by Sykes, Sam
A shadow caught its attention. It looked up. It remembered these two-legged things, such as the one that sat not far away from it. It remembered it should run from them. It spread its wings to fly.
And instantly, it was seized in an invisible grip.
‘No, no,’ Dreadaeleon whispered, pulling his arm back. The force that gripped the seagull drew it closer to him, the bird’s movement completely wrenched up in panic. ‘I need your brain.’
His voice was hot with frustration. He hadn’t expected it to take nearly this long to seize a stupid bird that, by all accounts, should be infesting the shores like winged rats. But that was a momentary irritation, one quickly overrun by the sudden pain that lanced through his bowels.
His breath went short, his hand trembled and the seagull writhed a little as his attentions went to the agony rising into his chest. This was not normal, he knew; pain was the cost of magic overspent, and the ice raft he had wrought to deliver his companions certainly qualified. But those pains were mostly relegated to the brain and rarely lasted for more than a few hours. This particular agony that coursed through his entire being was new to him.
But not unknown.
Stop it, he scolded himself. You’ve got enough trouble without wondering about the Decay. You don’t have it. Stop it. Focus on the task at hand. Focus on the seagull.
The seagull, he thought as he drew the trembling bird into his lap, and its tiny, juicy, electric little brain.
Still, he hesitated as he rested a finger upon the bird’s skull. More magic would mean more pain, he realised, and it seemed unwise to expend any energy on anything that wasn’t guaranteed to find salvation from the sea. And, as magic went, avian scrying was as unreliable as they came.
Dreadaeleon had never found a bird that wasn’t a bumbling, hunger-driven moron. He could sense the electricity in its brain now: straight, if crude, lines of energy suggesting minimal, single-minded activity. It was those lines that made birds easier to manipulate than the jumble of confused sparks that made up the human brain, but it also made them relatively pointless for finding anything beyond carrion and crumbs.
But carrion and crumbs were food. And, as his growling belly reminded him, food was not something they had managed to salvage.
He whispered a word. A faint jolt of electricity burst through his fingers, into the avian’s skull. It twitched once, then let out a frightened caw. He could feel the snaps of primitive cognition, bursting in his own mind as their electric thoughts synchronised.
Scared, they told him. Scared, scared, scared, scared.
‘Fine,’ he muttered. ‘Go, then.’
He released the bird, sending it flying out over the waters. He leaned back, closing his eyes. In his mind, he could feel the gull’s presence, sense its location, know its thoughts as he felt each sputtering pop of thought in its tiny brain. All he needed to do now was wait; he could hold onto its signature for at least an hour.
A lance of pain shot through him. He winced.
Or less.
‘What do you hope to achieve?’ someone asked him.
‘Animals search for food first. If there’s any around here, I’ll know about it,’ he replied, his thoughts preoccupied with the gull’s.
‘There are many places the Sea Mother’s creatures go that you cannot.’
‘If I can tap into a seagull’s brain, I can certainly figure out how to get where he’s going,’ he snarled. Only when his ire rose higher than his pain did he realise that the voice was not that of one of his companions.
But it was not unknown.
He turned about and saw her standing before him: tall, pale body wrapped in a silken garment, fins cresting about her head, feathery gills blended with emerald-colour hair. He looked up, agape, and the siren smiled back at him.
‘I am pleased that you are well, lorekeeper,’ Greenhair said. The fins on the sides of her head twitched. ‘Or … are you?’
‘Not so much now,’ he said. He tried to rise, felt a stab of pain and, immediately afterward, felt the urge to wince.
Don’t do it, old man, he warned himself. Remember, she’s tricky. She can get into your head. She can manipulate your thoughts. Stay calm. Don’t think about the pain. She’ll know … unless she already knows and is telling you how to feel now to further her agenda. Stop thinking. I SAID, STOP THINKING!
‘Be calm, lorekeeper,’ she whispered. ‘I do not come seeking strife.’
