by James Stone
Vargul Tul wasn’t listening, though. He put a pair of blades to Shalleous’ neck, and the Wolf collapsed into the snow.
Three
Magmaya had convinced herself fear was a figment of the wind. And yet, she was falling slowly, but all at once; shards of glass were cascading from the heavens and shimmering like snow in the moonlight.
It was like an ecstasy of colours, and it hurt to watch. Her head pounded, and in the back of her mind an icy voice scratched away at her and burned like fire, ‘You must inform them.’
The words stung her throat.
‘Tell them, girl, and you will be free.’
Who? Whose voice was that? Magmaya’s mind wandered as she fell, and the sky twisted. The clouds bent, and the red sun turned black in the edges of her vision.
‘Inform them,’ the voice said, intruding her. Magmaya’s mind grew foggy as she tried to free herself from it all, but each time she tried to resist, the voice only got louder.
Needles prickled her skin and ran up her spine, ate at her arms, and bit her neck. There was an empty crying in her ears, and the stars were falling around her— falling fast! Faster than ever before! There were violet ones, blue ones, orange ones and ones of bursting green which no man could’ve ever even imagined. It hurt her eyes to stare too long.
Magmaya Vorr was floating, yes, but there was no sinking into her mother’s arms; there was no feeling the warmth of the sun. Her life did not flash before her eyes, and neither did the pain stop—it became a part of her.
And as she fell, the ground didn’t grow closer, but it was over in but a moment all the same. She could feel it: her heart beating out of her chest, rising through her lungs and spiralling into her throat, spreading like a wildfire that couldn’t be tamed.
For a moment, there was a dull ring as the fall came to an end, and there the girl lay sprawled on a bed of crimson.
Magmaya could almost smell the dust and entropy. The wind beat at her face, and for a second, her heart felt like it was clapping behind her closed eyes. Ice groped at her neck and seeped down her thighs where she just sat and shivered.
She still felt herself falling, though. Would the nameless gods ever let her rest? Couldn’t they just let her die?
‘You must inform them,’ the voice rasped again. ‘Inform Orianne. Tell your father to surrender the city,’ Vargul Tul had said, and she felt herself smile; no doubt would the fleeing troops have reached and warned Orianne by now. But would her people have enough time to prepare? It was a question she would ponder until the end of time, whenever that may have been.
As Magmaya dreamt again, she found her thoughts turning to the Paradise Lands and to the Silver City. It was said to shimmer above the earth like it was amongst the stars itself; chrome spires pointed to the skies as the people below sung and chanted and smiled. And yet, she was just another girl that lived in an inconvenient place in an inconvenient time. And there had been so many like her, and they had all died, wishes unfulfilled—why should she be any different?
The cold bit sharper, and Magmaya screamed.
‘Gods!’ she cried, and her face flushed with ruby. ‘Gods, I’m alive.’
Her eyes snapped open, light lashed at her, and beads of tears spilt down her skin. The wind and ice beat at her eyes, but she didn’t dare shut them and face the dark again.
Magmaya’s body ached, and not an inch of her skin wasn’t sore, it seemed. As tears pooled in her mouth, she lowered her head, found the mane of a horse, and let out something of a laugh. She watched her spit dribble down her chin and smiled. Snow whipped against her back. Colours melted behind her eyes; they were violent and strong—stronger than the wind.
It was only when she looked up at the winter sky that she felt the holes in her heart and lungs where something warm had been. And as the horse carried her begrudgingly through the ice, at last, she began to appreciate her predicament. I’m no captive, she realised. Captives are only of worth when their home wants them alive. If she thought for a minute that Kharon cared for her enough to surrender the city, she would have been sorely mistaken. Vargul Tul knew the clockwork politics of her home as well as she did. Eerily well.
Instead of holding her to ransom, the Mansel had sent her back to Orianne. The city would let Magmaya in, and she would tell them to surrender. She had seen what the Mansel had done to her uncle. There couldn’t be any more bloodshed—surely?
