by Jen Williams
‘You see those lakes, Celaphon? There will be fish in those lakes, big fat ones. We could go and catch them and then you could eat all the fresh fish you like. Would you like that?’
Celaphon shifted in her lap as though he were about to answer, but instead he only coughed weakly. Hestillion nodded and drew him close, trying to ignore the plummeting feeling in her stomach. The war-beast was dying, dying as surely as the people and plants being consumed by the Jure’lia. Dying as surely as Ebora. When Celaphon died, she would have nothing left at all, no connection to her home or her history – she would just be a traitor and a prisoner, and no doubt her life would also end when finally the queen got bored of her.
Hestillion bit her lip and focussed on the distant lakes. She had brought Celaphon out here for the sunshine, but it had quickly clouded over, and the edges of the lakes were growing blurry as a cold rain began to fall.
‘The creature is dying.’
Hestillion looked up, blinking into the drizzle to see the Jure’lia queen standing over them. When she didn’t reply, the queen crouched down, bending her long insectile legs to bring herself closer to the war-beast.
‘It weakens so quickly. Unfinished, as we said. He will die before the night comes fully.’
‘What does it matter to you?’ Hestillion held Celaphon a little closer, hoping that he couldn’t hear them. ‘You must have seen many die in your time.’
‘Oh yes.’ The queen’s face creased into a smile of genuine pleasure. Behind them, an industrious slopping and crunching indicated that the maggots were doing their job. ‘Many of the old enemy died. Pulled to pieces, suffocated, pierced with pieces of us. Always satisfying, but this . . .’ The queen stood up straight again. ‘We will give him the Growth. Then he will not die. Not from being too small and weak, at least.’
Hestillion rubbed some rainwater away from her eyes, wincing at her sore fingers. ‘The Growth? What are you talking about?’
‘You know of it, Hestillion Eskt, born in the year of the green bird.’ The queen turned to look at the homunculus, and at some signal Hestillion could not see, the creature put down its tray of food and began to toddle back towards the Behemoth. ‘You used it to free us.’
‘The golden fluid stuff Tor brought to Ebora? That’s what you’re talking about? And for what it’s worth, I wasn’t trying to free you. We were trying to bring Ygseril back to life.’
The queen tipped her head to one side, as if to indicate that Hestillion’s intentions hardly mattered now.
‘We secrete the Growth naturally and store it in pods. We take it with us to every new world, Hestillion Eskt, because not every world teems with life as this one does, and we need your life to feed on. Without the life we consume, we do not have the material to change.’
‘Your maggots eat organic material to secrete the varnish.’ Hestillion frowned. ‘And your growth fluid . . . what? Encourages more organic material if there is not enough?’
‘Yes, precisely. It takes what is dormant and weak and awakens it, fills veins with green life and hastens the pulsing rhythms. Feed it to your beast and see what happens.’
‘You seek to poison him!’
‘Not at all. Lady Hestillion, if we wished harm on the thing you have been harbouring within us do you not think it would be dead already? We control everything that happens within the corpse moon. Here, look.’ The homunculus was returning from the Behemoth, and it carried within its stumpy arms a familiar golden pod, just like the ones Tor had brought to the Eboran palace. The creature came and placed it at her feet. ‘Give the beast this to drink, and it may become strong enough to live. Or, it will die in a few hours’ time, and become another piece of organic material for our maggots, as you call them, to feed on. It hardly matters to us, but we think you will be a more interesting guest with your companion alive.’
Hestillion picked up the pod, weighing it in her hands and listening to the thick slosh of the liquid inside. Now that she saw it again, she realised that it strongly resembled the gruel pods the Jure’lia had been supplying her – it was simply a different, more attractive colour – which rather suggested that the gruel was ‘naturally secreted’ too. She pushed that thought away quickly.
‘How much?’ she murmured.
‘What? You speak so quietly.’
‘I said, how much!’ Hestillion glared furiously up at the queen. ‘How much is safe? Will it hurt him? Can you even tell me that?’
‘Pain, or death,’ said the queen. ‘You people make so much of these choices, when really they are no choices at all.’
