by Lara Morgan
‘You found her,’ he said. He was handsome and his skin, tanned dark by the sun, made his teeth appear doubly white. ‘I’m amazed, usually the women run away from him.’
‘Beetledung face,’ Tallis grunted and turned to her. ‘This is Jared, my earth brother.’
‘Brother?’ she looked at him in surprise.
‘Not a brother by blood,’ Jared said. ‘We are brothers of our clan. We shared the first hunting rites, bled our first kill together, it is almost the same.’ He shrugged. ‘But I am not your brother.’ He winked at her. ‘And if Tallis is your twin, it seems you were born with all the beauty.’
‘Jared,’ Tallis gave him an irritated look, ‘why don’t you see if you can find us some food.’
‘And where shall I find it?’ he replied.
‘I don’t know.’
‘In the kitchens,’ Shaan said quietly. ‘The building nearest this one, try the small side door, it should not be barred.’
Jared smiled at her again. ‘All right, I won’t be long.’ He left, closing the door softly behind him.
Shaan sat on one of the beds. ‘Your earth brother has a silken tongue,’ she observed and Tallis smiled ruefully.
‘Few women in the clan could resist him, I’m sure it will be no different among the Wetlanders.’
He sat down on the bed near hers and leaned back against the wall, pulling his knees up and resting his hands on them. In the light of the lamps she could see the angle of his jaw and line of his nose, it was like looking at a taller, masculine version of herself.
‘Do you know, I only found out just before I left my lands that I even had a sister,’ he said. ‘But when she told me . . .’ he shook his head. ‘I cannot describe it, but it explained so much.’ He looked at her. ‘And then when I saw you . . . I can feel you in here.’ He touched his chest and Shaan swallowed and looked down at her hands. His expression was too intense. It didn’t seem real, any of this, and yet she knew what he meant.
‘That’s how I knew where to find you,’ he continued. ‘I followed it, like a path. It is . . . strange.’ He let out a breath and was silent for a time.
Shaan battled with herself. She could not deny she felt as though she knew this man, had known him always, and yet she did not know him. Looking at him, she wanted to stare and stare, absorbing all the details of his face and yet, at the same time, she could not stand to look at him.
‘You are from the desert clans, you said. Which one, what is the name of it?’
He hesitated before he answered. ‘Jalwalah,’ he said quietly.
‘Why did you leave?’
His face closed up and he looked away, staring at the floor for a long while. When he spoke his voice was flat and strained as though he pulled the words from a deep chasm. ‘In the clans there are things a man cannot do, cannot be. I broke those rules. Clansmen died.’
He stopped and his hands gripped his knees so hard his knuckles whitened. Shaan felt the tension in him, sharp as a knife blade, and an answering ache in her own gut.
She reached out a hand to him then hesitated. ‘You do not have to tell me.’
‘Yes, I should.’ His eyes were full of torment. ‘You should know. I have a wrongness inside me, a . . . strangeness. I can feel the serpents, their blood . . . calls to me.’ He looked away again and stared at his hands, rubbing his fingers across the rough, stained fabric of his trousers. ‘We were out hunting. Jared was with me and Haldane, the man I knew as my father, my mother and many others. We were looking for sand goat when the beasts came. There were two of them, serpents, but not like those you have here, these were bigger and their hides were black. They attacked us, but they were slow about it, toying with us.’ His jaw clenched. ‘The man I thought was our father was killed, and something happened to me. I don’t know what it was, but I said things to the beasts . . . spoke to them in a language I didn’t know, and they left us. But it did not save him. Haldane died there in the sand.’
‘Is that why you left?’ Shaan said and he looked at her and then away again.
‘Do you feel the serpents, Shaan? Do you feel them like that, inside you?’
She hesitated. His eyes were filled with such raw pain and hope, that she had to look away.
‘No, not like that. But I do feel drawn to them, and one of them, an old one,’ she swallowed, ‘he has spoken to me, in my mind. I passed out . . .’ she stopped.
‘Why do you think we are like this?’ he said and she shrugged.
