by Stephen Deas
He reached the arches. Between them a silver surface shimmered, blocking his way into the centre circle. They were too high to climb and nothing in the world would have made him touch them. He began to walk around instead. He could hear noises now from inside. A faint sobbing. He couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. When he looked down, he saw dark drops on the floor. He knelt and peered at them. Licked his finger, rubbed it against them, tasted it.
Blood. A spray of blood. Two things did that. You cut a man in the neck or in some other places and the blood would spray on its own. Or you sliced deep into a man’s flesh and then it was your own blade that did the spraying. Either way, whoever the blood came from usually wound up dead. But was it the alchemist or was it the outsider?
Couldn’t see the alchemist swinging a sword. Or cutting a throat for that matter.
Flame!
Unless the outsider had brought her here and they’d found something waiting for them. He wasn’t sure that was much better.
The sobbing was still there. He thought he heard a whisper. It’s beautiful.
She was lost. When a mage reached through their blood to touch another mind, there was always a danger. To touch the mind of another mage, that was the fear, one who was stronger than you. She’d done that with her teacher and he’d shown her how to defend herself, how to run away, break the link, hide within yourself, throw up walls and barriers that even the strongest mage could never break. She’d touched his mind and felt his strength; she’d done as he had shown her and in the end seen how she could save herself. She’d seen him attack her with everything he had and not even strain her mastery of herself.
The silver sea consumed her as though she was nothing. Even if she’d had the time to try and hide herself, it would have washed her walls away like a tidal wave against a sandcastle. She had no idea what it was. Something immense. Vast. Something that would always be beyond her understanding, no matter how much she learned. In a blink it looked at her, took her in, absorbed her. She felt its size and its age and its utter indifference. Her own insignificance. And then she realised that yes, she did know what it was. She knew exactly.
The Silver King. It had to be. Whatever old crippled Jeiros had said, there was nothing else this could be.
‘It’s beautiful,’ whispered Siff.
It was waiting there. Waiting for what, though?
Help us! she thought as loudly as she could, simply hoping to be noticed. We need you again!
She saw Siff start. He turned slowly to look at her.
‘You?’ He shook himself. She understood. Trying to shake away the presence all around them both. Trying to bring himself back to the simple world of stone and flesh.
‘Siff,’ she breathed. ‘Look at it.’
His face twisted into a snarl. ‘You! You want to steal it.’ His hands clenched. He held out the knife towards her. ‘No no no, witch, this is mine, not yours. Mine!’
‘And all the blood around your feet is mine,’ she whispered. She had no strength in her arms any more, nor her voice. She’d lost too much blood to him, but that gave her another strength. ‘I am sorry, Siff.’
On the ground around him her blood started to flow – rising, soaking into one of his boots, climbing higher, past his ankle, up his leg. It touched his flesh and burned and he screamed. He bared his teeth and his eyes flared with silver. ‘I have told you before, blood-witch, you cannot do that!’
Jasaan walked cautiously around the outside of the arches. The sobbing stopped. Voices. He froze.
‘You?’ A man. The outsider?
‘Siff. Look at it.’ A woman’s voice full of wonder, not fear. Full of . . . full of awe. Kataros. The alchemist. Alive.
So whose was the blood?
Then the first voice came again, suffused with anger and envy and murder – ‘Mine, not yours!’ – and Jasaan moved again, faster now, around the arches, looking for a way in until he saw the single one that was open, that wasn’t filled with liquid silver.
In the centre, lying on a slab of stone in a pool of blood, deathly pale, lay the alchemist. Her breath came fast and shallow. Across from her, halfway through one of the far arches, the outsider stood with knife raised. His eyes shone with silver. His lips were drawn back and his teeth were bared. Blood was everywhere.
Jasaan blinked. The blood around the outsider’s feet . . . it was moving!
Sorcery. A woman lying on a stone slab, a man standing over her with a knife raised. That was all he needed. All any Adamantine Man would need. He knew exactly what to do. He raised his sword. The battle cry came of its own accord. He was already in the air, half the ground covered between them, before the outsider even saw he was there.
The alchemist gasped something, so faint he didn’t hear. The outsider turned and raised his hands. While the blood on the floor flowed up one of his legs, silver flowed up the other, fast as lightning, drawn from the silver lake. Up his leg and up his side, across his shoulder, down his arm and just as Jasaan’s sword should have cut him in two, he had a sword of his own, silver, blocking Jasaan’s blade, and half of him was cased in armour.
