When the Heavens Fall

by Marc Turner

  Raised voices sounded to her left, and she looked across to see Ebon in conversation with one of the Sartorians—Consel Garat Hallon, she had heard him called. Garat’s right arm was bound in a sling, and he was using his sword as a crutch. He also appeared to be doing most of the talking, addressing Ebon in a voice first beseeching, then insistent. Throughout, the shaven-headed magus listened with a guarded expression. When he finally spoke, his response brought a mocking smile from the Sartorian.

  Parolla turned away. In truth, she had no interest in what they were discussing. She wanted only to be rid of this place—to put the Forest of Sighs far behind her, along with the memory of all that had happened here.

  Soon.

  Her gaze swept the dome. Ebon’s companion, Vale, was offering Luker a sword, which the scarred man accepted. Luker stood over the sleeping form of Jenna. He had not thanked Parolla after she’d healed the woman’s wounds, but he hadn’t needed to. The spark of relief and gratitude in his eyes had spoken for him.

  Ebon approached her and halted at the bottom of the steps. Parolla waited a few heartbeats to make it clear his presence was unwelcome before turning to look at him. There was still a blue hue to the man’s lips, and the skin at the tips of his fingers was a darker color than the rest of his hands. Frostbite. In this instance, though, Parolla knew her healing powers were not required. Ebon was now more than capable of taking care of himself.

  It had been easy enough to deduce from his earlier conversation with Shroud that his mysterious benefactor was the patron goddess of the Vamilians. Odds were, the shaven-headed man wasn’t a sorcerer at all—or rather, he hadn’t been before meeting Galea. Now, though? Parolla blew out her cheeks. Ebon’s power had grown since their meeting on the hilltop, suggesting he had been forced to call on unexpected reserves in his struggle with Mayot. What had the touch of the goddess’s magic done to him? What was he destined to become?

  Ebon bowed. “Forgive my intrusion, my Lady. I was wondering what became of Mottle. Did he not accompany you—”

  “He is dead,” Parolla cut in, then watched as yet another weight settled on the man’s already hunched shoulders.

  “Tell me.”

  She spoke to him of the clash with the tiktar, ending with Mottle being carried away by the vortex. “The elderling … engulfed … him, sirrah. No one could have survived the injuries he sustained. And yet…”

  “Yes?”

  “The hill is only a short distance from here. If he were dead, would not his spirit have passed through the rent by now?”

  Ebon turned toward the river of souls. “You have been watching for him?”

  “No, sirrah, but surely he would see us.”

  The magus considered this, then gave a half smile. “You are correct, of course. Mottle would never go quietly. He could not pass us by without stopping to regale us of his exploits.”

  Parolla gave her voice a note of hope she did not feel. “He wanted the storm to take him. Perhaps it sustained him.”

  Ebon’s gaze was knowing. “Perhaps you are right.” He ran a hand over his head. “From which direction did you approach the Forest of Sighs, my Lady?”

  “From the north and west. Why?”

  “I was hoping for news of my city, Majack.”

  Parolla had no words of comfort to give him. “There is nothing I can tell you. If you stay here, though, the spirits of your dead kinsmen will reach this place in time. Perhaps then you will find out—”

  “Forgive me,” Ebon interrupted. “But I cannot just wait. I must go and see for myself. Farewell.” He turned to leave.

  “A moment,” Parolla said. The magus looked back over his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she added. “For your friend, Vale. When I held his arm … I cannot give back the years I took from him.”

  Ebon nodded. “If Aliana should require help at any time,” he said at last, “may I call on you?”

  “I won’t be staying in these parts. How would you get a message to me?”

  The corners of Ebon’s mouth turned up. “I will find a way.”

  Parolla watched him retreat. The king of Galitia, no less, or so he had introduced himself to Shroud. The man was so assured in some ways, so hesitant in others. A king without a kingdom. Majack was, what, ten days on foot from here? Ten days under siege by an undead army. And the man wanted news? Parolla shook her head. Ebon would be returning to nothing more than cold ashes, and from the bleakness she’d seen in his eyes he knew it too.

