The Destiny of the Dead (The Song of the Tears Book 3)

by Ian Irvine

  ‘You’d better speak to Persia,’ said Flydd. ‘I’ve got to go away for a while.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Private business.’

  ‘What about?’

  Flydd scowled in the scrutatorly way Nish knew all too well, and turned towards the door. He constantly queried others about their affairs, but did not like to be asked about his own. It refreshed Nish’s anxiety about what Flydd was really up to.

  ‘How are your insides, Xervish?’

  ‘Worse,’ grunted Flydd over his shoulder. ‘I’m not sure how much more I can take. Oh, I brought you this.’ He turned back, unbuckling a finely tooled sword belt and sheath, and handed them to Nish.

  Nish drew the sword, a light, double-edged blade so keen that he could have shaved with it, and so finely polished that it reflected his face. The metal had a reddish cast, the hilt was subtly engraved, and the weapon was perfectly balanced.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Nish. ‘It’s a beautiful sword, but not a showy one. I appreciate that.’

  ‘You’re a plain, down-to-earth sort of a fellow,’ said Flydd, looking pleased for once. ‘I didn’t think you’d want anything flashy.’

  He went out, leaving Nish to wonder if he’d just been complimented, or insulted.

  When Persia brought his lunch, he asked to go outside.

  ‘Into Roros?’ she said, frowning.

  He explained about nearly going insane in Mazurhize, and how, ever since, he could not bear to be held against his will.

  Again he saw that soft, caring look in her eyes. ‘I understand perfectly. I’ll speak to Yulla at once.’

  When she returned, Persia said, ‘You’ll have to be disguised, though I’m not sure what disguise would be best. Could you pass for a dark-skinned native of Crandor, I wonder?’

  ‘That depends on how good the disguise is.’

  ‘Illusion is best if you only want to fool the common folk, but unless it’s a powerful one the wisp-watchers will see straight through it.’

  ‘Don’t powerful illusions have their own problems?’ said Nish.

  ‘They do. The seneschal has sensitives capable of detecting such forms of the Art.’

  ‘What about shape-changing?’

  ‘That’s mighty mancery, way beyond my minor powers. Besides, the shape-changing spells are cousin to the Regression and Renewal Spells, and you already know how deadly they can be.’

  ‘Poor Tulitine,’ he said, wondering if she could still be alive.

  ‘I think we’ll go for a physical disguise,’ said Persia. ‘When done well it can even fool a scrier close by. Should I make you into a native of Crandor or a foreigner?’ she said thoughtfully. ‘A foreigner would be easier and there are plenty of them in Roros, but if word gets out about you every foreigner will be taken in, and you’ll be uncovered. I’ll make you into a local.’

  ‘I don’t look much like a local,’ said Nish. ‘My skin is too pale and I’m the wrong build.’

  ‘There are stocky Crandoreans, such as the silver miners of Twissel. Exposure to all that silver turns their brown skin a hideous silver-blue, and everyone despises them, so it’s a good disguise. And the rest – beard, frizzy wig, grime under the fingernails, silver-black teeth – is easy. It’ll be fun making you up,’ she said, smiling for the first time in a week, and he saw the lovely, warm Persia again.

  ‘More fun than looking at myself in the mirror after you’ve finished with me, I dare say.’

  ‘What do you care? You want people to avoid you.’

  ‘I don’t know why,’ said Nish, ‘but I’ve always cared about my appearance, such as it is. You couldn’t understand that, being so beautiful.’

  She started, then knitted her brows. ‘Beauty has benefits but also many drawbacks. It attracts all the pests and parasites in the world, and when you do well, some people imply that you achieved it, er … horizontally. I often wish I could walk through a crowd and have nobody notice my passing. Speaking of which, this is the way miners walk, and you’ll have to learn it. The seams they mine aren’t thick enough for them to stand up.’

  She demonstrated a bent-backed shuffle, which Nish did his best to imitate.

  ‘Not like that,’ she said, smiling again. Putting her hands on his shoulders, she bent his back a little more and tilted his face sideways. Again her hands lingered, before she said briskly, ‘Try that.’