As she pressed her face into her hands, she noticed her own blood had dried between the crinkles in her skin. It might have been hours since the clash at the Sultide, she realised, and the Mansel would have inevitably outpaced Orianne’s men back to the city. If they were truly sending her as some kind of scout, then they were biding their time.
Magmaya felt her gut tighten, and bile filled her mouth as her fingers found something wet, threatening to spill into her hands. She looked to find a gash in her belly; it was bandaged to a degree, and yet, blood still ran thick through the cuts. But in her, there was no pain; there was only a dull ache.
In a moment of heat, she gripped the reigns, tight, and looked down to the Mansel horse. It was steadfast and strong enough, but not an inch of its coat was spared from a number of bloody lacerations and cuts. Magmaya felt her fingers brush over her bloody navel and looked on feebly. She raised her arm and struck the horse’s hide.
With a jolt, she felt herself running. The mountains became fainter and more distorted than they’d ever been, and ice glided past faster than it could fall.
She felt herself fading, yet a mad whirring inside seemed to take over. Something greater and more diabolical than her began to take the reins.
‘I shall inform them…’ Her voice was brittle and breathless. ‘I shall inform them…’
She found herself thinking of Rache and the gardens of Orianne; she thought of the flickering candlelight and the marble halls. She thought to the white sun and the pale moon, the pearly men on the seas and the hoary vessels at night. She thought to the bitter taste in her throat and the blood spewing from her gut. Anywhere but home—surely?
The horse was intent on taking her there, though. It scaled the mountainside as if it had a hundred times before, but occasionally, it would grow quiet and settle by a small frozen stream and force her to drink. It was so terribly cold, and Magmaya feared each sip was going to kill her more than the last.
And with each sip, she looked to the mountains and wondered if she could run that far. Jayce had—perhaps she was just over the hillside with that stricken face. The pair wouldn’t look too dissimilar anymore. Besides, the Free-Peoples would take anyone in, but she didn’t have a clue about where she even was.
And with each sip, she managed to convince herself still to get back on that damned horse and let it carry her home. She was starving, though, and she would’ve considered eating the bloody thing had she had any less restraint.
Whenever it stumbled over a rock or tumbled down a nearby slope, Magmaya reached out, half expecting Siedous to be there and catch her as she did, and each time, she found herself a mouthful of snow. If the nameless gods had indeed saved her, then surely it must have been for a cruel joke. If Vargul Tul wasn’t going to kill her, the cold certainly would.
It’s better to die now anyway, she decided. The falling snow felt so warm. She wanted to dive in and let it take her. But before she could move another inch, a sudden stench of liquor overpowered her. Magmaya’s eyes twitched, and she heard herself calling for someone who wasn’t there. Before long, she drifted into the clutches of a dream again.
Magmaya found herself dreaming of Allister Julne. All those years ago, he’d alerted his servants in the early hours to feeling unwell, but there hadn’t been much remaining to feel unwell by the time they’d arrived. The man had stood by her side for as long as she’d remembered, attending courts while she lazed and speaking on her behalf when she hadn’t a clue what was happening. Magmaya remembered, and he was alive again, somewhere in her head.
By the afternoon, a scribe had arrived to see Magmaya about the ado. They had always been quick, hoisting those endlessly long scrolls through their clockwork machines as he did in those sangria robes that day.
Magmaya had hidden her wine out of sight.
After their curtsies, she’d looked to the man that perched before her and sworn he must’ve been two-hundred years older than Allister ever was; his garnet-lined eyes and porcelain skin were like mirrors, though she tried better to hide her cracks. He had a kindly smile that gave the warmest embrace, but it was the embrace of a snake.
She’d felt a sickness in her throat, and she’d begun to grow cold. The man looked right through her, but all she could see were shadows dancing about in those glistening brown eyes.
‘Allister was an advisor to you, no?’
‘Yes,’ she had admitted.
The scribe had jotted something on one of his many scrolls, ready for its preparation in some old tome. Ever since the Dark Age of Transmutany, Orianne had made a great habit of recording everything; most of the continent’s past had been long forgotten then. According to the southerners, the clockwork ships and the Silver City were the only remnants of the golden ages that were remembered so far north. But they were beginning to forget.
