It was the wall of the Iron House, sheer and forbidding, that showed the greatest damage. The same long line of windows through which Carnelian, crucified, had seen the sartlar approaching that morning – had it really only been that morning? – those windows were now nothing more than a ragged slit from whose fissured upper lip wisps of smoke were still hazing up. Above, the wall had blackened and thinned. Through the surviving sooty filigree, Carnelian and Fern could glimpse hideous cavities the colour of charcoal. The whole smouldering mass rose mountainously before them, its cliffs and clefts, its mounds and gullies running with sheets and streams and rivulets from the rain that glazed it.
Overwhelmed, they almost fell to their knees, overcome by weariness and horror, weighed down by the immensity of death they had already witnessed that day.
Carnelian took Fern’s shoulder and drew him away to where something lay embedded in the mud. A black bowl that either of them could have lain outstretched in, strangely contoured, filled up with water. Carnelian bent to touch it and brought his fingers to his nose. Iron. He unbent and regarded it, thinking it had a look of Osrakum with its lake. Then he realized it was Osrakum, or at least a representation of it. The iron hollow was, in form, a turtle. Looking round, he saw the wheel from which this hub cap had fallen. They approached it together, gazing up to see where the green arch of its bronze tyre had come loose. The ruin of the Iron House loomed over them. Their eyes fixed on the wheel. The end of the axle showed the cracks and rings of the vast tree it had once been. The red spokes radiating up from it were whole, but many of those below had shattered. The massive rim had cracked in two places so that it now folded in like lips of a mouth in which the spoke stumps were uneven teeth. Gold discs studded the rim, which Carnelian knew must represent the cities of the Ringwall. Gazing at this immense, broken wheelmap, then glancing back at the Osrakum hub thrown away, half-buried in the red mud, he could not help feeling this was some kind of omen for the Commonwealth.
As if speaking to him, another of the spokes snapped, causing the wheel to fold in on itself a little more. Fern pulled him away as, with a hideous grating, the chariot slid towards them, shedding panels of iron. Stumbling, Fern fell with Carnelian almost on top of him. They gaped up. They flinched as panels clattered to the ground, right and left. Then the sombre stillness of the scene returned and the rain hiss. They rose, still gazing up uncertainly at the Iron House.
Fern was the first to walk away. Carnelian followed him, glancing at the bloody sky over the pale horizon formed by the edge of the road. Night was nearing: they needed to find a place to sleep. Fern was heading towards a strangely textured green ramp leaning up against the road. As Carnelian neared it, he became aware of the huge upside-down face embossed into the verdigrised slope of copper. The face smiled up at the black sky, surrounded by a halo of curls and spirals. He knew this thing. It was the Twins’ fallen standard. He remembered the hope it had given him that morning. He watched Fern reach up to touch its spiralled edge and, though he could not see his face, Carnelian saw the slump in the shoulders and dread rose in him that Fern was remembering the ferngardens of the Koppie. Fern ducked under the standard and disappeared into the gloom beneath it. Carnelian stood for a while, unable to focus his emotions. He glanced west, where the sun was making a bloody end to a bloody day, then he followed his friend.
