by J A Hutson
“Pilgrim.”
The word explodes in my mind, sweeping away all conscious thought.
I whirl away from Valyra, facing the thing as it steps out from between the folds of reality. The Voice is draped in the same shapeless robes I glimpsed in the Last Word and the emperor’s audience chamber, but it has discarded the broad-brimmed hat that had concealed its true nature. Wide fish-like eyes stare at me from its misshapen head, and its red lips writhe into a monstrous leer as it shuffles closer.
I bring my sword up to skewer this thing that has haunted my dreams since I encountered its brethren in the red wastes, but before I can lunge forward a cold power settles over my limbs, holding me in place.
I strain, thrashing on the inside to free myself of this thing’s power, but it is useless. I’m helpless as the Voice’s monstrous face comes within a handspan of my own. My heart is beating wildly, and I want to retch at the disgusting smell wafting from the creature.
It regards me for a long moment, its nictitating eyelids closing and then opening again.
“You please us.”
The words flash in my brain, lightning strikes on a dark night.
“You have done what you promised, returning with a sorceress. We are pleased. Why do you come here and murder our disciples?”
The crushing grip on my throat slackens, and I can speak again. I take in a shuddering breath before trying to reply.
“You . . . want to hurt her.”
The Voice’s eyelids slide closed and then open again. Wrinkles appear on the corpse-flesh of its forehead.
“We do not wish to hurt her. She must open the gate, and heal what was sundered. When the paths are reforged she will no longer be needed.” The Voice raises a long pale finger and tenderly strokes Valyra’s cheek. She continues to stare sightlessly into the rippling veil. “But you know this, Pilgrim. The voyage may repress your memories, but it cannot destroy them. Eventually you will remember, and you will stand with Ezekal again as he leads your people to a new world. You have proven your value to us. We do not wish to discard you. Come, she is almost finished. Soon the rest of me will begin the journey to this world. Watch, and revel in what you have wrought.”
An evil, oily residue coats this thing’s mind-speech, and it is making my head pulse. My hand trembles as I fight against the power binding me. The creature sees this and its lip curls in contempt.
“You know you cannot stand against us, Pilgrim. You tried and failed once, but you found wisdom in the depths of your defeat.”
“Fuck you,” I snarl through gritted teeth. The Voice stares at me impassively.
“Look. We are coming.”
Suddenly, I can move my head slightly. In the depths of the golden radiance a darkness is swelling. Something is approaching, and in my lost memories I must know what it is, because a wave of cold dread washes over me.
A flicker of movement from elsewhere. A shadow swells beside the Voice, but it is not Xela. This is but a wisp of darkness, its limbs too long and attenuated to be human. A mane of glistening black tumbles from its head, and its eyes are twin points of cold light. There’s something feminine about this thing, though its ill-defined shape is featureless. A hand of long spidery fingers slashes the air, passing through the Voice and Valyra and myself, and as the shadow touches me I feel a shock of cold and I can move again. My sword thrusts forward . . . only to be stopped again a whisper from the folds of the Voice’s throat. With an angry hiss, the Shriven gestures at the shadow and it dissipates like smoke caught in a strong wind.
“Foolish, faded relic. An echo of an echo, but still it tries to protect this world. She should have fled long ago.”
The shadow in the golden pool is bigger now, nearly filling the soaring archway. The malice leaking from the portal is palpable.
It is here. In only another moment this emissary of the Shriven will push into this world.
Then the light abruptly vanishes as Valyra pulls her arms from the doorway and whirls towards me.
The Voice gurgles in anger and the weaver stiffens like she’s suddenly been turned to stone . . . but her fingers still brush my hand.
A crackling bolt of energy shoots up my arm, melting the Shriven’s clammy grip. With all my strength I shove my sword forward, the green-glass tip piercing the Voice’s neck. Black ichor spurts from the wound, and as I open its throat wider this quickly turns into a waterfall. The eyelids slide closed, and the Voice collapses.
I can move again, just like when Valyra broke the Voice’s power before in the ruined temple. With one stroke, I separate this thing’s head from its shoulders – I’m not taking any chances. Then I turn back to Valyra just as she swoons and starts to fall. I drop my sword and catch her, holding her to my chest. She moans, her eyes fluttering open.
