When the Heavens Fall

by Marc Turner

  Luker’s expression, meanwhile, was more guarded. His look seemed to say to Parolla, “Take it or leave it, just get on with it.” In spite of herself she almost smiled. A man of few graces, this. He clutched the Book to his chest in a manner strangely reminiscent of Mayot Mencada. As yet he hadn’t tried to use it, but then the Book’s power was doubtless not a power he could wield even if he had been minded to do so. Abruptly he broke her gaze and turned to stare at something to Parolla’s left. It was several heartbeats before he faced her again, and when he did she saw that cracks had appeared in his mask of indifference.

  They were trying to help her, she knew. Of course, their motives for doing so were far from altruistic—they understood that their lives rested in her hands, just as hers rested in theirs. And yet neither of the strangers wanted the Book for themselves. Neither was here seeking personal gain. Could the same be said of her? Shroud’s words came back to Parolla: “Why have you embraced the dark?” She’d never intended to. Since entering the Forest of Sighs she had fought to resist the call of her blood. She’d come seeking a portal to the underworld, a means to strike at Shroud, to hurt him as he had hurt her.

  And yet she had always known, hadn’t she, that the only way she could overthrow the god was to unleash the darkness within.

  Parolla scanned the dome. Her gaze came to rest on a Vamilian woman. The left half of her face had been burned away, and her scalp was a mass of raw, blistered flesh. She clutched a broken spear in her right hand. Her left arm hung from the shoulder by threads of tendon. If Parolla claimed the Book for herself, could she use the undead as Mayot had done? Did her cause justify the suffering they would experience? Did any cause?

  Yes! She could bring an end to Shroud’s rule—save others from going through what her mother had endured.

  But at what cost? Through the portal beneath Shroud’s temple at Xavel, Parolla had seen the shattered world of his predecessor. Even if the Book did give her the power to overthrow him, what destruction would be wrought in their clash? How many would die? Parolla’s shoulders slumped. She could not win here. Ebon and Luker were offering her another way, if she could just step back from the edge.

  But did she even want to?

  Aliana’s face remained frozen in the black wall behind Shroud. Could her mother see out from her shadowy prison? Had she heard the words spoken here? Or was her image just another of Shroud’s deceits? Parolla was not such a fool as to think she and Aliana could recapture the life they had once shared. No memories, Shroud had said. A new start … But a start without me. There could never be any place for Parolla in Aliana’s life, for her presence would poison her mother now just as it had before. Did Ebon and Luker understand this? That ultimately what they were offering her was just one more twist of the knife?

  Yet for Aliana, a new beginning. A life for the one that had been taken from her.

  And for Parolla, perhaps, an easing of the guilt that had haunted her since her mother’s death.

  Luker’s voice broke the silence. “That’s far enough.”

  Startled, Parolla looked round. There was movement from one of the archways leading out of the dome. Two hooded, gray-robed figures emerged from the shadows. One was as short as the Jekdal she had encountered on the Ken’dah Steppes; the other was twice its height. Both shuffled closer as if their bones were brittle as tinder wood. The taller stranger rested a clawed hand on the shoulder of its companion.

  From a second archway appeared a woman wearing dark leathers crisscrossed with sword slashes. Her face was tattooed with black and gray stripes to make her resemble a flintcat. Then Parolla noticed a tail swinging between the woman’s legs as she walked.

  “Enough, I said,” Luker growled. “Shroud, call off your freaks.”

  The god waved a hand, and the newcomers halted.

  Parolla took a breath and turned to Ebon. Gesturing at Shroud, she said, “Can he be trusted, sirrah? If I go along with this … When the Book is destroyed, what guarantee do we have that he will honor his promises?”

  “You dare question my word?” the god said.

  Ebon kept his gaze on Parolla. “What we say, my Lady—all that takes place here—is being witnessed by another. Shroud’s bargain is with her too. He might be willing to betray us, yes, but not my … patron.”

  Parolla’s eyes narrowed. Was this the same benefactor who had pulled the rug from under Ebon’s feet on the hilltop? Was he truly expecting her to put her trust in this mysterious entity? “Forgive me, but I must hear it from Shroud himself.” To the god, she said, “Well, Father, what do you say? Will you seal the vow in blood? There is power in that even you cannot deny.”

