The Bitter Twins

by Jen Williams

  ‘Who are these people?’ demanded Vostok. In that moment, Noon saw her as a stranger would – a huge scaled monster with long jaws full of teeth, a head bristling with horns. Tor was standing to one side of her, partially hidden in her shadow, although Noon could easily see the glinting blade of the Ninth Rain. ‘Why are there humans here at all?’

  ‘Blood and fire, Vostok, they live here.’ Noon turned back to the two islanders. All the colour had drained from Tidewater’s face, but even as she watched he seemed to be recovering from his shock. The knife he had whipped automatically from his belt was slowly being lowered, and his eyes were flickering between the dragon and the great cat with a growing expression of amazement. Borrow was leaning against a tree for support, an expression of bemused dismay on his creased face.

  ‘These are your friends, then?’

  ‘Um, yes. This is Kirune, here, the one with the . . . claws.’ She cleared her throat and carried on quickly, hoping she wouldn’t have to explain further. ‘As you can see, he’s got a swollen mouth and throat, it’s making it very difficult for him to eat. He was stung by a huge starfish, and—’

  ‘But you are . . . stories! Old stories, lies.’ Now he had overcome his initial shock, Borrow was shaking his head back and forth – he had looked away from Vostok and Kirune, as though the sight of them was painful.

  ‘This changes everything!’ said Tidewater, hotly. ‘What does this mean, Borrow? If the old stories weren’t lies . . .’

  ‘We are not lies!’ thundered Vostok. ‘And you will show more respect!’ Tidewater stumbled back, colliding with the tree again, and Tor stepped forward laughing, sliding away the Ninth Rain as he did so.

  ‘The first lesson, my friend, is don’t aggravate the dragon.’

  This time, Tidewater gave a genuine shout of fear. He drew his knife again, but instead of brandishing it he threw it to the ground, and with that he turned and ran. Borrow gasped.

  ‘No!’ He turned an anguished expression on Noon. ‘You told us you did not come from the monsters.’ To her horror and shock, she saw that tears were leaking from the old man’s eyes. ‘Instead you feed us to them.’

  ‘Well, that’s rude,’ muttered Tor. ‘Listen,’ he raised his voice, ‘that was all a long time ago!’

  ‘Tormalin is not a monster,’ said Noon, all too aware that Borrow had likely grown up with all the same stories she had and that the word of a stranger would not change that. ‘Please, we won’t be here long. If you can help Kirune at all – the big cat – I would be really grateful.’

  Borrow pressed his lips together in the expression of someone enduring terrible pain. ‘If I help you, will you go?’

  ‘Yes, we’ll be gone in the morning, I promise.’ The campfire was the only light in the gloomy clearing, but Noon still caught the shudder of relief that passed over Borrow’s face. It hurt her, for reasons she didn’t care to dwell on. ‘We’re not staying here. Actually, we’re looking for another island, a place not far from here. Perhaps you’ve seen it, or know it from your travels? Have you seen . . . have you seen more people like Tormalin? In another place?’

  Borrow scowled at her, and she sensed she had pushed her luck too far.

  ‘There is nothing beyond Firstlight. Nothing. And the sea is dangerous. When we take ships out to fish, we do not go far.’ His expression softened a little. ‘New one . . . Noon. You should go back to your home. There is nothing for you but cold rocks and sea and pain beyond Firstlight. Do not waste your life on it.’

  Turning away from her, he removed his pack and rooted around in it. After a lot of rummaging he retrieved a fat drawstring bag, made of tiny leather patches.

  ‘This,’ he said, throwing her the pack. ‘It eases pain. We make it from the bark of a tree. A little is normally enough but,’ he glanced at Kirune, who was sitting remarkably still, big paws held in front of him like a well-behaved tent-cat, ‘for your creature, the whole pack. Boil up water, soften it like a stew.’ Borrow drew himself up to his full height, and Noon sensed that his responsibilities as a healer were briefly outweighing his terror. ‘It was a starfish that stung him? I would also put heated material, here.’ He mimed holding something to his throat. ‘Rags, doused in hot water, then squeezed. It will chase the poison out.’

