by Ian Irvine
“What … do I do?”
“Get as close as you can. I’ll release the force cage so you can throw the nivol, but you’ll only have a second. Hang on to the phial and flick the nivol. If you let go, none of it might end up on the stone.”
Llian’s bowels clenched painfully. He’d seen what the stone had done to Unick, and the myriad ways it could attack and kill. And it was fast—when Shand released the force cage the stone might get Llian before he could throw the nivol. Assuming Shand could be trusted at all. What if his intention was to command the stone for himself?
And even if he was on their side, he could be ruthless when it suited him. He had risked everyone’s lives hunting the ghost vampire at Rogues Render, and there was no saying he wouldn’t risk Llian’s if it suited him.
“The longer you hesitate, the worse it gets,” said Shand.
Llian did not move. This was suicide.
“Dozens of people died today to get us here,” said Shand hoarsely. “Get moving!”
Llian crept forward, step by fearful step, until he was only three feet away from the right-hand stone and could have touched its decayed surface, which stank like rotten cheese. He could feel the pressure again, the loathing and corruption. It burned to consume him.
He removed the stopper, careful not to touch the part that had been inside the diamond phial, and drew back his arm.
“Now!” cried Shand.
As the protection vanished, Llian felt an overwhelming compulsion to throw his arms around the stone. He fought it and jerked his arm forward to flick the nivol onto the face of the stone.
Nothing happened. The thick green fluid was stuck in the narrow opening. What was he supposed to do now?
“Throw it!” shrieked Shand.
“It won’t come out.”
The summon stone shimmered, and Llian felt a humming in his ears. He dived to his left as lightning blasted where he had been standing, scattering blistering-hot chips of stone everywhere. He rolled over, came to his feet and, as the stone started to shimmer again, he spat into the phial, put the stopper back in and shook it, then flung the slightly diluted nivol out onto the left upright, then the right, and up onto the capstone.
“Back!” roared Shand as the stone blasted again, and he jammed the schorl crystal back into the Command Device.
In another second Llian would have been burned to charcoal, but the blast was diverted past his left ear. He stumbled back to Shand and the three of them stood there in the force cage, waiting.
The bright green drops were oozing down the three stones but weren’t affecting them in any way.
“It’s doing nothing,” said Llian. Had he made a colossal blunder by spitting in the phial? But how else was he supposed to get the nivol out?
Then the stones themselves started to fade.
“Is that the nivol?” said Ifoli.
“No,” Shand said grimly. “The stone’s trying to move to a safer home, as it did after it was poisoned at Carcharon. And we’ve got nothing left.”
But the fading stopped and Llian saw that the nivol that had reached the ground was dissolving both the rock the stone stood on and the silver that had solidified between the uprights.
“How can a few drops of nivol dissolve cubic yards of rock?” said Llian.
“It’s an alchemical fluid,” said Ifoli absently. “It’s both chymical and magical.”
Within minutes the rock and silver had dissolved for yards around the uprights, and suddenly they teetered. The whole of Demondifang shook wildly. Boulders toppled and went crashing down the sides of the peak.
“Out of the way!” cried Shand and sprang forward.
What was he doing? Llian’s mistrust surfaced again. Was this the moment Shand had been waiting for?
Shand shut off the force cage, pointed the Command device at the stone and recreated the force cage around it. It stopped shuddering and its emanations cut off. It had gone perfectly still. Then, still in the form of a teetering trilithon, the two uprights slid down into the pool of dissolved rock and silver until they and the slab of stone that formed the capstone disappeared. The pool swirled for a minute or two, slowly went still, then set like quickrock in an unreality zone.
“Cover it, quick!” said Shand urgently.
Llian did not ask why. They kicked dirt, loose rocks, ash and charcoal across the surface until it looked like the rest of the mountain top.
“Yggur?” Shand yelled.
The sounds of fighting from the western side of the peak had stopped.
“Lost all my men,” called Yggur. “Can’t do any more.”
“Let the Whelm leaders through.”
