by C F Welburn
Luck was on their side, and several twists took them unmolested deeper into the mountain. At certain junctures the light failed, and Balagir guided them using the star-wand. And at times the kalaqai herself provided her service.
As they neared the base, however, that eerie blue light, refracted through prisms within prisms of glacial age, illuminated the chambers.
Inverna stopped short, cursing through a plume of breath.
“What’s wrong?” Balagir asked, sweeping the large empty chamber with surplus light.
“It’s gone.”
“You’re sure?” Roje asked.
She glared, and the chamber seemed to become just that little bit colder.
“Let’s take a closer look,” Balagir suggested, suppressing a shiver.
They did precisely that, reaching the base of the wide chamber and staring in vain at the empty blueness about them. The only disparity was a deep shaft, the width of a man, drilled into the mountain; presumably the source of whatever cold power they had harnessed.
“What now?” Ginike asked, his lopsided grin mottled in the light. “Shall we stroll into a horlock camp whilst we’re on a roll?” Unvil was about to retort when Freya motioned towards faint grooves in the ice.
“It was here?” she asked.
Inverna’s distracted nod confirmed her suspicions.
“They moved it there, see the marks?”
Together, like children following breadcrumbs, they traced the grooves across the room, to a dark corner where something lay on its side. Balagir scraped away the ice and ran his fingers around the rim of the familiar apparatus.
“That’s not it,” Inverna said, dismissing the flat, circular object.
“Perhaps it was loaded onto a cart here?” Raf Isil suggested, thinking aloud. But Balagir was one step ahead.
“We were wrong about the war,” he said, dragging the circle out, straining until it stood rocking upright on its rim. “They weren’t trying to get something out; they were trying to get something in. I’ve seen one of these before. It’s a portal device. Sisken used one similar to escape from me.”
“Then they’ve succeeded,” Inverna said, crestfallen. An air of despondency descended. The askaba’s plan, although disrupted and not without casualties, was coming to fruition.
“Could we not reactivate it? Surprise them by their own means?” Roje suggested excitedly.
Balagir shook his head, indicating a smooth pad. “Only by their palms may it be powered. It’s nothing but scrap now.”
“How did they get it in?” Kiela mused. “I know Iylleth was deserted, but still, something that large…”
“One of the guards must have been in on it,” Freya said. “You’ve witnessed the corruption as well as I.”
Roje nodded. “Many a man will glance aside for a whiff of coin. I doubt the middleman—middlelizard—had any idea that this was connected to the war.”
“I must return to Kirfory,” Balagir announced, distracted.
“You plan on swanning off?” Unvil asked, curling his lip.
“If they’re already in Ozgar, there’s nothing we can do save await their next move. We still do not know what they intend. Anything I can discover relating to the askaba—or ourselves for that matter—may give us an edge.”
“He’s right,” Roje agreed. “We can’t focus our sights too narrowly. We rush in now ill prepared, and we may be giving them what they want. Let’s discuss this back at the hub,” he finished, shivering. “I’ll think better with a fire to thaw my cells.”
They returned swiftly, reassured that shelter could be sought in the fire’s radius should they encounter trouble. They did not. Within that warm circle, they plotted quietly. Balagir, Raf Isil, and Freya would return to Kirfory and consult with Imram. Balagir was gladdened at the company and had suggested the idris attend, as his scholarly attributes may be better employed alongside Imram in the vast library. Roje, Unvil, and Inverna were to investigate by what means the portal had been smuggled in and, if they could identify which corrupt largatyn had been in cahoots, would interrogate thoroughly. Kiela, Ginike, and Ygril would go and scout out Ozgar from a safe distance. They were then to reconvene at Eskareth to prepare the army and see if anything had been unearthed from the askaba tower or library. No one—and this was made especially clear to Inverna—was to move on the askaba until they were reunited.
“So, at last we part,” Kiela said, catching Balagir alone. “You’re not offended that I go with Ginike?”
“He needs someone to keep him out of trouble. What is it between you two, anyway?”
She raised a brow, which said more than words. “I hope it does not bother you.”
“Why should it?”
“Besides, you’re much better suited to Freya.”
He was momentarily taken aback. Did she refer to his sudden violent streak the madness of war had revealed? The crazed look in his eyes full of death smoke? Freya was many things, but hardly a romantic pursuit. Share a bed with her and who knew what might be missing come dawn.
“I’ve an eye for these things,” she elaborated.
“Intuition?”
“Something like that.”
Balagir shook his head in wonder. “Then you know more than I regarding the matter. Incidentally, what is it you see in Ginike?”
Kiela glanced across at the ugly man.
“I’m not sure. Vulnerability. Loyalty.”
“Are we talking about the same person?”
“He’s changed, Balagir.”
“Physically he has.”
“Maybe that was it. Set him free of shallowness.”
“Well, good luck to you,” Balagir said, saluting.
“Likewise. And remember me to Bohal should you get the time,” Kiela said, winking.
“I’ll be sure to.” He grinned, and they clasped hands. He was watching her walk back towards Ginike when he felt Freya’s eyes from across the fire. A sudden heat came to his face that was not of the flame’s making. No. The notion was ridiculous. Even so, he kept his eyes fixed rigidly on his boots as he walked away.