“Talin?” she whispers hoarsely. “Am I dreaming?” She reaches up a hand to weakly touch my face, as if making sure I’m real.
“No,” I reply, relief flooding me. “This is happening.”
She swallows slowly, and I can see that her lips are dry and cracked. “I’ve been . . . lost. Drifting. But then this woman touched me – she had midnight hair speckled with falling stars, and her skin was smooth as velvet. And I knew where I was, and what I should do. I had to touch you.”
“You did good,” I murmur. “The Voice is dead.”
“The Voice?” she says, her brow knitting in confusion. “There was a Voice here?”
“Yes,” I say, helping her to stand shakily on her own. “There’s been a fight . . . my friends need help. I will come back soon. Rest here for a moment.”
“Talin!” she cries. “In my dreams . . . I spoke with my brother. Valans came to me. He said . . . he said he was dead. Well, half-dead and half something else. He said you killed him. But he forgives you – he said he understands more now, and he wanted to apologize for doing something to you . . . something that hurt you . . .”
I remember the writhing pillar of flame I glimpsed before the avalanche swept me off the cliff. Was Valyra talking about that?
She passes a shuddering hand across her face. “I feel so strange,” she whispers, and she sounds scared, but I need to go help Deliah and Xela . . .
I force myself to turn from her, but before I can take more than a few strides towards the edge of the summit a head of purple hair appears, coming up from the stairs.
Deliah. She looks strained, like she has just run up the pyramid, but her face is a mask of determination. In her arms is the limp body of Bell, the arrow shaft still jutting from her chest. The lamias stumbles, nearly falling, and I rush forward to help her.
“Bell . . . ” she gasps between heavy breaths. “She’s dying. Almost . . . gone. Vesivia brought her when she knew . . . she wouldn’t last.” She swallows, her eyes falling on Valyra, who is looking at her in shock. “Heal her!” she shouts.
Valyra lunges forward. Even though she doesn’t know what’s going on, her instincts as a healer are still there. She runs her hand lightly over Bell’s body, pressing her palm to her pale throat. “Put her down,” she commands, and Deliah struggles to her knees to gently lay Bell down, though she keeps her propped slightly because the arrow’s tip is protruding from her back.
With practiced efficiency Valyra snaps the shaft of the arrow, tossing it aside. “Roll her over,” she says, and between Deliah and myself we manage to turn Bell. The arrowhead is a black point emerging from her back, which is streaked with blood. Valyra touches the metal, frowning as she looks around. She needs something to pull it out, but there’s nothing here . . .
Then with a grimace her hand closes around the arrowhead. I feel a pulsing warmth emanate from Valyra, making my skin tingle, and she grimaces as she pulls hard. The metal is cutting into her hand but she ignores it, and before my shocked eyes she draws the arrow from Bell’s body, crying with pain. She throws that away as well, then lays her bloody palm on the wound, and before my eyes the pulsing blood that has begun to freely flow dries up, and the flesh beg
ins to knit.
Deliah looks at her with wide eyes, her jaw hanging open. “You are blessed,” she whispers softly.
Valyra doesn’t respond, sweat trickling down her face. Finally, she lurches backwards with a wrenching cry, and I leap up to grab her before she can fall.
I hold Valyra to my chest as she shivers, staring down in wonder at Bell. Her back is rising and falling, and where the arrow was sticking from her back is only a knotted white scar. With a groan she rolls over, and then to my astonishment she actually sits up, her long hair obscuring her face. Her hand touches where the arrow pierced her chest, and then she seems to realize that she’s not wearing a shirt and gives a startled gasp.
“What happened?” she murmurs. I let go of Valyra – as she seems to have found her feet again – and kneel down to embrace Bell. “There was a woman with a bow . . .” she murmurs into my ear.
“You’re safe now,” I assure her, holding her tighter. From over her shoulder I see Xela and Fen Poria ascending the stairs. The feral is lashed with gray-green blood, and the shadowdancer has a cut on her cheek. She looks grim.
“Shalloch?” I ask, and Xela shakes her head.
“Dead. He died well, though. Saved my life. Vesivia is with him . . . she’s mourning.”
