Deep Echoes

  ~~

  Scar had seen much since becoming a Shield: people torn to shreds by vicious claws, Shields burnt and fried by a wounded Disciple, and brilliant Contegons fiercely protecting their cadres, often dying in the process. Such sights, such visceral memories, can break a person, and most Shields are glad to leave after thirty years of faithful service.

  But such things had only made Scar more determined to keep Geos safe and serve Sol. Each fresh horror was an incitement to prevent more of them. They had also given him a sense of how the Disciples worked, which had served him countless times with trap placements and ambushes. Sol had turned the worst moments of Scar's life into intuition. And this intuition flared like the first light of an eclipse when he received no report from the Front that morning.

  It was common for Contegon Castle to miss reports, and there were often mundane reasons for it. Maybe a small cadre of Disciples had attacked, and she was mopping up the remnants? Perhaps the Halting had not melted, and she was overseeing the Launchers rectifying this? Lastly, Castle was not the most... rigorous Contegon, so perhaps she simply forgot?

  He shouldn't have worried when no envelope dropped through his letter box, shouldn't have got up before mid-morning. But he did both anyway: dressing, cleaning himself with cold water, soap and dental paste. Cold sweat streaked down his back throughout.

  Scar almost ran downstairs and was surprised to find Pitch sitting at his dining table, turning a candle over in his hands. He shouldn't have been, considering the poor man had to put up with his daughter.

  “Pitch, good morning,” he said.

  “Good morning, sire.”

  “You needn't call me sire, Pitch. I thought we'd gone over that long ago.”

  Pitch twirled the candle in his hands, shadows playing across his face in the morning light.

  As much as Scar worried for the Front, he also worried for his son-in-law and the effect Pitch's behaviour had on Snow. Snow already viewed his Mother poorly: he didn't need to see his father as a coward. It'd be terrible if the only role model he had was... well, Scar.

  “Pitch, I'm heading north to check on things. Why not come with me? The walk will do you some good.”

  “I think that'd be a good idea,” Pitch said, pained, forlorn.

  Scar thought whatever Pitch was feeling would come out during their walk. “I'll just make a quick breakfast. Do you want anything?”

  “I've already eaten, thank you.”

  With that Pitch went to put his boots on. Scar watched him then shook his head, sighed. Why did Wire do this to people? And where had she got such an attitude from? It wasn't her mother, who had been calm, quiet, and thoughtful almost to a fault.

  That instinct flared again, told him to move. So he ate quickly, cold, salted beef and a lemon. He enjoyed the sour taste: it was invigorating.

  “Ready?” Scar asked when he found Pitch waiting by his front door.

  “Ready.”

  They left, with Scar in the lead because this was his errand. Call was busy as it ever was: a few people milled around, going to work or returning from a Lun shift. There were no children as, barring Snow, they were all at school. Call, ostensibly his, rested as much as Scar worried.

  “She's left, Scar. She's left me,” Pitch said after a few minutes.

  This took him back. He gave Pitch a weak smile. “Oh, I know Wire: she's just throwing a fit. Watch, she'll return.”

  “You're right: she will be back. She has given me three hours to pack, say my goodbyes and leave, or she'll report me to a Contegon for raping her. If I don't go, she'll have me thrown in prison. That was half an hour ago. I'm letting Snow sleep a while, letting him dream there's still a chance for things to be okay, before I tell him I'm leaving.”

  Scar looked away. His heart dropped and shattered when it landed. “Sol wept.”

  But Pitch continued. “She hates almost everything, Scar: can you understand that? Almost everything. Being born without your skills did it: the most important thing in the world to her, the only important thing, is keeping up your name. And she hates herself for not being able to do it, for not being good enough for the Contegons. Maybe she would have done well in the Shields, but she didn't want to die and leave your legacy to wither... That's why she had Snow. I was superfluous to bringing him up, a means to getting all the rights and privileges the Bureau grants the married.”

  “Pitch, you don't need to say this...”

  His son-in-law continued as though he hadn't heard, staring ahead. “She never loved me, but I love her. And I thought it would be okay as long as I got to be with her, as long as I could look after Snow. And she was fine when Snow was younger, when he couldn't veer from the path she'd set. But as he grew and threatened to become his own person, she became worse and worse. Especially during his pre-pubescence – when he was bullied and didn't have the knack for fighting back – she was vicious. That poor boy suffered.”

  Scar decided not to interrupt now. Pitch needed to say this, to vent years of bile.

  “I think he... he picked up tactics in self defence, to appease her. Sol, you know how bright he is: it was easy for him... but he shouldn't have had to. I don't think he truly wants to follow you, but what choice does he have? Especially with this whole Heretic thing...”

  “Heretic thing?” Scar asked slowly.

  Pitch coughed and looked away. “I'm leaving today so I might as well tell you the actual reason we're here: Snow accidentally helped a Heretic escape Aureu. An ex-Contegon. Wire said she didn't want him to be arrested… but really she didn't want her years of sacrifice to go to waste. So we covered it up as best we could and came here.”

  Scar took a moment. Then he breathed “Oh, Sol. Poor Snow.”

  “And because of this, Snow has realised what kind of person she is and he hates her. Sol, he actually hates her and he's becoming his own person, slowly but surely. I'm so proud of him for... well, for doing what I never could, but Wire...” He looked away, sucked in bitter air. “That's why she's left me, to prevent him blossoming further.”

  Scar didn't know what to say but never got the chance to reply: just after Pitch finished, they left Call and entered Geos' wild grass plains, the miles of land between Call and the first trap field. And there at its centre were a dozen Shields crowding around a fallen comrade.

  The boy was young. He was covered in blood.

  “Forgive me, Pitch, but–”

  “You've no need to apologise,” Pitch replied. “Thank you for listening.”

  “Stay with me: I might need your help,” Scar said, wanting to give this poor man some dignity, some pride. Sol knows he'd been robbed of it all, his life drained and wasted by Scar's cruel daughter. He would have a great deal to say when he saw Wire again.

  “No, I–” Pitch started, his black mood robbing his eyes of colour.

  “Don't make me order you to,” Scar said.

  He ran to the Shields before Pitch could reply and was glad to hear his son-in-law's footsteps behind him. But there should have been more Shields at the Front: where was Fine's cadre?

  “–saying? I don't understand,” one Shield almost screamed at their fallen comrade. She looked panicked, terrified. They all did.

  Scar stopped just short of the group and saw that the fallen Shield's trousers were soaked with blood from his badly-wounded foot. And the other Shields were depriving him of air. Scar's instinct was hopping up and down, bashing itself against the inside of his skull now. Something was very wrong.

  “Shields, clear away,” he ordered.

  They moved quickly, knowing his voice. He knelt beside the wounded Shield. “Killing... They splash and... not safe...” the boy mumbled. Maybe eighteen, he was pale as a man could be without dying. Deep rings held his eyes like jewels. His lips were chapped, his body loose and thin as the grass it rested on.

  “Son, this is Shield-General Scar. Please, tell me what happened.”

  “Scar?” he asked, mildly lucid.

  “Yes, son
, Scar. I'm here to hear your report. Give me your report, Shield.”

  “I... I... My foot...”

  “Yes, you're wounded, but we'll take care of that in a minute.” He turned to one of the Shields. “I assume we've already sent for a Doctor?”

  “Sire, we have,” they replied. Flutter, he thought her name was, but there were so many of them it was hard to remember individuals.

  “Good. See, son? We'll–”

  “No... my foot...” Weakly, the young Shield lifted his hand and stabbed towards his leg with a finger whiter than the Cathedral.

  Scar blinked, got his meaning. What a brave Shield. “Okay, son. One moment.” Then he leant back, gripped the Shield's wounded foot and squeezed as hard as he could, his thumb almost sinking into the wound.

  The effect was instant: the Shield screamed and leant up, clawing at Scar weakly. “Please, stop sire! I'm awake enough, I'm awake enough! Let go! Please, let go!”

  Scar let go. The Shield almost fell right back, but Pitch caught him, propped him up.

  “Shield, give me your report: what happened?”

  “The Western Front has...” The Shield took in breath, shook his head. “It has fallen, Shield-General: a cadre of Disciples without Weakness, and with increased intelligence, attacked, and killed them all. They passed the first trap field by copying the Brawler's movements. Their exact movements, sire.”

  He almost dropped the young boy. Suddenly, Scar shared the Shield's faintness and his sense of incoming death. But he had to be strong. After all, he had heard worse in his time.

  “They were... They... The other trap field...” His eyes closed, and his head lolled, but he snapped it back when it struck Pitch's shoulder. “They are... killing... themselves to... get through. More must be coming. Call will...”

  The Shield's head fell against his chest. The strain had been too great on his weakened system. With a last, heaving breath, he died.

  Scar set the brave soldier down, crossed his arms, and then stood. There wasn't time to mourn him any further “Flutter, gather every Shield in Call. You, Sleight, prepare armour and weapons. And the rest of you, order non-combatants to gather at the docks. But be quick. You have five minutes. Go!”

  “Yes sire!” they chorused and ran off.

  Pitch knelt and closed the young Shield's eyes. He stood, crying, shaking and furious, and stared at the horizon.

  “They're coming, aren't they? The Disciples?”

  “Yes,” Scar replied, forgiving the asinine question.

  Behind him, non-combatants began to flee now they had permission, now they could be cowards and save themselves. The lesser Stations lived close to the Front for their lives. But many stayed, took up arms. Scar wouldn't begrudge them the chance to fight if they desired.

  “What will you do?” Pitch asked, still staring.

  “I'll wait for my Shields to assemble and send out scouting parties. We'll hide amongst the houses and forges and await a response or an attack. If it's nothing, we'll re-stock the Front. If we're attacked by Disciples like he said... We'll fight and we'll die. I'll send someone to order the evacuation and I'll die here.”

  Pitch nodded. “I thought so. This is the life Wire wanted for Snow? I... I can't understand it. Snow could easily end up like him...” He pointed to the young Shield. “Dead without anyone knowing his name.”