Once the farewells were complete, Balagir summoned forth the portal that would take them to Kirfory. Yet more smoke trickled away, and the niggling desire to replace it welled up inside.
He gave a rather melodramatic bow to the ashen with whom he had long toiled and, together with Freya and the idris, stepped through into the autumn light on the far side of the Backbone.
XXV.i
KIRFORY REVISITED
White flared to gold, snowflakes to spiralling red leaves. Balagir took a deep breath as his companions stepped out of the air beside him.
He momentarily considered summoning North, but since the others had no steed, he decided against it. Besides, the walk was pleasant, and Kirfory’s eastern gate was not far.
How long had it been since he had last been here? Time had a way of distorting itself through the various uses of the fire; he was not sure if it had been one moon or three. Either way, repercussions of his former visit were still apparent; a large sign creaked besides the gate, warning that any caravans bearing “unsafe cargo” were to be strictly left outside the city’s walls.
They passed by the Harlequin’s Cap which, with evening fast approaching, already showed signs of frivolity. Later, he promised himself, proceeding doggedly until the university came into view with its ornate facade and ageing, lichen-clad statues.
They found Imram bent over a tome in the recesses of the library, his shaggy hair and beard even wilder from all the late-night head-scratching.
He looked up, reluctant to break his gaze with the page, regarded them, removed his spectacles, stared once more, and then leapt to his feet, clasping Balagir about his shoulders.
“I’d feared you lost!”
“It’s been treacherous at times,” he said, shrugging as his old companion stood back and met his eyes.
“I can see you have much to tell,” he said austerely. Then he seemed to noti
ce Freya and Raf Isil for the first time.
“My company,” Balagir said, introducing them.
“Enchanted,” Imram said, looking appreciatively at the idris’s array of curious talismans. “But where are my manners?” he said, marking the page and closing the old tome so that a cloud of dust engulfed them. “I’ve a fine bottle of Vale Rose in my study.”
Balagir clapped Imram on the shoulder as they turned to leave the library.
“I’ve a feeling you’re going to need it,” Balagir said.
“War?!” Imram exclaimed, already having finished his first glass at Balagir’s hasty accounting. He did not look like he had savoured that fine vintage as much as he had intended.
“Three disparate battles if you like, but war is basically what it boils down to.”
“Then tidings have not yet crossed the Backbone,” Raf Isil mused.
“Indeed, they have not,” Imram said, removing the stopper and topping up everyone’s cup before refilling his own. “It’s been long expected of course; a strained peace has existed between the two houses for generations. But to have erupted so suddenly… And now peace, you say? Well, I’ll be… It’s high time Gorokhan and Ortho overcame their forebears’ prejudices.”
“Perhaps they can tell their forebears themselves,” Freya said, sitting back, examining her glass in the slanting light.
“Hm?”
“She means they’re dead,” Balagir said bluntly. They had too much to discuss for bushes to be beaten about.
“Dead? Both of them?” Imram clasped his head.
“They died before the war. I’ll spare you the details for now, but both deaths were the result of askaba machinations.” Imram’s eyes darkened. “They’ve orchestrated the entire shambles, including the largatyn attack; possibly even the horlocks, though Hompa was adamant they had chosen their own course.”
“Horlocks, largatyn, askaba… what have you gotten yourselves mixed up in?” Imram’s crazed white hair stood out at all angles.
“And there you have hit upon it. The ashen were already irrevocably involved.”
He then proceeded to backtrack and fill in the gaps. Of the lych, of Planter and their curses, of chisps and wands. He spoke of their apprehension in Iylleth and the Gazer’s eye, his own capture in Ozgar and Sisken’s revelations; of the relics on Trummond Dorr, Inverna’s experimentation and discovery of the cannon, and Sassarek’s interrogation and untimely death. And names, endless names: Jakan, Kaliga, dhaki, hiilg, Ceniza… the removal of the weapon by means of portal and diversion, and the growing threat in Ozgar.
Silence filled the study once all had been told. Imram reached to find the bottle empty, cursed, and fetched something darker and stronger from a cluttered shelf.
“I had hoped you’d bring me back something nice from the south. A souvenir, a bottle of Savae Reserve or Tusco, not much, just a token. But, this?” He uncorked the bottle, took a sniff, pulled back sharply, and then proceeded to pour.
“Speak, Imram, how goes your research? As you can see, our visit is not social. Disclose all you’ve discovered.”
The scholarly ashen paused, cup halfway to his mouth.
“I’d rather wait. Ill news is best spread out. Butter on bread adds flavour, yet eat a whole knob and…” He let the sentence hang.
“We haven’t time to ration, we must pinch our noses and swallow.”
“Very well,” Imram said, sighing and setting down his glass. “I see you’re as impatient as ever.” He looked at the others. “I don’t suppose he’s ever told you the tale of how he destroyed an island or got me expedited from another which I called home?”
