“I prefer not to go back now,” said her father, his voice pitched a little louder than it needed to be. “I like it here with the other prisoners. They are but children, you know—no one has showed them any kindness at all. I thought better of you, Vash.”
“I do the autarch’s work, King Olin. And I credit you for your sympathetic heart. but that is all the more reason you must go back—I do not want you fomenting revolts among the children.” He said something in Xixian to the guards. The lock clanked and the door creaked, and Olin let himself be led out by a guard at each arm.
“Very well,” her father called back over his shoulder, as if to the other prisoners. “Just remember, I love you all. Have courage—there’s hope as long as you remember who you are!”
Briony was weeping as the flap fell back. The guards were long gone before she dared to move or speak again. A few quiet conversations proved that the child-captives could tell her nothing interesting. She felt terrible leaving them to their unknown fate, but there was nothing else she could do. At the next distraction she slipped out of the tent.
I love you, too, Father. Briony hurried across the darkened green. With luck, she would be back in Eneas’ camp by midnight and they could think of a way to save King Olin. If love has cursed our family, perhaps it can save us as well.
17
Defending the Mystery
“The village was in mourning because so many of the young men of the town had died during the Great War between the gods, which the church calls the Theomachy. The castaways were welcomed with great kindness . . .
—from “A Child’s Book of the Orphan, and His Life and Death and Reward in Heaven”
“THEY ARE TOO MANY!” the young Funderling shrieked as he rushed past. His face was dirty and flecked with blood, and he had dropped his weapon and shield somewhere. “The autarch’s army has overrun Moonless Reach . . . ! Run!”
Ferras Vansen turned to grab him, but Malachite Copper was equally determined not to let the soldier’s panic affect anyone else. He caught the fellow’s arm first and hit him hard with a flat hand on the side of the face. The Funderling soldier stared at Copper in surprise, took a wobbly step, then crumpled and fell to his knees.
“Now get up, man, and show that there’s some mortar where your stones don’t fit true. What’s going on?”
“Forgive me, Master Copper . . . !” The young fellow was terrified—it was clear that all he wanted to do was to keep running.
“Give us your news,” Copper said, “like the sworn apprentice to the Stonecutter’s Guild that you are.”
The soldier’s lip trembled, but he did his best to harden his expression; it was a less than perfect show. “They’ve broken down the last barrier, and they’re driving Jasper and the rest back like sand fleas, Master Copper. It was terrible.” He turned to Ferras Vansen and the others as if they had disagreed. “Terrible! Flames and something like burning oil all over—people screaming . . . and the smell, Masters, the smell . . . !”
“What could that be, Physician?” Vansen asked. “Chaven, did you hear?”
“Ah, ah, what are we discussing? Yes, the flames, that would be some blend of naptha and resin.” The physician appeared slightly befuddled, as though he had only been half-listening. “War Fire, as they used to call it in Hierosol.” He turned to Vansen. “There is nothing you can do against it except try to douse the flames, but they burn cruelly hot.”
“I do not believe that,” Vansen said. “There is a defense against any weapon—Murroy used to tell me that.”
“Who?” The physician looked surprised.
“Never mind.” He turned to the frightened soldier, who had calmed a little. “Do you bring any message from Sledge Jasper? Does he live?”
“I . . . I do not know, C-Captain.” The Funderling looked frightened of Vansen now, finally realizing how badly he had acted. “When the guardhouse came down . . . and then we were attacked . . . I should have . . .”
“But you thought you were the only one who could carry the news,” said Cinnabar Quicksilver, who had been silent thus far. “We understand, son. Was Dolomite still holding his section when you went past? Think. He was? Good—now go and find the quartermaster’s fire, and he’ll give you something to drink and a place to lie down. We’ll get help to Jasper and the rest.”
“Th-thank you, Magister.”
As the young soldier limped off, Malachite Copper had already begun finding reinforcements to help Sledge Jasper and the rest keep their withdrawal back to Ocher Bar from turning into a rout.