Hestillion uncapped the pod. The fluid inside smelled like deep running water, making her wince, and with her other arm she lifted Celaphon’s head. For an awful moment he didn’t respond, and Hestillion thought she had simply taken too long to decide, but then he shifted weakly, bringing his snout up to the lip of the pod.
‘Is it like the porridge?’ he asked, his nostrils flaring. ‘It does not smell like it.’
‘It’s just like the porridge, sweet one. Drink it up, and then we can go fishing.’
Hestillion tipped the pod and Celaphon dutifully drank it down. She felt him stiffen as he realised it wasn’t like the porridge after all, but she held him a little tighter and in the end he consumed all of the golden fluid. When it was done, she dropped the pod and turned his head to face her.
‘Well? How do you feel, Celaphon? Any stronger at all?’
For a moment, nothing happened. Celaphon’s sides rose and fell with his shallow breaths, and she could hear his throat wheezing with some new exertion. Then suddenly he stiffened in her lap, rolling off into the grass with a strangled cry.
‘Celaphon?’
The small war-beast began to scream. It was a high-pitched, inconstant noise, reminding Hestillion of the great brass kettle her mother had used to make tea – for a dizzying second she was back there in Ebora, watching as steam escaped from the long spout – and she saw the homunculus take a hurried step backwards.
‘Celaphon, I’m sorry, we’re just trying to help you! Please, try to be brave.’ She moved to his side and laid a hand on his heaving shoulder: it was as hot as her mother’s kettle would have been.
‘Come away from it,’ said the queen. ‘It may not be safe.’
Hestillion ignored her. ‘Celaphon, please, I promise, this is good for you –’
The small dragon began to jerk all over, as if suffering a fit, and then as Hestillion watched, jagged plates of scales began to burst out of his flesh. They were a dark purple, darker than his original scales, and they forced their way out along his spine and behind his shoulders. Plates with pointed serrated edges like leaves erupted across his forehead and behind his stumpy ears, and his tail grew a line of thorn-like spikes. There was, Hestillion realised, another noise beneath his shrill screaming; a sort of creaking, like the sound a frozen lake makes before the ice shatters.
‘What is that? What is happening to him?’
‘The bones are growing,’ said the queen. She sounded interested, as though the day had taken an unexpected yet pleasing turn. ‘His flesh may struggle to keep up, but . . . your creatures have always been formidable. Perhaps even this runt will survive it.’
The eruption of growths appeared to have stopped, but Celaphon was shaking all over, and there was the faintest impression of movement under his scaly hide. Hestillion fought a wave of nausea and forced herself to stroke his fevered brow.
‘Celaphon? How are you feeling?’
The war-beast opened his eyes. ‘Hungry. I am so hungry. Can we eat now?’
‘Of course you can, of course.’ Hestillion leaned down to scoop him into her arms and was surprised to find that he was much heavier than he had been moments ago. Next to her, the queen gestured to her experiment, who was still gravely standing and staring at nothing.
‘You, help the Lady Hestillion to take her war-beast back inside. And bring the food.’
17
‘I have had a new commissio
n, the first in years, and it is from a human.
‘He is a wealthy merchant from Mushenska, and he wants a portrait, of all things. Specifically, he wishes to come to Ebora and sit for it, bedecked in all his finery, no doubt. It is such an extraordinary request that I sat and looked at the missive for some time, trying to tell if it were a jest of some sort. Eventually, Arnia caught me peering at it, and when she read it, she laughed. I asked her what was so amusing, and she told me that it is a human demonstrating his bravery – and his wealth – to other humans. To commission the legendary Eboran artist Micanal the Clearsighted was in itself outrageous – what human could have the money? To imagine that he would turn his exquisite eye to such a dismal subject . . . Arnia smiled while she said this, enjoying my discomfort, I think. But the real point, she claimed, is the sitting. For a human to come here, so soon after the Carrion Wars, was an act of bravado. Like placing your head within a war-beast’s jaws.
