by Jen Williams
‘You are certain you are happy to take this first watch?’
The great cat turned his lamp-like eyes on Tor, and then just as smoothly dismissed him. ‘I can watch. It is not hard. I see in the dark.’
With a shrug at that, Tor climbed into his own tent and did what he could to make himself comfortable. Noon had already retired; he could hear her tiny, flute-like snores coming from the other tent. The separate tent. The tent that he didn’t share with her. Sighing heavily, he rescued one of the smuggled bottles of wine from his pack and took a few long swallows from it. He did not expect to sleep, not after everything they’d been through, but apparently his body had different ideas. The wine eased his aches and clouded his head, and Tormalin the Oathless slipped into a deep sleep. He began to dream.
In the dream he was at home. It was the time of the crimson flux, and the sounds and smells of illness permeated everything. He was walking down a corridor in the palace, and it was dark. The lamps hadn’t all been lit, and those that had been were guttering, caught in some breeze he could not feel. Everywhere was the sound of laboured breathing; wheezing and gasping and creaking, as though the very palace itself was caught in its death-rattle.
‘I suppose it is,’ he said softly, and then jumped at the sound of his own voice. It had yet to break. He came to a slightly open door, and saw that it led to his family suite. He stood for a moment looking at it, before pushing it open further, knowing what he would find when he stepped inside.
An overturned table. Chairs on their sides. There were dark stains on the pale rugs, and dirty glasses on every surface. On one of the sideboards there was a tall decanter, filled with something dark that wasn’t blood, and on the floor there was an Eboran woman. She sat with her skirts up around her knees, and there were deep gashes at her wrists. The red pus of the crimson flux oozed from cracks that covered every inch of her skin, while the black Eboran blood of a mortal wound ran from her self-inflicted cuts.
‘Mother,’ he said. ‘Mother.’
She lifted her head to him, and tried to smile. It was a terrible thing.
‘Tormalin, my dear, could you help me with this? Help your mother now, please. Be a good boy for once.’
‘I can’t do that,’ he said faintly. ‘You know I can’t. And you shouldn’t ask me.’
‘It’s just so hard,’ she said, looking back down at her bubbling wrists. She spoke as though she were complaining about getting a stain out of her gown, or mud off the windows. ‘Everything is ending, so why won’t I?’
‘Mother . . .’
He came into the room, and this was the centre of it all for him: the yawning pit of despair had first opened up here, truly. This was where he had first thought of running, when he felt those tendrils begin to envelop him. In this room of sickness and horror.
‘Just be a darling and help me, would you? Your father . . .’ She stopped and her shoulders shook, but no tears came.
‘Did you ask Hest this too? Was she here? No, I don’t think so, because Hest would have helped you. She’s never had any trouble spilling blood.’
His heart beating rapidly in his chest, Tor looked away from his mother, trying to distract himself with the details of the room. The beautiful painted wallpaper, the screen his father had made from pinkish rose-wood, the elegant ceramic shapes Hestillion had made when she was just a child. She had been so good at that, yet she hadn’t kept it up. And all the time the tendrils of despair were looping around his heart, threatening to tie him here forever, to keep him in this terrible room with its terrible occupant. It was a trap. It was always a trap.
‘It’s been an absolute pleasure to see you again, Mother, but I really must be going.’ He stepped backwards, making to leave this room, this time, this horror, when a figure at the far window caught his eye. She was standing in the gardens, looking in through the glass doors, and she was so utterly different from everything else that it very nearly kicked him out of the dream altogether. Instead, the tendrils of despair fell back and the room seemed to brighten somehow. Tor stepped over his mother without looking at her, his eyes on the woman.
She was Eboran, tall and long-limbed. Her skin was a warm brown and her hair was a cloud of black curls; her red eyes were full of wonder. When he got to the door it had vanished, and then he was standing in the garden with her.
‘Who are you?’
They both said it in the same moment. Tor shook his head. The dream was shifting around him, becoming insubstantial, but the woman remained unchanged. He could see every detail of her, from the faint pinkish shine on her full lips, to the delicate silver hands embroidered on her belt.