  “But he's one with Sol, Pitch. He served his purpose, saved hundreds. Isn't that enough?”

  Pitch blinked and then scratched the back of his head. “True... You're right, sorry. It's just... easy to forget things like that when you're presented with cold, unfeeling death. Not that I need to tell you that, sire.”

  “No,” Scar replied, joining Pitch in watching the horizon, “you don't.”

  23

  Nephilim led Maya to the end of this subterranean wonder where a bed awaited her. Built by hand from wooden scraps and covered with fur blankets, its rough quality was incongruous amidst the ingenuity surrounding them.

  On the bed, sleeping, was the drunkard.

  “You took him in?” Maya asked, surprised.

  Nephilim gave her an odd look. “Of course. I have a legend to uphold.” He knelt and brushed his hand through the drunkard's thick hair. Something flashed across Nephilim's face, something unpleasant. “Do you know his name?”

  “I... I don't, no.”

  “Really? That was a little cruel, wasn't it?”

  Maya looked away. How could he tell so much about her?

  “All right, I just wanted to check on him. Through here next.”

  Nephilim gestured to a flat panel in the room's rounded wall: it was a door. How had she not noticed that? She was being sloppy. Maya approached it, and the panel moved aside to reveal a small, dark chamber with smooth dark-blue walls and a floor covered in dark carpeting. It looked like midnight in room-form.

  Nephilim stopped and removed his sandals. “Ah. No shoes, please,” he said before entering the dark chamber.

  Pulling her boots free with great effort, Maya joined him. The door closed automatically behind her, sinking them into darkness. Her hearing sharpened instinctively as the ever-present hum became louder, all-encompassing.

  She kept her heart rate and panic under control with deep breaths. Every instinct told her to escape, mocked her for being stupid enough to enter a locked, dark room with a man she didn't know. Why had she taken this risk? Yes she needed direction, a purpose, but now she was alone with someone who knocked over trees with his fist. She wouldn't be able to resist him if he tried something.

  “Would you relax? This is going to be hard enough without you hosing the place with terror. Get those legends out of your head. I've not brought you down here to fuck you, Maya, so get a grip.” After a pause, he added, “Please.”

  Maya noted that he could read her even in darkness. Was this ability connected to that green flash? She didn't know and questions wouldn't help. She took a deep breath. “Sorry.”

  “Thank you. There'll be a bright light in a couple of minutes, so be ready for it.”

  Maya closed her useless eyes and waited.

  Nephilim shuffled around the empty room, circling her. She heard his leather armour creaking as he moved: he had to be moving his hands. Then he took a short, sharp breath and tiny drops of liquid started hitting the carpet. He passed behind her, moving slowly, dragging his feet, and continued round the room.

  What was he doing? A ritual? Disdain rose in Maya, but she told herself Nephilim couldn't be mindlessly following doctrines: he could banish strange birds and protect his life, so he had evidence and logic behind him.

  Still, what kind of truth could support the performance of a religious ritual?

  After circling the room, Nephilim took a deep breath, prepared for something. Then there was a dull schlink, as of blade through flesh. His breathing quickened. This time a slow cascade dripped onto the ground, the sound blunt at first, but sharper as the blood landed in a puddle. Maya kept herself under control. He knew what he was doing.

  The splashing stopped, and then there was a brief flash of green. Nephilim's breathing calmed. “Sorry about that,” he said, thinking himself too quiet for her to hear.

  And she could have sworn that, on the edge of hearing, someone replied. “It's been a while. You need practice.” But it was so small, so quiet, that she couldn't be certain it had happened.

  Nephilim didn't respond, just said, “All right, Maya, how you react to what happens next will dictate your future. Don't make any... snap judgements, okay?”

  “Just do whatever you've brought me here for, Nephilim.”

  He laughed. “Are all Contegons like you?”

  She smiled. “If they were, there wouldn't be many left to fight the Disciples, would there?” Then her smile froze: she'd made a joke. Maya couldn't remember the last time she'd made a joke, tried to make someone laugh. It felt good.

  Nephilim loosed another fit of laughter, but quickly killed it. The atmosphere changed, matching
Nephilim's concentration. Maya took a deep breath and told herself that she could influence whatever happened next, that the power was hers.

  A burst of green light filled the chamber, so bright it was painful to look at even through her eyelids. Meaningless noise, like scrunching paper, filled her ears. The room warmed. It felt like some strange illusion, so Maya opened her eyes but all she could see was green, a world of pure, unfettered colour.

  She stepped forward, but Nephilim, clarion amongst the din, shouted “Don't move! It won't come if you move!” So she stood still.

  Giddiness, fear, and hysteria overwhelmed her. Slowly, so as to not startle whatever was coming, she raised the arm of her robe, dyed green by the light, to her mouth and bit down. Hard. She caught her skin between her teeth, so the pain calmed and focussed her. She would not yield.

  A wave of heat blew Maya's hair, and the green light vanished. But the chamber was not dark. Nephilim, lit by a bright orange hue, stood tall, proud and unwounded. He was looking up at something, up at where the light was coming from.

  Maya looked up. Then her robe fell from her open mouth.

  It was difficult to even understand what she was seeing. She had no frame of reference, no handle for her mind to cling to, so part of her denied she saw anything at all. What an odd feeling, her mind and eyes arguing. She concentrated, took in what she was seeing, and tried to learn.

  At the thing's centre was a person, androgynous beside a slight curve in the hips. But it wasn't human. It looked like a blind child's pastel drawing of a person, too rough to be real. It was featureless too, a blank figure.

  Surrounding it was a cloak of light spanning the spectrum from boiling orange to searing white. And there were shapes in that light, thousands of them. No, the light only went so far. It was its heat she was seeing, not undulating like air above a fire, but warmth with its own innate colouring. And this heat's geometric shapes move in a slow pattern: they danced to the thing's very edge, saturated to deep orange, then ambled back to the centre and become white again.

  A voice, angry, maternal, filled the room. “Nephilim. Nephilim you have called me. Why? Why have you broken our covenant? Do? Do you really seek to anger us so?”

  It spoke. It knew Nephilim. Backing away, Maya raised the arm of her robe and bit into the flesh beneath. Her teeth broke her skin. The pain was real. That thing was real. This was happening.

  “You know I wouldn't call you without reason,” Nephilim replied. “I ought to apologise first, though, as we have... broken the agreement. No one witnessed it, no one will report anything, but that doesn't make it right. So I am sorry for this lapse. It will not happen again.”

  It sighed twice, the second longer than the first. “And? And secondly, Nephilim?”

  “I want your permission for something.”

  The thing rolled down the ceiling like paint, then stepped onto shimmering, smudged half-legs. It was much taller than Nephilim so it faced him down as it replied. “Permission? Permission for what, Nephilim?”

  “I aim to train her,” Maya released her arm and stood, proud under scrutiny, “and the man sleeping outside to use Cyrus Force.”

  The creature laughed the same way it talked, took a trial run before attempting the full fit. Then it turned to Maya. She held its gaze... inspection... whatever. In some way, this ridiculous creature was part of her new purpose, so she stood tall as she had at the Academy. Then she acquiesced. Slowly, with grace.

  “But? But why would we allow that?” it asked.

  “Have you not noticed an increase in Entropic CF over the last decade or so?”

  Still examining her, it raised its omnipresent voice. “Answer. Answer me not with questions! And. And bluff me not, Nephilim! If. If you really seek permission so ardently, then accord me the respect I deserve. Or. Or you will never speak to us again.”

  It looked back at Nephilim, and there was silence, uncomfortable and pregnant.

  “You're right,” he said eventually, licking his teeth, “I've forgotten my manners.”

  “That's. That's probably down to the company you keep. They. They are hardly good conversation.” It laughed again.

  “Hey! Say what you want about me, but leave them out of it!” He grinned. “Anyway, in answer to your question, I want to train these two to save Geos. I know why you've had a rise in Entropic CF, and it's nothing to do with me, or the people.” Nephilim's voice rose at the last, earnest and suggestive, as though he didn't want to spell out what he meant.

  But this creature would have him say the actual words. “Then? Then what is causing it?” it asked. Maya liked the control, dignity, it retained.

  “Them. Brya. I failed, they survived. They live to the North and try to kill Geos.”

  “You? You think that Brya survived?” Its shock was chilling. Maya did not know what they spoke of, but hearing such an alien thing display fear...

  “I do. Others may have survived, but only Brya's Matter Generators could account for the level of attacks that are being made against Geos: there just wasn't enough wreckage for centuries of warfare.”

  It turned away from Nephilim and examined Maya once more, looking at her without eyes. Then it nodded, and its shapes wrapped around Maya, surrounded her with warmth.

  Maya took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.

  “And? And you, young one? What? What do you think of all this? Oh. Oh, you're scared but you force it down so well...”

  Could everyone read her now? Was she so open? “I don't know what to think, sire. But if Geos is in danger then I will protect it,” she said, choosing a diplomatic answer.

  “Don't! Don't you dare lie to me, girl! I! I can see what you're really feeling! Tell. Tell me the truth.”

  The thing raised its rough arms, and the shapes pulled against Maya's body, prodding her with their sharp corners or pushing solid faces into her. Then a sphere pressed against her lips like a warm lover, and something passed through her, a compulsion, a need to tell the truth. The creature was only concerned, only wanted to look after her. She felt warm, homely and warm, and couldn't fight the impulse.

  “Okay. You want the truth?” she asked. The shapes backed away, but hovered menacingly. She was about to be honest, and it felt good. How much of that was the creatures' influence and how much was the need to be heard? She didn't know. But Maya had no choice but the speak her mind.

  “Okay,” she started. “The truth, the truth is that I was certain I lived in a dull world with no point and no aim. I was ready die in a useless display of bravery at one point. I am alone. Entirely alone. I left my friends behind, my life, my family. I am hunted and hated for thinking how I think, discovering what I discovered.”

