The Bitter Twins

by Jen Williams

  The boy was silent for a moment. Helcate, who was awake now, leaned his long foxy nose under Eri’s chin and pushed him, as though trying to wake him up too.

  ‘Probably. I can probably take you there.’ The boy took a deep breath. ‘But not now. It’s getting late, and I don’t want to go there in the dark. Please.’

  Tor reached down and, taking hold of either side of his boot, wrenched it from the mud. It came away with an obscenely wet sound, and he took a moment to sigh noisily.

  ‘We could have flown. We could have flown all the way there. Tell me, Kirune, do you have some terrible affection for mud? Or were your wings simply too tired to make the relatively short distance?’

  The great cat lifted his head to glare at Tor, the pupils in his enormous yellow eyes expanding briefly, as though he were contemplating making the Eboran his prey. And then he rumbled deep in his throat and kept walking. This part of the forest was alive with the sound of moisture; freshly melted snow dripping from trees, the soft sound of rivulets of ice water trickling around their feet. It was fresh, and cold, and the scent of the forest was a deep-green companion all around them.

  ‘These are my best boots, you know. Eboran leather, which means, of course, that no one is even making boots like this anymore.’

  ‘Do you always mewl like an infant?’ rumbled Kirune.

  ‘Everyone else will be there by now,’ Tor wiped his hands on his coat, resolving to look more carefully at where he was putting his feet.

  ‘Ebora is my home,’ Kirune said firmly. ‘I want to walk all parts of it. Smell it. Taste it. Then I will come to know it.’

  ‘Well, I hope you are enjoying the mud. And I hope the directions the boy gave us are accurate. Do you suppose Vostok stopped to have a ramble around the woods?’

  ‘The snake.’

  ‘You might not like her, Kirune, but she knows more about what is going on here than anyone. We need to listen to her.’

  ‘Perhaps you should fly with the snake, then. Perhaps she would enjoy your mewling. She treats us all like cubs. I think she must like it very much.’

  Tor opened his mouth to reply to that, and then closed it. What was the point? Ahead of them, the thick pines were becoming thinner, and it was possible to see what must be an overgrown garden, and beyond that, looking tired and ghost-like in the early morning light, was a grey stone house. It was not built in the Eboran style at all; it was tall and narrow, and there were three floors, all with unusual circular windows. The roof was peaked and angular, unlike the usual low and unobtrusive roofs of Ebora. It was an oddity, standing out here all by itself, and looking at it, Tor was reminded of other places he had travelled – perhaps the owners had once been travellers themselves, and had sought to reflect their experiences in their home.

  They trampled through the gardens, Kirune pushing down overgrown bushes with ease. Once they were through the outskirts, Tor noticed that at least part of the garden had been regularly tended: there were neat rows of exposed earth, a shovel sticking out of the ground next to a pair of wooden buckets. Seeing those, he thought of the boy Eri.

  ‘There they are,’ muttered Kirune. ‘The snake is here.’

  Indeed, it was hard to miss Vostok. She stalked around the furthest corner of the house, her long neck low and her snout near the floor, as though she were scenting the place. With her came the boy and Vintage – Vintage was carrying the boy’s bucket. She spotted them and waved, and they waited by the door as Tor and Kirune made their way over.

  ‘Did you get lost, my darling?’ asked Vintage brightly when they arrived. Tor watched her take in the mud on his boots and the corresponding mud that was spattered up Kirune’s legs and dotted on the fur of his belly. She pressed her lips together briefly, and then smiled at them. ‘Noon has decided to go scouting for food with Fulcor, but she might join us later. We’ve already ascertained, somewhat awkwardly, that the door is too small for Vostok to enter without causing damage to the house, but I think Kirune should be able to slip through.’ She paused, then bowed slightly to the big cat. ‘Your lithe frame should have no troubles, my lord.’

  ‘Whatever you find, you will bring out here,’ said Vostok. ‘So that I may see it.’

