The Diamond Isle

9

Tanalvah spent the night thinking about death.

She thought of all the deaths she had been inadvertently responsible for, and of Kinsel’s probable death. She thought of her own, and of how she might bring it about.

But what seemed appealing during the lonely watches of a sleepless night carried less certainty at dawn. She was with child, and two other children depended on her. Kinsel could be alive. And she had an abiding conviction that Iparrater, her goddess, would be even more wrathful if Tanalvah added suicide to her sins.

The balance was in favour of taking another breath, facing another day.

This day, in particular, held a prospect worth rising for. Karr had promised her that Teg and Lirrin would be collected from the temple Tanalvah had entrusted them to. The children would be joining her here, in the Resistance hideaway. Not the most appropriate place for youngsters, perhaps, but at least they’d be together.

Easing herself from her bunk, she let out an involuntary groan as gravity delivered a reminder of her condition. She felt giddy and nauseous, as she often did first thing, and spent a moment breathing deeply until the sensation faded. Stretching, she got some feeling back into her aching limbs. Then she pulled on a formless shift and slipped her feet into a pair of leather-topped clogs somebody had given her.

The room she’d been allotted wasn’t really a room at all. It was essentially a cubicle carved from the living rock of the catacombs, twenty paces deep, twelve wide. A makeshift wall of timber frames and canvas blocked what would have been its open end, with a flap door similar to a tent’s. Tanalvah suspected it was an ancient burial chamber that had been cleared of bones, but didn’t like to dwell on the idea.

Some effort had been put into making it comfortable for her. The bed had a plump straw mattress, with several thick pelts to keep her warm. She had a chair and a couple of unfussy shelves for her few possessions. A woven mat covered part of the floor. Someone had even gone to the trouble of finding an old tapestry to hang by her bed, though it was too faded for its subject to be recognisable. Compared to other lodgings she’d seen in this place, it was luxurious.

Her cell, as she’d come to think of it, was lit by a single glamour orb. She kept it on permanently, which was outrageously lavish, and she had candles and lanterns to hand as back-ups. Without the orb the chamber would be in total darkness, and that she couldn’t abide.

A small outcrop of stone resembling a plinth stood near the door, where a wash basin and pitcher rested. The temperature was surprisingly mild below ground, yet the water was still cold enough to shock her when she splashed it on her face. Next she took up a brush and began jerking it through the tangles in her hair.

Attending to mundane tasks gave her no rest from the fixations that lodged like a chunk of ice in her guts. She saw no way of reconciling what she’d done with Kinsel’s pacifism. If he lived, how he could possibly forgive her? She marvelled at how stupid she had been to believe Devlor Bastorran’s lies about minimal harm coming to the people she betrayed. She felt suffocated by the fear of what would happen to the children in her charge, and the one unborn, if she was exposed. And she felt that exposure was inevitable, because it was all she could do not to fall on her knees, confess and beg forgiveness.

The Resistance had offered her passage to the Diamond Isle. She didn’t want to go. It was hard enough coping with the people here. Over there, Tanalvah would have to confront those who had been closest to her, who had befriended and protected her. Especially Serrah, whom she dreaded facing. But her terror of Bastorran, and the chance of falling into his hands again, made her almost as afraid of staying.

Now she understood why Serrah had once found the prospect of death so enticing.

Tanalvah steeled herself to leave her tiny stone cocoon and join the others. She knew she wouldn’t be able to look any of them in the eye. Enduring their kindnesses, their pitying gazes and their sympathetic smiles was a torment. It was a wonder to her that they couldn’t see the guilt written on her face.

She summoned her resolve, pulled back the flap and stepped into their world.

As usual, the caves were bustling, and just as predictably people began to stare as soon as they noticed her. She felt naked. The temptation to admit what she’d done, to scream it out and get it over with, was near irresistible.

Then a group approached through the parting crowd, two adults and a pair of children. Dulian Karr and Goyter, beaming at her, with Teg and Lirrin clutching their hands. The children broke away and flew to Tanalvah’s outstretched arms.

For the moment, all her troubles were washed away by tears of joy.

