walls on either side. No light escaped from the shuttered windows. Above, the overhanging eaves almost touched. Luker had gone no more than a dozen paces when he saw a beggar hunched in a doorway. A lookout, maybe. As the Guardian drew level, the man leered at him, then thrust out a hand missing two fingers. Another time Luker might have given him a handspan of steel in his guts. Instead he shook his head and continued on.
Setting a course roughly east, he followed the alleys that led down to the sea. The sound of the wind was muted here, as if the storm prowled the edge of the Warren but dared not enter. A pity the rain hadn’t stayed away as well, but at least it seemed to have kept the usual dross at home, for the streets thus far had been uncharacteristically empty.