Torrodil

by Luke Geraghty

  ‘When the mother called to her boys for breakfast the next day, she did not suspect anything was wrong. They must be tired, she told herself. I’ll give them ten more minutes and go up and check on them. She went about preparing the food, leaving the kitchen to collect apples from the back garden, and shrugged off the niggling thoughts at the back of her mind.

  ‘But they played on her so and it took barely any time before the mother sped up the creaky stairs past the cats’ tails. Her mind raced with the worst thoughts and her body shook with fear. Into the boys’ bedroom did she go and straight away did she rip off the bed covers, one after another, and the sight was enough to make her howl into the day, waking her husband up from his sleep.

  ‘When the mother ran downstairs to the front door and opened it to look outside, she did not see her boys. Yet there, on the doorstep, was a very small object, impossible to make out from above. The mother crouched down and picked it up, putting it before the sunlight and squinting her eyes. There was a child’s milk tooth, small enough to make a tiny clink.’

  It was as though sleep took Anna into the currents of the earth. Nestled there, pale and cool, she found a choir of twisted voices singing a song of unfinished men, and gratefully accepted their offer of release.

  At Lake Leitrim she was joined by a man built out of birds. Rays of light came through the clouds and the Aether drifting out of his eyes hardened to let him see. A whisper for a scream, then silence.

  Fly home, fly.

  Peering through the kitchen window, they saw his daughter. She was a quiet girl. When she saw him, even though he was hard to look at, she did not cry. From the table she walked to the window and spread her fingers into a fan on the window pane. He stood in the cold, she in the warm, each interested, neither talking. He did not need to see her again after that.

  Together they remembered his old life, yet heard on the wind a tale of the next, interspersed with pictures of Anna. He had been a man for thirty four years, working, going to church. The Shaper had been the most important figure in his life, and he had lived that life faithfully in His shadow.

  Tonight Bale fell into ravens, simmering like a smile on the mouth of the Shadowland.

  Morning had lain on the grass for two hours when Anna roused and wiped the sleep from her eyes. Oded had informed them that he was to depart that day. Lysander would drop him off near a fork in the river and the seven would take a right onwards. He had given them an extensive map of the Wilds, complete in every respect and a Carric cartographer’s dream. The junglescape was evidently extensive and full of treacherous obstacles.

  Onto the river they went and for hours did they navigate around bends and twists in the waters. Lysander was apprised of the route that would lead them to Mezbollah, free from plunging waterfalls and ship-wrecking rocks. It would be a good four days’ trek and they would have to shore up twice a day in pre-designated positions, hoping that no animal or human had already marked them out as their own.

  Oded was to go to Vairne and reason with him, both as a son and as a native of the Wilds. It would not be a pleasant return. The nine year war had ravaged the lands and its people, Grelv rolling over the land in pursuit of wiping out their kin. Oded and the Ilo knew, however, that reconciliation begins with a single act. Where the Ilo had received their sons in pallor, Vairne would receive his in health, and perhaps this would be enough to convince him to listen.

  Kara, attempting to keep her mind off the water below, spent the day discussing alchemy and the linium vials her father favoured. At length did she describe the material, shaped and moulded in heat like glass, and how the firm vials usually disintegrated on impact without embedding into skin. She hoped to explore the alchemical materials and reagents available in Mezbollah and it would be a good opportunity to brew up some concoctions to replace the ones she had used – especially all those that Oded’s men sampled. But could she do it without the mixtures blowing up in her face? To have her father do them for her would be best but that was hardly an option. What a sticky spell she was in for. Never mind. She would spread the pain and it’d be fine.