There was a long silence. “Are you—”
“Just do it,” yelled Llian.
Shortly Yggur and Aviel appeared. Yggur studied Shand suspiciously.
“It’s over,” said Llian. “We’ve done it.” He stoppered the diamond phial and gave it back to Aviel.
Yggur went back through the cleft. Shortly half a dozen Whelm appeared, two women and four men. They were panting, bloody and exhausted, their faces hooded against the bright sunlight and their black eyes glinting behind slitted bone eye covers.
“The summon stone has been destroyed by our nivol,” said Yggur. “The Merdrun can never draw power from it again. Satisfy yourselves on that point, then go home and never come here again.”
The Whelm, several of whom were masters of their own strange branch of the Secret Art, directed their staves at the place where the summon stone had stood and carried out various tests incomprehensible to Llian. After ten minutes their gaunt faces sagged, then they turned and stumbled away, calling out to their people. Yet again the Whelm were masterless, broken and bereft.
Yggur made sure they were all heading down the mountain, then Shand and Llian explained what they had done.
“But what good is it?” said Yggur. “One day, perhaps not that long from now, the force cage will fade, and—”
“We’re going to make it permanent,” said Shand.
“How?” said Yggur cheerfully, as if the enmity between them was long forgotten.
“The silver lode here has been so charged up by all the lightning strikes that it’s a mighty source of power,” said Ifoli. “A node of power, in fact.”
“Another one?” said Yggur.
“Yes,” said Shand. “And if we bury the Command device here, concealed by an illusion and powered by the node, it’ll prevent the summon stone from drawing or using power, or sending it anywhere else. That’ll block the Crimson Gate from reopening into Santhenar.”
“For how long?”
“I believe the node contains so much power that our mancery could never exhaust it,” said Ifoli.
“Never say never. Let’s do it. But first …” Yggur touched a fingertip to Shand’s collar, then Ifoli’s, and they fell off.
“Thank you,” said Ifoli, rubbing her chafed neck.
When they had powered the Command device from the node, buried it and concealed it with a mighty illusion, they returned to the sky ship and Yggur lifted off. Far below, thousands of Whelm were streaming across the gravel bar that linked Demondifang and Mollymoot, heading south to Shazabba.
And may they rot there, Llian thought, masterless and bereft, until the very sun ices over.
When the sky ship was well out over the sea on the way back to Qwale, and Demondifang had blurred into the haze, Shand said, “None of this can ever be mentioned. It never happened.”
“What are you talking about?” Llian said irritably, for he was already spinning the tale in his head.
“It can’t be included in the Histories,” said Shand, “because the summon stone still exists. Its summoning sequence may be frozen, but if it’s ever woken again it’ll be as deadly as ever. Besides, it would be an irresistible magnet for the greedy, the power-hungry and the corrupt.”
“We’ll spread a story that we blasted it to dust,” said Yggur. “Since you’ve got nothing to do, Llian, you
can compose the tale while we fly home.”
“You want me to craft an untrue story?” cried Llian, shocked. “That’s a violation of one of the chroniclers’ fundamental commandments.”
“From what I hear,” Yggur said pointedly, “it wouldn’t be the first time. Shand, one of us will come back once a year to make sure the Command device is still doing its job, and to renew the illusion.” Yggur yawned, then rose from his seat. “I’m a tad worn out. Take over the controls, there’s a good chap.”
“You trust me to fly this sky ship?” said Shand, goggling at him.
“Never doubted you for an instant.” Yggur grinned. “I’m going to have a nap.”
He slipped into a vacant seat at the back, leaned back and tipped his hat over his eyes.
PART FOUR
REVELATION
74
YOU’VE GOT TO ADMIRE HER GALL
“How are you feeling today, Mummy?” said Sulien.
Karan struggled to open her eyes; she felt utterly drained. “Much better, darling. How long have I been here?”
“Six days.”
“I dreamed I was being looked after by a tall dark man with a limp. A very kind man.”
“That’s Master Healer Zanser.” Sulien leaned in and said in a theatrical whisper, “He’s Tallia’s boyfriend.”
