by Simon Kewin
“The archive? Surely it is the Songroom that matters? That is where we have been gathering, not down amongst the old books. We must protect the singers.” The slightest note of anger sounded in Ariane's voice. It had been a long day. Even so, it was something that perhaps only Hellen would have noticed. She stopped and turned back.
“There is no time for this now, Ariane. I know what you think, what you all think. Let me say it out loud, eh? Mad old Hellen is too much the mancer, dabbling in sorcery down there among the spell books.”
“Hellen, no …”
“Witches should be out doing things, not sitting in the dark and scribbling. That's it, eh?”
She took a step down the worn stairs toward Ariane. She tried to keep the anger from her own voice.
“Well, maybe you're right. And maybe you're not. But I promise you, this thing has not come to kill the Singers, or any of us, unless we get in the way. It has come for a book. Just a book. Witches may not care for written incantations, but mancers do. Especially necromancers. And that's what this thing is.”
Neither spoke for a moment, staring into each other's eyes. They had been friends for one hundred and fifty-three years. It was Hellen that broke the silence.
“Please trust me. The archive is where this abomination has gone. And that's where I'm going. But I'd feel a lot happier if you were with me, Ariane.”
She turned around and walked into Islagray Wycka. Behind her, Ariane paused for a moment, smiled a private grin to herself, then walked up the steps to follow Hellen inside.
Candles in sconces sent dancing lights up the sloping sides of the Wycka's great hollow chimney. It was deserted for the moment: the others were either scouring the island or huddled underground in the Songroom. Hellen could feel the thrumming of the voices in her bones. She heard a clear wrongness in them now: notes of pain, harsh discords. It felt like walking across sharp stones.
She didn't stop, her tiredness forgotten. Half-way across the floor, near the well the rainwater drained into, a dark patch stained the stones. Diane's blood. She had no time to stop. The rain would wash it away eventually. She hurried on to a wooden door between the widdershins and sunwise staircases.
A moment later, Ariane caught up.
“Hellen, we couldn't feel it,” said Ariane. “That was almost the worst of it. We knew it was here but we couldn't see it. We refreshed all the cobweb spells. We set beetles and crows on its path. We crafted black dogs to track it down. But we felt nothing. It was there and yet … not there. How can this be?”
“Black Meg, who lived at the time of the schism between Andar and Angere, said the mind of the undain is a patch of deeper darkness at night,” said Hellen. “Seeing them with the inner eye is like looking for the absence of something. It's a skill we need to start learning. Now, come.”
Hellen pushed at the door, taking two heaves to budge it from its frame. Inside, a stifling silence waited for them. They stood for a moment. Five passageways led off like the fingers of a hand, each hewn from the rock and sloping into the ground at different angles. Torches here and there showed many doorways in the walls of each passageway, leading to more caverns. Four of the five tunnels eventually disappeared around bends but the fifth, the central one, seemed to go straight down forever.
“I'd forgotten the size of these caves,” said Ariane.
“They fill the ground beneath Islagray as the roots of a tree,” said Hellen.
She turned to a wooden desk, set into an alcove next to the door. A large, tattered book lay upon it, the open page full of scribbled letters in a variety of hands. The borrowers' book. A pool of ink, spilled from a small metal flask that had overturned, spread slowly across the desk. On the floor, a white quill lay in an inky pool. She was more certain than ever the undain had come this way. Thena, the current Storyteller, must have gone after it, or been taken by it. They had to hurry.
She turned to a large, iron cage that hung from a hook in the wall behind the door. Inside was a dark, rustling mass of leaves and cobwebs. She reached through the grating of the cage and pulled out something black, cupping it in her hand.
“Here,” she said to Ariane.
She opened her hand to reveal a large furry spider, bright purple bands on its legs and body. She held it close to Ariane's hair and the spider stepped across, feeling its way with its long legs, nestling into its new home.
“Why do I need that?”
