The Curse on the Chosen (The Song of the Tears Book 2)

by Ian Irvine

Once the basket was several spans above the ground, the winders locked the winch and heaved on ropes to swing the tripod arm, and the basket, out over the cliff. It began to swing back and forth in the wind. They tied the arm in place and began to lower the basket towards the sea. The work was easier now but they kept up the same steady pace at the winch.

  It took a good half-hour before the basket was lowered to the point where the ordeal would take place, some fifty spans below them and a few spans above a huge, swirling whirlpool, one of a line of three formed between clusters of toothed rocks by a racing current. This whirlpool was ten spans across, and two or three deep, and its perimeter was flecked with creamy foam.

  The women in the basket raised their right hands. The women at the winch locked it, then signalled to the mayor with their closed fists. Barquine gestured to the assembled townsfolk along the cliffs, drew his head back and walked to the brink. After studying the basket, the whirlpool, the sea and the sky, he held out his right hand, palm downwards.

  Nish edged closer to the brink. He did not like cliffs, but he wasn’t going to take his eyes off Vivimord for an instant. The two women cut the ropes around the prisoner’s ankles, and his wrists, and opened the door. The older woman held Vivimord’s knife pressed against his back while the younger cut the gags. They were taking no chances with him.

  Vivimord spat out the rags and his roar of fury echoed up the cliff. He lunged at the older woman like a striking snake, trying to hurl her out the door. She must have expected it for she slashed him twice – once across the excrescence on his cheek, and again in a zigzag pattern down his scarred chest. Black burst from the excrescence like an exploding buboe; blood poured down his chest. She pressed the knife to his throat, her free arm hooked though the side of the basket, while the younger woman held him back with the rope.

  ‘The symbolic cuts,’ said the mayor. ‘A cheek for a throat, if you like, yet he lives so that justice can be done.’

  ‘Jal-Nish owes his life to me,’ Vivimord bellowed, using no rhetoric this time, just naked, quivering rage. The back of Nish’s hand throbbed. ‘He once swore an oath that he would never see me harmed, and he will send an army to avenge this insult. Jal-Nish will see Gendrigore wiped from the face of Santhenar, and its people sold into everlasting slavery.’

  Vivimord threw out his arms as if to cast a mighty spell, but the younger woman sprang, kicked him in the back with both feet and sent him flying out. He plunged down towards the whirlpool, trailing the rope, and hit the water with a tremendous splash.

  ‘If he is carried down and drowned,’ said Tulitine, ‘he is proven guilty. The rope is there so the body can be checked for signs of life. Should the whirlpool cast him out, he is judged innocent and the townsfolk will haul him up again.’

  Vivimord bobbed up and floated for a second, spread-eagled on the spinning water like a four-legged spider, with the rope trailing up from the middle of his back. He slowly rotated towards the centre of the whirlpool, reached it and was sucked under in an instant.

  One of the women in the basket let out more rope, until it lay in loops on the whirling surface. Several loops were drawn under. Nish realised that he was holding his breath. No one spoke, anywhere along the cliffs. The wind had died away and the humidity suddenly became oppressive. How deliciously cool it would be in the water.

  There came a concussive thud, then a pink dome of water formed at the centre of the whirlpool and expanded upwards until the whirlpool’s motion had been cancelled and the sea surface went flat. The dome kept expanding, rising, and Nish made out a figure rising with it, propelled upwards at fantastic speed. Vivimord burst up from the water dome as if flung by a mighty hand, slowly rotating in the air and trailing blood from the stumps of his legs, which had been sheared off below the knees. His mouth was wide open and he was screaming, though no sound could be heard.

  He described a spiral through the air like a seal thrown by a leviathan of the sea, the broken rope trailing behind him and his blood making a ragged curtain of red.

  A vast creature thrust its streamlined black head up through the collapsing water dome. Nish could not tell if it were shark or whale, or something else entirely, but as Vivimord spun down it caught him by the thighs, shook him back and forth as a terrier shakes a rat and hurled him upwards, almost to the height of the fisherwomen’s basket.

