The Bitter Twins

by Jen Williams

  Noon watched her go. They had set the table at the back of the house, but curiously, she walked around the side, apparently heading to go in the front door.

  ‘You know, I think I’ll follow Arnia’s example. My back is killing me, and I could do with resting it.’ Tor looked up at her in surprise but without much interest.

  ‘Do what you will. I’ll be here a little while yet.’ And he poured another glass of wine.

  Noon headed towards the house they had been given to sleep in, but once inside, she kept going and left via the back door. Moving as quickly and as quietly as she could she slipped into the trees and used them as cover to reach Micanal’s and Arnia’s dwelling. She got to it just in time to see Arnia not, as she had claimed, retiring for the night, but walking off to where the trees were densest. She had apparently grabbed a shawl to wrap around her shoulders, and her face was still and intent. Keeping a fair distance back, Noon followed her into the forest, her heat thumping thickly in her chest.

  It was not easy. Noon had never followed anyone before, and her every footstep seemed impossibly loud, breaking every twig in the forest and finding every patch of dry leaves to crunch, and Arnia moved very quickly, clearly at home among these trees. It was growing darker too, and for several long moments Noon was sure she had lost the woman, one more shadow in a forest full of them. Once, Arnia stopped and looked behind her, searching the forest for something, and Noon pressed against a tree, barely daring to breath. She was uncertain why she was so frightened of the idea of Arnia catching her. It wasn’t that it would be rude – she was fairly sure that the Eboran woman didn’t like her anyway, or at least thought she was barely worth noticing – but more a sense that she would genuinely be in danger. For all her smiles and welcoming demeanour, something about Arnia had a sharp edge, and Noon had no wish to be caught on it.

  Arnia moved on, and Noon followed, picking her way with even more care. Eventually, they came to the chasm, although much further up than the route Micanal had taken. Here the foliage was thicker, so that it was difficult even to reach the edge, and Noon thought that perhaps this was where she had hidden the tablets, but instead Arnia headed deep into a tall cloud of bushes, disappearing utterly from sight. Noon froze. To follow her into the thicket was too much like walking into a trap, and there was hardly anywhere she could go from there, since the crevasse loomed beyond it. Confused, Noon backtracked, edging away from the bushes to get a better view, and that was when she saw Arnia moving across the bridge.

  It should have been obvious. It was a rickety thing of ropes and planks, but it was hung heavily with the vines and plants that had grown around it, and against the cliff faces with their own vibrant foliage it seemed to vanish into the background. Noon doubted that she would have spotted it at all, especially in the dark, if it hadn’t been for Arnia’s tall figure walking across it, her shawl across her shoulders.

  ‘If the other side of the island is so bloody dangerous,’ murmured Noon, ‘then where is she going?’

  She waited for Arnia to cross to the other side, and then cautiously she made her way to the bushes that had concealed the entrance. Here, it was possible to see that they had been deliberately planted; they were too regularly spaced to be anything else.

  ‘Right. Fine. So why hide a bloody bridge?’

  The bridge stretched in front of her, ending on the other side in the midst of a very similar patch of foliage. Arnia could be over there right now, waiting for her to walk across the bridge – she would be an easy target, and there could be no denying that she had been following the Eboran woman.

  ‘I am a weapon,’ she reminded herself. The bridge was covered in leaves and vines, so it would hardly be difficult to summon winnowfire there. And Eborans burned just like anyone else.

  Just then, she felt a stirring from Vostok, clearly summoned by Noon’s feelings of aggression and fear. With a pang of guilt, she held the war-beast back, pushing her away as lightly as possible. A dragon suddenly appearing at the crevasse could hardly be easily hidden.