  ‘Thank you. I mean it.’ Noon took a step towards him. ‘You can’t know it, but this could be really, really important. Kirune is one of our war-beasts, and they are our best hope of surviving—’

  ‘Enough, please.’ Borrow turned away, shouldering his pack. He looked ill, as though speaking to them made him sick, and he would not meet her eyes. ‘Do not follow me back, because my people will kill you. If he comes,’ he gave Tor the briefest of glances, ‘I will tell them to kill you.’

  ‘Wait! When you talk about monsters, what do you mean? Where did you even come from?’

  But Borrow was walking back into the trees, and in moments he was nothing but a vague, moving shadow, lost to the growing night.

  23

  ‘He is simply too big.’

  It was a thought that had been battering around the inside of Hestillion’s head for some time now. Celaphon had outgrown her apartments, causing the queen to craft another, huge chamber within the corpse moon for him, and even inside that he loomed uncomfortably. And it was more than simply taking up too much space – he had grown bigger than any war-beast she had known, or heard tell of, and something about it was . . . wrong. He looked, more or less to proportion – perhaps his wings could be bigger – but she found herself frowning when she stared at him, as though something were slightly off balance and her mind was trying to figure it out, even when she wasn’t conscious of it. The war-beasts she had known were large, but lithe, and compact. They were like jewels; whether they had black fur, yellow scales or soft blue velvet the colour of the sky, they looked deliberate. Like things created. Celaphon looked like an experiment. Or an accident.

  ‘It is interesting, Lady Hestillion Eskt.’ The queen wasn’t disagreeing, Hestillion noticed. They were on a great plateau far to the west. The corpse moon lurked behind them, perched on the edge of the clear land like some great wart, while a carpet of dark-green trees spread out below them. Despite his new bigger quarters, Celaphon had grown restless, demanding that he be let out to fly, to stretch his legs. The queen had calmly ignored these requests, sending along more of the growth fluid instead, but when the war-beast had started crashing his great bulk into the soft walls over and over again, she had steered the corpse moon to a remote place and opened a hole in the side of the Behemoth. Now, she and Hestillion stood on hard, scrubby grass and watched as the huge dragon repeatedly tried to take off. The wind from his wings battered them so constantly that Hestillion found she was endlessly wiping at her watering eyes.

  ‘Interesting? War-beasts are born knowing how to fly. I don’t understand it. He has no memory of his former lives, and it seems there’s no natural instinct there either.’

  ‘Or, what we have done to him has made it impossible,’ said the queen lightly. Some distance away, Celaphon lowered his head, bristling as it was with blackened horns, and thumped his bat-like leathery wings up and down, up and down. He lifted his front legs awkwardly, and for a brief second he was almost propelled backwards by the force of his own wing beats. Instead, his tail dragged along the ground and he dropped back down, heavily enough for Hestillion to feel the tremor of his impact through her slippers.

  ‘It’s an abomination, what we have done.’ Hestillion curled her hands into fists. Her fingers were icy cold despite the long fur vest she wore over her robes. ‘You will kill him, and me, I suppose, when you’ve finally had enough of this farce.’

  The queen turned to face her. There were more details to her clay-like visage lately – tiny lines, like cracks under the glaze on the finest tea set, clustered at her forehead and the corners of her mouth. Even her eyes, once black like pools of wet ink, were lightening at the edges – splotches of yellow were growing there, like blossoms o
f mould. The queen raised her approximations of eyebrows, opened her mouth, and then, curiously, closed it again.

  ‘We think,’ she said eventually, ‘that perhaps you should try instructing him.’

  ‘Me?’ Hestillion shook her head lightly, then laughed. The sound felt dry and old in her throat. ‘Instruct him? I was never a paladin of the war-beasts. I was a child during the Eighth Rain! The closest I got to one was standing in a crowd of well-wishers on a feast day.’

  ‘Even so, you are the only connection he has to that past. Memories, the bridges they build, the paths . . . they are important. You understand this, yes, from what we showed you?’

  Celaphon was running now, four huge muscled legs in slightly ungainly motion. He picked up as much speed as he was able to, and then his wings opened like a tent being erected. There was a resounding crack, and briefly he had all four feet off the ground. His wings beat down again, and again, and he lifted, uncertainly, into the air.