“Now’s not the time for nostalgia,” Balagir said sternly. “Perhaps later we’ll chuckle at anecdotes, but for now Imram, the ashen. What have you learned? And by ashen, you should extend your search to askaba, dhaki, hiilg and kraelyn.” Imram’s face paled, and he knocked his glass to the floor.
“Kraelyn? What have—”
“All in good time.”
“Right. Erm, yes of course. I’ll just fetch my… er books.”
It took Imram some time to compose himself, but once he started, he assumed the monotonous tone of any academic presenting facts. Hardly enrapturing, but efficient and informative.
“Settler’s records date back almost two millennia. Before that, details become vague and open to wild interpretation, damaged and destroyed through fires and floods, wars and woes. Some are indecipherable, some untranslatable. But I’ve worked with what I had, and—I hasten to add—the work ahead is not readily exhaustible. One does not scour and absorb two thousand years of history in a few months. Especially when trying to siphon the parts relating to the ashen.”
“Siphon?” Balagir repeated.
“Indeed. It’s been laborious. For every haystack of human history, there’s a needle for the ashen. But I have several needles now, and some of them are as discomforting as sitting on them.”
As a diver inhales before the plunge, so too did Imram ready himself.
“One early account regarding the ashen named them demons. For they are not born of this world. They have no mothers, no fathers, no siblings. They—we—simply are, or aren’t, depending on fate. We come into this world without a trace, and we leave without one. From fire, to smoke, to ash.
“Unnatural, they called us, and who’s to say they were wrong? For even the brutish horlock has a mother. They feared us, they hunted us for a time, and then they ignored us, as we mostly ignored them. We became, if not folkloric, then a thing of superstition. Children were warned to stay away from fire sites; faerie tales told of the piper’s tune and how it lured children to their deaths; the religious dubbed us profane and blasphemous. There is more than one account of children being abducted and blame being laid at the feet of us outcasts. We were ostracised, made to fade, and for a long time became nothing more than an anomaly that existed on the peripheries of the world. Most respected historians ignored us; thus, gleaning any concrete information has been akin to reading children’s stories and attempting to fathom where, if any, the grain of truth was sown. The settlers mattered, the ashen did not. They left heirs, built cities, developed trade, wrote histories, music, and literature, refined inventions, drew maps, cultivated crops, brewed ales and distilled wines. And what did the ashen have? Naught. Not even the memory of their own race; barely a personal identity. Nothing much to write about. They put down no roots, drifting, migrating like animals—worse, for even animals breed and pass on knowledge to their young. We cannot procreate. We fade and begin once more. Trapped in a circle of ignorance. Existing for… smoke.” Imram spat that last word as though it were bile on his tongue. For one so learned that to have no trace of his history was a bitter draught. “Non-ashen cannot see our fires. They know of their existence of course, just as any child knows of a castle in the clouds from their books, but they don’t truly exist in any consequential way. Our ‘hubs’ have been called many things, but the term waver reoccurs the most. For they see a waver in the air, as of a baking road on a hot day. There are some that claim to have caught snatches of the piper’s tune, but these are oft proclaimed mad or ostracised. There was a dark period several centuries back when those who claimed to hear the song were drowned on a wheel. After that, these reports understandably ceased, making the entire subject taboo and even more difficult to research. You can see how little I’ve had to work with. After this epoch, once suspicion had run its course, the ashen became more or less accepted for what they were. Many centuries having passed without major foul occurring, the people learned to endure them. Indeed, they proved a major source of income for smiths and artisans and”—here he allowed himself a wry smile—“taverns. The benefits of interaction outgrew the unnerving aspects, and even the superstitious tales faded from common utterance. This is not to say we were accepted. Far from it. Whilst it’s true in the north we go more or less unhindered amongst the many races, things in the south have always been difficult. Even today, terms suc
h as ‘smoke-eater,’ ‘black-eye,’ ‘heirless-homeless,’ or ‘oath-hunters’ are never far from wagging, cutting tongues. And here I touch on another issue which has been difficult to divine. Oaths, as we call them, bind us as no other thing. It is mortal to break one, and for this reason, ashen amongst men have gained a reputation for tenacity. This helped when we began trading more openly with them. They were happy to accept our coin of course, but more than that, they would treat us as errand runners, as tools, as ways to achieve unpleasant business without dirtying their own hands. For a human to kill or steal is a sin punishable, in the words of their doctrines, by damnation after death. But should someone else carry it out… Well, you see why we have become a useful and tolerated commodity.
“There is little more to tell, save the odd account of an occasional ashen of note. One called Botswa was famous for a time for his ability to travel, bearing news from continent to continent in a matter of minutes. There is no evidence of what befell him, but the last entry dates back almost half a millennium, stating that ‘the great Botswa has a sickness upon him, one that makes him unwelcome in the dwellings of man.’ There is no mention of him after that. More recently, just under two hundred years ago, there were several mentions of ashen in the south. Quevil, Tye—”
“Morogan and Ivorn,” Balagir finished.
“Of course, the relics you’ve met.” Imram clapped. “What knowledge they must hold.”
“Don’t believe everything you read in history books,” Raf Isil spoke up.
“By all accounts, their deeds were great.”