Nether Light

by Shaun Paul Stevens

  “There’s no cloud around him?”

  “Er, no.”

  “Rialto? The other Bindcrafter?” Deathly silence. “What?” Guyen asked.

  “Cursed to hell,” Rossi rasped. “Where they deserve to be.”

  What did that mean? Nothing good. It was of no matter. “Show me my brother,” Guyen demanded.

  “We need to get you out of here,” Yarvil said. “Your eyes are bleeding.”

  “This can’t wait.” He pushed himself to sitting, then struggled to his feet, breathing hard against a migraine. What was wrong with his sight? Had Faze blinded him?

  Yarvil swore. “Very well.” He offered a guiding arm. Guyen took it, stumbling forwards several steps. “He’s here, right in front of you. Like I said, he’s asleep.”

  Guyen reached out, seeing by touch—rough cloth, a sharp, stubbly chin, stringy hair. The sound of breathing, warm, moist exhalations. He touched his brother’s forehead. A normal temperature. He rummaged in his pocket for the vial. Still intact. “Give this to him,” he said. “Inject it.” He pulled out the syringe pack.

  “What is it?” Yarvil asked.

  “A cure, I hope.”

  The cadet hesitated. “This place is cursed, Bindcrafter. Let’s get out of here. You can treat him later.” Several murmurs of agreement sounded.

  “No.” The word was a growl. “We do it now.” This wasn’t up for discussion. The Dome existed to help the Unbound. They needed to fix him here.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never injected anyone before.”

  “I’ll do it,” another familiar voice said. Dark Carla.

  “Thank you, Carla,” Guyen said. “Can you work a syringe?”

  Rossi snorted somewhere. “Can a Scuff addict work a syringe? Do dogs fart?”

  “Thank you for that, sir.” She snatched the vial and syringe.

  Guyen waited, one hand on the altar for balance. Footsteps clicked nervously on the flagstones over the sound of Rossi’s laboured breathing. Globes, he was really hurt, although he seemed to have kept the worst aspects of his brusque demeanour.

  “Give me that lamp,” Dark Carla muttered to someone.

  Oh, to see that light, but there was only blackness. Guyen dabbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. Perhaps he’d make a good blind man—at least he’d finally be able to get over his infatuation with Ariana, he could be nothing to her now. And Rossi would look after her. He had that in him. After all, he’d taken a bullet for someone he could hardly stand.

  Yarvil let out a wince. “Don’t be soft,” Dark Carla said. “Pass me that.” Something transferred, there was a moment of silence, then she let out a breath. “That should do it.” She pressed the empty vial into Guyen’s hand.

  “Now what?” Yarvil asked.

  “Just wait,” Guyen said.

  “We need to go. Before more Rachnoo arrive.”

  “We wait.”

  The cadets grumbled, as the creaks of the Dome and the whistling wind coloured the empty soundscape for several minutes. Snatches of conversation drifted by. ‘Should tell him—Dark stuff—Witchery.’

  Yarvil gasped. “He’s coming round.”

  Yemelyan coughed. Sometimes the dullest sounds can be magical. “What’s happening?” he croaked.

  Light blossomed in Guyen’s heart, if not his eyes. He reached out, finding his brother’s hand. “Yem, it’s me.” His voice broke with joy. “You’re safe. Everything’s all right.”

  “Where—” Yemelyan stammered. “Guy, what’s happening?”

  “You’re fine. We’re getting you out of here.”

  “Where are we?” he panted.

  “I’ll explain later. Calm down. It’s all good now.” He was hysterical. Who could blame him? How much did he even remember?

  Rossi groaned again. “Can we go? Before things get awkward. I’m not sure we’ll be able to explain those bodies.”

  “Bodies?”

  “Er, Yorkov, there’s twenty men dead in here. Including a pile of meat we think could have been your master, and his driver, and Nyra. At least, we think it’s him. He’s—er—changed.”

  “Nyra?” Guyen muttered, half to himself. “What do you mean, changed?”

  “It’s his face,” Yarvil said. Muttered prayers echoed.

  “Take me to him.”

  “We need to go.”

  “Show me. I must know what I’ve done, what I am.”

