by Tom Lloyd
'She's dead,' she said quietly, 'but sisters we remain, and we need each other more than ever. My name is Legana.'
'Legana?' the woman said sharply. 'I know that name – from the temple in Tirah. But I don't recognise you.'
'I've changed a little,' Legana agreed. 'I couldn't speak into another sister's mind before.'
'You were the scholar?' the woman asked sceptically. 'The one they thought would become High Priestess?'
Legana gave a sudden cough of laughter. 'If that's what you remember we were at different temples! I was the one she beat for insolence every day for a year-I was the one who excelled only at killing. I was sold off to Chief Steward Lesarl as soon as I was of age.'
The woman let her shoulders relax. Grudgingly she returned her weapons to her belt. 'Okay, then. You were a few years younger, but we all heard about the trouble you caused. I'm Ardela. What happened to your voice?'
Legana's hand involuntarily went to her throat. Her skin was paler even than most Farlan – as white as bone, except for Aracnan's shadowy handprint around her neck. Underneath were some barely perceptible bumps: an emerald necklace had sealed her bargain with Fate when Legana had agreed to be her Mortal-Aspect, but the violence done subsequently had somehow pushed the jewels deep into her flesh.
'That I will tell you when I tell you my story,' Legana said. 'First, I want to ask you, where are you going by yourself in a hostile land? You don't strike me as the sort to be left behind by the army.'
Ardela scowled. 'The army wouldn't have noticed if half the Palace Guard had deserted; they're in chaos after Lord Isak's death.'
'So why are you here?'
'I think my time with the Farlan is done,' Ardela said after a long pause. 'Doubt it would be too safe for me to return to Tirah; a few grudges might come back to haunt me.'
'Then where are you going?'
'Where in the Dark Place are you going?' she snapped back. 'What's your story? You're a sister, but a mage too? You're crippled, but wandering out in the wilds all by yourself? There are Menin patrols out this far, and Farlan Penitents who've deserted, and Fate knows what else lurking – '
Legana held up a hand to stop Ardela. 'I'll tell you everything; I just want to know whether you are looking for renewed purpose, or just a job in some city far away from your "grudges". I want to know whether you still care for the daughters of Fate.'
Ardela didn't answer immediately; for a moment her gaze lowered, as though she were ashamed. 'Whatever I care for, I cannot return to Tirah,' she said at last.
'Could you stand to meet a temple-mistress, if it were somewhere other than Tirah?'
'You asking whether they'd accept me, or I'd accept them?'
'Their opinion will be my concern, not yours. We must all start afresh if we're to survive this new age.'
'Yes, then – but it don't matter, the Lady's dead.' A spark of her former fierceness returned to Ardela's voice. 'Whatever you think you can do, the Daughters of Fate are broken.'
'But perhaps I can remake them,' Legana said. 'I don't know how yet, but I'm the only one who can draw them back together. They're the only real family I've ever had and I won't just stand back and watch them drift away. Without the Lady we've lost the anchor in our hearts; we're bereft. Who knows what our sisters will do if the ache of her loss stops them caring about anything?'
'I do,' Ardela said in a small voice. 'I've lived that way for years now.'
'Then let's do something more with ourselves,' Legana suggested, holding a hand out to the woman.
Ardela took it, and allowed herself to be led by a half-blind woman into the darkest part of the wood, where Legana had sited her small camp. On the way Legana told Ardela what had happened to her throat, how she had become the Lady's Mortal-Aspect, and then witnessed her death a few days later.
When Legana mentioned Aracnan, and the one whose orders he must have been following – the shadow, Azaer – Ardela flinched, and her own story began to pour out of her. She cried, ashamed for her employment by Cardinal Certinse, whose entire family had served a daemon-prince, and sorrowed by the savagery and depravity of her life during those years. In the darkness the women held each other and wept for what they had lost. Long before dawn broke they knew they shared an enemy.
