Shadowrise

  Chert wasn’t sure if he was joining in on the joke or not. “Yes, that’s what I’m saying. It’s us they’re looking for, son—and they don’t mean us anything good.”

  Brother Antimony was waiting for them in the middle of the path across the wide expanse of the temple’s fungus gardens, his young, broad face creased with unfamiliar worry. Behind him other worried faces peered out of the shadows of the pillared facade of the Temple of the Metamorphic Brothers.

  “The brothers aren’t happy,” Antimony told Chert. “Just to let you know. Grandfather Sulphur’s been up all night bellowing that the Days of Inundation are coming soon.” He nodded to Opal. “Greetings, Mistress, and the Elders’ blessings on you. It’s good to see you again.”

  Chert looked around for Flint, who had wandered off, following a cave cricket’s erratic path across the garden. “Is it the boy they’re worrying about? ”

  Antimony shrugged. “I would guess it’s the other two Big Folk causing them the most fret, wouldn’t you?” He laughed, but not too loud: faces were still peering out at them from the facade. “Not to mention what’s happening upground, the war with the fairies and the idea we might be drawn into it. Still, some of us don’t mind things being stirred up a little.” He nodded vigorously. “It might surprise you, Master Blue Quartz, but the temple is not always the most exciting place to live. Not complaining, mind you, but you have certainly brought us a few welcome distractions over the last season or two.”

  “Thank you . . . I suppose.”

  Opal had finally recaptured the boy. Chert beckoned them both toward the temple’s front door. His wife’s eyes were wide as she looked up at the columned facade. “I’d forgotten how big it is!” Her pace slowed as she neared it, as if she fought a strong wind. In a sense, she did, Chert thought: the centuries of unspoken tradition that insisted the temple was only for the Metamorphic Brothers themselves and a few important outsiders.

  Although Chert had been here twice before, he had not yet seen the inside, and as Antimony led them through the portico and into the pronaos hall he had to admit he was impressed by the size and craftsmanship of the temple’s fixtures. The ceiling of pronaos was almost as far above their heads as the famous carved ceiling of Funderling Town itself, although not half so intricate. The temple’s creators had instead taken austerity as their watchword, striving to make every line as clean and simple as possible, as had been the custom during their long-ago era. So the groined vault was decorated not with leaves or flowers or animals, but with broad lines and beautifully rounded edges. It made the hall look like something liquid that had been suddenly frozen, as if the Lord himself had poured the temple from a vast bucket of molten stone that had cooled in an instant.

  “It’s . . . beautiful,” Opal whispered.

  Antimony grinned. “Some like it, Mistress. Me, I find it a bit . . . stern. Day in, day out, it’s nice to have something to look at that holds your gaze, but I find my eyes sort of slipping and sliding . . .”

  “Antimony,” someone said sharply, “have you nothing better to do than prattle?” It was the sour-faced Brother Nickel Chert remembered from his first visit, not looking any sweeter than before.

  The young monk jumped. “Sorry, Brother. Of course, yes. Better things to do . . .”

  “Then go and do them. We will call you if we need you.”

  Antimony, looking sad now—not so much at having been caught having a pointless conversation, Chert guessed, as at having that conversation curtailed—gave a little bow and lumbered off.

  “He’s a good lad,” Chert said.

  “He’s a noisy one.” Nickel frowned. He nodded briefly toward Opal and ignored Flint completely. “I suppose he told you the sort of uproar the place is in.” He led them to a door in one wall of the great hall and through into a side corridor lined with alcoves. The shelves were empty but the smudged dust suggested something had rested in each and been recently moved. “We had more peaceful times before we met you, Chert Blue Quartz.”

  “The blame is not all mine, surely.”

  Nickel scowled. “I suppose not. Unpleasant things are happening all over, that is certain. These are the worst days since Highwarden Stormstone.”

  “Yes, I was just telling my family about him . . .”

  “It is a pity that the Big Folk cannot simply leave us alone. We do them no harm,” Nickel said angrily. “We wish only to follow our old ways, to serve the Earth Elders.”

