For the first time the shaman spoke, his mouth twisting as it formed perhaps the only foreign word he knew. “Volarriahnsss.”
◆ ◆ ◆
He ordered the North Guard to give up half their rations and sent all but a dozen back to their postings. Captain Adal, whose sullen fury was becoming more irksome by the second, was dispatched south to call an end to the muster and send riders informing the Seordah their warriors were not needed.
“Cat People, Bear People,” he hissed at Dahrena before leaving, just within Vaelin’s earshot. “They are still Horde. They cannot be trusted.”
“You didn’t see, Adal,” she whispered back, shaking her head. “The only thing we have to fear from them is the guilt of letting them die.”
“This won’t be popular,” he warned. “Many will still call for vengeance.”
“My father always took the right course, popular or not.” She fell silent and Vaelin sensed she was looking in his direction. “Things have not changed so much.”
The Eorhil took their leave in the evening, Sanesh Poltar raising a hand to Vaelin as his people took to their mounts. “Avensurha,” he said.
“My name?” Vaelin asked.
The Eorhil chieftain pointed to the north where a single bright star was rising above the horizon. “Only one month in a lifetime does it shine so bright. It’s said no wars can be fought under the light it brings.”
He raised his hand again and turned his horse towards the east, galloping away with his people, all save one.
“She won’t leave, my lord.” Captain Orven stood at rigid attention, avoiding his gaze. Nearby Insha ka Forna was handing out strips of dried elk meat to a clutch of children, using hand gestures to warn them against bolting it down too quickly. “I asked the Lady Dahrena why. She said I, ahem, already knew.”
“Do you want her to leave?”
The captain coughed, brows furrowing as he sought to formulate a reply.
“Congratulations, Captain.” Vaelin clapped him on the shoulder and went to find Dahrena.
She was with the shaman, crouched next to an old woman propped on a litter. She was even thinner than the other tribesfolk, her chest rising and falling in shallow heaves, mouth agape and eyes unfocused. The shaman stared down at her with such a depth of desolate sorrow Vaelin had no need of any visions to tell him this was a man watching his wife’s final moments.
Dahrena took a vial from her satchel and held it over the old woman’s mouth, a few clear drops falling onto her parched tongue. She stirred, frowning a little, mouth closing over the fresh moisture. Some light returned to her eyes and the shaman bent down to take her hand, speaking softly in his own language. The words sounded harsh to Vaelin’s ear, a guttural rush of noise, but even so, there was tenderness in it. He tells her they’re safe, he surmised. He tells her they have found refuge.
The old woman’s gaze tracked across her husband’s face, the corners of her mouth curling as she tried to smile, then freezing as the light faded from her eyes and her chest halted its labour. The shaman gave no reaction, remaining crouched at her side, holding her hand, near as still as she.
Dahrena rose from the old woman’s side and walked over to Vaelin. “I have something to tell you,” she said.
◆ ◆ ◆
“My people call it spirit walking.” They sat together beside a fire on the periphery of the Bear People’s camp. It was quiet, the tribe consuming their new supplies in silence and tending to their sick with not a voice raised in celebration. They still think of themselves as dead, Vaelin thought. They lost their name.
“It’s difficult to describe,” Dahrena continued. “Not really walking, more like flying, high above everything, seeing great swathes of the earth all at once. But I have to leave my body to do it.”
“That’s how you found these people,” he said. “That’s how you found the Horde.”
She nodded. “Easier to plan a battle when you know the enemy’s line of march.”
“Does it hurt?” he asked, thinking of the blood that flowed whenever he sang for too long.
