Quintessence Sky

by David Walton

  Unless he had another pistol, Torres would have to reload before he could shoot again, but that wasn't true of the two conquistadors. "Shoot him!" Torres shouted.

  A gunshot cracked behind him, followed closely by a second. Ramos cringed, expecting to be hit in the back, but the shots whistled by him. He weaved as he ran, trying to create a more difficult target and putting trees between him and his attackers. Soon he heard running feet behind him. He tried to use quintessence to make his body light and increase his speed, but he didn't have the knack for it. The ground was uneven and treacherous, and he couldn't control it. He twisted an ankle painfully, and crashed into the ground.

  He was up again in a moment, afraid he had injured his ankle, but quintessence had already healed it. He ran on, risking a look back, and saw that the conquistadors had almost reached him, their bayonets held out in front of them. They were strong, young, and athletic, and he was none of those things. He darted away again, breathing in short gasps.

  Ramos had intended to run back to the circle of colonists. He had no plan, in particular, except the vague thought that he might distract the soldiers long enough for the others to do something. Soon, however, it became clear that he had no idea which direction the colonists were. He was lost.

  The conquistadors raced behind him, cursing at him in Spanish. The trees became smaller and closer together, making them harder to avoid, and the undergrowth grew thicker. He crashed through bushes, losing speed. There was a gap in the treeline ahead, a place where the sun shone through. Perhaps it was an open area, a field where he could use try quintessence again to run faster and leave his pursuers behind.

  He broke out into the clearing, and suddenly there was nowhere else to go. It wasn't a field. He was at the top of a rocky cliff a hundred feet high, and beyond it, the endless ocean, as far as he could see. At the cliff bottom, enormous waves crashed against the rocks, driving up spray. His back to the cliff, he turned to face his attackers.

  They came at him together, bayonets cutting the air. The twelve inch blades glittered in the light, and Ramos knew the quintessence wouldn't help him if they drove those blades up into his heart. Their faces were grim, purposeful. One of them thrust at his midsection, and he sidestepped, narrowly avoiding it, but in the process, he stepped back to the very edge of the cliff.

  "Nowhere to go," the other one said. "Time to say your prayers."

  Ramos thought of Antonia, still a prisoner with the colonists, and his conscience pricked him. He had left her, helpless, in the control of killers. Elizabeth, too, he had rescued from execution only to abandon her to Spanish soldiers. It wasn't fair, and he knew it—he had done the best he could to try and save them all—but it didn't stop him from feeling like a coward.

  The conquistador stabbed, and this time Ramos couldn't get away. The point of the bayonet cut deep into his belly. He cried out and stepped backwards involuntarily, his foot finding nothing but air. The soldier pulled the blade back out, and Ramos fell backwards into space. The cliff was not completely vertical. He dropped, flailing with arms and legs, then struck against a steep slope, caroming away and falling again. He struck a second time and tumbled headlong, half falling, half sliding on loose gravel, battering himself on rocks on the way down. Another free fall, and he struck with jarring force against a rock ledge, biting his tongue and lancing pain through his skull, but stopping his fall. He tried to get up, but his head was ringing with the impact, and his vision narrowed and went black.

  MATTHEW sat in the dirt with the rest of the colonists, hands tied. He felt helpless and stupid and afraid. Catherine was alive, but in a few minutes, she might wish she had died at the bottom of the manticores' cave shaft. It was clear that Torres was planning to find out what they knew, and Matthew knew from painful experience what a Spanish interrogation could be like.

  The barrier was gone. Torres had destroyed it through the simple expedient of chopping down all the trees that supported it. Those trees he had further chopped into firewood, which several soldiers were now stacking into a tall pyramid. Matthew knew what that was. It was a pyre.

  Horizon had taken its toll. There were now fewer than fifty colonists left alive, of the hundreds who had traveled with them from England. Some had died on the journey, some from predatory animals or poisonous plants, some by the hand of Diego de Tavera, still more in the first battle with the manticores over the settlement. Today's battle had claimed still more, though looking out across the field, the English dead was nothing compared to the enormous number of manticores killed.