  Shroud stretched out a wrist. “You wish to make the cut yourself?”

  “Are you offering?”

  The god snorted, then took out a knife from a fold in his robe and drew it across his palm. A single drop of blood splashed to the dais with a noise like a peal of thunder. The black tendrils behind Shroud darted toward the point where the droplet landed before recoiling. “Satisfied?” the god said.

  “Not yet,” Parolla replied. “I want your word that you will keep to the spirit of the agreement as well as the letter. I would not have Aliana born into suffering.”

  “Suffering is all you mortals know.”

  “And have you ever wondered why? Look in a mirror, see for yourself.”

  There was a sneer in Shroud’s voice. “You would have her born to a king or an emperor, perhaps? A palace in the clouds in a land where the sun never sets? No doubt you wish to choose the color of the brat’s eyes as well.”

  Before Parolla could respond, Ebon spoke. “My Lord, which immortal will you treat with in this matter? The White Lady?”

  Shroud inclined his head. “Why do you ask?”

  Ebon looked at Parolla. “I suggest we leave the circumstances of the child’s birth to the goddess. Her judgment, at least, I think we can trust.”

  Parolla considered this, her gaze still on Shroud. “Agreed.”

  Ebon turned back to the god. “And after the child is born? Will you—”

  “No!” Parolla snapped. She pointed at Shroud. “You will stay out of her life, do you hear me? You and your damned servants.”

  “What, not even a gift on her naming day?”

  Parolla swung toward Ebon. “Sirrah, I have no right to ask, but it would … comfort me … to know that someone was watching over the child. From time to time, at least.”

  “My Lady? I had assumed you—”

  “I cannot,” Parolla cut in. “My presence would kill her, as it did when we were last together.”

  The shaven-headed man cast a questioning glance at Luker, who shrugged. Ebon faced Parolla again. “We will do what we can.”

  Parolla’s voice hardened. “Only the three of us must ever know who Aliana is. I would not want anyone using her against me.”

  “As you wish.”

  Luker nodded, his look distracted.

  Slowly Parolla released her grip on Vale’s arm. “So be it.”

  It was done.

  Ebon turned back to Shroud. “My Lord, you will tell us when and where the babe is born?”

  “When I know myself.”

  “And the rent here? It will be closed after the souls have passed through?”

  The god flashed a look at Parolla. “Of course. I cannot very well leave it open for just anyone to wander through to my realm.”

  “How long—”

  “Long enough,” Shroud interrupted. “When the Book is destroyed, the spirits will begin to feel the underworld’s pull.”

  Luker grunted. “Enough talk. Let’s get on with this.”

  The time that followed passed in a blur to Parolla. Luker declined Shroud’s offer to create a fire, perhaps fearing some final act of treachery on the god’s part. Instead Ebon and Vale cleared the bodies from a dry section of the dome’s floor and gathered a pile of leaves. Vale kindled a flame with flint and steel before feeding the blaze with spears
taken from the Vamilian undead.

  Without ceremony, Luker tossed the Book onto the fire and stepped back.

  Parolla watched sparks swirl up into the air. It took a while for the Book to catch light, and Parolla briefly wondered whether some protective sorcery had been woven into its cover. Then the flames took hold and the Book started to burn with a heat so intense Parolla was forced back.

  Shroud had stayed to ensure this part of the agreement was fulfilled, but now Parolla saw him retreat into the shadows about the dais. She replayed their conversation earlier, studying the god’s words for every hint of meaning, every hidden nuance. Shroud had been prepared for her coming, of that she felt sure. Unsurprisingly, he had shown no remorse for what he’d done to Aliana. Instead he had spun Parolla a web of lies and tried to provoke her into attacking him. He wants me dead. By goading her into making the first move—into attempting to take the Book for herself—he had hoped to bring her into conflict with the others assembled in the dome. It was only the intervention of Ebon and Luker that had prevented the confrontation from ending in bloodshed.

  If Shroud thought, though, that the deal they had struck meant an end to Parolla’s enmity, he was mistaken. And yet, the god would know from the start where Aliana lived. Wouldn’t he always be able to use the threat of retaliation against her to keep Parolla in line?

  A problem for another day.

