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Drayn searched for Allos, in the dark. He was nowhere to be seen. He was from this place, unlike Jaco Paprissi. The language he spoke was not his own. The land, though, was his, and he could disappear against it as he wished.
‘I am a thing of memory,’ Jandell said. ‘But I am far from the only one. When I draw on the power, sometimes others can sense me: not all of them, and not always, but some of them.’
‘And there are some you are hiding from, Operator,’ said Jaco.
Jandell did not respond.
A light appeared before them. It was a torch, raised high in the centre of the path, far away from the trees. They took their horses around it, on either side.
‘We are almost there,’ Jaco said.
Drayn saw that the base of the torch had been shaped into a figure. No: it was many figures, stacked one on top of the other, naked human beings. At the top, one of them held the torch in his hand.
‘Men and women,’ Allos said. He emerged at her side. ‘Together. That is the future: no powers but those of the world itself, and the people who live here.’
He nodded at the fire, before pushing on up the path.
They passed by more of the torches as they went deeper into the woods. After a while, the distances between the flames grew shorter, until they reached one every ten paces or so. The dirt path began to widen and became a road once more, paved with wide grey stones. Drayn felt something change in the world around her: more memories crowded in, cluttering her mind.
‘Look ahead,’ Jandell said.
She leaned around him. The road was coming to an end: before it was a high wall, formed of spiked wooden poles. There were figures walking along the edge, though she could not make them out clearly.
Jaco rode ahead of them, and the gate opened.
The road continued for another while. Signs of civilisation began to emerge: the smell of animals, the sounds of distant conversations. They passed through another gate, and then another, shell after shell of defences. The trees began to thin out, until they disappeared altogether.
Another gate came. This time, though, things were different. The roar of people could be heard all around them, even in the night, and the world was cast in a golden glare from a thousand torches.
Jaco turned to them, and grinned. ‘Here we are, then. The heart of our little civilisation!’
The gate opened, the small party entered, and the world changed.
They had come to a town square, its surface a muddy mess, ramshackle dwellings of stone and wood leaning over its sides. The place was crowded with men and women, talking among themselves, drinking from wooden cups. Torches burned all around, though Drayn wondered if they were necessary: the moon above them seemed somehow larger than normal, a vast sphere of blue light, surrounded by infinite, sparkling stars.
No one seemed to notice the newcomers when they first passed through the gate. After a while, however, that began to change. Fingers pointed at them from small, whispering groups. Drayn glanced at some of the people and saw they were like Allos, pale skinned, but rough and raw.
Jaco led them away from the square. They passed through side streets and byways, all of them teeming with life. The buildings varied madly in their construction, from relatively stable stone structures to leaning piles of wood, though they were similar in one important way: none was taller than one or two storeys.
‘We are here,’ said Jaco.
In many ways, the building before them was much the same as the others they had passed: a stone structure, low and long. But there was something very different about it. Its lines were neater and sharper, the path before it swept clean. A man and a woman stood at either side, holding spears.
Jaco led them to the door, and nodded to the guards. He beckoned to the small group, who followed him inside. They were now in a large, well-kept room, its only furniture a great table surrounded by rough-hewn chairs. There were no paintings on the walls, no statues, no tapestries, only a handful of glowing candles. Still, there was an air of importance to the place: a sense of ordered authority.
Jaco whispered something to Allos, who nodded and vanished through a door on one side of the room. The old man took a seat at the table, and indicated to the others to join him. Drayn sat in a chair at Jaco’s side, but Jandell remained on his feet, studying the hall.
‘Do you like it, Operator?’ Jaco asked, gesturing at the room. ‘This is a minor version of Memory Hall, I suppose you could say. It’s the centre of our world.’
‘No,’ Jandell said. ‘I built Memory Hall. You made this yourselves, with your own hands.’ There was admiration in his voice. Perhaps it was even pride.
‘Indeed,’ Jaco said. ‘No fanciness here. No names, no titles. This is just the Hall.’
‘And what are you?’ Jandell asked.