He fell through a silent storm, tossed carelessly like a discarded plaything. Tumbling and turning, he dropped too quickly even to scream. Unable to see, unable to speak, he tried to curl into a ball and protect his face from the thrashing storm, but the effort proved too much. There was no energy in his limbs to fight the wild tumult, nor breath in his lungs to give him strength. But as he fell deeper into darkness, the panic began to recede and some measure of clarity started to return to his thoughts.
The storm, he realised eventually, was chaotic, assailing him from all directions, and though every part of his body told him he was falling, as the blind terror began to fade he realised he was in a void, a place where up and down held no meaning. He was apart from the Land, tumbling through chaos itself – until Death reached out to claim him.
All of a sudden the air changed. Mihn felt himself arrive somewhere with a jolt that wrenched him right around. His toes brushed a surface beneath him and gravity suddenly reasserted itself. He collapsed in a heap on a cold stone floor, a sharp pain running through his elbows and knees as they took the impact. Instinctively he rolled sideways, curling up, his hands covering his face.
Once his mind stopped spinning Mihn took a tentative breath and opened his eyes. For a moment his vision swam and he moaned with pain. Then his surroundings came into focus. A high vaulted ceiling loomed somewhere in the distance, so vast, so impossibly far that his mind rebelled against the sight. Before Mihn could understand where he was he had rolled over again and was vomiting on the stone floor.
Almost instantly he felt a change within himself as sight of something mundane became a lodestone for his thoughts. Underneath him were flagstones, as grey as thunderclouds, pitted with age. He struggled to his feet and lurched for a few drunken steps before regaining his balance. Once he had done so he looked at his surroundings – and Mihn found himself falling to his knees again.
He was in the Halls of Death – the Herald's Hall itself. All the stories he had told, all the accounts he had read: none of them could do justice to the sight before him. The human mind could barely comprehend a place of magic where allegory was alive enough to kill. The hall stretched for miles in all directions, and was so high he felt a wave of dizziness as soon as he looked up. Gigantic pillars stood all around him, miles apart and higher than mountains, all made of the same ancient granite as the roof and floor.
There was no one else there, Mihn realised. He was quite alone, and the silence was profound. The vastness of the hall stupefied him. Mihn found himself unable to fully comprehend so unreal a space, made more unworldly by the silence, and the stillness in the air. Only when that stillness was broken – by a distant flutter from above – did he find himself able to move again. He turned, trying to follow the sound, only to yelp with shock as he saw a figure behind him where there had been no one before.
He retreated a few steps, but the figure didn't move. Mihn didn't need the accounts he'd heard about the last days of Scree to recognise the figure: with skin as black as midnight, robes of scarlet and a silver standard, it could only be the Herald of Death, the gatekeeper of His throne room and marshal of these halls.
The Herald was far taller than Mihn, bigger even than the tallest of white-eyes. Prominent ears were the only feature of the hairless black head. Eyes, nose and mouth were indentations only, token shapes to hint at humanity which served only to make the Herald more terrifying.
Behind the Herald, away in the distance, Mihn saw a great door of white bones. Now, in the shadows of the hall's vaulted roof, there was faint movement: indistinct dark coils wrapped around the upper reaches of the pillars, then dissipated as others flourished, coming into being from where, he could not tell.
Death's winge
d attendants. In Death's halls, other than Gods, only bats, servants of the Chief of the Gods Himself, could linger. Bats were Death's spies and messengers, as well as guides through the other lands. If a soul's sins were forgiven, bats would carry the soul from the desolate slopes of Ghain, sparing it the torments of Ghenna.
The Herald of Death broke Mihn's train of thoughts abruptly by hammering the butt of the standard on the flagstone floor. The blow shook the entire hall, throwing Mihn to the ground. Somewhere in the dim distance a boiling mass stirred: vast flocks of bats swirled around the pillars before settling again.
When Mihn recovered his senses the Herald was staring down at him, impassive, but he wasn't fooled into thinking he would be allowed to tarry. He struggled to his feet and took a few hesitant steps towards the huge gates in the distance. The rasp of his feet across the floor was strangely loud, the sound seeming to spread out across the miles, until Mihn had recovered his balance and could walk properly. Obligingly the Herald fell in beside him, matching his uneven pace. It walked tall and proud at his side, but otherwise paid him no regard whatsoever.