  Vivimord came tumbling down again, screaming shrilly, and the sea creature snapped at him again. For a moment Nish thought its jaws were going to close over Vivimord’s head, which would surely be proof of his guilt if any more were needed, but he gave a convulsive jerk, turned right side up, the vast maw slammed shut and bit him off above the knees.

  The leviathan seemed to nod in the direction of the watchers on the cliff, then submerged silently. Vivimord, now making a dreadful cracked screech, spun in another loop, blood spraying from his stumps. His agony-etched eyes fixed on Nish, and the mayor, and Tulitine, and he cried, ‘Revenge eternal, until the very pit of the abyss cracks open,’ then smacked into the water.

  Nish’s restored hand burned as fiercely as if it had been thrust back into Reaper. At every point where Vivimord’s blood had touched the water a cloud of red fog formed, and the clouds spread and grew until they merged and he disappeared beneath them, save for his upthrust fist. Nish’s left fist clenched so tightly that he could not open it. He shuddered, then the fog billowed up to conceal all. When it dispersed a minute or two later there was no sign of the zealot.

  Someone sighed; the woman holding the wavy-bladed knife dropped it into the water, then everyone on the cliff line cried out in unison, ‘The Maelstrom of Justice and Retribution has spoken. Vivimord was guilty and has paid the price.’

  Flecks of red foam revolved on the surface of the water. The women at the winch slowly wound the basket up again, and everyone headed back to the town green for Tildy’s funeral rite, and the wake to follow.

  Tulitine remained at the top of the cliff, staring down into the green water and frowning. Nish, burning fist clenched in his pocket, went back to her. ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you feel that justice was done?’

  ‘Few would argue that Vivimord has suffered a just punishment …’

  ‘But?’ said Nish.

  ‘There is no body.’

  ‘There seldom is when people drown at sea.’

  ‘With mancers as powerful as Vivimord, one must always check the body – and then burn it to ash and scatter it to the winds, as you said earlier.’

  His unease grew. ‘After all that, you still don’t think he’s dead?’

  ‘The body can’t be recovered, so there’s no proof that he is. Even more disturbing, the whirlpool, which has existed for hundreds of years, is gone.’

  Nish hadn’t noticed that, but she was right. The whirlpools further up and down the coast were spinning exactly as they had always done, but of the Maelstrom of Justice and Retribution there was not a trace.

  ‘Then we’d better get ready for war,’ he said grimly.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Maelys lay on her side on the cold floor, surrounded by flakes of dried mud, trying to erase that image of the sky palace smashing into the plateau. She could not bear to think of all its crew, and all those soldiers, wiped out in an instant. Though they were servants of the God-Emperor, they were also human beings with families. Having lost her own clan, she could feel for their tragedies.

  And after all she’d done to reach the portal in time, she had failed to save Nish or to take Vivimord down, or end dead Phrune. She had a feeling that the five spectres liberated when he’d been consumed by the chthonic fire would be worse than he had been, alive or dead. Why five? Was that a product of the Black Arts Vivimord had used to animate his corpse?

  Nish was lost, no one knew where, and all her differences with him had dissolved once she’d seen the torment in his eyes in the bedchamber, the pain of being controlled by another. Nish had been so deeply in the zealot’s thrall that she could not see how he would ever esc
ape from it. And if Nish was the only man who could bring down his father, what hope was there?

  Only one – it was more urgent than ever that they find the antithesis to the tears, and that meant reaching the Numinator.

  She rubbed her aching face. Having spent her childhood helping the clan healer, Maelys had known how to fix a dislocated jaw, but it would be painful for a long time.

  She sat up and the pool of grey light illuminating her shifted slightly. She could still see Flydd, but only Colm’s boots were visible now. Around them, nothing could be seen save the black, glassy-smooth floor extending in every direction until the darkness of the Nightland obscured it.

  ‘I thought you were supposed to be crippled with after-sickness, Flydd,’ said Colm. His voice sounded odd here, as if he were further away than he looked.

  ‘I expected to be,’ said Flydd. ‘Don’t know why I’m not.’

  ‘Xervish?’ Maelys said, feeling a trifle breathless. ‘I’m really worried about Nish.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Flydd, ‘but there’s no way of finding him.’

