Darkfall

by Isobelle Carmody

  ‘Yes,’ the other girl murmured. The pair had finished eating, and they rose, dusting off their fingers and drifting away.

  That was the trouble with eavesdropping, Glynn thought in disgust. It was completely serendipitous. She sat back in her place at the end of the bench and began to eat her now-cold bowl of stew.

  ‘Blasted noble brats out slumming,’ a man said loudly from the other side of the fire.

  ‘Noble or not, they spoke true,’ someone else said aggressively.

  Glynn looked over but could not tell who had spoken. There was a murmurous rumble of agreement from other people around the fire-pit, but her attention focused on a quiet conversation taking place between the mother and father of the family beside her.

  ‘Here, do you think it is true what those girls said about the Draaka being asked to speak at the wing hall?’ the man asked in a low voice.

  The mother answered. ‘It is more than possible, Lanalor knows. Jurass wants to stamp out support for the soulweavers and what better way than to have the Draaka speak against them? I have heard she is very convincing.’

  ‘I would not be convinced, but we will not go to swell her audience,’ the man said stoutly.

  ‘Then they will know we cleave to Darkfall.’ She sighed. ‘Who would have ever thought people would hiss if you spoke of the misty isle, or that young maids would brazenly dare to call the Unraveller a demon? The world has gone mad.’

  ‘Why should it not, when its Holder is mad?’ the man asked meaningfully, but still in a low tone.

  The woman pulled a fat baby on her lap and began jogging him up and down so vigorously the baby began to hiccup. When she spoke, her voice was so soft that Glynn had to strain her ears to catch the words. ‘I have told you before, Broch, and I tell you now, we must leave Acantha before it becomes a crime to cleave to Darkfall. It is almost that now. Maybe we could go to the citadel on Ramidan, and stay with my sister for a bit.’

  The man yelped. ‘You must be mad. It would cost all the coin we have saved and more to go so far. Besides, Tarsin and his bitch of a mother have made a sewer of the Holder’s city. They respect Darkfall no more than Jurass. Acantha is our home.’

  ‘Will it be our home when we are thrown from the cliffs because we do not worship the Chaos spirit?’ The woman’s voice had risen and the man looked around uncomfortably.

  ‘Keep your voice down, Miliad. It is not safe to speak such words out loud. Besides, it will not come to that. The Shadowman would …’

  ‘The Shadowman! You men are all alike. You think his heroics will solve this? It is too big for that. Why do you think the soulweavers do not endorse him and his agents? Each thing has its song to sing, even this dark time and even Jurass’s madness. It must be so or why else would the soulweavers continue to support him? But your precious Shadowman will fight against things which are perhaps meant to happen. Who knows what harm he will do?’

  ‘If all things have their songs to sing, then maybe the Shadowman has a part to play as well,’ the man said reasonably. ‘What sort of a world is it if we do not fight for justice?’

  ‘There can be no justice or light until the Firstmade is freed,’ the woman snapped, and the man fell silent for a time.

  ‘Maybe so, Miliad,’ he replied at last, ‘but what are we to do until then? It has been a hundred seasons since Lanalor called to the Unraveller, and it may be a hundred more before the Unraveller comes. Must we live in darkness and despair – we and our children and their children – until then?’

  ‘How can we live any other way when the Firstmade dwells thus? We must keep faith and we must trust to the soulweavers.’

  ‘Faugh,’ the man snorted. ‘The soulweavers care only for the Firstmade and the Unraveller. I am not saying they do wrong, for so Lanalor bade them. But we have ourselves to think of, and the children. The Shadowman is right to say we must fight for what is right until the Firstmade is restored to the world.’

  The baby began to squall loudly then and the whispered argument ended as the little family decamped.

  Glynn licked her fingers slowly, staring into the flames and thinking hard about all that she had heard. The most important bit of information, as far as she was concerned, was that the island of Ramidan was very far away. It might be even further than Darkfall. The thought of being stuck in the minescrape for weeks trying to amass coin for travel depressed her.