‘We all must lose someone close to us, in time,’ he said after a while, and she’d looked up, perplexed.
‘What a strange thing to say,’ Magmaya remarked.
‘What is?’
‘Whatever you just said.’ She’d frowned.
‘Perhaps it was,’ he’d admitted. ‘Or perhaps I would like to know what came of my son.’
Magmaya sat back, eyes wide, and composed herself. She had felt awfully relaxed.
‘Your son was a traitor and tried to break the city,’ she replied, recalling the young lad and that cursed smirk of his. She felt herself remembering her sword through his neck, his blood on her skin, the sweat down her legs. ‘My father would have you hanged.’
‘My days are few.’ The man stifled a laugh. ‘If you want that, you should hurry.’
‘It’s lucky I’m not my father, then.’ Magmaya grit her teeth. ‘Where did you flee to anyway? The Free-Peoples?’
‘Where else would a dead man flee?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I may be old, but I have not lost my wits. The Free-Peoples taught me patience. I’m no convict, my lady, but it’s lucky for your kind I’m not my son.’
‘My kind? No. Not just my kind, we all are.’ She had sighed. ‘Are we done?’
‘It seems we finished long ago.’
The scribe stood abruptly, and Magmaya had sworn the walls had shaken. She wanted the man out of her sight, and if the scribe was to die as his son had done, it hadn’t bothered her.
Magmaya had stood before he left and called, ‘Guards!’
Her voice was frail, but it was enough to make him look on in horror. The door was thrown open, and a pair of armed men had charged in, clad in rosy-steel with hands to the hilts of their blades. Magmaya’s mind had whirred as she looked to the scribe, deciding his punishment. ‘Assure he’s exiled to the Deadfields or—I don’t care. Just get him out!’
It was effortless—the way they had taken him and pinned his weak, old hands to his shoulders. He was nothing to them as they stood over him like colossi of old—like the pearly men in her dreams.
‘On what grounds?’ the scribe asked, his eyes wide.
‘He attacked me,’ she’d said. ‘Went right for my throat!’
‘Lies!’ the scribe had screamed, but her men weren’t listening.
‘This man should be put on trial, my lady,’ one of the guards suggested.
‘No,’ she’d paused. ‘Let him go where he belongs.’ A bead of sweat rolled down Magmaya’s cheek. ‘The cold. I want this matter forgotten.’
She remembered watching as the old man fell to his knees, pleading, only to be dragged out across the stony halls. The guards marched mercilessly either side, and Magmaya forced herself to turn away, whipping sweat from her forehead.
Allowing herself the warmth of the wicker chair, she raised the bottle of wine from beside the seat and produced a small ritual knife from beneath her dress; it had been rusted and chipped, sporting an embroiled grip—forged in the south, no doubt. Magmaya had noticed it under the scribe’s robes as he had entered, and during their curtsies, had made an effort of snatching it before he’d had a chance to set to work with her.
She’d put the blade to the bottle, weened out the cork, and watched the red mist foam. A life for a life was what he’d proposed, but it was an empty debt. If only it was so easy, Magmaya had thought, though she couldn’t quite decide whether the gods had been cruel or kind.
And when she awoke again, she could still feel the knife pursed between her fingers. No—she wasn’t going to the Free-Peoples. She wasn’t going to find Jayce. She was going home.
Four
The screams and shouts of the night had become one with the cool air, but at last, her journey had met its end. And she was glad for it—her thighs were beginning to ache like all hells, and her hair was frozen and knotted. Besides, she wasn’t quite sure what was even happening, nor where she was, nor who the people were that carried her back to her city.
‘The way back is always quicker,’ she remembered Siedous saying, but it didn’t feel true anymore. As a child, she’d run back and forth across the city all day in pursuit of geese but getting to the hospice seemed to take a month. No, not the hospice—she had pleaded with them to take her to the palace and to Kharon Vorr.
