The Waterless Sea

by Kate Constable

  With a sigh, another section of the railing gave way; white dust settled like a snowfall onto the plaza. People moved out of the way. One or two glanced around and murmured anxiously, but most still strolled about, unconcerned.

  Suddenly Keela leaned forward and whispered urgently in Calwyn’ s ear. ‘It isn’ t too late for us to be friends, Calwyn, if that is your true name! I know what you’ ve done, and I’ m glad of it. But there’ s no need to work for the sea-towners; they could never give you what my master and I can, when the time comes. We could work together. Why not give me the child? Change is coming, coming soon. If you help me, I will remember –’ Every trace of the frivolous, shallow princess had vanished; Calwyn found herself staring into the face of a calculating and ruthless woman. ‘Give me the child,’ repeated Keela, and there was steel in her voice.

  Calwyn slowly shook her head. Without warning, Keela pounced on Ched like a roancat leaping on a nadu. But Ched wriggled out of her grip and Calwyn dragged him away, and at once they were off, dodging through the crowd of courtiers and down a narrow, twisted corridor. Ched scrambled up the wall, finding footholds in the stone. Calwyn followed, just as nimble, hauling herself upward, her hands coated in dust.

  Suddenly they were outside, scrabbling across a sloping roof, under the dark sky ablaze with stars and a slender sickle of moon. A moon ... ‘Ched!’ cried Calwyn. ‘The moons are up!’ Ched nodded. Then he slid down a pillar, and dived through a tiny window, and they were inside again, facing a wall whose pattern of fern fronds was beginning to blur and melt.

  Panting for breath, Ched held out his hand and sang a throat-song of ironcraft, and an opening appeared in the sagging wall. He and Calwyn plunged through it, into a suite of private rooms. A noble lord and lady were seated on cushions, huddled in talk; they looked up in surprise, but nothing was beyond belief this day.

  ‘Follow us!’ cried Calwyn. ‘You must escape from the Palace before it’ s too late!’ But the courtiers didn’ t even rise to their feet as Ched opened a breach in the far wall and led Calwyn through.

  ‘Gotta go down!’ cried Ched when they came to a wide, curved staircase. ‘Gotta get to the ground –’

  Calwyn slowly became aware of a very low, quiet groaning, like the roar of a distant forest fire. Every part of her wanted to scream to Ched, hurry, hurry! But they could only go as fast as Ched could open the way, through wall after wall, until Calwyn didn’ t even notice the rooms they passed through.

  And then Ched gasped, ‘This is the last.’ His face was pale, and he was stumbling; Calwyn put out a hand to steady him.

  They emerged into a hollow space between the outermost wall and the inner ones. It was neither a room nor a passageway but a narrow blank area, unadorned, with walls so high that they couldn’ t see its roof. Calwyn forced herself to breathe calmly. The immense walls seemed to press together like two hands trying to crush them. Dust was falling all around, white powder drifting down; it coated their hair, their faces, their clothes, so they looked like ghosts. Calwyn called out silently, Halasaa! Where are you? Are you safe? But there was no reply.

  Ched’ s thin chest heaved as he fought for breath. The little boy stood before the enormous ivory wall, one hand outstretched, fingers drooping with weariness, as he called up one last low throat-growl of chantment that mingled with the distant groan of the Palace’ s slow disintegration. A wild fancy flashed into Calwyn’ s mind: that the Palace itself was singing, singing the low mournful song of its own destruction.

  As Ched sang, a crack opened in the last thick wall. Slowly, painfully, he cleaved the wall in two and a jagged line grew wider with every note. And finally there was something that Calwyn could do: with a light song of windcraft, she brushed away the dust and stones to clear the opening. This last wall was as thick as the length of Fledgewing and, as Ched prised it apart with the steady drone of his song, the whole weight of the stone above pressed down on it.

  Ched’ s voice croaked, and failed, and he dropped to his knees. Without thinking, Calwyn took up his song, the two notes at once, as Darrow had tried to teach her: one in the back of her throat and the second inside her mouth. The song of ironcraft leapt from her lips like a living creature, and the force of it shuddered through Calwyn’ s whole body. The crack shifted, and held. She sang on, more strongly, and the gap widened. Now she could see all the way through the wall to the other side: the sand, metallic under the moonlight, arbec plants soft as beaten silver.