  Eri opened the door for them, with Helcate at his ankles. He hesitated for a moment on the doorstep, looking around at them as though he wasn’t sure why they were there, but then Helcate head-butted him gently in his side, and they went through. Kirune followed, also pausing on the stoop to meet Vostok’s eyes. He let his gaze linger long enough to be an obvious insult, and then he padded into the interior, brushing against a wooden cabinet and causing the ornaments there to tremble precariously.

  ‘We will be back shortly, my lady,’ said Vintage. ‘I’m sure it won’t take us long to find what the boy is talking about.’

  The door led directly into a sprawling living room, well arranged to Tor’s eye, but absolutely crammed with things. Paintings and tapestries on every wall, every cabinet stuffed with artworks and pieces of framed parchment. Even the furniture seemed needlessly ornate; chairs and tables carved and painted with myriad animals, plant life and complex interlocking shapes. There were bookcases everywhere Tor looked, all heaving with leather-bound volumes or stacks of rolled documents.

  ‘Vintage, it’s like you exploded all over this place.’

  She swatted him lightly on the arm. ‘I didn’t miss you at all.’ Stepping into the centre of the room she looked around with as much curiosity as Tor had seen when they were exploring the Wild. ‘Early period imperial ceramics and later period paintings, all of them exquisite. Such a collection, and just gathering dust out here in the middle of nowhere! I cannot wait to see what books are on the shelves . . .’

  Tor cleared his throat. The boy Eri was standing with his arms by his sides, looking as though a strong breeze might blow him down at any moment. Helcate, as ever, crouched by him, looking with every appearance of concern at his friend.

  ‘Vintage, we are not at a piece of Behemoth wreckage here. This is someone’s home.’

  She stopped on her way to the nearest bookshelf and whipped off her hat. ‘Of course it is, my dear, of course. Ahem. Eri, my darling, would you like to . . . find your parents for us?’

  The boy swayed on his feet, blinking rapidly. Vintage met Tor’s eyes, her eyebrows raised in alarm.

  ‘They’re not here at the moment,’ said Eri eventually. ‘The thing you’re looking for, it will be in Father’s study. He won’t mind us looking.’ He rested his hand on Helcate’s furry head, and seemed to find some strength there, because his face became more animated. ‘All the important things that remind them of . . . before, are kept in there. Letters and maps and things. I’ll show you.’

  Eri led them from the living room up a flight of stairs to a broad landing leading to several more rooms. There was, Tor realised, an odd smell about the place. Nothing he could quite pinpoint, but it made him think of Esiah Godwort’s house, abandoned and touched with madness. Kirune kept going up the stairs and disappeared around a corner, his striped tail vanishing from sight. Tor looked up the stairs after him, considering demanding that he come back – it seemed Kirune did not care if wandering around a stranger’s home was impolite – but the inevitable snub would be too embarrassing. Instead, Tor followed the others into the study. It was similarly packed with books and scrolls, and dominated by an enormous desk, bristling with drawers. The surface of it was covered with a light layer of dust.

  ‘My father keeps all his favourite things in here,’ said Eri. He went over to the desk and pulled out a long thin drawer that ran the length of it. Inside was a sheet of cream velvet, dotted with small objects at evenly spaced intervals. Vintage was at his shoulder so quickly Tor didn’t even see her move. ‘It’s here, see? The one in the middle. I knew it was still here.’

  Even in a drawer full of extraordinary objects – just glancing at them Tor spotted several things he knew would make a fortune in certain Sarn markets – the amber tablet
stood out like a new leaf on a dead tree. It was about the length of his palm, and a pale yellow colour, much paler than amber from other trees – even Wild ones. It seemed to shine, nestled in the velvet, and tiny flecks inside it caught the light and shimmered, like gold. On the surface was an extremely delicate carving of three faces, each so detailed it could only have been of a real person.

  ‘Micanal the Clearsighted,’ breathed Vintage. ‘I’ve seen enough portraits to recognise him. And are the other two your parents, Eri?’

  But the boy had gone utterly rigid. His eyes were locked on the faces, his own caught in an expression of dismay so clear that Tor felt his stomach turn over. Gently, he put his hands on the boy’s shoulders and turned him away from the drawer.

  ‘Eri? Are you with us, kid?’

