‘The Mosquito-kinden fought for the Worm?’ Seda queried.
‘No, Majesty, they fought alongside us against it.’
That was a sobering thought, and Seda stared down at the great stone Seal beneath her feet. It still made no sense. An age of magic such as she could barely conceive of, and a grand war between magical powers of which this was a relic, and yet… nothing but a vacuum, an absence beneath her.
She felt that she was on the very brink of the truth. ‘So what happened. What do we stand on?’
‘This is all that is left of the Worm. When the Moths had defeated their armies and chased them back to their lairs, there was a, mn, choice. The realm of the Worm was beneath the ground, of course, and extended how far, ahm, no one could say. The Moths had no fear of darkness, but the atrocities that the Worm surely committed within its own halls gave pause to everyone. Whatever obscenity produced that kinden and had made them into the thing we called the Worm lay within that realm, and, hm, in the end the Moths had paid too much already to relish further fight. Instead they fell back on their strengths and devised a ritual.’ The old man’s gaunt face twisted into a painful smile. ‘You know of the great rituals of the Moths, hm? You owe your current status to one of them.’
‘The Darakyon,’ she reflected, barely breathing the word: the power of a failed ritual that had destroyed a Mantis-kinden hold, twisted an entire forest and liberated her from her former ignorance.
‘Bear in mind, then, that the Darakyon was the result of a ritual undertaken after the Apt had begun to rise, in the, mm, grey dawn that was bringing an end to the Moth-kinden’s world. Back during the War of the Worm, they had real power and, at that war’s end, they had the will to use it. They could not simply destroy their enemies, or they would have done so before, and spared us all the war. But with their victories to fuel them, their foot, hm, symbolically on the neck of their enemy, they sealed up the entrances to the Worm’s underground domain, and they banished the Worm.’
‘There is no such underground domain,’ Seda declared, but her voice shook slightly, because, after all, they were some way underground already, and she was acutely aware that Tisamon seemed to be refusing to step on the Seal. ‘Any such realm would have been uncovered through some mine or landslip, or this Worm finding some other way out. It cannot be so easy.’
‘Banished,’ Gjegevey repeated. ‘Not buried but banished. All their power, their armed force, even the wretches that they fed on — the other lightless cultures of the under-earth, my own, ah, kin included — all of them, banished and gone. Sent elsewhere, forever. So, no, hem, there is no underground domain of the Worm beneath our feet, but there was, once.’
Seda stared at him, as the greenish lantern began to gutter. ‘But
… where?’
‘Away,’ was all Gjegevey would say. ‘Just as there was a world within the Shadow Box, curving away and closed off from the real world that we know, so there is a far greater world where the Worm rules, or perhaps was unthroned there by those other luckless kinden who were exiled with it through no fault of theirs. Perhaps my own, mn, kinden have risen to a greatness there that we have been, hm, denied under the sun. But I fear that, Majesty, if you were to exercise your power and somehow undo the Seal, then you would find the Worm, and nothing but the Worm, patient and bitter, and that is why I ask you to, hm, pursue this no longer, seek this no more. Let the Seal of the Worm lie. Yes, there may be, hm, power to be gleaned there, but the lessons of history are clear. Do not wake it. Do not bring it back.’
She stared at him for a long time, still feeling that absence beneath her. His story was impossible, save that nothing else could account for that inexplicable lack that she felt, the echo of what had been. I will not fear. But she did fear — not the dread of that Beetle girl usurper or the tedious concerns of state, but a fear of the dark, and of what the dark had once hidden.
‘Find me something else, then,’ she snapped, and Gjegevey bobbed his head eagerly and gratefully.
‘I will, I will,’ he assured her. ‘Rely on me, Majesty. You shall have what you seek.’ His gratitude at having his counsel followed was abject and instant.
Twenty-Seven
Jodry was late, keeping them waiting almost an hour before he heaved his frame into view, sweating from the modest flight of steps leading to this out-of-the-way room in the College. Another meeting, yet another day in the attempts of the Collegiate government of academics and merchants to understand and master the war.
The written rule was still that a full complement of appointed experts and representatives was required to carry any significant motion, but in truth that ideal had barely survived the start of the conflict. The people called to these meetings were also those whose hard work was directing the defence, and by now most simply stayed away, without even the time to read the subsequent minutes. The key decisions were passed on directly by messenger. Collegium was evolving a chain of command, whether it wanted one or not.
So, here was Stenwold Maker, spymaster-turned-spy-hunter. Here was Janos Outwright, Chief Officer of Outwright’s Pike and Shot, and nominally in charge of the city gates. Here was Jodry Drillen, the Speaker, even now sinking into his chair, with his man Arvi bustling up behind him with a flask of something restorative. Here was a tall, lean Mantis-kinden woman, a stranger to most of them and looking as though she would rather be slitting throats than talking across a table. That she had sat waiting for an hour showed her to be something more than a savage killer, however, as did the sash she wore, displaying the wheel of Outwright’s Merchant Company.
‘Jodry,’ Stenwold acknowledged his arrival gratefully, then indicated the woman. ‘This is Akkestrae, the-’
‘She’s the spokeswoman for the Collegiate Mantids. Yes, I remember.’ Jodry knocked back the contents of the flask, coughed violently, and gasped for breath. ‘Where’s Dulci Broadster?’ referring to one of the College’s social history masters.
‘Too busy with the refugee business to come and actually talk about it,’ Stenwold informed him. It was a complaint more and more familiar as the war escalated. ‘It’s just us, Jodry. We’ll have to do.’
‘But what can we…?’ Jodry looked at the walls as though expecting more advisers to creep out from between the brickwork. ‘Is anything we agree here even valid?’
‘I don’t know,’ Stenwold said tiredly. ‘I’m sure your man can round up an extra voice if you think one more would give us any authority. Or we can swear in Akkestrae for the day, if you prefer. Let’s just get this done. The Felyal, Jodry…’
‘Yes.’ Jodry took a moment to compose himself. ‘So, tell me what happened?’
‘From what I hear, they’re burning it, all of it,’ Stenwold said grimly. ‘What Tynan’s Second started in the last war, they’re finishing up in this. They must be losing I don’t know how many days in order to eradicate the place, burning out every hold, killing everyone they can get their hands on, sacking every logging camp and village. Perversely, that’s actually bought us time. Tactically, it seems insane, but-’
‘But you insist on saying that this Tynan is your enemy,’ Akkestrae interrupted. ‘The Spiders have done this. Out ancient enemies have had their revenge.’
Normally this would be taken as the usual Mantis rhetoric, but this time her assertion seemed no more than the simple truth. The Felyal had forever been a predator on Spider shipping, a constant thorn in the side of any Spider-kinden that ventured along the Lowlands’ south coast. No more, it seemed.
‘The refugees are still coming in, and Janos’s people are still recording accounts,’ Stenwold added. ‘There was an attack on the Wasp camp, apparently, by just about everyone from the Felyal who would take up a sword, plus a hundred or so itinerant Mynans who somehow ended up there.’ He paused, teeth bared unhappily. ‘They were expecting help from us.’