  The cadet muttered a curse. “Fine, take my arm.” He led the way, several steps into the darkness. “He’s here.”

  Guyen crouched. A body lay before him. He reached out, running his hands over the senior Maker’s head. Where his face should have been, ran only smooth, featureless skin.

  The Book of Talents

  The Constitution

  An excerpt in verse from the manifesto of convicted Echelist, Treadstock Spakewell, hg.1666

  Through Blood’s Warm Curse

  To crave the sword, immune to shield,

  A dark destruction forged to wield,

  Spares not the weak or pure of heart,

  Its deep, thick vengeance, woven art.

  Through blood’s warm curse, a child is saved,

  To lance and scatter to the grave,

  Black reign of hell doth rest and dwell,

  Dead life its light and rot its smell.

  Emblazoned by the hungered worth,

  Consumed by space, at home in earth,

  To rule by fear, tear down the spire,

  To slaughter love of all in fire.

  And taste the greatest cut of all,

  The tangled breath of those who fall.

  NOTA:

  Spakewell, a renowned mercenary and member of The Constitution, an Echelon splinter group, was executed in hg.1666. The Constitution were more extreme than even the Echelon, believing they could strengthen the Binding through ritualistic murder. When Spakewell was caught, he released a manifesto written in prose and verse. His writings soon seeped into public consciousness, fermenting sedition and distrust of the concoction. The group has never completely disappeared.

  S.G.

  50

  The Memory Garden

  It was a bright but cold morning in Carmain. Guyen stood in the studio, looking out over the balcony at the comings and goings in the Bustle. The vivid acuity of the world outside dazzled, and was a blessing—it had taken several days for his sight to return. And he’d been extremely relieved when it had. Seeing was something you took for granted until it wasn’t there. On the street, traders traded and shoppers shopped, and a busker played tunes on her squeezebox. You wouldn’t have known anything was amiss unless you looked closely, but something in the demeanour of a passing patrol, numbers doubled for their own protection, suggested tensions were high.

  Tishara adjusted Guyen’s gown. Felix had provided it—a black robe with two zigzagging green flourishes weaved down the front. “Can you stand still?” she complained, securing the clasp.

  He sighed. “I don’t see the point of wearing this thing.”

  “It’s part of the ceremony. Making a Sworn is a time-honoured ritual. Jenk is rather a fan of tradition.”

  Guyen groaned. “He’s an idiot.”

  “Correction,” Tishara said. “He’s your kind of idiot.”

  He laughed. “It’s a waste of time. We should be tidying up in here.” The studio was a mess. It had been so for weeks, ever since Rialto and Nyra’s deaths. The subsequent investigation by the Office had been more than thorough, teams of dour-faced adjuncts ripping the place to shreds. Fetch had been beside himself. Boxes of equipment transferred from Rialto’s estate were yet to be gone through, and the Nerstolen sat at one end of the studio, the safe so far impregnable. Jenk had not wanted it in his new office at the Devotoria, replacing it, like most of Rialto’s books and artefacts, with Flags memorabilia and a gaudy bear rug.

  The Office’s investigations had irrefutably connected Rialto with the operation at Fort Encasa. Unfortunately, nothing had surfac
ed to implicate Jal, although there had been enough unease in a smoky room somewhere for the Office to suspend the retesting programme on a technicality. The Council were locked in a state of suspended inaction, refusing to confirm Jal’s permanent appointment as Grande Prime, and unable to agree on anything else, even when they should next convene. And all the while, the epidemic worsened. The situation was a mess.

  Tishara fixed his neck tie. “It’s important you look your best,” she declared, “now that you’re a legend in your own lifetime.”

  “You say it like it’s a good thing,” he returned.

  “The man who walked free from Stallenhall? Who single-handedly stopped the Culturalists, uncovered Rialto’s treachery, and prevented a coup? I’d call that good.”

  The exact circumstances of Rialto’s demise were still mainly rumour and conjecture. Guyen had done his best, on Jenk’s instruction, not to fill anyone in on the details. He shrugged. “If I did anything worthwhile, it was a fortunate accident.”

  “No one cares why you did it,” Tishara said. “They looked to Rialto for protection from the Affliction, now they look to you. Jenk should have made you Wield.” She stepped back, admiring her work. “Fittingly distinguished for the hope of the Makers.”