  The seven decided that, upon reaching Mezbollah, they would search for a guide as Elder Francis had told them and pray the little money they had would be enough to persuade the individual to take them. The peculiar jingling in Kara’s knapsack was brought up at that point. The Lady was offended they presumed it was gold. ‘What sort of person would intentionally lug around a heavy thing such as that?’ she asked, dreaming of tossing it on the grass and rolling around in its brilliant glow. Oh, my babies! We will be together again one day…just as soon as I can get a moment alone… No no, the girl and her gold were not to be parted and what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

  When the fork in the river came, the group moored up on land and bid farewell to their eighth member. Oded wished them well on their journey. Seven youths. To look at them and think of what they were doing; how far they had come. By their meddling might the long-suffering people of the Wilds know respite. ‘I do not think so ill of outsiders now, my friends,’ he said to them. With a bow of his head, he headed off back into his homeland.

  For six days the seven battled against the waters. As time went on, the humid jungle phased into acacia trees and savannah; the river that had splashed up against the sides of their boat retreated underneath; and green gave way to ochre and yellow.

  On the morning of the seventh day, the group, thirsty and drained, set off armed with the knowledge that the city would soon satisfy their needs. Combined with dull aches, a desert wind affected their mood, pelting them with sand that blinded their eyes and rested itchily in every nook and cranny. Lysander could not see the map, but the city had to be ahead – it was a straight route now.

  The transient wind moved on. Their vision cleared. At midday they saw a silver wisp leap from the dunes. As suppliants they travelled toward its resonating light, and from white grain and strokes of heat came smooth walls and minarets. There, rising out of the sand, was the desert jewel of Mezbollah.

  Sixteen – To Touch the Divine

  Into a mirror she peers, absorbed in that woman of the future, puffy with thinning hair. Same eyes looking out. Different eyes looking in.

  Should I err here today…

  Tins and pots bring cover to blemishes and add colour to her lids; kohl opens up her eyes; rouge makes her cheeks rosy. She has dismissed the handmaidens and told them that the make-up is her task. They do not know her face as well as she does – how to banish asymmetry and cheat the eye with an extension of the lip line and the creation of shadows.

  …whatever will history say?

  Katharine takes the foundation down the neckline and blends it in with a sponge. Any trace of sun is concealed under a liberal amount of powder. The copper hair has been neatly restrained. The dress is flattering but stately. And now the war paint has been plastered on, her armour appears immaculate, and she is ready for the field.

  The pink poppies in the Imperial Palace Square have come to flower, but the first frost of winter does not leave Queen Katharine’s mind as she makes the long walk to the podium. Hecklers are few and the people are delighted to get a peek at her. They whistle and cry at their beloved sovereign. To see her face is to look upon a heavenly canvas; to feel her hand is to touch the divine.

  She cannot start her speech till the racket dies down. Eventually it does but by then her hands are shaking and she has to bind them behind her back so they will not be seen.

  ‘My loyal countrymen—’ She stops herself. Her people look at her in astonishment. Fear in her voice. But no, that cannot be, can it? She cannot be one of them because they long to be her. Powerful. Answerable to only one. Say something, Katharine. Even if it is inane. ‘It seems the frogs I had for dinner last night have left me a parting gift.’

  The crowd laughs and restores her confidence.

  ‘People of Carrigan, I am tired of men who think that the only way to settle a dispute is through the unsheathing
of blades. This country has known war, both foreign and domestic. It has put more good men to the sword than deserved it. But it is not solely for men I fear. It is for women and children, who are told to stay at home while their sons and fathers fight and spoil in the heat of battle. We women are not cowards. We do not stay at home out of fright. We stay at home because you have told us that this is our place – that we are too weak to wield a blade – too feeling to put a man to death.’

  Lord Sutton was beginning to get anxious. Without glasses his eyes may have plopped down onto that high-breasted suit.

  ‘We women are no more feeling than any man. We have seen you in the pits of despair, when you shirk the daylight and come to us for comfort; when you cannot find a way to escape the debt collectors and pedants. Our sexes are not so different. We too desire a warm body in the bed next to us and ale to temper the sting when it is gone. We are also prone to vice and sin, and battle against it daily, though, if I may say so, you men could learn a thing or two from us about how to disguise it.