  This was liberating. She took a breath and relaxed. “When I first saw Nephilim, I tried to kill him because his presence, his very being, forced me to review my thinking. Not because of what he was, but because he defended himself with a strange power, something I couldn't explain. When I told him about the Disciples, he punched a tree to the ground. He has a bird, green and strange, that can talk. And now he has shown me you. In short, he proved how narrow my view was.

  “So I feel again like I did before the truth ruined my life: terrified – of you and of the world I've discovered – but elated, optimistic, and hopeful. I'll just say it: protecting Geos is secondary to finding a truth to live my life by. The truth will apparently save me. Nephilim has promised me the purpose I apparently need in my life. I just need to find out how.”

  The thing knelt, its face level with Maya's, and stared, eyeless. “Give. Give me your hand.”

  With a hitched breath, Maya did as asked. The thing's touch was pleasant, comforting. It stroked her hand; then let go with a sigh and fire spread up Maya's arm. Actual fire. This wasn't some trick.

  Maya screamed in burning agony and tried to put out the flames. It was to no avail as the fire quickly reached her shoulder. She dropped and rolled across the carpet, panicking and moaning.

  “May
a, look at your hand,” Nephilim shouted.

  “I'm on fire!”

  “Maya, look!”

  Whimpering, she stopped rolling and looked. She saw burns and blisters, her skin crackling and charring... but no, that was just a fiction. Nothing was wrong with her: she was unharmed. Not even her robes had burned. Her reaction, the pain, had been false. In truth, she felt nothing.

  Ginger, embarrassed, Maya stood as the fire consumed her, enveloping her. When it reached her boots, the carpet did not burn, nor had it when she had writhed feebly. This... whatever it was... seemed like a metaphor more than anything real, and she'd acted like a moron, taking things at face value when everything of the past hour has told her to do anything but.

  Swallowing, colour rose to her cheeks. “That was pathetic. I apologise.”

  Nephilim shook his head, smiling.

  “If? If you had this fire, what would you do with it? Would? Would you burn yourself, char your enemies or warm your people? What? What do you think you would do?”

  This seemed like a test, a challenge. Maya squared her shoulders once more and walked across to the creature, determined to regain her lost dignity and confidence. She stood face to chest with it and stared up at it. In as much as the thing could display emotions without a face, it seemed surprised. “I would do whatever I thought best, sire.”

  Ignoring her, the creature turned to Nephilim. “We. We accept your proposal. There. There is a caveat, however. Geos. Geos must think the power comes from Sol.”

  “Unacceptable! That kind of belief will limit...”

  “Exactly. It. It cannot be as before. Though. Though we have been worried for some time about the entropy, we cannot allow humans anything more than limited powers. You. You understand?” The creature balled its misshapen fists. “There. There cannot be another Taint.”

  Nephilim sighed. “And this is the only way you'll allow it?”

  “It. It is, Nephilim.”

  He threw his arms into the air. “Fine!” Then he remembered himself and rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. “No, sorry. Thank you, I appreciate it.”

  “Good.” The creature looked back at Maya, nodded, and then disappeared. Its light and heat went with it, but not the fire which surrounded Maya: that remained, casting dull tones across the spherical room.

  Maya had grown a lot that day, had expanded her mind to accept incredible things, but being alight was not something she could cope with. “What is this? What has it done to me?”

  “She, it was a she. She has changed you somehow. Yes, she changed your element. Or maybe added to it... Either way, it was a mark of approval. You did well, considering.”

  Remembering how she had smacked into a building when escaping Aureu, or when she climbed a tower in blithe abandon, Maya decided to curb her arrogance. It was praise, but it felt undeserving. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I could have done better.”

  Nephilim smiled. “Then don't worry. You'll have plenty of opportunity to make up for it.”

  24

  Scar wasn't home when Snow awoke. No one was. The house was quiet, peaceful. This meant he'd have time to read, to set his mind to something constructive unlike the previous day at the docks. He liked that idea, especially when he was so far from school or the Military Library. So he got up, washed, and then headed downstairs. Maybe he'd try reading another of Scar's journals, one on his defence of the Western Front.

  In the silence of an empty house, Snow made himself a sandwich, thick slices of beef encompassed in dense bread, and went to Scar's study. He broke open Scar's desk again and was delighted when he found a pre-Cleansing book on tactics hidden beneath Scar's journals. It had no title, was bound in cracked leather, and smelled of ancient paper. Snow put it down, wolfed down his sandwich, wiped the crumbs from his hands, and carefully opened it.

  The title pages of the book had been carefully ripped out, so it started at the first chapter. Written in the Old Language, it was a forbidden tome. Snow smiled. He loved reading books like this. They were the reason he'd taught himself the Old Language two summers ago, using an illegal book his friends had passed around.

  Sitting at Scar's model of Geos, Snow scanned the chapters; then noticed that Scar had placed a bookmark deep into the book. He turned again to a passage on sieges, specifically how to win one from either side. It stated that sieges were undesirable either way round, that the winner was the one who went the longest without having to eat their own people. Even then, some continued, and it became a matter of who had the lowest resolve. Gruesome stuff, but the wars of the past were gruesome by dint of being person against person.

  Snow almost couldn't imagine it. Man against man. It didn't seem natural. The thought of facing down another person, sword in hand... He shuddered.

  Just then someone burst into the house, slamming the front door open. “Snow! Snow!” he shouted.

  It was his Dad, panicked and breathing heavily.

  Desperate not to be caught, Snow hid the book behind the Gravit Mountains. “I'm here, Dad. What's...?” He left Scar's study as he spoke and saw his Dad.

  Even if his Dad hadn't been covered in blood, Snow would have run to him: he wore an expression of pained terror that asked for deep sympathy. Rubbing the back of his neck, his Dad's eyes darted around Snow's body, and his shoulders trembled.

  “I'm fine, Snow. Listen: women and children are gathered by the docks, and I need you to pass on Scar's order for them to board the boats. Do you understand me? They need to board the boats and get out of here now. And so do you.”

  Snow held him tight, but felt weak, panicky. “What do you mean? Aren't you coming with me Dad? And where's Mum? And Scar?”

  “Stop asking questions!” Pitch shook him loose. “You need to do this for me, do as I say, now. Go to the docks. Tell them Scar has given the order to disembark. Look, here's Scar's medallion.”

  He took a necklace, one that supported the symbol of Sol with a deep cut across its face. Though badly damaged, Snow recognised it was Scar's signet. The damage to it made him feel sick. “Use it to convince them to leave, okay? You have to leave. Okay?”

  Snow took the medallion, held it in his shaking hands. “You're scaring me, Dad. What's going on?”

  His Dad's resolve wavered for a moment, and his face fell. “We've been invaded. The Front has fallen. The Shields are fighting the Disciples through Call, holding them back, but it's a battle they're losing. Scar is dead. Hundreds are dead. Do you understand? A Disciple entered the building we were hiding in and shot Scar, riddled him with bullets. I escaped only because it wanted to kill the Shields first. Do you hear me? Scar always said that you were like him. Now you've got to prove it.”

  He took a deep breath, which took a lot more effort than it should. “I'm likely to be killed by those things, by those damned Disciples, but you're smaller, faster, younger and braver. You can get to the docks before they do.”

  He couldn't believe what he was hearing. He gripped his Dad tighter and started crying. “No, Dad, please, no. Come with me, you–”

  The punch was jarring, unexpected, and it knocked Snow to the ground. He looked up at his blood-stained father in shock. Nothing had ever caused him to hit Snow before. Wire had often struck him, but never his Dad. Snow realised how serious this was, how much he was being trusted. He got to his feet.

  “I'm sorry, Dad. I'll go to the docks, give them Scar's order to embark, and return to Aureu. I... I love you.”

  His Dad's face melted into a proud, sad grin. “I love you too, Snow. I'm sorry. But... be a good, proud man for me. And for your Mum and your Granddad.”

  Despite his best efforts, tears continued to drip down Snow's face. “Okay.”

  A fierce hug followed, full of unspoken emotions, the goodbye they would never say. It lasted so long that Snow felt himself age. But this wasn't a bad thing: the resolve he'd need for the rest of his life grew from this embrace. They only broke when they heard distant bangs, the fired bullets of approa
ching Disciples.

  Snow released his Dad and burst away, not wanting him to see his son's innocence dying. He ran out into the street and towards the docks, barely able to see through his tears.

  The distant sound of bullets kept pace with him as he sprinted through Call, echoing between dead houses and empty streets. Well, not entirely empty streets: unwanted tools, furniture, personal items dropped but unretrieved... These remained, marking a furious flight. Snow felt cold, scared. He had slept through so much...

  Could he have made a difference?

  No, he was just a teenager. He gripped the medallion's chain so hard his fingers ached. Concentrating on this pain, the feeling of metal digging into skin, he kept going. Street by street, he ran.

  And soon he found chaos at the docks. Mariners stood on their boats with their bridges raised, isolated and nervous, and throngs of women, children and those men incapable of fighting cursed them from the pier. For now, the crowd was just restless, and the Mariners felt secure but cowardly. But something could easily change that. It wouldn't take much to start a riot or make the skittish-looking Mariners set sail.

  That something, Snow realised, was him. He'd have to be careful. But first he needed their attention. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes – skin still tingling from the touch of his father – and readied himself to be a man.

  Breathing out, he opened his eyes and spotted a heavy iron hook. Lifting it wasn't easy but neither was throwing it into the nearest window.

  Some civilians shrieked or ducked, hiding behind the others. Those who didn't eyed Snow uneasily. He started to speak, forcing Scar's strength into his voice. “My name is Snow, grandson of Scar. The Western Front has... It has fallen. The order has been given for all vessels to embark with the non-combatants. Mariners, who is your senior Captain?”

  The Mariners looked at their Captains, decked in capes as white as their boats' pristine sails, who in turn looked to a short, dignified man with a thick, bushy moustache. He drew a breath and said “Young man, I'm not going to believe just anyone who tells me that...”

