The Night of the Swarm

by Robert V. S. Redick

  The selk looked grimly at Pazel. “See here, don’t be angry,” said Neeps. “No one told Pazel to keep quiet.”

  “Oh, I am not angry,” said Thaulinin. “It is just that we are all saddened by these glimpses of Kirishgán, and stunned that he answered Pazel’s call.” He closed his eyes, and the feathered eyebrows knitted. “In many ways my people are unique in Alifros. We neither live nor die as you do.”

  “Are you saying … that you are immortal?” asked Pazel.

  Thaulinin shook his head. “Such beings exist, but we are not among them—nor aspire to be, like your enemy Arunis. But our difference is indeed a difference of the soul. Among humans, the soul remains with the flesh, or at least very near it. The souls of dlömu range farther afield—much farther, during the nuhzat ecstasies. But for the selk, the soul is a distant brother or sister. It roams over Alifros, free and fetterless, and it is our life’s work to seek it out. That is why we are nomads, you see. That is why even blessed Uláramyth is no home for long. Ten years one of us may dwell here, or fifty—even a hundred, in rare cases. But these are only brief pauses in the journeys of our lives.”

  Leaning back, Thaulinin cupped a palmful of water from the stream and drank. Then he said, “Death comes when at last we find our soul. It is a sacred moment, and no tragedy for the one whose life is complete. But it is sad for those left behind. Much changes in the lifetime of a selk: forests die; streams widen into rivers; kingdoms become entries in books. Our friends, however, witness all this change, and remember with us.”

  The shadows were lengthening; far off at the crater’s rim, Pazel saw the last rays of sunset glittering on an icy peak.

  “During our lives, we see no more than hints of our soul: far-off shadows, images, flickers of movement in the corners of our eyes. Only at the very end do we see our souls face to face. Those who will survive us—our soul’s witnesses—may see it somewhat earlier. In outward form the soul is identical to its owner, but it cannot speak, or tarry. We say that it is running the silent race. That is what you saw, Pazel: Kirishgán’s soul. But it was your second revelation that amazed us: that his soul heeded you, and even turned. Except in rare cases, only dear friends and close kin may cause a soul to pause in its flight.”

  “We’re hardly close,” said Pazel. “I mean, he was very kind, marvelous in fact—but for Rin’s sake, we just met once, for a few hours in a temple. We’re not old friends.”

  “Some forms of friendship elude all definition,” said Ramachni.

  “Yes,” said Thaulinin, “but there is another group of persons to whom our souls must answer, though it happens far more rarely. I speak of those who kill a selk by their own hands.”

  Pazel was appalled. “This is getting crazier by the minute,” he said. “I’m not going to kill him! I like him, for Rin’s sake!”

  “Something must explain his turning at your call,” said Thaulinin.

  “Let us hope it is merely friendship,” said Ramachni. “Pazel’s is a most open heart.”

  “But Kirishgán’s not even here, is he?” said Thasha. “Truly here, I mean, in the flesh?”

  Thaulinin shook his head. “Remember that our notion of soon is unlike yours. Kirishgán’s death may be months away, or years. And when Pazel does meet him in the flesh, he may well be far from the Secret Vale.”

  “But where can we go?” asked Neeps. “Back to Masalym? Farther down the Ansyndra?”

  Thaulinin’s blue eyes were starting to gleam in the darkness. “Neither,” he said. “Only a few reports from the wider peninsula have reached us lately, but they were worse than our darkest fears. A retreat to Masalym is impossible. The Inner Dominion is held by two Plazic Legions, and the pass at Ilvaspar is closed. Soldiers have been billeted in great numbers in all the towns of the northern coast. The Lower Ansyndra and her tributaries are swarming with Imperial troops, and upriver the hrathmogs are innumerable. There will be no escape that way either. And the sorceress has even infiltrated these mountains, vast as they are.”

  “Is Uláramyth threatened, then?” asked Hercól.

  “Not by Macadra,” said Ramachni. “The mountains are too deep, and this haven is protected by a magic as old as the mountains themselves. Even her winged servants cannot see it.”

  “What about Dastu?” asked Thasha. “What if he’s captured, and tells everything he knows?”

