by Tom Toner
Cladrastis had the right idea. Get away from the beach. He threw the ring down on the pebbles and ran out into the sea, almost tripping against the force of a swell, finally letting himself fall forward, tasting the salt rush into his mouth.
“Cladrastis, wait!”
His brother had swum far out already, the top of his head bobbing above the green. Melilotis swam a little and turned back once more. On the shore stood a small, strangely proportioned man, different in shape from anyone he’d ever seen, even a Firstling. Next to the figure was someone he thought he knew. It looked like Ulmus, but his little cousin somehow dwarfed the man at his side. Ah, well, he’d see them after his swim; he had to catch up with Cladrastis.
Melilotis turned in the water and kicked, trying to raise his head to glimpse where his brother had got to with every breath, but he could no longer see him. He slowed and swept his arms to bob upright in the waves.
“Cladrastis?”
The lime cove was empty all the way to the cliffs ahead, where the water darkened, making him shiver just to look at it. Glancing back, the distant sunny beach was empty once more.
It was as if he was the only person in the world.
Melilotis smiled slightly, raising his face to the strong sun. He ducked under and resurfaced, wiping the stinging salt out of his eyes clumsily with his knuckles while he squeezed them shut.
There was something moving down there, something he’d seen just before closing his eyes, a shadow glimmering into lightness. And a sound, lilting, almost like a song.
EPILOGUE
Perception
The old man unfastened his wrapped bundle of belongings and turned to face the sun. He had come twenty miles, he reckoned, since starting out this morning in the ice-carved valley at the edge of the flats, and could still easily make out the foothills of the mountains rising from the haze behind him. The sun warmed his creased brow, the heat of it glowing through his eyelids. The Most Venerable Sabran smiled, opening his mouth as if to drink in the warmth, and laughed a little to himself. After a while he sat, the pebbles of the cold, flat shore crunching beneath his weight.
“Yes?” He busied himself unwrapping his belongings while he listened to the voice at his ear. He searched quickly for his old wooden cup, taking it out and wiping it with the edge of his robe.
“Your kin? On the Old World?” He sat up, turning to his side as if someone were sitting there on the shore. Sabran nodded absently, leaning to dip his cup in the cold, clear water of a rock pool at the edge of the pebbles.
“You? Bound to this place?” He laughed gently, taking a sip. “And I thought all this time you stayed for the pleasure of my company.”
Sabran swilled the water around in his mouth, spitting quickly and dipping the cup again. As he reached over the pool, its reflections darkened for a moment, revealing a hunched shape beside him. He looked up sharply. “What?”
The wind keened across the shore, stirring his hair. Sabran shrugged, looking back into the pool at the grey form. “So he is free now, what of it? He will not come here.”
He listened, eyes searching the water. “Thresholds? I don’t—”
The whispering in Sabran’s ear grew loud, as if all the voices of the barren world—for there were indeed many—had chosen now to speak. The Most Venerable clutched his hands together as he listened to the parliament’s fury, kneading them against something other than the cold.
“There may be one who could help,” he said through the din. The voices fell silent.
“Yes.” He smiled. “A spirit, like you, but made by Amaranthine hands. We called it Perception.”
Acknowledgements
This book has been a big part of my life for some time now, and there are an awful lot of people I’d really like to thank for putting up with me while I’ve bored the pants off them all these years, firstly:
My dear old long-suffering parents, Bob and Janet, with all my love. Tony Pemberton, also long-suffering, thank you. My beautiful Steph, the sweetest, kindest of beans. My agent and friend Andy Kifer, who must certainly know by now that he’s The Man. My lovely editor Simon Spanton for taking a huge chance and Lisa Rogers for her clever, patient and occasionally hilarious copy-editing whilst wading through so much nonsense. Also, of course, Gillian, Marcus, Sophie and all the brilliant chaps at Gollancz, Night Shade and the Gernert Company. It’s been an absolute pleasure.
Some dear friends: the mighty Nick Wade, whose pen wrote the first five notebooks, Joss Cole, gentleman beta reader, Marty Jackson for all the swift halves, Helena, Booboo, Mikey and the Callinicos family (including Jessie) for all the sass, Lee and Kirsty Ambrose-Smith for my first review (“I’ve got no qualms with it”), Giddy for the cigars and pirate stuff, the Gomersals for a hell of a lot more than I’ve ever properly thanked them for and Tishy and Gary, who convinced me to give it all another go.
Not forgetting everyone around the world who looked after me while I wrote: the wonderful Rita-Rita for loaning me her home and shiny new laptop (which I still have for some reason, oops), Steve and all the Dolans in Australia, my Germans: Maria, Yula, Steffi and Johnny out in Berlin, Robert and Ilsa at Metropolis Gallery for employing such a bloody useless assistant and David and Karen at the Geelong tea house for all the free drinks. Thank you all.
Tom Toner
London
April 3rd, 2015