  Ember’s face came into her thoughts. Glynn forced it from her and blinked away tears. They would not bring her home. She sighed and rose, making her way from the communal fires towards the dyefell. Tonight it was emitting a ghastly greenish lume. Skeins of cloth were strung up all along the front, dripping brackish-looking water. The angular man who ran the fell recognised her and lifted a friendly hand. Glynn waved back and felt vaguely cheered.

  She was yawning widely as she approached the ramp. Looking up automatically, she almost dislocated her jaw when she realised there was light coming from inside. Solen had returned and it was early enough that he was unlikely to have been out drinking. She decided to forgive him for snapping at her. If he was trying to change, he needed support and encouragement, not criticism. Alcoholism is an illness, she reminded herself. She pulled aside the stiffened door flap, making up her mind that she would not let him get under her skin tonight.

  But, once again, it was not Solen waiting for her.

  Seated around the small room in various attitudes that suggested they had been there for some time, was a group of men clad in the blue-slashed wing suits of the Acanthan legion. The legionnaires rose at her entrance and Glynn’s heart began to pound.

  ‘You must come with us,’ said the shortest of the men. His purple cloak told her he was a wing leader.

  ‘There must be some mistake,’ she stammered.

  ‘You are the Fomhikan woman, Glynna, who has been cohabiting with Solen windwalker?’

  ‘I have not been cohabiting with him,’ Glynn protested indignantly. ‘I am staying here as a guest, is all. Solen is not even here! Why don’t you wait until he comes and he can tell you himself?’

  The man simply stared down his long nose at her. ‘It is not Solen who is wanted.’

  That scared Glynn badly. ‘Can I at least change?’ she stalled.

  The legionnaire’s gaze travelled over her filthy clothing somewhat disdainfully, but he shook his head. ‘I am sorry, but my instructions are that you are to come at once.’

  Crossing the room and putting out the lamps they had lit, Glynn tried to work out what she had done wrong. Perhaps the minor chit forgery had been discovered. But surely that was not so terrible a deed. She wondered what on earth she would do if they threw her in gaol. Would Solen help her? Would he be capable of helping her? What if there were no gaols on Keltor – only punishment? What if they chopped off her hand or tongue?

  ‘I am ready,’ Glynn said, and was amazed to find her voice steady despite a catalogue of terrors running through her mind. She dragged her fingers through her hair and grimaced to feel it was both gritty and greasy. She hated to think how it looked, and plaited it loosely to keep it back from her face.

  ‘Shall we go?’ the wing leader said politely.

  For all the world as if I have a choice, Glynn fumed, preceding him through the stiffened flap and onto the ledge.

  To her surprise there were more legionnaires waiting at the mouth of the race that led from Porm to Wena cavesite. Glynn thought they were waiting for her, until she noticed in their midst a slight young woman with anxious, almond-shaped eyes. The girl smiled and held out a hand chin-high, palm facing up. Fortunately Glynn had witnessed this greeting exchanged by nobles and their palms met fleetingly. Glynn had the feeling she had seen her somewhere before.

  ‘I am Hella,’ the young woman introduced herself. ‘I am Solen’s sister.’

  ‘Sister …’ Glynn echoed stupidly.

  ‘Save the social pleasantries for a wing hall,’ the wing leader said. ‘Let’s go. The Lady Nema does not like to be ke
pt waiting.’

  12

  When the Unykorn looked on Shenavyre’s face,

  it wept because it knew love,

  and knowing love, it knew pain,

  for Shenavyre was mortal and would die …

  LEGENDSONG OF THE UNYKORN

  The legionnaires walked either side of the two girls as they left the cavesite and Glynn felt as if they were prisoners being marched off to be shot. She was trying to figure out what the mother of Jurass could want with her. It must be something to do with Solen since his sister was being brought along as well.

  ‘I am sorry we had to meet under such circumstances,’ Hella said softly. She did not sound overly worried about what was happening. ‘I came to Solen’s fell to make myself known to you, but you were away.’ She smiled a little. ‘I could see you had been there, though. I have not seen Solen’s fell so neat for a long time.’ She hesitated. ‘I … I heard you were working in the minescrape.’

  Glynn wondered why Solen had not mentioned his sister. Clearly, Hella assumed he had. ‘You left the sether?’

