The Ashen Levels

by C F Welburn

  “You know not of what you speak.”

  “Don’t I? I’ve seen the one you serve. After meeting his gaze, there remains no doubt which of us is on the side of virtue.”

  “Been trancing at your fires too much? Brain addled by smoke? You’re a madman.”

  “Almost. Very nearly in Kaliga’s prison.”

  “I’ll not listen to this—”

  “Ceniza. Lovely island. But you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you—”

  It was the askaba that cut him off now, having sat bolt upright.

  “So, you’ve learned something. The dog asking why he fetches the stick; the fish questioning why its food is served on a hook. Well done. But don’t insult my intelligence. If you’d done more research, you’d know Ceniza does not exist in this realm. Only in a fabric fold.”

  “That would explain its eeriness.”

  “You’re going to persist with this farce? Very well, I’ll humour you. Even if someone stumbled upon it, they could never return. It’s a prison void.”

  “Not even with this?” Balagir said, withdrawing the wand.

  Sisken disregarded it flippantly, but then his eyes returned, and his mouth slowly went slack.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “Familiar?”

  “Ihnoban’s wand. It can’t be.”

  “Who’s Ihnoban…”

  But he never finished the question, for the askaba’s eyes were round.

  “You fool. You utter wretch of an ashen! Do you realise what you’ve done?”

  His confidence shaken, Balagir dumbly shook his head.

  “A prison should not have an open door.” The connotations sank in. “Ceniza was never meant to be reached. It was sealed off. By your own master, none the less. Oh, you’re a treacherous one!” Sisken’s face was such a mask of dread that momentarily, Balagir knew doubt.

  “No more will we heed your lies, askaba. Your days are done. You’re the last of Kaliga’s servants.”

  “Nor has he further need of them. You’ve undone us all: askaba, ashen, man alike.” Slowly a laughter grew from within the askaba’s throat until it spilled out, a terrible sound that echoed off the bare walls.

  “Kill me, ashen. I’d rather not see it.”

  “Tell me what you know, and maybe I’ll grant you that. Tarry, and Inverna will be here. I’m sure you remember her…”

  Sisken hissed.

  “If only to shame you for your folly, I’ll speak.”

  “Good,” Balagir grunted, satisfied. “What is it you want with the kalaqai?”

  “What you had!” he shrieked, as though aeons of pent-up frustration had found vent. “You’ve brought ruin upon us. All you’ve ever done is waste and squander! The ashen, our ungrateful, spoilt cousins. Children with a treasure, who wallow in the dirt!”

  “Cousins, how so? The askaba are not born either?”

  “How can a being not be born?” Sisken scoffed, sounding unhinged. “You think the ashen simply fall from the sky? It should not surprise me you foster such fancies. We were both born settlers, you and I. Then selected and shaped. The ashen were sequestered and cursed by Jakan; the askaba were liberated and blessed by Kaliga. You were fumbled by a desperate apprentice; we were honed by a patient master. We had wisdom and freedom, whilst you had ignorance and were bent to servitude. Yet you lived long lives, and we were as flies. The injustice is staggering.”

  Slowly Sisken got to his feet, looking Balagir in the eye. “But your failings became our triumphs.” Each word gained potency until he punctuated the sentence with a clenched fist. “Kaliga made us at your dead fires, the ones you destroyed in your greed. The irony is bitter. The good dhaki’s servants unravelling his work. Your destructiveness is what riled us most, and yet it was that very vice that allowed us to thrive. The final coal and its memories were implanted here.” He tapped the black spike in his brow. “If only we could have used its heart.” Balagir blinked, remembering the dissection he had witnessed, but Sisken went on. “We did not serve Kaliga, we used him. Used the wisdom of the coals towards enlightenment. We could have ended this precarious balance.”

  Balagir recalled vividly Goffle’s slack face and Greman’s dawning realisation on Farthing, the haunting visions on Coal Island. Had they been helping the askaba all along? Who were the heroes here? Who were the villains?

  “Elaborate.”

