The Shattered Sun

by Rachel Dunne

  “Then why didn’t you?”

  He could hear Rora sucking her teeth. “You’ve taken damn near everything from me, and even when I think there’s nothing left for you to take, you find something and snatch it away. I hate you, and I want you dead, and I wouldn’t mind being the one to kill you myself.” She kicked at a broken piece of chair, sent it skittering off into a corner. “I want my life back, and I want everything back that I’ve lost. Only way I see of getting a chance to get it all back is if the world goes back to how it’s supposed to be. The more people trying, the better I figure the chances are. I just want this all to be done.”

  “So do I,” Joros muttered.

  “Then come on. Everyone’s talking. Vatri says you’ve got a plan, and Neira’s got one, too, and Tare thinks the Dogshead might even send some of the pack for help, with some convincing.”

  Joros blinked at her slowly, wondering why she was being . . . not nice, exactly, but more compassionate than he would have ever given her credit for. “Your brother,” he started to say, but stopped. There was no benefit to telling her. A kindness did not automatically deserve a kindness in turn. And he had promised Aro he wouldn’t tell.

  “What about him?” Rora asked stiffly.

  Joros chewed on the inside of his cheek and finally said, “He’s not any better. You may be smart enough to have realized he was simply a convenient excuse for me to leave, but . . .” A partial truth balanced on Joros’s tongue. “If there was a way I could make him well again, I would.”

  Her expression was that of someone used to swallowing their feelings—a peculiar blankness that showed cracks only in the twitch near the left side of her mouth. “Let’s go,” she said, turning away. “I’m fecking sick of the darkness.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Anddyr thought it was a hallucination at first—though he knew it was far to the south and west, suddenly Mount Raturo was there, piercing the swirling sky ahead of him. He flinched and yelped and scrambled for the closest cover he could find, falling into a prickle-bush and curling up at its heart until his own heart slowed enough that he could peek through the thorns without tasting panic.

  And sure enough, there was Raturo, a jagged spire scraping the sky. Like everything in his new sight, it was built from shifting smoke, but there was no denying the reality of it. He hadn’t had a single hallucination since he’d taken his eyes, no matter how deeply into madness he sank. That was one change for the positive, at least.

  But it meant Raturo was real, somehow, and here.

  Though his heartbeat had returned to normal, it began to race again as he realized what he needed to do. He knew they’d be there, in the impossible mountain, how could they not be—but he had to be sure. He couldn’t afford any mistakes.

  Anddyr took a deep breath, and crawled backward out of the tangle of branches; he needed more space than it allowed him. He knelt on the ground, deadfall and detritus pricking his knees, and opened his pack before him. He pulled out Sooty first, and tucked her under his arm. Then he reached in for the blue-swirling seekstone, its smoke so similar to that which made his own form. He laid the bundle out before him and, after another deep breath, reached out to grab the seekstone. With his new sight, it looked as though the seekstone became a part of him, melding with the blue smoke of his hand.

  Fire tore through Anddyr, but there was no light to it. There was only, ever, the darkness.

  The beacon call burned through him, pointing and guiding, and he flung his body forward, arm outstretched as his fingers sprang open. He could manage that much, at least, before the gibbering madness took him.

  It was a quick spiral down to the depths, where Anddyr dwelled screaming and raving and weeping, clawing at the ground and at his blue-smoke flesh, begging Sooty to help or to make it stop. But it didn’t, not for a very long time. It seemed to last longer, each time he used the seekstone, his punishment lengthening for daring to touch the mind of a god.

  When finally it released him, and Anddyr went floating sluggishly to the surface of his sanity, it felt as though hours had passed. He had no way of knowing—the stars were not present in his smoke-made world, and he couldn’t find the moon, so all he had was the rumbling in his stomach, which rarely stopped anyway.

  Anddyr did find the seekstone, though—flung out from him to land in the direction it had shown him, and he could draw a straight mental line between it and the earth he’d turned up in his mad writhing. Unsurprisingly, that mental line pointed directly toward Raturo.