The swords came together and Jasaan’s steel shattered. Shards of it flew. A sliver sliced his cheek. Pieces hit his armour and ricocheted away. The outsider screamed and reeled back. Where the silver didn’t cover him, pieces of Jasaan’s blade had cut him open.
Jasaan stared at the stump of his sword. Impossible. Swords didn’t shatter. Not like that, like glass.
The outsider swayed, off balance. The light in his eyes grew brighter. They turned on Jasaan, a terrible power lurking within them. The alchemist groaned something again. No time to get out his axe. The stump of his sword would do. He lifted it as if to plunge it into the outsider, who raised his arms to fend off the blow as the silver flowed around him again; then Jasaan kicked him instead, hard in the ribs, where a shard from the shattered blade had already embedded itself in his flesh.
The outsider threw back his head. He shrieked and fell back into the silver sea behind him. The liquid flowed over him and covered him from head to toe, but only for a moment, and then he began to rise once more.
‘No,’ she croaked. She thought the man with the sword was Skjorl at first, but this one was too short, too small. Still, when she reached through the blood to touch him, she knew at once that he’d tasted hers. For a moment that threw her. She looked for Skjorl and found nothing, yet this man . . .
Jasaan? From the Spur?
Silver flowed from the sea beyond the gate and shattered the Adamantine Man’s sword. Slivers of steel flew like arrows among the arches.
‘No!’ She tried again. ‘Don’t! Leave him be!’ This was her battle, by the Flame! And if Siff went right through the gate, who was to say what might come back. ‘Jasaan! Don’t!’
Jasaan landed a kick and Siff tumbled through. She didn’t dare reach through her blood to try and touch him again, not now. Whatever was inside him that had thrown her away before, it was growing fully awake. She just about found enough strength to sit up. At least now she could see properly. See the silver sea wrapping itself around the outsider, clothing him. She could see him for what he was. The Isul Aieha. The Silver King.
‘Jasaan!’ The Adamantine Man was standing before the gate, panting, still holding the stump of his sword. One by one around them the arches flickered and failed, their mirrors falling black and dead and then fading into nothing until each was just an arch again with no sign of any magic to it, all except the one beyond which Siff stood.
Kataros called her blood, what was left of it, called it back to her to feed her own strength. Siff was covered in silver now. It had grown into an armour around him, hard plates in layers and layers, exquisite and complex, and he held two swords, short and curved, one in each hand. There were pictures, in the Palace of Alchemy, of this man. Drawn five hundred years ago. Exactly the same.
‘Isul Aieha,’ she said softly.
No answer.
‘They killed you. The
y took your body to the mountains. To some distant cave. Yet you are here.’
He pointed one of his swords. History crashed into her. She was him, the Silver King. She saw herself call the dragons to her. Saw herself tame them with a single word. She ruled over men but they were nothing to her. A distraction. She was looking, looking for something, always. Something about the spear she carried and a great and terrible thing that had been done. For a long time, looking but never finding, and all the while a despair was building inside her and a loneliness, until she could bear it no more. She saw herself come to this place and conjure these arches, and as she did it she saw a glimpse of her future, of the end that awaited her, and so she left a seed behind, surely a needless precaution – when she chose to leave and return to her home and her kin there was nothing that mere men could do to stop her – but one taken nonetheless. And then they turned on her and somehow they won. She saw men, blood-mages, the ancestors of the alchemists, tear her apart and take her body to the mountains, to some distant cave and hold her caught at the edge of life and death. They drank her in tiny drops, not the blood of her veins, but the silver god-blood, and in doing so they each took a morsel of her power. They kept her that way, trapped, for decades and centuries, and all the time her seed was waiting. Waiting for a host and a way to go home.
She would not forget. She would not forgive but nor would there be vengeance. Home called her. Her people. Peace.
The Silver King lowered his sword and turned away.
‘No!’ Kataros struggled to her feet. She had almost to claw her way up the Adamantine Man to get up. ‘Don’t! Don’t leave us! We need . . .’
The silver sea became a silver mirror. Faded to black and died.
‘You.’ She began to sob. Her own blood was still all over the arch. She reached through it, trying to open the way again, but there was nothing. Dead stone, that was all it was now. It wanted more than a mere alchemist.