No more than an hour’s ride from the necropolis, in the heart of Valdarr, another reunion was taking place, albeit one with considerably less warmth.

Inside the forbidding walls of the Bhealfan headquarters of the paladin clans, beyond a labyrinth of passages and secured doors, an inner sanctum was located.

Within, Devlor Bastorran was granting an audience.

A kind observer might describe his guest as striking. Although seemingly asexual, close examination would indicate that the visitor was female. She was athletic in build, verging on bony, and had fair blonde hair cut close to the skull. Her flesh was as pallid as marble. She had thin, nigh on colourless lips and startlingly large, pitch black eyes. Conjecture on whether she was handsome or ugly was irrelevant; her appearance flouted normal conceptions of beauty. And right now those features were further contorted with anger.

‘I’m sick of waiting,’ she hissed, jabbing a finger at his chest. ‘We had a bargain, and you never said you’d be this long honouring it.’

‘We did. But let me-’

‘I should have known better than to trust the word of a paladin. You’re lying bastards, the lot of you, for all your talk of honour and agreements.’

‘That’s not-’

‘Well, chew on this, Lord High Muckamuck: we’re bound, you and me. Chained together by what I did on your behalf.’ Her eyes shone with a cold intensity. ‘There’s a price for my silence about that, Bastorran. When are you going to pay it?’

‘I thought today might be a good time.’

‘What?’

‘If you’d let me get a word in,’ he came back through gritted teeth, ‘I was going to explain. As you say, we had a deal. I’m ready to fulfil my part.’

Aphri Kordenza eyed him suspiciously. ‘You’ll do as you agreed?’

‘Your magical symbiosis with your…companion will be made permanent. Don’t look so surprised. Did you really think I wouldn’t honour our pact?’

‘How will you do it?’ the meld asked, ignoring his question.

‘In what my sorcerers tell me is the best way. With this.’ He slipped a hand into his tunic pocket and brought out a flat, wafer-thin object that had hundreds of tiny runic symbols etched into its surface. It looked like terracotta, and sat comfortably in his palm. He held it out to her.

‘How?’ she repeated, weighing it.

‘At the moment you maintain your symbiotic status by periodically refreshing the magic. I’m guessing you need to visit a wizard with the necessary skills every few weeks, to renew the spell.’

She nodded. ‘And pay handsomely for it.’

‘I imagine it isn’t always easy finding a sorcerer willing to do the job, either. Given that your condition’s legally dubious.’

‘It’s a moot point. There are so few of us melds the Law’s tended to ignore the situation. But we’re getting off the subject.’

‘That thing,’ Bastorran pointed at the artefact she was clutching, ‘cuts out the middleman. It keeps you permanently connected to the magical grid, drawing all the energy you need to stay as you are. No renewal of spells, no more expense.’

‘What do I do, swallow it?’

‘Only if you want to risk choking. But it does go inside your body. Just under the skin of your left heel, to be exact. It’s a simple surgical procedure that takes a couple of minutes. I have physicians standing by, and they’re the best. My own, in fact. You look wary. There’s nothing to worry about. You’ll be given a soporific and won’t feel a thing.’

‘I don’t need one.’

‘I’m told there would be a certain amount of pain involved without it.’

‘I prefer to stay alert.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘As you please. But I really think-’

‘I hope you’re being straight about this, Bastorran. Because if it’s some kind of trick, everybody’s going to know you for a murderer. I’ve left details of your uncle’s death with a confederate, and if anything happens to me-’

‘We both know you haven’t, Kordenza. And even in the unlikely event of you knowing somebody you’d trust with that kind of information, whose word are people going to believe? That of the grieving head of the paladin clans or some shifty member of the criminal classes? Besides, it’s in my interest that your powers be at their height.’

‘Why?’

‘I have another commission for you. One which will reward you generously. Have faith in me. Your suspicions are misplaced.’

She thought about it. ‘All right. Curse me for a fool, but I’ll take your word.’

‘Good. I’d say we should shake on it, but frankly I’d rather not touch you.’

‘The feeling’s mutual.’

He indicated the door with an outstretched arm. ‘Shall we proceed?’