  After what seemed like an age, the flames about the Book swelled with a flash of black light that seared Parolla’s eyes. She heard a high-pitched keening, followed by a sharp cracking sound as of a thousand bones breaking. All at once the undead in the dome began toppling to the ground, the threads holding them withering to nothing.

  Only then did Parolla release her power—a little at a time, like a long-held breath. As the darkness within her leeched away, so too did some of the pain she had been holding on to for so long.

  Her shoulders shook silently as she hugged her arms about herself.

  * * *

  Luker found Jenna among a tangle of corpses. A Vamilian spearman had fallen across her, his head against her left hip, one arm flung across her midriff. When Luker seized him by the wrist and ankle he discovered the man’s flesh was still warm from the touch of Merin’s firestorm. The Guardian dragged him off.

  Jenna lay on her side, curled up as if in sleep. The scars across her cheeks and forehead had split again, and her face was covered with blood. Beneath the blood her skin was ghostly white in the firelight. The left sleeve of her shirt ended just below the elbow … Luker’s heart skipped a beat. The lower part of her arm had been sheared off—by sorcery, he assumed—to leave a stump of black suppurating flesh.

  Luker sank to his knees. The fabric of his trousers quickly became soaked through, and it was only then that he noticed the pool of blood beneath the assassin. And since the stump of Jenna’s arm wasn’t bleeding, that could only mean she had other wounds. His fingers moved under her shirt, exploring her side. As he reached her chest, she stirred and gave a murmur of protest. Her ribs were a sticky mass of shattered bone, and when Luker withdrew his hand it was smeared crimson.

  Jenna’s eyes opened a crack. “Did we win?”

  Luker’s breath was tight in his chest. He could feel the heat of the fire on his back, hear the crack and pop of the flames as the Book of Lost Souls burned.

  No. No, we didn’t win.

  Chamery’s face appeared in his mind’s eye. If the mage were still alive, and if Luker could somehow find him among the countless ruined buildings … Cursing, he shook his head. Even if the boy had recovered enough from Kanon’s mauling, Jenna would likely be dead before Luker could bring him here.

  The assassin spoke again, her voice so faint the Guardian had to lower his head to catch her words. “The bastard got me—Mayot, I mean. Just a glancing blow. I don’t think he even knew where I was.” She flashed him a rueful look. “After the soulcaster … you said I’d be more resistant to sorcery.” There was fear in her eyes, but her pained smile took the edge off her words.

  Luker could think of nothing to say. Slipping out of his cloak, he folded it into a bundle and placed in under the assassin’s head. Then he reached for her remaining hand. The flesh was clammy.

  “That swordswoman you were fighting,” Jenna said. “She was fast. I had to … read her attacks, then … hit the one part of her body that would … slow her down. Not a bad shot, eh?”

  “I couldn’t have matched it.”

  “Ah!” the assassin said. “Three years it’s taken … Three years for you to admit I’m the better shot … Now I can die happy.” Her breathing was coming quicker now, every inhalation causing a grimace.

  “I never doubted you,” Luker said.

  “I did.”

  “You came.”

  It was a while before Jenna responded. “No regrets. Not this time.”

  “About leaving Arkarbour?”

  “About any of it.”

  “No,” he agreed, tightening his grip on her hand. “We … we made a good team.”

  Jenna’s mouth twitched. “Ah, Luker. You say the nicest things.”

  He bowed his head, and they sat in silence for a time. To Luker’s left one of Shroud’s disciples—the cat woman—was helping Sickle Man to his feet. Together they hobbled toward the rent, Kestor ben Kayma’s left arm draped round his companion’s shoulders, his right foot dragging across the floor. Eventually the cat woman lost patience, lifting Kestor into her arms before carrying him up the steps of the dais. They vanished through the portal.

  Jenna said, “Makes a change … me saving you.” Her gaze was suddenly intent. “Why did you, Luker? Save me, I mean … That first time.”

  “The road to Koronos?”

  “I wasn’t exactly … friendly to you before.”

  The Guardian shrugged. “If I’d taken the shot at Keebar Lana instead of you, it would’ve been me the demons were hunting.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  He stared at her.

  “Why?” the assassin asked.