“I wish you had not done that, Magister,” Vansen quietly told Cinnabar. “He deserted his fellows. He did not even wait to see if his commanding officer had survived . . .”
“These are not true soldiers, Captain,” Cinnabar reminded him. “They are brave men, but they have not learned the ways of an army. I don’t think they will, either—we just don’t have the time. But I will do my best in the future to let you discipline them as you see fit.”
Now Vansen felt a little ashamed. He was not a Funderling so he could not understand them—was that what Cinnabar was trying to tell him? Ferras Vansen swallowed his resentment. This was not the time.
As more of Jasper and Dolomite’s troops arrived, they told a story much the same as the first frightened warder’s, but with an unexpected ending.
“The autarch’s men did not follow us or press their advantage as we fell back,” the survivors reported. “They did not even follow us down the passages toward Ocher Bar and try to keep us from reaching the rest of you here!”
Vansen could make little sense of it. “They had the perfect chance to destroy almost half our force as we retreated. Why not?”
When Dolomite and Sledge Jasper at last returned, limping and bloody but more or less whole, they confirmed what the others had been saying. They stood with Vansen and the rest looking over the maps Chert had made, trying to understand the southerners’ intention.
“See, they have come under the bay from the mainland on Stormstone’s secret road, the Great Delve,” Malachite Copper said, making a few quick strokes on the map with a piece of charcoal. “But if they wish to move on Funderling Town and then continue up to the castle, why should they turn down through Iron Reach? That way leads nowhere except into the depths.”
Cinnabar frowned. “They will not even be able to circle around behind us without a great effort and much engineering. They would have to go miles through the narrowest of tunnels to come at the temple any other way!”
Vansen’s eyes grew wide. “Perin’s Hammer!” he swore. “So it’s true—the autarch is headed for the Mysteries themselves!”
“Which leaves us little time to make a terrible decision,” said Cinnabar. “Leaves me little time, to be frank, since I carry the Astion here for the Guild.” He frowned in dismay. “Another few hours and the autarch’s men may have driven down past us here in Ocher Bar. After that we will be unable to accomplish anything more than harrying them from behind.” He hung his head and stared hopelessly at the maps. “What other choices do we have? Captain, where are these fairies who claimed they were our allies?”
Vansen knew enough of Cinnabar now to know how agonizing this responsibility was to him, and also how few men of any height he would rather have trusted to make the judgment. “The Qar have sent no word yet of what they plan, but I’ll send another messenger to them. Then we can only wait,” Vansen told them. “But in the meantime, Magister, you must decide what your people will do next. Let the autarch go by, and concede them the Mysteries while we retreat to defend Funderling Town?” He raised his hand as Cinnabar and Jasper both groaned aloud. “I know that cuts you to the heart.”
“It is the Funderlings’ Mount Xandos,” said Chaven suddenly and loudly. “Their holiest place.”
“I know,” Vansen told him. “Let me finish, Chaven Makaros. We can let them go and save our small force to protect Funderling Town, or we can make a stand below Five Arches and try to keep them o
ut of the Mysteries. We would at least have the advantage of knowing the terrain.”
“But with the numbers and weapons they have, they will overwhelm us at last,” said Malachite Copper. “No matter how well we fight, they will push us back—that is inevitable.”
“Yes, and when they push us, we will give way,” Vansen said, “—but slowly, and we will kill as many as we can. If we cannot win,” and suddenly he thought of his family, nearly all lost now, and the princess who had been lost to him from the moment of his humble birth, “well, then, I would just as soon die here with you lot as with any others.”
“You honor us, Captain Vansen,” Cinnabar told him with a sad smile, “but are those truly our only choices? Give up our most sacred place or resist and be massacred? That is grim.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a shining circle of black stone, reverently touching it to his chest before setting it down on the table. “You see that I have taken out the Astion—the seal of the Guild is now on all our talk. Let us hear more about each choice . . . and do not hold back your opinions! I won’t sleep well no matter which I choose, but like anything painful that can’t be avoided, I say the sooner broken the sooner mended. By the Elders! I wish Chert Blue Quart was here, since we also have that mad proposal of his to consider.” Cinnabar sighed. “Ah, well, nothing to do but make cement with the sand we have. Tell me all so I can decide how we should die.”