‘Yes, you’re quite talented, aren’t you? You find it without even searching for it,’ Dreadaeleon muttered. ‘You tricked us into going into Irontide after the tome and abandoned us when we had to fight for it.’
‘I was concerned for the appearance of—’
‘I wasn’t finished,’ he spat. ‘You then came back after we had it and got into my head.’ He tapped his temple. ‘My head, and tried to tell me to steal it for you.’
She blinked. ‘You are finished now?’
‘And you smell like fish,’ he said. ‘There. Get out of my sight. I’m busy here.’
‘Seeking salvation for your companions?’
‘Shut up,’ he muttered. He closed his eyes, attempted to seek out the gull’s thoughts.
‘That they might look upon you with the adoration that befits a hero?’
Don’t answer, old man. She’ll twist your words first, your thoughts second and probably your bits last. Focus on the gull. Focus on finding help.
He found the gull and listened intently to its electric pulse. There was a silence, then a burst, then a gentle sense of relief. A bowel movement.
Good thing you didn’t waste any energy on that. Oh, wait.
‘This is not the way, lorekeeper,’ she whispered. ‘You will find no salvation in the sea. This island is dead. It has claimed your other companions.’
‘Not all of them,’ he replied.
‘You seek their approval? When they do not so much as care for the effort you expend for them? The pain you feel?’
‘There is no pain. I’m fine.’
‘You are not. Something has broken within you, lorekeeper. A well of sickness rises inside your flesh.’
‘Nausea,’ he replied. ‘Sea air and sea trollops both make me sick.’
‘And you continue to harm yourself,’ she whispered. ‘For what? For them?’
Dreadaeleon said nothing. Yet he could feel her staring at him, staring past his skull, eyes raking at his brain.
‘Or for her?’ Greenhair said.
‘Shut up,’ he muttered. ‘Go away. Go turn into a tuna or get harpooned or whatever it is you do when you go beneath the waves. I have business to attend to.’
‘As do they.’
‘What?’
He turned to her and found her staring down at the beach. He followed her gaze, down to the shore and the two people upon it. The people he had extended his power for, the people that he had put himself in pain for, the people he had magically lassoed and mentally dominated a filth-ridden sea-pigeon for. He saw them.
Embracing.
‘But … he’s a rat,’ he whispered. ‘And she’s … she’s …’
‘She has betrayed you.’
‘No, they’re just doing … they’re …’
‘And you are not,’ Greenhair said, slipping up behind him. ‘As you burn yourself with impure fire, as you expend yourself for them, they roll on each other like hogs.’
‘They just don’t know,’ he said. ‘Once they see, they’ll know, they’ll see—’
‘They didn’t know when you saved them from the Akaneeds? When you kept them aloft with no concern for your own safety? Your own health? When will they notice?’
‘When … when …’
‘When you find the tome.’
‘What?’ he asked.
‘This island has barely any food. Even the creatures of the Sea Mother avoid it. But there is something else. The gull can find it. It calls to everything. It will call to the gull. The gull will call to you.’
Her voice was
a melodic serpent, slithering into his ears, coiling around his brain. He was aware of it, of her talents, of her treachery. Yet even fools occasionally had good ideas, didn’t they? If he could find the tome, find it and show it to them, to her, she would know, she would know him. They would all know. They would see his power.
He closed his eyes, searched for the gull. He found it, circling somewhere out over the sea. Its eyes were down, its head was crackling as it spotted things bobbing in the water. It saw wood – wreckage, Dreadaeleon concluded, even if the gull couldn’t comprehend it. It saw no food, yet remained entranced, circling lower toward the sea.
Tome.
He twitched; that shouldn’t be possible. Birds had no idea what a tome was. They could not recognise it.
But it did, somehow; Dreadaeleon could feel it. It stared down into the depths, seeing it clearly as a stain of ink upon the pristine blue. It stared into the sea, past the wreckage and past the brine. It stared into the water, it stared into a perfect, dark square plainly visible even so far down as it was.