  “Perhaps the Big Folk are part of the Earth Elders’ greater plan,” Chert said mildly. “Perhaps they are only doing what the Elders wish of them.”

  Nickel looked at him for a long moment. “You shame me, Chert Blue Quartz.” He didn’t sound happy about it. A moment later Nickel stopped and pushed open a door. The walls of the room behind it were covered with little baskets filled with glowing coral, so that by comparison to the dark hallway it seemed positively to blaze with light. “Come in and join your friends. They are here, in the library office.”

  It was certainly a modest room compared to the great main chamber, and that made the two men in it—Big Folk, not Funderlings—seem all the more grotesquely oversized. The physician Chaven smiled but did not get up, perhaps because he was worried about banging his head on the ceiling. Ferras Vansen, who was half a head taller than Chaven, rose into an awkward crouch and took Opal’s hand. “Mistress, it is good to see you and your family again. I will never forget the meal you made for me on the night I returned—the single best thing I have ever eaten.”

  Opal’s laugh threatened to become a girlish giggle. “I can’t take much credit for that. Cooking for a starving man, well, that’s like . . . like . . .”

  “Catching a sun-dazzled salamander?” suggested Chert, then wished he hadn’t: Opal looked hurt. “You do yourself too little credit, woman. Everyone knows your table is one of the best.”

  “Yes, she certainly has fed me grandly,” said Chaven. “I never thought I could grow to admire a well-cooked mole so much.” He smiled at Flint, who was watching the physician with his usual serious stare. “And hello to you too, boy. You’re getting tall.” Chaven turned back to Chert. “We wait only on the arrival of our last guest . . .”

  The door creaked open. A worried-looking acolyte stuck his head in. “Brother Nickel?” the newcomer said. “One of the magisters from the town is here and he wants to use your study in the charterhouse for his council room!”

  “My study?” squawked Nickel, then hurried out to defend his territory.

  “ . . . And that would be him,” Chaven finished. “Ah, well. Magister Cinnabar and Brother Nickel will never be friends, I fear.”

  Chert pulled his old, blunt carving knife out of his pocket and gave it to Flint along with a chunk of soapstone to keep the boy occupied. “Let’s see what you make of this,” he said. “Take good care and think a little before you cut—that’s a nice clean piece.”

  The door opened again and Cinnabar Quicksilver walked in, Nickel’s strident voice echoing behind him. “He thinks he is the abbot already, that one,” Cinnabar said, frowning. “Chert Blue Quartz, it is good to see you—and Mistress Opal! Have the brothers treated you well?”

  “We just arrived,” said Opal.

  “You and the boy are welcome to wash away the road dust,” Cinnabar said. “But I’m afraid I must steal your husband for a while, Mistress. Although you would be welcome, also. My Vermilion usually sees through problems in a moment that would take the Highwardens an hour.”

  Nickel appeared now, scowling like a man who has come home to find a stranger sitting in his favorite chair. “Have you started without me? Have you begun to talk without me? Do not forget, the Metamorphic Brotherhood is the host here.”

  “Nobody has forgotten you, Brother Nickel,” said Cinnabar. “After all, we’re are going to move this council to your study, remember?”

  As the monk gave the magister a look that could have powdered granite, the physician stirred beside him. “Our talk will take much of
the afternoon, I fear, and Captain Vansen and I have waited some time already. Is there a chance we could find some refreshment?”

  “You may eat with the brothers at the appointed time,” said Nickel stiffly. “The evening meal is only a few hours away. We agreed with Master Cinnabar to treat you as our own while you guest with us. Our fare is simple, but healthy.”

  “Yes,” said Chaven with a touch of sadness. “I’m sure it is.”

  “ . . . And so I suddenly found myself here—no longer leagues behind the Shadowline but standing in the center of Funderling Town atop a great mirror.” Vansen frowned, his eyes troubled. “No, there was more to the journeying between there and here than that . . . but the rest has slipped away from me . . . like a dream . . .”

  “It is a gift to have you with us, Captain,” said Chaven, “and a gift to learn that when last you saw him Prince Barrick was alive and well.” But the physician looked troubled. Chert had noticed him beginning to frown when Vansen talked of finding himself atop the mirrored floor in the Guildhall council chamber, between twin images of the glowering earth god Kernios.