  Ramos had told Torres that the colonists were not to be touched; presumably that was because Torres's actual orders were to kill them. They had no energy or salt left to resist. It would be Diego de Tavera all over again: torture, or the threat of harm or death to others, in order to extract information. Matthew knew there was no resisting it. The year before, he had endured punishing pain to his own body, only to crumble when Tavera started killing random people to force him to talk. He had ultimately told them everything he knew, which was why the Spanish had been able to get a ship back to England with any treasures at all. He had no illusions about his chance of survival, either. Once Torres had what he wanted, he would kill them. The only hope they had was rescue, and who could rescue them now?

  Torres had Elizabeth off to herself, where he was questioning her. She maintained her regal pose, even when he slapped her, and Matthew suspected she was making no secret of her true identity. Torres had obviously recognized her anyway.

  The conquistadors stood over them, preventing conversation. Matthew was nearest to his father, with Parris and Ferguson not far away. Catherine was on the other side of the group, too far away even to try any surreptitious conversation. Matthew felt a stab of dread in his chest at the thought that, after she had so recently been restored to him, she might die before he could even speak with her again. She was tied next to Ramos's strange daughter, Antonia, who didn't even seem to know where she was. Matthew had heard from Ramos how so many in Europe had fallen under this same madness, though none had on Horizon. It was as if some central part of herself had gone absent, leaving her alive, but no longer present.

  It reminded Matthew of when Catherine had bonded to Chichirico on the ship, before any of them had any experience doing so or knowledge of what was happening. Her consciousness had been entirely immersed in the manticore's, such that she could hardly differentiate herself from him. That had been different in many ways; Catherine had been unconscious, not able to be led around like Antonia was, but there was that same sense of someone missing an essential part of herself.

  Matthew caught a brief glimpse of something bright glowing in Antonia's thick black hair. He peered, trying to make it out. Most of the time he couldn't see it, but—there—a flash of light. In fact, he realized that Catherine was whispering, not to Antonia, but to the glow in her hair. It was one of those spirit lights. Matthew glanced at their Spanish captors, to see if they'd noticed, but they gave no sign that they'd seen it.

  By now, the sun was descending toward the horizon, red and gigantic, as close to the Earth as it ever came. Despite the cover of the trees, the air was hot, and Matthew felt a droplet of sweat slide down his back. It was not the first evening the conquistadors had spent in this place, but the huge sun clearly unnerved them.

  They erected three pyres in all, each with a post in the center driven into the ground. Torres grabbed a handful of Elizabeth's dress and yanked her to her feet. The once-white gown was dirty and torn. He pushed her up against one of the posts, and his men tied her wrists tightly to a notch high on the post, forcing her to lean against it with her hands high in the air, her feet only barely touching the ground.

  "Two more," Torres said. He pointed to Catherine and Antonia. "These two will do."

  Blanca screamed and tried to shield them, but the conquistadores knocked her roughly to the ground. They pulled Catherine and Antonia to their feet. Catherine twisted and fought, but they overpowered her and l
ed her toward one of the posts.

  They stretched Catherine's arms high and hooked her tied wrists over the notch in the post, just like they had with Elizabeth. Antonia went willingly, making no complaint, and was similarly tied to the third post.

  Matthew couldn't tear his eyes away from Catherine. Her eyes were locked to his, wide with panic. After all this time, fearing her lost, not knowing whether or how to grieve, was he really going to lose her like this? It seemed impossible that he could do nothing. A month ago, he had so much power. Power to heal, power to fight, a settlement like a fortress and what seemed like infinite stores of salt. Now he had nothing. He was just a mortal man, helpless, able to do nothing as his love was tortured and killed. He couldn't bear to watch, but it seemed like a betrayal to look away. If he couldn't hold her hand, at least he could hold her gaze.

  His father poked him in the back, hard. "Do something," he whispered.