‘The Carrion Wars are over, I said, needlessly. We did not mention the flux – there is never any need to mention it; daily, we hear of new deaths. Arnia, however, shrugged at me. It doesn’t matter, she said. We will forever be monsters to them.
‘There were lines at the corners of her eyes today, and her hand, when it touched mine, was dry.’
I cannot call to mind any artworks by Micanal that depicted humans. It is unsurprising that we are so beneath their notice, yet it is also important to remember that Micanal and his twin sister Arnia were among the most celebrated Eborans of their time. I have been lucky enough to know Eborans who were less picky with their company.
Extract from the private journals of Lady Vincenza ‘Vintage’ de Grazon
‘So the question is, how soon can we go?’
Vintage wetted her lips with her wine – it was annoyingly fine – and looked around at their faces. They had gathered once more in the largest courtyard, with all the war-beasts present save for Helcate, who was in Eri’s room with the boy; he was still sleeping off the grief of Lonefell’s revelations. Now they were being treated to the warmest spring day Ebora had seen so far; the warmth of the sun was a reassuring weight on the top of her head and shoulders.
Vostok snorted. ‘Go? Go where?’
‘My lady, to find Micanal, of course. Or to find the place that he described within the amber tablet.’
Tor cleared his throat. He had been sitting with his face turned up to the sun, his hands curled around a glass goblet, but now he leaned forward. ‘Let’s be clear, Vintage. He didn’t describe this place at all, aside from some mysterious misty light. What he crafted in the tablet was a description of the journey.’
‘Yes, exactly.’ Vintage beamed at him, enjoying the look of exasperation that passed over his face. ‘A map. He meant Eri’s parents to join him, so he showed them the way. No reason at all why we can’t follow it, once you’ve made yourself useful by writing it all down.’
‘Hold on.’ Noon was standing with Vostok. She was still wearing her dusty travelling clothes, worn at the knees and patched in places. She had also started to wear small pieces of Eboran clothing, Vintage noticed; a soft leather pauldron embroidered with silver leaves, a belt studded with tiny turquoise stones. Vintage amused herself briefly by imagining they were love-gifts from Tor; there was something almost bashful about how the girl wore them. ‘Why would we want to go to this place anyway, Vin? All I remember about this fox expedition thing is that they never came back.’
‘Ah, well.’ Vintage settled herself more comfortably in her seat. ‘In the Ebora of old, there were two schools of thought concerning the origins of Ygseril. One, that he grew straight out of the ground here, and that the lands of Ebora themselves were blessed. The second movement believed that the seed, or nut, or fruit, that would become Ygseril travelled here from somewhere else – supposedly somewhere far to the north of Ebora, across the Barren Sea. This was what Micanal believed.’
‘Vintage, you realise you are giving a lecture on Eboran history in Ebora, to an audience of mostly Eborans?’
Tor’s look was innocent enough, but Vintage inclined her head. ‘You are, of course, quite right, my darling. Nanthema? Would you do the honours?’
Nanthema jumped at the sound of her name. She had been looking away from the group at the wide doors leading back into the palace. She looked paler than usual, and had replaced her normal eyeglasses with the ones with smoked glass, so that her eyes were hidden.
‘Oh. The Travelling Seed theory, yes. Somewhere, it was postulated, there had to be a tree from which Ygseril had been dispersed, and for various reasons, a great many Eborans thought it was beyond the Barren Sea somewhere. However, no one had ever been able to find it, not even flying over the sea on war-beasts. Micanal the Clearsighted gradually became obsessed with the idea, especially after Ygseril died and the crimson flux began to decimate us. It was, he thought, the only thing that could save us – find a new seed, start the cycle again.’
‘I remember his work so clearly,’ said Aldasair. He was sitting with Jessen, his hands folded loosely in his lap. ‘So much about that time is lost to me, but not Micanal’s art. He really was the best we had.’
‘Having experienced his dream-crafting, I am inclined to agree with you,’ said Tor. ‘This history lesson is very fine, Vintage, but I still don’t understand why we should attempt this.’ He gestured around the courtyard, as if taking in all of Ebora, and the dangers waiting for them beyond it. ‘It’s not like we aren’t already busy.’