  The bridge swung alarmingly as she stepped out onto it, and the water below seemed very far away. It occurred to her that it would be the easiest thing in the world for Arnia to wait until she was halfway across and cut the ropes, and then winnowfire would be no help at all. But she walked on, biting her lower lip until she reached the other side. There was no sign of Arnia, and Noon felt a stab of annoyance – to have followed her this far and lost her – but then she heard, quite clearly, the crack of a branch as someone who did not care how noisy they were stood on it. She moved in that direction, her head up to catch every possible noise, and saw that there was a path of sorts below her feet – a dirt path, worn into the ground by someone who came this way often, even daily. This, she had no doubt, was where Arnia kept disappearing to at all hours of the day.

  Crouching slightly, she moved on. The light was leaching from the day as every second passed, but she caught sight of Arnia in the distance again, and quickened her pace. It would not do to get lost out here, and the Eboran woman clearly knew where she was going. They walked in this secret tandem for another hour, until the sky overhead was a deep purple punctured with stars, and Noon had started to wonder if the woman was just mad and really very keen on long walks, when, ahead of them, Noon spotted a series of orange lights. Torches, burning in the night, and below them, a fence made of wood. It didn’t look especially sturdy, at least not in comparison to settlements out in the Wild where every care was taken to shelter from the monsters that habitually haunted Sarn. There was something out here, then, something they hadn’t been told about.

  Arnia walked towards a gate, or a hole in the fence, and vanished from sight. Noon stopped, her heart thudding thickly in her chest, and then, after a moment, she approached the fence, coming close enough to be able to see through the gaps. The movement she saw beyond the wooden panels, so unexpected after so long in the forest, made her jump. The fence circled an enclosure of huts made of wood and mud, and no more than twenty feet from her she could see a group of humans, varying in age. As she watched, more appeared at the doors of the hovels, all watching Arnia as she walked through the settlement. To Noon they looked like they had been plains people once – their skin was tan like hers, and their hair was black, although here and there she saw paler faces. It was difficult to tell in the uncertain torchlight. All of them looked undernourished, with not enough flesh on their bones and hollows around their eyes, and their clothes were mended and patched so much that they appeared to be holding together with twine only. All of them were staring at Arnia with awe. Noon felt her throat tighten. Earlier she had been afraid that she was the only human here. Now it turned out that was not true, and she was filled with dread.

  In contrast, Arnia looked totally unconcerned. She walked past most of the humans as though they weren’t there, pausing once to exchange words with a young woman who had a child of about four or five years old clutching at her skirts. Noon could not hear the words, but when Arnia bent down to smile at the child, a shiver seemed to pass around the crowd – some unspoken fright. The Eboran woman straightened up and walked out of sight. When she did not immediately come back, Noon settled on her haunches, checking that she was not visible to the people in the settlement. Most were returning to their huts, their heads down, and to Noon they looked like people waking from a long sleep, their eyes unfocussed.

  ‘What would Vintage say?’ murmured Noon. She rested one hand on the wooden plank, and tried to look at the strange village as the scholar would have looked. There were around fifty people that she could see, and enough houses for perhaps twice that. Some of the buildings were bigger, and they had holes in their roofs through which smoke escaped. She also saw tanning racks, rows and rows of them, and, to her surprise, livestock; a pen off to one side containing fleeten, of all things – the swift little creatures of the plains – and even a cow, one of the big shaggy creatures from Finneral. There was a man carrying buckets of milk, and through one open do
orway she saw a spinning wheel. As unassuming and rustic as it was, Noon thought this was a place of great industry. One woman, who stood closest to her, had tough pads on her hands that Noon recognised; the weavers of her tribe had carried the same marks from long hours of work. She smiled slightly to herself, thinking that Vintage would be impressed with that observation, when she saw that the woman was crying. Her arms were at her sides and her shoulders shook, and no one came to comfort her, as though despair were a constant companion not worth commenting on.

  The night seemed colder, then. Noon looked behind her, into the darkening trees, and saw other signs; paths leading away into the dark, even ruts where barrows were used frequently, and pegs hammered into tree trunks to allow easier climbing. There would be a lot of fruit here, she guessed – they had seen plenty of it on their way from the beach on this strange, warm island. She thought of the wine Arnia had poured for them, and wondered which fruit these ragged people collected for it.