  “Dastu might indeed say much to our disadvantage,” said Thaulinin. “He could tell Macadra that we bear the Nilstone, if she has not guessed already. But he cannot help her find Uláramyth. Your companion was far from here when he deserted, and we would have known if he tried to follow us. No, two things alone could bring ruin on this land: the Nilstone wielded by an enemy, or the Swarm of Night as it completes its killing work. But beyond Uláramyth nothing protects us at all, and I fear the Ravens will have spies at every crossroads.”

  “What’s left to us, if we can’t go back, or follow the rivers to the coast?” asked Pazel.

  Before Thaulinin could answer something splashed in the stream. It was Bolutu, dressed in some kind of swimming trousers. He climbed up onto the bank, laughing at their surprise; evidently he had covered some distance underwater. Bolutu had been swimming every day in Uláramyth, and had already shared many a story of rainbow-hued fish, flooded ruins, green river dolphins that nipped his toes. But this time he told no tales.

  “Mr. Undrabust, why are you not at the house? The doctors are waiting. I have been seeking you high and low.”

  “You are such a donkey,” said Thasha, socking Neeps in the arm.

  “Ouch! Not fair! I didn’t forget; they had at me first thing this morning. They never do it twice in one day.”

  All the same he leaped up and ran for the communal house. Bolutu watched him go, then turned and looked at Ramachni. His look of elation was gone. “Have you told them?” he asked.

  His words struck Pazel cold. “What’s happened now?” he asked.

  “I do have good things to tell you, on occasion, Pazel,” said the mage. “This is one such occasion. There is new hope for your friend.”

  Joy welled up in Pazel’s chest. Thasha’s eyes lit with happiness, and even Hercól’s face brightened. But Ramachni quickly raised his paw. “I did not say that we had found a cure, for there is no cure for the mind-plague, until the Nilstone is cast out of Alifros. But Neeps has suffered no real damage yet, and we have devised a plan that could—if all goes well—delay the advance of the plague by several years. By that time our struggle with the Nilstone will have ended one way or another.”

  “What plan?” said Thasha. “Tell us, for Rin’s sake!”

  “And say how we may help,” added Ensyl.

  “The latter is easier by far,” said Bolutu. “You may help by not minding any strange behavior on Undrabust’s part, and never letting on that he is being … treated at all.”

  He turned and looked away upstream. And Pazel saw that another figure was swimming toward them, dark and swift. With a splash the figure broke the surface: it was Lunja. She stood with the water about her calves, her soldier’s arms crossed before her and her silver eyes bright and wary.

  “Well?” she said.

  “The elders have spoken,” said Ramachni. “If you are willing it may begin tonight.”

  “I’ve told you already that I am willing, if there is truly no other way,” said Lunja, “but I do not do this gladly. The notion repels me. I wish that you could promise success.”

  “No one can, woman of Masalym,” said a voice from their right.

  It was Lord Arim, standing by the tunnel’s mouth. He walked slowly into the yard, and behind him came Valgrif the wolf.

  “From the first ragged militias in their stand against the Chaldryl Argosies, Bali Adro soldiers have been courageous,” he said. “Now you must show courage of a different sort, if you are to help your friend.”

  “Friend?” said Lunja. “Is that what he is?”

  She stepped out of the stream. To Pazel’s gr
eat surprise it was to him that she came—haltingly, looking him up and down. Only when she stood right before him, lovely and alien and severe, did Pazel realize the extent of her unease. Her face was rigid. Forcing herself, she reached out and placed a wet, webbed hand upon his cheek. She held it there, silently, studying his face. Just when Pazel was about to demand that someone explain, Lunja turned and marched swiftly past Lord Arim and into the tunnel. There she paused, and spoke without turning back.

  “Forgive my selfishness. He is my comrade too, and I will do what I can to save him. Only do not force me to speak of this idly. I will tell you when it is done.”

  She vanished, a shadows among shadows. Pazel and Thasha looked at the others, amazed. “What in the bubbling Pits was that all about?” said Thasha. “What does she have to do with Neeps’ cure?”

  “As Sergeant Lunja is one of just two dlömu in Uláramyth, she has everything to do with it,” said Thaulinin. “But you will see soon enough. Come, my lord Arim: would you sit with us?”