“It really has been a long time, hasn't it? The spiders lived here long before we did. They know these caves and they know how to get out. When you want to return, look for the spider's shimmering thread. It will be faint but you can catch it in the torch light. Follow that and it will bring you out.”
“But surely you won't get lost? You've spent years of your life down here.”
“Yes, but what if I don't come back, Ariane? If you end up alone you would get lost.”
“And if we find this thing. Or it finds us. What is your plan then?” asked Ariane.
“We do what we can to put an end to it,” said Hellen.
Ariane said nothing for a moment, doubt clear on her face.
“Enough,” said Hellen. “There is no time. Let us go!”
They set off down one of the side passageways. It sloped, then twisted in a spiral so it was soon impossible to know which direction they faced, where the moon sat in the sky above their heads.
The air smelled of earth and paper, with the faintest tang of honey as they passed each sputtering torch. It was, as ever, cool and dry on Hellen's face - which helped, along with the spells the witches crafted, to make the caves so perfect for preserving all the ancient parchment.
The reverberations from the Songroom became gradually fainter, as did her sense of the others above them. She tried to put everything out of her mind, tried to reach out and feel for the undain, see the shadow hiding in the darkness as they walked down and down into the earth.
Above each doorway a sigil had been carved into the rock. Here they passed a curving lizard on a leafy branch, there a representation of the sun with rays coming from it like a fiery crown. The archive had been meticulously organized over the centuries by the Storytellers of Islagray: the sigils identifying, to them at least, what books and scrolls lay inside each room.
Hellen couldn't help glancing inside as they passed. One or two she knew well. Some she had visited occasionally. Many she had never yet set foot inside. So many voices waited down here. She fancied she could hear them calling to her as they hurried by, words of warning or fear in the still air. In the shadows she imagined glimpses of long-dead witches and warlocks. Women and men who had walked the land as she now did, people who had laughed and cried and learned, all waiting down here to be heard.
They walked briskly for perhaps half an hour, Hellen leading, passing through doorways that sometimes opened into large halls, sometimes into further small, twisting passageways. Through doors marked with an eye, a flame, a heart, a bird. Always, they headed downward.
After a while, the torches in the walls became fewer and fewer, before stopping completely. Darkness huddled there beyond the last light, waiting to swallow them. Hellen took a torch from its holder and carried it into the darkness. Monstrous, shifting shadows accompanied them.
Finally, they stopped before a doorway, half way along a passage that appeared identical to all the others they had walked down. Above this door, a skull had been carved into the rock.
Hellen pointed into the room to tell Ariane this was the place, then closed her eyes and listened hard. Her heart thudded in her chest, partly from the long walk, mostly from fear. If the undain was still in there, they could both die.
She felt something through the doorway. A foggy hint of fear and pain, but very indistinct. It made Hellen shiver just to touch it with her mind. Was that what necromancers immersed themselves in? Setting aside her discomfort, refusing to be afraid, she reached out again. She crafted strong magic in her mind, steeling her body for the searing pain. She wou
ld destroy this thing, whatever the cost to herself. Behind her, Ariane prepared to do the same.
A faint smell came to her then. She paused for a moment, thinking. Something she had read in another of the old books. She turned to Ariane.
“Can you smell burning metal?” she asked out loud.
Ariane looked surprised but said nothing. After a few moments, she nodded.
“Very well,” said Hellen. She marched through the doorway.
Inside was the simple, round room she remembered, with no other doorways. It was a natural cave; great stalactites hung from the ceiling above stalagmites on the floor. The more ancient ones had met, fingers touching to form solid pillars. The walls had the pink-red tinge of ochre. It was hard to escape the impression they stood inside some giant mouth full of jagged teeth.
There were no sconces around the walls of this room. But in its centre stood a low, stone plinth, large enough to hold a book. It was empty. On the floor next to it lay the body of Thena, the eighty-seventh Storyteller of Islagray. Her face was grey, shrunken to bone as if she had died long ago.