‘It’ll be all right, girl.’ At last, she heard a voice she recognised—Kaladeous, one of Kharon’s advisors—as he walked and murmured over and over, ‘It’ll be all right.’ But it wasn’t all right, and her lungs were on fire.
There probably wasn’t a single man or woman in Orianne who didn’t know who she was—heir to the household and champion of its name, the scrawny girl born during a summer heat. But as she limped inside the boardroom, even her own father (no matter how distant) scarcely recognised her.
Hair fell like wet straw over her nose and sullied the threadbare carpets. Her cuirass was broken and chinked, shattered beyond repair. But something else was missing too. All her strength had been drowned from her, and the blue across her skin had become a violent colour. And amongst it all there was Siedous, holding her in those warm, grey arms she’d known so well.
‘We found her on a Mansel horse riding from the Deadfields,’ Kaladeous said with a flash of urgency about him. ‘She might’ve been poisoned, my lord.’
Despite the spit rolling down her lips, her mouth was dry. She cried and tore a chalice from Kharon’s table, downing whatever was in it. It was sour, and it hurt, but it was warm enough still to make her forget.
‘We thought it best to take her to the apothecaries, but she insisted on coming here. She wanted to speak with you, my chancellor,’ Kaladeous continued as he ripped the drink from her hand. ‘She’s bleeding heavy enough and—Magmaya, sit down!’
She did as she was told, but her head was throbbing. She gasped for air; the ache was in her heart and in her bones.
‘Magmaya, what happened?’ the old knight asked, and she couldn’t help but laugh.
‘A lot of things,’ she told Siedous, ‘although I doubt I have time to tell you them all.’ She spluttered.
‘Well, get the shamans up here, damn it,’ Kharon replied to Kaladeous at last, but it a gruff whisper. His eyes were empty as if it was not his daughter lying before him but some animal-thing instead.
‘They’re on their way, my chancellor.’
She scanned the boardroom, and her eyes froze, finding a small, gold vase. That’ll be worth enough coin to take both me and Rache south, she reasoned. Her mouth crink
led with pleasure at the thought. It was a cursed vase, her father had once told her, bestowed with magic from places even farther north than they. Good, she thought with something of mirth, people love to play with cursed things. It’ll fetch an even higher price, and I’ll be able to run farther away.
But before she could grapple for it, something sickly jolted up her back, and she collapsed into the old knight’s arms again. She cried, ‘They made me drink something.’ Tears welled in her eyes. ‘I’m going to die.’
Siedous leapt up, and before she knew it, Magmaya’s head was between her legs, and she was pale all over. Brittle fingers were forced down her throat. Her head turned heavy. After a short moment, she vomited.
‘It’s Dew of the Honey,’ she heard him say, frantic. ‘She’s drunk Dew of the Honey.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘A killing potion from the Summerlands,’ he croaked. ‘But the Mansel use it for torture, my lord.’
‘And what’s it doing to her?’ Kaladeous asked.
‘Numbing her.’
‘The Mansel are coming,’ Magmaya heard herself shout. There was some burning behind her eyes willing her on, but no one appeared to be paying attention.
‘And will it leave her?’ the chancellor asked.
‘Listen!’ Magmaya screamed. ‘Vargul Tul let me live. He let me live to tell you—’
‘Tell me what?’
‘Stand down,’ she spluttered. ‘Surrender the city.’
‘Likely!’ Kharon scoffed, looking about. ‘Where’s Shalleous in this madness?’
A thousand footsteps rumbled outside the doors, and her world fell into something an ocean. After a few moments, a legion of physicians charged into the boardroom, and she could only watch as they took her, their robes snapping against the cold until the light of the blade at Kharon’s hip sent her into a daze.
‘He’s dead,’ she murmured, and the last thing she saw was a look in her father’s eye she might have once described as conceit.
When Magmaya woke again, it was like her feet had been kissed by fire. There was a pit in her chest that had once raged with hellish pain, but now, there was just a dull ache where something should have been, gnawing away. And all around, shamans looked to her with relief. But most of all, there was silence—bar the static that rang out from hour to hour.