‘You are in my dream!’
‘Finally, someone has come.’ She smiled broadly, and Tor found himself returning it. There was no resisting a smile like that. ‘You have no idea . . . I thought you must all be dead, that it all ended centuries ago, but . . .’ She grinned even more widely. ‘You are so young!’
‘No, I . . .’ He looked down at himself, expecting to see the child he had been when he had first walked into that terrible room, but he was back as he should be. The woman’s skin was smooth and luminous in the manner of an Eboran in full health. ‘I’m no younger than you. Who are you?’
‘If you have made it here, then surely you can guess?’ Her eyes glittered, letting him know that she was teasing him. ‘You can’t know what this means to us, you can’t. To even be able to dream-walk somewhere new.’ She looked around, and for the first time a troubled expression moved over her face. ‘Although this is not what I would choose, if I am honest. I am sure you will find other, less dark places for me to explore.’
Tor followed her glance. It was the gardens in early winter, crisped with frost. Even under the coating of white lace, it was possible to see that things were overgrown, uncared for. There were shapes in the bushes he would rather not think about.
‘I’d be glad to, my lady, if I might know—’
‘We will see you soon, young prince,’ she said, and then she was gone, and with her the dream was shredded into tatters. Tor woke in stuffy darkness, the wine bottle within reach of his outstretched fingers. The morning was still a long way off.
‘They will find us today, I think.’
Noon looked up from her tea, her face still creased with sleep.
‘Who? What? What are you talking about?’
‘Sleep poorly, did you?’ Tor took a sip of his own tea, enjoying the way Noon scowled at him. ‘I didn’t sleep too well myself, very disrupted dreams – disrupted, as it turns out, by Arnia herself.’
Vostok raised her head and peered at him, violet eyes narrowing, while Noon rubbed a hand over her face.
‘Blood and fire, Tor, if you don’t start making some bloody sense I swear I will—’
‘She dream-walked into my dreams last night. A tall Eboran woman with black hair and brown skin. I have seen enough paintings of Arnia to know who it was, and really, who else could it be but her? It means we have found them.’ He tore a bit of dried beef with his teeth. ‘Mmf. And she said “we” a lot, so I think we can assume that her brother the great Micanal the Clearsighted is still here too. And now they know that they have visitors.’
‘This is extraordinary,’ said Vostok. ‘To think, Eborans who knew us in our previous lives, are still living here.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ said Noon. Seeing Tor’s face, she smiled slightly. ‘I mean, I believe you, but I can’t believe we succeeded! The map, the fucking starfish, the people on that island who wanted to kill us . . . This place was supposed to be a myth.’
Tor swallowed down his salty beef with a gulp of tea. ‘Well. We don’t know yet if they can help us.’
‘Did she mention where they were? This is a pretty big place.’
‘No. But they’ll know we’re on the coast, since we’ve only just arrived. She must have been casting out into the netherdark, looking for another mind, night after night.’
‘What? Every night?’ Noon raised her
eyebrows. She had slept awkwardly on her hair and it was sticking up at the back. ‘Every night for how many years? This Arnia woman would have had no idea we were coming, no reason to expect anyone would arrive after all this time, so why do that?’
Tor frowned. ‘I don’t know, do I? It’s something to do, I suppose. In any case, I think we should stay around this area and wait for them to find us. Vostok, Kirune, perhaps you could fly up and over the forest – I expect you will give them something of a shock, but you’ll definitely be visible from the ground at least.’
The dragon snorted, as though she wished to contradict him, but instead she stalked away through the trees to find enough space to unfurl her wings. Kirune stood up and stretched, muscles rippling under his grey fur, and he followed her.
‘Are you sure about this?’ asked Noon. She had finished her tea and was looking a little brighter now. ‘How do you know you didn’t just dream a version of this Arnia woman? Like, wishful dreaming.’