Jaco shrugged. ‘Just a Councillor. One of ten, elected by the people. Anyone can run for the job, as they like, no matter who they are. No children, though.’ He grimaced. ‘I think that was the Machinery’s worst mistake. Was there ever a good child Strategist?’
Allos entered the room again, carrying a tray of food. It was simple stuff: white meats, wooden cups of water, bread. He placed it on the table, and disappeared once more.
‘Allos there is a Councillor, too,’ Jaco said. ‘He won a seat in the last election.’
‘Why’s he serving you food, then?’ Drayn asked.
Both faces turned to her.
‘Because he likes to help.’ Jaco frowned. ‘You’re not an Overlander. I can tell. Yet we speak the same language. Where are you from?’
Drayn was about to speak, but Jandell held up a hand to silence her. ‘It doesn’t matter. All that matters is where we’re going.’
He took a seat opposite Jaco. ‘But why are you hiding here, Paprissi?’
‘Hiding?’ Jaco laughed. ‘Who’s hiding? I came here for the same reasons as you, Jandell. To find answers.’
The two men – human and Operator – stared hard at one another.
‘What is this place?’ Drayn asked.
Jaco shrugged. ‘We just call it the Newlands.’
‘Is this the only city here?’
Jaco leaned back in his chair, and bit his lip. ‘As far as I know, this is the only city in the Newlands. But we’re not the only people here, not by a long way. There are communities all along the coast, and in the interior, far outside the forest’s boundaries. We don’t see them often. We try to avoid them, to be honest. It’s a savage place.’
Allos returned and took a seat by Jandell’s side. He held a strange object in his hands, a kind of spiked, purple fruit, which he began to methodically peel.
‘Allos and his people lived in the forest, and along the coast, when we came,’ Jaco said, smiling at the bald man. ‘They still do. But now they have a new life: a civilised life, speaking a civilised tongue. Here, in the city, they’re still protected by the trees, still hidden from their enemies. But now they can enjoy … stability.’
Allos fixed Drayn with a stare.
‘Our language is foreign to you,’ she said.
‘Different, once, but not so different now,’ Allos said.
The Operator stood. ‘We have not come here to learn about language.’ He seemed to grow taller; his shadow fell across the hall. ‘I found this place in Squatstout’s heart. He knew about it, though how much, I cannot tell. This place is so important …’
Drayn found she could not turn away from Jaco, this proud, wounded, fascinating man. As she looked at him, the conversation of the others fell away, and the noise of the city outside began to disappear, replaced with an incessant drumming, thudding in her mind. She felt something, as she looked at him. She felt the corner of a memory, and she ran the fingers of her mind along its burning edge.
‘There is an important memory here,’ Drayn whispered. ‘It’s inside him. I can feel it.’
Jandell raised a hand. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Jaco will tell us anything we need …’
But it was too late. They had already gone inside.
CHAPTER 3 (#uef57288c-4ff0-50f4-8e12-2300f85234f7)
‘What is the Old Place? Is it a country, or is it a creature? Does it have thoughts? Does it know itself, any more? Did it ever? Once, when I …’
Aranfal opened his eyes.
He was on his back, sunken into black sand. Above him was a dark sky, in which burned a red sun. The Underland. I am searching for a memory.
‘… was very young, I played a game where I ran from one side of the Old Place to the other. Well, that’s what I tried to do. But how can one travel through a god?’
There was a thin line of smoke in the sky: pale against the blackness. He had not noticed it before.
‘And it did not like me there, oh no. It is capricious. It is harsh. Like its children. Like its parents.’
A face appeared above him, one that he knew well: the face of a young-looking man with long blond hair. He wore a green gown, covered with images of people and animals and shapes.
‘Well, get up,’ he said.
Aranfal climbed to his feet and cast a glance at the creature before him. There was something different about the Gamesman. He seemed stronger, surer of himself. Of course he is. He’s the Gamesman, and this is a game: it’s where he belongs.
‘Why were you lying in the sand?’ the Gamesman asked. ‘Was it comfortable?’
Aranfal glanced at the endless, black expanse. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I can’t remember.’