“No, not when I’m flying, but when I return . . . At first it was exhilarating, joyous. For who hasn’t dreamt of flying? I’d heard tales of the Dark, and knew it to be a thing to fear. But the flying was so wonderful, so intoxicating. I had just said farewell to my twelfth year when it happened. I was in my bed, awake but content, my thoughts calm, or as calm the thoughts of a thirteen-year-old girl can be. Then I was floating, looking down at a small girl in a large bed. I was fearful, thinking I had drifted into a nightmare. In my panic my thoughts turned to my father, and so I flew to him in his room, poring over papers late into the evening as he always did. He reached for his wineglass and knocked over an inkpot, staining his sleeve and cursing. I thought of Blueleaf, my horse, and flew to her in the stables. I thought of Kehlan and flew to him, where he was pounding herbs in his chamber with a mortar and pestle. What a wonderful dream this was, just think of something and I would fly to it, see them without their seeing me. And more, more than just them, the colour of them, the shine of their souls. My father was shrouded in a bright, pale blue, Blueleaf a soft brown and Kehlan seemed to flicker, red one minute, white the next. I flew high, as high as I dared, looking down at the entirety of the Reaches, all the shining souls, like the stars above reflected on a great mirror.
“But strangely, in this dream, I began to grow tired, and so I returned to my body. The bed felt a little chilly but not enough to prevent sleep. The next morning at breakfast father wore a shirt with an ink stain on the sleeve and I knew it had been no dream. It scared me, but not enough to stop me; the joy had been too great. And so I continued to fly, every spare moment, soaring out over the mountains and the plains, watching the Eorhil hunt the great elk, dancing in the storms that swept out of the ice. Then one day I flew out over the western ocean for miles and miles, hoping to glimpse the shore of the Far West. But the time grew long and I knew my father expected me at dinner, so I flew back to my body. It was like pulling on a skin made of ice, the shock of it made me scream and scream. My father found me, shaking on the floor of my room as if I’d just been pulled from an icy lake.
“That was when I told him. He wasn’t afraid, wasn’t shocked. He put me to bed, called for warm milk and stayed at my side until the chill had faded. Then he took my hand and told me, in great detail, what your people do to those with gifts such as mine. No-one was ever to know.”
“Then came the Horde?”
“Two summers later. I’d been careful, never flying for more than an hour at a time, and always at night, leaving my body seated before a well-stoked fire. I saw their first slaughter, a bluestone caravan making its way south from Silvervale. Twoscore drovers slain in a rush of war-cats and spear-hawks. The warriors wandered amongst the dead with knives, cutting off trophies, and their shine was a dark, dark red. I had never seen a soul snuffed out before. Mostly it was like wind blowing through a clutch of candles, but there was one, shining brighter than the others. It rose and the world seemed to bend around it, like a whirlpool, drawing it in, taking it somewhere . . .”
Vaelin leaned closer as she trailed off. “Where?”
“I know not. But for an instant I had a glimpse of what lay beyond the whirling. It was so very dark.” She fell silent and hugged herself for a moment, shivering. “I’m grateful it’s something I’ve only witnessed once.”
“Your gift brought enough warning for Lord Al Myrna to prepare a defence?”
She nodded. “I ran to him with the news, blurting it out in front of Adal and Kehlan. He swore them to secrecy, an oath they’ve kept these many years, although I’m sure there are those who suspect, and those like Sanesh who just seem to know.”
“The Eorhil have no fear of the Dark?”
“Like the Seordah they respect it, for they know it can be misused, but they do not fear those who possess i
t unless given reason.” She raised an eyebrow at him in expectation.
Like for like, he thought. Secret for secret.
“The Seordah call it the blood-song,” he said.
Her face took on a slight echo of the fear he had seen when the shaman shared his vision. “A Seordah told you this?”
“A blind woman. She called herself Nersus Sil Nin. I met her in the Martishe.”
The fear on her face deepened and her next words were marred by a tremor. “Met her?”
“On a clear summer’s day in the dead of winter. She said it was a memory, trapped in stone. She told me my name in the Seordah tongue.”
“Beral Shak Ur,” she said, fear turning to mystification. “She named you?” She blinked, shaking her head. “Of course she did.”
“You know of her?”
“All Seordah drawing breath know of her, but none have seen her . . . save me.”
“When?”
