by C F Welburn
The worn steps spiralled upwards, becoming ever narrower as the tower tapered with each floor. On every landing doors led off; some open and occupied with black-robed bodies, others locked and cobwebbed as though their use had been forgotten. Balagir’s calves burned and he questioned why, in spite of their alleged intelligence, they had not devised an easier means of ascending the steep pinnacle, or else relocated their chamber to a lower quarter.
Finally, when there could not have been much more above, they entered a surprisingly large room. The wooden floor was crisscrossed with lines and unfamiliar symbols. The shelves were a clutter of dusty bottles, shining stones, and gleaming instruments he was unsure were more suited to torture or astronomy.
“How do you intend to determine the eye?” he asked, anxious as one about to undergo a surgery they did not understand.
“Leave that to me. I’ll not trouble the layman with technicalities.”
“I’m inclined to disagree. Knowing as I do the legitimacy of the object, I seek assurance that you will not damage it in any way.”
Sisken sighed. “I did not become chief askaba without laborious study. You insist that I explain the process and still be done by noon? Ha. A dog who barks at the moon does not need to understand its geometry in the heavens. Just watch on. Howl away, ashen. I’ll do my best to explain any anomalies, should they arise.”
Not particularly flattered by the metaphor, Balagir nevertheless settled for this. Time was not a luxury they had, and besides, his attention was split, flitting from one enchanting object to the next. When he saw a skull staring from a glass prison, he drew his breath.
“Is that the skull taken by Marg?” Sisken glanced around, brow raised.
“So you found him, did you? I trust he suffers suitably.”
“You know, people will be disappointed it’s not being used as a flower vase. That was a nice twist.”
“It’s not an ornament,” Sisken growled. Balagir made a gesture of indifference but did not envy the understudies of so cantankerous a mentor.
After a few moments of clanking, Sisken had constructed two chest-high brackets at opposite ends of an oval symbol on the centre of the floor. Wrought from black iron, they resembled farmer’s hoes stood upright. He beckoned for, accepted, and positioned the eye in one of the devices.
“Stand back,” he warned. “Such crystals can cause sparks. I’d rather not explain to the Dunn how his new friend was blinded.” Hardly reassured, Balagir hesitantly sought a place to stand.
“By the window would be safe,” Sisken suggested, turning back.
Balagir wordlessly obeyed, crossing to the small alcove that housed a narrow window. He peered through it briefly, as far as the eye could see across the Valelands, and then down to the insect-proportioned people scuttling across the square below. He flinched when a peculiar glyph he had trodden on assumed a splendour far brighter than normal chalk had the right to.
“What’s the meaning of this?” he asked in alarm. The askaba turned to face him, and for the first time showed his gap-toothed smile. “You’re under orders from the Dunn to—” The askaba flicked his fingers, and Balagir felt his mouth clamp shut.
“Mmmmm!” he raged, beating at the flickering field before him, reeling at the shock it delivered.
“Calm yourself. Struggling is to no avail. You’re a curious one for sure, taking Huir’s bait as well as stumbling upon this. But are you he, I wonder? Could it really be so simple?”
Once more Balagir mumbled, but his lips were sealed. Sisken smiled, amused as a child who had plucked the legs from a spider and watched it turn in circles. “You’ll enjoy this more if you relax,” he said, turning his back and weaving his hands in and out. As Balagir watched, the empty brace crackled, and with a sudden spark there existed another eye in the mirroring device, identical in every detail. Sisken locked the true eye away in a chest and took the false one in his hands.
“Questions?” he asked, clicking his fingers so that Balagir’s jaw once more became slack.
“You’ll not get away with this.”
“Oh, I rather think I will. Once the Dunn sees that the precious crystal does not work without the ashen’s influence, I’m sure it will lose merit. After all, Gorokhan did kill his father. It would have been a difficult decision to make even with indisputable evidence.”
“And how will you explain my absence?”
