by James Bennet
Khadra caught her mother’s resolve in her mind, cradling her willing sacrifice alongside her doubt.
“Khadra,” Ayan said, and her eyes were wet. “My lucky one.” Puzzled, the girl answered, her thoughts a flood.
Mother we have returned we are successful we found the Star the Crook the Pschent I have seen such things the world the world but the witches tricked us the dead man cut us but—
“Yes,” Ayan said. “We were tricked.”
But the Queen has come she has come and we bring barwaaqo we bring God’s rain—
“No. It cannot happen this way. I should never have sent you. I was wrong.”
Wrong? Mother? I don’t…
Ayan opened her arms, prising the crack of Khadra’s doubt a few inches wider.
“Khadra,” she said. “Come home.”
Darkness gathered around the girl. It sucked at her limbs like tar, shot through with livid sparks. In the nowhere depths the Queen howled, a cudgel beating at Khadra’s mind, her soul ringing with rage and loss, shrill with desperation.
We struck a bargain! Blood for a boon!
This was true. Khadra did not deny it. Nevertheless, she had seen more than just the world alone. She had seen the danger of ghosts returned from the grave, how close they had come to losing everything. She had seen darkness and cold white fire. The Queen was great and promised salvation, but her lust for revenge had proved greater. Kamenwati could have destroyed her. The priest had almost usurped a god and plunged the earth into living death. Nor could Khadra shift the blame, much as she wanted to. Tricked or not, desperate or not, she could not ignore the fact that if she had not roused Atiya from her tomb, the risk of catastrophe would not have come about.
The red stranger had found her in the Alps and told her that there was a balance. It struck her now that the love between the Bull and the Cow was no different from the one he meant, that the Pact existed to hold back chaos, preventing disasters like the one she had escaped. Yes, she grasped that the Lore was flawed – perhaps it was a death sentence, as the Queen supposed, the Remnants facing extinction – but she had seen the dangers of breaching the Sleep, the evils that sprang forth. She understood the dilemma. A serpent Queen, a goddess returned to a modern-day country…Who could say what would happen? Hope and fear churned within her. The rains would come, and what else? Anarchy? Bloodshed? Revolution? People would view such power and crave it. Atiya would not bend to their will. The Lore would shatter and break. Had need blinded her like the Queen all those centuries ago, a spider turning to the scorpion, paying the price with betrayal and death? Was her ambition as mad as the priest’s, at best a selfish desire? In Khadra’s quest to bring barwaaqo, had she simply become a bringer of war?
She looked down at her mother, standing small and helpless on the stones.
In the end, the sight decided her. In the end, she was only a girl. Weary. Confused. Homesick. At that moment, Khadra would have given anything to sit with Ayan in their shack in Dhuroob, just to hold each other and let the dust take them, let the drought devour their bones. At least they would die together. At least they would die where they belonged.
Darkness and light were surging around her, a compound like oil and water, never meant to mix. With her shift of intention, her will reasserted the arcane physics, the division between reality and dream, the mortal and the divine. Like a diver tangled in seaweed, she kicked out for the surface, bubbles of smoke streaming from her mouth. The undertow pulled at her, unwilling to let her go. The Queen’s wail was a meaningless mess, the words unintelligible as Khadra wrenched her mind away from their strange symbiosis. The bargain was false. The deal too dangerous. Khadra had seen the light and to the light she returned. Gasping, flailing, she broke the surface, shattered the walls of spectral union and slipped the bonds of shadow.
With a thump, a clatter and a clang, the Star, Crook and Pschent fell to the temple floor.
Then there was a girl running, racing across the flagstones, throwing off the vines of darkness that clung to her arms and legs. Escaping their lingering touch, Khadra flew into Ayan’s outstretched arms, the bones and the beads clacking as she buried her face in her mother’s breast.
Home.
