Destiny's Rift (Broken Well Trilogy)

by Sam Bowring

  ‘Tyrellan, my friend,’ he said, ‘you are right, of course. I leave all security arrangements in your capable hands. Do what you think is best.’

  He caught a waft of something under the sickly odour of death, something even more sour and rotten. It seemed to be emanating from one of the tunnels that led down from the entrance chamber into the caves beneath Skygrip.

  ‘Can you smell that?’ he asked, and the First Slave’s broad nostrils widened. ‘Perhaps a body yet undiscovered?’

  The goblin grimaced. ‘No,’ he said, and turned to a group of Greys who were cleaning the chamber. ‘You lot, attend!’ Then, ‘Come with me, my lord. I know exactly what that is.’

  He led them down a short passage where they found a circular oak door that fitted into the tunnel like a cork in a bottle. The Greys hauled it open, and a stink issued forth like rags mouldering in bad milk. Tyrellan directed the Greys to enter and set ice lanterns in place. They disappeared inside, and Losara heard stifled murmurs of disgust, accompanied by squelching and a faint whirring noise. A few minutes later the Greys hurried out.

  ‘All lit up now, masters,’ one said. ‘Though you may wish it wasn’t.’

  ‘Away with you,’ snapped Tyrellan, and they fled.

  As Losara stepped into the low-roofed chamber, the smell grew almost overpowering. In the middle stood two stone vats, from which spilled slimy ropes of bubbled foam. Above the vats was a metal frame from which was hung a pendulous stone carving of an eye. At their feet lay what had caused the squelching – a scattering of bug-eyes, dead, their bodies yellowing and leaking viscous liquid. About the room some of the creatures still lived, whirring about on their insect-like wings.

  ‘This is where bug-eyes are bred,’ said Tyrellan, kicking carcasses out of the way. One eye hit the wall and burst, sagging as it slid slowly downwards. Losara couldn’t help but feel it looked reproachful.

  They moved to the vats and Losara looked in. A mucous-like substance cobwebbed the insides, holding twitching white packages.

  ‘They are grown in this,’ said Tyrellan. ‘I’m guessing the ones that are alive did not emerge until after the purging. There was a specialised mage who used to work down here . . . ah, yes.’

  Losara followed Tyrellan’s gaze and saw an old Arabodedas slumped against the wall, coated in slime, clearly dead. To Losara’s surprise his eyelids slid open and two white, healthy eyes stared back at him. They startled to jiggle, then stalk legs appeared, and the eyes hoisted themselves out of the sockets to stretch their wings.

  ‘Attempting to find a host,’ said Tyrellan, and swatted at one that tried to land on his face. ‘Don’t worry – they’re easy enough to avoid while you’re awake.’

  ‘And what is this?’ asked Losara, gesturing at the hanging stone eye.

  ‘Battu used it when they were hatching,’ said Tyrellan. ‘It was how he imprinted their sight into his own, so that he could see through them when he wished to. Beyond that I don’t understand how it works.’

  Losara thought he’d be able to puzzle it out if he was so inclined – it would be something to do with connecting the eyes to Skygrip, and thus to the Shadowdreamer. If that was the case, Battu would no longer be able to see through any of the eyes that he’d sent out during his rule.

  ‘What will happen to the bug-eyes Battu already has in place?’ Losara wondered aloud.

  ‘I have received scattered reports, lord, of eyes dropping from people’s heads.’

  ‘Dying with Battu’s severance from Skygrip?’ said Losara.

  Tyrellan’s butterfly landed on the edge of a vat, and eyes sidled over to inspect it.

  ‘If my lord wishes,’ said Tyrellan, ‘I can have this place cleaned and made functional again?’

  Losara thought about it briefly. The bug-eyes might be useful, but he had always felt a little sickened by them. True, their hosts usually did not realise they had been affected, and could still see perfectly well after the bug replaced their real eye, but still . . .

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I will not be requiring this place. In fact, I would like to you make it . . . discontinued.’

  ‘Yes, lord,’ said Tyrellan, and Losara thought him pleased.

  ‘You do not like these creatures either?’