  Snow didn't let him finish, simply held Scar's medallion out like a sword and said “Scar is dead. My Mother is probably dead. My father went to hold off the Disciples, if only for one shot, and so he will soon be dead. The Disciples are approaching fast, sire. If you need more proof than Scar's medallion, which I hold, look to the fact that I wasn't rounded up with the other children.”

  He hated implying such cowardice had come from Scar. The invasion had surely come on too fast for Scar to arrange for him to be moved. But it worked: the Mariner's mouth dropped open in surprise. “Well, I suppose...”

  “When we get to Aureu, people can vouch for this medallion, for my heritage. If not, I'll face Discipline. Either way you cannot be blamed, sire.”

  Snow heard his own words, the magnitude of what he was saying, and the crowd's stares fell on his shoulders, dozens of civilians and Mariners. They were scared, but they hadn't taken action, hadn't fled... hadn't done anything, but hope for a miracle.

  Sol, did they think he was a miracle? He kept his eyes on the senior Mariner, didn't want to know if this was true.

  The Captain signalled to his fellows, a curt nod. They turned, and each issued a variation on a simple order: prepare to embark. Sails unfurled; supplies were packed. The bridge was lowered and people queued to board.

  The Mariners knew what they were doing, so Snow left them to it. He hid behind a building for some privacy. Convinced no one would see him, he threw up, beef spraying across the cobbles. It stung, burnt, but he felt no more discomfort or nausea afterwards. Wiping his mouth on a tissue, he hacked some final sobs out from his acid-burned throat.

  “All right, Mortar, you launch first. I'm not making us all one big target,” the leading Captain shouted. They were moving at his command, at his urging.

  Snow stood and returned to the dock. Mariners aboard three of the four boats slowed, saving energy. But Mortar's men flew with a renewed determination and vigour. A quarter of the crowd were counted onto Mortar's ship, three dozen and no more. They filed down into the hold, huddled cargo to be saved. The remaining civilians shuffled and whispered amongst themselves, angry or jealous, but they had no choice but to accept this plan.

  Quickly ready, Mortar's boat lifted anchor and rolled out into the open seas, gliding like a boulder on ice. Graceful and magnificent, it escaped to a safe distance and began turning.

  As Snow was watching so intently, impressed, he saw what happened next clearly, unlike the Mariners and Captains who worked to unleash the next ship. Even the crowd were concentrating on getting aboard the next ship to leave, so they missed it too.

  There was a crack, just quiet enough to be ignored amid the hubbub, then a metallic whoosh. Mortar's boat sprouted a hole in its hull, big as a man, and water rushed in. Another crack and the mast bent to one side as half its trunk was blown away. The sails dived into the sea, tipping the entire vessel onto its side. That's when the agonizing, inevitable process of sinking started.

  It didn't take long to work out what this meant: the Disciples wouldn't let them leave. They wanted people to stay here, presumably so there was no warning for Aureu. They were watching the ocean, so every boat they sailed would be assaulted and sunk.

  Panic robbed him of his eloquence. In his state of terror, he just shouted “The ship!”

  Straight away, he knew he'd made a mistake: people looked around, and then started screaming, tried to force their way onto the ships. The poor Mariners struggled with the panicked mass and had to resort to batons and violence to keep them away.

  Snow swore at himself for being so stupid.

  The Captains left their men to handle this riot and surveyed the distant wreckage, discussed their options. They excluded Snow, judging him for making such a mistake.

  Snow turned away, didn't want to face this exclusion. But far on the horizon, marching onto the coast front with precision and perfect synchrony, the Disciples appeared: twenty monsters, gleaming like tiny swords. They were coming for the survivors. And the Mariners and civilians would still be fighting when they arrived.

  Why weren't the Disciples shooting, though? They could destroy the ships and kill everyone from there. Scar had written that they sometimes wait after prolonged attacks, to recover energy or cool down, but surely they wouldn't have appeared if they were nearing this... calming cycle. So... so what? So they didn't want to kill people? Something that his Dad had said tickled at him, something that had seemed odd at the time...

  He gasped; then screamed, a furious, raging sound. The civilians stopped, turned, and the Mariners took their chance and formed ranks, protected their ships.

  “The Disciples are going to destroy every boat we send,” Snow said with certainty fizzing through him, “so there's no point getting on board or keeping people off. We need to either fight or escape on foot. The boats are not an option.”

  “Fuck that!” someone shouted. The crowd roared with similar disbelief and annoyance.

  The lead Captain stepped forward. “Young man, shut up. The grown ups have matters to...”

  Snow felt cold anger, fear, but also a surging desire to prove himself and carry on Scar's name. He'd aged ten years since he'd seen his Dad covered in blood, and now he would prove it, would not let someone ignore what he knew to be true.

  “No! I know more about tactics than all of you combined. I grew up corresponding with the greatest war mind the world had seen. He sent me to ensure your safety and that means ensuring you don't make stupid mistakes. Listen to me, okay? For Sol's sake, for Scar's sake, listen to me, his last order incarnate.” Slowly, he raised Scar's medallion, punctuating his point.

  “You insolent little...”

  “Squad, be quiet.” Another Captain stepped forward, younger, taller, confident and controlled. He shook his head. “Sol's fire is burning in this one, can't you see it? Tell us your plan, sire.”

  Squad stepped back, but glared at Snow. ??
?Fine.”

  The respect Snow was being accorded embarrassed rather than fortified. And he didn't feel Sol's hand at work: this was just him, terrifying as that was. But he had a point to make so he ploughed on.

  “We can't all escape: the Disciples are too quick.” The crowd murmured their disapproval but he held his hands up. “Wait, wait, I said escape, not survive. Look at Mortar's crew: the Disciples haven't killed them all: they just sank the boat. And they aren't shooting at us now when they could scythe us down like wheat. They must be doing this for a reason and... and I think that reason is that they want to capture us.”

  “Why?” the young Captain asked.

  “They got past the traps, yes? Those traps were fiendish, the best we can create, stronger and more sophisticated than any ever made. The only way they could do this was by becoming more intelligent, more sophisticated. And part of that could mean taking captives. My Dad told me that the Disciples had targeted Scar and the Shields first, going for military personnel. We don't know what's happened to those non-Shields who joined the militia, they could all be alive for... some reason... Something from the past, an old law that some battles were fought to...”

  Everyone looked at him blankly. The concept of applying laws to your enemy in a war was alien to them, to Geos as a whole. So he continued, “Anyway I know they want to capture us. I'm certain of it. It was a pre-Cleansing custom to capture civilians.” He addressed the young Captain. “On Scar's model, there was another dock south of here. Is that correct?”

  “Well, yes...” the Captain replied.

  “I propose that the boats set sail with skeleton crews to distract the Disciples. As they do this, some Mariners and civilians will escort the children to the southern docks and use the smaller boats there to escape... The rest of you will distract the Disciples by remaining here. It isn't perfect but the children will escape. And I imagine most of you will happily give your lives to see your children live on, just as my father did.”

  The crowd stared at him. He had just proposed handing them to the Disciples. But he had given them the option to save their children and most of them were mothers, parents. There was a weary acceptance in the silence, a grim determination.

  “You've made an awful lot of assumptions, boy,” Squad said, the first to speak.

  “Do you have any better ideas? Any other theories?”

  Squad's eyes flared, but he didn't respond.

  Snow nodded. “I thought not. Are we agreed?”

  The Captains stared at each other. The young Captain nodded. Then the other Captain, older in his thirties, nodded. Then Squad. “We are agreed.”

  None of the civilians disagreed either. The plan was set.

  “I'll need someone to help take the children south. Squad, assemble some Mariners to sail us out when we get to the dock.” It felt peculiar to give orders, weird but exhilarating as he had power, control, for once.

  The crowd separated as Squad chose who would escape, the Disciples' approach spurring co-operation and decisiveness. People did not argue, did not wail, or beg to go south. Three women were selected based on their sensibility, and they marched the sobbing, dazed children south and away from the crowd. Those who would distract the Disciples grouped together and cried or held each other to lessen slightly the pain of losing their confused children.

  When everyone was ready as they could be, they waited on Snow. It was only then, seeing those scared, pale people look to him, that Snow understood the anguish Scar bore every day: these faces would haunt him every night if he survived. The distraction team far, far outweighed the escapees. But this was the price he paid for taking charge, for looking after them.

  Maybe it would get easier with time, but part of him hoped it wouldn't: if discarding life became a simple matter then he would be a monster incapable of rational judgement.

  “May Sol bless you all.” Snow turned and gestured for the three women, four Mariners, and dozens of children to move out. They soon ran from the port, from his planned anarchy. He didn't look back: his course was set.

  “You've done the right thing, lad,” one of the women, her arrogant, rounded face set in stone, said. “Now don't lose sight of that, and get us killed.”

  The other two, one plump and the other at least sixty years old, nodded in agreement.

  “I won't.” Snow clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. “I promise, I won't.”

  25

  “Come on, into the Arboretum,” Nephilim said, gesturing for her to leave the dark room.

  “I'm not going anywhere while I'm on fire!” Maya replied slowly.

  Nephilim looked her up and down, as though he had forgotten. “All right. Just hold still.”

  In one quick movement, he tried to slap her. She dodged, acting on instinct.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” she shouted, pointing at him. “What did you...?”

  Nephilim looked at Maya's hand and nodded. Maya stopped mid-rage when she noticed that she was no longer on fire.

  “You just needed to be distracted,” Nephilim explained. “I knew you'd dodge.”

  “Come on,” she said after a moment of shock, “we're going into the Abroetum.”

  After being in that dark room, the secret paradise looked glorious again, like a summer's day. The beauty wasn't lost on Maya, in spite of her anger. She went and leant against an apple tree, arms crossed, and watched Nephilim approach.

  “I don't think I could explain what you just saw,” he said, leaning against the lemon tree beside her. “My knowledge is based on research beyond anything you could know, or has come from experience, so it would be impossible to make you understand. I will try, but Warmth, the fire that surrounded you, my capabilities? They won't make sense, and I cannot make them make sense for you.”