He shrugged. “I’ll say you fled when I discovered your ruse. The guards will confirm it of course. They’ll say anything under the right circumstances.”
“You’re behind this. You and your brothers in Eskareth! Don’t think the largatyn will stop there. They’ll not be content until they rule the Valelands.”
Once more the askaba showed his smile. “How quaint you think the largatyn in control.”
“You’re a traitor.”
“Tsk-tsk. I’ve other more permanent means of silencing you. But I rather think you’ve more to say before we take any irreversible measures. You think it was your eye I was interested in? No. I sense it upon you. You realise how long we’ve been waiting?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Come now, don’t be coy. We are related, after all. And certain affinities betray damning tells.”
“Related?”
“No? You don’t see it? But why would you? I don’t know whether to pity or envy you. I suppose, given my plans, it must be the former.”
“You’ll learn nothing from me—” And then his jaw sealed shut with the abruptness of a slammed tome.
“Now,” he said, opening a small tin he had concealed in his hand. “I can contain my anxiety no more. Let it come.”
Balagir frowned, but the meaning swiftly became all too clear. Against his will, Era rose from his pouch and passed unhindered through the field. He snatched after her but received a rap across his knuckles as sharp as any cane could deal.
Sisken needed no words; the marvel shone even in his lifeless eyes. Balagir felt a pang in his chest and sank to his knees. From blurred eyes he saw Sisken place the sealed box within another floor glyph and raise a similar barrier to his own. He stood back, and a grim laughter echoed about the chamber.
“Hm. Green. We’ve been wrong about that it seems.” He turned his eyes back to his prisoner. “Be thankful I’ve given you a view,” he said, turning on his heel at the top of the stairs. “And be sure to wave the Dunn off. He’s going to need even more luck than you.”
XXI.i
DUPLICATES
Luck. The askaba had said it himself. The one thing he had not taken into his meticulous calculations. Branded as she was, Era had taken on an unforeseen refinement. Despite his professed wait and unsettling knowledge, the kalaqai’s altered hue had surprised him. Thus, with luck on his side, he beckoned her, and it just so happened the latch was loose enough that it rattled free.
Maybe luck had been serving him this entire time, though he had doubted it. He had stumbled blindly from one disaster to the next. Yet he lived; there was that. Plenty of others had fallen along the way. Did he owe his survival to what had happened in Wormford? And perhaps, more profoundly, why should the askaba take such an interest in the kalaqai, or even be aware of her? It was true she was one of a kind, but was oft as much hindrance as help. Memories of Golden Wood resurfaced; the chisps and the wand he had still found no use for; Planter’s oath and his skull that even now gaped at him from across the room. How was all this connected, and what had Sisken meant when he had spoken of their being related?
He shook clear his thoughts. The most pressing question should be how to escape, for nothing else would matter if the askaba returned to find him here.
The field surrounded him on all sides, emitting the faintest of buzzing sounds, low as a mosquito just behind the ear. There were two orbs that seemed to power the glyph, which would dim when Era neared, but by the time she reached the second, the first glowed brightly once more, halting this line of investigation in disappointmen
t.
Nothing else appeared immediately useful; even Huir’s cranium leered mockingly, glad at last of some company. His cell was so cramped as to even deny pacing—surely the catalyst of any prisoner’s escape plan. Instead he wrung his hands and bit his lip in frustration. The spire’s shadow on the square below told him of the passing hours, and he could do nothing but count them; waiting for his captor’s return, or a distant day when the largatyn arrived to reap the spoils of their victory. If that ever came to pass, he would make a pleasing gift for Zyrath.
It must have been shortly after noon when the horns sounded throughout the city. He peered to see the Dunn’s guard had assembled below and were ready to leave. The young heir clad in his house colours rode proudly at the front, but even from this height, the weight upon his shoulders was evident. He was surrounded by a personal guard, amongst them the grey-haired Beringal. Never had a man looked so defeated before battle, leaving no doubt as to what the final decision had been. Behind them in perfect formation were nigh on five hundred mounted troops. The square would need some cleaning once this amount of cavalry had moved on.