  He’d known, but he’d needed to be sure.

  Anddyr collected all his things, wrapping the seekstone back up without touching it, and tucking loyal Sooty back into her bag. He returned to the road, then, and with his heart moving significantly faster than his feet, began walking toward the impossible Mount Raturo.

  Anddyr had had to learn how to walk again. He’d stumbled from the hut of his rebirth, falling repeatedly, tripping over his own feet and finding plenty of other things to trip over. He’d ended up crawling out of the village—the crawling was not any kinder to his hands and knees, but it had at least saved them the repeated impacts of falling. Still, he’d crawled headfirst into a tree, and used that as a good enough signal that it was time to curl into a ball and not move for a while.

  More accurate to say that he’d had to learn to trust his eyes again.

  In his new world built from shifting smoke, seen through eyes that were no longer there, distances were not the same as they had been. A tree that looked to be the proper distance away for decent conversation was, in fact, much farther away when he reached out a blue-smoke arm to touch it. A shifting black village that seemed so far up the road as to not be a concern for another few hours suddenly rushed forward to meet him, sending him lurching off the road in a panic.

  It was a different kind of sight, but it was still sight, and that was more than a fool could have hoped for.

  Having learned many of the ways in which his new sight could trick his mind, Anddyr was almost—but not quite—surprised that, the closer he drew to Mount Raturo, the smaller it grew. From a distance it had seemed huge and hulking, the same scale as the real thing; but closer, he could see that it wasn’t the true Raturo, that it was smaller and more straight-sided. It was still a massive earthen spire but, for someone who had cowered in the shadow of Mount Raturo, this was not as impressive a thing.

  But it was where the Twins were. Or where Fratarro was, at least, and whatever was left of the boy whose body he had stolen. Whatever was left for Anddyr to try to save.

  He got surprisingly close to the small mountain before anyone stopped him, but when he was stopped . . .

  It burned like white fire across his smoke-swirling sight, like a star shooting through the night sky but shooting toward him, a flash of radiance that lingered and loomed and knocked Anddyr onto his backside with the sheer surprise of it. He squinted reflexively, though it did nothing—there was no way to stop seeing anything, and no way to block the burning light.

  When it was over him, nearly on top of him, the light dimmed slowly to become something almost more wondrous: points of the same white fire scattered over the deep black of the thing’s shape, with the points connected by thin and shimmering threads of fire. It was like a living map of the constellations, and from it he could begin to make out the shape of the thing—long and reptilian, and at the core of its star-map form, two red eyes glowed.

  Anddyr gaped, unsure what he was seeing, unsure that he could trust his eyes anymore. From all his days among the Fallen, he knew well the history of the Twins, of all that had led to their Fall—he knew that Fratarro had shaped a living race of his own, and he knew that jealous Patharro had killed every last one of the new race. Yet . . .

  The thing tilted its head, and said in a musical voice, “You should not be here.”

  Anddyr swallowed hard, and croaked out, “What are you?”

  The head tilted the other direction. “That is not the right question.”<
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  “I . . .” Anddyr’s hands were shaking and, desperate, he clawed his travelsack from his shoulder and dug in it until he could close both hands around Sooty’s comforting form. The blue seekstone glowed invitingly, but he ignored it. He didn’t need it anymore. Holding Sooty tight, Anddyr managed to control his breathing and, at length, push himself up to standing, where he was much taller than the impossible creature, where he felt taller than the impossible mountain in the near distance. “Will you take me to them?”

  “That is a better question. Come.” The mravigi turned toward the mountain and began to walk, and Anddyr followed after its constellation tail.

  Maybe soon, he would wake up in the cellar back at Joros’s estate and realize it had all been a dream, everything since before Neira, that it had all been a madness-made fiction. He rather expected it. It at least allowed him to enjoy the magic of the dream while he lived it.

