A Solitary Journey

by Tony Shillitoe

  When she regained her equilibrium, she remembered the portal. The blue light shone between the posts, unchanged, and Whisper was gazing into it. ‘Can you remember where it goes?’ Meg asked, crawling to sit beside the rat. ‘We used to be able to talk, didn’t we?’ she said, looking at Whisper. The rat cocked its head. ‘How did we talk?’ The rat blinked and rubbed its nose with a paw. Then it jumped through the portal. ‘Wait!’ Meg cried. As before, in the blue haze she could see a flat landscape and the shadows of dead trees. The voice told her this was Se’Treya, but she had no comprehension of what that meant. In the haze she could see the tiny shape of the rat, half-submerged in the ground. That was strange. She drew her breath and stepped through the light.

  Memories flooded in as she stood ankle-deep in grey dust on a flat plain that seemed to go on until it melted into the horizon of sharp blue cloudless sky. The grey plain was broken with twisted white skeletal trees. Her head was spinning and the nausea of vertigo made her squeeze her eyelids tight and suck in the air. She’d come here from the island through her first portal, escaping the Seers. She’d never made a portal before that and the first one came here. Somewhere there was a hole in the ground, with steps leading into a crypt or a chamber where the man who haunted her dreams was pinned cruelly with axes to a dragon sculpture. She shivered. The Demon Horsemen were here as well. How had she forgotten them? She searched the landscape in fear of seeing the riders and a moment passed before she felt the insistent pull on her smock. She looked down to see Whisper tug at the fabric and scamper through the dust, stop, and sit up to look at her. ‘You want me to follow?’ Meg asked. The rat dropped and headed further through the dust towards a stark dead tree.

  Whisper led her to where the ground opened in a neat rectangle, revealing grey stone steps. Carefully she descended, and when it became too dark she created a small light sphere and continued, Whisper trotting at the edge, black tail in the circle of light. Down here is a chamber and someone trapped in a green shaft of light, she remembered. Down here are also the Demon Horsemen. She stopped and dimmed her light. What if they were in the chamber? What could she do? Another memory surfaced—a memory of searing pain as a blade sliced across her back. A Demon Horseman had cut her back last time as she escaped. She’d been lucky. Why had she come back? Because he called me, she reminded herself. Because he can save my children.

  Marshalling her courage, she went on cautiously until she stood in the green light bathing the tunnel and the doorway to a chamber. At the centre of the chamber, lashed to the sculpture of a sleeping black dragon, was a naked man, his legs cruelly bent under his body and his arms wide, the shoulders pinned by battle axes—one gold, one black. The vision was encased in a shaft of green light that ran from the ceiling to the floor. Glyph, she thought. He called it a glyph. And then she stopped, a chill rippling along her body, as another memory flashed into her consciousness. Close the portals after you.

  She turned and ran along the corridor, her tiny light glowing overhead, and sprinted up the steps, the light vanishing halfway up. She emerged on the grey plain, staring at the point where she thought she’d appeared and she checked around the point. No sign of her portal. Had it automatically closed? Satisfied that the portal wasn’t left open she retreated down the stairs into the dark at the edge of the green glow.

  I know you’re here.

  The voice in her head startled her. She spun, staring fearfully along the corridor.

  I’ve been waiting for you to come back. They’re not here this time. It’s safe to come in.

  She crept along the corridor to the chamber.

  Why don’t you answer me?

  ‘Where are you?’ she whispered sharply, and her words echoed through the chamber, louder than she intended. Whisper scampered out of a corridor and sat at her feet.

  Speak to me, the voice ordered.

  ‘I am,’ she whispered.

  Speak to me, the voice ordered again.

  The memories flowed like a stream. Mindspeak—she had to think the words. I’d forgotten how, she projected.

  Forgotten? the voice asked.

  I don’t know why, she replied. I’ve forgotten everything.

  Who are you? the voice asked.

  I thought you knew, she replied. She glanced around the chamber nervously, checking the four corridor entrances for light and movement. Her memories were sharp now. Last time the Demon Horsemen surprised her. Are you sure they’re not here?

  Mareg’s minions always go hunting at this time, the voice explained, and she thought she heard a soft chuckle.

  What’s so funny? she asked.

  Time, the voice answered. It has no meaning here.

  Then how do you know they’re hunting?

  I know, the voice replied flatly. Who are you?

  Meg was uncertain what to tell a strange bodiless voice. Meg, she finally said.

  I thought all the Dragonlords were male, the voice said. Strange. Are you from Targa?

  She nearly asked what a Dragonlord was, but her instinct stopped her. Instead she replied, No. Western Shess.

  Never heard of it. West or north of Andrakis?

  Again she held back her answer as she stared at the pale figure on the black statue. The stranger’s tone was oddly demanding for a being so pitifully and cruelly pinned—out of character. Who are you? she asked instead.

  Don’t mock me, the voice replied. Confused by the answer, Meg repeated her question. In a derisive tone the voice replied, A Ahmud Ki. Satisfied?