  Alive—that he certainly was,” the soldier said. “Well? I am not so sure...”

  “Your pardon,” Cinnabar said, “but now you must hear my news, for it touches on the young prince. A few of us are still allowed upground into the castle to work on tasks for the Tollys, and one of those, at great risk, brought news of your arrival here to Avin Brone.”

  “The Lord Constable,” said Vansen. “Is he well?”

  “He is Lord Constable no longer,” said Cinnabar, “but for the rest, you will have to discover for yourself. He sent this for you and my man smuggled it back to me.”

  Vansen looked over the letter, lips moving soundlessly as he read. “May I read it to you?” he asked. Cinnabar nodded.

  “ ‘Vansen,

  “ ‘I am pleased to hear that you are safe and even more pleased to hear news of Olin’s heir. I do not understand what happened or how you got here—this little man has brought a letter from another little man . . .’ ”

  “I apologize for the count’s manners,” Vansen said, coloring.

  Cinnabar waved his hand. “We have been called worse. Continue, please.”

  “ ‘. . . But I can hardly make sense of it. What is important is that you must not come up from below the ground. T.’—that would be Hendon Tolly, of course—‘has men watching me at all times, and only the fact that the soldiers still trust me and many have remained as my loyal guards have prevented T. from making an end of me.

  “ ‘The fairy folk, may the gods curse them, have fallen quiet, but I think only to plan more evil. We can withstand a siege because they have no ships, but they have more weapons than those that one can see. They bring a great weight of fear against everyone who fights them, as you no doubt know...’

  “And I do,” Vansen said, looking up. “Fear and confusion—their greatest weapons.”

  He turned back to the letter. “ ‘There is still no word . . .’ ” For a moment he hesitated, as though something stuck in his throat. “ ‘. . . Still no word about Princess Briony, either, although some claim she was taken as a hostage by Shaso in his escape. It does not bode well that he has been so long gone and we have still heard nothing, though.’ ” Vansen took a deep breath before continuing. “So that is our position. T rules Southmarch in the name of Olin’s youngest, the infant Alessandros. The fairies are at our walls and as long as they remain a threat he dares not kill or imprison me. You must stay hidden for now, Vansen, though I hope one day soon to be able to greet you, man to man, to hear the whole of your story and thank you for your many services . . .’ ”

  He cleared his throat, a little embarrassed. “The rest is unimportant. You have heard all that matters. The Qar have gone silent, but remain. Still, the walls should protect us for a long time, even against fairy spells . . .”

  “If the Qar want to get into the castle, they will not bother with the walls,” Chert said. “They will come through Funderling Town . . . and through the temple here, where we sit.”

  Vansen stared as though he had lost his mind. “What do you mean by that?”

  “What?” Nickel stood up, trembling. “What are you saying? Why would they care about us or our blessed temple?”

  “It has little or nothing to do with the temple,” Chert said with a scowl.

  “What has it to do with Funderling Town, though?” Cinnabar asked. “Once they are over the castle walls why would they single us out?” He stopped and his eyes went wide. “Oh! By the Elders, you are not speaking of an attack from upground at all . . . !”

  “Now you understand me, Magister.” Chert turned to Vansen. “There is much you still do not know about us and our city, Captain. But perhaps it is time to tell you . . .”

  “You have no right to speak of such things!” Nickel said, almost shrieking. “Not in front of these . . . Big Folk! Not in front of strangers!”

  Cinnabar raised his hands. “Calm yourself, Brother. But, Chert, he may be right—this is no ordinary matter and the Guild alone should decide . . .”