Once more the horn blew, and Dunn Fannon led his army down the spiralling hill and out of the western gate. Only when they were out on the plain could Balagir appreciate the extent of support. Perhaps five hundred foot soldier shone in silver and blue, and behind thrice as many again, more poorly attired with battered blades and farm tools. Amongst their number were those with more winters than the aged advisor and less summers than the new Dunn.
Nowhere amongst them did he spy the black slender form of the askaba.
As a magnet draws stray filings, they drew stragglers as they passed through the countryside, until at last they vanished over a hill, and the great city sighed and fell quiet.
The afternoon crawled by with nothing more than shuffling feet on the outside steps to break the monotony. Then something caught his eye. Could it be? Yes. He recognised the red hair of Roje first and foremost. Then he began ticking them off: the green hat of Dane; the stern, grey features of Unvil; the two bald idris, Raf Isil and Raf Nagar. He knew relief when he saw Kiela and Freya amongst them. Ginike was there too, straggling somewhat, but surviving as ever. So too was Inverna, the blue-eyed ashen. Ygril the gillard and Raurin made up the rear. Kamfa’s yellow cloak was absent however, as was the spitting Saz; and of course, Fegg and Rothma he had seen meet their demise on the cliffs.
But they were ashen, and a formidable number at that. The settlers gave them a wide berth, and what remained of Ozgar’s guards watched on nervously with hands never straying from hilts.
He attempted to call them, but the distance and wind made it futile. The field was impenetrable and yet… As he had done with the fire in Wormford, he plucked the first item small enough which came to hand—the compass ring—and pressed it into Era’s surface. She resisted of course, flared, shivered, buzzed, but he had no time to convince her. Already the ashen were directly below, and he would have but one shot. With a mind shout he launched her towards the window. She reared in the air and stopped, as he knew she must, lest their bond be broken, but the ring continued on its trajectory, through the field, over and down towards the ashen below.
If Ginike had been slightly slower, he may have seen the trinket as it bounced soundlessly off the cobbles and into a fish-shaped hedge.
Balagir cursed, at both the loss of his ring and perhaps the last chance of escape he would be given. Era returned and sulkily shunned him as he sank down to the glyph-marked floor of his small cell.
Time ticked on and still no sign of his captor. He had all but recovered from the incident, though the kalaqai held her grudge, hovering out of reach beyond the barrier.
“We’re not friends anymore, is that it?” he chided. When she drifted further away, he snorted. When had they ever been friends? Their bond was a curse. He was done with playing to her needs. She had wanted to go south, had she not? Or at least according to Gwindle. Yet since the discovery of the wand, she had been decidedly less manipulative. Yet in a way she had brought him here, south, to Planter and into the searching eyes of the askaba. Suddenly the skull made sense. An oath to send the ashen here, and the key to lure them, given over and over, bringing more until the one came. The one who bore the kalaqai? Could it have all been so orchestrated? And why go to such lengths for something so treacherous and hindering? He followed her with a scowl. If she would not aid him, they might as well break the bond and be done with it. “It’s your fault we’re here,” he said peevishly, though if she understood, she gave no sign.
The late afternoon sun had moved about the tower, and its failing light spilled in through the window. He considered the shadow-cloak and, having perhaps only minutes of dying light, thrust himself into that shaded world without detailed deliberation.
His shadow, at least, was able to pass through the force field, but to what avail? He slid beneath the door and onto the stairwell. It was dark and deserted, and he was reluctant to leave his imprisoned self too far behind. Instead he re-entered and examined the room from other angles. Still, nothing sparked his imagination.