  “Thank you, Wield Volta. Ha! See, it suits you. Trips off the tongue.”

  She took his hand, fixing him with an earnest look. Sunlight sparkled in her eyes, highlighting the amber streaks. “Just promise you’ll be here to help,” she said. “I mean, Moran’s useful but—by Lily—I haven’t a clue what I’m doing.”

  He smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. Still, we’re going to be stretched. We should be on the lookout for fresh blood.” She offered a disapproving frown. “Pun intended,” he added.

  She huffed. “What we should do is get down to the quad. It’s ten-to.”

  “Fine.” He turned to Fetch. “Lock up, will you?” The dullard nodded, silent as ever.

  They headed down, passing two unfamiliar guards in the lobby. Security had been tight since his return to the Gate. Tishara pushed him out through the double doors, and warm sunlight hit, thawing his cheeks, as the crowd by the statue of the founding Maker turned to stare. Guyen glanced back, wondering whether he might not just make a quick escape, but Tishara smiled encouragingly, barring the way. A stage had been hastily erected on one side of the Circle, on which sat some of the senior Wields. Jenk waved for him to approach.

  This was to be a very special Making. Usually, the ceremony to promote an Ordinate to Sworn wouldn’t take place till summer, but one of the many conditions Guyen had imparted when he’d agreed to stay on, was that he wouldn’t have to set foot in Six Sisters again. It suited Jenk, who had elevated him wholeheartedly, freeing him of his duties with the other Devotions. Apparently, it was one of the fastest promotions in Maker history.

  Guyen caught Felix’s eye, nodding appreciation. Under the Substantive’s protective gaze stood another small group, not Devotees at all, but Yemelyan, Mother, Nazhedra and the girls. Dalrik had come through, good to his word, sending Mother and the others from Tal Maran to reunite them all. They were to start a new life in Pravos, without him. They looked on proudly. Guyen stepped onto the stage, and a drummer adorned in traditional Maker costume laid out six beats on his ceremonial kettledrum, startling the crows watching from the battlements. High in the sky, a single Red Talon circled below the wispy clouds.

  Jenk cleared his throat. “Good morning, Makers. We gather today to bear witness to the investiture of our brother Yorkov into Sworn Makerage.” A smattering of polite applause rippled around the quad. The attending Makers would likely rather have been anywhere else this morning. “Please, step forward, Yorkov.” Guyen stepped up beside the ruddy-faced Prime, closely followed by Toulesh. “You will repeat the vow.”

  Guyen recited the words. He’d taken the trouble of committing them to recall. “In aspect of stone, metal and wood, I, Guyen Yorkov, Maker Sworn of the brothers and sisters of Carmain, shall honour The Authority and gift hope to all the earth by those Makings which The Authority has inspired.”

  More polite applause rang out. Jenk offered the ceremonial hammer, a large affair decorated with gemstones. It required two hands to heft. Guyen took it, hoping this next bit wouldn’t hurt—Felix had assured him cold flame didn’t burn.

  “And so is the Maker born of fire,” Jenk boomed. He scooped up a handful of powder from the bowl in front of him and threw it up in the air over Guyen’s head. Emerald fire and intricate Faze patterns flared up, extinguishing all sight of the quad. More applause sounded, then gasps, as the flames died away and he reappeared like a phoenix from the proverbial, the gown transformed blood red and gold. Felix nodded over, smiling profusely. He’d obviously made some new advance with his cloths.

  The drummer hit another beat, and a cheer rang out. Jenk stepped up close and held out a chain, a new Pledge. The stone dangling from this one was inscribed Yorkov.s.MAK. “Just so we can keep eyes on you,” he said with a chuckle.

  Guyen hadn’t missed the old Pledge. It was a shame Mist couldn’t be here to see it, she’d have appreciated the irony. Maybe she was still too ill. Not that he knew how she was—as soon as she’d been well enough to move, the Network had taken her in. There’d been neither sight nor sound of her since.

  Jenk placed the Pledge around his neck. “Good show.” He stepped back and raised a hand. Another cheer rang out. More clapping followed, then the Makers streamed past, doffing their ceremonial caps.