  ‘By the roots!’ cried Hestillion. Without thinking she touched the queen’s sinewy arm. ‘Look! He almost flies.’

  And as she spoke he crashed to the ground again, hard enough to tear up huge lumps of black earth. He bellowed a wordless shout of rage and frustration. Hestillion cupped her hands around her mouth.

  ‘Keep going, sweet one! You are getting there!’

  Celaphon turned his head in their direction, and his pearly white eyes looked blank, as though he didn’t know what they were, or why they were making noises.

  ‘Celaphon?’

  The dragon seemed to brighten then, and he turned around to start running again.

  ‘He takes comfort from your voice,’ said the queen. ‘Imagine if you were there with him, murmuring your encouragement into his ear. He would fly sooner, do you not think?’

  Hestillion’s stomach tightened. Once, in her youth, she might have dreamt of flying a war-beast – they all had dreamed of that, after all. But in her dreams the war-beast had been a silvery griffin or a sleek red fox.

  ‘He would gain nothing from that,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Were not your beast creatures paired with warriors, during our wars?’ There was a teasing note to the queen’s voice. ‘A partnership, always. Or at least, that is what we witnessed with our many eyes, as we tore you all to pieces. Often, we would see the Eboran warriors standing over their wounded creatures, ready to die for them.’ She tipped her head to one side. ‘But you do not share this bond?’

  Hestillion bit her lip. The flame of anger that had ignited in her chest was hot and unexpected. ‘That is not what I said. Celaphon is precious to me, above all things.’ An image of her brother pushed its way into her head, but she firmly ignored it. Lost, she reminded herself. Lost to me, and taken up instead by a filthy human fell-witch. ‘A piece of Ebora, as it once was. There can be nothing more valuable to me than Celaphon.’

  ‘Then go to him. Help him with this.’ The queen shifted, and crossed her arms over her chest. ‘If you are afraid of falling off, we can craft such a thing that will hold you in place.’

  ‘Afraid?’ Hestillion thought of the day she had cut the wine merchant’s boy’s throat, of spinning herself further and further into the netherdark to find her god. ‘I have never been afraid. Very well. Bring me a saddle, or a harness, or whatever is needed, and I will gladly fly with Celaphon.’

  The queen laughed at that. ‘Jump, I think you mean. The creature is not quite up to flying. But very well–’ she paused. – ‘You should warn him, of what is about to happen.’

  Hestillion held herself very still. ‘What . . .?’ But the queen had half turned towards the corpse moon, and a narrow port opened in the side of its shining greenish flesh. A thin line of the black ooze spooled out of it, flying up into the air in a curving arc. It spread its tendrils against the pale blue of the morning sky and flexed, heading towards Celaphon. Realising what the queen meant, Hestillion called out to the dragon, and he shifted his bulky head around to face her, but he just looked blank, as he did before. The spooling black fluid reached him and split into a number of forks, spinning around his broad chest, belly and neck. Celaphon bellowed with outrage, stumbling backwards in an attempt to get away from the substance that was the heart of the Jure’lia, but there was no escaping it. As Hestillion watched, the stuff wove itself into something that could, if squinted at from the right direction, be seen as a series of straps and a harness. Celaphon was shaking himself like a wet dog, trying to dislodge it. Inwardly cursing the queen, Hestillion ran across the scrubby grass towards him, calling his name.

  ‘It’s all right, Celaphon. Sweet one, please, don’t panic.’ He lowered his head and snorted indignantly at her; his breath was hot and smelled sickly sweet. ‘It’s just something to help me to help you. Look, see?’

  She reached up and tugged at one of the straps, realising as she did so that it wasn’t truly a strap at all – the harness was formed to his body and needed no adjusting, but the fluid had given her these hanging pieces to help her climb up his side.

  ‘I will just sit there, at the base of your neck, do you see?’ She hitched up her robes as best as she could, and began to climb. The fluid-harness felt warm and dry under her hands, like the fevered skin of someone ancient and wrinkled. ‘And then I can help you.’

  ‘Help me?’ rumbled Celaphon. He was standing calmly now, his thick neck twisted so that he could watch her progress. ‘How?’