So intent was he on finding a solution that he did not notice the thin shadow present in the room—not until it detached itself from the wall and fastened on to him. He lurched at the shock, attempting to jar his assailant loose, but it clung fast as a limpet. He twisted, turned this way and that, back and forth through the force field and around the walls. Several vials fell and shattered. It was his assailant’s form, born of the shadow world, that held the greater substance, not his. They wrestled, knocking over a bowl of brightly coloured beads, then the apparatus that clattered through the side of the force field.
Balagir began to gasp for air, the shadow smothering him, filling his throat, flooding his lungs. The world turned black as more shadows bled from the walls, homing in on him as a pack moves to finish a wounded quarry. Even as a shade, he was aware of his true form, blue of face, gasping for air within his cell. The kalaqai—petty grievances forgiven—fluttered madly in his face, trying to snap him back.
But luck, it seemed, with or without her friendship, was with him. Just then, the sinking sun passed momentarily behind a spire, snuffing his shadow. He winked from their clinging grasp and came to, spluttering, on his knees. Instinctively he tore the shadow-cloak from his shoulders before the sun could re-emerge and throw him back into the fray.
It took him a while to compose himself. Era alighted on his chest, rising and falling with his steadying breath. There was nothing like a near-death experience to trivialise disgruntlement.
Recovered, he became aware of a discomfort in his back and twisted to see that one of the strange rods Sisken had used had been knocked through the field. He dragged the rest after, righting it to mirror its counterpart. He retrieved one of the spilt beads that had rolled to a stop against his boot. He dropped it in the cradle, and a blue, forked crackle leapt from one rod to the other; a duplicate marble fell to the floor, bounced twice, and rolled away.
The kalaqai darted about excitedly, then retreated, realising Balagir’s intentions even before he had begun to act. It was no good; he seized her and pushed her into the cradle. As before, there was a sudden spark, and another kalaqai appeared across the room. Era, unharmed, emerged and looked upon her reflection as one might a ghost. An eternity of being the unique member of a species had not prepared her for company, regardless of artificiality.
It hung lifelessly in the air, a vacant shell. Just as the Gazer’s eye had been duplicated in form alone, so too had the kalaqai.
Furthermore, the clone began to mimic her movements, and after a shaky tutorial, she was able to guide her image towards one crystal whilst she tackled the other. As the field stuttered and died, Balagir threw himself ungraciously onto the floor.
He could have fled then of course, before the Dunn put more distance between himself and Ozgar, and to surprise his companions before they too scattered and moved on. But this was an opportunity not to b
e squandered. The illusive information that he had at times doubted even existed was tantalisingly close, and a ripe source of it would be returning to this very room.
Rather cumbersomely, he positioned his head in the cradle, waited for the now familiar crackle, and smiled as his own image emerged in the room opposite him. It stood, slump-shouldered, with the fatuous expression of an animated corpse. Together Era and he guided their likenesses into their former positions and reactivated the floor glyph so suspicions would not be immediately roused.
Now they had but to wait. He busied himself, duplicating each of his talismans, trinkets, and weapons. Being certain to replace the originals, he gathered the imitations in his bag. They would fetch a good price, provided he did not linger for them to be tested.
Then Era returned to his pouch, and he moved to a cluttered alcove, where he crouched until the askaba’s eventual footfalls sounded in the stairwell.
Sisken entered, regarded his prisoner briefly, made a clicking noise with his tongue, and moved to where he had left the kalaqai. After a brief inspection, he hummed contentedly.
“I trust the view was to your liking?”
Nothing. The doppelgänger simply stared.
“You know it’s rude to ignore your host.”
The double had as much personality as a bucket of mud. Shaking his head, Sisken went back to regarding his true prize. He flicked the catch and transferred the subdued kalaqai into a vice on his worktop. With a gleaming scalpel poised, he turned with an inquisitive look.
“What? No argument? No pleading for your life? You do know what will happen once I make my incision?”
The duplicate Balagir simply released a string of drool from one corner of his slack mouth.
Sisken made a disgusted noise and turned back to his work.
Placing a pair of silver goggles over his eyes, he leant over the pinioned kalaqai.