“After my husband died.” She was deeply troubled, he could tell, like someone receiving unwelcome tidings they knew would always come. “The words she spoke . . . But, I was so sure . . . when he died . . .” She trailed off, lost in thought.
“Your husband?” Vaelin prompted.
The look she gave him was guarded to the point of anger, slowly fading to sombre distress. “I must think on this. My thanks for your honesty, my lord. I am glad my trust was not misplaced.” With that she rose and went to her shelter.
Vaelin turned his gaze to the north, picking out the bright star Sanesh had named him for, higher over the horizon now, brighter even than the moon. Avensurha . . . No wars can be fought under the light it brings.
It’s a good name, he thought with a smile. For once, a good name.
CHAPTER SIX
Lyrna
She started down into darkness, so black and absolute only the touch of her hands and feet on the stone could guide her, that and the terror-filled sobs of Davoka’s sister. She had ceased begging, voicing only whimpers and the occasional anguished howl as they descended, ever deeper. At first Lyrna thought the light an illusion born from her vision-starved mind, it was so faint, little more than a thin pinkish haze around Davoka’s tall form, but growing with every step. By the time they reached the bottom they were bathed in a deep red glow.
The chamber was huge, the circular floor, walls and ceiling paved in precisely measured slabs of marble. There were numerous openings in the walls, tall enough to walk through, black holes inviting oblivion. The red glow emanated from a large circular well in the centre of the chamber from which a column of thick steam ascended to an identical opening above.
Davoka dragged the weeping Kiral towards the well and Lyrna followed. The heat from the steam was too intense to allow them to approach closer than a dozen feet. Lyrna squinted, peering through the steam at the circle in the ceiling, seeing only the wet walls of a marble-tiled shaft ascending into the centre of the refashioned mountain above.
“There were great copper blades set into the lower shaft when we first came here.”
She stood in the entrance to one of the tunnels. A dark-haired woman, dressed in a plain robe of black cotton that left her arms bare, her skin painted a pale crimson in the glow from the well. “The shaft below was choked with rubble,” she went on, coming closer.
Kiral clutched at Davoka’s legs, whispering, “Please, sister! Pleeeaase!”
The young woman paid her no mind, stopping a short distance from Lyrna and offering a smile of welcome. “Three hundred feet below us an underground river meets a channel of Nishak’s blood, producing a constant rush of steam, ascending through the well to meet four blades arranged in a cross, suspended from a great iron rod that reached up to the third level of the tower above. A curious mystery, wouldn’t you say?”
Watching her face as she spoke, Lyrna was struck by the surety in it, the confidence exuded by a woman of such youth, speaking Realm Tongue with no trace of an accent, her gaze level and only mildly curious.
“The steam would make the blades turn,” Lyrna said. “Like a windmill.”
The young woman’s smile broadened. “Yes. Sadly, such novelties were lost on the Lonakhim who first set eyes on this place and the blades were destined to become much-needed pots and pans, the great iron rod melted down for hatchet blades. It was only when I ordered the stone cleared from the well that the purpose of the blades became clear. After every renewal I promise myself I will order the fashioning of new blades, for I would dearly love to see them turn once more, but I never do.” Her gaze shifted to the cowering girl at Davoka’s feet. “There is always a fresh distraction, after all.”
“What was it for?” Lyrna asked. “The power harnessed by the blades?”
“That is an unanswerable question. The rod ended in a great cog, whatever it turned gone to dust centuries ago. Though, I suspect it had something to do with heating the carved mountain that stands above us.”
She stood regarding Kiral’s trembling form in silence for a moment, then raised her gaze to Davoka, speaking in Lonak, “This is your sister’s body?”
“It is, Mahlessa.”
“If I return her, she will be . . . changed. And not just with scars. You understand this?”
“I do, Mahlessa. I know my sister’s heart. She would wish to return to us, whatever the cost.”
The Mahlessa gave a small nod. “As you wish. Bring her.”
“No!” Kiral shrieked, trying to crawl away. Davoka hauled her upright, forcing her towards the well.