‘How do you know you are not dreaming now?’ snapped Tor. ‘It is different, that’s all. I know dream-walking in a way you never can, and she was as bright as a beacon on a dark night. Solid, in the way that dreams are not. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.’
‘I’m sure I don’t,’ Noon said dryly. She stood up and stretched her arms over her head until the bones in her shoulders popped. ‘I will leave you to your deep and important Eboran thoughts while I go and find a bush to piss in.’
28
It was midday by the time Vostok and Kirune returned. Both seemed agitated, and when Noon ran her hand down Vostok’s cool snout, she felt a static shock from the dragon.
‘What is it? What did you find?’
‘There is something here, certainly,’ said Vostok. ‘Or someone.’
‘A road,’ said Kirune. ‘Leads through this forest. And at the end of it, smoke, the smell of food.’
‘We didn’t venture any further than that,’ continued Vostok. ‘We saw another wall of lights in the centre of the forest, much like that which we passed through to get here, but in a dome shape. It . . . made us uneasy.’
‘It made you uneasy?’
Vostok shook her long head and raked her claws through the dirt. ‘I cannot explain it. But if Micanal and Arnia are here, they are at the end of that road.’
‘We should walk it, then,’ said Tor. ‘If they are coming to find us, they will come that way, and we don’t want to miss them.’
‘If they are coming for us at all,’ murmured Noon. She ignored the look Tor gave her. ‘Take us to the road, Vostok.’
It was not much of a road at that, more like a wide stretch of dirt leading off into the thick forest. Trees towered to either side of them, and the place was alive with the sounds of birdsong and small furred animals calling to each other. Noon took a long, slow breath, taking in the scents of green things and living earth. Tor had washed his face and tied his hair back, and had even wrestled into a clean shirt from his pack. He looked keenly down the road, clearly expecting to come across these ancient Eborans at any moment.
‘You know, this place is weird.’ Noon nodded at the tree they were just passing; its leaves were fat and heavy, a green vine had grown around its trunk, and it was festooned with silky yellow flowers.
‘You’ve just realised it’s weird? Congratulations.’
‘I mean, it isn’t Wild. These plants and trees are exotic, but they’re not mutants. Nothing here looks too big, or the wrong shape. It’s just very green, and very beautiful.’
‘It does not smell of the Wild,’ added Kirune.
Tor grunted. ‘Yes, well. Thankfully, there are still some places in Sarn as yet untouched by the Wild.’
‘But, I haven’t seen anything like this. Have you?’ Noon bit her lip. She couldn’t quite put into words what she was feeling, and Tor seemed determined to dismiss her thoughts. ‘It feels different. To anything else. That’s all. All this greenery. Wild without being . . . Wild.’
Tor kept his eyes on the road in front of them for that whole afternoon, clearly convinced that they would see their hosts appear there at any moment, but in the end they walked the entire stretch of dirt until they came to a grove of fruit trees. These, unlike the rest of the unruly forest, had clearly been planted by someone; they lined up in neat rows. White and pink blossoms were thick on every branch, and the tepid breeze blew small, fluttery snowstorms towards them. Beyond the grove was a large, low house made of blond wood, and to Noon it looked like a house from one of Mother Fast’s stories: something enchanted, magical, and not entirely to be trusted. Every inch of it was carved: images of trees, leaves, sea creatures, birds and animals jostled alongside figures in armour and robes. In some places the carvings were indescribably tiny and detailed, and along the windowsill tiny creatures – birds and mice and small cats – had been carved as though they were peeking in through the glass. It made her think of Eri’s house, Lonefell, where every piece of furniture seemed to tell a story. The place had three chimneys, with long lines of grey smoke curling from each.
‘The roof.’ Tor pointed. ‘Do you see? It is a ship, turned upside down. It is Micanal’s ship, and these carvings are his work. They couldn’t possibly be anyone else’s.’
‘Blood and fire.’ Beyond the big house were more, similar houses, all with ships for roofs. ‘They brought the ships all the way up from the beach, and turned them into their homes. They knew they would never go back, then, I’m guessing.’