  ‘He looked like a zombie,’ said Colm. ‘Vivimord must have broken his mind.’

  He did not sound upset about it, which strengthened Maelys’s growing dislike of him. ‘He’s a lot stronger than you think!’ she snapped.

  ‘That he is,’ said Flydd. ‘I’ve stood beside Nish in many a struggle and I’ve had no more reliable ally.’

  Colm scowled and changed the subject. ‘What happened to the chthonic fire when the sky palace crashed?’

  ‘I’d say it was sealed into the depths under a plug of molten rock,’ said Flydd. ‘Trapped forever.’

  ‘I saw a woman on the way here,’ said Maelys thoughtfully. ‘She was clawing at the clear wall, trying to get in. Was that your woman in red?’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘She looked terrible.’

  ‘She’s afraid.’

  ‘What of?’

  ‘I don’t know. The portal was meant to bring her here, evidently, but I didn’t know that. When I directed it to the shadow realm she took it from me and brought it here instead, but couldn’t get to the portal in time.’

  ‘Why did she want to come here?’

  ‘When I was briefly in her mind, I saw something I wasn’t meant to see: some kind of phantom hunting her, a creeping thing of white shadow and black fire, constantly changing its form. I’ve never heard of anything like it.’

  ‘I hope it can’t get in here,’ said Maelys, rubbing her cold arms.

  ‘I hope so too,’ said Flydd, ‘though I’ve got a good bit of my Art back now, and I’m starting to think I might regain the rest, in time.’

  ‘Xervish,’ Maelys said uneasily, ‘Rulke isn’t still here, is he? I’m sure I’ve read –’

  ‘No, he’d long dead. He was freed from the Nightland by Tensor the Aachim some two hundred and twenty years ago. Tensor had waited more than a thousand years to take his revenge. He was a brilliant man but an even bigger fool; he killed Rulke and that folly has been shaping the world ever since. Had Rulke survived, the lyrinx would never have gained a foothold on Santhenar; there would have been no war, no scrutators, and no God-Emperor.’

  ‘And I would never have lost my heritage,’ said Colm.

  ‘You would not have inherited Gothryme in the first place.’

  Colm sat up and glared into the darkness.

  What’s the matter with him now, Maelys wondered. ‘Where is the Nightland, anyway? And how do we get out?’

  ‘I don’t know, to either question,’ said Flydd wearily. ‘It was created by the Council of Santhenar – the greatest mancers of the ancient world – as a prison to trap Rulke, the most powerful mancer of all time, and hold him until they could find a way to put an end to him. The Council were learned men and women who had devoted their long lives to the Art, and they had far more power than I do. It’s said that they made this place from a fold in the wall of the Forbidding, an intangible barrier which closed Santhenar off from the perils of the void.’

  ‘Why did they want to trap him?’

  ‘Many reasons: some noble, others base. The Charon were few – only three of them are known to have come to Santhenar – but mighty, and they lived for thousands of years. Just a hundred of them, The Hundred, took the Aachim’s world from them, and the conquest would never have succeeded without Rulke. He was a threat to Santhenar too.’

  ‘What happened to the Nightland after he was freed?’ said Maelys, rubbing her jaw, which ached every time she opened her mouth. Her rudely bandaged calf was even more painful. ‘Did the Council leave it in place?’

  ‘As I recall the Histories – and I haven’t got all my memories back yet – the Nightland collapsed after he went free.’ Flydd frowned. ‘No, that must have happened later on, for the Tale of the Mirror says that Rulke returned here, briefly. As scrutator I was required to know the Histories by heart, especially the banned ones like the Tale of the Mirror.’

  ‘Who banned that tale?’ said Colm. ‘It’s a matter of personal interest to me.’

  ‘Why is that?’ asked Maelys, picking dried mud out of her hair and flicking it away.

  ‘I don’t see it’s any of your business,’ he said coldly.

  It was like a slap across the face. Why did he feel so betrayed? She had never given him any reason to think she cared for him other than as a friend, but clearly he’d hoped otherwise. Damn him – it was lucky he’d revealed his true harsh and moralistic colours early.

  ‘I’d like to know what your personal interest is, Colm,’ said Flydd.