  “Not everyone has the potential. When a fire goes out, a calling is given, and a candidate is drawn. With the dead core our knowledge expands, our thirst for information is unquenchable. My brother and I were a peculiar case; we were twins, and our father’s farm bordered the vales where a fire was destroyed.” His eyes grew distant, as though picturing those forgotten days when something human had existed within him. Balagir envied him this. “We arrived as one, and Kaliga gained two new disciples.”

  “Disciples? You speak of them as if they were deities.”

  “So they were once held by many, yes. It is natural for base minds to label them such. We lay such blankets over things we cannot comprehend. But the askaba knew the truth. The dhaki were once very real and, like all races, made of mortal flesh. A creator does not pertain to divine qualities. Just curiosity, imagination, trial and error.”

  “Whatever you call him, he remains your master.”

  “We exploited his knowledge, but we are our own masters. In this we differ. We would have lost everything by setting him free. What would be the point of eternity if that came to pass? The dead fires you created were the kilns in which the askaba were made, yet they weakened the barrier between this realm and the kraelyn’s. Whilst your destructiveness has bolstered our numbers, it has jeopardised the balance. With the kalaqai’s heart, we would have ended it. The ashen, the dhaki, all. No more askaba would have been made, but that’s a small price when those that live share an eternity.”

  “You paint yourselves as blameless.”

  “My actions have not been virtuous, but legacy outlasts the deeds taken to build it. Ythinar could have enjoyed stability one day. But none of that matters now.” The askaba’s eyes drifted to the kalaqai, his jaw trembling. When his voice came again, it sounded withdrawn, hopeless. “That’s the farahar, in the language of the dhaki. The chisp, in settler’s tales. Or in hiilgtongue, the kalaqai; Era, as you have dubbed her. Ridiculous. The kalaqai has no gender. It’s an ember from the first fire, the one that closed the rift and banished Kaliga. But you already know that, having used the wand. We’ve come close to having it before, most recently in the time of Marg.”

  “The askaba who took Huir’s head?”

  “Yes. Huir, if that’s what you believe his name to be. Keeper of the kalaqai. We almost had it then.” Balagir frowned.

  “But he was a settler. A gardener who murdered the Dunn’s children.”

  “Seeds easily sown. You’d be surprised how the askaba have altered the course of events. Bent it, coaxed it, like a plant we clip and prune. And look what we’ve achieved, even without your lifespans. Advisors to rulers, honoured in court, our experiments funded by taxes; all part of the bigger picture. We proved our worth time and again, and they built us towers. We aided them, as we saw fit; after all, machinery is not cheap. The Dunns as good as patronised our experiments. All of this we achieved whilst the ashen still roamed the earth, homeless and lore-less as beasts in the field.” Contempt flickered across his eyes.

  “Why keep his head? It makes a grisly souvenir.”

  “It brought you to our tower, did it not? It was only a matter of time.”

  “Then the chest? The replicated keys?”

  “Bait. A hope that the kalaqai would find its way to her former master, where he was forever doomed to roam.” Balagir recalled the kalaqai’s desire to leave the north and travel south. It made sense now, seeing as that was where the wand had been hidden, but she had not seemed to recognise Huir. Given her mercurial nature and disdain for even current masters, he was hardly surprised. “In truth we’d grown desperate,
and of course the skull had other uses. We kept it for study, to see how the kalaqai had patterned the brain. And later it was used to uphold his curse. The uneducated call the askaba mages, dub our skills fantastic. Yet it is at once more prosaic and sublime than that. We are inventors. Our powers come from our minds; from our devices. Imagine what we could have done with the ashen’s immortality,” he moaned, mourning the obsolete idea.

  “I know your inventions all too well. The cannon, for instance. Was that in aid of knowledge? Look at your own hands, for they are the bloodiest.”

