скачать книгу бесплатно
Paiscion nodded. “As many of you know, I led the Otherly Guild and yes, among other things, we sought to understand the inventions of the Merisi – their miraculous and wonderful Things. They are more in number and greatness than we were ever able to understand.”
Sylas had been listening to all this with growing realisation. “Things?” he repeated. “You mean the Things that Mr Zhi had when I met him? The ones in the Shop of Things?”
Paiscion grinned. “The very same.”
Sylas’s eyes grew wide. “So … you think if I went back to the Shop of Things, Mr Zhi might know … what? How we can be together while we’re apart?”
“Quite possibly. Mr Zhi is the foremost authority on Things of all kinds, shapes and sizes,” said Paiscion. Then he frowned. “Only I’m not sure that it is a good idea that you should go, Sylas. You are known in the Other and Thoth may expect you to return. In these perilous times, I think we need to do everything to defeat Thoth’s expectations whenever we—”
“But when do we get to say what we want to do?” blurted Sylas, his frustration finally spilling over, his tone harsher than he had intended.
Paiscion blinked at him through his glasses, then he glanced at Filimaya. She simply nodded and crossed her arms.
“Young Sylas, I apologise,” said the Magruman. He looked at Naeo. “Both of you, I’m sorry: this is of course your decision. We certainly don’t mean to take away your freedom to choose your own course.” He looked from one to the other. “So … what is it that you would like to do?”
Sylas hesitated for a moment, still a little surprised by his own outburst. And then something extraordinary happened. As Sylas opened his mouth to speak, so did Naeo.
“Find my mother,” said Sylas.
“Find my father,” said Naeo.
The congregation gasped and looked in wonder at the two children. Though the few words they had uttered were in unison, their two voices had not clashed: they had become one. And what they said was the same, but opposite. The effect was electric.
Perhaps the only people who did not seem surprised were Sylas and Naeo themselves. It was as though they had only heard their own voice.
Paiscion eyed them both with renewed fascination. “Of course!” he said. “Of course your parents are your priority and it is quite natural that you should want to find them.” He frowned in concentration. “Perhaps there is a way that all of these objectives might be combined.”
“I’m not saying that we can’t do these other things as well,” said Sylas quickly, starting to feel rather selfish. “I know it’s important to talk to Mr Zhi – and to see Isia – but I can’t just forget about my mother.”
“And I can’t leave my father in the Dirgheon!” said Naeo.
“Of course you must look for your parents,” reassured Filimaya. “It adds to the challenge, but that is no reason not to try.”
“Really?” said Ash. He walked to the centre of the hollow and looked at Naeo and Sylas. “I’m sorry, but I don’t agree. If you do this – if you set out to find the very people you’re closest to, you’re far more likely to be seen by Thoth’s spies. It was hard enough to get into the Dirgheon last time, and I’d wager my grandmother that he’ll be more prepared now. Added to which, all the Dirgheon guards know what Naeo looks like.”
Sylas and Naeo tensed and prepared for a fight. They knew that Ash was right but this wasn’t rational, it was personal: how were they supposed to discard all the family they had left?
For a moment the meeting seemed to have reached another dead end. Many looked to Paiscion, hoping that their long-lost Magruman would know what to do. But it was not Paiscion who spoke next. Quietly and without anyone noticing, Simia stood up. She glanced anxiously at Sylas and then lifted her head to the great assembly.
“I have an idea,” she said.
(#ulink_c13117ab-c778-5e3a-99cb-a5be4327235e)
“In the Suhl, we have found allies andfriendswith whom we might change the nature of the world.”
THE THREE PRESSED ON, tracing the fringes of the great lake, heading back towards Sylva. The young Scryer was soon striding out in front, but this time he had not drawn far ahead: Sylas was with him, his face set with determination and his arms pumping furiously at his sides. It was Simia who was lagging behind. She was scuttling on as best she could, but she was no match for the Scryer, nor for Sylas in this mood.
“Oh, come on,” she groaned, drawing to a halt, “slow down!”
Triste hesitated and eased his pace, but Sylas gritted his teeth and stomped on. Then he stopped and turned back.
“I just can’t believe you suggested it!” he bellowed. “I mean, you, of all people! You know how much I want to find my mum. And now instead I have to go back to the city to find Bowe! I thought you were on my side?”
Simia flicked her fiery hair over her shoulders. “I am on your side. And Naeo’s, actually. But you’ve both got a death wish!”
“No, we haven’t. We can look after ourselves!”
“Well, sure, when you’re together! But isn’t that the whole idea? We don’t know what you’ll be like when you’re apart – in different worlds!” She stared at him steadily. “And anyway, the Say-So was never going to agree to you going after your mum – you could see that!”
“We’ll do it anyway. I’m going after my mum and Naeo’s going after Bowe, no matter what the Say-So decided.”
“Then you’re fools,” said the Scryer.