  Harbrath hissed as he passed. “Quite the hero, aren’t you, Krellen? Perhaps I’ll name one of my snakes after you.” He winked. Toulesh reared up, racing around him as he strolled back to his friends. Snakes? Was he the scrag who broke into your room? Oh well, that was for another day.

  Jenk rubbed his hands together and turned to the Wields behind him. “Right, drinks in the refectory, gentlemen.”

  Nekic grumbled. “Should be getting on, Prime Wield.” Jenk didn’t inspire the same rigid respect Rialto had, but at least those who bowed to him did so out of friendliness rather than fear.

  Jenk frowned. “It won’t take ten minutes from your day, Undacort. Come on, it will be good for morale.” Nekic offered a resigned grunt, standing to follow, and the other Wields followed suit. Guyen descended the steps, making a beeline for Mother, Yemelyan and the others. He offered Felix a grateful smile. The Substantive withdrew with a perfunctory bow.

  Yemelyan clapped him on the back. “What a show!”

  “Stupid Sendali tradition, you mean.”

  “Come now, Guy, you’re one of them. Time to get off your high horse, isn’t it? Give these people a chance?”

  What was this? Advice from the bonehead? “Just because I’m staying,” Guyen muttered, “doesn’t mean I have to like everything about the place. But if you must know, some of the people aren’t that bad.” He caught sight of Tishara ambling towards the refectory. “You get any sleep last night?”

  “A bit,” Yemelyan said. He hadn’t slept well since his rescue. The serum had done a good job of stabilising his Binding, but could do nothing for his night terrors. He was looking better every day though.

  “Nice gown,” Evgeniya said.

  Guyen beamed. “Thank you. Now, who’s hungry? I hear the cooks are providing sweets.” Nazhedra’s two youngest threw their hands up. He put on a serious expression. “Well, what are you waiting for?” He waved towards the refectory. “Quick, before they’re all gone!” Their cherub faces wrinkled with alarm and they bolted after the stream of Makers. Guyen followed with the others at a more leisurely pace, and conversation turned to the new life on offer in Pravos. It felt rather like being left out, but he was glad for them—they deserved better times.

  The refectory was busy, tables piled high with a smorgasbord of delights. Evgeniya and her sisters quickly selected a fine variety of sweets and cakes, and the servants appeared with wine. Various Makers came over to offer their congratulations, but one man he wasn’t
expecting any kind words from was the sergeant-at-arms.

  “So, you’re staying on then?” Hielsen enquired.

  “I’ll be heading up things with Tishara in the studio.”

  “I see.” He offered a broad smile. “Well, if you need anything in the way of extra security, let me know. I’ve already allocated you a guard detail, and we’ve tightened things up on the third floor.”

  Was he for real? “Thank you, much appreciated,” Guyen managed.

  “Just doing my job, Bindcrafter.” He nodded curtly and turned towards a table. Toulesh stared after him, a bemused look on his face.

  The Memory Garden smelled sweet in the cold Fevern afternoon, an explosion of colour in the otherwise drab grounds. Plots were usually reserved for the death of a Wield, but Jenk had given special dispensation. These were, he’d said, unusual times. Mother looked on with a faraway gaze, Yemelyan’s arm around her shoulder, while Nazhedra and the three girls dabbed at their eyes. Guyen laid down the spade, the last of the three woven ash trees finally dug in—one each to remember Father, Zial and Kiani by. He blinked away a tear, not so much for the loss of the dead, but for the living he was about to lose, this time through choice. Carmain was no place for the people he loved in these fraught days.

  He touched the Song, sending Faze from the bucket of manure directly down into the roots. The plants’ Faze signatures strengthened, a bud appearing halfway up the middle sapling. No one noticed, but Toulesh looked on approvingly.

  “It’s a fitting tribute,” Nazhedra said. “You’ll make sure to water them?”

  Guyen smiled. “They won’t need it, anything planted here thrives.” The small oasis fed on warm moisture leaking up from the Gate’s creaking sewerage system. “But I will anyway,” he added.

  Evgeniya frowned. “Why can’t you come with us?” Her sisters looked up imploringly.