Carith accepted the fork but was patently dissatisfied. Atrisma handed over the second half of the fee for which Urmo bowed in gratitude with a smile affixed to his chops until the two witch-women had left his shop. After that, he felt nothing but relief.
Carith was keen to try out her new acquisition, keen to make it as aged and powerful as Atrisma’s. As they walked back to the shack, she jabbed at thin air, prodding invisible foes. Atrisma stayed her arm.
“You must be patient. You must keep it untarnished, spit-spot. The time will soon be upon us. Then you shall have use for your fork.”
Holed up in Atrisma’s shack, Carith resumed her studies, poring over documents that were brittle and brown with time, translating the ancient symbols she had conned on board the ship. Boranda served up plain but wholesome meals and only once did she look directly in Mistress Drombo’s eyes. It was an imploring look, a plea for succour that touched Carith’s heart.
“Boranda? What is it?”
But the servant only shook her head and continued to tidy away the wooden bowls and beakers.
One evening, when the moon was at its fullest, Atrisma bade her bathe and put on a shapeless white robe of shimmering samite. Dressed identically, Atrisma led Carith to a neighbouring hillock, which had a steep drop on one side into a ravine.
“Have you brought your fork?”
“Yes...”
“Good. Now, don’t speak; just do as I do.”
Boranda was already there, lying on a flat stone. Like an altar, Carith realised. Moonlight caressed the servant’s naked body, her skin pimpled by the chilly night air. She was looking up at the sky, unblinking and passive. Atrisma positioned herself by the girl’s side and took her wrist in her hand. She nodded to Carith, urging her to do likewise around the other side.
The witch threw back her head, uttering urgent incantations in a raspy whisper, her eyes wild with wicked intent. Uncertain, Carith copied, watching her mentor out of the corner of her eye, trying to keep up with the fork-waving and the hair-tossing as best as she could.
At long last, Atrisma stopped chanting. She checked to see her student was paying attention and then pierced Boranda’s wrist with one prong of her fork. A little reluctantly, Carith did the same, looking to her mentor for nods of encouragement. The servant girl did not stir, did not seem to register what was happening to her or to feel any pain whatsoever.
Atrisma, on the other hand, appeared transfixed, invigorated, as she plunged the other prong into her own wrist. She shuddered and shook as though in the throes of ecstasy.
“Come ON!” she cried, crazed with delight.
Carith hesitated. The fork was really sharp... but neither Atrisma nor the girl appeared to be in the slightest discomfort. Quite the contrary, in fact: the former looked to be having the time of her life and the latter appeared to be at perfect peace. Carith steeled herself - and then applied the steel to herself, pressing the point of the prong into the soft white flesh of her wrist.
“Come on!” Atrisma urged again, her voice a high-pitched cackle.
Carith closed her eyes and rammed the point farther in. The effect was instantaneous, electrifying! She felt surges of power course up her arm and through her entire body. The crown of her head tingled and her toes curled in her boots. Waves of heat and cold emanated from the fork at dizzying frequency. Carith staggered, giddy, intoxicated...
At length, the waves subsided, leaving her with a sensation of elation and calm. Nothing could be wrong in the world, she felt. Everything is surely perfect...
She opened her eyes to find Atrisma grinning at her - a new Atrisma, a rejuvenated Atrisma, her moonlight hair now as black as a raven’s bum.
“You see?” Atrisma enthused, her voice half an octave higher in pitch. “Do you not feel refreshed? Renewed? There is nothing like it. No man can make us feel like this!”
Carith laughed. “I feel... clean! Brand new!”
“Yes, yes, my dear! The few lines you had at your eyes’ ends are gone!”
Carith touched her own face. It was true!
“You must perform this rite every ten years on the occasion of a full moon. You will never grow old and your body will never wither. But you must forsake the marriage bed. You must forego the pleasures of the flesh - Bah! They cannot compare to the joy of the renewal. I will teach you the incantations.”