  As they drew closer to the mountain, more star-streak mravigi emerged and faded in his sight, their light so strange and beyond anything his new sight had yet shown him. It was always swirling shades of darkness, with people colored in blue smoke—or perhaps it was blood that shone blue for him, for seekstones were built from the old blood magics and swirled with the same blue as all the other people he’d yet seen. There had been no stars, no light at all, until now. He supposed it was fair that in the vision granted by the Twins, Fratarro’s own creations should look so beautiful.

  There were some people, but not so many of them. Most, like the other mravigi, ignored or avoided him until finally a hulking someone approached. The person nodded to Anddyr’s escort, who trilled and then slipped away without so much as a farewell, leaving Anddyr feeling dazed and clinging all the more tightly to Sooty.

  This was the first person Anddyr had really met since taking his eyes, and it was more confusing even than he’d feared. His new sight gave him very little detail—he saw only the shape of a face and none of its contours, only darker pits for eyes or mouth but nothing to give expression, nothing even to tell him if it was a man or a woman. He couldn’t tell if they were angry to see him or pleased, if they were scowling at Sooty or smiling in understanding. Anddyr simply waited, feeling wretched, and not very much enjoying this part of the dream at all.

  Finally the person asked, with a deep-throated but female voice, “Where are your robes, son?”

  “I’m not a preacher,” Anddyr said with inexplicable relief. Perhaps it was simply talking to a person again. Perhaps it was that, though he could likely assume this woman wore black robes, he couldn’t see them and so felt none of the sick terror he usually did upon seeing any preacher.

  He could feel her rising uncertainty, almost like palpable waves. “Then what are you?”

  “I’m a mage.”

  “Who took your eyes?”

  “I did.”

  If anything, that just seemed to make her more uncertain. “You . . . ?” She paused, and he could see her weight shifting from foot to foot, saw her head turn as she glanced around—he assumed, after she spoke again, that she was looking for someone else to make a decision for her. “I suppose you’d better come with me. The mravigi wouldn’t have brought you if you were a danger, and . . . they can figure you out inside.”

  Anddyr nodded agreeably, and followed the woman toward the mountain. There were still so very few people, and none that acknowledged him, and none that his guide seemed to think she could foist him off on. Anddyr stared at the mountain’s peak, dark against the dark-swirling sky, and had to tilt his head back farther and farther as they approached to keep it in sight, until he was staring directly upward and tripped over his own feet.

  Finally they reached the mountain, and the woman pressed her hand against its surface. Anddyr watched some of the blue of her palm seep into the mountain, spreading like a halo before it dissipated—all but confirming for him that blue, in his new sight, was indeed blood. Just like it had been in Raturo, blood opened unseen doors, and his guide led him into the mountain.

  It would be dark inside, he knew, likely utterly lightless, or as sparsely lit as could be managed. But that was another advantage to his new sight—there was no difference between dark and light. Had there been a sun, he imagined it would not touch the shifting black smoke at all. So though it was likely black as pitch within the hallway he stepped into, Anddyr could still make out the lines of the walls, stretching and twisting ahead. They were still hard to see, only dim, subtle differences in shading between the walls and the floor and the ceiling, but he could see them.

  His guide kept one hand pressed against the wall as she led him deeper into the mountain, and he knew, then, that she still had her eyes.

  The halls she led him down, past only the occasional person—like Raturo, it was a massive space for comparatively few people—were lit by occasional torches. Anddyr knew this because fire, too, shone differently from the black smoke—he could see the actual flame, flickering against the blackness, and burning almost as painful-bright as the mravigi had. He couldn’t look at the torches for very long.

  The halls eventually opened onto a wider room that had some small comforts—a few chairs, a hooded lantern whose flame didn’t burn Anddyr’s eyes so terribly, what were likely hangings on the wall but looked to Anddyr simply like darker squares against the walls. There was a person seated in one of the chairs, bent over a lap desk, and one of the star-map mravigi lying at his side.

  “Godson,” Anddyr’s guide said softly, and the figure in the chair lurched upright.

  “What?” it snapped in a man’s voice.

  “I . . . I wasn’t certain who to bring this to. This man is a mage . . .”