  “That would require one to look down, when we need to be looking up. These events are moments in the course of history. Footnotes, nothing more. But our achievements… Tell me, would you not know of the Player Moon and what lies beyond? Of the white tracks in the night? Of our grand purpose? Alas, enlightenment succumbs to the ignorance of the dark. The cannon was a complex device; a culmination of our efforts and resources, decades in the making. It was never contrived to bring destruction, but to bring change, allow growth. But we’ve failed, as have you. You called yourself a leader? Ha. You were never more than a host, weak enough to be manipulated.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There are more stringent things at play beyond what you consider chance,” Sisken said, showing his bloody teeth. “We knew the bearer would be drawn once the barrier was up. The kalaqai could not resist. It is that which steers you, recognise it or not. It is your curiosity, your true drive, what made you inspire. Tell me, before you were bound, did you seek the truth? Did you embolden others?”

  It was so long ago, back there in Wormford, but he recalled distinctly the change the kalaqai had instilled in him; the sudden uneasiness about his existence. It had been as though he had stepped through a screen to look back on himself. A displacement and objectivity. But it had ultimately been him that had made the journey, hadn’t it? Despite her interference, the decision had always been his. He recalled her leading him to the wand, remembered how she had revealed the hubs on the wall in Umbra… No. He dismissed it with a snort. He was his own master.

  “And the children you sent after us? They were for the greater good too?”

  “That cannot be laid at our door. They are your own doing. Taken, then discarded. Surplus to the fires remaining.”

  Suddenly there was a banging at the door. The askaba began to laugh, softly at first, then throwing back his head in an unsettling cackle.

  “Open up!” This from Morogan.

  “It’s time,” Sisken said, a manic grin splitting his face.

  “I haven’t finished with you yet—”

  “Oh, but I’ve finished.”

  “Balagir! Let us in,” Kiela’s voice called.

  “Our little chat is over,” Sisken said, standing beside the door as it turned to ice. “When he comes, remember that my crimes are nothing in light of yours. You’ve served Kaliga far more efficiently than the askaba ever have.”

  The door cracked, a hinge buckled with brittleness, and suddenly they were through, Inverna first, her blue eyes frantic. But Sisken ducked and slipped around the frame, hurling himself over the railing and leaving only a shred of his torn robe in Ivorn’s grasping hand.

  They could only look on as the last of the askaba plummeted, ending both his descent and his life with a small, wet thud on the red rock below.

  Several moments later, they returned to find Balagir staring silently at the wand, at the two kalaqai who circled it.

  “He escaped justice!” Inverna roared.

  “Tell us you got some answers,” Unvil growled, his face wet with blood.

  “I did,” he said, subdued. “The askaba are no more; it’s over.”

  He put his hands to his head, struggling with where to start. Finally, and in a rather piecemeal fashion, he disclosed what he had learnt. All save the scaremongering about Ceniza; he would not let the askaba’s paranoia take the shine off their victory.

  The ashen listened intently, and when he was done, the tension seemed to go out of the room. Inverna sagged, as though the purpose of her life had been fulfilled, and she stood, unsure of what to do next.

  “To Ozgar then,” Ginike said, unable to contain a crooked smile. For they had won, though none dared believe it until they were away from this place; nor in light of their losses was it a moment to celebrate.

  After examining the room and a few adjacent chambers, they descended and passed the unmoving form of Sisken, relieving him of his hand. Balagir did not speak, keeping to himself the disquiet that gnawed inwards, like a rodent in a burning barrel.

  At the portal, the red kalaqai hung back, free once more and reluctant to follow. It rose into the sky until its dim red speck vanished in the distance. Era, his Era, hung at his shoulder, watching it go, flickering in unreadable emotion.

  XXIX.ii

  THE END

  Ozgar pulled itself back to its feet with admirable resilience and tight-lipped defiance. Even by the time they had descended the tower to where Beringal awaited dispatching troops with victorious zeal, the body of the askaba had been moved, and all traces of the madness that had seized the city seemed as surreal as a bad dream. Indeed, those civilians who had recently threatened now hung in confused groups, or had even returned to their duties, shaking their heads, chalking it up to a bewildering blight, as drunks oft fathom a previous night’s antics.

  Balagir looked to where Roje and Freya had been overcome, but all bodies had been swiftly gathered; an anxiety to put this unpleasant business behind them.