“Oh, yes, please!” Carith cried like a child promised a birthday treat. It was the most wonderful feeling and the most wonderful prospect!
It was only then that she looked at her fork. The prongs were darker, blackened as though they had been in a fire. Miraculously, there was no wound on her wrist - there was barely a mark at all, but -
“Where’s Boranda?”
On the flat stone where the servant had lain was nothing but a husk, a dried-up, papery shell, like the sloughed skin of a snake. Too fragile even to withstand Carith’s gaze, it crumpled and crumbled to powder and was taken up by the breeze.
“There is always a cost,” said Atrisma soberly. “She was a good cook.”
Carith’s blood ran cold. “What have you got me into?”
“Oh, my dear! Don’t come the innocent now. It’s a bit late for tears, boo-hoo.”
“I won’t do it! No more for me! I’ll just grow old like other people do.”
She turned her back and set off. The older woman called after her.
“Ah, but you won’t, my dear, and that’s the point. When ten years are up, you shall shrivel and turn to dust just like poor Boranda. Unless you find someone to pay the price of your renewal.”
Carith stopped in her tracks. “I am trapped, then.”
“That’s the wrong way to look at it.”
“And the incantations?”
“I shall teach you. Oh, we shall travel the world together, my dear, and live long and happy lives.”
“No!” Carith Drombo’s voice could freeze water. “I prefer to read them for myself. Where are they, so I may copy them?”
“In a box, under my bed, but - there’s no need for us to part. You’ll get used to it - you’ll-”
But Atrisma spoke no more. Her mouth gaped open in surprise at the impact of Carith’s fork plunging into her eye. The owner had spun around and hurled it like an Amazonian spear. The old woman dropped to her knees and toppled face forward, driving the fork right through her skull. In an instant, she turned grey, an effigy of herself fashioned from dust, and then the breeze caught her, eroding her features, dispersing her into the cold night air.
With a shiver, Carith stooped to retrieve her fork, only to cast it aside for the better idea of taking her late mentor’s instead.
“Goodbye,” she addressed the last remaining patch of grey. “There is always a cost.”
***
She strode back to the shack to pack a bag. A battered book with dog-eared pages was exactly where Atrisma said it would be. Carith skimmed a few pages, frowning as she translated the symbols and pictograms. The symbol for ‘rebirth’ or ‘renewal’ featured heavily. It was the right book, all right. The old witch trusted me, she reflected!
It was almost touching.
Carith Drombo would not be so foolish.
She stole through the tenements as the first light began to dispel the dark. The residents were sleeping and no one marked her passage. How might they react, she wondered, if they knew I have slain the one they feared?
And if they knew I am now like her?
All the more reason to get away and fast!
She made her way to the harbour. It did not take long for a fresh-faced, pert-breasted, young-looking woman to charm her way on board a ship.
***
And so began a century of travels and changing fortunes, forever moving on and starting again after every renewal. Sometimes she was wealt
hy beyond imagining and at others she was as poor as dirt - as she had been thirty years ago when she had passed herself off as a farmer’s widow and matters had got out of hand when an entire dragoon had tried to rape her. As she had been two years ago when, escaping from her umpteenth wedding, she had plunged into the path of Duke Marmellion himself, no less.
And now, another renewal loomed. It was always a trying time.
But I’m worth it, she told her reflection in a looking-glass - an indulgence she did not allow herself very often, for whenever she saw herself in a mirror, the faces of all the girls who had paid the price over the decades were superimposed on hers in rapid succession and it became, momentarily, difficult to quash the fleeting sensation of guilt.
Twenty
“I don’t like it,” muttered Shade. “All these people and I can’t touch any of them.”
“You better not,” said Broad. “We don’t want a commotion. Now, tell me, did you see the damsel?”