  “There is no time,” said the old selk. “We make the crossing tonight.”

  Ramachni nodded, but Thaulinin looked gravely concerned. “Tonight!” he said. “My lord, I fear the youths are not ready.”

  Arim came slowly forward, gazing at Pazel and Thasha in turn. “Pazel Pathkendle is stronger than you know, and Lady Thasha will not benefit from delay. In any case it must be tonight.” He raised a trembling hand and pointed. Nearly invisible (for there was light yet in the evening sky), the little Southern moon gleamed over the mountains. “The Candle passes through the horns of its mother-moon, and will not do so again for ten years. I must prepare, and you should rest while you can. After your meal we will find you.”

  That evening the youths had little appetite, but others in their party were eager to talk. Myett had spent two days on the far fringes of Uláramyth, riding Valgrif’s broad shoulders. Big Skip, traces of sawdust in his beard, described the skills he was learning from his artisan friends. Neda and Cayer Vispek were in foul spirits, however, and ate apart. Lunja and Neeps did not come to dinner at all.

  When Pazel, Thasha and Hercól stepped outside, the night was distinctly cold. Above was a sky full of brilliant stars, and a sliver of the yellow moon. A selk in dark robes was waiting for them beside a carriage. The two horses were black and solid as rhinos, but their eyes were the shining blue of the selk.

  They set off. The roads of Uláramyth were empty, and for three dark miles no one spoke. Pazel was afraid for Thasha: the distance was back in her eyes. He glanced at her now, gazing from the carriage window, breath puffing white as smoke through her lips. A haunted face. He thought suddenly of the girl who had climbed atop another carriage, in the bedlam of the Etherhorde waterfront, to gape at him with a child’s mischief. The admiral’s daughter. He had never expected to so much as speak to her.

  The driver spoke softly to the horses. The carriage stopped, and the three humans climbed out upon the barren shores of Osir Delhin, the Lake of Death.

  It was a chilling place. The wind moaned like a voice from a melancholy dream. Both moons had cleared the horizon, and by their light Pazel saw driftwood and black stones, and small waves lapping the shore. The island too was dark. What are we doing here? Pazel thought.

  “We have to wait here,” said Thasha.

  “Yes,” said the driver, climbing down from the carriage. “A boat will come for you. If you like you may wait in the carriage, out of the wind.”

  Thasha began to walk toward the water. “Beware!” called the driver. “The lake has a curious property: it cannot be swum. If you try, you will sink to the bottom as though wrapped in chains.”

  Thasha kept moving, and Hercól and Pazel rushed after her. Pazel had a growing sense that the night held something terrible for Thasha. She had been distant so many times, but this would be something else, something altogether more drastic. There was no telling what she might do—or what might be done to her.

  A few yards from the water they seized her arms. “That’s far enough,” said Hercól.

  To Pazel’s immense relief she made no objection, merely folded her legs and sat. Pazel and Hercól did the same on either side of her. Thasha laid her head on Hercól’s shoulder, and put her arms around her chest. She did not glance at Pazel at all.

  “I could do it,” she said. “I could walk right into that lake.”

  “I doubt that you are immune, Thasha,” said Hercól. “There is magic here as old as Alifros itself.”

  Thasha closed her eyes and smiled. “Of course I’m not immune. I’d drown like anyone. Otherwise, what would be the point?”

  “Don’t talk that way!” hissed Pazel. But Thasha just clung tighter to Hercól. “The boat is coming,” she said. “You have to stay here.”

  She hadn’t looked, but it was true: a small, lightless craft was approaching from the island. Pazel could see neither oars nor sail. Strangest of all, the boat appeared to be empty. But as it drew nearer he saw that that was not quite true. Ramachni stood upon the bow, like a dark figurehead. When at last the boat struck ground he flicked his tail.

  “Come,” he said.

  They were on their feet now. Hercól took Thasha’s hands in his own. “Be strong, Thasha Isiq,” he said. “I will be here when you return.”

  She raised her head and kissed him briefly on the lips. “Someone will return,” she said.

  Pazel watched her climb into the boat. He raised a hand as if to touch her, then let it fall to his side. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t choose among the thousands of words he needed to say. “Thasha, wait!” he managed to croak at last.