Ash Nitre was the younger brother of Sulphur, the temple’s most ancient monk, but that certainly didn’t make him young: Chert thought he looked a bit like one of those dessicated frogs sometimes found in a pocket of metamorphic stone. Brother Ash’s mind seemed lively, though, and his movements were, if not graceful, at least purposeful. This was important because he was in charge of an operation that would kill scores of Funderlings if it went wrong.
“I don’t understand you, boy,” Nitre said—the first time Chert had been called that in as long as he could remember. The monk wore eye shields of thick mica crystal—his eyes seemed big as silver coins. “What do you want with more blasting powder?” He gestured to the open area behind him where at least a dozen temple brothers were busily engaged. “I’ve already got my workers making as much as they can for bombards. . . .”
“But we need more.”
“How much?” Nitre asked.
Chert had made calculations, but he did not trust them very far. The problem was, blasting powder had never quite been used this way, so it was very hard to guess how much was necessary. Chert would have liked Chaven’s help—the physician knew a lot about many different things—but he was hard to find these days: Chert assumed he was busy helping Captain Vansen.
“Well, Blue Quartz? I do have work to do, you know.” Nitre and the temple brothers he employed were in charge of the dangerous task of crafting the blasting powder in careful allotments, because it was dangerous to store—too dry and any spark might set it off, too damp and all the labor of mining the materials and making the deadly black powder had been ruined. Already, with the need to store large quantities to make into weapons, the Funderlings had moved into unknown territory. They were about to move farther in that direction.
“Perhaps . . . two hundred barrels?”
Nitre’s eyes went so wide behind the eye shields that his lids and lashes disappeared. “Two hundred? Did you say ‘two hundred’? Are you mad? I am laboring to produce half that much—you cannot simply shovel these powders together, you know! Have you ever seen a rocket like the ones the upgrounders shoot into the sky during the Zosimia festivals? Imagine something hundreds of times that strong, in our confined spaces down here. . . .”
“Yes, yes, I know.” Chert took a deep breath and produced Cinnabar’s letter with the imprint of the Astion prominently displayed. “Nevertheless, I need as much as you can make for me, as quickly as you can make it.”
“Ridiculous. Sorry, Blue Quartz, but it simply can’t be done. You tell the Guild they would have to send me another two dozen workers just to sift powders. And I know, because of my own requests that they cannot do that—they do not have even a man to spare.”
Chert sat for a long moment in silence. It had been a very strange idea in the first place, a last-ditch sort of thing. He could not expect to pull workers away from making powder for the fighting, especially when the situation seemed to be growing more desperate by the hour. As the monk had said, there simply weren’t enough workers.
“I have a question, Brother Nitre,” Chert suddenly said. “Is there any reason blasting powder has to be made by men . . . ?”
“I fear this decision,” said Cinnabar Quicksilver. “No matter what we do, something will be broken beyond mending.”
Brother Nickel made an unhappy noise, a cross between a sniff and a grunt. He had been summoned from the temple, which had not pleased him, but the discovery of what was being decided pleased him even less. “Seems to me,” he said now, “that we Metamorphic Brothers have already seen our lives and peace broken beyond mending, and we have not complained.”
“By the Elders, Nickel, you have done nothing but complain,” said Malachite Copper. “And now that the decision is on us you want to complain again before you have even heard it!”
“Peace, you two,” said Cinnabar. “You are not making this any easier. Chaven, you have said almost nothing the whole time we have discussed this. Have you nothing to offer?”
The physician blew out air. “I wish I did, Magister Quicksilver. Either way, we will all do what we must.”
Cinnabar clapped his hands. “Then as the bearer of the Astion, speaking on behalf of our sovereign Stonecutter’s Guild, I feel we have no choice—we have to fight them and fight them now. We must try to keep them from the Mysteries.