‘Riders speak to the serpents, perhaps we are something like them.’ But she knew the doubt was plain in her voice. They were not like the riders. They were something else. Arak-si. The voices in the serpent Hive mind came to her, but she pushed them away. She could not tell him that, not yet.
‘If we are brother and sister as you say, then who is our father?’
‘I don’t know,’ He shrugged. ‘Mother told me he was dead, but I’m not sure. It doesn’t seem he is to me. Perhaps it is his legacy that makes us this way.’
Shaan felt cold as she remembered again more of the words Nuathin had spoken: Who was his hatcher? And his before and before? Has he sent you?
‘Tell me,’ she said to drown them out. ‘Tell me about your – our – mother.’
A small, hesitant smile curved his lips. ‘All right.’ And he began to speak about a woman named Mailun, and a clan called Jalwalah.
Jared returned somewhere in the middle of his telling with bread and a plate of green olives and cheese. They shared the food and he joined in and told her stories about their childhood and hunts they had made together, often poking fun at Tallis, his brown eyes flashing humour at her. Then later, Shaan talked of her life in Salmut. Of the serpents and the riders, the Guardian high in her palace on the hill, and of the Faithful: the men who could turn a man’s mind with their will.
She stayed well into the night and the little room became a haven from all the fears that hunted her, until she found she couldn’t remember having ever felt so safe or protected as she did there, with the men of the desert, within the bright confines of the flickering lamps.
24
Morfessa was woken by someone banging loudly on his front door.
Bleary eyed, he raised his head from the desk. ‘Prin!’ he called hoarsely. ‘Prin, the door.’
His mouth was dry and drops of dried wine splattered the edge of his papers. A sheaf of parchment stuck briefly to his hand as he rubbed his face. The banging continued.
‘Prin!’ he raised his voice but there was no reply. The only light came from one lamp near his desk, glowing dimly; the others had used up their oil hours before. It was still night and he could see himself reflected in the long glass doors that led to the garden: a startled, grumpy old man in a greasy pool of yellow light.
‘Prin!’
Where was he? With a grunt he pushed himself out of his chair and shuffled to the door, opened it and peered into the hall. There was no sign of his young assistant. Grumbling, he walked stiffly to the front door.
‘What?’ he roared as he opened it, letting it bang against the wall.
‘Advisor, Sir.’ A Hunter stood outside, his expression stoic. ‘The Commander wants to see you at the palace.’
‘Now? It’s the middle of the night!’
‘Yes Sir,’ the Hunter replied. ‘I’m here to escort you. I have a cart waiting.’
Morfessa peered outside and saw a small cart covered with a dome of canvas near his flowerbeds. The muthu it was attached to was busily munching the tops off the nearest plants.
‘Right!’ He glared at the beast and then at the Hunter. ‘Just a moment.’
He went back inside and quickly gulped down a cup of water, trying to clear his head. What could Rorc want at this time of night? And where was Prin? He went to his dressing room and with unsteady hands pulled his wine-stained shirt off and quickly put another on, his fingers fumbling on the smooth buttons. Whatever he wanted, it could not be good news. Another attack? Another sign of the F
allen’s return? Uneasiness and dread crept over him.
He had been going to show Rorc the scrolls about the Birthstone and Azoth’s child. That girl who had come to him last week, what was her name? He searched his memory trying to recall. And the word she’d asked him about: Arak-si, descendant of Azoth. How could he have forgotten it? He’d been going to tell Rorc about her, about all of it, but he hadn’t, why not?
He licked his lips as they were cracked and dry. He seemed to have trouble remembering. Was he ill? No matter, he pushed his fears to the back of his mind; he would tell him now. He went to his study and, rolling up the precious scrolls, tied them with red cord and followed the Hunter to the cart. Clambering awkwardly up inside he clung to the uncomfortably hard seat as they sped through the dark city to the Guardian’s palace.
By the time he arrived, Veila the Seer, and Cyri were already there.
‘Morfessa,’ Rorc looked up as he closed the door. His face was drawn and weary and Morfessa instantly felt worry gnaw harder at his insides.
‘What is it, what’s happened?’
