She sat back from the still pool, pondering what she had seen. She had chosen a good time to watch, it seemed. Often when she tried, Arkus blocked her sight; and if she looked southwards, Assedrynn did the same. This evening, however, Arkus had been preoccupied, filling the boy’s mind with strange directives.
He can’t possibly know that bringing Bel and Losara back together is the way for him to win. Nobody knows the way for sure, except perhaps cursed fate. So why claim it?
Maybe, she thought, not because he knows it is the only way he will win but because it’s the only way he can win.
She rose into the air, a swirl of twigs and leaves.
And maybe the same goes for me, she thought merrily.
Thirty-four
Pilgrimage
They did not tarry long in Swampwild, for Lalenda found it difficult to be there. Although she still had not wept, neither did she look back as her home fell from the horizon. In the days that followed, she was quiet, speaking only to thank Losara for setting her free and taking her to Swampwild. She had regressed almost to the Lalenda he knew from Skygrip, except that her sadness was deeper and less fearful. He grew more and more annoyed with Battu for having caused this. It would have been a simple matter to allow Lalenda out of the castle to visit her mother, or at the very least fetch her mother to her, but that would never have crossed Battu’s mind.
South they flew, and soon came to frosty plains sparse of vegetation. Ahead lay the towering Bentemoth Mountains, a range like shards of broken glass, ancestral home to the Graka. The journey to the top was arduous, for swirling winds flung snow and ice at them, and the peaks were almost as high as the Cloud itself. Losara had to cloak Lalenda in his power to protect her as they buoyed upwards, while Grimra laughed and raced around, snapping his fangs at the tails of lightning bolts. Losara noticed that finally Lalenda seemed to be taking in the world around her, her eyes gleaming with reflected lightning, her black hair flying wildly about her head. She grinned fiercely.
‘You’re keeping me safe, my lord?’ she said, and somehow the question didn’t seem to be just for there and then.
‘Yes,’ he said.
They arrived on a high plateau where a Graka funeral was taking place. A wiry old Graka with a chin sharp enough to cut bread was presiding over a corpse, chanting and making signs in the air. Four others pulled the coffin along with ropes, two at the back and two at the front. As they reached the edge, they beat their wings and carried the coffin out over the leagues-long drop. A group of mourners standing further back began to sing a funeral dirge.
‘Back to the rocks!’ wailed the elderly Graka.
The four flying Graka released their ropes and the coffin disappeared into the swirling white.
‘No good for meat,’ Grimra informed Losara and Lalenda. ‘Graka be hard, ’specially when dead. That one be nothing but pebbles and dust by the time he bounce all the way to the bottom.’
Losara landed on the ledge and presented himself and Lalenda to the surprised Graka, who never saw outsiders this far up the Teeth. They were welcoming enough when he told them who he was, and together they went into the mountains, where he saw elaborately carved halls full of statues, and an ice mine where glowing blue veins rippled the rock.
After that they flew west, all the way to the Midgeon Hills. The hills themselves were low, uniform, pale and dry, with orange grass as patchy as the scalp of a burn victim. Clumps of stone congregated here and there, and sometimes it was hard to tell where these ended and the ruins began. Some forgotten people had lived here once, but now there was little sign of civilisation save a lonely winding road. As Losara and Lalenda landed atop a hill, Grimra’s skull became visible low to the ground, as if he sniffed after something.
‘What is it, Grimra?’ asked Lalenda.
The skull faded. ‘Grimra be living here before Tyrellan be catching him,’ the ghost said. ‘Long hunts along the funnels between them rises, Grimra had.’ He seemed to be having trouble remembering. ‘In them ruins, that was where Grimra’s pendant be, buried or hidden …or Grimra forgetting. Not good eating round here …plenty of dead things, scarce of the living. Travellers sometimes, but they learn where Grimra can reach the road and leave it to circle wide!’
This particular memory seemed to enrage Grimra and he flew straight up into the air, howling. Losara decided they had best not tarry.
North they flew, following the coast, to where the Nyul’ya River met the sea under the harbour city of Afei Edres. The Cloud above seemed thinner, and the light that shone through it showed off the colour and style of the city. A high stone wall ran around it, enclosing it against the sea, while the river ran through the centre under a gaping arch with raised portcullis. Inside the walls were blue stone buildings of many floors, with curly-topped turrets painted yellow. These seemed to be home to many people, putting Losara in mind of ants’ nests. The streets were a network of wharves, bridges and platforms elevated above the tide line and the river, and often there was the sound of water underfoot. There was a sense of cleanness and wealth to the place – the air was fresh and crisp, there wasn’t filth lying about, and the people were well dressed and industrious. The Arabodedas capital did its people proud.
‘I wouldn’t mind staying here for a day or two,’ said Losara as they strolled along.
‘Me either, lord,’ Lalenda said. ‘Let’s.’
They ate and rested and walked about. No one paid them much mind, as the city bustled with all kinds of folk. They visited markets, where Lalenda was fascinated by so many things that Losara offered to buy her a gift. She took enthusiastically to the task of choosing one, but, after frowning at this and frowning at that, she simply took his hand and kissed it.
‘Thank you, my lord, for your kindness,’ she said, ‘but I simply cannot decide.’
Such an odd girl she could be.
They walked along the docks and watched fishing boats coming and going. Further on they saw some of the city’s famous water magicians who could manipulate the sea, conjuring up waterspouts and carving them like clay on a potter’s wheel. Soon they came to a place where the coast jutted out from underneath the walkway. Below, on an outcrop of rock that overlooked the ocean, a small crowd had gathered around a water mage dressed in a green robe, with a red streak in his ponytail. The mage reached out and pulled a jet of water from the sea. With a twirl of his fingers he set it spinning on its axis, then plucked away at it, sending off sprays of water to reveal the shape beneath. A fish flew out and plopped back in the water, and the people laughed. The mage’s hands conjured frantically as blobs shifted position, a furious look of concentration on his face. Finally the crowd gasped – rotating before them was a watery carving of Lampet. The serpent god’s curves shimmered in the light and Losara almost expected to see his eyes flash different colours. The mage wasn’t done, however – his arms shot out and the serpent came to life, his body unfurling as he ‘swam’ over their heads, dripping salt water as he circled upwards. High in the sky, he exploded into a fine mist. The mage bowed, the crowd clapped and tossed coins into a wooden box at his feet.
‘Come,’ said Losara. ‘I wish a word with him.’
They made their way through the dispersing crowd, towards the outcrop, where the mage still stood. As the mage saw them approach, a strange look came over his face.
‘That was a beautiful display,’ said Losara. ‘Lampet himself would have chuckled to see it.’
The mage inclined his head. ‘Thank you, my lord. I am sure by now you know that for a fact.’
Losara was pleased that he did not detect any jealousy in the remark.