Above the Snowline

by Steph Swainston

  ‘Maybe we should be careful,’ I said. ‘She seems wary. If she’s come all the way from Darkling, imagine how strange the Castle must be to her.’ Jant strode beside me without saying anything. ‘Remember how you felt when you first arrived.’

  ‘I didn’t come all the way from Darkling.’

  ‘Sh!’

  ‘We don’t have to creep up on her,’ he said loudly. He rounded the corner and stopped dead.

  The Rhydanne woman stood on the wall of the fishpond, poised motionless like a heron. Her spear pointed, unwavering, at the water.

  Jant murmured, ‘I haven’t … It’s …’ He took two steps forward and halted again.

  Her long black hair hung straight down and we could not see her face apart from the tip of her white nose. She was petite in stature but she held herself very erect. Her limbs in a peculiar black vest were unnatural - too long for her build, too sinewy. A leather thong looped up from the butt of her spear and was wrapped around the hand holding the shaft.

  Her vest was meagre compared with her white suede trousers - they were sewn with thongs, giving a moccasin effect to every seam with wisps of the fur lining protruding. She wore boots of the sort worn by trappers pulled up to her knees. Some crude metal bracelets decorated her bare arms and, looped around her neck, were several strands of beads, mostly ivory-white but some dyed black and red. They were bones and teeth! A white suede jacket hung on a backpack with a frame of stark polished bone, resting against the wall.

  I waited uncertainly, like a traveller privileged to catch a glimpse of a snow leopard, but half hopeful it will cross his path quickly and slink back into the forest without showing its fangs.

  Jant thrust his chest out, flexed his wings and sauntered closer. The girl snapped round, levelling her spear at his throat. He flinched, then, disgusted with himself, brushed the point aside. ‘Dein,’ he said softly.

  The girl blinked. Now I could see her eyes, striking sea-glass-green with vertical pupils like those of a cat. Her face was quite angular, cheekbones stretching skin as fine as kid leather, surrounded by the mane of her hair. She appraised Jant and drew a breath. She studied his eyes just like hers, the same moth’s-wing pale skin and wiry build, then she swayed side to side to examine his wings. She stirred her spear and its razor point circled his face like a steel mosquito.

  He placed a hand on his chest and introduced himself. A frown creased her forehead. She snatched out her arm, grabbed a handful of his feathers and yanked them.

  ‘Ow!’

  She laughed, said something, and at Jant’s perturbed expression laughed some more. The ice was broken. She lowered her spear and crouched on the wall top. She tapped a pointed talon on her breastbone and said, ‘Shira Dellin.’

  He answered, and they started talking in a guttural torrent so fast I couldn’t distinguish words. I let it wash over me and watched her curiously: her obvious but alien intelligence, her distilled strength which shone through every movement. She was scarcely human, more like a wild animal masquerading as a girl.

  ‘What is she saying?’ I asked eventually.

  Jant turned as if he’d forgotten I was there. ‘Oh, Lightning. Yes, Shira Dellin here says she’s come to find the silver man.’

  ‘Who is the silver man?’

  ‘It’s … it’s a character from a story.’ He wouldn’t meet my eye. ‘It’s hardly important.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Memories long-buried by silt stirred under the dredge, weighty years he had hidden and didn’t want to examine. ‘Oh, for god’s sake. I think she’s been out in the sun too long. When I was a kid my grandmother told me that, long ago, the “silver man” came to Darkling. He stayed with us for a while - with the Rhydanne people, I mean - and during that time everyone had enough to eat. But sadly, he left, and now he lives in the flatlands.’

  ‘That’s a story?’

  ‘As Rhydanne stories go, it’s about the most substantial I ever heard. That’s why it stuck in my mind. Eilean impressed on me that if anything terrible happened, anything really disastrous, we should find the silver man and he would help us. To that lot “silver” means “important”, you see. Dellin first thought I could be him. But she’s changed her mind. It must be my lack of bangles. In fact, she thought I was a Rhydanne in disguise. Fake wings, do you see? I explained I’m half-and-half, but she scarcely believes me.’