“I know that the odds are terrible—if I were a wagering man, I would feel a fool to put a single copper chip on our chances. But everything we have heard says that the autarch has a fascination with our sacred depths, and priests and wizards with him who have filled his head with ideas about gods and black magic. We cannot take the chance there is truth to their ideas. And, more than anything else, we cannot give up our holiest places without a fight. The Elders in their stony beds would curse and condemn us, and who could blame them?
“No, we must resist them as best we can. We are only a thousand, perhaps two with the men still coming, but we will have the Qar beside us—I think you have all seen their mettle.” He lowered his head for a moment, picked up the Astion and stared at it, then tucked it back into his shirt. “We defend the Mysteries. That is my decision.”
“So the temple is to be abandoned . . . ?” said Brother Nickel, but he sounded more resigned than angry.
“We will leave some token force,” Cinnabar told him. “But if the autarch behaves as the Qar say he will, he’ll show little interest in the temple or even in Funderling Town.”
“This underground invasion is not meant to deliver the castle,” said Vansen. “We can see now that it’s the thing Sulepis came here to do. He broke great Hierosol in a matter of weeks. I find it hard to believe he could not do the same with Southmarch itself, at which point everything beneath it would be his as well, and he could starve us all out. So there is clearly some hurry to what he does, as Yasammez and the Qar suggested, something which drives him swiftly forward when there might be easier ways to reach his goal.”
Copper turned to Vansen. “Why aren’t the Qar here at this council, Captain?”
“I can’t tell you.” Vansen stood. “The Qar—as always, I suspect—will come in their own time. What is important is that we now have Magister Cinnabar’s decision. If you’ll pardon me, I have much to do and time is short—the southerners will be moving again soon.” He turned to the others. “We will meet here after the hour of the evening meal. May the gods protect us and protect Southmarch. And Funderling Town,” he added quickly.
“We will certainly need help from somewhere,” said Chaven.
“The Qar must come,” Vansen said quietly, almost to himse
lf. “We will fail without them.”
18
Exiles and Firstborn
“Old Aristas was soon celebrated in Tessideme for his wisdom and little Adis for his piety. They lived together in a hut beneath a vast, leafless oak tree, and the village folk often came to them and asked them to speak of the gods’ ways.”
—from “A Child’s Book of the Orphan, and His Life and Death and Reward in Heaven”
THE BOAT LIFTED AND SAGGED on the waves of Brenn’s Bay, and the silhouette of the castle grew ever larger against the moon.
Barrick’s vision seemed much sharper than he remembered, even from the previous night. The very stones of the castle’s seawalls seemed to glow; not with light but with intensity of color and detail he could see even in the evening dark from hundreds of ells away. And as his eyes moved across every crack in every stone he could feel the history of the place breathing out at him from the depths, amazing true tales of the gods and their servants that sprang from his deepest memory as if they had grown there in the dark like mushrooms.
Ancient stories told that Hiliometes himself had entered here once, tasked by Mesiya the moon goddess to steal the golden hawk that watched over her and kept her a virtual prisoner of her husband Kernios. And in an earlier day, before mortals had even come to the land, Erivor had fought the monstrous serpent-bull Androphagas here and stabbed it to the heart with his barbed spear. Some claimed that the body of Androphagas had become Midlan’s Mount, but the Elementals declared that the Mount had been here always.
The Last Hour of the Ancestor, as the Qar called Southmarch, was a place that only a few of the Twilight folk had visited in recent centuries, but it was old and strong in their lore. Their knowledge of it—as well as their fear of it, and their fierce, painful longing for it—enfolded everything Barrick saw like a heavy mist, but with Ynnir’s largely silent help, he was learning ways to live with it. Back in Qul-na-Qar he had stopped thinking almost entirely so that he could cope with the strangeness of these new memories; now Barrick Eddon was beginning to take his first cautious steps toward letting the Fireflower become a true part of him.