Tome.
The gull stared.
Tome.
The tome stared back.
And suddenly, Dreadaeleon heard it, felt it. Voices in his head, whispers that glided on stale air and whispering brine rather than electric jolts. A grasping arm that reached out, found the current that connected gull and wizard, and squeezed.
Where is it, the voices whispered, where is it? It was here ages ago. It spoke. It read. It knew. Tell us where it is. Tell us where it went. Tell us how it got there. Tell us. Tell us everything. Tell us who you are. Tell us what you’re made of. Tell us of your tender meat and your little mind. Tell us of brittle bones and tears that taste salty. Tell us. Tell us everything. Tell us how you work. Tell us. Tell us. We will know. Tell us.
He trembled, clenched his teeth so fiercely that they creaked behind his lips. His breath came in short, sporadic breaths. His head seared with fire, whispering claws reaching out to flense his brain and taste the electric-stained meat, tasting it for knowledge. He could hear the tome. He could hear it speak to him.
TELL US.
And then he heard himself scream.
‘Dread?’
He hadn’t recalled falling onto his back. He certainly hadn’t noticed Greenhair leaving. And he was absolutely positive he would have seen Asper coming. And yet he was on his back, the siren vanished and the priestess was kneeling beside him, propping him up, staring at him with concern. His voice was a nonsensical croak, his head spinning as thoughts, his own and the gull’s, sizzled in his skull.
‘Are you all right?’
‘No,’ he said, shaking his head to dispel the last sparks. ‘I mean, yes. Yes, perfectly fine.’
‘You don’t’ – she paused to cringe – ‘look it.’
Steady, old man, he reminded himself. Don’t act all helpless now. Don’t let her know what’s wrong. He snarled inwardly. What do you mean what’s wrong? Nothing’s wrong! Just a headache. Don’t worry about it. Don’t let her worry about it. And most importantly, don’t pay attention to the urge to piss yourself.
That proved a little harder. His bowels stirred at her touch, rigid with pain, threatening to burst like overfilled waterskins. Still, he bit back pain, water and screams as she helped him to his feet, resisting the urge to burst from any orifice.
‘What happened?’ she asked.
‘Strain,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘Magical strain.’
‘Bird magic, Denaos said.’
‘Bird magic,’ Dreadaeleon said, all but spitting. ‘Of course. It’s nothing so marvellous as seizing control of another living thing’s brain functions. It’s bird magic. What would he know?’ He found himself glaring without willing it, the words hissing through his teeth. ‘What would you know?’
‘Dread …’ She recoiled, as though struck.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘Sorry, sorry. It’s just … a headache.’
In the bowels, he added mentally, the kind that makes you explode from both ends and probably kills you if it is what you think it is. He shook his head. No, no. Calm down. Calm down.
‘Of course,’ Asper said, sighing. ‘Denaos said you’d exerted yourself.’ She offered him a weak smile. ‘I trust you won’t begrudge me if I say I’m glad you did?’
You’re probably going to develop some magical ailment where you begin defecating out your mouth and choke on your own stool and she’s glad?
‘I mean, I know it was a lot,’ she said, ‘but you did save us.’
‘Oh … right,’ he replied. ‘The ice raft. Yeah, it was … nothing.’
Nothing except the inability to stand up on your own power. Good show.
‘It’s just a shame you couldn’t save the others,’ she said. ‘Or … is that what you were doing with your bird magic?’
‘Avian scrying,’ he snapped, on the verge of a snarl before he twitched into a childish grin. ‘And … yes. Yes, I was looking for them.’
‘Did you find anything?’
‘Not yet.’
‘I suppose you wouldn’t, would you?’ She sighed, looking forlornly over the sea. ‘We were lucky to escape, ourselves. Anything left by the wreck would be devoured.’