In the cavern beneath the standard, Carnelian could hear Fern struggling for breath. Rain drummed upon the copper roof and some dim red light oozed in, but they were in a place separate from the world; safe from it. Listening to Fern’s struggle for air, Carnelian at first chose to believe it a reaction to all the death outside. He told himself he was too numb to care, but the sound was stirring up panic in him. He moved towards Fern’s barely defined shape, wanting, fearing to touch him. As he came closer, the sound Fern was making was like a cough, as if he were trying to rid his lungs of smoke. The strained wheezing was pulling Carnelian apart. He reached out. At his touch, Fern began sobbing. The grief in that sound sent cracks through Carnelian’s frozen heart. Each shudder in Fern’s body brought them closer. Carnelian felt his own grief spilling out, racking his whole frame. They collided and clung to each other as the grief overflowed. They sobbed for all their mothers, for all their fathers, for the children, for the Tribe and for love lost and the suffering of the world that was their own and for the dead forming the hills of the earth. Clutching each other so hard helped to squeeze out the poison and the tears. In the pressure of Fern’s arms, Carnelian felt he was being forgiven and he abandoned himself to forgiveness; forgiving all those others, forgiving himself. He was not the sky, nor the earth. He was nothing more consequential than a blown leaf. He was too small a thing to be responsible for all the suffering, to be the reason for it. The forces of the world shaped him; were not shaped by him. Carnelian drew Fern against him, wanting him to feel that too; feel the pain drain away. The heat in their bodies awoke a fire in them. Amidst so much death there was a need to assert the flame of their lives. For them both, it was a miracle to explore each other’s body by touch. The warmed brass around Fern’s neck. The scar about Carnelian’s. Fern’s fire scars. His four-fingered hands upon Carnelian. Warm tears on cheeks lubricated the turning of their faces to each other. Lips guiding them to that first kiss. The world forgotten. Breathing love names. Though Carnelian was the younger, it was Fern who was like a boy. They fell into their own joined flesh, both lost and found.
MURDEROUS GRIEF
Which mother can forgive the killing of her children?
(Quyan fragment)
Carnelian woke suddenly and, for a moment, struggled in the riptide of the wave that was about to engulf him. Breath in his ear made him aware of Fern, warm in his arms. Thin grey light leaking in under the eaves of the fallen standard allowed Carnelian to see him. He gazed in wonder, remembering the night’s frantic lovemaking. With his eyes closed, Fern was as beautiful as a child and Carnelian was loath to wake him. He lay back, adjusting his spine, feeling the ache from having lain all night upon the unforgiving earth, his shoulder numb under Fern, but he did not care about the discomfort, only the delicious weight pressing down on him.
He became aware of the barrelling python of the Black God’s lower lip curving its grimace away off towards the eaves. He could see the curling rim of the upper lip, the nostrils, a suggestion of the glaring eyes. On the outer surface of the roof, rain was drumming on the Green God’s copper face. Carnelian reached his hand up to touch the metal. Its delicate vibrations transferred through his arm to his back, setting off the first shivers of the feeling from the sound of rain.
Reality seeped into his thoughts. A harsh reality. Osidian had survived the battle. Such a victory could only serve to engorge his mad devotion to his god. There was no hiding from him, nor could he hope to hide from him what Fern and he had become. Not that he would have tried to do so. The rippling shivering down his back became trembling for a moment as he feared what Osidian might do to his beloved. Carnelian wished he was confident he could protect him. Crazed notions of flight flitted through his mind. He dismissed them all as fantasy. In all the wide world, there was no place he and Fern could hide. Osidian would have to be confronted. Carnelian ground his teeth, feeling how deeply anchored in him was his determination to protect his lover, or die trying.
He tensed. The rain had stopped and he was certain he could hear the scrabble of aquar claws on stone. Already? Of course it was obvious Osidian must pass here on his way to Osrakum. Fern was still asleep. It would be better not to wake him until he knew what was going on. Gently, Carnelian pulled his arm free. Fern sighed, but did not wake. Carnelian sat up, grimacing at the ache in his back, pulling his arm across his chest, rubbing some feeling into it. His legs ached too and barely supported him as he rose, then tottered towards the triangle of light. Nearing this, his skin became so bright it forced him to squint. He glanced back and saw Fern lying brown in the shadow of the eaves. There was nothing with which to cover their nakedness. Ca
rnelian cocked an ear to listen. The sound of claws had ceased. Was that a mutter of voices? He wished he had had the foresight to bring some weapon. If the Law still held sway, his face unmasked might be weapon enough. He dismissed a pang of guilt at the deaths he might cause. So many had died already, what were a few more? Was he becoming callous? He quenched his doubt by telling himself that none now could claim to be innocent of killing.