  A cough sounded to Parolla’s right, and she looked round to see the spectral figure of Tumbal Qerivan. The Gorlem stood watching her with his head cocked, lower arms folded, upper arms held out in front of him with hands clasped as if in prayer. Floating closer he said, “It warms my heart to see thee again, my Lady.”

  Parolla rose. “I feared you would not make it, sirrah. You are still in pain?”

  “A little,” Tumbal conceded. “I am hoping the underworld will bring some surcease.”

  A flicker of movement to the Gorlem’s left caught Parolla’s attention. Threescore paces away, two of Shroud’s disciples stood staring at her—the hooded halfling and its companion. No doubt there were others too, watching from the shadows beyond the rent. In future, Parolla suspected she would have not just the Antlered God’s servants to look over her shoulder for. Turning back to Tumbal, she said, “I avenged you. Against the Fangalar.”

  “I am sorry to hear that,” the Gorlem replied. His gaze slid away to take in the dome, and his grave expression gave way to a look of enchantment. “I remember this place from when I came to bury the Vamilians. Never did I imagine it would still be standing.”

  “Soon it will fall. The sorcery that preserves it is almost gone now, destroyed by the Book’s death-magic.”

  “And yet the sounds of the sea remain.” The Gorlem’s look became wistful. “A pity thou could’st not have seen the Vamilians as they once were. A people of beauty and invention. In order to escape the Fangalar they were forced to flee far from their homeland, yet their affinity with the sea remained. This building was once filled with fountains. The Vamilians discovered some means of pumping water to the top of the dome so that it ran down the outer walls. How was that done, dost thou suppose?”

  “Why not ask them yourself? There must be someone in the river of souls who can tell you.”

  Tumbal eyed her thoughtfully. “The river carries much information, it is true. I have heard tell of what took place here from one of the Vamilians who witnessed Mayot’s untimely demise.”

  “Untimely?”

  The Gorlem spread his four hands. “But of course. Where now will I obtain solutions to the riddles that have vexed me so?” His look brightened. “Perhaps I will meet the mage in the underworld.”

  “I doubt that, sirrah.”

  “Why, my Lady?”

  “Somehow I think Shroud has other plans for him.”

  Tumbal bobbed his head. “What of thee? Did’st thou find answers to thine own questions?”

  “From Shroud, I heard only lies and half-truths. Yet I learned much all the same.”

  “How so?”

  “I discovered that my father fears to face me beyond the confines of his own realm. And that he has powerful enemies in whom I might find allies.”

  Tumbal’s form was starting to distort, stretching toward the rent. “Thy quest continues, then?”

  “What else is there for me?”

  “But with the rebirth of thy mother, have not some of the wrongs been righted? A new beginning—”

  “Not for me. I will never be able to see her. Even if there comes a time when I can control the call of my blood, Aliana will have her own life. Better for her if she knows nothing about me, or the history we share.”

  “Perhaps so in her tender years, but later…” The Gorlem studied her closely, then sighed. “What wilt thou do next? Where wilt thou go?”

  “I have not decided.”

  Tumbal’s form was becoming more misshapen with each mome
nt. He took a breath as if summoning up his courage. “A word of advice, my Lady, if thou would’st forgive me the presumption. Before we met I spent many years traveling these lands. I was ever an explorer at heart, and I have witnessed such wonders as made my spirit sing. I have walked the streets of Dian and watched the Dragon Gate rise and fall over the Sabian Sea. I have seen the Tears of Heaven rain down on parts of the Broken Lands and breathe new life into a realm laid waste by the death throes of a god. I have climbed to the summit of the Thorn and observed khalid esgaril weave their dance of death over clouds tipped with fire.” Parolla could tell from Tumbal’s distant look that he was seeing these sights again in his mind. Then his gaze focused on her. “But always, my delight was tempered by the sense that something was missing. Too long, I now believe, I lived with only my poor self for company. It was thy friendship that shone a light on the emptiness within me. I do not know where thou wilt find a worthy companion, but make finding that person thy goal. Thou dost deserve—”

  “You are wrong, sirrah,” Parolla cut in. “I deserve nothing more than what fate has granted me. Your faith in me is unwarranted. It always was.”