Sylas rounded on him. “Oh really? You think so?” he yelled, his eyes burning.
Triste looked at him calmly, as though considering the question. He pulled the pipe from behind his ear.
He knocked it on the heel of his hand. “The Say-So is right – Thoth will be expecting you to look for your mother, and Naeo her father. He’ll see you coming. And if he doesn’t, his Scryers will.”
“Thoth has his own Scryers?” said Simia incredulously.
Triste shook his head and pushed what looked like green moss into his pipe. “The ones he’s captured and turned.”
“Some of our Scryers are working for Thoth? How could they?”
Triste regarded her coolly with his weary, sunken eyes. “If you’d seen what we’ve seen,” he said, “if you’d seen the Reckoning as we saw it, you might have despaired too.” He puffed at his pipe. “For Scryers, more than any other, wars are a living hell. Too much pain. Too much loss.” He took the pipe from his mouth and inspected the bowl, prodding at the strange tobacco inside. “Anyway, the point is, now that Thoth’s Scryers know what to look for, they’ll see everything I see.”
“And what’s that, exactly?” asked Sylas, still struggling to cool his temper.
Triste winced as his pipe sent up a new pall of orange smoke. “If Naeo nears her father, or if you near your mother, you’ll stand out like a bushfire on a dark night.”
Sylas looked into the Scryer’s large, shadowy eyes, then shot an angry look at Simia. He turned and walked to the water’s edge, staring out across the lake. The mist had burned away now and the Valley of Outs was lit by the morning rays, but he hardly saw the beautiful waters or the majestic forests. He did not even see the small flotilla of boats on the lake, carrying the Suhl back to their homes. His thoughts were far away, with his mother, in another world. He knew that Simia was right – that the Say-So had been right – but that was irrelevant. For a few moments, when Paiscion had talked about going back to Mr Zhi, she had felt so close. Now she felt as far away as ever.
Simia walked up behind him. “I was just worried about you …” she said, quietly. “And I thought, in a way, if Naeo finds your mum – and you find Bowe – isn’t that almost the same thing?”
“No, it’s not,” said Sylas, walking away. “It doesn’t work like that.”
“But you see, that’s the problem,” Simia called after him. “No one knows what it’s like to be you. No one knows—”
She felt Triste’s hand on her shoulder. The Scryer leaned down to her ear. “It’s no good, not while he feels like this. Give him time.”
“But I thought I was doing the right thing,” she whispered, her eyes following Sylas. “I really did.”
“Well, you were being a friend,” said the Scryer. “And that isn’t always easy.”
She turned and looked at him. Her eyes explored his face and then, just for an instant, she looked surprised and confused, as though she had seen something unexpected. She opened her mouth to say something but seemed to think better of it and instead she wheeled about and set off alone.
The Scryer watched her go, tilting his head to one side as though trying to make sense of an impossible puzzle.
Then his brow knitted in a frown.
“How inconvenient,” he muttered.
(#ulink_2db26f32-47dd-5387-acfe-d4d5cb457159)
“… there, above her beloved valley, she surveyed all thehope and despairof the world.”
SYLAS WAS UNSURE HOW long he had been walking. For some time he had trailed along the shoreline, following in the footsteps of Triste and Simia. Occasionally he saw them climbing a headland or tracing the edge of the woods, but he made no attempt to catch up. Eventually he left their path altogether, walking into the shade of the forest. He meandered between the trees in the general direction of Sylva, but he was in no rush to get there. He needed to think.
Sure, Simia’s idea made some sense: it would be the opposite of what anyone would expect and the Scryers were much less likely to see any connection – whatever that really meant. But what did all that matter, compared to finding his mother? Being with her, after all this time? Yes, Naeo might go in his place, but that wasn’t the same as finding her himself. In fact if it wasn’t him, would she really be found at all?
No, this wasn’t even a good second best. They didn’t understand.
He sighed. In truth, neither did he.
And these were the thoughts that dogged him as he ambled across the dried leaves on the forest floor and wound between the ancient trunks of the forest: his life … his mother … himself … what did those things even mean when he knew that Naeo was there, just through the forest. Another part of himself? How crazy did that sound!
He was still very far from understanding Naeo. His experience of her was sensation and emotion rather than anything real or tangible. He didn’t even feel like he’d met her, not really. He remembered the feeling of warmth and joy when he had first seen her – of comfort and completeness when he had held her hand. Then the surge of energy – raw power, even – when she had stood at his side, when they had fought their way out of the Dirgheon. But since then, when she drew too near – as she had in the Garden of Havens – there was that awful pain, beginning in his wrist and becoming unbearable. Not like a wound, but more like an ache and the oddest sense that everything inside him was shifting out of place.
And although he had felt these things, these immense forces and feelings, for some reason he had thought very little of her. It was almost as if he didn’t need to think of her, or perhaps his thoughts couldn’t quite grasp her. She was still very much a separate person, and now it was that person, not him, who was going back to the Other.