Keeping close to the side of the road, which rose like a wall, he edged out into the rain. He was already drenched by the time he reached the ramp that climbed to the road. He paused to listen again. He could definitely hear voices speaking with the lilt of Vulgate. By their tone they could not be Masters. Auxiliaries, perhaps? Whoever they were, it was likely they would be terrified by the sudden appearance of a Master. He could not imagine they would dare disobey him. He could get an aquar from them, perhaps two, and something for him and Fern to wear.
Vaulting onto the ramp, he began climbing it. As he came up onto the road, he saw three aquar turned away from him, their riders gazing up at the Iron House. For a moment he too was lost regarding its vast bulk, black and ominous against a grey sky. Then he raised his voice. ‘Attend me.’
The aquar whirled round, but it was Carnelian who was surprised: the riders showed no fear, but simply stared at him. He resolved one face and was shocked to recognize his House tattoo. Before he could see anything more, the aquar began folding their legs. Their riders sprang out even before the creatures had fully sunk to the road. One of the saddle-chairs had two riders, the smaller of which came running towards him.
His heart leapt. ‘Poppy!’
She stopped short, in some confusion, no doubt because he was naked. Two men with chameleons across their faces approached. He spoke their names: ‘Tain, Keal.’ Looking at the three of them, he acknowledged to himself that there was more to family than blood.
His brothers were unfastening their cloaks and, as they neared him, held them up. He allowed them to wrap him in one, while all the time they talked excitedly, Carnie this and Carnie that, but he was too stunned by their sudden appearance to be able to listen to what they were saying. When he was clothed, Poppy ran at him and he embraced her, laughing as joy came upon him that he was indeed among family. All of them were talking at once. They were asking him if the plan they had kludged together with Fern had actually worked; describing how frantic they had been when he too had disappeared; telling Carnelian what they had witnessed of the terrible battle; of the shock of seeing the God’s chariot burn; about the desperate hope that had brought them out from the camp that morning to seek for him and Fern among the wounded and the dead. Unable to respond to this flood, Carnelian beamed at them, until his smile caught on their faces and they were all grinning at each other like idiots.
He noticed a figure standing outside their group. It was Krow, gazing at him with an uncertain smile on his face, wanting to come forward, but unsure if it was his place.
‘It’s good to see you, Krow.’
The lad beamed and Poppy turned to him, grinning. She offered him her hand. ‘What’re you doing over there?’
Krow allowed himself to be drawn towards Carnelian. ‘You’re family too,’ he said and smiled when Krow sank his head.
‘And Fern?’ said Poppy, anxiously.
Carnelian glanced down at the green roof of the fallen standard, for a moment mesmerized by the oblique grin of the God, then saw a figure coming up the ramp. Poppy had spotted him already and went to meet him, taking Tain’s cloak. Fern was glad to throw it round himself, then stooped to kiss her. When he straightened, his eyes found Carnelian’s and they grinned at each other, shyly, embarrassed by their arousal. Becoming aware the others were staring at them, Carnelian broke the link with Fern and laughed, and they all laughed with him.
The questioning resumed and Carnelian allowed Fern to answer them so that he could feast on their faces, his heart overbrimming with love for them all. Keal, who had wandered back to his aquar, was now returning with something glinting in his hand. He offered Carnelian the thing he was carrying. ‘Father thought you might need this.’
Carnelian took the mask, turning it to see its face. He frowned. It was with a strange sense of dislocation he recognized it as the face his father had worn during their exile. Though, of course, his father was not really his father. Anger rose in him. Such thoughts were a betrayal. He lifted the hollow face up. Out of loyalty and with a desire to prove his love for his father, almost he put it on, but then he let his hand fall. ‘I will not wear this.’
He saw with what sombre faces they were watching him. ‘I’ve no need of it. We’re all family here.’
His smile and words lit them all up. At that moment the rain, which had slackened to a drizzle, turned heavy once more. Carnelian became aware of a dull rumble of thunder, then realized he was feeling it through his feet and saw that the others could feel it too.
The monster appeared from behind the Iron House, Marula riders eddying around its feet. Even with rain driving into their eyes, Carnelian and Fern both recognized Heart-of-Thunder, his chimneys sputtering smoke.