‘In a moment. I said I’d accept your word. I’ve somebody else to confer with.’

Bastorran was nonplussed, then realised what she meant. ‘Oh. Aphrim.’

‘Of course. We’re partners, you know. In all things.’

‘Very well,’ he sighed, perching himself on the side of a chair and crossing his arms. He found the spectacle unedifying, yet it held a perverse fascination.

Aphri Kordenza demerged. She tugged herself to one side smartly and left an image of her form suspended in the air. The outline resembled a woman-shaped burnished rope, as though a lasso trick had frozen. As Bastorran watched, Aphri’s reflection manifested a swirl of bone, sinew, blood and flesh. For a second, all was shimmering and indistinct. Then it gelled and took on form.

The new arrival in Bastorran’s study looked superficially like the first, but close scrutiny showed subtle differences. The figure was male. It could have been Aphri’s twin, and dressed identically to her in leather jerkin, britches and high boots. But there was a sense of it being only approximately human.

An almost transparent, finely veined, glistening membrane connected Kordenza and her twin. Her body jerked. The moist film detached itself and was instantly absorbed by her twin, making an unpleasantly wet sound as it was sucked into his flesh.

They gazed at each other raptly.

‘Did you hear all that, my dear?’ Aphri said.

‘I did.’ Her companion’s voice was a shade away from being natural; it had a jarringly hollow quality, confirming his glamour status.

‘What do you think?’

‘It’s what we’ve always wanted. But can we trust him?’

Bastorran felt a flush of rage at being spoken about as though he wasn’t there. But he held his tongue.

‘We’ve been through that, Aphrim,’ Aphri said. ‘I reckon it’s a chance worth taking. Just think, you’ll have all the power you want for those lovely new weapons you’ve dreamed up. So, are we agreed?’

‘If you think it best, darling, yes.’

She flew into his arms. ‘Isn’t it wonderful, Aphrim? We need never part.’

They came together and kissed. A lingering, passionate, all-embracing lovers’ kiss. Bastorran saw it as something distasteful, and corrupt.

When they finally drew back from each other, a translucent, glutinous strand ran from Aphri’s mouth to Aphrim’s, as though they were dogs playing tug with a grey silk scarf. It could have been the same stuff as the membrane which earlier linked them. When it snapped midway, each of the twins noisily inhaled their half. The paladin averted his gaze.

He stayed silent until the couple disengaged, then cleared his throat. They turned as one to look at him. ‘Can we get on with it now?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ they chorused, disconcertingly. ‘Aphrim will be there,’ Aphri added, ‘watching over me.’

‘Then perhaps you’ll reconsider your decision about the palliative?’

‘No. What affects one affects us both. As I said, we prefer to stay alert.’

‘As you wish.’

They began moving to the door.

Aphri shot Bastorran a curious glance. ‘You mentioned a new commission.’

‘Ah, yes. One that I think you’ll view more as pleasure than work.’

‘We always get pleasure from our work,’ Aphrim assured him.

‘What is it?’ Aphri persisted.

‘You’re looking for revenge,’ Bastorran replied, ‘and so am I. And I don’t want to have to go through official channels to get it, as it were. Which is why I require your services. But it will involve all of us taking a little trip.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I know where Caldason is.’

He didn’t know where he was. There was a sense of who he was, a realisation of his essential identity and a certain cogency of brain function, but he had no idea of the place he was being shown.

There was a lot of snow. It was hard to make out the landscape because of it, except for the fact that he was in a rugged terrain. Emaciated trees broke the whiteness, their contorted branches silhouetting a menacing sky. Black mountains, summits snow-dusted, marked the distant horizon on three sides. A constant wind blew, swirling flakes. He knew it was bitterly cold, but couldn’t feel it, which didn’t surprise him.

His instinct told him that something of importance was happening in this wilderness.

An image came to mind, unbidden and forgotten until now. A very, very long time ago, when he was a child, he had been taken to see a wise woman. He couldn’t remember who she was, or what she looked like, nor could he recall who took him, or why. But he did remember something she taught him; something which he took for granted in his waking life as a warrior, a life that seemed so remote and unreal to him.