‘So quick to abandon Ebora,’ murmured Vostok, who missed the angry look Tor cast her.
‘Hello!’ Noon cupped her hands around her mouth. ‘Hello? Anyone there?’ The wind picked up, sending a flurry of white and pink petals towards them. Kirune swiped one big paw at the blossoms, looking briefly kittenish. ‘Hello!’
‘You know, I don’t think I will ever get tired of us going into spooky places so that you can yell hello.’
‘Shut up. Hello!’
Footsteps from behind the house, coming at a run. For no reason that Noon could think of, she touched her fingertips to Vostok’s neck and took a quick snatch of life-energy, but then the figure was coming around the corner of the house. The woman stumbled, and shrieked, dropping a basket she had been holding to press her hands to her mouth.
Arnia was just how Tor had described her. Tall and beautiful, with brown skin and sharp, almost sculpted cheekbones. Her red eyes were very wide, and when she pulled her hands away from her face, she was smiling widely, revealing two rows of perfect teeth.
‘You are real!’ she gasped, then laughed a little breathlessly. ‘By the roots. War-beasts! Living war-beasts . . .’ She stumbled towards them and stopped, leaning on the house wall for support. ‘Forgive me, lords, ladies. I will need a moment.’
Tor went to her immediately, all charm and smiles. ‘It’s our honour. Arnia, isn’t it? I am Tormalin, this is my friend Noon of the plains folk, and these are the war-beasts Vostok and Kirune. Why did you not come to meet us? I felt sure, after our conversation in my dream, that you would not hide away from us.’
Arnia nodded vaguely, her eyes on the two war-beasts. She seemed to be having difficulty dealing with their existence.
‘Ygseril lives, then? I . . .’ A rigid expression passed over her face, and then it cleared. Noon noticed that she hadn’t looked directly at her at all yet, but then she could hardly keep her gaze from Vostok and Kirune. ‘There is sap? You have sap in Ebora?’ Her voice now was hard, almost bitter.
Tor shook his head. ‘I am afraid not, my lady. It’s . . . a long story.’
Arnia seemed to recover herself somewhat. ‘And you’ve had a long journey. Oh! You must come and see my brother. He won’t have heard you come. Hurry, look, come on.’
She turned and walked rapidly away from the elaborately carved house and into the trees. Noon looked at Tor, and he shrugged.
‘It’s what we came all this way for.’
Some distance from the house was the entrance to a tunnel, shored
up with timbers that looked like they had been there some time – vines curled in and out of gaps, while a thick layer of moss had taken root on the lowest parts of the struts. Arnia was standing outside, lighting an oil lamp. When she saw them, her eyes skittered back and forth again, as though she didn’t know where to look.
‘I am not certain . . .’ She grimaced. ‘I do not think you will fit down here, graceful ones.’
Vostok inclined her head. ‘In any case, I have no affection for being underground.’ Kirune didn’t say anything; instead he curled his tail around himself and sat neatly on the grass.
Inside, the tunnel smelled powerfully of damp and dark earth, and the rough steps led downwards very steeply at first before levelling out into a long, low corridor. There was the sound of water dripping, and bristly tree roots hung from above, gently touching their heads with dry fingers.
‘What is your brother doing down here? Is he digging for something?’ asked Noon, but she received no reply. Eventually, the tall Eboran woman led them out into a wide chamber, and Noon had to fight the urge to flee. Nothing of the above forest spoke of the Wild, but this place was certainly strange, and she half expected some worm-touched monstrosity to lurch at them from the gloom. The room was a twisting maze of giant green roots, all of them glowing with a faint phosphorescent light – here and there some of the bigger roots had been carved with unsettling images; faces frozen in expressions of pain, mouths open wide to scream, or strange scuttling things with many legs. One root was covered entirely with hands, their palms open and empty. Standing in the middle of this great twisting confusion was a man with his back to them. He had his hands pressed to the roots, and on the ground by his feet was a box full of tools.
‘Brother? You remember I told you visitors were coming and you didn’t believe me? Well, I have brought them to you.’