‘It’s the Guardian, she’s collapsed.’
‘What? How . . .’
‘She’s still alive,’ Rorc interrupted. ‘But it was poison, a lot of it.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘With the palace healers.’
‘Why wasn’t I called?’ he cried.
‘You have been. Cyri and I were meeting with her when it happened.’
Morfessa shook his head. ‘I knew she’d been having headaches but . . .’ Anger rose in him then, quick and sharp. ‘I must see her!’
‘Soon.’
‘But there are things I can do that the healers cannot! I can identify the poison, find out how it was administered, help her!’
‘You will.’ Rorc put a hand on his arm. ‘And we think the poison has already been identified. The healers have given her the poison tonics you yourself made in case this ever happened.’
‘What of Nilah?’ he demanded. ‘Why is she not here?’
Rorc’s mouth tightened. ‘She was not in her bed. But I have sent Balkis and the guard out to find her.’ There was accusation in his eyes.
He was blaming him for Nilah’s absence, Morfessa realised. And he was probably right. He’d known about her indiscretions for some time. ‘I’m sure they will find her,’ he said, avoiding the Commander’s eye. ‘She’s probably at an inn in the traders’ quarter.’ When Rorc didn’t reply he added, ‘This must be the work of Lorgon and his cronies’.
‘Possibly,’ Cyri spoke. ‘But we do not know for sure.’
‘And he has been quick to point the finger elsewhere,’ Rorc said. ‘He was in the palace when it happened, although we’ve no idea why he was there so late. A vial was found in her room. It contained a poison only found in the Free Lands.’
‘He will blame them,’ Morfessa said.
‘No doubt.’ Rorc’s expression was grim. ‘Even now he is waking the rest of the Council of Nine from their beds and has confined all the visiting diplomats from the Free Lands to their rooms.’
‘He will order a search and we will have no choice but to let him,’ Morfessa muttered. It would be disastrous for their already cool relations with the Free Lands. He passed a hand over his head, trying to ignore the dull throbbing. ‘The meeting you were having with her, what was it for?’
‘There have been more attacks, more sightings of the rogue serpents,’ Rorc said. ‘They’re getting closer and, most importantly, Veila has seen things in the Void.’
‘Yes.’ The seer sat gracefully down on one of the long cushioned couches by the wall. ‘I am sure now that the Fallen one has indeed returned.’
Morfessa’s gut clenched. ‘You have seen it?’
‘I have felt it.’ She grimaced. ‘His presence is like a dark shadow, spreading through the place of dreams. He is very strong, too strong to be outside our world. He is back I am sure of it.’
‘But without the Birthstone he can never be whole,’ Cyri said. ‘It is the well from which the power of all gods flow and it was lost, destroyed, when he was banished.’
‘Lost, yes,’ Veila said. ‘But destroyed?’ She shook her head.
‘Then where is it?’ Rorc demanded and Veila turned to Morfessa.
‘Advisor?’ Her pale eyes pinned him.
Morfessa’s mouth dried. Always the Seer made him feel as though she saw through all he did. ‘I have brought these scrolls.’ He took them over to the polished stone table and with cold fingers untied them and spread the parchment out flat on the surface. ‘This is some of my research, years old now, that I was doing before my wife died.’ He swallowed, wishing he had some wine. ‘I had meant to show you these earlier, but . . .’ he shook his head. ‘Last week I was visited by that young woman . . . I can’t remember her name, Rorc, but you remember,’ he looked at the Commander. ‘You caught her following Tuon one evening.’
‘Shaan?’
‘Yes, that’s it, that’s her.’
Rorc frowned. ‘I should have paid her more attention,’ he said, then looked sharply at Morfessa. ‘You’re memory is surprisingly bad, old man. If you remember, you remarked to me at the time that something about her seemed strange. You thought she seemed familiar.’
Morfessa stilled. ‘Really?’ He rubbed his cheek staring into space. Why could he not recall that? His memory was so muddy lately, confused. He shook his head. ‘I don’t know . . . but here, this I do remember; she – Shaan – told me she had a friend who had heard a strange word and asked would I know it.’ He took a breath. ‘The word was Arak-si.’