  ‘By “silver man” could she mean the Emperor?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. San has never lived in the mountains.’

  ‘As far as you know.’

  ‘He’s been sitting in the Throne Room for fifteen hundred years!’

  ‘But before then?’

  Jant shrugged and kicked the grass. ‘What would a Rhydanne want with the Emperor?’

  Dellin sat down cross-legged on the wall top with the spear across her knees, and her gaze flickered over us. She clearly hated the fact she couldn’t understand. She was formulating something to say but kept being distracted by the calico carp gathering in our shadows cast over the pond. They were used to being fed and were rising like blotched orange, black and white balloons to mouth at the surface tension. I dabbled my fingers in the water and the fish nibbled at them, to her complete astonishment.

  ‘Rule one,’ I said. ‘If anyone wishes an audience with the Emperor, he or she may. Rule two: if she asks us to lead her to the Throne Room, we are obliged to do so. You know that.’

  ‘But … me, in the Throne Room, with …’ He jutted his thumb at the huntress. ‘I mean, she won’t understand anything, and San will completely terrify her. And, look, Lightning, I’m just out of bed, I haven’t even—’

  ‘She may be trying to apply to him in a time of need.’

  ‘And besides, she smells. Why don’t you take her? I—’

  ‘Jant! She needs you to translate.’

  ‘All right, all right. If the Emperor will appreciate the services of the world’s best translator, I’ll do it. And besides, it could be a laugh.’ He beckoned and she sprang up, donned her rucksack and twirled her spear. I was actually glad that she couldn’t understand Awian, given that the world’s best translator seemed determined to belittle her as much as possible.

  She loped ahead of us like a lithe wolf, over the striped lawn past the Breckan Wing. Her footprints set far apart on the dewy grass drew great circles around us; her pace was longer than a human woman’s. I could tell she was used to travelling immense distances on foot - she was more at ease moving than sitting still.

  We turned the corner of Breckan Wing to the front of the palace. ‘How did she get in, anyway?’

  Jant smirked. ‘She climbed the Skein Gate Barbican.’

  ‘Really? And no one saw her?’

  ‘Judging by the number of trophies she’s wearing, she must be a fantastic hunter. Even though she’s so small - I’ve never seen such a miniature Rhydanne. If she didn’t want to be observed, those bloody lazy Imperial guards wouldn’t have noticed her. She probably only took a couple of minutes to climb the tower.’ He shrugged. ‘They couldn’t have caught her by hand.’

  ‘By god. Do you have the urge to climb like that?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ He rounded on me. ‘I’m the Emperor’s Messenger, not some bloody savage!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t compare me with … that thing. I’m civilised. She doesn’t have the most basic manners!’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I was fifteen when I left Darkling. They hunted me out. I haven’t been back since. Yes, my mother was like her; yes, my grandmother too. But it’s just an accident of birth. I can’t help it.’

  ‘Jant, I said I’m sorry.’

  But of course he had to have the last word. ‘You might as well ask if Awians have the urge to eat bird seed.’

  We passed the broad, open arches of the gallery that runs along the ground floor of the Breckan Wing, and turned the corner into the Starglass Quadrangle. The Throne Room’s grand entrance reared ahead of us, four steps
up into an arched portal covered with carvings. Dellin looked about her with an air of satisfaction, then knelt and rubbed a fingertip on one of the cobbles of black flint chipped square. I approached so close I caught a whiff of her smell, a not unpleasant tang of old leather and the musty spiciness of dried blood. She smelt like a poacher’s game bag, of meat so old it was no longer foul, but patinated like the soles of birds’ feet and smelling as warm as the fur of hares. Her fingernails were filthy and her jacket glazed with dirt. Red flakes of old gore embedded the grain of her spear shaft. ‘What could she possibly want to consult the Emperor about?’

  ‘She won’t tell me,’ Jant admitted.