“Really?” Karan struggled into an upright position, not without some stabbing pains in her belly. “Tell me more.”
Sulien propped her up with pillows. “They met on the battlefield. He’s from Crandor, just like her. Tallia saved his life, and it was love at first sight.” Sulien’s eyes were huge; she seemed awed by the thought.
“I’m glad. No one deserves it more.”
“Was it the same with you and Daddy?”
“Not … exactly. Though we made quite an impression on each other. And an even stronger second impression. Llian was being all arrogant and patronising, then he fell down and knocked himself out at my feet.” Karan chuckled. “Are we going home soon? I’m worried about Gothryme and poor old Rachis. How long have we been away?”
“Months and months. Last night I heard Nadiril asking Shand and Malien about making a final gate so everyone can go to Chanthed.”
“Why a final gate?”
“They’re the only people who can make them, and they said they’re not doing it any more. Malien is going home to Tirthrax soon, and Shand says every gate takes five years off his life, and if people want to go somewhere they can bollocking-well walk. Sorry,” Sulien said unapologetically, “but that’s what he said.”
“What’s Nadiril want to go to Chanthed for?”
In the olden days Karan had loved her annual trips there to hear the Great Tales told, but Llian’s relentless pursuit by Thandiwe, the false accusation that he had murdered the previous master, Wistan, and Llian’s incarceration and near death at the hands of Snoat in Pem-Y-Rum had tarnished the place in her eyes.
“Nadiril says we need a party before we all split up—to celebrate our great victory—and I think so too.”
Karan just wanted to go home but said, “Who am I to argue with Nadiril?”
Someone knocked on the door, and Tallia came in, looking years younger, accompanied by Zanser, who wore grey robes edged with scarlet and blue and walked with the aid of an amber and black barleycorn-twist cane. Their shoulders touched as they walked, for they were the same height, and they kept turning to look into each other’s eyes. It was a side of Tallia Karan had not seen before, but long overdue. She had given so much for so long; it was time for her to live.
“Sit down.” Karan gestured to the bench beside the bed. “Tell me everything.”
“We came to say goodbye,” said Tallia.
“You’re not coming to Chanthed for the celebrations?”
“There’s a ship leaving port on the next tide, heading north all the way to Crandor. If we catch it, we can be home a month sooner than I’d hoped.”
There was such eagerness on her face, such longing in her eyes, that Karan suppressed her own disappointment. “You’ve wanted to go home for a very long time.”
“Almost from the moment I got to Thurkad.” Tallia sighed. “Twenty years ago.”
“I’ll miss you. It’s such a long way away, and I don’t suppose we’ll see each other again … but I’m glad for you. And I hope you get your wish.”
“What wish is that?” said Zanser.
“For a child,” said Karan, hugging Sulien to her.
“There’s no time to waste,” Tallia said impishly. “We’ll be practising all the way home.”
Karan laughed. “Good for you. And Llian and I—”
“Mummee!” said Sulien, scandalised.
Three days later Karan, walking with the aid of her own stick, hobbled from the gate in Chanthed, with Sulien on her left and Llian to her right, into an oval courtyard paved in pale blue stone.
“What is this place?” she wondered.
The courtyard was surrounded by a wide cloister with slender columns of darker blue stone set on purple-black plinths. The great house, of two storeys, was also of blue stone, with dark red window surrounds, silver slates on the roof and very tall, slender, intricately decorated chimneys that must have been a nightmare to sweep.
“Belongs to a friend of Nadiril’s,” said Llian. “A spice merchant, away in the east.”
“Do you suppose it’s got hot water? Healer’s Isle was all very well, and the next time I’m dancing on death’s trapdoor I’ll go straight back, but—”
“You’d eat your own left arm for a hot bath.” Sulien, who had heard it many times before, grinned.
“Haven’t had one since we left Gothryme,” Karan muttered. “Haven’t had many cold baths, for that matter. You could scrape the grime off me with a trowel.”