  “That's patronizing, Nephilim. How do you know I wouldn't understand?”

  He laughed. “Do you know of black holes? Or synapses? Could you easily believe that the brain is an enormous electrical devise, a flesh-version of whatever powers the Disciples?”

  “Actually, I do know what a black hole is. It's what happens when a sun dies.”

  Nephilim's face dropped slack in wonder. “How... How did you find that out?”

  Maya grinned. “You couldn't possibly hope to understand.”

  “Maya, this is a serious question. How did you find out about black holes? Are... are your scholars that advanced?”

  Maya took a deep breath. Finally, she would be able to share what had driven her to leave the Academy... and it was to someone who already knew every word of it was true. “There was a book in our library, hidden inside another tome, which was about Astronomy. It was... amazing, breathtaking, a revelation beyond anything I had dreamed. But...”

  But it had been burned. Maya closed her eyes. “In answer to your question, no, our scholars are not that advanced. When I let slip what I knew, I was severely disciplined for my lack of faith. The people of Geos still believe in the unalloyed truth of the Sol Lexic.”

  Nephilim knelt down and took her hand. Surprised, Maya's funk at remembering her punishment lifted and she enjoyed the contact... The last few times she'd touched another human had been to hurt them.

  “I'm sorry that you went through that,” he said.

  “You needn't apologise. It wasn't your fault.”

  He held her gaze and her hand for a moment longer and then stood, dropping both. “No, it wasn't, but I'm still sorry it happened. To be beaten like that just for learning the truth... It's vile.”

  “So it is true, then? The sun is a mass of burning energy, and each star is another sun, so far away they're unreachable? I... I wasn't just beaten for believing another lie? It was all true?”

  “Yes, Maya, it's true.”

  Maya smiled and looked away, tried to stop herself crying. She had sometimes doubted the literal truth of what the book had claimed, worried she'd abandoned everything for nothing. But... but here was confirmation. Nephilim was so certain
, so brusque, that it had to be true. Even if this business with Warmth did not help her, maybe... maybe she could live now, validated.

  With a shake of her head, Maya returned to the conversation. “Do you still think you can't explain Warmth and everything to me?”

  He nodded.

  “That's... annoying. What's your plan to train me in this 'Cyrus Force' then?”

  “I'm going to show you. Or, more accurately, make you see. Before I do though, I need to warn you that your entire perception of reality is about to...”

  “I understand that everything will change,” Maya cut in, “and I won't be able to go back. Just do it.”

  Nephilim smiled. “Well done. Give me your hand.” He put his hand out towards her, and it was covered in a green sheen, as though he had dipped his fingers in thin watercolour paint. It was the same green as the bird and the flash he'd used against her.

  Maya did not hesitate: she took it.

  The world became brighter, greener. Nephilim in particular shone as though covered in thousands of minuscule bonfires. Looking at him hurt, so she turned away, still holding his hand. But everything glowed, every thing, living or otherwise, had small shimmering lights dusted across them like jade dust.

  No light was as bright as Nephilim though. Even the sleeping drunkard was covered with a sheen that paled in comparison.

  “This is... interesting. I assume what I'm seeing is Cyrus Force.”

  “It is. Take a look at your weapons.”

  She did so. Her robes and armour projected their own weak energy. But they did so at a different rate, or level, to her weapons, so she could somehow see each blade: they glowed light green – pale as everything else that wasn't Nephilim - except for her short sword. That stood out. It burned, the energy within rippling away like smoke. Maya drew it, intrigued, and the conflagration burst to life, as though the scabbard had only kept it at bay.

  Nephilim released her hand, and this new view of the world fell away, leaving her staring at her plain, sharp sword. She felt a great misery, as though she'd lost an arm. “Why?” she sighed. “Why did you take that away from me?”

  “I couldn't have held your hand for the rest of the day, could I?”

  Maya looked down at her hand, still held aloft like a desperate plea; then coloured. She passed her sword into that hand and pointed it at Nephilim. “Okay then. Explain what that was. And that fire, that's part of what Warmth did to me, isn't it?”

  “I was going to explain it to you, Maya. There's no need to threaten me.” His eyes moved towards her outstretched blade.

  “Sorry,” she whispered. She sheathed the sword.

  Nephilim just kept embarrassing her. He had a real knack for it... “Don't worry about it,” he said. “Tell me what you saw.”

  Maya closed her eyes, tried to recall every wondrous detail, every vivid moment of colour. “Everything was covered with light. You were the brightest thing in the room. My sword burned much like you and... Wait, you could tell this was my lucky weapon. So either this sword has an innate quality that inspired such feelings, or you could see the way I felt about it. Some sort of empathic vision. Am I close?”

  “Pretty much, yeah.” Maya opened her eyes to see Nephilim nodding as he spoke. “You've deduced a lot from a few seconds. I'm impressed. As I said though, you won't believe what I would have to tell you, even now. Everything has changed, I guarantee that, but you need to understand this on your own. To that end, you will live in there,” he gestured towards the dark chamber, “until you feel that you understand more.”

  “What, that's it?” Maya frowned, took a step away from him. “That's...”

  “It's necessary. You have to come to this alone: it's the only way this will work. I wish I could explain more to you, I do. But I can't.”

  Maya sighed. There had been a test like this at the Academy, designed to teach her how to think for herself. It had annoyed her three years ago, and it annoyed her now. “What about him?” She pointed to the drunkard, who turned over in his sleep and emitted a gentle snore. “Will you train him like this, the state he's in?”

  “No, he will be a special case. Anyway, don't divert me from the point: you need to meditate, think, in there. Alone. I'll bring you three meals a day to give you structure and a sense of time, but beyond that you'll have no contact with anyone.”

  “I should be used to that by now,” Maya thought.

  She said, “And this is necessary?”

  Nephilim nodded.

  “Fine. Shall I get out of your way now?”

  He shrugged. “It's as good a time as any.” His casualness grated.

  “But what am I supposed to do?”

  “Put together everything you've seen. Assemble the facts like armour.” He gestured toward that midnight room again and a look of pleading crossed his face. “Please, I can't say anything more.”

  Maya sighed. “All right, I'll see you after my 'epiphany.'”

  “See you then,” Nephilim said simply.

  He watched as she walked round him and entered the dome. Maya did her best to hide her anger but doubted she'd succeeded all that well.

  The room was now lit by light-spheres, just bright enough to be uncomfortable. She turned to look at Nephilim, but he was already tending to the drunkard. So she stepped inside and let the door close behind her, separate her from the world.

  “Well,” she said to herself. “Bugger.”

  26

  Many Farmers are dedicated to the war effort, acres and acres of land tilled and ploughed to keep Geos safe. Snow had heard it said that fully a third of all produce goes to the Fronts. But even this lion-share wasn't enough: both Fronts were supported by supplementary farms, especially important during heavy conflicts where naval deliveries are risky.

  Several supplementary farms rested between Snow's band of children and their destination, either filled with cattle standing in thick mud and chewed-short grass or impassive, functional vegetable fields and orchards. Each one seemed abandoned, which put Snow on edge as the crowd followed behind him.

  At a sensible pace, jogging speed for a child, they ran through the derelict farms. The cattle looked apprehensive.

  Snow, paranoid and alert, hoped that they hadn't been pre-empted, that the cattle weren't nervous because Disciples had already passed this way. An ice-chill thought struck him: what if the boats at the second dock had already been destroyed? It would be the only rational plan for the Disciples to contain the situation... if they knew of the dock's existence. And they could do if they happened to see Scar's model of Geos...

  This fear, impossible to shake off, stayed with Snow like the stench of decay as he ran. He fervently hoped that his Dad had locked the door when he left Scar's house.

  Snow winced. Thinking of his Dad wasn't a good idea. He needed to concentrate on his charges, on getting them to the docks. Focussing on what was ahead of them, on navigating the rolling fields of farmland, he ignored his fears.

  After fifteen minutes, they entered a large cattle farm. It was eight acres at least with a discreet farmhouse at the centre. Tall, dense fences hid the beasts from one another and swaddled the refugees, as did the foul smell of living things. This made it a maze, but it also sheltered, protected them. Snow halted and plotted a course through the corridors, murmuring the directions to himself to learn them verbatim.

  “Do you hear that?” One of the women, plump and ugly, hissed. Everyone halted. The children were panicked, tearful. The other woman at the rear halted and looked around, hands cupped to her ears.

  The Mariners put their hands to their weapons, being far more practical.

  Snow stopped and gestured for the children to hush. This was easier asked than given: most of them were much younger than him. The older and more insightful children tried to comfort the loudest, but their efforts were mostly in vain as they knew nothing of calming a child.

  “I already think they're different to me... Not just the children, all of them,” Snow thought.
Then he focussed on listening.

  He heard nothing. No one seemed to. “What was it?” he whispered.

  The plump woman's wide face shook with fear as she replied. “It... it sounded like a Disciple. That weird, swishing sound they make when they walk.”

  Dubious, Snow went ahead alone. He again heard nothing. Slowly, he approached the fence to his left and listened through it with cupped hands. Nothing. Complete silence.

  Which, he realised, was wrong: they were surrounded by animals, domesticated and rude, used to making whatever sounds they wished. Yet they were silent. Thinking about it, were they even alive? He had seen them only from a distance.

  He sniffed the air for blood or rot. Nothing ominous.

  “Move forward,” he whispered, hiding his worries, “Single file, stay away from the fences.”

  The crowd obeyed quietly. Already some of the children were tiring and could not walk. If they were being followed by Disciples, the monsters only had to wait for the younger ones to tire themselves and then strike. Angry at himself for not considering that, Snow frantically sought a solution. They'd be caught if he couldn't find one.

  After five aching minutes of sneaking in one line of terrified youths, an idea presented. Unfortunately, it did so alongside a horror.

  They navigated the whole farm until the fences made way for wide, open fields sundered by deep-worn roads. And standing to the left of this road, dopey and unperturbed, were two horses tied to an empty carriage.