  Turning him away seemed to break the spell, and Tor felt him go loose under his hands. Eri looked down at Helcate, and then back to Vintage.

  ‘Those are their faces. Micanal was a very good friend, someone they talked about often. I think they missed him . . . miss him a lot.’

  ‘A very good friend.’ Tor straightened up and met Vintage’s eyes. ‘Micanal was known for having lots of very good friends, but this looks like a special gift. May I look more closely at it, Eri?’

  The boy shrugged, and then nodded, not quite looking at the drawer. The amber tablet was pleasingly heavy, and cool to the touch. Tor turned it over and over, running his fingers over the deftly carved faces.

  ‘Vostok said he had worked out a way to store information in the amber,’ said Vintage. ‘That would make it even more valuable, of course. Can you make out anything unusual about it, my dear?’

  Tor grimaced. ‘If you mean is it singing a song only my delicate Eboran ears can hear, then no. It’s a very beautiful thing, and certainly more evidence that Micanal was the greatest artist we ever had, but I can’t see how it can help us.’

  ‘Let’s take it outside to Vostok, and see what she says. Is that all right with you, Eri?’

  The boy had leaned his face into Helcate’s furry neck, but they could still make out his muffled assent.

  Outside, the day had brightened, filling the garden with chilly sunlight. Vostok had wandered over to a pond and was sitting watching a small number of bright red fish flitting under its green surface.

  ‘Ornamental fish,’ she said as they approached. ‘I had forgotten . . . These were called fire dabs. Once, the Nest had a lake, and there was a fish of every colour in it. I imagine they are all dead now.’

  ‘We found one of Micanal’s amber tablets,’ said Tor, holding it out for the dragon to see. ‘Even I, oaf that I am, can recognise the great artist’s work when I see it.’

  Vostok sat up, her horned eyebrows raised. ‘And that is certainly Ygseril’s own amber. Well.’ She sniffed. ‘Your parents, boy. What is the nature of their relationship to Micanal? Can we speak with them?’

  Vintage hurriedly stepped in front of Eri. ‘What can you tell us about it, my lady? Is there information stored in it as with the tablets Micanal created for you?’

  ‘I imagine so, yes. Tormalin can access it for you.’

  There was a moment’s silence, into which Tor cleared his throat. ‘I can?’

  Vostok hissed through her teeth. ‘So much has been forgotten. You must dream-walk to find it. It is as simple as that.’

  ‘Dream-walk into what?’ Tor looked down at the tablet in his hands. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Ygseril’s amber is, as you might imagine, unique. It holds his essence, the essence of a god, and consequently can act like a dreaming mind. Micanal, in his genius, crafted dreamscapes within the amber.’

  ‘I take it that means that war-beasts can dream-walk too?’ asked Vintage.

  ‘Of course! And we are much better at it than Eborans. However,’ Vostok sniffed, ‘I am not some go-between for you. If Micanal meant this amber tablet for his Eboran associates, then I am not interested in unravelling it. Tor can do it.’

  Vintage nodded curtly. ‘Of course, my lady.’ She turned to Tor. ‘Get on with it, then, my dear.’

  Tor looked around at them all. The boy was still quiet, but he was watching the dragon with interest at least, while Helcate was curled at his feet. Somewhere in the gardens, two birds were calling to each other.

  ‘You want me to do it now? With you all watching me?’

  Vintage rolled her eyes. ‘Stage fright? You? Please.’ She began to herd them all towards a nearby stone bench. ‘We could have a significant clue here, Tor. Perhaps it won’t solve our problems, but it could solve the mystery of the Golden Fox expedition – wouldn’t that be wonderful?’

  ‘I can barely contain my excitement.’ Tor sat down on the stone bench, the amber tablet held in his hands. It was warming up to his touch. ‘So, I should just treat this thing as a dreaming mind?’

  ‘You will see it there, in the netherdark,’ said Vostok. ‘If, of course, you are at all competent at dream-walking.’