  Only then did she look at him. In her face he saw alarm for the first time, indeed shock, to find him still ashore.

  “We are waiting, lad,” said Ramachni. “Get in, and be quick.”

  Speechless, Pazel scrambled into the boat. Thasha had been telling Hercól goodbye, but not him. Not yet. “What a fool I’ve fallen in love with,” she said, touching his arm. Her voice ethereal, a distant echo of the one he knew.

  The crossing was swift and frigid. Ramachni stood at the bow as before, and Pazel wondered if the force that moved them was his doing or some magic of the selk. Thasha’s mind cleared briefly: she looked at Pazel and told him plainly that Erithusmé’s memories were trickling into her mind.

  “A drop here, a drop there. Like a leaky tap.” Thasha tried to smile.

  “What does that mean? Is she waking up?”

  Thasha considered the question, then shook her head. “I don’t think she’s ever been asleep.”

  The island drew near. It was stark and forbidding, and larger than Pazel had supposed. Ancient trees, vast of girth but bent low to the ground and twisted into writhing dragon-shapes, stood scattered over the dry earth, their roots clawing among paving stones and broken columns and the remains of tumbled walls. The wind was tearing the first leaves of autumn from their boughs, spinning them like playing cards into the night.

  The boat ground ashore. Ramachni leaped out, and the youths followed, and soon they were marching up a dusty trail onto higher ground. They had not gone far when Thaulinin appeared, running sure-footed and soundless.

  “You’re here!” he said. “Very good, it is time.” He took a wineskin from his shoulder and filled a cup. “Have a sip to warm you—and then follow quickly. We dare not arrive too late.”

  Pazel drank when his turn came, and felt the night’s chill retreating to his fingertips. Thaulinin led them on, over hills, up staircases of shattered stone, among the shells of ancient halls and towers. The trees cast twin shadows in the double moonlight. A great number of them, he saw now, were dead.

  “Why is this place so miserable?” Pazel asked Thaulinin. “When did your people abandon it?”

  “You ask questions that would take all night to answer,” said Thaulinin. “The selk never dwelt here, and the fall of those who did was a great tragedy, which some name the moment this world lost her innocence. They were defeated in a war
before the Dawn War, and Uláramyth became the seat of a demonic power. Wauldryl, it was called: the Place of Despair. If ever a land was hated, it was this one that we love. Its king dwelt on this island, in a secret chamber no one shall ever see again. Over the ages we have healed most of Uláramyth, but our successes here have been smaller, for the damage was profound.”

  He glanced quickly at Pazel. “If Dastu had come here, all Uláramyth might have looked this way to him. Few persons have ever come to our realm against their will, but those who do find themselves in another place altogether—a deathly land, poisoned by the fumes of the volcano, where all that lives becomes rapacious and foul. It is always thus. We never spoke of Uláramyth in Dastu’s hearing, but his heart must have sensed what he would find here, and turned from it. May it find peace somewhere in Alifros, or beyond.”

  They were nearing the top of the longest staircase yet, winding up the side of a barren hill. Pazel wished Thaulinin would go on speaking, if only to distract him from the mournful wind. The stars were sharp as cut-crystal, and for a moment Pazel imagined that he saw them as the selk did: mute witnesses, looking down in judgment or pity. We are all young beneath the watchful stars. Would he ever understand just what that meant to the selk?

  On the hilltop they stepped into the full blast of the wind. There was a railed platform here; it was the highest point on the island. And looking down at the back of the hill, which had been hidden until this moment, Pazel saw an extraordinary thing.

  He took it at first for a walled pond or water tank. It was fifty or sixty feet square, and surrounded by a number of the ancient trees. Black and lustrous, it reflected the moons and the stars with an uncanny brilliance, like a mirror polished to perfection. But a moment later Pazel saw that it was not liquid he was gazing at, but stone.

  The trail descended from the hilltop to the edge of this strange black courtyard. Beside the latter stood Lord Arim, alone and still, his bright blue eyes gazing up at them.

  “Go to him quickly,” said Thaulinin. “I must remain here and keep watch. Farewell, Thasha Isiq!”