  ‘But distinctions between men and women are not why I stand before you today—’

  Sutton could see how he had been deceived so easily. He was stupid to get this sanctioned by the Council. They would see to it that he got the chop, one way or another. ‘No, I stand here because there is a distinction that is far greater: that between Carrigan and Venecia. Our two empires could not be more different. While King Barbosa has pursued the machinery of war, we have cultivated the earth. While he has enslaved his men to fight, I have let you decide for yourselves. Yes, they are our western cousins and, yes, we share a past of peace – trading with them; enjoying their wares – but we have not bought into their beliefs. We do not choose war willingly.

  ‘Nonetheless, it is on our doorstep. Dun Ligo was the first. Then Ebhaile, Dallina, Leitrim. Four Outer Kingdom villages burned in the night while we slept soundly, rising in the morning with queries about breakfast as they mopped up the blood. Have we grown so accustomed to our extravagances that we cannot remember when we too slept on beds of straw? For I would choose a thousand nights of discomfort for one day of reunion between the fallen and their loved ones, and in my heart I know that each of you would do the same.’

  The crowd saw that this was not a trifling speech meant to assuage their alarm. Passing through the square was a current, shedding its energy into man, woman and child, stirring them from a deep slumber. Their toes squirmed and their fingertips throbbed. With words was their queen imbuing them with spirit, electric and otherworldly.

  ‘I have been told that you do not want a war. And I have told you that I do not want one either but—’

  ‘We cannot send you into battle, my Queen,’ came a shout from the crowd. ‘We will not see you hurt!’

  ‘And I do not intend to fall upon the sword lightly.’

  ‘I have seen war, Your Highness,’ said a veteran. ‘You do not know the fatigue it brings.’

  ‘Yet you let me fight the bureaucrats. I tell you there is no more tiresome endeavour.’

  Trepidation spread through the crowd and eyes glazed with tears. The few beggars of Kelgard have come to see the Red Lady and she tips her head to them, for they are her eyes and ears in the capital, providing the spymaster with the first inklings of treason and plot. They cannot look at her directly – not because she will not permit it, but for the reason that they are disfigured by comparison, so unpolluted is she.

  ‘I am tired of warmongers, people of Carrigan. They spread a sterile seed unto their kin. I do not hold a burning hate for Venecia, its citizens or its king. I will not, however, be struck down in my own chambers while I sleep. Call me mad, but I don’t like strange men in my bed.’

  A wave of laughter to re-lighten the square.

  ‘War is here, whether we like it or not. They come through our fields and our woodlands; for our homes and our churches. And I say to you that I will not lie down and let them be taken without a fight.’

  Applause now.

  ‘I will not watch as they bleed you with swords and muskets, nor as they knock down our walls and butcher us like livestock. No, if they want to round up our people and cattle one and the same, they are going to have to fight for them. If they want to drain the lifeforce from our bodies, they are going to have to stare us in the eye. Our liberty will not be stolen with our backs turned. We will not sink to the floor and offer up our hands for their chains.’

  The applause was building, raising them up toward the sky; toward the Summerland.

  ‘If war with Carrigan is what Venecia wants, then war is what it will get: with soldiers that stride into battle with no mortal fear in their hearts; with a queen that fights alongside them with no mortal wavering in her blade; and with a Shaper that will forever be known to have never grafted Carric men with mortal blood flowing through their veins!’

  Into the sky flew their approval and down came a shower of admiration, falling onto Katharine’s copper hair, over the war paint, through parted lips, sealing them as it passed with a pious heat. The Empire of Carrigan was at war with the citrus-loving Kingdom of Venecia, and its rivers were to run red in honour of her undying queen.

  Seventeen – The Sharing of Burdens

  It was like someone had thrown saffron up into the air. A novel world, different from anything they had experienced, and however much they tried to pin it down to one thing – a colour or flavour – they could not. Jasmine coasting from market to market; beautiful, delicate drapery of turquoise and peach; rugs being beaten down on steps; men being beaten down outside harems; and a distinct palate that collided with their own, which in contrast seemed unmistakably lacklustre.