  Tor grimaced and closed his eyes. It was not easy to slip into the netherdark with three pairs of eyes watching him – Kirune, he sensed, was still in the house somewhere – but eventually he broke through. It was eerily empty, with no sleeping minds nearby, but Vostok had certainly been right about the amber tablet; it blazed in front of him, a cold and flickering light, very like a dreaming mind, yet somehow less dense. His own curiosity piqued, he pushed through the soft membrane into its shifting light, and stepped out onto a wide stone plaza. He recognised it immediately; it was the circular courtyard in the southern gardens of the palace, often used in the summer for celebrations and festivals. He remembered such occasions dimly; clutching his sister’s hand, they would watch fireworks or eat cakes. His own memories were so distant he could no longer trust them, but whoever had crafted this dream remembered it with startling clarity.

  ‘It’s magnificent.’

  Men and women stood all around the plaza. They were tall and lithe, their skin shining and healthy, their eyes like rubies. To Tor they seemed too tall and imposing, and he wondered for a moment if his own childhood memories were superimposing themselves on the dreamscape, but, looking closer, he realised they simply were larger than life. Micanal, he reminded himself, was an artist, one not necessarily interested in the depiction of reality, but in reflecting an inner truth. This was the Ebora of hundreds of years ago, when she was at her peak – her god still lived, there was no crimson flux, and it was a place unlike anywhere else on the face of Sarn.

  Tor walked among the figures. They turned and smiled at him, expressions of mild curiosity or simple benevolence. He found himself smiling back. Some of them were wearing armour, pieces of silver and white enamel that glittered in the sunlight. A soft wind blew through the blossom trees and tiny fragile petals whirled around them, a delicate and fragrant snowstorm, and as Tor looked up, he saw Ygseril’s branches spreading over them, heavy with leaves. Ygseril, Root-Father and Branch-Mother, cared for them still.

  Movement above the branches. A great flock of war-beasts were flying over slowly, the sun winking off every scale and pearly feather, every claw and shining eye. Hundreds of them, certainly more than Tor had ever seen in his life, so many that for a moment the plaza was cast into darkness, and Tor heard the crowd who stood with him sigh, all at once. It was such a sound of longing that he found he had to swallow rather hard, and he hoped that those watching him as he dream-walked could not read the emotion on his face.

  Then the flock of war-beasts had passed, and with them the sun had gone, turning the sky a pitiless grey. Tor looked to the other Eborans, a cold hand closing around his heart, and saw that it was already too late; the glory that Micanal had crafted was already fading, and the beautiful faces had grown old and cracked. As he watched, his people visibly diminished, becoming a shadow of something else. Beautiful skins split open, weeping bloody tears. Ygseril’s branches were bare and dead, as were the small trees that had given up their blossoms so recently. Then, in the way of dre
ams, the people were all gone and Tor stood alone in a street outside the palace. This was the Ebora he recognised: empty, ramshackle houses, nature creeping her green fingers into every space and absence they had left behind. Now that he looked, the street was littered with enormous bones, the skulls and ribcages of legends that had passed into another time, and they, too, were choked with weeds. The smell of wolf was thick in his nostrils.

  Tor took a slow breath. He was afraid, despite everything, and a terrible anguish threatened to close over his heart. Again, he wondered if those watching him would be able to read such emotions on his face – he sincerely hoped not.

  ‘My dear friends, all this we know already.’

  Tor looked around, but the voice came from everywhere at once. The street remained empty.

  ‘You and I, we have lived through it. What use is there, I ask you, in staying in this graveyard?’

  ‘I couldn’t agree with you more, Micanal,’ muttered Tor.

  ‘You have your own reasons for staying, I know,’ continued the voice. ‘And perhaps you are right: seclusion from the horror of what Ebora has become could save you. Anything is possible.’

  As the voice spoke, the giant bones began to sink into the road, and the buildings crumbled into dust. The landscape rippled and flexed, turning into something else.

  ‘But I want to show you a different hope, my friends, in the only way I really know how to.’

  They were no longer in Ebora, or at least in any part of it Tor recognised. He stood on wide stretch of beach. Under his feet, amongst the stones and sand, were tiny objects that didn’t belong there: delicate teacups, glass pots of ink, sealing rings and golden daggers studded with precious gems.