Nothing attacked them. The undain, like the book it had come for, was gone.
8. Coven
Six of them met in the orchard. The sun shone hot, although hulking clouds drifting from the west cast them repeatedly into shadow. It was two days after the death of three witches and the loss of the book. The undain that had stalked the island had not been found.
Hellen had insisted they wait until Fer was with them again. The young hedge witch sat opposite Hellen now, very pale, her gaze cast on the ground. She looked exhausted. She panted slightly as if she had been running. She had said little since waking up and could remember nothing of her struggle on the banks of the An. It was often the way with strong magic, of course: her mind sparing her the memory of overwhelming pain. But eventually they would need to know.
She wore the simple, white gown from the infirmary. Her hair, rich chestnut brown, flowed to the middle of her back. Occasionally she glanced around, her silver jewellery glinting in the sun, a glimmer of fierce defiance in her. Her teeth were gritted as if she looked at the world through veils of pain. Hellen hadn't spoken to her yet, but she found herself liking the girl's spirit. Many would have been in bed for a week or more. It was a good sign. Much still lay ahead of the young witch.
Next to her sat Ariane, who had tended to Fer almost without rest and who had offered her support for the short walk to the orchard. Fer and Ariane had smiled at each other as they approached. That was promising, too. Fer would be wary of them and it was vital they gained her trust.
On the other side of Fer sat Seleena, a young witch of Islagray who knew Fer distantly. Hellen had seen them together about the infirmary. The beginnings of a friendship grew there by the look of it. Seleena sat very still, staring into the middle of the circle, her arms crossed firmly across her chest. She wore her hair shaved. Her silver jewellery resembled Fer's a little: lines of delicate, silver stars connecting her ears and eyebrows.
Between Seleena and Hellen sat Ran, the dragonrider. The day before, Hellen had rowed a boat across the Silverwater, stood on the wooden quay next to the watch tower and shouted the words Dethnior unthwai sen thain into the trees. The dragonrider had emerged immediately, dropping from a branch to stand before her. His two companions had appeared from behind large boughs. Once again, she hadn't been able to feel the presence of any of them until they showed themselves.
Ran was younger than Beltaine but he had the same sombre expression. He wore identical clothes and carried the same serpentine sword at his side. He had only one silver stud in his ear. The tattoos on his body were a deep blue where Beltaine's had been red. His hair was long rather than close shaven and bound in a tightly knotted sheaf that reached half way down his back. It lashed to-and-fro as he walked like a spitting snake. He stood slightly shorter than Beltaine but looked physically stronger, his arms and legs thick with muscles.
A shame. She much preferred them lithe and willowy. A memory came to her of Borrn, the moonlight on his tall, pale body, smooth as the boughs of a coppiced tree, the feeling of his arms around her. Strange. She hadn't thought of him for many years. Still, this young dragonrider was handsome enough, his movements flowing and graceful despite his strength.
“My Lady,” he'd said. “We will help you if we may.”
“Then please accompany me across the water to Islagray. There is much to talk about. Your companions may return to Beltaine.”
At Ran's nod the other two turned to disappear into the shadows of the trees.
Part way across the lake, Ran, rowing, paused for a moment.
“My Lady, no dragonrider has ever been to Islagray.”
“You won't be the last. And it's Hellen.”
He nodded at that and continued rowing. Since then he hadn't spoken another word. When they reached Islagray he left his sword in the skiff, where it still lay.
On the other side of Hellen, lying on the grass between her and Ariane, sat Johnny. He seemed to be asleep once again. He arrived early that morning, Smoke on the Water drifting slowly up from the outlet of the Gleaming in defiance of all the currents. He had taken his time; she'd been sure he'd decided not to come. Then they spotted his dazzling boat in the distance. Smoke on the Water came close enough to let Johnny hop out before drifting away to lie some way off the island.