  We ascended the four steps into the portal, Dellin gazing all the time at the statues in its recessed walls, and passed under the deep-relief carving into the corridor before the Throne Room. It seemed very dim after the sunlight and Dellin walked straight in, almost blind, and startled the guards standing either side of the Throne Room door. They jumped, levelled their spears, and she found herself facing two points. She twisted her body and brought her spear to bear.

  Jant jumped forward and grabbed it. He yelled something but she didn’t move.

  ‘Stand at ease!’ I shouted.

  ‘Her first,’ said the older guard.

  ‘With all due respect, Lightning,’ the other guard said. ‘She’s got to drop it.’

  I said, ‘Jant, tell her the silver man is behind that door. If she wants to meet him she must give up her weapons.’

  ‘That’ll insult her.’

  ‘Tell her it is only temporary.’

  He did so, then said to me, ‘She doesn’t want San to mistake her for a herder. The hunters look down on the herders. God, nothing ever changes in Darkling. I told her not to worry - San will know she’s a hunter from her trophies - but she won’t cooperate. She thinks bloody highly of herself, despite that she’s a Shira.’

  The guards craned forward. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Fascinating,’ said his comrade.

  ‘But what is it?’

  I said, ‘If flattery doesn’t work, tell her that if she carries her spear inside, the archers will shoot her on sight.’

  ‘Archers? They don’t have a word for “archers”. Um … This is bloody ridiculous.’ He paused, then smiled, clicked his fingers and mimed drawing a bow.

  Dellin snarled and shrank into a crouch, her fingers white on the shaft. The guards tensed, which frightened her even more.

  ‘At ease! At ease!’ I said, shocked. ‘She isn’t threatening; she’s scared. Jant, tell her we’ll keep her safe.’

  He told her and she offered the spear submissively. He took it and passed it to one of the guards. She shrugged off her pack, then hesitantly unwound the thong from her thigh and removed her knife. Its scabbard was decorated with hammered silver beads and tatty tassels. She reeled the thong around it and handed it over.

  ‘Cheers.’ The guard nudged his friend. ‘Comet’s brought in the cat. Eh?’

  ‘She’s beautiful …’

  ‘Striking, rather,’ I said.

  Jant was preoccupied with psyching himself up to speak with the Emperor, and made no comment.

  ‘Comet, may we ask … what is it?’

  ‘It - she - is a Rhydanne, a predator fresh from the biting wastes and freezing summits of Darkling. Uncivilised she may be, ninety per cent carnivore she definitely is, but she has travelled here alone, facing untold dangers and overcoming who knows how many tribulations in her haste to bring a secret message to the Castle for the ears of none but the Emperor San himself!’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘So shut up and let us in.’

  They turned to each other and pushed the doors wide. Dellin looked at the ornate lock, at the curlicued hinges. The deep architrave of solid amber had been carved into voluminous honey-coloured drapes, as if frozen in time, mid-flow. Jant grasped her shoulder firmly, since if she ran in unaccompanied the Imperial Fyrd guards might take fright and shoot her. He led her through the doors with a few quiet words. ‘I told her not to fear the Emperor.’

  ‘She is bound to,’ I said. ‘We all do.’

  Dellin paused and a delighted expression broke over her face. She looked around but no one can take in the whole Throne Room at once; only the Emperor, at the centre of the perspective, can see the main aisle and the side aisles together, all the way to the great rose window at the end. She examined the glittering, mosaic-covered arches and looked up to the archers on the gallery. Twelve Imperial Fyrd archers stand there, six on each side. Seeing them, she crouched again and fingered a large horse’s incisor on her necklace.

  ‘She thinks it’s a trap,’ I said.

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Jant. He spoke to her rapidly. He stood over her, blocking her view of the bowmen, shielding her - as she would see it - and her bony fingers curled around his with a powerful grip. She rose to her feet and stood with a hunter’s readiness.

  ‘She doesn’t like archers for some reason,’ he said.

  ‘I can see that,’ I said. ‘I will go first and she will see they won’t move.’ I walked down the aisle and through the highly carved screen to where the Emperor was sitting on the sunburst throne. I bowed low before him and went to sit on the end of the front bench nearest the throne, so in relating these events to you I am easy in my mind that I heard every word spoken that day.