  "What can I possibly do?"

  His voice was like a hiss, spoken out of the side of his mouth. "I've seen you do the impossible more than once. Don't tell me you're just going to stand there and let this happen."

  Matthew wanted to punch him. The situation was bad enough without his father blaming him for it. "Why are you asking me?" he said bitterly. "Why don't you just pray?"

  "I am praying. I'm praying for you to rescue them."

  "I can't."

  "Stop it. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and do what needs to be done."

  Matthew gritted his teeth. How could his father think so much of him and so little of him at the same time? His hands were tied behind his back, he had no salt, and they were surrounded by armed soldiers. What did he expect Matthew to do?

  And then Matthew knew. It popped into his head as obvious as his own name.

  He waited for just the right moment, when Torres was reaching for a torch, and moved as quickly as he could. He jumped up, off-balance, and ran to Catherine's pyre. Before anyone could stop him, he kissed her passionately, knowing he had mere seconds. As he expected, the conquistadors tore him away from her and shoved him roughly to the ground.

  "How touching," Torres said, chuckling. "The lover steals a final kiss before the end." He lit his torch and held it above Catherine's pyre. "I was going to burn the princess first, but this is more tragic, don't you think? Young love, cut short." All he had to do was drop the torch. There was no oil, nothing to make the wood burn quickly. Worst of all, the quintessence water still in Catherine's veins would continue to heal her as she burned. It would be a slow and horrible death.

  "Stop!" Matthew said. "You don't have to do this. We'll tell you whatever you want to know."

  "I'm certain you will," Torres said. "I find that tongues are loose once their owners witness the horrors their heresy has earned them. I will burn your love, and then you will have a chance to speak. If I am not satisfied, I will burn the next in line."

  "I can teach you how to use quintessence," Matthew said. "I can show you where to find shekinah flatworms, how to preserve them for the trip back to England. I'll show you how to make your body fast and strong, like ours, and how to create the quintessence fire."

  "You will lie to me," Torres said. "And then I will burn your friends, and only then will you tell the truth. I wish to skip the lies. I take no joy from it, but it was you who chose to set your faces against the Lord. As it says in Holy Scripture, 'He shall crush you with a scepter of iron; he shall break you in pieces like a potter's vessel.' God laughs at your pitiful rebellion. When you see your princess burn, you will know there is no hope in defying Almighty God."

  It was a twisting of Psalm 2, and a horrible one. Matthew struggled to stand, but a soldier kicked him and he fell back to the ground. Ferguson looked dazed, staring in shock and denial. Parris had his eyes closed in apparent calm, and his lips were moving. Was he talking to Tanalabrinu across their bond? Or praying for divine rescue?

  "We will never tell you anything," Catherine said from her pyre. "Your cruelty will buy you nothing but God's judgment."

  "Such brave words," Torres said. "But we will see how fast your defiance turns to begging for mercy." He turned back to look at Matthew. "Any last words for your young love?"

  Matthew glared at him from the ground. "You're a monster. Is this what serving Christ looks like? The torture of young women?" He had no doubt that Torres had picked out Catherine and Antonia simply because they were young and beautiful, and thus their gruesome deaths would be that much more shocking. His goal was to crush any hope of resistance or rescue, in order to be sure the information he extracted from the rest was true and complete.

  Torres shook his head in apparent regret. "This is the price of heresy," he said. He tossed the torch into the wood at Catherine's feet.

  CHAPTER 26

  RAMOS woke with a throbbing headache. He was on a narrow ledge, maybe thirty feet above the crashing waves. He looked back up the way he had fallen. There was no way he could climb it. He was alone in this vast and strange world with no resources, no plan, nowhere to go. Antonia and Elizabeth and the others were doomed. As soon as Torres extracted the information he needed from them, he would kill them. Burn them for heresy, probably. Ramos knew how it worked. He would burn some so that the others would talk, and then burn the others anyway.

