After a few nights of this, when it seemed their number might well be increasing, he decided to move his sword practice elsewhere. Hiding the painted sword under his cloak, Xemion made his way to Uldestack, the second of the two peninsulas that curved inward, enclosing Phaer Bay. This part of Ulde was usually dark and uninhabited at night. Uldestack, the towering volcano-shaped chimney at the end, was the very landmark that had helped Xemion and Saheli find their way into the city when they were lost. It had been built by a long-ago race of Nains when the city of Ulde had been one of the major centres for metallurgy in the known world. All around the wide diameter of the chimney’s base were ventilation holes through which the sea winds roared in high season, capable of stoking so many kiln fires at once that the glow from them could be seen by ships miles out at sea.
Tonight, though, it was almost invisible in the dark and the fog. Xemion stopped in the pitch-blackness. He could hear the waves crashing on the cliffs below, and the call of a tern. Finally, he reached into his cloak and drew forth the practice sword. He had only executed the first few glowing sequences of his new regimen, however, when he heard a terrible screeching sound coming from the direction of the stack. There was a hideous supernatural quality to the sound, as though some demonic creature were crying up from underground in holy torment. Sheathing the sword, he ran closer. The fog was still dense but he could see, high above him, a barely flickering glow at the top of the stack. Then a faint echo of someone chanting reached his ears. He moved closer to distinguish the words:
Hard, hard
As Earth is hard.
Hard as luck,
Seared and charred.
Hard in death
And hard in birth.
Out of my mettle make this metal
Hard, hard.
The voice was unmistakably that of Glittervein, the Nain. And that flickering glow at the top of the stack was no doubt the kiln fire far below. And that hideous screeching, which now arose anew, was clearly the sound of Glittervein’s machinery inside the smithy making swords for tomorrow. Still, the combination of the screeching and the chanting was deeply unnerving.
Hard, hard
As my life is hard.
Hard as rock
As my heart is hard.
Hard as my bones
Make this shard.
Of my mettle make this metal
Hard, so hard.
Finally, the sounds ended and there came a loud hiss as though a screaming jet of steam had burst from a vent in the Earth. That was Glittervein quenching the blade. Lirodello had told Xemion the stories about Glittervein — that he had learned to harness the crackling underearth fire to heat his forge. But the smithy must be below ground level because all was dark in the workshop. Xemion drew close to a window and peered in. He had to duck down quickly, for just then the sound of footsteps came up a stairway from underground, a door opened, ushering a rush of light inward, and Glittervein and the bulky, blind Thralleen stepped into the workshop.
“Well, wasn’t that poetic?” he heard Glittervein say sarcastically in a slightly slurred voice. Xemion peered in as the Nain closed the great stone door at the top of the stairs. He inserted a big black key into the lock and turned it. Then, after scanning the shop for any observers, he pulled a brick from the side of his kiln, placed the key in a space inside it, and slid the brick back into place. “Very satisfying,” he slurred. He took a wineskin, which he wore on a long string about his neck, and began to quaff deeply. After a few good gulps, Glittervein tapped the Thrall on her left shoulder to signal that her work was done. At first she didn’t react, so he stood up on his chair and shoved her quite hard. “Go away!” he bellowed, teetering slightly on his perch. She nodded and groped her way toward a chamber on the other side of the smithy. Mumbling to himself bitterly, Glittervein made his way over to a small table only a few feet away from the glass through which Xemion covertly observed him.
Glittervein, like all Nains, was short and broadshouldered, but he had particular thick arms and the sinews in them rippled with his every movement. One side of his long auburn hair flowed down over the side of his face while the other side was flung back over his shoulder, where it coiled down his back almost to his waist.
He removed a small pot of ink, a sheet of paper, and a quill pen from a drawer and set them on the table in front of him. For a second Xemion thought the Nain must be able to read, but when he did finally place the quill tip to the paper it was obvious that he was drawing something on it. Xemion strained to get a better look.
Just then Glittervein lifted his head and looked right at Xemion. Xemion felt the gaze lock into him and grab hold of him and then it seemed to go right through him. Frozen with fear, Xemion realized that Glittervein couldn’t see him and was actually staring at his own reflection in the window glass. Xemion remained motionless, staring right into the unknowing right eye of the Nain. The right side of Glittervein’s face had very delicate features, but as Xemion watched, the Nain, who was deep in thought, flung back his hair and turned the other side of his face toward the glass. Xemion had already heard from Lirodello that the Nain’s face had been severely burnt in a kiln fire accident, but he was unprepared for how terribly damaged it was. It was as though someone had taken a wax image of a face, scorched it, and then smeared it over to one side. It was a scarry purple colour, its surface evenly pitted like rapidly boiling porridge.
Glittervein shook his head at his reflection and then proceeded to comb the long auburn hair back over his disfigurement, all the while gazing not only into his own eyes but also those of his silent observer.
