Oh, poor fool! Stupid fool! He lures us here to die at the hands of these cursed souls, little knowing just where their curse came from! ‘Jak!’ he called, having now mastered the agony of the wound. ‘Why do they not attack you?’
The young man was squinting down the length of a nocked arrow, searching for an opening through the guards’ raised shields. ‘I did not lie, you bastard! I am from here. They attack no one of their blood.’
Yes. They retain at least that much sense of their past lives, imprisoned as they are in flesh that has betrayed them. Thank you, Jak.
These pathetic shuffling figures were the cursed soldiers, civilians and court of Chanar Keep.
Still advancing, they clutched at the limbs and armour of Pon-lor’s guards to grapple with unbreakable grips or thrust or choke with fingers as strong as stone — for stone they were, flesh accursed to harden into petrification.
The dismissal, man! Think! How does it begin? Pon-lor fell to his knees and covered his eyes to blot out the sight of his men falling before him, screaming and gagging, throats torn. Then he had it, the opening invocation, and it all flowed from there with ease, the sequence hammered into his mind through countless repetitions sitting legs crossed in the ritual centre, chanting from sunrise to sunset, sometimes all through the night until he slumped forward unconscious.
‘Magister …’ a guard breathed above him, awed.
He dared open his eyes, his lips moving soundlessly.
Stone hands were reaching for him not an arm’s length away. Frozen now in the act of stretching. And as he watched an invisible wind gnawed at those fingers and the expressionless mask-like faces behind. Grain by grain the petrified flesh fell away like dust in a sandstorm. The clouds of dust swirled, wind-driven, obscuring the chamber. Even the bones of the hands disappeared, scoured away into blunt stubs, the arms following.
‘What?’ he heard Jak yell through the churning ashen clouds. ‘What is this?’
‘Who did you think lowered this curse upon Khun-Sen?’ Pon-lor shouted.
‘All know this as the work of the Demon-Queen!’
Pon-lor straightened to his feet. The invocation had centred him fully. Pain could not touch him now, nor could hunger nor fatigue, until he should ease out of the state, or eventually fall unconscious, or dead. He had closed off the bleeding. Clenched muscles and flesh against the wound. As he could now suppress any or all physical damage unless instantly fatal. ‘No, Jak,’ he began, his voice calm and strong. ‘An understandable assumption, but no. The Ruling Circle sent this curse against Khun-Sen — why I do not know. But it is our curse … and I am dismissing it now.’
‘I will see you dead!’ the young man howled.
‘He has run, Magister,’ a guard said, his gaze shaded against the swirling dust.
Metal clattered to the stone flagging as limbs cracked or hissed away into nothing. Faces had been gouged away into flat discs, bone and all. A head snapped off as the thinned neck gave way with a crack. Which of these, if any, was cursed Khun-Sen himself Pon-lor could not bring himself to care. One cursed figure, an elderly soldier, perhaps Khun-Sen, toppled over to burst into fragments.
‘Shall we pursue, m’lord?’ a guard asked, his tone now far more respectful.
‘No. They know this labyrinth. We’ll never track them. Let’s find the eastern path.’
‘Yes, m’lord.’
The dense iron-grey cloud of dust was dissipating. Pon-lor could now see across the chamber. A good finger’s thickness covered every surface. He tilted his head to brush the fine powdered stone from his hair. Armour and weapons littered the floor, along with the corpses of his dead. As the last of the grit sifted away Pon-lor faced a mere four standing guards, all wrapped in shrouds of grey, like the ghosts of Chanar Keep themselves. The four stood blinking at one another through the smeared masks of pulverized stone as if shocked to find themselves alive.
‘Magister …’ murmured one, gesturing to his side.
Pon-lor peered down to see the bloodied, now dust-caked arrowhead and a good hand’s width of haft standing from his torso. He’d almost forgotten about it. ‘Break it off and pull it out,’ he told the guards.
They exchanged uneasy glances but nodded their acquiescence.
‘This will hurt, Magister …’ one told him, reaching for the haft.
Pon-lor took hold of the man’s sash to steady himself. ‘No, Melesh — it is Melesh? Yes? I quite assure you it will not.’
* * *
If any ships witnessed the storm that arose upon the great empty tract of ocean between Quon Tali and the shores of Jacuruku, none survived to tell the wonders of the sight. No natural tempest was this. The sea clashed as if driven to war against itself. Mountainous waves swelled as current surged against current. Deep troughs the size of valleys opened as if to reveal the infinite depths. The winds battled and slashed each other into shreds of cloud and sleet.
Through these howling squalls a single vessel did push south by southwest. Long and low it was, of black wood lacquered in countless layers. It possessed no masts. Its deck was fully enclosed but for a single small hatch. Single banks of twenty oars to a side fought the contrary winds and slam of waves in a steady inhumanly powerful stroke.
As if in defiance of the storm a woman stood open to the elements upon the deck. Her clothes hung from her, utterly soaked. Water ran in rivulets from her hacked short hair and slid wind-driven across her face. She stood with arms crossed beneath her outer robes, her gaze slit against the cutting sleet. Twice a day another woman emerged from the small hatch. This one wore light leather armour, belted and studded. A pale mask hid half her face. Though the deck was featureless polished wood and the wind raged in gusting contrary blows her footing was sure as she crossed to the first woman. Here she offered a meagre ball of food or a skin of water that the first always refused, and then she would withdraw, bowing.
Who would it be? T’riss, the Enchantress, Queen of Dreams, and one-time companion to Anomandaris, wondered. Which of them shall be first? She sensed them all far to the west, all gathered for the potential transfiguration. And who shall it be, and into which state? And will they be pleased with the results? Too many futures now beckoned for any to see the clear path. Even she.
And it is the mortals who will choose.
There it was. The unwelcome truth — her forte. As ash-dry in her mouth as in anyone’s.
After all these ages … the choice was no longer hers. Indeed, she saw now that it never was. That what she had taken as control, the subtle manipulation, all the light plucking of such diverse threads, had been no more than the kicking of stones down a hill. They do end up at the bottom where you want them, but how they got there … well … one can hardly take the credit.
And speaking of tumbling stones … she sensed them, then, her first visitors.
Get of the Errant. The vindictive two-faced Twins.
It was the Lad who faced her. The rain slashed through his wavering translucent image. His pointed ferret face twitched in something resembling a wink.
‘What do you want?’ she said and he heard her though the raging winds annihilated her words.
He took on an expression of anxious concern. ‘I have come to warn you.’
‘Warn me of what?’
He wavered closer as if to impart some secret news. ‘Have you not seen there is a strong chance that this gambit of yours will bring you to your end?’
I have seen that and infinitely more than you can conceive of, you capering fool. ‘Yes.’
The Lady swung round from her rear. The wind did not touch her long brushed hair. Her pale face pulled down in a sad moue. She sighed: ‘How desperately you must have loved him from afar …’