  Several hours later, Nish looked in her full-length mirror and saw a man so grotesquely ugly that he would not have spoken to him in the street, and there was no question that he was unrecognisable.

  ‘You’re an artist of rare skill, Persia.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s been fun. I – I haven’t had a lot of fun, lately.’

  ‘I’ve enjoyed watching you do it.’

  She was an oasis of calm and perfection in a world that, lately, had mostly shown him its ugly side, and he wanted to see more of her.

  They headed down a long underground passage. ‘This comes out in a mean little alley which isn’t watched,’ said Persia. ‘But when we get there, I’ll go out first, to make sure. When I walk past the exit, follow me, but don’t say anything or meet my eyes.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘My dress tells everyone that I’m high caste, rich and beautiful, while you’re a filthy silver miner, one of the lowest castes of all. I would not acknowledge your existence, and you wouldn’t go near me in case I ordered you flogged.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Nish muttered. ‘Do you often have people flogged?’

  She laughed. ‘Not as often as some of them deserve.’

  ‘So, did you choose this disguise to trim me down to size?’

  The smile faded. ‘Why would I do that?’ she said quietly. ‘You’re the son of the God-Emperor and a hero of the wars. High caste though I may be, I could never aspire to move in your world.’

  Her silky cheeks had taken on the faintest ruddy tinge, and Nish felt mortified, and humbled. ‘I’m sorry, I really am. It’s just that … I don’t see myself as the son of the God-Emperor. I never have.’

  ‘Really? What do you see yourself as, deep down?’

  He would not have said it to anyone else, but Persia’s manner invited confidences, and he knew she would not use his against him.

  ‘The boy who was always trying to please a harsh father and an indifferent mother … yet, no matter how hard he tried, it was never good enough.’

  ‘Ah, Nish, I’m sorry. If only we could see ourselves as we really are, and not through the distorted prism of the expectations of others.’ She stopped, looked into his heavily made-up eyes, then moved on. ‘But you’re still a hero among heroes. Still far more elevated than I.’

  ‘I suppose I am,’ Nish said absently. ‘A hero, I mean,’ he added hastily in case she took offence. ‘Well, of course I am, and everyone sees me differently because of it, but I don’t puff out my chest and recount my mighty deeds before breakfast. I’ve only done what I had to do, but I had the good fortune to survive when so many other people, many braver than me, did not.’

  ‘Then we’re not so different after all.’ They were approaching the alley. ‘Outside, I won’t acknowledge you in any way, but I’ll always be close by and, in case of trouble, you must do exactly as I indicate. If we’re separated, come back here, press this hollow and someone will come for you.’ She indicated an oval depression in the rough stone wall.

  Persia went out and shortly she walked past the exit. Nish followed, using the bent-backed miner’s shuffle she had taught him, and keeping his eyes lowered. Despite these handicaps, he felt his spirits lift the moment he was outside, in the great city.

  She led him through the alleys to an enormous square filled with hundreds of market stalls, all with colourful signs, streaming pennants, peddlers crying out their wares and thousands of people sampling them. Roros was also famous for its food and he could smell a dozen different kinds of cuisine, not to mention the hanging bundles of spices, the dried fish and meats, the blossoms
and perfumes and enchanting stacks of pastries.

  This would be a good place for spies to meet, he thought. Two wisp-watchers loomed over the square but they could only see part of it, and it would be easy to exchange secrets privately among the teeming shoppers.

  Nish had no interest in anything being sold here. All he wanted from the outing was a respite from feeling like a prisoner, and to see the great city of Roros and assess its people through his own eyes. He did not get the chance to do either.

  He was wandering between the stalls when a coruscating light burst from the huge wisp-watcher mounted at the far end of the square, dazzling him. He threw his arm over his eyes, but felt the burning rays of an equally brilliant beam issuing from the wisp-watcher behind him.

  It’s Father, he thought, and acid burned a track up his throat. He’s got free; he’s back and this disguise hasn’t fooled him. He’s pinned me like a beetle to a board.

  Nish began to back away, but the beam remained on him and he bumped into the front of a booth clustered with boots, bags and belts. He could smell hot leather.

  Where could he go? Nowhere; he could barely see while the wisp-watchers had him, and they wouldn’t let go.