She was aware of soldiers slipping around them, their boots scuffing the dirt. A mother-and-child reunion clearly held less importance than the discarded relics, which Khadra, perhaps understanding human nature a little more deeply than when she had first come to this place, knew they would hurry to collect. Gently she released Ayan and turned to watch them. Like a bomb disposal unit, three men tentatively approached the Queen’s regalia, but without Atiya’s kindling presence, she could have told them they had nothing to fear. The Star was simply a diamond again, the uncut, fist-sized heart of a meteor. The Crook was an antique length of ivory, unearthed last year by a recently deceased professor. The Pschent was an artefact of Ancient Egypt, the tall double crown with snake and bird a shimmering, ornate marvel – but no more than that. Not any more. Khadra wondered how much time would pass before the relics gleamed behind glass again, in exhibitions in famous museums, the display cases locked along with their secrets.
Each soldier scooped up a piece of the Queen’s regalia and hurried back across the temple floor, passing Khadra and Ayan as if they weren’t there, as if they were ghosts from the sands, haunting this abandoned tomb. They loped down the steps, no doubt heading for the small encampment to report the relics’ recovery. Khadra looked up at her mother. Before she had a chance to speak, another man was standing before them, the troop captain if the stars on the shoulders of his shirt were anything to go by. The visor of his cap glinted in the sun. His shades reflected Khadra and Ayan, who stood as still as leafless trees, warily awaiting his judgement.
“Mimsaab,” said the man, greeting them curtly, but not without respect. “You remain in our custody. There are matters that require investigation. You and your daughter have broken the Lore.”
Khadra stared at him. Ayan bowed her head. To argue for mercy on the grounds of destiny seemed pointless now, no real vindication considering the wrongful summoning, the damage done and the near catastrophe. The Guild would surely hold a hearing. Punishment would come. Khadra saw dark days spread out before her with the vestigial insight of serpent wisdom. In many ways, she was changed.
The captain spread his hands, expecting them to speak. When they only offered him silence, he drew himself up and took a step towards them.
“Both of you must come with me.”
A shadow arrested him. The captain visibly cringed as another man stepped forth from behind a pillar and, arms folded, stood in his way.
Khadra knew this man. His suit was dark, a sheer layer of small, charred scales, all covered in dust. She recognised the emblem on his chest, emblazoned in red and circled by yellow. The man’s right arm ended at his wrist, the flesh there raw and bleeding. Mending. For three days the red stranger had followed them, chasing Atiya home. In all the confusion, Khadra hadn’t heard him land. The strain of his journey showed in his face, pale under the mess of his hair. His eyes, however, held a fierce green fire, forbidding the captain’s approach.
“No,” the stranger told him. “They have suffered enough.”
The captain didn’t argue. He frowned uncertainly up at the broad-shouldered man and gave a curt nod, reluctantly submitting. They spoke briefly, and then the captain was striding off, the man beside him, heading for the tents and the jeeps and whatever judgement lay in store. The red stranger – Ben, his name was Ben – glanced her way before he vanished down the steps, but she thought his smile looked a little sad.
Khadra tugged on her mother’s arm, a soft, calm insistence. Ayan’s face wrinkled in a question, and then understanding, she nodded. Together, mother and daughter shuffled down the steps and into the waste. No one watched them leave.
Khadra only looked back once. She alone saw the shadow standing by the altar, the heap of ruined stones that had drunk of her innocence. The lingering shadow, a glass vase
filled with oil and swirling motes, resembled a woman, bare-breasted, shapely and proud, but she was much more than that. Or she had been once. The woman was only there for a moment, a figment, a memory, a ghost. Then she faded into the sunlight, returning to the past and to dreams and to the depthless place where the old gods sleep.
Khadra and Ayan had walked about a mile, trudging along the rough slabs of the inland road, when they stumbled upon the hooded vulture. The bird, a fat creature of lustrous feathers and scabby claws, rested on a yellow rock, watching them with beady eyes. It screeched as the two of them drew near, a remonstration or perhaps a curse, and ruffled its big black wings in a manner to suggest the greatest displeasure.
Khadra halted and stared at the bird. The vulture screeched again, mockingly, she thought, safe on its perch a few feet away. The girl smiled. She was no longer afraid of fireside tales, of long-eared hags who stalked the wastes, preying on poor lost children. In many ways, she was changed.