  The seated man seemed to make a frown. Inspecting his face as best he could, Anddyr noticed the man had a single dark splotch on his blue face—only one eye, where Anddyr was used to seeing two or none. The mravigi lifted its head and stared at Anddyr as well, with its two red eyes among its star-dotted form. The weight of both of their regards made Anddyr feel small.

  “Why have you come here, mage?” the man called Godson asked.

  Truthfully, Anddyr answered, “I’ve come to see the Twins.”

  “To what end?”

  “I’ve heard their call. I . . . expected my purpose to become clear when I found them.”

  “What’s that?”

  Anddyr gawped, uncertain how in the world to answer that question, and the man motioned impatiently toward Anddyr’s chest, to where Anddyr’s crossed arms clutched— His cheeks burned, and then he berated himself. After her loyalty, after all they had been through, how could he feel any shame at Sooty? Anddyr uncrossed his arms and tipped his chin up as he held Sooty out toward Godson. “This is Sooty,” he said, and his voice was warm with pride.

  Godson stood up, the lap desk and its contents clattering loudly to the ground, and walked quickly to stand before Anddyr. He plucked Sooty from Anddyr’s hands before Anddyr could process that she needed protection, and he made a keening noise as Godson turned her around and around in his hands. The splotch of his one eye was narrow, and the line of his mouth described a deep frown. “Where did you get this?” he asked.

  Anddyr had to resist the urge to snatch Sooty out of the man’s hands, and instead smoothed his palms against his legs in a self-calming gesture. “She’s mine. She’s been mine for years.”

  The man didn’t give Sooty back, and turned to the woman still standing behind Anddyr. “Go fetch me some guardians,” he said, and she hurried away. To Anddyr, he said, “It will be easier for everyone if you just tell me the truth. Where did you get this?”

  “A friend gave her to me, and then gave her back to me.”

  “Who is your friend?”

  Anddyr focused his empty eyes on the other man’s single eye. “His name is Etarro.” And the man went still as death, and utterly silent.

  Four others stomped into the room at that point: three muscular shapes with weapons strapped to their forms, and a fourth that was roughly
Anddyr-shaped. They all stood attentively waiting, until finally the man called Godson made a sharp motion and moved past Anddyr out of the room, the mravigi rising gracefully and following at his heels. The four newcomers, the guardians, closed ranks around Anddyr and escorted him out after. It was unnecessary; Anddyr would have followed anyway. The man still had Sooty, and, too, Anddyr suspected where the man was taking him.

  This new mountain was very like Raturo, though on a smaller scale: its core was hollow and ringed by a path that spiraled from tip to base, full of branching passages and rooms through the sides of the mountain. Anddyr was led up, around and around the inside of the mountain, and the tighter circles made his head spin and his stomach grumble. He wondered and almost—but didn’t—asked aloud if they’d named this place yet, and if they’d named it something silly like Orutar, but he decided that name actually wasn’t half bad and almost—but didn’t—suggested it as a fine name for the place.

  They stopped near to the top of the mountain, or at least near to the top of the portion of it that was hollowed out. Godson pressed his hand against the wall, and Anddyr saw the blue seeping again, and another unseen door sliding open. But the man didn’t enter the room until a voice from within beckoned him. Anddyr was pushed in after him, and almost immediately blinded.

  It was much like when the first mravigi had approached him, too much light to bear without burning. It was like a beacon—yes, it was very much like what he had seen the first time he held the seekstone, a person-shaped beacon of pure and wondrous light. It faded more slowly—no, his vision adjusted more slowly than it had to the mravigi. Perhaps it was that there were two distinct beacons, two pools of unbearable lightness for his new sight to adjust to.

  Anddyr stood before the Twins in silence, and as their light became easier to look at, he realized he could see their faces—truly see them, details and contours and expression, mouths and eyes and the wrinkles of frowns. And he knew their faces—of course he knew them. He had watched them grow. They had been his friends. Etarro and Avorra, Raturo’s twin children.