‘Stand your ground,’ Carnelian said to his family as the monster came closer, its flame-pipes swinging towards them so they could look up into their throats. Each thunderous footfall rattled their teeth.
There was a determined look in Fern’s face. Carnelian knew Fern would not part from him, even if it cost him his life. Carnelian felt a fierce pride in him. When he grinned, Fern grinned back and they turned to face Osidian together.
One last shudder as the monster dropped a leg. Then the hawsers tightened on its upper horns and the monster lifted the prow of its beak and came to a halt, leaving them in its rain shadow. Carnelian looked up at the topmost tier of its tower. He was certain it was Osidian sitting there gazing down at them, but he was as hidden by the ivory screen as if masked.
‘His fires are out,’ said Fern.
Carnelian saw that smoke had stopped rising from Heart-of-Thunder’s chimneys. A familiar rattle made him glance round to see the brassman being lowered. A figure scurrying out to its end released the rope ladder. Even as this unwound, a larger shape was crossing the brassman and soon descending. As this Master reached the road, he raised his hand in a command and Carnelian saw the Marula around the trunks of Heart-of-Thunder’s legs retiring. He was glad so many had survived the battle. As the Master approached, Carnelian could feel his father’s mask in his hand. He resisted a compulsion to put it on, determined he would confront Osidian barefaced. ‘I shall try to talk to him in Vulgate, Fern.’
Osidian came so close Carnelian felt certain he was going to touch him. The desire seemed there in Osidian’s gloved hands. ‘I thought I’d lost you.’
‘You have,’ said Carnelian, still finding it hard to believe Osidian was his brother.
Osidian’s mask turned to Fern standing beside him. As it lingered, the menace of its imperious face seemed to intensify. Glancing at Fern, Carnelian saw his rising anger.
‘You’ve won, then,’ he said to Osidian.
The mask stayed fixed on Fern a moment longer, then turned to Carnelian. ‘You have no mask, my Lord?’
Carnelian felt the Quya like a threat. He raised his father’s mask so that Osidian could see it. ‘I no longer feel I want to hide behind a mask,’ he said in Vulgate.
‘But the Law…’ Osidian’s voice sounded softer in Vulgate so that Carnelian was certain he could hear some doubt in it.
‘You- we shattered the Law there upon that battlefield.’
Osidian half glanced round as if he could only bear to look upon it with a single eye.
‘Did you cause that carnage merely to restore things to the way they were?’
Osidian’s mask turned back, but he gave no answer.
‘You must make a new Law.’
Osidian regarded the Iron House. ‘I must know beyond doubt my victory is complete.’
‘Do you seek your brother’s body?’
‘We must recover all our Chosen dead.’
Carnelian remembered the Master he and Fern had seen lying dead on the battlefield, unmasked, sartlar staring down at him. ‘The commanders too?’
‘I have already set the Lesser Chosen that task.’
Carnelian glanced towards the battlefield, where he could see the ridges of the dead and, for a moment, he imagined the Lesser Chosen commanders seeking the Lords, dead in their towers. Gathering those bodies was not a task they could delegate to their minions.
Osidian was beckoning the Marula. Carnelian watched him. There was a disturbing stillness about him and no sign of the elation he had expected. ‘You wish to bind the Lesser Chosen to your cause by miring them with the blood of your victory?’ he said, wishing to probe behind Osidian’s impassive exterior.
‘And to keep them occupied while I negotiate with the Wise and the Great,’ said Osidian, who was gazing off towards the Iron House.
Carnelian could see the strategic sense of it. ‘What did you offer them yesterday to have them stand down?’
‘Blood from my own House.’
‘And they are to bring the dead they salvage here?’
Osidian gave a distracted nod. Carnelian saw his intention: Osidian would gather all the Powers here, so that he might negotiate terms with them within sight of his victory over them. Carnelian was reminded of Osidian standing astride the ravener he had slain and of the power that had given him over the Ochre – and how, ultimately, he had used that power.
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