  Tyrellan paused. ‘They have caused me some trouble over the years,’ he said. ‘Battu was overly obsessed with their proliferation, and their dispersal into Kainordas was the cause of an unnecessary mission or two.’

  ‘I see. Well, feel free to dispose of them all.’

  ‘My lord is sure? They are magical creatures and do not, as far as I know, occur in nature. With the destruction of these ones, the art of creating them may be lost.’

  ‘Good,’ said Losara.

  •

  Later that day, Losara sat on the throne, for despite his reluctance, it seemed a thing he should sometimes do. Some of the councillors were now even accompanied by hangers-on. His tolerance had made them bold, and they were now comfortable enough to ignore him entirely when he did not require their attention. A Grey Goblin attendant walked amongst the various groups, enquiring after their needs and removing empty plates and goblets. It was a far cry from the desolation of Battu’s rule.

  Tyrellan’s butterfly flew past, the bright flash of colour catching Losara’s eye. Tyrellan himself was over by the long window, speaking to a creaky old Graka. Losara watched as the butterfly landed unnoticed on an Arabodedas’s goblet. It uncurled its proboscis into the liquid, some kind of juice, as if to drink.

  The legacy spell mimics the behaviour of the creature it looks like, thought Losara. The butterfly isn’t really drinking.

  The Arabodedas tried to brush the butterfly away, and instead scratched his hand on its immovable antennae. He turned with a scowl to find Tyrellan’s gaze upon him, then smoothed his features and set the cup down as if it were something dangerous.

  ‘A word, lord Shadowdreamer?’ came a familiar croak.

  Heron, his tutor, shuffled out of the crowd. She had been old when she’d been returned to Skygrip to raise and teach Losara – now, she was ancient. Losara had not thought about her since toppling Battu – there had been much to attend to, after all – but now that she stood in front of him, he felt bad for neglecting her, and fairly certain of what she wanted.

  ‘Heron,’ he acknowledged. She tried to bow, but her back gave a little pop and she winced. In a smooth movement, Losara fell to shadow and spilled from the throne, re-forming beside her.

  ‘Here,’ he said, helping her sit on the dais steps, ‘let us rest your weary bones.’

  She sighed with relief as her rump flattened on the stone. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’m sorry I haven’t come to see you,’ he said, sitting next to her.

  ‘I understand, dear boy. I’m sure there’s been a lot on your mind.’ A moment of companionable silence passed as she caught her breath. ‘It is good,’ she said eventually, ‘to see this place alive again.’

  ‘I have my issues with it,’ said Losara with a small chuckle. ‘Earlier today, I was cornered by two councillors wanting me to settle their dispute over whose township gets to host an annual pig race.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Heron, ‘an important decision indeed. Still, I never thought I’d see the throne room like this again, long as I lived.’

  Losara nodded. ‘And a long time it has been.’

  She shot him a sideways glance. ‘My lord has guessed why I come?’

  ‘You seek to be released. From service and . . . from life?’

  She hesitated for only a moment, then sighed. ‘We both know I have nothing left to teach you. That was the purpose for which Battu kept me alive, though I think it also amused him to do so. Losara, I have been old as long as you’ve known me.’

  Losara placed a hand on her shoulder. Nothing on it but skin. ‘So what do you need? My permission?’

  ‘More than that. Battu used the power of the castle to tie me to life. I thought perhaps the spell would fade with his d
eparture, but it seems Skygrip has a better memory than that. Now that you’re connected to it, you may be able to see – look upon me with your finer senses.’

  Losara did so, searching for what was hidden. There they were, so thin that he almost missed them – from Heron’s arms, head and legs, threads of shadow ran up to the roof, like the strings of a puppet.

  ‘I see them.’

  ‘They hoist me up,’ she said. ‘Keep me on my feet, as it were, feeding me just enough energy to continue living, teetering along the edge of a void. Possibly I could escape them if the limbs they adhere to were scattered widely enough, or burned to nothing. But I think I deserve a more peaceful end.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Losara. ‘So, I must cut them?’

  ‘Snip, snip,’ she said, ‘and all my years fall down upon me.’

  The butterfly landed on Losara’s knee, seeming to look up at him.

  Magic without denomination, he thought, not shadow, not light. Impossible to affect.