  Few words were exchanged at this time with the Dunn; solemn nods sufficed to confirm it was done. That it was over. With the ashen’s role fulfilled, they were wordlessly granted some peace before the episode was wrapped up, underlined and consigned to several dark paragraphs on the pages of settler history.

  Balagir was not alone in welcoming this respite, and along with what remained of the ashen, he returned to the fire to heal hurts, spend smoke, and seek solace in the shining sanctuary.

  The following day, Ozgar was abuzz.

  Bunting bedraggled the streets, trumpets sounded at their approach, and people lined the avenues to clap and cheer. Gone was all dourness. The residents had shaken off the remnants of possession as one shrugged off a coat upon crossing the threshold of a hearth-warmed home.

  They were swept along on the tide of jubilation, up the hill, through the throngs, and across the square. The steps were paved with a threadbare red and yellow carpet, but the gesture wasn’t lost. Beringal and the Dunn of Eskareth awaited them on the uppermost step, wearing wide grins and stately attire. It all had an unsettling air of presumption about it. Balagir saw the celebration, the relief, the glee in their eyes. But he noted too the shadow of Lye Tower stretching up the palace wall. He was questioning the prematurity of this ostentation when a single high trumpet cleaved the air, crashing off the towers and instilling a loaded silence upon the quivering mob. Dunn Elohim bowed, the congregation poised to hear the pin drop.

  “Thank you, ashen,” was all he said, and the crowd roared, terminating further hope of words, if any were to be had.

  The Dunn gestured to the people behind them; they turned as one, that ragged, rough-looking bunch, and the cacophony reached its crescendo. Horns blew, streamers streamed, and bright confetti spiralled down like a blizzard in a rainbow.

  Events of the previous day may have been swept under the proverbial rug upon which they stood, yet the loss was still real enough to tighten his chest. He looked along the line. The absence was like a missing tooth, startling each time the tongue found that raw, unfamiliar gap.

  Still, Ginike was lapping it up, his lopsided grin and fierce embracing of Kiela baring his relief. More imposing even than Ginike’s face were the three relics who stood at his side, gnarled as old oaks in the sun-bright square. The jaegirs were next. Unvil, his expression ever hard, had an edge of jubilation. Kolak’s smile was strained, but relieved. Even the blue-eyed Inverna had less of a coldness about
her, an icicle that had begun to thaw. Ygril’s fish eyes hid any emotion, as did the regulator that cupped his mouth. Denge’s corpse-like face was almost vivacious, and Raf Fade allowed himself a fanciful flurry of his purple cape.

  Balagir was alone in his reluctance to tempt fate. Siskin’s augury hung heavy, marring the occasion almost as much as the bereavement.

  No, he thought, forcing a defiant smile. It has been a long road. Roje would not have let the askaba’s words haunt the day. Freya would have mocked him for it. No matter what the morrow brought, today he would celebrate. Those that had survived deserved that much.

  Words became easier once within the palace gardens, where servants flocked with goblets of purple wine and plates of azure cheese. Balagir drained his cup and plucked another from a passing tray, as nimbly as a concubine seductively picks grapes.

  Dunn Elohim’s grin, it appeared, had also been forced, for now when he spoke, there was a sadness in his eyes.

  “We know your success was not without loss, and that you’ve not had chance to grieve, but the city is relieved; the entire south is in your debt. We could not contain the joyousness that abounds since the city was freed.”

  “Not only that,” added Beringal, “but an end to family feuds. The Dunnine Ria survived, despite being abandoned in her cradle. A new era, one of peace and prosperity, begins today.”

  “And one without beguiling advisors,” Balagir added drily.

  “Indeed,” nodded Elohim. “It pains me not to have brought Sisken to justice, but at least it is done. Now is the time for rebuilding. But,” he said, making an airy gesture with a white-gloved hand, “politics remain for tomorrow. Today is to celebrate the living and honour the fallen.”

  Balagir nodded sombrely and took another sip.

  How this would eventually pan out, he was uncertain, but if ever there was to be a happy ending, this was it. He should savour the emotion; store it for later as one remembers a fine vintage, even after it has been corked.