  Calwyn knew that she wouldn’ t be able to hold the crack open long. She swung Ched up in her arms and leapt through, growling the chantment as hard as she could, forcing the breath out of her lungs.

  She was just in time. She heard it begin: a tremendous groan of crushing stone that drowned out her chantment, and then a roar like an avalanche as the whole Palace began to collapse.

  Calwyn felt the bite of hard rock under her boots, and then she was running down the steep ridge, running faster than she’ d ever run, running until she thought her lungs would burst, still clutching the little boy in her arms. A cloud of dust engulfed them, and the roar built and built like a wave about to break, a wave of crushing stone that towered above them. Calwyn ran, without breath; the moment seemed endless. She felt as though she were drowning, her earliest and strongest fear. She was trapped in the dream she’ d had often as a novice priestess, the dream that she was crossing the black ice of the sacred pool, and the ice opened and swallowed her. The black water dragged her down, and she was fighting, fighting her way to the surface, but it was so far off, she kicked and kicked toward the light . . .

  And as she ran, the wave broke.

  Before she heard the final deafening roar, she felt the force of it, a hard blow to her back that knocked her to the ground. She lost her grip on Ched; he slipped out of her arms as she rolled down the slope and onto the plain, striking her head painfully on the stony ground. The world turned upside-down.

  She could see the wave of destruction ripple the length of the Palace of Cobwebs. The vast silvered edifice crumbled, piece by piece, fragile as meringue. Shada’ s thin spire crumpled, then a smaller spire toppled, and a row of battlements folded on itself. The great dome on the eastern side caved in, and a slow silent cloud of white dust engulfed the ruins. The stately stone of the Palace of Cobwebs was melting, dissolving, evaporating like sea foam. The image of the huge half-eaten marzipan model of the Palace at the Summer Feast flashed into Calwyn’ s mind. Now the real Palace looked the same. Nothing was left but a rubble of white crumbs.

  She lay there, while the rumble of the falling stones diminished. She was alive. She took in one rasping breath, then another, and choked. Her mouth and nose were full of sand and dust. Ched lay a few paces away. Behind them spread a mountain of white stone. There were lumps of rock scattered all around, and the desert gleamed with a thick layer of white dust, dazzling bright in the moonlight. Calwyn was reminded of the mountain meadows of Antaris after a snowfall.

  She crawled over to Ched. ‘Are you all right? Can you hear me?’

  He was facing away from her; she laid her hand on his shoulder. He rolled over at her touch, and she drew a sharp breath, for his eyes were wide and staring, and his body was limp. ‘No! No!’ Frantically she shook his shoulders. ‘Ched! Ched!’

  But she knew. There was no doubt. The side of his head had been crushed by a falling chunk of stone; he would have died at once. Tears slid down Calwyn’ s cheeks as she cradled Ched’ s small, bloodied body. I can take care of him, she had said to Keela. She bent her head and wept.

  Another roar rumbled out across the desert as a final avalanche of white rock poured onto the red sands. Shakily Calwyn stood up; the ruins were so unstable, it wasn’ t safe to remain here. But she couldn’ t leave Ched’ s body exposed on the plain, to be nosed by wasunti. Swiftly she gathered stones and piled them over the little boy. It did not take long. She stood with her head bowed for a moment, holding her palms upward to the Goddess’ s light, and under her breath, she recit
ed the prayer for the dead.

  When that was done, she took a deep breath. She had to turn all her attention to her own survival. ‘Halasaa!’ she shouted, turning slowly. ‘Mica! Heben!’

  All around, the lumps of white stone lay still and silent. ‘Mica!’ she called, fighting the sobs that threatened to choke her. ‘Halasaa! Mica! Heben!’ But her voice was swallowed by the indifferent desert. She called with mind-speech. Halasaa! Can you hear me? There was no reply.

  Suddenly she realised how cold it was; her teeth were chattering. She could not stay here.

  Ahead, to the left and right, stretched the endless plain, scored with ravines. Calwyn felt a moment of panic. Where was the gully where they’ d left the hegesi?Was it this side of the Palace, or the other? She looked up at the moons, and her racing heart calmed. She was facing north, and the campsite lay to the north of the Palace. She would have to go around to the other side.