She raised an arm, one finger pointing at the bird. Ayan gave a cry as there came a great flash, a brief, blinding crackle of light. The vulture leapt from the rock and flapped into the air, squawking in obvious pain. The echoes followed the bird up and over the desert, its wings leaving a trail of smoke. The girl didn’t think Dhegdheer would return.
Khadra took her mother’s hand. At first Ayan recoiled from the heat, the tingling feel of her daughter’s flesh. Then she sighed and relaxed. She let the girl lead her into the south, away from the outskirts of Elaayo and the endless, roaring laughter of the Gulf.
On the horizon, clouds gathered. Impossibly, they gathered. A billowing black mass was rumbling towards them, welcoming them home. Static danced and flickered in the depths. Tumbleweed rolled through the dust, scrawling a song or a prophecy. The sun glared in the darkening east, fearful of this challenge to his tyranny.
Khadra smiled at the light inside her and walked on into the desert.
And the sands whispered roob, rain.
The sands whispered rajo.
Hope.
Author’s Note
Myths are alive. Stories aren’t static. No matter how young or how old, myths are reborn every time a fresh pair of eyes alights on the page to read them.
I have taken several liberties with myths while writing this book. Please don’t take my word for it. The stories are out there, waiting for you to read them again.
Among others, The Romance of Fouke le Fitz Waryn, The Legend of the Lambton Worm, The Tale of the Mordiford Dragon and The Tale of the Shipwrecked Sailor all went into this novel’s bubbling cauldron. Keen-eyed readers will also note that the author has an interesting take on recorded history. Let me stress that this book takes place in the world of myth – a world much like our own – and in any case, who can say for sure which one is which?
Acknowledgements
Dreaming and writing are solitary arts, but the making of a novel is not. This is a good place to mention a handful of people who have helped this story leap from ember to flame.
Firstly, a special mention to Sarah Ann Watts for reading this story when Embers was only a short and for reading every chapter thereafter of the novel this became. Her feedback, loyalty and encouragement have proved invaluable and I am for ever indebted.
Thanks to John Jarrold, agent extraordinaire, for his excellent advice, confidence and enthusiasm.
Thanks to Tim Holman for giving me my shot, Anna Jackson for her fantastic editorial skills, insight and support, Joanna Kramer in London and Lindsey Hall in New York for the same and everyone on the Orbit team on both sides of the Pond. Thank you for sharing my vision. Thanks to Tracey Winwood for her patience with the interior symbols and for the fabulous book cover.
Thanks to Aunty Adele and everyone at Fox Spirit Books for bringing my stories to a wider audience. You rock. There are far too many friends, authors and artists to list on one page. All have inspired, encouraged and entertained me over the years, as I tapped away in this spare room or that, drinking tea (and wine) through life’s various ups and downs, all across this fair isle of ours. Most notable of whom I’d like to thank are Liz Smith, Holly Brown, Rhi Firth, Richard Varden, Jan Martin, Mike Watkin, Carolyn Ollson, Jane Hurley-Cosserat, Arron Bailey, Sam Morgan, Abi Harrison, Kelly Jones and Will Williams for boundless positivity, laughs, hugs and encouragement. Also to Julie Hutchins and Julia Knight for unflagging moral support. For fear of leaving anyone out, I will simply say that all of you have my eternal gratitude.
Thanks to Sue for tea and sympathy.
And with love to my family, far and wide, to whom I dedicate this novel.
Thank you.
Look out for the next Ben Garston novel…
Ben Garston broke the Lore. It’s time to face the music.
Ben Garston – Red Ben to his friends – is about to find out that a resurrected goddess and an undead priest were the least of his worries.