  “No, my Lady, it is thy lack of faith in thyself that is misguided. I have heard the role thou did’st play in dethroning Mayot.”

  “It was not I who secured passage to the underworld for the undead. It was not even my idea to seek release for my mother.”

  “And the woman that thou did’st heal? Jenna?”

  “Her companion was about to pledge himself to Shroud. I sought only to spite my father.”

  “I do not believe that.”

  “Believe what you will.”

  Tumbal appeared about to speak again, then changed his mind. A frown creased his forehead, and Parolla wondered what the Gorlem saw in her that always drove him to melancholy. Finally he said, “It pains me to leave thee, but I feel the draw of Shroud’s Gate. Somewhere on the other side, my people await.”

  Parolla had known the time was upon them, and she forced a smile. “Go then. I pray the underworld is all you hope it will be.”

  Tumbal returned the smile. “I doubt that is possible, but then I was never able to master the art of keeping my expectations in check. Farewell.”

  He descended the steps without a backward glance and moved to join the river of souls. The Gorlem was taller than the Vamilians round him, and Parolla was able to follow his progress as he was swept into the gloom beyond the rent. For a few heartbeats his image flickered amid the swirling shadows.

  Then he was gone.

  As she watched the darkness claim him, Parolla had never felt so alone.

  * * *

  To reach Vale and Luker, Ebon had to cross the river of souls, and he hesitated at the edge of the flow before plunging in. The touch of the spirits made him shiver, and their restless whispering stirred uncomfortable memories of his days of spirit-possession. Who was to say that the Vamilians who’d once tried to invade his mind were not the same as those flowing round him now? And while most of the spirits were doubtless content to pass through to the underworld, might not some be tempted to try to possess him in a final effort to avoid Shroud’s embrace?

  Grimacing, he quickened his pace.

  Vale was waiting for him on the other side. The Endorian’s gray hair had thinned, and the crow’s-feet round his eyes had deepened. How many years had his companion now lost in service to the Galitian throne? A decade ago, when he had first pledged himself to Isanovir, he had looked no more than a dozen years Ebon’s senior; now he appeared old enough to be his father. The time was fast approaching when Ebon would have to release him from his oath, however much the Endorian protested.

  But not yet.

  Drawing level with his friend, the king put a hand on his shoulder. “Give me a moment,” he said, then crossed to speak to Luker.

  The scarred man was crouching beside Jenna, but he rose as Ebon approached. His look seemed friendly enough, yet there was something in his bearing that put Ebon in mind of a lioness standing watch over her sleeping cub.

  “How is she doing?” he asked.

  “Steady,” Luker said. “Forced healing will have been hard on her. She’s resting now.”

  Ebon stared down at the sleeping woman, taking in her healed left arm protruding from its scorched half sleeve. “Not even a scar to show where the arm was severed. I suppose we should not be surprised considering who Parolla is. And yet…”

  “Aye.”

  “You will stay here until she recovers?”

  Luker shook his head. “Another bell, maybe. Shroud may have crawled back under his rock, but this place still stinks of death. Sooner we’re off, the better.”

  Ebon shared his sentiments. “Would you mind looking in on Aliana first when she is born? There are a few things I must attend to.”

  “Aye.” Then, “Vale told me about your city. Don’t give it up just yet. That fortress will stand up to sorcery better than your gates did.”

  “You have been to Majack?” Ebon said, covering his surprise.