There was something in her that caused him to tense, or rather something not there. Ordinarily, her eyes followed her voice, always a sharp little upscale at the end of each thought to suggest that she was waiting to be proven wrong, waiting for someone to refute a grim thought. If enough time passed, she would, and often did, refute herself, citing hope against the hopeless.
But such an expression was absent today, such an upscale gone from her voice. She spoke with finality; she stared without blinking. And she looked so very, very tired.
‘They … they might be out there,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t Talanas watch over them?’
‘If Talanas listened, we wouldn’t be here in the first place.’
And then, he saw it, in the seriousness of her eyes, the firm certainty in her jaw. The idealistic hope was removed from her eyes, that whimsical twinge that he was always certain indicated at least a minor form of brain damage was gone from her voice. She was a person less reliant on faith, if she had any at all anymore.
She’s stopped, he thought. She doesn’t believe in gods. Not right now, at least.
There were a number of reactions that went through his mind: congratulate her on her enlightenment, rejoice in the fact that they could finally communicate as equals or maybe just speak quietly and offer to guide her. He rejected them all; each was entirely inappropriate. And nothing, nothing, he knew, was a less appropriate reaction than the tingling he felt in his loins.
Stave it off, stave it OFF, he told himself. This is the absolutely worst possible time for that.
‘Did you … feel something?’ she asked suddenly.
‘Absolutely not,’ he squealed.
She seemed to take no notice of his outburst, instead staring off into the distance. ‘Something … like I felt back at Irontide. Hot and cold …’
He quirked a brow; she had sensed magic back then, he recalled, but many were sensitive to it without showing any other gifts. And the source at the time, a fire- and frost-spewing longface, was a bright enough beacon that even the thickest bark-neck would have sensed it.
This concerned him, though. He could feel nothing in the air, none of the fluctuating chill and heat that typically indicated a magical presence. He wondered, absently, if she might be faking it.
Her left arm tensed and she clenched at it, scratching it as though it were consumed by ants. A low whine rose in her throat, becoming an agonised whisper as she scratched fiercer and fiercer until red began to stain the sleeve of her robe.
‘Dread,’ she looked up at him, certainty replaced by horror. ‘What’s happening?’
Eight
THE NATURALIST
The crawling thing picked its way across the sand, intent on some distant goal. It had six legs, two claws, two bulbous eyes and, appar
ently, no visible destination. Over the bones, over the tainted earth, over the fallen, rusted weapons it crawled, eyes always ahead, eyes never moving, legs never stopping.
Surely, Sheraptus reasoned, something so small would not know where it was going. Could it even comprehend the vastness of the worlds around it? The worlds beyond its own damp sand? Perhaps it would walk forever, never knowing, never stopping.
Until, Sheraptus thought as he lifted his boot over the thing, it became aware of just how small it was.
Then it happened: a change in the wind, a fluctuation of temperature. He turned and looked into the distance.
‘There it is again,’ he muttered.
‘Hmm?’ his companion asked.
‘You don’t sense it?’
‘Magic?’
‘Nethra, yes.’
‘I am attuned to higher callings, I am afraid.’
‘So you say,’ Sheraptus said.
‘You have no reason to distrust me, do you?’
‘Not as such, no.’ His lip curled up in a sneer. ‘That provides me little comfort.’
‘What is it that troubles you, if I may ask?’
‘You may, thank you. A signature, a fleeting expenditure of strength. It’s not what you’d call “big”, but rather … pronounced. It’s a moth that flutters before the flame and disappears before I can catch it in my hands.’
‘A moth?’
‘Yes. They do fly before flame, do they not?’
‘They do.’ The Grey One That Grins smiled, baring finger-long teeth. ‘You seem to be fascinated with all things insect today.’
‘Ah, but did you not say that this thing—’ He flitted a hand to the crawler.
‘Crab.’
‘This crab. It is not an insect?’
‘It is not.’
‘It has a carapace, many legs …’
‘It does.’
‘Why is it not an insect, then?’