Grief hits me, a hollowness opening in my chest. Valyra safe, Bell alive, the Stranger dead . . . everything had been too perfect. Tears prickle my eyes. Whatever he had done that had brought him to the muckers, Shalloch had been a good man. He had been the first to welcome Bright Eyes, and he had cheered me when I’d felt hopeless and alone in Zim.
“This place,” Xela says, looking around in wonder. “This is the Lady’s temple. When we become shadowdancers we are brought here to pledge our souls to her and the Umbra.”
“She was here,” I say to Xela.
“Who was?”
“Your . . . Lady. The goddess of the shadows. She freed us from the power of that creature.” I jerk my head in the direction of the Voice’s corpse.
“What in the abyss is that thing?” Deliah asks, her mouth twisted in revulsion.
Xela does not even look at the dead Stranger, holding my gaze fiercely. “The Lady? Are you sure? She’s . . . just a legend, really. I . . . I’m not even sure if I believe in her . . .”
I shrug. “Well, something helped us.”
“We need to tell the abbess,” Xela says.
I nod into Bell’s shoulder. Her hands are still clutching at my back like she fears I’ll vanish if she lets go of me.
“Fen, what are you doing?” Xela asks, and with some effort I twist my neck to see what’s going on.
Fen Poria has guided Valyra back to the arch, and she turns at Xela’s voice. Then she reaches into her pocket and takes out two objects. One is a silver sphere, and she tosses it towards Deliah, who catches it. The other thing is . . .
“Where did you get that?” I cry as Fen Poria fits a chunk of stone veined with glimmering silver into an indentation set in the archway. She only smiles at me.
I struggle to free myself from Bell, but it’s like I’m wading in deep water, and before I can pull away, the rippling golden veil has returned. Valyra’s head snaps around in shock, and our eyes meet just before Fen Poria gives her a shove that sends her stumbling through the portal.
She’s gone.
“Valyra!” I cry, lunging towards the gate.
But I’m too far. Fen Poria gives a languid wave, then slips the key free of the archway and follows Valyra into the shimmering radiance.
The portal vanishes.
I turn to stare at the others, who are all looking at me in shock. For a long moment no one moves.
“What . . . Why . . .” I manage.
Like she’s moving in a dream, Deliah holds up the silver sphere and gives it a twist. Two halves separate, and she pulls a folded paper bird covered in squirming writing from within.
I leap to my feet and rush to her, the spell broken, and snatch the bird away from her. With trembling hands, I unfold it and begin to read.
My dearest Alesk (or Talin, if you prefer),
You are reading this, so either Fen Poria is dead, or she has left this note behind for you to find. I can only hope it is the latter, for if she has died, this must mean she has failed. And the world will likely follow her soon into oblivion.
If you remembered anything of me – which you clearly don’t – you would know that I rarely interfere. But I was once a Mistress of the Keys, and I have the knowledge of how to fashion pathways that lead from one Gate to another. Do not try to follow – the key you hold will take you to a very different place.
By now, dead gods willing, my servant Fen and the weaver should have joined me in my estate in the City of Masks.
I am sorry, though, in the end, this whole imbroglio is truly your fault. But perhaps you are not completely beyond redemption. Perhaps none of us are, which is a thought I haven’t dared consider for centuries.
Come to Ysala and I will tell you more. I could not risk the weaver falling into the Prophet Ezekal’s hands, or the creatures he consorts with. I refused to take a stand with you once, in the waning days of our world, but perhaps I can make an attempt at righting that past wrong. I will wait for you.
In affection,
Avelia shen-Anoth, Contessa of the Gilded Lynx Trust.
I let the letter drop from my hand, numbness creeping over me.
“What does it say?” Deliah asks, desperation in her voice. Xela dashes closer and scoops it from the ground, her lips moving as she starts to read.
“Fen Poria was working for the Contessa this whole time,” I manage, still trying to dig myself out from under the avalanche of what just happened. I swallow, my gaze traveling from Deliah to Bell to Xela. They are waiting for me to say something.
“We have to return to Ysala.”
About the Author
J.A. Hutson is a pen name for epic fantasy writer Alec Hutson, the author of The Crimson Queen. He grew up in a geodesic dome and a bookstore and he currently lives in Shanghai, China. To sign up for his mailing list or send him a message, please go to authoralechutson.com.