  Inside the enclosure, she caught the sound of raised voices, and heard enough of it to recognise the same odd version of plains talk that Borrow and Tidewater had used on the island of Firstlight. Perhaps they were related, or had come from the same place, once, a long time ago. The man who was speaking was short and sturdy, his muscles like ropes on his arms and legs, and he had a thick, dark beard. He was gesturing in the direction that Arnia had disappeared, and another, younger, man was taking his arm, trying to turn him away from it. The younger man looked both annoyed and scared – whatever this conversation was, he did not want Arnia to hear it. Noon pressed herself to the fence as close as she dared, trying to make out more words, but the wind had changed direction, keeping the voices of these mysterious settlers distant. She caught brief snatches that seemed to make little sense.

  ‘. . . You are all caught in a madness . . .’

  ‘. . . That’s enough. I am sorry for you, that you are so blind to what we are, that you cannot see the Poisonless . . .’

  ‘. . . If you would listen to yourselves. The night ruins . . .’

  ‘. . . We don’t have time for this. The roots are our concern, our duty . . .’

  Noon frowned, half certain that her understanding of their language was not as correct as she thought, when Arnia reappeared. All talk in the settlement stopped, and the older man pulled his arm roughly away from the younger one. He stalked off into the huts while Arnia left the enclosure, once again not looking at any of the people who stood staring at her. She walked rapidly, her arms bared to the night and her head high – the smooth skin of her forehead shone in the torchlight. She seemed to have left her shawl behind.

  Before she left to follow Arnia back to the far side of the island, Noon took one last look at the villagers. They were going back to their own business: carrying waterskins, fetching food. She lifted out of her crouch, wincing slightly at a sharp ache in her lower back – the river had yet to yield any amber tablets – and saw that a little girl of four or five was standing and watching her, one pudgy fist pressed to her mouth. Her dark eyes were very, very wide.

  Noon slipped back into the trees.

  It was a long and fraught journey back. Arnia seemed more alert than she had done earlier, and many times she stopped and turned around, looking back where Noon was following. By this time it was so dark that Noon could only really see the dimmest outline of the tall woman, but Arnia had no apparent difficulty in finding her way, and when she turned and looked back, Noon couldn’t help thinking of those red eyes, seeking her out. The Eboran moved faster than she had before, as though she was eager to get back by sun-up. When eventually they crossed over the chasm and came to a part of the forest Noon recognised, she dropped back, letting Arnia complete her journey alone; out from under the trees, she would have no cover. After a reasonable amount of time had passed, she continued, feeling some of the tension drain out of her chest.

  The clearing with the houses was quiet when she got there. Dim lamps shone in the windows of the siblings’ home, and in the building she shared with Tor. Belatedly, she wondered if he had come to find her and then stayed up, waiting for her to return. That would be awkward. Uncertain what to do next, she stood on the edge of the trees. The sky was a deep grey, the colour of old dust, and the horizon was tainted a dirty orange. It would be dawn soon, and the new day would bring more questions without answers. Noon had no idea whom she could truly trust, and, to top it all off, she’d had no bloody sleep.

  A prickle on the back of her neck alerted her to the presence of Vostok, and then a bare breath later, she saw her; the dragon was, improbably, crouched in the branches of one of the tallest trees. In the dark she would have been well hidden in the shadows of the canopy, but as the day lightened her bright scales stood out like polished silver pennies. Despite herself, Noon smiled.

  ‘What are you doing up there?’

  The dragon lowered her long head. Her feathered wings were tucked tightly along her back.

  ‘Can you climb up here to me?’

  Noon blinked at this strange request. ‘I don’t know. It’s been a long time since I’ve climbed a tree. A lot of grass on the plains, so I didn’t get to practise that often.’ When Vostok didn’t answer, she shrugged. ‘I can try.’