Finally he returned to his picture. Xemion squinted to better see what the Nain was drawing. It appeared to be a crude representation of crossed swords. When Glittervein finished, he folded the note into a tiny square. After staggering to the back of the shop, he returned with a pigeon. Xemion watched as the Nain tied the note to the pigeon’s leg, opened a south-facing window, and released it into the night. He stood, watching it as it flew out over the sea. Having done this, a smile of what looked to be satisfaction crossed his face. He sat down, took another long quaff from his wineskin, and rubbed his hands together so rapidly he might have been trying to start a little fire in his palms.
Just then Xemion heard a rustling sound behind him. Turning quickly, he saw through the thinning fog that he was surrounded by a ring of wide-open eyes, all low to the ground and at various heights, and all staring at him most intently. He didn’t have time to think. He reached into his cloak and drew out the practice sword and held it high. It was at its full luminosity now; its glow was so strong it illuminated his hand, his arm, and the grimacing war mask of his face. Emitting his fiercest cry, Xemion ran between two of the sets of eyes, slashing the greenish shine of the blade to and fro. Once he was past, he dashed on as fast as his legs would carry him down the peninsula. As he ran, he could clearly hear the enchanted cry that rose up and followed him: “He is master, he is Lord. Hail, hail the shining sword.”
7
A Lack of Appropriate Clothing
Often during his ordeal of waiting and not knowing, Xemion doubted so strongly that it had been Saheli he’d seen up at the front of the Panthemium that it was almost as though she had been confirmed missing. Other times, like now, as the third week ended, he was almost positive that it had been her. Either way, he wouldn’t have to wait much longer for certainty. Soon, Veneetha Azucena would go to the camp, and when she returned she would bring word and he would finally know for sure.
Before she could depart, however, there was a sudden shift in the weather. It got quite cold as the wind came in off the northern sea, and Yarra began to mumble about a long and early winter to come. In the midst of this, the community was hit with an outbreak of influenza. It struck quick and hard, disabling many. Most began to recover toward the end of the week, but Ettinender and two others never recovered. These were the first casualties of the rebellion at Ulde.
Then, just a day befo
re her planned departure, Veneetha caught the sickness, and it affected her so quickly and severely that she was unable to go. Xemion only learned after the fact that Tiri Lighthammer had gone instead. That next week was one of the most maddening and painful of Xemion’s life, but somehow he managed to continue his scribing duties and his not-so-secret sword practice at night. Sarabin assured him that Vallaine and his ship, the Mammuth, were expected back in Ulde imminently and would likely be delivering not only a boatload of supplies for the kitchens but the returning Tiri Lighthammer. Veneetha promised Xemion from her sick bed she would personally ask him about a girl with a scar over one eye.
Days later there came a severe ice storm. When the denizens of Ulde arose the next morning, they looked up to see a conglomeration of floating spell-crossed houses frozen together above the city, all encased in and joined by a thick coat of glittering ice that extended from the houses on the ground to others quite high up, which were sparkling in the sky. The extreme cold quickly made it apparent to all that there was a lack of appropriate clothing in Ulde. Most of the recruits had fled their homes with little more than the clothing on their backs. Now, as winter came on, many of them would be in danger of freezing to death if appropriate measures were not taken. Veneetha Azucena generously donated numerous extra items from her wardrobe and insisted that even the old men’s military garb carefully obtained by its owners for special ceremonial purposes be lent out to the shivering recruits. But there still wasn’t enough warm clothing to go around, and while a team of finder Thralls scoured the uninhabited buildings of the city in search of anything that might be turned into clothing, many of the others were forced to remain indoors.
Fortunately, the weather warmed up again and there was a thaw. As a result, the houses, no longer held aloft by either the ice or the fifty-year-old spell cross that had lifted them, began to fall, some of the rubble landing on the isolated street where Xemion lodged. A crew of thick-chested Nains, including Tomtenisse Doombeard and his nonviolent brother Belphegor, came with wheelbarrows and picks and shovels and began carrying off the rubble. Such labours were always closely supervised by Glittervein. The houses had originated in the Era of Common Magic and often contained still-working spellcrafted devices. As Provost, he was responsible for making sure they were properly incinerated. He did his best to make sure not one of them missed his attention.
Xemion, as usual, did not participate in these labours, but one day when Musea fell into a deep sleep he went home early and was spotted by Glittervein. Ever since the night at Uldestack, he had done his best to avoid the Nain, but now that Glittervein had seen him and called out to him, he had no choice but to remain still as he stalked over. The wind was coming in cold again, whipping the long curls away from Glittervein’s face. He turned the disfigured side toward Xemion and spoke sharply: “Who are you? I don’t remember seeing you at the gate on the first day. I personally inspected everyone who came in and I know a face forever. And I don’t know yours.”
“I came in from the eastern side of Ulde,” Xemion answered, a little nervously. Glittervein’s pupils shrunk to pinpoints. “I knew nothing of this.” His voice deepened by an octave. “You should have come in by the western gate and been screened and searched like everyone else.”
“I couldn’t get around the outside of the wall,” Xemion answered.
“Well, how is anyone to know whether or not you brought in some spellworks?”
“I didn’t,” Xemion answered, a little offended.