  ‘Llian of Chanthed wrote the Tale of the Mirror,’ said Colm, ‘and he married Karan, a distant cousin of mine. After they, er, died, my branch of the family inherited the estate.’

  ‘Llian was a great teller, wasn’t he?’ said Maelys. ‘I remember Father talking about him when I was little.’

  ‘He made himself out to be,’ Flydd said darkly, ‘though he’s now known as Llian the Liar.’

  ‘Not by everyone!’ snapped Colm. ‘My family never believed that story, nor the one about Karan Kin-Slayer.’

  ‘I don’t see why you’re taking it so personally,’ said Flydd. ‘They’ve been dead two centuries. You’ve got to forgive and forget.’

  ‘I never forgive an injury,’ grated Colm, giving Maelys another cold glance.

  ‘Then you’ll always be shackled by your own bitterness,’ said Flydd. ‘But since you’ve asked, the tale was banned because the Numinator ordered that it be banned – presumably because Llian the Liar made parts of it up, or changed them to suit himself – and the scrutators obeyed the Numinator’s orders without question – or else.’

  He grimaced and rubbed his chest, where a deep torture scar, from the time he’d dared to enquire about the Numinator, had reappeared after renewal.

  ‘I suppose the Council maintained the Nightland in case they recaptured Rulke,’ Maelys speculated.

  ‘Not all this time,’ said Flydd.

  ‘Why not?’ said Colm.

  ‘Because he’s long dead, and so are the mancers who created it. It doesn’t make sense that the Nightland still exists.’

  ‘Maybe it will just go on forever,’ said Maelys, resting her throbbing jaw on her arms and closing her eyes.

  ‘Nothing lasts forever,’ said Flydd. ‘Everything fails and dies, in the end. It took mighty Arts to create the Nightland, and more power to keep it in existence for all the centuries that it was Rulke’s prison, so why is it still here?’ He got up and paced around in a circle, hands clasped behind his back. The puddle of grey light followed him, leaving her and Colm in the dark. ‘Why didn’t it collapse to a singularity two centuries ago, when the Forbidding was broken?’

  Maelys couldn’t have cared less. She wanted to sleep for a month.

  ‘Something must be maintaining it,’ said Colm.

  ‘That would take monstrous power,’ said Flydd, ‘and not even the God-Emperor has power to waste.’

  Maelys he
ard Colm walk away with quick, anxious steps that did not echo. She sighed; after the pursuits, terrors, torments and betrayals of the past days, she found the Nightland peculiarly soothing. It was chilly but she was used to that, for Nifferlin Manor had been high in the mountains. Cold was better than heat.

  She took a quick sideways glance at Flydd. His jaw was clenched but he did not speak, for which she was grateful. She craved quiet and solitude until her shredded nerves could repair themselves. Before she left home, the forests of her family estate had provided a much needed refuge from the constant bickering of her mother and aunts. Perhaps the Nightland could provide a similar solace.

  Maelys lay on her back and rolled from side to side, allowing the cold to ease her overheated muscles, feeling her pulse slowly returning to normal. They were safe from Jal-Nish, and Vivimord. Nothing from the real world could touch them here. Flydd would find a way out, and there was nothing she could do to help. She pillowed her head on her arms and closed her eyes …

  Flydd was still breathing heavily as he tried to recover his equilibrium. Nine years he’d spent trapped at the top of the plateau where one day, even one year, had been as uneventful as the next – until Nish had appeared just a few days ago. Flydd’s world had been turned upside down; the time since then had been one crisis after another and he was finding it hard to cope.

  A mancer’s mind was least affected by renewal, for the brain could not be remade from scratch like the rest of the body. That was his problem. He had a strong, middle-aged body that he was slowly growing into, but he still had the mind of an old man.

  And there remained blanks in his memory, particularly to do with the woman in red. Why had she come to him? He felt sure it had not been an accident. Could she have picked him out long ago, even planted the idea that had brought him to Mistmurk Mountain, to do something that she could not, and bring her here? And he’d failed her at the critical moment, so what would she do now?

  Colm came pacing back. Maelys was asleep, a little mud-covered ball. He scowled.