  The name flickered in a page of her memory, but nothing more. Who put you here? she asked. When A Ahmud Ki didn’t answer, she repeated the question with greater authority.

  You should know, he replied. Your brother—Mareg Dru’Artha Sutnavanistra. Clearly he didn’t complete his plan to kill the rest of you.

  His answer added to her confusion. Why did you summon me here? she asked.

  Because I can save you, he said.

  From what?

  From him.

  You said you can help me to save my children. Release me and I can help you.

  She walked around the statue, an arm-span from the green glyph, remembering that it was dangerous, and studied the twisted figure. Lithe limbs tormented by gold wire and the axes, brutal injuries across the chest and shoulders, long braided hair splayed across the statue, she struggled to believe that anyone could be alive in that condition.

  Are you listening to me? A Ahmud Ki interrupted.

  I’m thinking, she replied.

  Just get me out of here and I’ll help you, he offered.

  She had no idea who Mareg of the strange name was. This man—this odd-looking creature—was also an unknown. Perhaps Mareg put him here because he was dangerous. How could Mareg be a threat to her? Why did this stranger think that she was Mareg’s sister? There were too many unknowns.

  Are you going to help me?

  She stopped and looked up at the thin elongated face with its high cheekbones and handsome quality. It didn’t look entirely human. How can I be sure you’re not meant to stay here?

  The exasperation and anger and pain in the reply staggered her. I didn’t do anything to deserve this! Look at me! Would you do this to anyone—maul and mutilate them, then lash them to a statue and let them languish like this for eternity? Is this right? This is the act of a madman, someone who relishes the agony of others. It’s not an act of justice! In the name of whatever god you follow get me out of here! Please!

  The final single word was delivered with anguish, whispered in desperation, and followed with what physically would have been a sob, and it touched her core. And he was right. Her eyes told her the truth. Whatever right or wrong this man—this being—had committed, he didn’t deserve enduring punishment like this. A sick mind had put him on display, not the mind of a person wanting justice. She stared at the pale figure, at the silent emotionless face, and imagined the torment of being trapped like that and felt an endless well of pity open. What can I do? she asked
.

  Break down the glyph.

  She looked at the shaft of green light. Glyph. She recalled studying the word a long time ago, in a library. It was a word that lingered in her dreams—a word he had brought to her. How?

  She felt the surprise in his tone, even before the words formed. I thought you would know.

  I’ve never done it before, she replied. I don’t even think I’ve forgotten it. I don’t think I ever knew.

  Who are you? he asked again.

  I told you. Meg.

  Your name—what relation to Mareg are you?

  I’ve never heard of Mareg, she admitted.

  She sensed a shift in the stranger’s mood, an edge of uncertainty more akin to her own. You must at least know the Ki to get here, he said tentatively.

  What key? she asked.

  Magic. You must have magic—strong magic to be here.

  They called me the Conduit, she explained. I remember now. I had Jarudha’s Blessing, but it’s the amber that channels the magic. There’s more, but I don’t fully understand it.

  You speak of things I’ve never heard of, A Ahmud Ki told her. If you are here in Se’Treya you must possess the Ki, whatever name your strange people call them. I will teach you how to break down the glyph. It’s not easy, and it takes patience and care, but if you do exactly as I say, step by step, you will dissolve it. The magic binding the light must be unravelled like pulling a thread from fabric.

  What if I make a mistake?

  You won’t if you do as I say.

  Meg considered the request and glanced around the chamber again and spied Whisper scaling a section of wall. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked the rat. Mindspeak—she remembered. Focussing, she spoke to the rat as she had to A Ahmud Ki but using images rather than words.

  The rat stopped, hanging on a thin crack in the wall, looking at her as if awaiting an explanation for the interruption. In Meg’s mind a shape, a picture formed. Looking, it represented.

  She remembered. The animal projected ideas and feelings and actions, not words. She projected her effort of, Careful, but the rat clambered from the crack onto a thin ledge without responding. Turning back to the figure bound to the statue, she thought, I’ll try. But I have to go back to the village. It will be getting close to morning and if I’m not there my friends will be in trouble.

  There’s no hurry, A Ahmud Ki assured her. This is Se’Treya. Time doesn’t matter here. I thought you knew that.

  The situation was fast becoming more and more confusing to her. Time doesn’t matter?

  The Dragonlords made this place so that they could come and go from it at will without losing any time in our world. It’s like a moment of thought trapped in one place, and when you are here, no matter how long you stay, time doesn’t change.

  That can’t be true, Meg argued. If it was, then you wouldn’t be trapped in eternity at all. There’s no logic to it.

  Trust me. That’s how it works.

  She considered his words. ‘Trust me’ is so old and worn a phrase that no one trusts anyone who uses it. Who taught me that? she wondered. Then she stopped, afraid that he could hear her thoughts regardless of whether she was directing them to him or not. Perhaps he can’t, she decided when he didn’t respond. She had some time left to at least try to break the glyph, if her sense of its rate of passing was accurate. She stared at the contorted figure. No one deserved such cruelty. Tell me how to begin, she projected.