  Then, incredibly, the broad beams from both wisp-watchers slipped off him. He rubbed his eyes. The beams were moving upwards until they faced each other. What was going on? They must be signalling to Gatherer, who would alert the local seneschal.

  Nish was about to slip under the booth when a ground-shaking rumble issued from a pair of huge loop-listeners he had not noticed. Booths toppled and objects smashed on the ground.

  The two beams combined, brightened, and a tower-high figure of light formed in the air between them, the same figure that had appeared so shockingly in the little valley below the white-thorn peak and seized Nish’s father. It was Stilkeen, or, rather, the image of it.

  The hair stirred on the top of Nish’s head; even the skin on the soles of his feet was crawling. Persia cast him a wide-eyed glance but Nish, remembering that he was a silver miner of Twissel and therefore low-caste vermin, looked away.

  Stilkeen had a broad head, flattened at the top; bony plates flared out from the sides and swept back like a multi-winged helmet. The small yellow eyes were covered in clear membranes that swept slowly across and back; its nose was split at the bottom, revealing two clusters of nostrils, and its gaping, thick-lipped mouth held hundreds of needle-shaped teeth. Its long clawed fingers were webbed, as were its broad flat feet, while a frilled membrane flared out from the backs of its long arms all the way across its shoulders.

  ‘I am Stilkeen,’ the figure made of light rumbled. Wisps of red flame dripped from its nostrils; it snapped at them. ‘I have roamed the eleven dimensions of space and time for an eternity and a half. I cannot die, and nothing you may do can harm a being such as me, but I can ruin you and your world. Oh yes!’

  THIRTY-ONE

  A woman began screaming hysterically. Beside Nish, a man collapsed in apoplexy. The leather seller had retreated under his counter and Nish could hear his teeth chattering. From the corner of his eye Nish noted Persia edging towards him.

  Stilkeen went on. ‘Long ago a mortal, Yalkara, stole that which was most precious to me, the rancicolludire or white-ice-fire – you call it chthonic fire – which for all of my existence had bound my physical and spirit aspects together. Without fire and spirit, I am diminished and in pain … and when I hurt, I hunger to make worlds pay.’

  Nish felt his own silver-black teeth chatter. He clenched his jaw.

  ‘Because of this crime,’ Stilkeen went on, ‘one of your Three Worlds, the world of Aachan, has been destroyed by volcanic fire, and Santhenar stands in peril. Corrupted chthonic fire has been spilled in the south and now consumes the ice across that vast wasteland. Should the great ice cap at the southern pole melt, Santhenar will drown. Only I can stop it, but why should I?’

  The figure of Stilkeen paused, and its eyes seemed to look directly at Nish, then it went on.

  ‘Your God-Emperor failed me and has paid the price –’

  People cried out, and Nish missed the next few words. What did Stilkeen mean, has paid the price? What had it done to his father?

  ‘– who brings Stilkeen the true, uncorrupted chthonic fire will be rewarded beyond their dreams. Who keeps true fire from Stilkeen will suffer such agonies as no human has ever felt, endlessly prolonged. Bring the fire to Morrelune within fifteen days, or I will release the most savage creatures from the void into Santhenar, all human life will be erased – and the waters will engulf the ruins of your civilisation.’

  Something struck Nish as odd about Stilkeen’s words but, with another booth-shaking rumble, the beams went out. For a few seconds there was a shocked silence, then chaos erupted. The woman began screaming hysterically again; a man bellowed in fear; a thousand other throats joined them and the crowd stampeded towards the exits from the square.

  Persia appeared beside him, her eyes wide and staring. Grabbing his arm, she hissed, ‘We’ve got to get back, right now.’

  He pulled away, saying from the corner of his mouth, ‘I’m a low-caste miner from Twissel and the wisp-watchers could be watching.’

  ‘Not after that!’ However, she let go and stepped away. ‘Now!’

  He ran with the crowd until he felt sure that no one could have followed him, but when he entered the alley and looked back, Persia was close behind. They went up the secret passage in silence, Nish trying to think through the implications of Stilkeen’s ultimatum.