They were conversing in a dark corridor used only by servants who, at this late hour, were all asleep in their quarters. Shade had repeated his disapproval several times; it was his firm belief they should put as much distance between themselves and the palace as they could, rather than hanging around like bad smells. But Broad had insisted Shade sneak around and try to locate his damsel-in-distress.
“I saw a damsel - if you must call her that.”
Broad waited for his shadowy companion to elaborate but, soon growing impatient, he grunted in frustration. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Is she pretty?”
Shade shrugged. “If you like that kind of thing.”
“What was she doing?”
“She was asleep; what do you think she was doing?”
“Was she dreaming? Perhaps she was dreaming of a hero with broad shoulders who would come to her rescue.”
Shade sneered. “She didn’t look like she needed rescuing as far as I could see. She looked rather content, if you must know. Like a pig in sh–”
“Ssh!” Broad cut him off. “Somebody’s coming.”
He flattened himself against the rear of an alcove and held his breath. Shade hovered in the air just below the ceiling. Whoever-it-was was certainly behaving in a furtive manner. Broad watched the cloaked figure approach with exaggerated stealth. Panic gripped the youth by the heart as the mystery man paused directly in front of the alcove; he dropped and tied his bootlace. And moved on.
But not before Broad had glimpsed the famous features of the furtive fellow.
“Did you see that?” Shade drifted down.
“I did!” gasped Broad, getting his breath back to normal. “It was whojimmyflop, wasn’t it? Duke Marmeliser!”
“The very same,” said Shade. “Wonder where he’s going. Sneaking around.”
“I don’t know, do I?”
“I don’t expect you to. Come on; let’s follow him.”
“Er - no. He wants me dead, remember?”
“No, he doesn’t. The Law wants you dead.”
“He is the Law.”
“Ah. You have a point. But let’s go anyway. You can hang back and I’ll go ahead. We might learn something to our advantage.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, do I? Now, shift yourself. And try to keep up.”
With that, Shade elongated himself and sped after the Duke like a dart. Broad lingered in the alcove until the pull of the ring grew too strong to withstand and he had to hurry after his friend.
***
Smedlock stood on the shore at an equal distance between the Ptorfian lighthouses. His task was done: an invisible wall stood between the two structures - already a seagull had flown into it and disappeared in a wisp of black smoke. It would not be the last, he reckoned. At the wall’s base, where the incoming tide crashed into it, fish were left dead as the waves receded. At full tide, the wall would act like a dam and a lot of marine life was going to end up fried. It was not the wizard’s concern, although some of the dead would have made interesting ingredients for his navarin. The purpose of the wall was not to stop the ocean - only a fool would attempt such a feat. The wall was the apex of the triangle being set up across the Principality and would act as a reflecting board, containing the magic and sending it rebounding into the centre, the dreaded place known as Tullen Spee.
Exhausted, he sat on the beach. The others - idiots, both - should have done the same thing at their appointed locations. They had better, Smedlock snarled to himself, or come the full moon, our plan will fail.
He considered making a fire - if he could find enough dry driftwood - and checking in. A broth would show him their progress and, damn it, he was hungry. But he was too tired; erecting the wall between the twin structures had drained his mental energy. It would not last long - the effort would kill him! - but it didn’t need to. The wall only needed to endure for a few days, for as long as the moon was full and fat and shining down on Tullen Spee.
He allowed himself a nap. At dawn, he would make his way inland to rendezvous with the others.
And woe betide them if they had not been successful!
A finger of cold wind tickled his neck. The wizard twitched in his slumbers and woke, his head jerking upright and his eyes darting around.
“Someone there?”
Not so much as a gull answered his question. Smedlock shivered and wrapped his robe more tightly around him.