What he learned on that far-off day was the principle of no-mind. A state more easily experienced than explained, no-mind was about attaining a goal without consciously trying. The emphasis was on ‘consciously’. It had nothing to do with the desire to achieve the goal, everything to do with how. His teacher used the example of a man throwing a spear or loosing an arrow, and failing to hit the target. But success was achieved when he stopped consciously trying. In order to triumph, the will had to be sublimated.

Was that a real memory, or the memory of a dream? He didn’t know. Nevertheless, he obeyed its meaning. Stilling his mind, he let go of his resolve.

Instantly, he began to rise. Soon, the contorted trees were below him, looking like splashes of dark oil against the blanket of white. As he rose he moved forward; onward and up in the direction of the mountain range he was facing. He was aware of even stronger winds, which would have chilled him to the bone had he any sensitivity to his surroundings. Soaring, he passed above flocks of hardy birds, their powerful wings working the frigid air as they travelled south. Then the great snow-smothered peaks were below him and he had his first view of what lay beyond.

He looked down into a wide valley, another mountain range marking its farthest edge. The valley was waxen with snow, and drifts piled high against its dun restraining walls. A frozen river ran along it; a burnished mirror shot through with spindly cracks. But what caught his eye, what drew him, was a habitation. A small city had mushroomed at the valley’s base, and extended on either side of the river. Cutting through the buildings was a causeway, connecting the harbour with an extensive fortress at the town’s centre.

At one end of the valley, near a pass that formed its only entrance, there was an open plain. Descending rapidly, he saw the aftermath of mayhem there: many bodies, of men and horses, were scattered across the churned, muddy snow. Funeral pyres were burning. Prisoners sat huddled inside circles of spear-carriers, while groups of conquerors moved briskly about the battlefield, attending to the many tasks victory had brought them.

He was speeding along the length of the valley now, heading for the township and the castle it nurtured. Moving without deliberate volition, he flew above the port, where several ships were ablaze. Then a jumble of roofs passed beneath; thatched, wooden, tiled. There were streets, lanes, twisting alleys. Plenty of people were about, trudging dejectedly or herding the defeated. They carried loads, led cattle, pushed carts. Many simply wandered in a daze. But nobody saw him.

Ahead, the fortress loomed. He was moving so fast it looked as though he might be dashed against its colossal walls. But no sooner had the thought occurred than he began to slow.

The redoubt was rambling and multi-layered, the result of generations of over-building. It had a long terrace-cum-battlement situated high up as part of its frontage, and there was a single figure standing on it. At first, it was little more than a speck, but narrowing distance showed a man. Gazing at the view, his expression illegible, he had his hands laid upon the terrace’s stone wall. Physically, he was completely unremarkable, and the way he dressed lacked ostentation. Yet there was something astonishing about him.

He was near enough to spit at the man, should he have wanted to, and now hung motionless in front of him. At first, the man seemed unaware of his presence, as everybody else had been. Then some kind of awareness came into his face, and he turned his head to stare.

The man’s eyes were bottomless hollows.

He had no recollection of closing his own eyes. When he opened them again, he was somewhere else. The heights he’d ascended to before were nothing compared to this.

He floated in a starry firmament. The world lay far below, like an unfurled map, so large its edges curved away with distance. He saw all the realms there were, and the expanse of green-blue oceans separating them. One large, northernmost landmass drew his eye. Deep in its interior, something flashed. A pinprick. The flicker of a struck flint. It grew, a fleck of vivid crimson against russet. The stain spread, its tendrils seeping across the land, and into others. As it moved further, it flowed more rapidly. Whole segments of the terrain were coloured by it; regions, countries, continents.

The tide was red, like blood, or perhaps it was light. The qualities of both resided in it. Strands probed, joined with others, filled in to engulf another patch of brown or green. Its very progress seemed to add to its own momentum, as though a pillar supporting a temple roof had toppled and caused an entire row to fall, each one upon the next. But this was no temple. It was a world. A world being swallowed by blood and light.

Perhaps he should have felt bad about it.

He didn’t.