  His joy was clear in his reply. Glyphs are constructed from multiple spells, each one interlocked and interwoven with the others. There are key phrases and common words, and specific voice intonations needed to unlock the links without causing irreparable damage. I’ll lead you through each one. You’ll have to describe what you feel and see as you dismantle each level to help me select the right keys.

  How do you know all this?

  I learned it. I love magic.

  Then why did the Dragonlord lock you away in the glyph like this?

  I thought we’d gone past that question. I need to know.

  She sensed uncertainty, mistrust and anger in the stranger’s tone as his reply formed. Mareg saw me as a—as competition. He was jealous of my abilities. In the end, he imprisoned me here.

  Where is Mareg now?

  How would I know? After he left me here, I only felt his presence twice again. The first time was when he brought in the first of his new minions, the Dammeraag warriors he transformed into the horsemen. He came to gloat that he was ready to destroy the usurping human king who’d dared to try to kill him. The last time I only felt his presence and it was fleeting, as if he was in a hurry, and then never since. You mustn’t waste any more time. I’ll tell you how to begin.

  She wanted to contradict him on his urgency if time wasn’t in motion, but she had her answer. She would unravel the glyph and return to the village before dawn. And what would this prisoner do when she did that? I’m ready, she projected.

  First, you have to explore the fabric and weave of the glyph with your mind, he instructed. You have to leave your body and immerse yourself in the light, like bathing in a waterfall, only you have to have all of your senses attuned to what you are in. You have to feel it, as if you are becoming one with it and it part of you.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Sweat poured from her chin, her arms and her forehead and her legs ached from standing and squatting. She felt as though she hadn’t eaten or taken a drink for a long time. She felt like wax paper, the kind Saltsack Carter used to bring into Summerbrook from Quick Crossing that her mother used for cooking cakes. She moved steadily through the fabric of spells creating the glyph, listening to A Ahmud Ki’s advice as she described what she ‘felt’, but she was surprised by how many tiny details of her lost life leapt into the light. Saltsack Carter; fishing in the stream with her brothers; the horse, Nightwind; Emma’s stuffed kookaburra; the past snapped into place as each of the links in the glyph unfolded and vanished.

  You will sense something like lava—heat—at the next level, he said. This spell controls the fireball embedded in the glyph, gives it potency. The key words here are ancient Elvenaar words—bael-adilgian—and you must say them as if you’re the fire itself, in a rushing hiss of flame. You must say the phrase, Onlucan se heathowealm ond bael-adilgian, like the fire itself would speak.

  Meg acknowledged his instruction and practised the phrase, hissing the words through her teeth and rolling her tongue to push the air through to sound like air sucked into a fire. How many more of these strange incantations did she have to make? Already she’d lost count since the opening words. And why all the strange languages? ‘Onlucan se heathowealm ond bael- adilgian’—why not just say ‘Unlock the fierce flames and fire-slayer’ in her own tongue? She could speak any language once she’d heard it. What was her tongue? She closed her eyes and let her spirit meld with the glyph, sensing its structure as if she held it against her skin, her mind-fingers sliding softly over its fabric, searching the gradation for the line, the edge where one spell ended and the next began. It made more sense to unpick it this way—with her mind—than with the words. Immersed in the magic, she was inside the glyph, a part of it. She could ‘see’ it clearly—could easily identify its locks. They weren’t locks, though—they were like the little puzzles she used to create for Jon.

  The memory jolted her out of her concentration and her eyes snapped open. The chamber was duller than she remembered because the glyph before which she sat was no longer a vibrant green but muted and pale yellow. She closed her eyes, her tears sliding down her cheeks.

  What happened?

  She couldn’t answer. The image of a baby held aloft over the edge of a cliff by a man in blue robes riveted her to her place. He held her baby. He held Jon. And she knew what happened next.

  Where are you?

  Bad. Run.

  Speak to me!

  Run.

  Her head was full of overwhelming sound and images.

  Meg!

&nbs
p; Run.

  She opened her eyes. Whisper the rat was sitting on her haunches at the entrance to the space. Run, the rat was projecting. Bad.

  Both side corridors glowed with blue light. Meg remembered. She scrambled to her feet and sprinted after Whisper as the rat bolted into the tunnel and she reached the base of the steps before she dared to check for the Demon Horsemen. The yellow glow was subsumed by the blue light accompanying the Demon Horsemen into the chamber. Metal boots scraped on the stone and spurs jangled. Whisper pressed against her leg, so she bent and cradled the rat while she crouched in the darkness.

  The blue light stayed longer than she expected. Had they discovered her meddling with the glyph? What would they do to the tortured soul on the dragon? She wanted to creep along the tunnel to see what the Demon Horsemen were doing to A Ahmud Ki, but fear gripped her and held her where she was. What would she do if they came out this way? Last time she hastily called a portal into being to escape. Could she still do that? It was one thing to recall how to make a portal, but what parts in the making had she forgotten? She only remembered the rule to dissolve portals to stop others following after she arrived in Se’Treya. What else had she forgotten?