  Luker returned his gaze evenly. “Many years ago now. Just passing through.”

  Ebon decided he didn’t want to know the details. “And the fortress?”

  “Seen a few of them around—Andros, Karalat, couple of others. Made by the titans, it’s said. If that’s true, means they were built to last.”

  “You’ve witnessed them under attack by sorcery?”

  “At Karalat, aye.”

  “And?”

  “The walls held.”

  Something about the scarred man’s expression told Ebon the story did not end there. “But the citadel fell nevertheless?”

  Luker gave a dark smile. “Relax, man. Mayot Mencada didn’t have half a dozen Guardians to send over the walls.”

  Ebon wasn’t sure what comfort he was supposed to take from that. Bowing, he turned to leave.

  Luker’s voice drew him up. “Meant to thank you before. For stepping in against Merin Gray.”

  Merin Gray? Ah, yes. “Just as I am grateful,” Ebon said, “that we were fighting on the same side. You are not the only one whose allies have proved unreliable of late.”

  Luker squinted at him. “Your hidden benefactor—”

  “What hidden benefactor?”

  A slow smile spread across Luker’s face. He offered his hand, and Ebon shook it.

  The king returned to Vale, then led the way to the arch through which they had first entered the dome. The sound of waves was loud in his ears as he walked along the passage through the river of souls. Vale glanced back.

  “Consel not joining us?”

  “No. He is going to search for Ambolina.”

  “Too bad.”

  Outside, all was deathly still. It was early afternoon, Ebon judged. The dome of death-magic had gone. Drizzle fell from the clouds, and the king raised his hood. Everywhere he looked there were Vamilian corpses piled high, along with severed body parts and shattered armor and weapons.

  From a ruined house a short distance away came the sound of a horse whinnying, and Ebon crossed to the building to find the Sartorian mounts hobbled inside. There were six in all, one less than had set out from the hilltop. Ebon exchanged a look with Vale. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  The Endorian shrugged. “Not as if their dead will need them now.” He paused to scan the animals. “Which one is the consel’s, do you reckon?”

  Ebon chose a chestnut gelding and began adjusting its stirrups. Its previous owner must have taken a wound, for there were splashes of blood on the saddle. Ebon used the hem of his cloak to wipe it clean.

  “I saw you jawing with the consel earlier,” Vale said. “What was that about?”

  “Garat has offered me his sister’s hand in marriage. To seal an understanding between our two peoples.”

  “And?”

  “Her name is Belena—”

  “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

  Ebon sighed. “I said no.” />
  Vale was silent for a moment as he rooted through his saddlebags. When he spoke again there was a smile in his voice. “Good for you.”

  “It is not what you think. When we return to Majack, I intend to abdicate the kingship.”

  The Endorian took a sharp breath. “Why?”

  “Because of the Fangalar. The one that got away.”

  “You don’t know he survived. Hells, you said yourself on the hill—”

  “The odds of him living through this are slim, I know. But if he did, the Fangalar will come for me. I will not put the kingdom at risk.”

  “Then let me go after him. I might still be able to find his tracks.”

  “No.”

  “He can’t have got far—”

  “Enough, Vale. My mind is made up.”

  The Endorian muttered something, then swung up into the saddle. “How did the consel take the news?”

  “With a healthy measure of skepticism. The idea of anyone renouncing power is unthinkable to him.”

  “It means war, then?”

  Ebon placed a foot in the stirrup and mounted. “I think not. The loss of Ambolina will have weakened him. The very fact he made the offer suggests he is feeling vulnerable. When he returns to Sartor I suspect he will have too many other things on his mind to think about an invasion.”

  “You suspect.”

  The king gave a half smile. “While I was speaking to Shroud, it seems the consel spent most of his time drifting in and out of consciousness. When I told him what he had missed, he was most aggrieved. He feels the Lord of the Dead cheated him of his blood debt.”