  Slowly, laboriously, she picked her way across the desert, giving the remains of the Palace a wide berth. The ground was baked hard as rock underfoot; it crunched beneath her boots. Calwyn stumbled onward, looking around for her friends, starting at every flicker of movement, every scratch of tiny nadu claws.

  Suddenly the earth shuddered beneath her. Calwyn threw herself to the ground; she heard the clink of armour and the stamp of boots. An Army patrol, perhaps ten or twenty men, Calwyn guessed. She pressed herself flat to the red dirt. She was utterly exposed; she could only hope to be overlooked if she kept completely still.

  ‘Halt! Fall out!’

  The command rang out some distance away. Cautiously Calwyn shifted her cheek against the hard-packed sand and squinted toward the sound. If only she had the Power of Seeming, so she could hide herself! She could hear the harsh scrape of metal as the soldiers laid down their heavy shields. A murmur of talk drifted toward her, and Calwyn strained to hear.

  ‘. . . turn back here.’

  ‘No sign of rebels –’ ‘Rebels?This ain’ t down to them. Sorcery did this, brother.’

  ‘Sorcery? You’ re dreamin, brother. The generals and the sorcerers work together. This is the work of them sea-town scum . . .’

  So the rebels were being blamed for the destruction of the Palace. It was agonising to lie so still, while insects crawled into her eyes and up her nose, and sand crept inside her robes, but Calwyn wanted to hear what else the soldiers had to say.

  ‘Know what our next job’ s goin to be?’

  ‘I heard we’ re takin over the Palace, brother.’

  ‘What’ s left of it!’

  Someone laughed. A chill ran down Calwyn’ s spine as she thought of the polished armour and shining sword-blades of the Princes. Perhaps they would see some action at last. If the Army was planning a coup, should she try to warn the courtiers? No, she decided. They would have to fend for themselves.

  ‘We’ ll show em who’ s boss!’

  ‘There ain’ t no boss, now the Emperor’ s dead. . .’

  ‘There’ s always a boss, brother!’

  There was hearty laughter.

  ‘My money’ s on the Fifth Prince.’

  ‘Him! He ain’ t got the wits to tie his own bootlaces!’

  ‘That’ s why the generals are settin him up on the throne, you idiot –’ ‘Watch your mouth, brother.’

  ‘All right, men, that’ ll do! Fall in!’

  There were grumbles and groans, a shuffle of feet and the muffled clank of weaponry, and then the steady rhythm of marching boots shook the ground once more. Calwyn made herself count ten full breaths before she scrambled to her feet. She had to keep moving. Soon, it would be dawn.

  DARROW 4

  Darrow leaned on the tiller, and Fledgewing’ s white sail puffed out before the wind. Tonno, standing by the mast, his curly hair ruffled by the breeze, turned to grin at him. They had come a long way since leavingTeril and they were not far now from the mining town of Phain. But Darrow was not yet ready to land. He and Tonno would sail on for some days more, past Phain and Geel, through the Southern Straits, along the meandering golden shore around the Heel of Merithuros, as far south as any ship from the Westlands or the Isles ever sailed. But Fledgewing would go even further, sailing through those hostile seas, toward the bottom of the world.

  Tonno had been shocked when Darrow abandoned his own boat in Teril.

  ‘Heron has served me well,’ said Darrow brusquely. ‘But Fledgewing is faster.’

  ‘Don’ t expect her to be waiting for you when you come back,’ growled Tonno. ‘Teril’ s packed with thieves like a melon full of pips.’

  Darrow did not reply. As they drew closer to Merithuros, closer to the Black Palace, the ruby ring that Samis had worn began to burn in his pocket like a hot coal.

  Heron.

  ‘Your name is not your own,’ says Samis. ‘I will give you another.You will be Heron.’ Darrow didn’ t know what a heron was until Samis told him: a bird of the marshes, lean, keeping to itself, stalking the water in solitude. ‘Except, of course, there’ s no water here,’ drawls Samis.