  Luker struggled to find the words, but they would not come. The breeze blew strands of hair across Jenna’s eyes, and he reached down to brush them aside. After a while her grip on his hand began to weaken, and perhaps it was this that made him take a breath and say, “Maybe it was because I saw something of myself in you on that rooftop in Mercerie. Maybe I thought you needed saving like I did.” He hesitated, then added, “And maybe because even then I knew you were special.”

  Jenna did not reply.

  Luker gave the assassin’s shoulder a shake. “Jenna? You still with me?”

  “Where would I go?” she whispered.

  No, the Guardian thought. It was me who left you. Two years ago he had left them both, Kanon and Jenna, when he’d gone to Taradh Dor. Gone looking for something that was there right in front of me all along. Now they were leaving him in turn.

  A shadow fell across him, and he looked up. Ebon stood a few paces away, his expression masked. “Excuse my interruption. While I would not wish to raise your hopes needlessly, I have some limited healing abilities. Your friend…”

  Luker’s face twisted. Not raise my damned hopes? How could you do otherwise? He nodded.

  Ebon moved to Jenna’s side and crouched across from Luker. He paled when he saw the assassin’s ruined arm.

  “Sorcery?” he asked Luker.

  “Aye.”

  Closing his eyes, Ebon placed a hand on the assassin’s forehead. The Guardian felt him reach out with his senses, but it was a tentative questing only. “Death-magic,” Ebon said. “It is eating away at her. The initial blast of sorcery cauterized the stump when it took the arm. The biggest concern is her ribs. Death-magic has infected the wound.”

  Luker could hear the defeat in his voice, and he swung his gaze back to Jenna. A peaceful look had stolen across her face. Perhaps the pain was easing. Luker felt at her neck for a pulse. Just a flicker.

  Ebon drew his hand back, then opened his e
yes and looked at Luker. “I am sorry, there is nothing I can do. I do not have the skill to regenerate flesh and bone, nor replace the blood she has lost. I could try to close her wounds, but my touch will not be gentle. I fear she would die in the attempt…”

  Luker was no longer listening. Ebon had given him an idea—one he should have thought of sooner. Stay with me, Jenna. This isn’t over yet. Maybe Ebon didn’t have the power to heal the assassin, but there was one here who did. Perhaps it was not too late to accept the Lord of the Dead’s offer of service. Perhaps the god would be prepared to make one final deal.

  “Where’s Shroud?” Luker asked Ebon. “Is the bastard still here?” Without waiting for a response, he rose. He’d better be. If I have to drag him kicking and screaming …

  His thoughts were interrupted by a footfall behind.

  When he turned he came face-to-face with Parolla, her cold black eyes watching him dispassionately.

  * * *

  Sitting on the steps leading up to the dais, Parolla watched through the holes in the roof as Mayot’s dome of death-magic slowly dissolved into gray clouds. In the half-bell since the Book’s destruction, the worst of the storm had passed over to leave a chill in the air, and Parolla pulled her cloak about her shoulders. She could hear the hiss of foaming waves above the wind.

  A watery light illuminated the burned and twisted bodies scattered across the dome. The last of the fires had gone out, but the smell of roasted meat still filled the building. Who would bury the Vamilians this time, Parolla wondered, now that Tumbal’s people were gone from the world? No one. The corpses would stay here as Mayot Mencada’s legacy, and a fitting one it would be, for the old man had forged his empire in the image of the underworld—a place of death and bones. How long before the earth-magic buried deep underground rose to rejuvenate the forest? Years? Decades, even? For while the Book of Lost Souls was gone, the air remained saturated with necromantic energies. Parolla could feel them seeping into her skin, and she shifted uncomfortably on the steps.

  Shroud had stayed good to his word and left open the portal to his realm. The souls of the Vamilian dead were pouring into the dome in four ghostly white streams, one from each of the arched gateways. Strange, Parolla thought, that the spirits should still use the doors to enter when they could just as easily float through the walls, but then habit, she imagined, was just one more memory of the flesh. The four tributaries converged on the dais in a pale river that faded to black as it snaked into the underworld. Was Tumbal within one of those streams? It was several bells since they had parted company in the forest. If the Gorlem had succeeded in resisting the dissolution of his spirit he would now be feeling the tug of Shroud’s realm.