  Mezbollah was of vice and virtue, where the sins of the flesh were paraded next to places of worship. The seven heard their voices climbing up the minarets as they walked through narrow streets. Around one corner was a merchant with pronounced bags under his eyes and copious amounts of nostril hair. Turning into another they saw a woman haggling, giving a look one might use when deigning to pick up a dead mouse by its tail. Such was this maze of a city that they discovered they were back at the harbour where they started, scratching their heads about which direction to go in.

  Kara was adamant that they had not gone left. Anna was quite sure that it would lead them to a man getting conspicuously close to a camel, but to prevent a scene agreed with her. So they went left. And what did they find? A man getting conspicuously close to a camel.

  ‘Right then.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Off they went, down a covered lane, onto a woman’s patio of potted plants, into her broom as it swept up into their mugs, through her house as she chased the strange people away, and back to a street they could’ve sworn they’d seen already. Yes, there’s that smell. Like stale goat’s milk. Shaper, Andres feels a little faint. But the woman is advancing with the broom. They retreat with watering eyes and wait for their vision to clear. Ah, relief. A marketplace and the mad hatter has retreated back to her potted plant lair.

  ‘I th-th-think we should just look here. One of the merchants may know a guide and we do need supplies,’ said Mateo, dust in his hair and a smidgeon on his nose that Andres wiped off. The Venecians had decided to help the others hunt down a guide to take them out into the desert, after which they’d find a camel herder for their own journey back to Venecia.

  ‘I suppose here is as good as anywhere. Tommy, Kara and I will look over there. You four…what?’

  ‘You’re bossing us around again, Lysander. It's dull,’ said Kara. ‘I’m going to explore. Do what you want but I need some reagents and I won’t get anything done with your eyes over my shoulders and Tommy’s nose sticking into my back. Ta ra.’

  With that she was gone and the others split up to search the vicinity. The trio of Anna, Andres and Cesar found nothing in the market and decided their best bet was a seedy-looking tavern. Entering through a veil of opium smoke, the three began asking the locals questions.

  ‘Excuse me, you wouldn’t
know of anyone willing to take us out into the desert, would you?’ quizzed Anna.

  No response.

  ‘Only we’re on a sort of…errand, I guess you could call it. Yes, an errand. For a prince! A prince of—’ turning and asking Cesar for the name of a Venecian province. – ‘Sulia. He would be indebted to you, noble sir, with your fine, seemingly sweat-drenched shirt and your dead-behind-the-eyes expression.’

  ‘Maybe I should do the talking,’ said Andres.

  ‘He’s coming round. Look at him.’

  The man blinked, raised his head to meet theirs, and then fell back into a stupor. Cesar budged Anna out the way. ‘Sir, oh sir. You hear me, yes? Good. We need to go out into the Nhamoon Desert. To-day. And we will pay good money to anyone willing to take us. We realise you must do this sort of thing all the time. Go into the desert, I mean. Not that you need to, though I suspect foreigner gold helps line your pockets. Ay, that sounded bad. I have offended you. No, do not deny it. I see it in your eyes. My tongue is not silver like his. Forgive me.’

  The man appeared to be drooling, not that Cesar noticed.

  ‘I tell you a story. Once I had a girl.’

  Anna tried to hide her interest. ‘First I’ve heard.’

  ‘Do not interrupt. Yes, she was a beautiful girl. The most beautiful girl I have ever seen. But I was rude to her, good sir. I let my words slip away from me. Sir?’ Cesar started poking him a bit.

  ‘What are you doing that for? You’ll get us into trouble.’

  ‘He is not even trying to listen to me. Take that! And that! And one of those! Egh, no good. He’s out of his mind.’

  ‘Maybe you do not speak in a language he understands.’