  Chert banged his fist on the table, startling almost everyone. “Don’t any of you understand?” Chert was truly angry now—at the Big Folk’s intrigues that had dragged Funderling Town into someone else’s wars, at Nickel and the others for their craven unwillingness to see the truth. He was even mad at Opal, he realized, for bringing home Flint, the strange quiet boy who had started all this nonsense in Chert’s life. “Don’t you see? Nothing is ordinary anymore! Nickel, we cannot hide secrets like Stormstone’s roads anymore. We cannot pretend that things are as they used to be. I have met the fairies myself—nearly as closely as Captain Vansen. I spoke to their Lady Yasammez, and she’ll frighten the spit right out of your mouth. Nothing ordinary about her! My boy there brought the very magic mirror here across the Shadowline in the first place that Vansen said Prince Barrick might be taking back to the great city of the Qar. Is that ordinary? Is any of this ordinary?”

  He stopped, panting. Everyone at the table was staring at him, most with amazement, Opal with concern, Chaven with a kind of enjoyment.

  “I think Captain Vansen is still waiting for an answer to his question,” Chaven said. “And so am I. Why do you think Funderling Town is in danger? How could the Qar come here without breaching the walls of Southmarch? ”

  “Chert Blue Quartz,” Brother Nickel said in a hoarse, angry voice, “you have no right. We offered you sanctuary here.”

  “Then throw me out and I’ll take these people somewhere else and tell them. Because the Qar already know, so everyone else needs to know as well. Hush, Opal—don’t you start on me. Someone has to take the first step, and it might as well be me.” He turned to Chaven. “But don’t think I will protect your secrets, either, Doctor. I’ll let you tell the story if you prefer, but if not I’ll tell them what you told me.”

  Chaven’s look of amusement faltered. “My story . . . ?”

  “About the mirror. Because that’s what got me into this latest trouble, isn’t it, with Big Folk guards swarming all over our town? And it was another mirror that brought my boy down here the first time—that same mirror that Captain Vansen’s fairy friend carried, the one he gave to Prince Barrick. So if we’re going to talk about Stormstone’s roads then we’re going to talk about mirrors. I’ll go first. Everybody listen.”

  For the second time that day, he began the story. “A century or more ago, during the time of the second Kellick, there was a very wise Funderling named Stormstone . . .”

  By the time Chert had finished, Brother Nickel had fallen into a sullen silence and Ferras Vansen was listening with his jaw hanging slack. “Incredible!” said Vansen. “So you’re saying we could even use these hidden paths to cross under the water?”

  “More likely the cursed fairies will use them to invade Southmarch,” Cinnabar told him. “And we Funderlings will have to meet them first.”

  “Yes, but a road goes two dire
ctions,” Vansen pointed out. “Perhaps in dire need we could escape the castle that way—is that truly possible?”

  “Yes, of course.” Chert was tired now and hungry. “I have done it myself. I took the half-fairy called Gil on one of the old, secret roads, right under Brenn’s Bay and to the very foot of the dark lady’s throne.”

  “So this whole rock is honeycombed with secret ways—passages I did not know about even when I was captain of the royal guard!” Vansen shook his head. “This castle is even more a-crawl with secrets than I guessed. And this very boy was sent here across the Shadowline with a magical mirror as some kind of spy for the Qar, no doubt—but right under all our noses?”

  “He’s no spy!” Opal said. “He’s just a child.”

  Vansen stared hard at Flint. “Whatever he is, I still can make no sense of it all. What is happening? It is like a spiderweb, where every strand touches another.”

  “And all are sticky and dangerous,” said Chaven.

  Ferras Vansen turned and gave him a sharp look. “Ah, yes. Do not fear I have forgotten you, sir. Chert talked about you and mirrors—now it is your turn. Tell us everything you know. We can no longer afford to keep secrets from each other.”

  The physician groaned softly and patted his much-shrunken paunch. “My story is a long and distressing one—distressing to me, anyway. I had hoped we could find something to eat before I began, just to strengthen myself.”

  “I’ll confess that I’m hungry too,” said Cinnabar, “but I think you will talk better and more to the point, Ulosian, if you know you will not get fed until you finish. It seems there are many stories still to be told before this evening ends—so, Chaven, you first, then supper.”

  Chaven sighed. “I feared you’d say that.”

  3

  Silky Wood

  “Another story, related by the Soterian scholar Kyros, is that an old goblin told him ‘the gods followed us here’ from some original homeland beyond the tracks of the sea.”