  The butterfly waved its antennae.

  The object created by a legacy spell only appears to be imbued with the attributes of its physical appearance. Hence a butterfly tries to drink from a cup of sugary juice, even though it is not really a butterfly, and cannot really drink.

  He leaned against Refectu, and something prodded him in the back. Absently he turned, to see whatever it was slowly erupting out of the stone. A lizard, smooth and sleek, with deep-set eyes and a mouth of tiny fangs. He recognised it as a shadowmander – those strange reptiles that lived along the border, where they could dart out and grab things born of light. The last time he had seen one, it had killed a beetle even though it was no longer hungry.

  An idea began to form.

  ‘Heron,’ he said, ‘I will release you, of course . . . but I wonder if you would attempt to do Tyrellan and me a favour on your way out?’

  •

  Heron eased her aching body into the armchair, well worn to fit the bent shape of her spine. She was glad they had brought her here, to her small living quarters, to end her life in privacy. What the boy wanted to try did not bother her – whether it worked or not, she would still be dead.

  Losara sat opposite, calmly alert, and by him was Tyrellan with the butterfly on his shoulder.

  ‘I thank you,’ said Losara, ‘for teaching me. And being the closest thing I had to a mother.’

  Heron was touched by his sincerity. They had never been quite like that, she thought, not mother and son – she’d been too sad, and he too strange – but he had said the closest thing, and perhaps that was true.

  ‘It has been an honour,’ she said.

  Losara smiled. ‘An honour you never chose for yourself.’

  It was a surprise when Tyrellan spoke. ‘You have my respect,’ he said, ‘for a long life led in service to the shadow. And my thanks for what you are about to attempt.’

  Such rare words of praise from Tyrellan almost moved her, but she could not entirely forget that it was he who had brought her back to Skygrip after she had supposedly retired. In the years since then they had become allies of sorts, protecting the boy from Battu, and she did not despise him as she once had, but there was not much fondness there either.

  ‘You are lucky to have Losara as your advocate,’ she told him.

  The goblin looked as if he was about to say something else, but instead gave a brief nod.

  ‘Are you ready?’ said Losara.

  She took a deep breath. ‘Yes.’

  He looked up to the shadowy threads that kept her alive. She did not know if he cast a spell or simply commanded the castle to stop, but the threads detached and disappeared into the roof, and she felt the support they had given her fade. It did not take long for an unmistakable numbness to wash through her. Her eyes closed, and she died.

  Somewhere in the distance, behind the veil of the world, a great darkness called her home. She knew it was Assedrynn’s Well, whence her soul had come as a tiny seed, now grown. As she floated her aches left her, and she knew a moment of pure happiness. Almost, she forgot her promise. The pull of the Well was great, and she was light, lighter than air. But then she saw the room she was leaving, grey as if frozen in time, her frail corpse bent over in the armchair, Losara watching and Tyrellan tense. And she saw the butterfly.

  Magic without denomination, Losara had said, can perhaps be affected only by other magic without denomination?

  As the butterfly had been cast on Tyrellan, so Heron cast her legacy spell on the butterfly. She could not destroy it, for the purpose of the legacy spell was to create something by which a departing soul would be remembered in the world, but she could build her own legacy upon it. She diverted a tiny part of her life force from that which flowed into the afterlife, feeling an odd tweak as it went. As she left it behind in the world, it was cut off from the Well and became magic that was neither shadow nor light – just like the butterfly.

  The pull became too great to ignore. Not pausing to see if her final spell had taken, Heron’s soul departed.

  •

  Losara could tell that Tyrellan was anxious, though the goblin gave no outward sign beyond staring fixedly at the butterfly. He hoped he would not be proven cruel to give Tyrellan this hope – there was no precedent for what they attempted. In fact the more he thought about it, the more it seemed a wild notion.

  ‘How long will it take?’ said Tyrellan, a seam of tension in his usual flat tone.

  ‘I don’t know. Right away, I think – if it works.’