After a moment Mihn, recovering his wits, realised some subtle compulsion was drawing him towards the ivory doors of Death's throne room. The doors themselves were, like the rest of the hall, of a vastness beyond human comprehension or need.
As he walked he became aware of a sound, at the edge of hearing, and so quiet it was almost drowned out by the pad of his footsteps and the clink of the Herald's standard on the flagstones. In the moments between he strained to hear it, and as he did so he detected some slow rhythm drifting through his body. It made him think of distant voices raised in song, but nothing human; like a wordless reverence that rang out from the very stone of the hall.
It intensified the awe in his heart and he felt his knees wobble, weakening as the weight of Death's majesty resonated out from all around. His fingers went to the scar on his chest. It had healed soon after he and the witch left Tirah, but the tissue remained tender, an angry red.
He kept his eyes on his feet for a while, focused on the regular movement and the task at hand, until the moment had passed and he felt able to once more look up towards the ivory doors. They appeared no closer yet, several miles still to walk, by Mihn's judgment.
He suddenly remembered an ancient play: the ghost of a king is granted a boon by Death, to speak to his son before passing on to the land of no time.
'"The journey is long, my heir,"' Mihn whispered to himself, '"the gates sometimes within reach and at others hidden in the mists of afar. They open for you when they are ready to – until then hold your head high and remember: you are a man who walks with Gods."'
After a few more minutes of silence he began to sing softly; a song of praise he had been taught as a child. The familiar, ancient melody immediately reminded him of his home in the cold north of the Land, of the caves the clans built their homes around and the cavern where they worshipped.
When he reached the end of the song he moved straight on to another, preferring that to the unnatural hush. This one was a long and mournful deathbed lament, where pleas of atonement were interspersed with praise of Death's wisdom. Considering where he was going it seemed only sensible.
CHAPTER 2
In the silence of the ghost hour two figures walked through the fens beyond Byora. The expanse stretched for miles; few knew the safe paths and still several of those fell victim each year to the sucking mud or malign spirits. Marsh alder and ghost willows studded the watery landscape, either solitary trees looming in the mist like spectres or small copses huddled and hunched like bitter old men.
The brother and sister walked side by side, neither carrying a lantern, despite the deepening gloom. They were several miles from Byora, at the very heart of the fens. Though the air was cold, the vapour of their breath was barely visible even once the sister stopped and pushed back the hood of her cape to speak.
'This will serve,' Zhia said.
The sun had sunk below the eastern horizon and its light had faded from all but a sliver of the clear evening sky. A low mist surrounded them and everything beyond ten yards in any direction was tinted white and indistinct. In the distance a light flickered, pale blue and cold. From another direction came the cough of a fox and a wordless mutter that faded to nothing when she turned her sapphire eyes that way. The light she ignored. No will o' the wisp would come closer unless someone were floundering in the water, and only then when their struggles had weakened considerably – and that was not going to happen tonight.
Koezh looked at the ground around them. A hump of earth less than a dozen yards across, but firm underfoot thanks to the roots of an ancient marsh alder that bore the scars of a lightning strike. One branch had fallen; grass was already growing up around the wood. Its furthermost twigs were draped in the still water like the fingers of a corpse. The tree was old and with an open break running down the main trunk wouldn't last many more winters, so it was perfect for their purposes.
'And to guard it?'
Zhia drew her long-handled sword and used the tip to cut a circle in the sodden ground around the tree. At her murmured command the circle glowed briefly, a pale blue light similar to the will o' the wisp. That done, she sheathed the sword and drew another from her back, this one wrapped in cloth. She freed her gloved left hand from the folds of her cloak and raised her hood before unwrapping the cloth. Both turned side-on, hiding as much of their faces as possible, as a bright white light shone out and dissipated the surrounding curtain of mist.