  No one could now be in any doubt that the God-Emperor was missing, yet in Klarm’s continued absence with the tears, no legitimate deputy had stepped forward to take his place. The empire was in desperate peril, and with no one in charge, there was a real danger that when Santhenar most needed unity it would be plunged into civil war.

  ‘We saw it too,’ said Flydd when they met in Yulla’s rooms at the top of the mansion that evening.

  ‘The message issued from every wisp-watcher, loop-listener and speck-speaker in Roros,’ said Yulla, ‘and probably in the whole empire. That tells you how all-encompassing Stilkeen’s power is.’

  ‘Its power is great,’ said Flydd, ‘yet not nearly as great in our material world as it would be on the ethereal planes, since, I’m told, many of its powers cannot be used here. Stilkeen is severely constrained in what it can do on Santhenar, and that’s our best hope. Surely that’s why it has ordered us to search for the true fire – because it can’t do so itself.’

  ‘But did it speak the truth when it said we could not harm it?’ said Persia.

  ‘That depends what you mean by harm. It would take a mighty weapon, or a very particular one, to kill an immortal being or do it serious damage, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be hurt. Since being severed from its spirit aspects, Stilkeen’s mere presence in the physical world causes it pain and therefore, if we should encounter it, our best defence would be to cause it so much pain that it has to retreat.’

  ‘A being might be able to endure a lot of pain,’ said Nish absently.

  ‘Or it might be so used to having whatever it desired that any pain would be unbearable.’

  ‘It’s a risky plan,’ said Yulla, ‘but I don’t see any alternative. I’ll consult the librarians; let’s find out what will cause a being greater pain. However, that can’t save us. We’ve got to have a weapon that can threaten a being’s very existence.’

  ‘Little has been written about beings,’ Flydd said mildly. ‘They’ve seldom been encountered in the Three Worlds or the void and, when they have been, it has commonly proven fatal to the observer.’

  ‘Nonetheless, if humanity is to survive, we need that weapon.’

  ‘What about the tears?’ said Persia.

  ‘I don’t think the answer lies in sheer power,’ said Flydd. ‘Nish, are you listening?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Nish. ‘I’ve just worked it out.’

  Yulla raised a grey eyebrow.

  ‘I’ve b
een thinking through what was so odd about the proclamation. When we first met Stilkeen and it took Father hostage, it demanded chthonic fire in return. But this time it demanded the true, uncorrupted chthonic fire. Has the ordinary chthonic fire been corrupted?’

  ‘That is the nature of such things,’ said Flydd. ‘Once taken from their natural place, and especially when carried via portals between worlds, as the fire Yalkara stole was, uncanny objects or forces often become corrupt.’

  ‘Then this changes everything,’ said Nish. ‘There’s no point heading for Morrelune now. We don’t have any pure, uncorrupted fire.’

  ‘It changes nothing,’ said Yulla coldly. ‘Morrelune is still the heart of the empire, and that’s where Stilkeen is. And you heard what it said about Jal-Nish. Your God-Emperor failed me and has paid the price.’

  Nish froze. ‘Was Stilkeen saying that Father is dead?’

  ‘That’s how I would interpret it,’ said Flydd.

  ‘As would I,’ said Yulla. ‘And every rogue in the empire will soon be on the way to Morrelune to try to seize it.’

  Nish couldn’t take it in. His all-powerful father dead?

  ‘Nish, you’ve got to get to Morrelune first,’ said Flydd. ‘We must have a steady hand at the centre, and a leader who isn’t there for what he can get. One that the common folk can believe in, and the wealthy and influential rely on. One who has a legitimate claim to the throne –’

  ‘I will not become my father,’ Nish said coldly, for he knew how corrupting absolute power could be, and in the past he had often longed for it. It was so very tempting and he could not afford to give in to that temptation. ‘I’ve made that clear many times.’

  ‘What if some upstart steps forward,’ said Yulla, ‘saying he’s the bastard son of Jal-Nish and claiming the throne by right? If there is no true heir, many will see his claim as legitimate, and the only way to stop him is for you, your father’s acknowledged heir, to claim the throne.’

  She was right, of course, and Nish was starting to feel trapped. At every turn, circumstances were forcing him to take a course he’d sworn to avoid.