  Hella nodded. ‘After I realised I had forgotten to leave a chit. I wondered what you would think.’

  Glynn hardly knew what to think. It was no wonder Hella had looked familiar. Like her brother, she had raven-wing hair cropped very short and the same striking eyes, though hers were dark-blue instead of purple. She was lean where he had run to flesh, but the resemblance between them was further accentuated because Hella wore the unisex wing suit affected by all Acanthan windwalkers.

  ‘Well, I am glad to meet you,’ Glynn said at last. ‘Why do you suppose Nema wants to see us?’

  Hella flicked a pointed look at the captain of the legionnaires. ‘I do not know. Haris has not seen fit to inform me.’

  ‘It is not for me to attempt to interpret the thoughts or intent of the Lady Nema,’ he said pompously. ‘I am merely commanded to bring you both to her, and I obey. I was given no brief to explain anything to you.’

  ‘When did Nema return from her pilgrimage to the Draaka haven?’

  ‘Yestereve,’ Haris said, after a fleeting hesitation, as if he must first consult some inner authority.

  Hella moved nearer to Glynn and said in a low voice, ‘I have no idea what Nema could have been doing at the haven – she was ever a staunch supporter of Darkfall – but for her to call us practically the moment of her return does not bode well. Why is Solen never here when he is needed?’

  He probably makes it his business to be absent when he is needed, Glynn thought grimly, wishing uselessly that she had done something decisive about finding her own place. It was too bad that she had to be dragged into Solen’s messes when she was being so careful on her own account.

  ‘Where is your cavesite?’ she asked Hella.

  ‘Etienn. It is not far from Porm, where you are. In fact we passed by its race. You must come and see me. I live there alone but soon I will be shifting to Wena cavesite.’ A slight, secretive smile moved like a caress over her lips.

  Glynn turned her attention to her surroundings. Keltor was divided into classes and the design of the settlement reflected this hierarchy. The walls of Porm and of the other outer cavesites she had seen were of bare untreated stone, as were their connecting races. Now they moved through races which were floored in woven mats and featured panels of relief carvings on the walls. In places there were even small portholes showing the sea outside, which meant they were being brought round the outside of the great subterranean wheel that was the Acanthan settlement. They came finally to wide, well-lit races that were virtually short stone corridors. Several were carpeted. The last was both carpeted and hung with richly patterned tapestries. As in Solen’s fell, many of the tapestries were unfinished. Perhaps it was some sort of strange fashion to have partly completed tapestries on the walls.

  The race led to a small cavesite with a single sky chimney over a wide pool. The stalagmites, clustered around the opening to the chimney, were particularly beautiful and, on one side, they had joined with stalactites to form a petrified forest of stone columns. There was no moonlight, but the whole cavesite was illuminated by a number of fire torches whose flames danced on the surface of the water. By the pool were an older woman reclining on a patch of thick sether, and a plump, pretty girl singing. She was accompanied by another girl strumming a three-stringed guitar; Glynn had a sudden vivid memory of Ember one Christmas curved over her guitar like this girl, long red hair curtaining her face.

  ‘This is where Nema lives,’ Hella said, as they approached the nearest fell entrance. It was flanked by three bright lamps, one either side of the door and one suspended above it. The legionnaires arrayed themselves along the wall, seeming to regard their duty as ended.

  Hella pulled a small cord by the door. Glynn noticed the door flap was set with gleaming blister-shaped jewels that caught the torchlight. Curious, she reached out a finger to touch one of them but Hella took her by the wrist.

  ‘The darklins have been specially treated to shine like that,’ she warned. ‘The slightest touch will mar them.’

  Darklins? Glynn thought indignantly. Was this Nema so careless of money she could afford to stick the precious stones on her door as decoration? ‘Isn’t she afraid someone will steal them?’ she demanded.

  Hella gave her a puzzled look. ‘What would be the point? The stones …’

  They were interrupted as the door opened suddenly. Glynn recognised the tall, thin woman who had taken Solen to task in the song cavern the day they arrived on Acantha. ‘What do you want?’ the woman demanded.

