Right now he was more concerned with Tyrellan. Through the eye of the unknowing blade, he had seen the female mage dead with one of the mysterious babes in her arms, which meant Tyrellan must have escaped with the other. Tyrellan, however, had disappeared, and Battu hadn’t been able to scry him out. He both admired and damned the goblin’s ability to hide, leaning towards damnation as time passed.
Meanwhile, his army continued to gather, as did the Throne’s forces, at Holdwith. This was concerning, as there was always a chance the Throne would decide to take the offensive. Though Battu would love to wage outright war, that had never been part of the plan. He had his orders, received from the Dark Gods all those years ago, and already he had taken liberties.
Where was Tyrellan?
Ahead, at the top of the spiral staircase, was a door behind which his answer might lie. Plucking a key from his robe to undo the lock, he listened for a moment to the roar of the Cloud on the other side. He still felt the old excitement when he came here. There was no way to tell what he might experience in the shadowdream. Perhaps he would float in ecstasy, or be inundated with despair. He might see the future, the past, or things that never were and never would be. And though the dream ran thick through the walls of Skygrip, it was here on the roof that entering it was most overwhelming.
He opened the door.
In the centre of the roof, between the four great pinnacles, a curling stream of grey-black vapour rose into the sky. It moved upwards slowly, thundering like a distant sea, feeding into the boiling Cloud high above. This was the birthplace of the biggest shadow in the world, one that fell on land and sea, on past and future, even on possibility.
Battu stepped into the vapour and felt the updraught of the Cloud’s passage, the soft caress of floating moisture. He kneeled on the cold stone from which the Cloud emanated and breathed in a darkness that suffused his body and mind. He began to float, indistinct, in a place where time and space held no sway. A great void surrounded and carried him, though it did not take him to anything, nor did it bring him from anywhere. Distantly he heard the sound of the world from conception to end, but avoided listening too closely. He spread outwards without purpose until he had almost spread too far. Be a leaf in the stream, Raker had taught him, not the stream itself. He reined himself in, and then he began to chance upon other leaves, drifting …
…dark shapes slip through dark water, circling a kill, which darts back and forth desperately. The anticipation of blood, flesh between the teeth, means the sharks won’t, can’t, hold back much longer. No, thinks Battu, draw away …this is not the time for pleasant distractions …
…a young man sits by a stream, feet dangling in the water, listening to the sound of insects chirping. He has pale skin and eyes like midnight lakes and wears the blackest gloves Battu has ever seen. Battu has never known calm such as he sees on the young man’s face. Someone comes to sit beside him, runs her hand through his long blue hair …
…Fahren is angry, raises a warning hand. Battu pulls back the hood of his cloak and the old man’s eyes widen in surprise and recognition …
…a field of tiny flowers, white. Battu walks across it, the sun shining brightly on his back, the grass soft under his bare feet. In the sky, golden birds circle and play, catching flies in a warm breeze. What is he doing here?
…an orange puffer fish swimming in a dark sea. It gets tangled in a net, extends its thorns to protect itself and they catch in the weave. It begins its final journey, to Battu’s table …
…Tyrellan, but younger than he is now. The goblin sits hunched by a cliff overlooking the Black Sea. Someone approaches and he moves behind a rock, stringing an arrow to his bow. His brother arrives, calling for him. Tyrellan puts an arrow in his back, sending him off the edge of the cliff. Tyrellan stands, walks to the edge to look down …
…a scar-faced man, Raker, stands on the roof in front of the Cloud. He turns to eleven-year-old Battu and smiles fiercely. Battu thinks he is ugliest when he smiles. Raker tells him to come and see, to touch the Cloud, to get lost in it …
…Raker again, this time fighting for his life. He’s wounded already, for Battu has caught him off guard. His eyes are full of rage, but Battu sees he is genuinely surprised at this betrayal. Battu learns a valuable lesson about trust …
…and Tyrellan again. The goblin crouches amongst bushes, a child with blue hair tightly strapped to his back. He hides from the day, and a group of soldiers on horses, a Varenkai patrol riding past. They move on; failing to spy him.
Battu flooded back to his body, rolling out of the Cloud to gasp in cold air.
Tyrellan was coming home.
That evening, on a bare patch of earth between trees, Corlas fed sticks to a fire. He’d built it without thinking, for there was nothing to cook and no need to see the empty, miserable world around him. Though this was a land he’d once fought for, he felt little connection to it now. It was tainted by those who ruled it, those he’d once served but who had stolen his child and left him for dead. Weariness closed his eyes, but anger kept him awake.
‘Sleeping so soon?’
Corlas leaped to his feet, axe at the ready. Hopping about at the edge of the firelight was a little bird. Corlas’s movement startled it and it cocked its head at him warily. A moment passed and it returned to its fossicking. Corlas glanced around but no one else was there. Had he imagined that singsong voice as he’d been falling asleep?
‘Who’s there?’ he demanded of the darkness.
‘Just us,’ came the voice.
Corlas spun about, but again there was nothing there save the bird. It scratched the earth and gave a low chirp.
Sitting down heavily, Corlas buried his head in his hands. Had he lost his mind as well? Would there ever come a time when he had nothing left to take?
‘Why do I bring such despair, Varenkai?’ came the voice.
‘Silence!’ bellowed Corlas. ‘You do not exist! Leave me be!’
‘But I hate to see someone alone in such a state.’
The voice was so close that Corlas’s head jerked up. At his feet stood the bird, unafraid. It was sparrow-sized but far more colourful, with wings of scarlet, a yellow breast and a bright blue tail. It had eyes like beads of blood. Corlas blinked at it.
‘Did you …speak?’
‘I’ve been speaking for some time.’
Corlas stared in shock.
‘I’m sorry if I scared you,’ said the bird. ‘I have that effect on people sometimes. Most birds don’t talk, I do realise that.’
‘You …’ Corlas licked cracked lips. ‘You are real?’
The bird gave a chirp of what seemed to be amusement. ‘I certainly hope so! Did you think you were imagining me?’
‘Indeed,’ said Corlas slowly. ‘And still I am not convinced. My mind has been …overloaded of late. I fear I may have dropped it altogether.’
The bird seemed to think about this, then launched off the ground to alight on Corlas’s arm. Corlas flinched as it tightened sharp little claws on his skin.
‘There,’ said the bird. ‘Does that feel real?’
Corlas was dumbfounded. The bird did seem real enough.
‘What are you?’ he asked.
‘A friend. Perhaps one more significant than my appearance suggests.’ It seemed to sigh. ‘Not many of my kind are left these days, but long ago we were the Sun God’s messengers. We lived in his Garden and filled it with song. So prized by Arkus were we that he bestowed upon us the power of speech and allowed us to fly free into the skies of the world. Wherever we go, we bring his light, and when we feel the presence of one who lives without it, we are driven to help. And I have not felt misery such as yours for a long time. I don’t know what ails you, but, if you wish it, I will travel with you for a time. Perhaps I can help?’