“What are we really doing here, Nadiril?” she said the following morning. Having had a lingering hot bath, a massage, a ten-hour sleep and an enormous breakfast, she felt at peace with the world. All that mattered now was going home, the sooner the better.
“What I said in Qwale, mainly,” said the old man. “Great victories must be celebrated, the lost mourned and heroes duly honoured.”
“I don’t want to be honoured; I just want to go home.”
“Honours aren’t for the heroes who earned them. They’re for we humble, ordinary folk who aren’t heroes.”
“I’ve never thought of you as humble,” said Karan cheekily. “Or ordinary.”
He continued as if she had not spoken. “Honours highlight that, even in the darkest of times, the actions of small, quiet, reluctant or even badly flawed people really matter.”
“I still think you’re up to something.”
“I don’t know that I am,” said Nadiril, smiling faintly. “We’ve also had the original manuscripts of the first twenty-two Great Tales in safekeeping ever since Snoat was killed. They’re the greatest treasure of the college, and now that his pet master, Basible Norp, has fled and the war is over, it’s time to hand them back.”
He paused. “Finally, as part of the celebrations, we’re going to hear a brand new tale in two nights’ time. We know the ending, and some people know the beginning, but no one has heard the rest of the tale.”
Llian, who was eating his fourth slice of toast with chunky gellon marmalade, said sharply, “What tale is that?”
“The Tale of Rulke.”
Karan set her lips in a hard line. “Not written by that thieving bitch Thandiwe, by any chance?”
“As it happens,” said Nadiril.
Llian let out a mirthless bark of laughter. “You’ve got to admire her gall.”
“No … we … don’t,” said Karan through gritted teeth.
“How could she have done it so quickly?” said Llian. “Even with Rulke’s key, which I’ve got, it’d take a year and a half to translate all those papers and another year to put a competent tale together.” He turned to Nadiril. “But Thandiwe would never be satisfied with a competent tale; sh
e wants a Great Tale to her name. She’s burned for one since the day I was awarded mine.”
“She’s a greedy woman and she’s spotted an opportunity,” said Nadiril. “I wonder if you’ve seen it too?”
“Can’t say I have, or care.” Llian assumed his attack on his toast. “This is the best marmalade I’ve ever eaten.” He put his sticky fingers in his mouth and sucked noisily.
“Daddy!” hissed Sulien. “Manners!” But when Karan only smiled vaguely Sulien licked her own fingers.
“Since Norp is gone,” Karan said slowly, “there’ll have to be an election for a new master. Is that why you brought us here, Nadiril? To make Llian master of the college, as Wistan intended before Snoat had him murdered?”
Nadiril sighed. “I’m no puppet master, Karan. Nonetheless, the past three months have reinforced the vital role of the Histories, not just as a binding force for the myriad nations and peoples of Santhenar, but also as a true record of deeds done and lessons learned—or not learned and doomed to be repeated. The Histories were of great aid to us in the last conflict and may prove vital in the next.”
She sat up straight. “What next conflict?”
“There’s always a next conflict. All the more reason for the college to be led by a master who, despite some past, er, misdemeanours, believes absolutely in the Histories as truth, not as propaganda for the victors.”
“It won’t be me,” said Llian. “We’re going home.” He linked arms with Sulien, who was on his left, and Karan on his right. “I’m going to write the Tale of the Gates of Good and Evil. It’ll take me at least a year.” He grinned at the prospect.
“Are you absolutely sure?” said Karan. “Surely you remember how unhappy you were a few months ago?”
“Because I was forbidden to work at my craft and yearned for something that could never make me happy. Now I know better.”
Karan’s eyes narrowed. “You’d better not be referring to that bodice-bursting trollop!”
“Don’t be silly, Mummy,” said Sulien. “Daddy’s talking about the college, aren’t you?” There was a hint of anxiety in her voice.
“I used to think I wanted it,” said Llian, “but I’m not cut out to be a teacher, and I couldn’t bear to sit in Wistan’s office moving papers from one place to another. I’m going to write the Histories and tell the tales, and that should be enough for any man.”