  No sooner had he spoken than a slender trace of shadow dropped from the air like a falling ribbon. Losara sensed magic, but as it twirled down to the butterfly, it vanished entirely from his perception. Then, along the butterfly’s wings, grey sparks shimmered. As they spread, eclipsing all colour, the wings curled back to perfectly wrap around the body. Lines ran down the front and back legs, thickening them. The antennae and middle set of legs flattened against the body as it elongated, the head lengthened into a snout, and the skin turned deep scarlet as the sparks faded. The transformation was complete.

  ‘Well,’ said Losara, somewhat surprised that his idea had worked, but pleased nonetheless, ‘there we go.’

  The shadowmander cocked its head at them, its tongue darting in and out. It was larger than the butterfly, for Heron had encased the original spell in her own.

  Tyrellan stared at it in amazement, a long-held breath slowly escaping his mouth. ‘Assedrynn be praised.’ Then he looked upon Losara with great reverence. ‘And you, my master . . . my humble thanks to you for this amelioration.’

  Losara nodded to him warmly.

  The mander, apparently finding them of little interest, sniffed the ground and rippled to a wall. It skirted the room and disappeared under the bed.

  ‘Hunting?’ said Losara. ‘Like a real shadowmander?’ He paused, almost not daring to have the thought. ‘If it is, it seeks out creatures of the light.’

  Tyrellan’s eyes glinted. ‘An invincible light-hating creature? A shame we cannot turn it loose.’ A new hope struck him. ‘Assuming it’s still bound to me.’

  He went to the door and passed through into the corridor beyond. Losara waited, watching. A few moments later, the mander emerged and ran out of the room after the goblin. Losara nodded to himself, then turned to look upon Heron one last time. ‘Goodbye, old crone. I’ll have someone see to you shortly. Thank you.’

  He left the room and found Tyrellan inspecting his scaly new companion as it crawled across the wall.

  ‘It follows me still,’ Tyrellan said, ‘but at least it is now a creature befitting the First Slave.’

  ‘Come,’ said Losara, sweeping past him, suddenly excited. ‘I want to test something.’

  The shadowmander trailed behind as they moved through Skygrip. It was far less obvious than the butterfly, for it favoured the dark and would whisk quick and soundless from hiding spot to spot. It also seemed to be able to travel further from Tyrellan than the butterfly had. Due to its increase in
size? Losara wondered.

  ‘Where are we heading, lord?’ said Tyrellan.

  ‘The aviary. I believe they have a cage or two of birds from Kainordas.’

  They came to a portal door and stepped through a thin veil of shadow to emerge higher up in the castle. A tunnel sloped off ahead, and from it they could hear bird calls and the occasional booming of a whelkling. Tyrellan glanced back to make sure the mander had found its way through after them – sure enough, it came skulking behind.

  Up the tunnel they went, till they entered a large cavern.

  ‘Welcome, my lord,’ a voice quavered. It was Vindo, head of the castle aviary, who shot several nervous glances at Tyrellan – during their last encounter, Tyrellan had delivered the Graka a vicious blow, which it seemed had not been forgotten.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ said Vindo.

  ‘You have some birds from Kainordas here?’ asked Losara.

  Vindo bobbed his head. ‘Yes, lord.’

  ‘Please fetch them.’

  Vindo bowed and backed away between cages. He did not notice the shadowmander, which darted across the floor and slipped into a whelkling’s pen. The whelkling, chained to a pole, gave its wings a flap, but otherwise remained disinterested as the lizard slithered around its enclosure.

  Vindo returned, carrying a cage in which two sundarts huddled together. Their golden plumage, which would have shone in the light of Kainordas, was faded and fraying.

  ‘Are these sufficient?’ he asked, setting down the cage. ‘I have others as well.’

  Neither Tyrellan nor Losara paid him any attention, but concentrated instead on the mander. At a forlorn cheep from one of the birds, it left the pen and crept towards the cage. Coming to a halt near Vindo’s leg, it eyed the birds intently.

  ‘Er . . .’ said Vindo. ‘What are you . . .’ He followed their stares down to his feet and ‘Erk!’ he exclaimed, jumping in fear. The mander burst from between his legs, wriggled into the cage, and leaped to grab one of the birds in its claws. Together they sprawled on the cage floor, a blur of activity . . . and quickly also of bloody feathers. The second bird chirped in terror and beat its wings uselessly against the bars as the mander lifted its dripping head from the first.