“And how is anyone to know whether you are a spy, or a kwisling, or—”
Xemion’s answer, tinged as it was with insolence, brought out the “high and mighty” quality of his voice. “I believe Mr. Sarabin would speak on my behalf.”
Glittervein shook his head and just stood there for a long time staring at Xemion. “We’ll see,” he said finally, before stalking off.
A week later, a blizzard struck, burying the whole of the Phaer Isle in snow. The drifts were so deep in Ulde that the streets were impassable and there quickly began to be a shortage of firewood and coal. Vallaine still had not returned, and the food supply was definitely dwindling. It was so low, in fact, that as soon as there came a thaw several more of the newly formed brigades, many wearing rags on their feet for warmth, were sent to camps in the mountains that had been previously provisioned enough for there to be time to teach the recruits to forage and hunt. This would relieve pressure on the situation in Ulde.
And Lighthammer had still not returned — nor would he until spring. All the mountain passes were blocked by ice. For the rest of the winter travel on the Isle would be impossible. But no one knew that yet. Like Xemion, everyone waited moment-by-moment, hungry and cold, expecting imminent relief. They hoped for another thaw or a warm spell, but none ever came, only another outbreak of influenza. And because everybody was spending so much time indoors, quite a number more died. They might’ve all died had Lirodello not found in a secret cellar beneath the kitchen cellar vast storehouses of dried and pickled fish, which must have dated from half a century ago. There was also an assortment of old musical instruments and sacks containing multicoloured pellets, which, when thrown to the ground, could explode into small grey dinners. If Tiri Lighthammer had discovered this, he would have had them all destroyed, for they were surely the products of long-ago spellcraft. But Tiri Lighthammer was not here, and there was nothing else to eat, so the whole colony fell upon this food like locusts on a field. There was joy in the taste and eating of it, but in the end it had very little nutrition and some of those who ate a lot of it came down with a strange multi-coloured pox that left their faces pitted ever after.
Xemion wasn’t alone in his longing and uncertainty. With the departure of almost all of the Thralleens to different base camps, there was hardly a kitchen Thrall who was not stricken with the absence of his true love. Lirodello was particularly affected. That same face that had seemed born and shaped for humour was now frozen in a sorrowful mask, and his wide, stricken eyes tended to fasten on inanimate objects as he stood, staring and tragic, shivering in the streets. Nevertheless, as one of the few people that Xemion had any contact with, he took care to deliver on his vow of eternal friendship, doing his best to rarely leave Xemion alone. For Xemion, he was one of the only sources of information, so he bore his chatter and yearnings, his lyric exclamations, and his long rolling laments for the love of Vortasa as best he could.
⚔
The winter solstice came and went, and all the while the severity of the weather increased. There was still very little warm clothing and what there was had to be traded back and forth among the outside workers while the rest huddled en masse in smoky rooms using whatever they could find for firewood, including the very desks and chairs intended for their studies.
In general, though, Xemion suffered less from the cold and hunger than most of the others. Because of its depth in the Earth, the underdome was much easier to heat than the surface rooms. He didn’t know it, but often when even the kitchen Thralls went hungry, Sarabin saw to it that Xemion ate well. Sarabin needed to keep him healthy for the sake of literature.
In all those frigid days that became weeks and then months, the ache of not having her, the ache of not knowing if she was safe, was unrelenting. He kept telling himself that he wouldn’t have wanted to dull the pain of it, because that would dishonour the full depth and intent of his devotion to her. So he bore it. The worst of it, though, came near the end of winter when the possibility of an actual spring was just beginning to fill the air and Xemion was allowing himself to hope. That was when Musea began to dictate an old text detailing the day-to-day life of the ancient Elphaereans. She was reciting a passage about the ways of teaching in the ancient military academies, and when she got to a part about the practices used to integrate and harden those special ones chosen for the elite forces, she said this: “And it was always the practice then as now for both male and female to take part in all gymnastic events naked.”
No
thing in life had ever so utterly undone Xemion’s composure as did this piece of news. It sent a great jolt of cold alarm through every branch of his being right to his fingertips and the roots of his hair. “No!” he exclaimed.
It was one of those rare times when Musea actually stopped reciting and waited.
“Yes, yes, it is so,” she said at last.
In truth he had never even thought of Saheli naked, but now that he had, that thought was accompanied by the next thought: Torgee would see her naked. This thought froze his blood in mid-pulse and he felt like vomiting. It was so huge a feeling that he had to struggle to push it back down inside. And then his only hope was that the scribing would continue as long as possible that day, thereby delaying his mind from veering back to the terrible cliffs of that thought.
He paid dearly for it when work was over. It rose up in him with a fury, and despite the cold he went out onto the balcony to practise his sword work. His luminous thrusts that night were especially savage — and therefore that much more thrilling to the wide-eyed Thrall children nearby who had by now learned to keep quiet. They watched the shining sword flash back and forth as Xemion’s mind brimmed over with jealousy, bitterness at the injustice, deaths he’d rather die than go on living, fights with Torgee he’d like to have, the torture and death of Montither, the burning of all Elphaerean literature, the disgrace of Tharfen, the dragging down of the sun into the abyss …
Second Kiss Page 6