Epilogue
Jasaan
He didn’t know what to do with her at first. Blood everywhere, one alchemist weeping and sobbing for the man who’d tried to kill her – as best he could tell. She didn’t want him, didn’t want to go, that much was obvious. For a while he left her to it, left her to do whatever it was that alchemists did, and went and had a bit of a look around, but there wasn’t much else to see. More tunnels. He wasn’t sure he fancied those.
She would need water. Water and red meat, that was what you gave people who’d lost a lot of blood, not that he was any sort of expert. There was water in the river, that was easy enough. And as for red meat, there were plenty of dead men out there. He’d eaten the flesh of his own before. Maybe he’d not mention to the alchemist exactly where it came from. He frowned, trying to remember. Was there something about alchemists not eating the dead?
The trouble with going outside was the dragon. With a bit of luck it had done for whatever outsiders had survived – if it hadn’t eaten them, they’d surely have had the sense to run away – but it was still a dragon and chances were it was still out there.
He loitered near the mouth of the tunnel, listening, waiting for dark. There weren’t any sounds of people, no screams, no dragon cries. When he followed the stars out of hiding, he saw why. He saw what had happened. What Skjorl had done. Another dragon. On his own this time with just his bare hands and an axe. Smug bastard.
From where he stood there was no way to tell whether the dragon was completely dead, and there was no way he was going close enough to find out. He skirted around it. Got water and then walked the long way around the Midnight Garden to the beach below the waterfall and helped himself to some choice cuts of the dead there. He found Nezak there, dead. He took a moment to go over his body, and Parris too, but the outsiders had got to both of them first and there was nothing left to take.
When he went back inside the alchemist seemed herself again. She was weak and pale, but she was the Kataros he remembered from the Purple Spur. The spear-carrier. He offered her water.
‘I came to find you,’ he told her. ‘I’m supposed to bring you back to the Pinnacles. All the riders who came with me are dead now. There’s just you and me.’ He shrugged. ‘What do we do?’
She shivered. Her face was still stained with tears. ‘We go to the Spur. I will gather my order and we will come here again and we will make these gateways open. That’s all that’s left to us.’
‘Through the Raksheh? There are snappers.’
‘We’ll use the river.’
‘There’s the worm.’
‘I will soothe it.’
‘We’ll get hungry.’
‘I’ll show you what you can eat. There may be more outsiders though.’
‘I’ll get a new string for my a bow. There’ll be dragons once we get outside the forest.’
‘I’ll make potion to hide us.’
‘It’ll take a long time to get to the Spur.’
‘We’ll be quick. There was a dragon outside. Has it gone?’
Jasaan shook his head. He couldn’t help half a smile. ‘Skjorl brought the hill down on it.’ Had to rub it in, didn’t he?
‘Skjorl?’ She seemed surprised, if only for a moment. ‘He did that?’
‘He’s dead now.’ Jasaan searched the alchemist’s face. She didn’t seem much bothered. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘I’m weak. That’s all.’
He nodded and waited to be told what to do. While he was waiting, the alchemist curled up and went to sleep. After a bit, Jasaan did the same.
Acknowledgements
My thanks go to my agent, John Jarrold, and to my editor at Gollancz, Simon Spanton, whose faith that ‘Yes, I know how this will all end’ as yet seems to know no bounds. They go yet again to my wife Michaela, widowed on many evenings by fire-breathing monsters. They go to Hugh Davis, who has copy-edited most if not all of these dragon stories and always for the better.
One or two of you managed to creep some names into this. Well done. A nod to DM Rich and the crazy dwarf and his missus too.
Thank you for reading this. As always, if you liked this story, please tell others who might like it too.
Also by Stephen Deas from Gollancz:
The Adamantine Palace
The King of the Crags
The Order of the Scales
The Thief-Taker’s Apprentice
The Warlock’s Shadow
The King’s Assassin
A Gollancz eBook
Copyright © Stephen Deas 2012
Map copyright © Dave Senior 2009
All rights reserved
The right of Stephen Deas to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in Great Britain in 2012 by
Gollancz
The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Orion House
5 Upper St Martin’s Lane
London WC2H 9EA
An Hachette UK Company
This eBook first published in 2012 by Gollancz.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978 0 575 10051 0
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
www.stephendeas.com
www.orionbooks.co.uk
Table of Contents
Title page
Epigraph page
Contents
Map
The Silver City
1
2
3
4
5
/>
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
Farakkan
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
The Raksheh
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
The Aardish Caves
54
55
56
57
The Moonlight Garden
The Black Mausoleum
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Also by Stephen Deas from Gollancz
Copyright page