  Transport! Such luck. Snow gestured for everyone to halt and ran forward to inspect the vehicle.

  And stopped short when he found a body at the horse's feet. It was a man, old, recently dead, his chest concave. The horses looked tense, whinnied at Snow in distressed tones as he knelt down to inspect the corpse. Its shirt was open and a horse-shoe bruise was pressed between its ribs. No Disciple seemed to have influenced this. This was just bad luck.

  Snow didn't question fortune. He was too busy pushing aside the odd rising shock he felt at seeing a dead body.

  “Children, please,” he said, keeping his voice level, “close your eyes, all of you. The ladies will help you onto the cart. Mariners, here. Now.”

  Three Mariners lumbered across, and their eyes widened at his discovery. Still, they helped him move the corpse. The fourth kept watch as they hid the horror from the children, spinning slowly to monitor all sides. Snow led the Mariners back between the fences and crossed the Farmer's arms, left him without a proper burial.

  “Should we do something?” one Mariner asked, sounding younger than Snow.

  “Escape,” another, much older, said simply.

  When they returned, Snow caught the eye of the arrogant woman who'd congratulated him earlier, and she looked terrified. His own terror about the corpse dissolved, and a sense of duty replaced it. “Hurry, hurry, come on,” he said. “You can open your eyes now. Everyone just get on and hold tight. Move, move.”

  Everyone just fit aboard. Almost forty children packed in and on a ten man carriage from the farmer's barn, and the driver's section was over-filled with Mariners, but there was still just enough room for Snow.

  The youngest Mariner, twenty-odd, slight with a curved tattoo of Sol on his cheek, took the reins. “Hold on!” he shouted. He geed the horses and they began trotting, probably just as glad to be moving as Snow.

  It was as the cart pulled away that the Disciple decided to make its move. How devious it was. Golden and inhuman, it stood from the tall grass it hid in and ran into the centre of the road. Then it pointed its weapon arm at them.

  “It's aiming at the horses!” Snow screamed, his voice carrying above the others.

  The Mariner made the horses turn, jolting the cart, and the Disciple's shot narrowly missed. Instead it struck the oldest of the three women in the forehead, killing her instantly. She fell back onto Snow, covering him in her blood.

  The children on the roof screamed, spooking the horses, who tried to break their harnesses rather than run. Everyone looked to Snow for a plan, but he could do nothing. Snow could only look at the now-dead woman in his lap, the Circle-sized gap in her head and the litres of blood that emptied themselves onto his clothes.

  Nothing was happening. Even the Disciple seemed shocked. Snow tried to think, but his mind froze. His world had become that disgusting hole and the wetness soaking into his trouser.

  “Right,” the plump woman shouted, her tone silencing the children. She leapt from the cart, grabbed the old woman's corpse, and stormed toward the advancing Disciple.

  The body slid from Snow like a great slug as she dragged it away with her. He shivered when he was rid of it.

  “Get the horses moving,” someone said. Snow turned and saw the arrogant-looking woman whispering in the Mariner's ear. “We can get away whilst it's distracted.”

  Snow was lost in the situation, and the Mariners were no better. How soft they were. As the tattooed Mariner tried to calm the horses, he watched the plump woman approach the Disciple. The corpse dragged at her feet like a ghoulish teddy bear. Later he would hate himself for not acting. Even though this turned out to be a valuable fugue, that didn't excuse it and he would wake up roaring his shame for years to come.

  “What in the name of Lun do you think you are, Disciple?” the plump woman screamed when she got to the creature. “You killed her: you've killed an old woman. Does this make you happy? Is there a soul under there that takes pleasure from this?” She prodded its gold-plated chest. “Come on, answer me! If you're going to slaughter us, at least tell me why! Why did you kill her? Why did you take my family from me? Why?”

  The Disciple looked down, considering her for the first time. She held its gaze, but her body shrank back so it looked as though her eyes were held in place but the rest of her was being pushed away. It was an odd sight and it made Snow titter in his strange state.

  Quickly, the creature looked back up. The plump woman flinched, and the children cried out.

  “Get us moving,” the arrogant woman hissed.

  “I can't,” the Mariner hissed back, “the horses are too terrified.”

  “Fucking do something, Base,” another Mariner whispered, slapping the back of his head.

  “Fuck you, okay!” Base whispered back. “I'm not a fucking equestrian.”

  “Give them the lash. Thrash them if you have to. If you don't get them moving, we're dead.”

  “Captured.” Snow didn't know why he corrected her.

  The arrogant woman slapped Snow for that. Hard. “So much for you inheriting the spirit of Scar. You're a useless brat.”

  The barb should have stung, but it meant nothing. He nearly laughed in her face, so absurd was the whole situation.

  The Disciple tried to move round the plump woman, but she stood in its way and shouted more expletives in its face. Ignorant of the insults, it tried again, but she moved with it. As Base jumped down and tried to coax the horses into moving, Snow realised the Disciple didn't want to brush past her. Why?

  Unless...

  “I think we've got plenty of time,” Snow said. He hopped down from the cart and ran to the plump woman. He had a theory. It needed testing.

  “...of a bitch, you're nothing more than a walking piece of jewellery,” the plump woman screeched as he approached. “A cheap one, a fucking cheap one... You... You killed my life. I hate you! I'm not letting you... No, you're not getting away without explaining yourself! Explain! Tell me why! Surely there's...”

  The Disciple side-stepped again and this time was blocked by Snow. He looked up at it. By Sol, it was tall, eight feet at least.

  Sweating, he tried to remaining flippant. “Hi there.”

  It repeated the previous routine: looked down at him, judged him a 'civilian,' then tried to step round. Snow stepped with it, and it examined him again, repeated itself as though he were a new person. Something was stopping it from picking him up or pushing him away, some moral value or lack of insight.

  “It can't get past us. L
ook...” He stepped to his left and laughed as the Disciple halted its advance again. “The stupid thing can only step aside! We're civilians – an ancient term, pre-Cleansing – and the Disciples are definitely adhering to ancient laws. Maybe they always did and they just never got the chance to do so! Hah!

  “What's your name, sorry?” he asked the plump woman, her grim luggage bringing their situation into focus.

  “Fountain, sire,” she whispered, breaking her litany of harassment to answer him. “And its kind killed them, my boys... Best and Top...”

  “Listen, Fountain. we can get the children to safety if we stay here, block the creature off. Are you okay with doing that? It'll capture us when we collapse, but they will be safe.”

  She shook her head. “We'll be safe, you mean.”

  Snow stepped in front of the Disciple. It scanned him again. “What?” he asked.

  “You're going with them, boy. If I can piss these things–” Fountain blocked the Disciple again, the corpse kicking up dust as she moved. “If I can piss these things off, then I'll to do it alone. I owe them. You've got a life to live, time to build yourself a family. I haven't. My heart won't last a month of beating without my kids. So go. Let me do this.”

  Snow eyed Fountain for a moment and then acquiesced. “May Sol be with you.”

  “His blessings upon you,” Fountain whispered.

  He turned away and saw Base jump back as the horses reared: they were willing to run again, it seemed. The arrogant woman pulled on the reins, preventing the horses from racing off whilst their driver was absent. She would likely not hold them for Snow.

  Snow ran and pulled himself on to the carriage just in time. The beasts burst away just before he was aboard, rattling and desperate but free, but he got a firm grip on the side of the driver's seat and climbed aboard.

  The Disciple looked up, breaking its routine, and Snow's heart froze. It made a step towards them, but Fountain moved before it again, arms stretched wide, trying to steal its attention. Everything was in the balance, off-kilter, as they awaited the Disciple's next action. Snow held his breath and hoped.

  Fountain stepped towards the creature, shouting, nodding her head furiously. It watched them shoot away... Then looked down at Fountain and tried a sidestep, re-initiating the dance.

  Snow breathed out slowly.

  “Is she going to be okay?” someone, young, innocent-sounding, asked. Snow looked up to see a little girl, maybe twelve years old, looking at him from above the carriage. Her eyes were wide but unreddened. An inquisitive expression gave her an odd air of confidence.

  “Yeah. Sol will provide for her,” he replied, leeching her confidence for the coming weeks. The journey back to Geos would be long and arduous, he still had so much to think over, work out, and so he would need all the solidity he could get.

  “No thanks to you,” the arrogant woman said.

  Snow had no reply to that.

  27

  Hours later, Nephilim brought her a bowl of vegetables, lightly fried and heavily spiced. Maya had achieved almost nothing in the meantime and had begun to wonder if she was even capable of this kind of... spiritual reflection? Sure she'd abandoned Solarism, but that was after a direct challenge to her beliefs...

  But what Nephilim had shown her wasn't a challenge... It was a revelation. So she had to piece together facts like they were part of a puzzle, not fight to reconcile what she thought she knew. It was not a battle but a riddle. And she was no closer to solving it.

  She would not ask Nephilim for help though, or even hint at this worry. In fact, she barely moved when the door opened, and he stepped in. He said nothing, simply put the food down onto the carpeted floor and walked back out.

  When he was gone, she fell on the food like a wolf. It was well-cooked and delicious, perfectly sating. Afterwards, she leant back, basked in the glowing warmth of a full stomach.

  “Warmth, huh?” Maya said and grinned, looking up at the ceiling. She didn't know why she'd said it, or why it felt good to do so but it did. A feeling of contentment stayed with her as the word died between the room's dark walls.

  The contentment remained as the food sat on her stomach like a pet, relaxing her, lulling her after a strange and long day. Maya closed her eyes and plunged herself into a sweet, encompassing darkness.

  A darkness in which she dreamt. She was still in the midnight room, but flickering bands of energy were emanating from her, pouring down from her form and into the carpet like a waterfall. She knelt and tried to catch the energy, but it moved around her trembling fingers. Because she couldn't hold them, Maya wanted to follow one of these bands. This desire grew until she could feel it gently tugging away at her.