He picked up a stick and swiped it against a tree trunk. It snapped in half and the crack echoed through the forest.
“What did that tree ever do to you?” asked a voice.
Sylas whirled about, his eyes searching the forest. But he already knew who it was.
The Magruman stepped out from behind a line of bushes. His eyebrows appeared above his spectacles.
“Sorry,” said Sylas.
“Well, don’t apologise to me! You didn’t hit me!”
“Oh … no …” said Sylas. He turned back towards the tree, wondering if he was really supposed to say sorry to the trunk.
Paiscion let out a peel of laughter. “I’m only joking, Sylas!” he said, walking up and holding his hand out in greeting. “I’m sure that old giant can handle a tap on the backside!”
Sylas grinned. “Right,” he said, taking the Magruman’s hand.
Paiscion grasped his shoulder warmly with the other hand. He drew a breath and then looked about him. “Now, how did you find this place? Did someone tell you about it?”
Sylas shrugged. “No, I was just walking.”
“Ha!” cried Paiscion. “Then we shall call it good luck, because you have stumbled on the very corner of the Valley of Outs that I wanted to show you!”
“I have?” asked Sylas, glancing around in surprise. This part looked just like any other.
A mysterious smile spread across Paiscion’s face. “Step this way.”
He led Sylas down a small bank towards the lake, then turned to one side. Ahead was a tree of even greater proportions than those around it, with a vast trunk that soared to an astonishing height above their heads. But it was not just its size that caught Sylas’s eye.
He blinked and squinted. Its aged bark was deeply faulted and gnarled, such that the many ruts in its greyish brown surface coiled and twisted into countless patterns and shapes. But there, a little above head height, were some lines that appeared far from random. There were two gentle arcs, each side of a long, almost-straight furrow. The effect was simple, but unmistakable.
It was a giant feather.
“Do you like to climb trees?”
Sylas drew his eyes away from the symbol and looked up at Paiscion. He frowned. “It’s been a while,” he said, “but I suppose so … why?”
Paiscion lifted his glasses off his nose and winked. “Well, imagine what fun it is when the tree is on your side.”
“What do you mean?”
The Magruman shrugged. “Ask the tree to help you up. Someone with your gift should have no trouble at all.” Then he raised his hands and gestured for Sylas to do the same.
“Now, just ask!” said the Magruman.
Sylas looked up into the great boughs of the tree, his eyes travelling up above the feather, up beyond the mighty trunk and into the heart of the canopy. And then he asked. It was only a thought – a fleeting flurry of words – but instantly the patchwork of orange and brown swayed a little and there was a hiss and swish as though the wind were racing through the leaves.
But there was no wind.
Suddenly, in a motion that was at once natural and utterly peculiar, the drooping branches of the tree swept down to the forest floor. Their powerful joints creaked under the strain, but the lowermost limbs fell with ease, then turned, brushing up their own fallen leaves, sweeping them towards Sylas and Paiscion. They flew up in a rush of yellows and browns, dancing about them in a great muddle of colour, and instinctively Sylas raised his hands to shield his eyes.
He felt something move beneath his arms.
He threw them down, but to his surprise, he felt the woody limbs sliding up into his armpits. Before he knew what was happening, they had taken the weight off his feet.
And then the grand old tree hoisted him into the air.
“Take whichever you want,” echoed the voice of many.
Scarpia lowered her head and prowled across the passage to the nearest doorway. She snarled, dropping a little on her haunches and pressing her ears back against her head. Her sensitive nose had scented the Black and its stench was still strong in her memory. She peered into the chamber, her cat’s eye adjusting quickly to the darkness.
There, in the centre of the stone floor, was a pulsating sack of slime. Protruding from its top was a massive head, half covered with dark fur, half with pale, human skin. Its ears turned at her approach and a low, gurgling growl rumbled in its throat, but its narrow eyes remained closed. It was a mongrel, but its angular, predatory features were clearly feline.
“Made in your own image, my dear,” echoed the voices from somewhere further down the corridor. “For your own little army. You will need more than your mastery of Urgolvane in the Other. It will not be so powerful there.”
Scarpia bowed, then turned and padded down the passageway after her master, zigzagging left and right as she glanced into chamber after chamber, each containing the same half-born forms.
“Thank you, my Lord,” she said. “You are truly the master of Kimiyya.”
“Of course I am!” was the abrupt reply. Then more softly: “Take whatever you need. Take the Scryers, if you wish. Take a Ray Reaper.”
Scarpia’s head snapped around. “A … Ray Reaper? Will it go with me?”
“It will go where I tell it!”
Scarpia recoiled a little, but still seemed unsure. “I would like to take one, my Lord,” she said. “But I worry that … that it may not … obey me. After all, it was once a Priest of Souls, just like you.”