Vintage tutted at him. ‘Out there somewhere is, potentially, the source of your tree-god. You don’t think that could be useful?’
‘But this Micanal person never came back, did he?’ Noon looked around at all of them. ‘For all we know, his ships sank and he drowned. Or maybe he got to an island, and there was nothing there, and he couldn’t come back.’
‘Or he found what he was looking for and decided to stay, believing that the old Ebora was lost forever. Anyway,’ Vintage took another gulp of wine, ‘there’s the other reason to go and look – the amber record. It seems very likely to me that when Micanal left for the Barren Sea, he took his masterpiece with him. By all accounts it wouldn’t have been finished, and perhaps he had good reason to believe that the place he was looking for would help him do that – if it did hold the secret of Ygseril’s origins, or some other clue to the history of his people. I find it hard to believe he would just leave his unfinished masterpiece behind. Even if he reached a distant, shit-hole of an island and died there, that could mean the amber tablets are just lying around, waiting for us to pick them up.’
‘And you believe these stones will help Sharrik and the others to remember who they are?’ asked Bern. The big griffin was asleep, his huge form stretched out on the warm flagstones, but Bern was attentive enough for the both of them.
‘They’re not stones, darling, but yes. Even if they do not cause old memories to resurface –’
‘They will not,’ rumbled Vostok.
‘– then they will at least contain vital information on war-beast history and lore – hints on how they fought, how they worked together. It would be incredibly valuable for the war we are about to face. There’s something else that could help the war-beasts.’ Vintage reached down into her satchel and tugged out a heavy leather volume. She didn’t look at any of them directly as she held it up. ‘Micanal’s journal. I found it in Eri’s father’s study.’
‘You stole it?’ Noon’s eyebrows vanished up into her fringe.
‘I borrowed it.’ Vintage stroked the leather cover. ‘This is such a gift, do you not see? It contains writings from before the Eighth Rain, right up through the Carrion Wars and the beginnings of the crimson flux. Unfortunately, I can find little of the Golden Fox expedition in here, and I suspect his plans were drawn up fully in some other, later journal, one that he likely took with him. However, with a deeper and more considered reading, there will be more. I have only just started to discover what it can tell us . . .’
�
��What it can tell you, you mean,’ said Tor. ‘Did you even ask the boy?’
‘I didn’t want to distress him further, of course. We are, as Vostok has wisely said, at war. Anything we can learn from Micanal could help us.’
Silence pooled within the courtyard. Somewhere, birds were singing. Vintage concentrated on that, rather than the uncertain expressions worn by those around her.
‘Do you think this Micanal person could still be alive?’ asked Noon eventually.
Vintage looked at the other Eborans, and when they did not speak, she shrugged. ‘If he found another source of sap? Certainly. He was old when he left, but not ancient. Even if he hasn’t found a new tree-god, he could easily still be clinging to life.’
‘All right, perhaps we should take a look,’ said Tor. ‘I think Kirune and I can follow the map easily enough, such as it is.’
‘If there is to be an expedition, then I should be a part of it,’ said Vostok. ‘I knew Micanal, after all.’
‘But you think it is pointless,’ hissed Kirune. The great cat had been stalking around the far side of the courtyard ignoring them, but apparently he had been listening after all. ‘Perhaps you should stay here and prune your feathers.’
Vostok hissed through her nostrils, plumes of soft grey smoke jetting into the warming air. Noon placed a calming hand on the dragon’s neck.
‘Me, Tor, Kirune and Vostok. It’s safer if two pairs go.’
‘And myself, of course,’ said Vintage. ‘If you think I am missing this, you must be out of your mind.’
Tor grimaced. ‘Vin, someone has to stay here.’ He looked around the courtyard uneasily. ‘Someone with some sense, at least.’
‘Not a chance, lad. Now, let’s see how much of that tablet you can transcribe before dinner, shall we?’
‘Darling, I don’t want to suggest that I’m the sort of person who has become reliant on having a dragon cart her around, but why exactly did you send Vostok away? Shouldn’t we be preparing for the journey across the Barren Sea?’