  Tornado and a few other immortals were assembled on the benches at the far side. Since the last few years had been relatively peaceful many of us were residing in our apartments here rather than at the Insect front. Tornado smiled and raised his hand to me in a familiar salute, then when Dellin and Jant came in, he hefted to his feet and boggled at her.

  The sunlight shone through the walls pierced with so many pointed arched windows they were nothing but stone frames for stained glass, casting heraldic light on the benches, arches and dais. Jant and Dellin seemed unreal, moving effortlessly through the slanting rays. Citrine, azure and malachite green slipped over them until they reached the end of the scarlet carpet, where Jant tried to manoeuvre Dellin in front of the throne. She shook herself free. She ran to the dais, pushed her bangles loose, leaving embossed red lines around her arms, and looked up at the Emperor. Jant swept an elegant bow but she just stood there, knees slightly bent, very tense as if to pounce. Jant was puzzled and annoyed that she didn’t kneel. He placed his hands on her shoulders and tried to push her down but she just snatched herself away, her hand on her thigh where her dagger should be.

  ‘Comet,’ said the Emperor. ‘That is no way to welcome a guest.’

  ‘My lord,’ Jant announced. ‘Shira Dellin has come from Darkling and wishes an audience with the “silver man”. I found her waiting in Carillon - she can only speak Scree, so I will translate.’

  The Emperor made a strident sound, directly to Dellin. Jant’s mouth dropped open, and so did his wings. Dellin smiled, showing fine white teeth, and started chattering eagerly. The Emperor said something to Jant, who was still too astonished to do more than make a clipped, automatic bow and sit down next to me.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  He leant to whisper, ‘The Emperor speaks Scree! My first language …’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He told me to sit down.’

  I chuckled. ‘Serves you right. You underestimate everyone, even San. Now do something useful and tell me what she is saying.’

  ‘Um … She just called him a flatlander.’

  ‘What an excellent diplomat!’

  He leant back on the hard ebony seat - there are no cushions, to remind us that we must be vigilant and dutiful at all times - stretched his arms along the top of the backrest, crossed his legs and spoke quietly. ‘She just said, “My name is Dellin Shira, but I call myself Shira Dellin, putting my caste name first because I am not afraid of being a Shira, born out of wedlock. Why should I be blamed if my mother ran too slowly?” Hear, hear! I couldn’t agree more.’

  Other immortals were arrivin
g all the time, and filing into the benches. From the footsteps behind the screen I could tell the mortals’ benches were filling up too; the news of a Rhydanne in the Throne Room was making its rounds and everyone was coming to see for themselves.

  The Emperor pointed at Jant and crooked a finger in beckoning. Jant shuddered and rose to his feet. San said, ‘I wish everyone to hear her words. Translate for the benefit of all.’

  Dellin stepped from side to side, warily watching the Emperor. The silence intensified as everyone listened and Jant prepared to echo her. She began. ‘People are like flint. It is hard and resists much harsh treatment, but when it does break its edge is sharper than steel. The Rhydanne are starving. The hunters are famished, and I was too, before I left. The Awians have taken the promontory; they are killing the game and driving us away, either with their feathered darts or on horseback. They …’ She mimed an archer in the same way Jant had.

  ‘Shoot,’ he said.

  ‘Shoot,’ she copied, feeling the word. ‘Shoot Laochan. My husband. ’ She rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes, which suddenly wet with tears, but whether from grief or frustration I couldn’t tell. ‘Now I have no husband, nobody to defend me if other men chase me, or to tend me if I am injured or pregnant. I have to hunt alone, but what is the point in hunting now? Any animals the Awians haven’t trapped and slaughtered they have frightened away with their noise and bad tracking.’ She paused. ‘Laochan Dara was from the summit of Klannich. It took me many years to find a hunting partner since I am a Shira. I may never find another. The Awians murdered him and they shoot at others, too. They don’t let us onto the promontory. I don’t understand why.