  The urge became so strong that it pulled her mind away and down through the carpeted floor. Rid of her body, her mind rode this light like a discarded leaf along an autumn breeze. A swaying rhythm in the flow left her stupefied, unable to do anything but watch. It was pleasant ignorance, like a drugged haze.

  She flowed through Geos' muddy flesh for long minutes, hours even, until the earth gave way, and she was cast into an ocean larger then she could understand. Falling from a great height, she got a brief glimpse of unending water before she splashed into shimmering, silver waters.

  Where her mind sank like an anchor. She had no physical form, but this didn't matter: she hadn't landed in water, but a strange substance that tingled. No, in fact it was sand, tiny grains that accreted around her.

  The sand was not affected by whatever force pulled her under, so she rippled away from it. Each passing mote tickled her like a forgotten name. Deeper, further she fell. The world darkened until she could no longer see. Her thoughts became leaden, drenched in thick honey. It took her minutes to even wonder where she was going.

  Maya sank. And sank. No answer presented itself. She was lost.

  Then there was light, and she could see what was around her. Spheres the size of small marbles engulfed her. A thousand tiny needles sunk into her as these spheres gripped her, held her mind and stopped her falling.

  This was wrong. Their grip on her suggested intelligence, logic. And only predators swam in waters so deep. She had to get away. Struggling furiously, she tried to loosen them from her mind, adrenaline quickening her thoughts. As she fought, her body returned, and she was no longer just a mind.

  So she scratched, she bit, she punched. When she caught a marble between her teeth, she bit down. Its skin was thin like a bladder, cold, smooth, unresisting. It burst between her teeth. Her reward was noxious vapours that went down her throat and almost choked her.

  The world pulsed with green light, came into clarion focus. The marbles she had fought were living things, tiny, manifold beings that ranged in appearance from incredibly cute to so horrible she could not stand to look at them. She swam round in the not-ocean and saw them stretching off further than she could see.

  The creatures backed off, gave her a wide berth after she killed one of them. There was a darkness between her and the school now. Maya feinted to attack one way, and the creatures scattered furiously. Eventually, more poured forward to replace them, but they kept their distance.

  This was not a dream: it was really happening. Maya looked up. Smaller creatures looked down at her, curious about what was happening to their larger brethren. The sand had always been living things.

  Just where was she?

  There was a deep and distant sound, like an earthquake in another country. She kept swimming in circles, constantly worried about being attacked from behind, until she saw the empty skin of the creature she'd killed floating dully in the darkness. It had been black, ugly and spiked. She was glad it hadn't been one of the cuter ones, but a revulsion filled her as she stared at it, a profound loathing for the corpse.

  It should not be dead, she knew. This was wrong.

  A pulse filled the air, making the world ripple. Every creature scattered, darting this way and that, any direction as long as it was away from Maya. The far-away smas
hing sounded again. She span again but could not see what had scared them. Soon, she saw nothing but darkness as what had once seemed like a limitless supply of creatures vanished.

  Then she realised she hadn't looked down yet. Slowly, she did. And she almost screamed.

  The air shook as the creature approached. Black and enormous, it shifted and changed so rapidly that Maya could not see what it was. Not that she needed to: it felt like a predator, and all the other prey had disappeared. Her first instinct was to reach for her weapons. She patted her body, but she was naked. She had no defences.

  Maya raised her hands. She knew unarmed combat and this would have to do. She awaited the oncoming enemy, determined to kill or be killed.

  The water's shaking increased tenfold. Constant ripples in the darkness, and its ephemeral form meant the creature could have been anywhere beneath her. The smashing sound boomed again and again. The last one was much louder than the others and corresponded with a sharp pain in her cheek.

  “Maya!”

  Nephilim's voice. She looked up and then she was in the carpeted chamber, being held by a terrified-looking Nephilim. Her cheek ached from where he'd slapped her.

  “Whu?” she managed.

  “Maya, oh fucking hell. Why did you do that? Why did you dive?”

  Maya blinked. “What did I do? Where was I?”

  He looked at her for a long time, either trying to make sense of what she'd said or trying to word a response. Then he sat opposite her, knees tucked beneath him like he was praying, and said, “Tell me what happened.”

  She pushed Nephilim away and sat down on the carpet cross-legged. A deep breath calmed her, restored some clarity. “I fell asleep; then I dreamt that I was following a... a stream that escaped me and led to an enormous ocean filled with creatures. I sank into it until the things stopped me moving and I... I panicked, had to fight back. When I bit one of them, killed it, I...”

  Nephilim's eyebrows rose. “That's... interesting. Did you kill it on purpose?”

  “No, I didn't. Why?”

  He took a breath. “I can't tell you.”

  Maya's mouth dropped open. She closed it again and stood. “When's my next meal?”

  “I was just making it for you. It's morning, so you're getting breakfast.”

  “Good.”

  They waited for a moment, him looking up, her looking down. When Nephilim realised she wouldn't crack, he got to his feet and left through the smashed door.

  “Don't worry about that, I'll repair it, so you can have your solitude,” he called back.

  “Oh, thank you,” she said, unable to suppress some sarcasm.

  His footsteps stopped, and he turned. Leaning round the hole, he gave Maya an unreadable look and then put his hand out. Cyrus Force poured out and sank to the floor like a swarm. The energy then collected up the lumps and splinters scattering the carpet – even the dust – and lifted them to piece the door together like some sort of puzzle.

  Then a sound filled the chamber, echoing between the walls, the noise of a beehive condensed from an hour into a moment. Maya closed her eyes and tried to push her headache away, ignore this buzzing.

  When she opened her eyes, the door was whole again, unblemished and varnished. “You're welcome,” Nephilim shouted, then walked away.

  Maya approached the door and ran her hand across its smooth surface. It was as though nothing had happened. “Bloody peacock.”

  28

  Chain had been invited to Wasp's house for eight o'clock. She would not arrive then. In her time in the Academy, she'd had no experience of boys other than beating them bloody when trainee Shields were brought in to learn about fighting more powerful foes. But she guessed that turning up on time would make her seem keen. So she didn't even set off until eight. It would take half an hour to get there, making her just late enough to seem unmoved, but not so late that he'd think she'd stood him up.

  She hoped.

  And she did hope it. During the day, thoughts of Wasp had distracted her, and she took a nasty cut across her hand during a combat exam. The wound would count against her too. As her hand was stitched and then bandaged by Lid, the Academy's Doctor, she was forced to acknowledge that she wanted Wasp. Not just in a physical sense, but in many others: he was intriguing, a challenge, difficult and complex. He was arrogant, and handsome, and stylish...

  In short, he was everything she wasn't.

  The night was cold. Lun was black. This was a bad omen: he must have tired himself sowing seeds of unrest for tomorrow. She stared at the empty sky and shuddered, hoping the dark brother had lain hundreds of smaller evils and not one large, brooding horror to come.

  Aureu was relaxed, calm, in Lun's absence. It often was. People hid when Lun was blank, praying that their days would not be affected by him. His tiredness was almost welcome: after the... the ignominy of the Heretic and the heady joy of the Ten Days, the city had to recover and its people obliged by giving her peace. Even the Shields and Contegons on night duties that Chain passed tiptoed around Sol's Landing, speaking in hushed whispers.

  To Chain, it felt like Aureu was trying not to wake Lun. She couldn't help but walk as silently as possible, lest she be the one to rouse him.

  Through the gate set into the tall walls surrounding Sol's Landing, she moved into Sol's Greeting. She was home. Sure, her parents lived far from Wasp's house, but Sol's Greeting was where she'd grown up, where her roots were. The streets were again quiet, but then they always had been: those with money, class, had always held social engagements indoors. Why else have a parlour if not for parties?

  Chain turned and went south, looking for number fifty on the Circumference, the smooth road that circled Sol's Haven. Fifty six, fifty five. She passed large houses twice the size of hers, great palaces with at least thirty rooms. House might not even be the right word: manse was probably more accurate. Though it was an Old Language term – and therefore should only be used for naming – it fitted so well.

  She counted fifty four, fifty three, fifty two... but them the next manse had no number. Larger than the others, Chain stopped. It looked like two houses had been stitched together. Done with the finest materials, onyx and marble and coloured glass, the join was tasteful but obvious. Whoever had designed it wanted to make sure people thought it a grand gesture, a symbol of wealth. And buying two houses on the Circumference sure signalled wealth.

  Chain passed it and was not surprised that the next manse after this conjoined extravagance was number forty-nine. The ostentatious and overblown combined-building belonged to Wasp.

  She smiled: as though it was going to be anything but.

  Chain walked back and knocked on one of Wasp's front doors. A man in a black suit and a white shirt answered promptly. Round-nosed, cheerful in a red-faced way, he acquiesced.

  “Good evening, Contegon. Wasp is expecting you in the dining room. May I lead you through?” His voice was polished and sharp, like a ceremonial sword.

  Words almost failed her. Having staff made sense, people to cook and clean for you, but a butler was just... extravagant. “Rise,” she ordered. “And yes, please lead me through.”

  “Very good.”

  He stepped aside, and Chain moved past him, into the wealth and luxury of Wasp's home. Fine paintings greeted her. Different artists with different styles had all rendered the same image. A golden-framed woman stood on the steps of the Cathedral, holding the leather-bound Sol Lexic above her head, and thousands of people looked to her: it was the First Servant's first speech to the people of Geos

  Their meaning was not lost on her. They were supposed to draw a parallel between the owner of this house and the First Servant. This was a statement and a warning: their owner knew that Sol had granted him his wealth, they said, and he would not forget this.

  And his visitors should not forget it either.

  “This way, sire,” the butler chirped after she turned from the paintings.

  As he passed it, the butler idly pulled a velv
et rope hung by the door. It must form part of a warning system for the house, letting them know a visitor had arrived. The kitchen would be a frenzy and Wasp would... or at least she hoped he would... preen, check his clothes to ensure they were good enough one last time.