The Gamesman laughed. ‘Memories, eh?’ He clapped his hands. ‘What would we be without them?’
Aranfal looked into the distance. There seemed to be a structure of some kind far ahead, though he could not make out what it was.
‘How is the game played?’ he asked.
The Gamesman put an arm around him. There was a whisper in the desert.
‘The Old Place guards the First Memory with the greatest care. It has never shown it to anyone, and it likely never will.’ There was a sad look in his eyes, as if he was gazing at a condemned man. ‘No one has ever found it. But it does love mortals, Aranfal. It does love you: its parents.’
‘I’m here forever,’ Aranfal said with certainty. ‘I will never escape.’
‘No one has,’ the Gamesman said. ‘Well, all except for Arandel. But he was so … powerful.’ He smiled at Aranfal. ‘You have a similar name, but you do not have that power, Aranfal. You will be like the rest of them.’
‘Where are they?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ The Gamesman shrugged. ‘You can do nothing but follow the path ahead.’
With a bow, the Gamesman was gone, leaving Aranfal no more knowledgeable than if he had never appeared in the first place.
The torturer walked and walked, across the black sand, towards whatever was before him, alone among the endless expanse. It took time for the image to crystallise. At first, he was merely aware of a change in the darkness. He could not tell what it was; he only knew it was there.
But as he went, its shape and outline grew clearer. It is formed of stone and wood. There is something at the top. What is it? It is …
It was a well.
Aranfal approached it carefully. It seemed ordinary enough, the same as any other well he had seen before. A large bucket swayed above, though there was no wind in this place. The Watcher carefully leaned over the side and glanced below. Anything could be hiding down there, a cautious voice warned him. But he could only see the blackness.
‘Hello?’ he called into the dark, feeling strangely embarrassed.
His voice echoed in the deep, but no response came. He wasn’t sure what he had expected.
A sound from behind seized his attention. A figure was approaching at great speed, a moving mass of hair and shawls, emitting exasperated shouts. Aranfal wondered at first if it was the Gamesman, but he soon realised this was something new. And likely disastrous.
‘Five times we walked together, five times,’ came a voice from the shawls. ‘In all the trees in the orchard, no apples could we find. The dog sits alone in the courtyard: it is sick, and Father will kill it in the morning.’
The figure walked to the other side of the well, ignoring him completely. Aranfal darted around the structure, padding quietly across the black sand, trying to make out the features of this new arrival. But every time he came close, a thatch of wiry brown hair or a bunched-up mass of material would block his view. Even the creature’s hands were hidden in a pair of dark gloves. The voice seemed female, though he could not even be sure of that.
‘Are you an Operator?’ he asked.
The newcomer did not acknowledge the question, but kept talking in her cascading spiel of nonsense.
‘The candles are sparkling in the corridor, and there is a creak upon the floorboards. Nights are longer here, near the ice fields, where they never seem to end. When I walked into the street, there was a fire, such a fire, and none of my friends returned.’
The newcomer leaned over the side of the well, so that her words fell into the darkness and echoed within the pit below.
‘I walked eleven miles to the next village, but my love had already passed. I kept a green bird in a silver cage. When I learned to write my name, I carved it upon my skin.’
The figure made a circle of the well.
‘I found a straw man in the field. I kept a spider in a jar.’
Is this a code?
‘I could not go that day, though I wish I had, for only I could have stopped him. My hounds are all three-legged. The clock in the spire is ticking, my love, the clock in the spire is ticking.’
Aranfal closed his eyes, and the words took on a different shape. They were building blocks, he realised; the speaker was constructing something. But what is it? What is she making?
‘On the fourteenth night I wept for him. On the eighteenth night I laughed.’
She speaks of memories. He did not know if this was his own voice.
‘In the stars I saw a name. It was … torturer.’
Aranfal’s eyes snapped open.
‘What did you say?’
But the newcomer was not listening. She had climbed onto the side of the well, into which she poured her ceaseless words.
‘Fire,’ she said. ‘I saw a fire, in the deep, ten thousand years ago. Such things were put there; such things.’