Veila rose to her feet. ‘Descendant.’
‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘The language of the serpents, an ancient tongue. Arak was their word for Azoth. Arak-si means, literally, one loved by him, his descendant.’
There was silence for a moment and then Rorc said quietly, ‘A child of the Fallen?’
‘Yes,’ Morfessa nodded. ‘And that is why I brought this scroll, if you look here,’ he pointed at the closely written text, ‘I thought at one time perhaps he had found a way to use the Birthstone to father a child, just before he was banished.’
‘How did you decipher that?’ Veila moved to look at the scroll.
‘I spent some time on the Serpent Isles. It’s in the Prophets Scrolls.’
‘We must have those scrolls,’ Veila said. ‘Rorc, have you spoken with your man, Torg, and procured a ship?’
‘I have spoken to him but, with the Season of Rain so close, ships are hard to find. I’m sure he will persuade someone soon though.’
‘But I cannot go now,’ Morfessa protested. ‘The Guardian, I must stay and watch over her.’
‘Yes. I will go.’ Veila turned quick eyes to Rorc.
‘It is too dangerous,’ Cyri said quietly. But, grim faced, Rorc said, ‘We will debate this later, but for now we should talk to Shaan.’
‘Yes.’ Morfessa looked down at his hands, there was still a wine stain on his fingers. Rorc gave him a hard look. ‘There is something else?’
His head was beginning to throb again and he rubbed at the spot between his eyes. ‘It’s just . . . if Azoth did have a child, what was his purpose?’ He looked at Rorc’s dark, tense face. ‘I cannot believe one such as him merely wanted a baby, and a partly mortal child at that. No,’ he shook his head, ‘I think there was a purpose to using the Stone to create life. I think he knew the end was coming, he would have felt the Four awakening, how could he not? And he would have known that the only way for them to defeat him, was for them to take the Stone.’ He paused. ‘I think the child he conceived may have been born with some inherent link to the Birthstone, and that link could have been carried on down through all the generations.’
‘Until now, when he has found a way to free himself,’ Veila said. ‘The descendant is the key.’
‘Yes.’ Morfessa looked at her. ‘And Azoth will need his descendant to find the Birthstone, to regain his power.’
A momen
t’s silence hung between them, then Rorc said, ‘I will send men to get Shaan’.
He slunk along like a shadow in the Dome’s dark passageways, smiling as he listened to the serpents’ cries echoing through the stone. He knew he was taking a risk being here, but he’d felt a growing sense of urgency: he was close now, he could feel it.
He had wanted to be here, to feel their blood calling; their awareness of him was thick in the air. It energised him, sharpening his senses, reminding him of what he had once been . . . what he still was. He paused as he heard the sound of booted feet approaching. Silently, he slipped into the shadows of an empty crell. The musky oil smell of a youngling still lingered in the straw and Azoth breathed it in as he watched the men walk past. Their faces were confused and he smelled the fear on them, riding low beneath the surface of their bravado. Always had it been that way with the slaves; fear was their greatest weakness, it made them stupid.
They were afraid now because they didn’t know what watched them. But one did know, he could feel her, the Seer, poking ineptly at the Way Between. She was so clumsy, it amazed him she hadn’t been lost to it yet. But she hadn’t had the benefit of his long years of practice.
The smile dropped from his face and anger glittered in his eyes. Fortuse, Epherin, Vail, Paretim – he repeated the names of his brothers and sisters: the Four Lost ones. They had taken many lifetimes from him, stolen his world. But what were they now? Nothing. Forgotten wraiths, living but not alive. Had they felt him escape? Fortuse had been ever so clever at manipulating the Void. Maybe she had kept a shred of her ability, perhaps she had felt him escape, seen him tear the hole in his prison. He smiled and walked out of the crell, checking behind him, listening to the men’s footsteps fade.
He hoped the bitch had felt him and known. It would torment her, and yet she would not think he could regain what they had taken. They thought they were so clever, and they thought the Stone gone forever, but as always they underestimated him. None of them had known about the child.