“You think this thing fears me,” the Mahlessa said to Lyrna. “You are mistaken. What it fears is the punishment that will greet its failure when I return it to the void.”
Kiral screamed and begged in a constant babble of fear, she thrashed, she spat, she cursed. It did no good. Davoka forced her to the edge of the well, sweat bathing them both. The Mahlessa moved to stand next to Kiral and Lyrna saw not a bead of sweat on her skin. She reached out to pick up a bottle sitting on the edge of the well. It was small, the glass cloudy, a dark liquid just visible inside.
“Her hand,” the Mahlessa told Davoka, pulling the stopper from the bottle. Lyrna saw a wisp of vapour rise from it and a foul stench assailed her nostrils. Davoka drew her knife and severed the binding on Kiral’s wrists, forcing one arm behind her back and extending the other to the Mahlessa.
“For all the misery and sorrow sown by these things,” she said to Lyrna, reaching out to caress Kiral’s hand, fingers tracing over the skin of the spasming fist, the girl’s screams now hoarse grunts from a ravaged throat. “You would think their number legion, but there have never been more than three. This one is the youngest, female when she was first snared and twisted, only capable of taking female shells and then no more than one at a time until death releases her. Also not so skilled in her deceit. Her brother is more accomplished, able to control several shells at once regardless of gender, living for years behind the masks without arousing the suspicion of even those who loved them from birth. Her sister, well, let’s just say it would be best if you never met her. Century upon century of murder and deceit, weaving their skein of discord throughout the world, now seeking to bring their master’s great scheme to fruition. Only three, snared by the depth of their own malice. But from where does malice spring? If not from fear . . . and pain.”
She lifted the bottle and poured a single drop of liquid onto Kiral’s hand.
The vastness of the pain and fury erupting from the girl’s throat was enough for Lyrna to close her eyes and fight down a wave of nausea. Weeks of threat and repeated exposure to the sight of violent death may have hardened her, but the sheer inhuman ugliness of this sound cut through her new-grown callus like a healer’s scalpel. When she looked again the girl was on her knees, her face clasped between the Mahlessa’s hands, eyes wide and unblinking.
“Pain is just the door,” the Mahlessa said. “F
ear is the lever, the tool that scrapes away the filth infecting this girl’s mind, latched onto her gift like a leech.” Kiral shuddered, gibberish issuing from her lips amidst a cloud of spittle. “For even this thing fears true oblivion, and if it stays to face me, I will rend it to nothing.”
Kiral sagged, eyes closing, falling free of the Mahlessa’s grip, cradled by Davoka, a steaming red-black sore covering the back of her right hand.
Lyrna swallowed bile and went to press her fingers against the girl’s neck, finding the pulse strong.
“How . . . how long?” the voice behind her was thin, choked with confusion and sorrow.
Lyrna looked up and saw that the Mahlessa had vanished, the confident young woman replaced by a fearful girl, staring at her in confusion, slender arms hugging herself tight. The same face, the same slender form, but a different soul.
“Mahlessa?” Lyrna asked, rising and moving to her.
The girl uttered a sound that was part sigh and part laugh, just a pitch below hysteria, her eyes finding the bottle in her hand. “Yes, oh yes. I am the Mahlessa. Great and terrible is my power . . .” She faltered to silence with a mirthless giggle.
“Five summers,” Davoka said. “Since the renewal.”
“Five summers.” The girl’s gaze roamed over Lyrna, taking in her hair before looking directly into her eyes. “The Merim Her queen. She’s been waiting for you, such a long time. So many visions . . .” Her hand came up to caress Lyrna’s cheek. “Such beauty . . . Such a shame . . . What does it feel like?”
“Mahlessa?”
“To have killed so many. You see, I only killed my mother . . .”
Then she was gone, the face of a scared girl abruptly replaced by ageless surety, her hand falling from Lyrna’s face as she retreated.
“What did she tell you?” the Mahlessa asked.