Hellen had shown Johnny around, taken him to hear the Song. He sat for three hours on the stone floor of the echoing, round chamber, saying nothing, his eyes shut. In the end, she had to rouse him, touch his shoulder to invite him upstairs for food. He simply smiled his thanks and came away with her, unusually silent. By then, Fer was awake and able to walk.
Now they sat, six in the circle, but with all the inhabitants of Islagray listening and watching through the eyes of one of the three island witches. When decisions needed to be made, they would all have their say.
Hellen looked up past the waiting faces to the winding, gnarled boughs of the ancient trees. They grasped at the sky like skeletal hands: apple, crab-apple, damson, wytch hazel, blackthorn and hawthorn. She could feel their presence. Some were so old the life in them was a mere whisper. Others, those that had more recently walked the land, were alert, watching, talking. The air buzzed with thoughts of the dead witches of Islagray, hanging like a scent or a mist you could taste. It was a place she often came to sit and think. She drew in a deep breath before beginning.
“I will speak first,” she said. “I will tell you of my journey to and from the An, two days since.”
After she had finished, there was a thoughtful silence. She expected Ariane to say something but it was Johnny who spoke, sitting up suddenly.
“So, OK, you're saying this thing meant to come here, yeah? It flew across the An, this impossible flight, just to get to Islagray?”
“I believe so,” replied Hellen. “Somehow it used Fer, flew to her like a moth to a light. I think it found her in order to find us.”
Fer said nothing. Her gaze remained locked on the grass at her bare feet.
“But what about the An?” said Johnny. “The undain can't cross running water. Everyone knows that. There are loads of songs about it. You know, Only the soul or a swan may cross the An and all that.”
“It's a myth,” said Hellen. “A story we tell ourselves to feel safer. We pretend that Angere is where bad people go when they die and by doing so we make the distance seem greater. We pretend it is spiritual and not just a matter of miles. But you saw the creature on the river bank. Flying over water is hard but the undain are as capable of doing it as we are. They can't cross the An for the same reasons we can't. The serpents devour any ship that tries and it is too far to fly by magic. Or so we thought.”
“Great,” said Johnny. His fear flared again, his urge to flee. “But all that just for some old book? What's that all about?”
“A good question. It might help if we all knew something of its history.” She turned to look at Ran.
The dragonrider held her gaze for a moment, then sprang to his feet. He looked around the circle, making sure he had their full attention.
“What part would you see?” he asked.
The shame burned in him. And the intense desire to spell out what the dragonriders had done all those years ago. The longing for penance. They were too proud, too hard on themselves. But there was no stopping them.
“Just the battle at the golden doors for now, I think.”
“I will need the fire.”
Borrn had used their campfire to show her, one cold night in the northern wilds when they'd travelled together. The sky had lightened in the east, she remembered, before she witnessed the whole story. For now, the small pile of twigs she gathered would suffice. Twigs dropped from the trees of the Orchard.
She reached out with her hand and touched a spark to the kindling, ignoring the brief, sharp stitch of pain in her stomach. The kindling sent curls of smoke into the air, then orange flame. Soon the twigs burned.
Ran took the gold chain from around his neck and slid off the small red gems strung upon it, counting them as he did so. He took the seventh and held it over the fire.
“Witness the shame of the dragonriders,” he said, as if they were the words of some ceremony, and dropped the gem into the flames.
In the shifting air above the fire, an image formed. It was indistinct at first, mere shapes in the smoke, but it rapidly solidified, hard edges and details becoming clear. At the same time, it expanded outward so it appeared the images held within the gemstone were all around them.
There stood the huge pair of golden doors she remembered so clearly. They were the height of three people and ornately decorated with jewels laid out in snaking patterns.
Five figures stood guard in front of the doors, dragonriders, three men and two women. They had the same tattoos as Ran and Beltaine, similar armour and swords, but no gold chains around their necks.
She smelled the decay she remembered so clearly from last time, making her stomach clench. Such horror within such dazzling splendour. She knew if she stood up and walked away from the fire the vision would fade. But the least she could do was sit and watch the terrible events again.