Six months after the events of Chasing Embers, the breach in the Lore has shaken the Remnant world to its foundations. Blaise Von Hart, the Fay ambassador, is missing. The Guild has scattered in disarray, making room for the rise of a new human order, the fanatical saint cult named the Whispering Chapter. And the Whispering Chapter has no love of Remnants…
Worse, there has been another breach, a strumming of the mysterious mnemonic harp, splintered long ago after sending the Remnants into the Long Sleep. After centuries of slumber, the dragon Mauntgraul, the White Dog, sees the modern world and everything that Ben holds dear as a ready and waiting feast…
…coming soon!
extras
about the author
James Bennett is a British writer born in Loughborough and raised in Sussex, South Africa and Cornwall. His travels have furnished him with an abiding love of different cultures, history and mythology. He’s had several short stories published internationally and Chasing Embers is his debut fantasy novel. James currently lives in west Wales and draws inspiration from long walks, deep forests and old stones…and also the odd bottle of wine.
Find out more about James Bennett and other Orbit authors by registering for the free monthly newsletter at www.orbitbooks.net.
interview
What was the inspiration behind Chasing Embers?
A medley of things, really. Fairy-tales and myths. Bond movies. Historical mysteries. Indiana Jones. The occult. When I sat down to write the novel, my main drive was to “make a movie I’d like to see”. That was kind of my mantra at the start, but as I got into the research, it became deeper than that. It became “write a book that encompasses your love of Fantasy, old and new”. In many ways, Chasing Embers is a love letter to the genre, so as you can imagine, a lifetime of inspiration went into writing it. Mostly, I wanted to have fun. I wanted to create a world to play in.
How much research did you carry out to write the book?
A mountain. The images tend to come to me well before the plot. I’ll visualise a scene or a conversation, think, “Wouldn’t it be cool if a dragon landed in the middle of that…?” and then realise I know next to nothing about the subject. That was certainly the case with the medieval aspect and all these wonderful descriptions of fabulous beasts. To the medieval mind, these creatures really existed and the resonance of that helped the story. Imagine a world where all of it was true! The historical research is a learning curve and that makes the books interesting to write. I’m educating myself through bunkum, in a way. So far I’ve learnt about the roof of the British Museum, oil refineries and a bit about Ancient Egypt. I don’t worry about getting the odd thing wrong (though I do my best to be accurate) and I’m happy to stretch events for dramatic effect. It’s an alternative world, after all. Of course, the overview of history mirrors Ben’s long experience, so in terms of his character, that’s all to the good. I get to see the times through his eyes. I love it. Nothing is stranger than history.
Which was your favourite character to write?
Ben. I love all my characters, but Ben is always th
e best fun because he is the least like me. The witches were grimly entertaining and Von Hart always makes me chuckle as I’m writing. Ben remains an exploration. He’s part wish fulfilment, part antihero. He’s a beautiful mess. And as an author, I get to be mean to him. I love travelling with him the most. He gets to do and say things I never could.
Which type of legendary character or creature do you most identify with?
Fairies. Creatures that are looked upon with suspicion and often blamed for all the ills in the world, but still manage to remain fabulous. Go figure.
What was the most challenging thing about writing this novel?
It was important to me to portray an Africa I might recognise, without denying the strength and beauty of its people. Approaching different cultures to your own is always tricky and you need a willingness to learn, but also a great respect. Africa, as a presence, as an experience, took up a lot of my childhood, even if I was in the south. Seeing through Khadra’s eyes was tough, because I never had that perspective and I know I never will, so you’re aware you’re writing from a place of privilege. Tremendous privilege. Really, Chasing Embers is Khadra’s story. Her journey is an overcoming, a dream solution to an impossible situation. That was challenging to write, yes, and I still don’t know if I got it right. In the end, I didn’t want to write a completely western-centric novel. I wanted to use the elements of the world I’ve seen and which is every bit as rich as western society.
What can we expect from the next Ben Garston novel?
Trouble. Von Hart wasn’t wrong. The events of Chasing Embers will have pretty dire consequences for Ben and the Remnant world overall. I wanted to show more of that world, more Remnants and what’s become of them in modern times. The establishment has been badly shaken. Things that worked a hundred years ago don’t work so well now. We meet some new friends and some new enemies. The follow-up is a darker novel, I think, in terms of its ambition and themes. The stakes are higher, the morality less clear cut, but there is just as much globetrotting, quips, magic, mythology and horrible things from the nether. Ben isn’t in the best emotional state to cope, however – not that he has much choice. *evil author laugh*