  Roots be damned if I know.

  ‘Back when there were many war-beasts, Celaphon, they always had Eboran companions.’ She was making her way steadily up his side, arm over arm up the series of handholds. Dimly she was aware that she must look quite the sight; fine silk robes hitched up around her knees, her pale calves flashing in the sunlight. Her blond hair was in disarray, floating around her head like gossamer seaweed caught in a playful current. ‘They made sure that their war-beasts lived in great splendour, and had the finest foods.’ She thought of the echoing chamber inside the corpse moon, and the thick white gruel from the pods, and moved on quickly. ‘But they also rode into war with them, and helped them fight. They were a source of strength to each other, for all of their lives.’ She was over his side and looking at the broad expanse of his back. There was something like a seat in the centre, a mound of the rubbery black material that was raised above everything else – there was, she realised, probably one of Celaphon’s fibrous plates underneath it – so she made her way over to it. ‘It is right that I should fly with you, Celaphon.’

  ‘Are we at war, then?’

  What a question. Somewhere behind them, she could sense the queen’s amusement. She refused to look.

  ‘Here we are. This will be better, won’t it? You don’t have to do this alone.’ Hestillion settled herself on the seat, and it shifted under her, moulding itself to the shape of her body. A thick belt slid its way across her stomach. Luckily, Celaphon had turned his head away from her again and therefore did not see the expression of disgust that cramped across her face. The bare skin of her legs was in contact with the leathery harness, and it felt like an invasion, a personal insult.

  ‘Let’s try this again, then, Celaphon. When you were running and flapping your wings earlier? Do that again for me, faster this time.’

  Hestillion made her voice as firm as possible but her heart was in her mouth as Celaphon began to move. Standing and watching, it turned out, was very different to being on top of the war-beast as he ran. Enormous muscles bunched and shuddered beneath her, throwing her back and forth, and she could hear the bellowing rattle of his breath. He picked up speed, and the landscape around them jumped and dropped wildly. Hestillion had to hold on tightly to avoid being flung off, despite the thick belt holding her in place. She clenched her teeth together to stop from chomping through her own tongue, and then his wings started beating; a thunder like nothing else, and her ears were full of a whistling wind.

  ‘Go!’ she yelped out between her teeth. ‘Fly, Celaphon!’

  The war
-beast leapt, and Hestillion felt her stomach drop away alarmingly. For a handful of seconds, the scrubby grassland and the line of dark trees vanished, and everything was the eternal blue sky. In that moment, Hestillion grasped something of the joy of flying.

  But it was temporary. Celaphon crashed back down to the ground, and in the violence of it Hestillion bit her lower lip – the white-hot flash of pain and the taste of her own blood was a revelation, and her heart stuttered in her chest. When her head stopped ringing, she could hear Celaphon bellowing his rage.

  ‘I hate this!’ His anguish and his pain were in every syllable, fresh and honest in the way that, in Hestillion’s experience, only the very young could be. She rubbed a hand across her chin and blinked at the crimson smear there. Leaning forward so that she could touch Celaphon’s scales, she pressed her hand to him, trying to make a connection.

  ‘Listen to me, sweet one. We will get there, I promise you.’ Her voice was low and rough, and her lip throbbed steadily. ‘Together, if we work together, we will have you flying like a bird soon enough. You have to trust me. Listen to my words.’

  Celaphon grew still. All around them, the scrubby grass moved in the wind like a living thing, and somewhere in the distance, a bird was calling – something swift and lethal, seeking prey.

  ‘And breathe fire?’ asked Celaphon. ‘Will I do that eventually too?’

  Hestillion swallowed hard around the taste of bitter pennies.

  ‘Maybe, my sweet. Maybe.’

  24

  Finneral was mostly coast, it turned out. A thick green strip along the edge of the sea, studded with fat grey boulders and larger outcroppings of rock, like misshapen buttons on an emerald jacket. The sea to their left was a deep, appealing blue, and Aldasair found himself warming to the place more and more the further they flew over it. Eventually, the rocky ground erupted into a single mountain peak, green and grey and topped with snow, and as they approached it, Bern leaned back in Sharrik’s harness and shouted over his shoulder.