Many leagues to the south, at Lurkin Mount, Pezzackeron was similarly exhausted. His wall was up, curving slightly around the summit of the mountain. Falling snow sizzled briefly as it glanced off the invisible structure. The wizard was pleased with his work; he ran a hand over his bald pate, wet with melted snowflakes and then wiped his hand on his robe. It was only then he realised how thick a coating of snow he was wearing on his shoulders. He dusted it off and stamped his feet. Had I stood there any longer, I should have been a snowman, he chuckled. An ignominious end and certain failure for our project. The others would curse my name for evermore. And no doubt bring me back as a wraith so they could torment me further!
Huddled in his garments, he headed down the mountain. There was shelter at the bottom where he would spend what remained of the night.
When he reached the shack, which must have belonged to a woodcutter or a shepherd or someone prosaic like that, he was surprised to see the door was slightly ajar and snow was piling up in the gap.
“Hello?” he said but there was no answer. There were no footprints leading either to or from the hovel but that meant nothing. Turning around he saw the snow had already obliterated his own prints made only seconds earlier.
He put a hand against the frost-coated door and peered into the dark. “Is someone there?”
There was no answer. Pezzackeron scolded himself for being such a scaredy cat and went inside. Within minutes he was asleep.
And on the isle of Herran’s Polp in the centre of its lake, Tarkwayne was breathing easy. His portion of the task was complete and he was no longer shaken by the experience of - well, what it had been he was still unsure. A visitor? A spectre? Or the scrying eyes of a rival?
He dismissed this latter option as soon as it had presented himself. There were no rivals. The last remaining wizards were all working in concord to complete the most important project of their lives - none of them would jeopardise the success of their plan.
Would they?
Tarkwayne’s wall hung invisibly in the sky over the tiny island. He took one last look at it, even though there was nothing to see. But he knew it was there - you could feel a tingle as you walked under it, a frisson in the air like static electricity.
Satisfied, he stepped into his boat and rowed his way back to the mainland across the glassy surface of Lake Herranswater. He paused only once to look back, experienci
ng the unsettling sensation of being observed. It was as if someone was in the boat with him, breathing down his neck.
Despite his fatigue, he rowed faster, racing his own fears to the shore.
***
The Duke should have known his luck would run out sooner or later. All his sneaking in and out of the palace under the cover of night was bound to end badly. Now, as he was backed against a wall in one of Grimswyck’s many dark alleys, he believed his time had come. He hoped his reign would be remembered as a good one.
Three footpads had him cornered, suspecting his rough cloak concealed the fine clothing of a rich man, a courtier perhaps. The well-heeled were always at it: dressing-down in a bid to walk the streets unmolested. The term itself was what gave them away. Beneath the hem of their hessian outer garments often would flash the bejewelled leather of an expensive shoe.
They had him at knife- and axe-point, slashing the air in front of his frightened face and grunting in amusement. They were like three cats with one mouse, determined to have fun with it before they went in for the kill - for kill him they would; it made divesting him of his finery and valuables all the easier, and it’s always advisable to leave no witnesses.
Shade arrived at the scene a moment before Broad. He slipped into the shadows unnoticed but the youth was not as discreet. He came to a stop at the mouth of the alley, breathing heavily. The robbers saw him at once. While one kept their quarry cornered the other two went for the young intruder, swinging axe and dagger in his direction. To their amazement, Broad did not run away. His broad shoulders almost plugged the narrow exit.
“Let him go,” he suggested. All three robbers sneered. The one with the dagger lunged at the interloper; Broad sidestepped and the blade scraped the wall.
Damned fool, thought the Duke. He’s going to get himself killed.
But then Duke and captor alike watched in astonishment and stupefaction as the other two robbers dropped to the ground. They had not seen the youth move a muscle - and he had plenty of those to move - but there they were, dead on the ground. What they hadn’t seen was a shape extending from the shadows and pouring itself into the ear of one attacker and out the other side, and then doing the same to the other attacker. Shade moved swiftly, like smoke fanned by a gale. It didn’t give him the time to savour his feed. It was more of snack really but it did the trick.
Navarin, Thunder and Shade Page 24