  ‘Nema sent for us, Scala,’ Hella said politely, but Glynn felt her hackles rise. The woman had to know that the pair of them had been frog-marched here on Nema’s orders, so what was she playing at?

  ‘She summoned your brother days ago but he did not trouble himself to obey.’ Scala cast a look at Glynn, then asked Hella if she was a myrmidon.

  ‘I can answer for myself,’ Glynn snapped. ‘I am not.’

  Scala sniffed. ‘I will tell Nema you are here.’

  ‘What is it about me that makes everyone think I’m a myrmidon, anyway?’ Glynn fumed after the woman closed the door, leaving them to wait outside. ‘There must be more to it than physical appearance because Fomhikans are tall and strong like me.’

  Hella gave her a puzzled look. ‘Fomhikans may become myrmidons,’ she said.

  Glynn said quickly, ‘Don’t mind me. I have probably just forgotten. I suppose Solen told you what happened to me?’

  Hella nodded. ‘He said you had swallowed bittermute algae, and that your mind was affected by it …’

  ‘My memory, actually. It’s coming back to me bit by bit, but I am still …’ Glynn touched her head, ‘confused. It’s infuriating to have forgotten everything about myrmidons and then find I am constantly being taken for one.’

  ‘How awful.’

  Glynn felt a pang of guilt at the girl’s genuine sympathy.

  ‘I have a wonderful idea,’ Hella said with sudden eagerness. ‘You must come and stay with me. I will be your memory. Unless you would rather not. Solen warned me that you prefer your own company.’

  Glynn understood from this that Solen had deliberately kept his sister away from her, and wondered why. ‘I had plenty of my own company with him out every night drinking,’ she said tartly.

  Hella flushed and looked depressed. ‘Solen is …’ She shook her head and changed the subject. ‘You asked why you are taken for a myrmidon? Well, it is partly your physique. Fomhikans are big though they are not generally as muscular as you are. But it is more than that. You have a strong air of independence which even I, who have known you only these few moments, can discern. That is a very myrmidonish trait. And you have a certain …’ She hesitated. ‘A fierceness that is …’

  The door opened abruptly and Scala looked out suspiciously, as if she expected to catch them up to something – prising darklins out of the door maybe.

  ‘You may as well come in,’ sh
e said grudgingly.

  As she entered behind Hella, Glynn was startled to feel the wind on her face and in her hair. Because of the brightness of the external lanterns, it seemed as if they had stepped into darkness but, as her eyes adjusted, Glynn saw that the foyer too was lit by small lanterns. Their wicks were trimmed low and the wind made the flames flutter raggedly. There must be a porthole inside the fell.

  Doors without flaps led off to the left and right, but the wind was coming from immediately in front of the door, where broad shallow steps led up through two stone columns to a large room. As they ascended, Glynn breathed in greedily. Solen’s fell was perfectly well ventilated, but nonetheless she always felt slightly suffocated in it. The minescrape was even worse, and the time she spent at the beginning and end of each day in the song cavern had become precious because of the panoramic view it offered of the sea and sky. This was the only time she felt as if she was breathing fresh air.

  Coming to the top of the steps now, Glynn was stunned to see that one entire wall of the fell was open to a magnificent though shadowy night vista of the ocean. Stretching away to the horizon, it was dark but for waves cresting here and there, white against the dimness. Glass was set in angled slats along the opening, and wind sighed freely through the gaps between them, causing drifting streamers of cloth to ripple like smoke in the shadows.

  The Keltan moons and stars were completely obscured by the veil of cloud she had seen earlier from the song cavern; but even so, the view was astonishing. Turning away reluctantly, Glynn examined the rest of the room. The only illumination in the enormous chamber were small pools of muted golden light that fell beneath shaded lanterns here and there. The apartment was lavishly furnished; low embroidered couches with intricately carved legs were piled high with fat soft cushions, and enamelled tables supported huge vases of sweet-scented white sether. The floor was covered in thick pale rugs, while another enormous stone column had been carved and hollowed out to make room for a series of lanterns studded with more of the coruscating darklins. No doubt the daylight would make the ornamented column as fabulous as the view.