  Darrow says nothing. The description is wrong in another way, too. He is not solitary any more: he has Samis. The two are always together. Darrow is freed from the dreary round of daily tasks and lessons. He and Samis go where they please, demand answers to their questions from whichever chanter Samis chooses to summon. They practise their chantments extravagantly, for the pleasure of wielding power, ignoring rules that bind the other sorcerers. They go hawking in the desert, and on hunting expeditions to the shore. Unlike the other sorcerers, cloistered in their dim rooms with their murmured secrets, the prince and his companion leave the Black Palace and return at will; they have a wild freedom that Darrow has never dreamed of.

  The sorcerers hate and fear Samis, yet they dare not gainsay him, not just because he is the Emperor’ s son, but because he is stronger than any of them. It is exhilarating to Darrow to live in the shadow of such casual power, as if he walked beside a whirlwind or a lightning bolt, and called it friend.

  For they are friends. After several years of mistrust, Darrow has lost the fear that Samis will tire of his company. And he knows that he is no mere servant, no matter what the other sorcerers mutter behind Samis’ s back. He is adviser, confidant, companion, brother. When the two travelled together to the Palace of Cobwebs, the courtiers treated Darrow with almost as much respect as Samis himself. Samis speaks of future journeys, away from Merithuros, across the seas to theWestlands, or north to Baltimar.

  The world, which had closed around Darrow like the walls of the Testing room, has opened itself out like a flower after rain.

  Darrow and Tonno guided Fledgewing into the harbour of Hult. The little town barely earned the name: a motley collection of dilapidated buildings, patched together out of driftwood, grey and cheerless. Darrow and Samis used to come here on their hunting expeditions and drink wine in what passed for the tavern. Darrow suspected that the gold coin that Samis carelessly tossed to the innkeeper was the only income the place mustered from one year to the next.

  ‘Wait here till I fetch you,’ he told Tonno. He stepped ashore onto the sands of Hathara for the first time in five years, grim-faced, and strode in the direction of the rickety tavern. Grubby children watched him from behind an upturned fishing boat, and snickered into their hands. In a doorway a woman sat mending. She stared at him with narrowed eyes, and, without hiding her gesture, made the sign to avert bad luck. Darrow’ s mouth twisted in a half-smile. How different it was from the welcome he’ d received on Ravamey. And yet this was supposed to be his home.

  The tavern was as he remembered it. The innkeeper sat at a trestle table, gambling with two slow-chewing men. He looked up sharply at the entry of a customer. The smell of slava was thick in the air, and the men shook their dice slowly, reflectively, and let them fall without interest, hardly bothering to keep the tally.

  Darrow ordered a jug of wine. The innkeeper said, ‘Haven’ t seen you for a goodly while.’

  ‘
No.’

  ‘Didn’ t have that last time.’ He gestured to the scar that dragged Darrow’ s eyebrow toward his cheekbone. ‘Get that hunting?With your friend?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Darrow briefly. ‘Hunting.’ He did not say that he himself was the prey in that hunt.

  The innkeeper looked sly. ‘Looking to hunt again?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Darrow poured himself a beaker of wine; it was as sour and thin as ever.

  ‘Come from the Court?’

  ‘Not this time.’ Darrow looked up and held the man’ s shrewd gaze for a moment. ‘I am not welcome at the Court any more. I killed a prince of the Royal House.’ As he spoke, Darrow saw again the body covered in the grey cloak, lying amid the silver towers and domes of Spareth, and his heart beat hard.

  The innkeeper straightened up. ‘I know someone. You might call him a hunter. Think he’ d be interested to meet a man who’ s killed a prince.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Darrow. ‘I thought you might. I would like to meet your friend.’

  Again the two men’ s gaze met, and held for an instant.

  ‘Be here at sundown. I’ ll make sure he comes.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Darrow. He drained the beaker and went outside to wait.

  The road that ran along the shore was red and dusty, littered with small stones. He walked up and down. It was not so hot here on the southern coast, but it was warm enough, and the sun glared as fiercely as in the middle of the desert. The sea was a sheet of white metal, painful to look at. Some little stones pattered into the dust at his feet, and he heard children giggle and run away. Thirsty, he found a fountain in the deserted marketplace, and sat for a while on its dusty edge in the sunlight, conscious of the eyes that watched him from every hut and every shadowed doorway.

  The sorcerers gather in the dark corridors, in whispering knots. When they see Samis and Darrow approach, they turn away, silenced.

  ‘The old Lord is dying,’ says Darrow. ‘They must choose the next wearer of the Ring.’