  After hours trekking through the woods in the dark it was the last thing she needed, but Vostok let her long tail drape down the length of the trunk, and using that as a handhold when there wasn’t a natural one, Noon eventually hauled herself up onto the thicket of branches where Vostok had arranged herself. It was cool among the leaves, full of a rushing whisper as they brushed against each other, and it smelled of sap and salt. As huge as the tree was, Noon was still amazed it was holding the dragon’s weight.

  ‘What is it?’ She realised belatedly that she could not feel Vostok as clearly as she normally did, as though the dragon were holding back somehow. ‘Has something happened? Did you find the amber tablets?’

  Vostok turned her head so that her great violet eye was close to Noon’s face.

  ‘I did not think this would be so hard. I thought that I had come to terms, somewhat, with what we have lost, but speaking to Micanal the Clearsighted makes it sharp again.’ Vostok turned her head away. ‘I am finding it difficult to sleep. Being in the trees reminds me, a little, of home.’

  ‘Of Ygseril?’ When the dragon dipped her head, Noon pressed her hand briefly to her snout. ‘I don’t trust this place, Vostok. I don’t trust Arnia. This is a place of lies.’ She took a breath. ‘Arnia goes somewhere on the other side of the island, and there are humans there! Humans scraping an existence off the land. Why wouldn’t she tell us about that? And Micanal must know.’

  Vostok didn’t say anything for a time. When she did speak, it was softly, using a tone Noon was sure she had never heard the dragon use before.

  ‘They are my link to a very distant past. They alone understand what I have lost.’

  ‘Did you know them? Before?’

  ‘A little. I was fond of Micanal’s art, of course. Many of us were. And he created many special pieces for the Nest, which we supervised and instructed him on. His sister, I only knew as a figure in the background, a shadow. She would bring him messages sometimes, or food, if he was working late. I never heard her speak, that I remember.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound much like the Arnia we know.’

  Vostok tipped her head to one side in her equivalent of a shrug.

  ‘When Micanal began speaking of a great record, a way of preserving our history, we were all of a mind that it was a magnificent idea. When I knew him, in my previous form, it was little more than that – an idea. As our most celebrated artist, we trusted him to do it, and to do it well. He was an honourable man.’ She paused. ‘I remember that there were war-beasts who regretted that they were not bonded to him, even though he was not a warrior and would be of little use should a Rain fall.’ The dragon sniffed. ‘It was vanity to think such things. War-beasts must always remember that they are weapons, that their goal is al
ways victory. No matter how beautiful art is, or how entrancing songs are, our place is always, ultimately in battle. But Micanal was a charming man, dignified and trustworthy. He was highly honoured among us.’

  ‘I’m not sure that he’s so trustworthy now, Vostok. They are lying to us, I’m sure of it. And if he valued you all so highly, why would he throw the amber tablets into the crevasse? You would think those dreams he had crafted of the lost war-beasts would be precious to him. And the humans! He must know about them. What are they doing here?’

  ‘The amber tablets are likely a lost cause anyway. Such things cannot replace the lost root-memories of the lesser war-beasts.’ Vostok pulled her serpentine neck up and away, so that her head rose into the branches. ‘And humans are hardly my concern. You say that Micanal is acting strangely, that he is not trustworthy. Perhaps you are not understanding him. You know very few Eborans, after all. You do not know our people, or who we are. Not truly.’

  Noon straightened on the branch, feeling her face grow hot. The life energy of the tree was a greenish tingle against her fingers, seeming to thrum with her own anger.

  ‘Well, humans concern me, because I bloody well am one. I’m sorry if that is a disappointment to you, but this is what you’re stuck with.’ Underneath the anger, she felt like she had been struck in the chest. Of them all, she had hoped for Vostok’s understanding, but the dragon was holding herself at a distance. ‘And your great and wondrous artist is not what he appears. Neither is his sister.’ She shuffled to the edge of the branch, preparing to scramble back down the trunk, but Vostok lowered her head. The dawn light played across her milky scales, briefly dazzling, and Noon remembered that she was sitting in a tree with a dragon.