  Led through it, Chain decided this was a fine house. Possibly the finest in Geos, second only to the Chamber. The halls had frescoed ceilings, thick windows with elegantly painted frames and doors made of dark polished wood. Every surface had been cleaned as though they were meant to be eaten from. Most of the rooms they passed were closed, as was right, but she got glimpses inside some when maids entered or serving boys left: each had a different but brilliant decorative style, taste and sophistication the common theme between varying schemas.

  The butler contrived to both stand proud and give Chain fealty as he walked. But this was right: it was how people should treat her. She found his struggle gratifying. The butler could not see her tainted reputation or hear it from talking to her, and so treated her like a true Contegon.

  It depressed her that she got the respect a Contegon deserved only from strangers.

  Suddenly he stopped and opened a seemingly-random door. Chain guessed she was at the back of the manse, an odd place to dine in. Could this be a drawing room, or even a bar?

  “May I announce Contegon Justicar, Wasp?” he called inside.

  “Yes, thank you Nail,” Wasp replied.

  The butler grimaced – Chain dimly remembered that butlers traditionally preferred not to be called by their names – then gestured for Chain to enter. She nodded and stepped inside.

  The room was a library of all things, large, with floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with wood-bound tomes. There were even some pre-Cleansing books amongst the collection, their worn and desaturated leather covers standing out amongst the shelves. The air was thick with the smell of old paper. Compared to the Academy's collection, it was unimpressive but she was spoilt in that respect: Wasp's library was still worth thousands of Circles.

  Without windows, a chandelier lit the room and the dangling glass cast patterns across the captured knowledge. And one such pattern, a streak of light, settled on Wasp's chest where he sat on an antique desk chair. He wore a loose shirt, dark blue with a fine weave, that would have fallen from his shoulders if not for a thin blue rope through the collar: this made the smear of light look like a clear sky tearing into the darkness of night. Wasp wore make-up again and tight trousers, but it was this reflection, so contrived, that struck her.

  “Chain, I'm glad you made it.” Wasp gave her a small grin. He closed the book he held, something about interpreting the Sol Lexic, and put it on the floor. He gestured to the dense, comfy chair behind him. “Come in, please.”

  The door closed behind her. She was alone with hundreds of books and Wasp.

  “Of course I came. A Contegon must keep an eye on the seedier elements of Geos,” she retorted, sitting.

  He smiled and purposefully picked the book back up. “So I'm a seedy element, am I?”

  “I'd hardly call you a respectable one.”

  “And what,” he said, leaning forward, “do you base that view on?”

  Chain stretched, leaving her hands to rest behind her neck. Her movements were controlled, planned. “The first clue was the class of person you brought to my... lunch. Leaving aside the shallow, surface judgement of their dress and oral health, they ate and conducted themselves unlike someone of Station. And you can judge a person by the company they keep.”

  “Indeed?” Wasp grinned and stood up, turning the book over in his hands.

  She blinked: he was referring to the Heretic. Chain apologised to Sol for her hypocrisy and started again “There's your conduct. You did not bow before a Contegon. Some of your points were acceptable... but they would have held more weight if you had shown the proper respect to someone above your Station.”

  “That point I'll concede, but can you allow a concession on the basis of being in mourning?”

  Contrition and humility seemed so alien on Wasp's lips. “I-I can, yes. But...” And he'd done it again, torn her arguments asunder. Sol but he was infuriating.

  “Maybe,” she said, “I was being harsh. But you did not leave a good impression, so I cannot be expected to retain one.”

  “That is true. That is true.” Wasp turned away and looked across his bookcases. Leaning down, he slotted the book back into place, pushed it tightly between its brethren. “Would you like a drink? Dinner will be at nine.”

  “No thank you.” Contegons can only drink during their Ten Days. Wasp knew that.

  Sol, they were playing such games with each other... Why, though? Why did he test her, knowing she couldn't drink? And why had she started the evening with an insult? Wasp could be toying with her, looking to play with a Contegon for boasting rights and nothing more… but that didn't feel right.

  Insecurity: Chain realised that was why she antagonised him so. And the same might be true of Wasp. After all, hard shells hide soft flesh.

  “Wasp, may I ask something?”

  He turned, too handsome for her good. “Of course.”

  “Can we drop this routine? The sparring is fun, but it's just antagonism right now and I don't want to spend the evening like this. How about I'm honest with you, and you're honest with me? There's something between us, so let's explore it in peace, not war, and try to have an enjoyable evening in one another's company?”

  Watching his face was fascinating: shock, then hot-blooded embarrassment, and finally amusement took hold of it. “Well... I did not expect that. How mature of you. And you're younger than me too. How disappointing... I'm sorry. You're right: you intrigue me and I want to know you more. I had planned to do so by sparring. I thought that would be the Contegon way. But no, you've shown far more maturity than I have. So I'm sorry.”

  And then he bowed.

  Chain ran to him, almost without thinking, and tried to pull him to his feet. Her mouth was open in shock and a small amount of horror. She did not want a Wasp who would acquiesce to her so. “Get up. If we're to enjoy tonight, we'll do so as equals, leave our Stations aside and just... talk. Okay?”

  He grabbed her hand, tender but quick, and looked into her eyes. She almost gasped, surprised at the feelings and urges which went through her.

  Similar emotions played across Wasp's eyes. “Okay, Chain, let's do that,” he said.

  “Yes,” she replied, pulling her hand away, scared and excited and thrilled. “Let's.”

  29

  After a breakfast of fruit and berries, Maya paced the chamber and tried to make sense of... well, everything. It didn't work. There was just too much to consider at once, especially with this 'dive' on top of everything else. So she resorted to a childish technique, one her mother had taught her: she spoke her thoughts, talked to herself.

  “Okay, that dream meant something, or else Nephilim wouldn't have asked about the creature I killed. So, what did I see... There were streams of energy... an ocean... those things... and that beast which hunted me. Add to that Warmth, Nephilim's power, the bird and the auras around everything and you get...”

  Maya's flow halted. She sighed. “Nothing.”

  Sitting down, she tried a different tack. “Nephilim can heal and perform wonders, but he has some kind of agreement with Warmth and her kind. So why take advantage of the Woodsman legend and risk their agreement? Guilt, maybe? Well he said everything he'd given up had come to nothing, so it must be guilt. It can't be related to the Cleansing so... Wait, maybe the Woodsman is a title, passed down with a guilty history? Yes, that makes sense. The original 'Woodsman' must have been around during the Cleansing. Is that Nephilim's guilt? Did the first Woodsman take part in the Cleansing? Or was it one of those creatures? Was Sol once like Warmth? Or could the Woodsman have once been a Disciple? What is a Disciple? What is? What? What?”

  Maya stopped. She held her head in her hands. Her thoughts were becoming erratic, and the memory of that vile-tasting creature
returned. Gagging, she spat on the floor and shook her head violently, which seemed to restore some order.

  She wiped her mouth before trying again. “Nephilim might have something to do with this, but we're trying to understand the basics, not the history. Start with what we know. He can heal, knock down trees, and repair smashed objects. He commanded that green bird that rescued me. He summoned something to ask its permission to teach us about 'Cyrus Force.' He made me see the natural energy in all things, which he was drenched with. And so was my sword...” Maya's speech slowed as a memory floated into her thoughts, “which he knew was my favourite weapon.

  “My sword, which reminds me of... of Dad...”

  She stopped. Her arms snaked round her body, and she held herself. Thinking of him, of her parents, still hurt. Not because she felt betrayed – that had been a childish and stupid thought born of shock – but because she hadn't trusted them and had even been angry with them just for believing in Sol. Something that almost everyone in Geos did. They were still her parents, and she should have given them a chance to accept her. At the very least, she should have given them an explanation... The shame they must be feeling, hearing she's a Heretic...

  Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. She wiped them away with her robes, took a hitched breath, and reclaimed her train of thought.

  “My short sword is filled with energy, more so than weapons I've owned for longer. Nephilim said I was close when I asked if emotions instilled this energy, but then I also suggested it could be innate, and he agreed. Except, no! He was filled with Cyrus Force, and people and swords can't be alike. It must be emotion-led.”

  She smiled to herself. “Nephilim must think a lot of himself then...

  “Anyway, if that dream was accurate, there's also a well of creatures and energy somewhere. And Nephilim had to ask for permission... so they must grant the power somehow. Yes, that makes sense: those creatures have dominion over that power source. And the deeper I went, the larger the creatures were so those like Warmth would be at the very bottom. Some of the power must leak out, hence objects accruing energy when people care about them, but in order to use the Cyrus Force a creature is needed.”

  Satisfied she had come to a conclusion, she went to find Nephilim. The door wasn't locked this time, perhaps to save time if she 'dove' again. She heard him before she saw him. “What were their names?” he asked.

  “Show and Tame. They were bright boys, yes they were. Not just with their inner light, but they were so smart too,” someone replied. The voice sounded like the drunkard's but seemed too calm and even to be his.

  Maya snuck closer, kneeling behind apple trees. It was the drunkard. He looked... healthier, though depressed. Stripped to the waist for some reason, sitting on his bed, Maya noticed that he had a surprisingly well-maintained body.

  “I did not want them to join the Shields,” he whispered. “No, I pleaded and begged them to join the Artificers if they were to leave. I spent hours trying to convince them that the best way to fight the Disciples was to build weapons and armours. Strength in iron, not in arms, I told them. But they would not listen to me. They had got this notion into their heads that Geos needed protecting by people strong in will and body.”

  He took a deep breath. “We took them to the beach every year, even at the age of seventeen. They loved the ocean so much, Nephilim. They called it “The Happy Sea” because it made them happy to watch it or play in it. And yet suddenly they were also these determined men, ready to take the blood oath and leave. Well, I tried and tried, even said some... horrible things. And... and... and since they died, I've always thought I might have robbed them of that little... that little bit of... of... confidence...”

  He broke down, dreadful drips of guilt and loss, and Nephilim held him. Maya turned and walked away, deciding it would be best to come back later. In the mean time, she ate apples and tried not to think of her father crying as the drunkard had.