  He had to do something, had to save them. But what could he possibly do? He was just one man, an astronomer, not even a warrior. He had no weapons, no quintessence tricks. He was stuck on a ledge with no way off. Everything he ever knew had been taken away from him. His church. His country. Now even his niece.

  And what if he could find a way off this slope? What then? He could make a hero's suicide charge and rush into the circle shouting for Antonia. But for what purpose? So she could see him cut down with gunfire just before she burned? He could turn himself in peacefully, but again, why? So he could watch her die in agony?

  Ramos staggered to the edge and looked down at the ocean. It was, possibly, the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. The sea was turquoise and stretched out sparkling to the edge of vision. Great waves dashed themselves against the cliffs, throwing spray high in the air. A flock of birds with long, dagger-like beaks plummeted into the water from hundreds of feet up and emerged, dripping, with wriggling eels impaled on their beaks. The successful ones gathered on an outcropping to tear their prey to pieces, while those still hunting wheeled high overhead. Clouds turned fiery with reflected sunlight streaked the sky.

  He found that he was crying. What was happening to him? Where had he gone wrong? He had turned from the Church, yes, but only to avoid torturing a youth, giving up his daughter to be burned, or condemning a young princess to her death. Was God punishing him for those things? For rejecting his Church and his divinely ordained king? Perhaps he was reaping what he had sown. Or more precisely, Antonia was reaping it. Perhaps he should have obeyed in silence, content to follow the pope and the king without question.

  On the other hand, why should he think that this situation was brought about by God? His discoveries had taught him that the world was a machine, gears and cogs meshing together, everything from rocks to human beings made up of random, mindless atoms. In such a universe, why should he expect good deeds to be rewarded? Perhaps the atheists were right. Perhaps there was no such thing as God after all.

  A noise from above caught his attention. The birds with the dagger beaks were squawking, taking awkward flight and abandoning their half-eaten eels on their rock. Something was scaring them away.

  Their outcropping was unreachable from where Ramos stood, separated by one of many cracks jutting into the cliff face. He could see clearly, however, when a huge creature emerged where the birds had stood a moment before. It was a salamander, grossly bloated, its translucent skin gorged and dragging on the ground. A faint glow emanated from inside its flesh, as if it had been feasting on fireflies. It bellowed, a guttural sound like a retching cow. Then, incredibly, it ran off the edge of the cliff.

  It fell gracelessly, end
over end, and collided with the water with an audible slap. Ramos thought it must surely be dead, but he could see it shake itself off and swim out to sea, its splayed legs frantically churning the water. He was too busy watching it to notice the second salamander until it, too, had pitched itself into the ocean.

  Ramos looked back up at the cliff to see a third and fourth salamander, each as bloated and fat as the first, launch themselves in ungainly leaps into space, only to fall like a stone. They were followed by two more, and then a multitude, like a river of salamanders cascading into the sea. Ramos watched them, transfixed.

  Not all of them survived the fall. Some slapped against the water and then floated motionless, while others survived the splash but were crushed by the weight of the next creature landing on top of them. What were they doing? His consternation only increased when he saw the first group of salamanders, those who had made it farther out into the water, disappearing under the waves. An enormous back crested nearby, revealing the existence of some truly gigantic predator.

  One of the salamanders had drifted off course and was paddling away, but the sea creature erupted from beneath it, its enormous mouth swallowing the salamander whole and throwing tremendous waves of water into the air. The breach revealed the monster's shape: an enormous fish with a head like a stone tower, black crested, with a mouth full of gleaming rows of teeth. Ramos had never sailed in these waters, but he had heard of such giants. One had nearly destroyed the ship that brought the original colonists to Horizon. They had called it leviathan.

  Ramos knew enough about animals to know that they valued their own lives. What possible survival instinct would drive this group of salamanders to hurl themselves into the sea to die? He had no idea, but the scene seemed particularly poignant, given his own circumstances. Whatever drove them, these creatures must have felt that they had no choices left. The other options open to them must have seemed worse than this insane act of self-destruction.