Without waiting Zhia pushed the shining crystal sword into the split part of the marsh alder and muttered a few more words. The trunk of the tree closed up over Aenaris and the light winked out. Zhia turned away, fingers touched to her face, hissing with discomfort. The Key of Life shone with light as pure as the sun's; the vampire's cheek now bore a blackened scorch-mark.
Koezh gave a polite cough and drew a dagger from his belt. 'The Key of Life will make the tree stand out if someone passes this way,' he said as he cut a band of bark away from all around the tree's base. A touch of his broadsword made the exposed wood blacken and decay. A little mud covered the damage and made it barely noticeable. 'I doubt that will kill the tree, but it might slow it up a while.'
'I'm rather more concerned some daemon will discover it,' Zhia said pointedly. 'The Devil Stair Lord Styrax created is only a few miles away and who knows how many places in these fens reach down to Ghenna? No human will find their way here, even if we were followed, not once I'm finished.'
'All the same, caution is rarely without worth,' he replied. 'It will take any daemon time to work out how to handle the sword of the Queen of the Gods. Perhaps we should save our concern for finding a new resting place for Aenaris.'
'A permanent one? That won't be necessary.'
Koezh looked askance at his sister. 'My sister the convert? Once more you have faith in a cause?'
'I have faith in my own senses,' Zhia replied, not bothering to rise to his insinuation. 'Players remain in this game who can give us what we want. One of them will win out.'
'Which?'
'Perhaps the shadow after all. Few of the power players consider it any real threat; it seems to be content to wait and let them exhaust themselves fighting each other.'
'And this is the side you wish to support?'
Zhia looked surprised. 'What do you mean, "wish to support"? You'd prefer to do nothing? Prefer the Land to continue as it has for the last seven millennia?'
'I am just one man. I cannot choose a fate for the entire Land.'
She laughed. 'Compassion? Just another part of our Gods-imposed curse – and yet another thing we might be freed of.'
'At what price?'
'Let consequences be someone else's problem, we've had enough of them.'
He regarded her as he used to when they were children and he the reticent elder brother. 'So you are decided?'
'Not at all, that time is yet to come.' Zhia's voice became more insiste
nt. 'Don't you feel it though? Can't you sense change on the horizon? That our time has finally come?'
'I do.' Koezh gave a sigh and looked to the western horizon. The sky was black, and the first stars of night had appeared. 'Yet still I think of the price others might bear.'
At last Mihn came to the ivory doors of Death's chamber and there he stopped. Something inside told him he would be permitted a moment to wonder at the sight – to tremble at the judgment that lay beyond. The doors to the throne room appeared to be more than three hundred feet high, but Mihn guessed measurements meant little in the Herald's Halls. The walk there had taken hours; the ghost of fatigue fluttered through his body, but he was cool and his breath was calm.
The huge doors that dominated the miles-high Herald's Hall were somehow brighter and more real than the hard, cold stone underfoot. The wall they were set into was indistinct, slanted away from Mihn and stretching into the murky distance, with no corners in sight. The doors themselves were composed of a chaotic network of bones, ranging from the smallest finger-bone to thigh-bones broader and longer even than the biggest of white-eyes; bigger than Mihn imagined a dragon's bones would be. White marble formed a peaked frame around them, through which ran threads of faintly glittering silver.
The tangle of interlinked bones was bleached a uniform white. There were gaps Mihn would have been able to slip himself into, perhaps even make his way all the way through, but some fearful part of him pictured the bones closing around him, including him in the structure. He stepped back and looked up and a moment of renewed dizziness washed over him as his mind struggled to accept the sight. When that passed Mihn began to see a purpose to the chaotic structure; a pattern that absorbed the jumble of linked bones to impose a rigid grandeur upon the whole.
Somehow that realisation made him feel better, easing the feeling of being lost amidst chaos. The time had come, so without even his staff to hand – the witch Daima had sternly forbidden him to carry anything, he could take only what could be worn – Mihn touched his finger to the nearest bone. It was freezing cold, and a chill ran up the underside of his arm while a great creak rang out through the hall. The doors yielded smoothly, beginning to swing inwards. They moved silently once they had cleared each other, barely disturbing the air.