“As you said,” she went on, breaking a lengthy silence, “we barely knew shit about them.”
“We can still find the others,” he said in a flat weary voice, starting back down the trail. “You’ll go with them . . .”
“No.” She was emphatic, unmoving. “No. You need me to activate the crystal. If they remember . . . then we’ll just have to hope the crystal conveys sufficient understanding for them to hear a heart-felt apology.”
“Do we climb?” Kriz asked, her voice betraying an ill-concealed reluctance as she gazed up at the granite flanks of the mountain. A thick mist concealed the summit and, although the cliff-face before them featured numerous ledges and cracks, Clay found the prospect of climbing it distinctly unappealing.
He glanced around at the jungle canopy surrounding the low, grassy hill where they stood. Once clear of the jungle the air took on a clammy chill adding to the sense of exposure. The clouds that seemed to linger constantly over the mountains could conceal any manner of threats and Clay was beset by a persistent sense that a dark-winged shape would come swooping out of the white sky at any moment.
“No,” he said, unslinging his pack. “We’ll camp here tonight. Keep moving south come the morning.”
“There’s no cover,” she pointed out, casting a hand at the sky.
“That’s kinda the point. We want to be found, remember?” He set his pack down, resting a hand on the bulbous shape within. Come a long way, young ’un, he thought, smoothing his palm over the egg’s grainy shell. Hope your kin are pleased to see you.
They took turns on watch through the night, which proved uneventful if somewhat tense. Like all jungles this one generated a nerve-straining chorus of combined animal chatter and creaking branches. The only potential sign of a drake came during Clay’s watch in the small hours when the night was blackest. The clouds parted for a short time allowing a patch of moonlight to play over the jungle. Clay gazed at the pale blue light playing on the tree-tops, making them glitter as it caught the innumerable leaves, then started as a swift shadow swept across the scene. His gaze jerked upwards, honed instincts making one hand reach for his revolver whilst the other went to his wallet of product. He checked himself and forced his hands back into his lap, eyes roving the sky as the clouds closed in again. He heard no drake call, nor flap of wings but the feeling of being observed raised a prickle to his skin.
“I know you’re up there,” he whispered, hearing the quaver in his voice. “Why not come say hello?”
His hand went to the vials around his neck, the fruits of his sojourn in the enclave beneath the ice. White blood and Black heart-blood, the existence of which he had chosen to keep from Captain Hilemore. He hadn’t explicitly told Lizanne either but, given her facility for trance communication, it was possible she already knew. Once again, the notion of drinking White played through his mind.
It might show me where to go, he thought. Where to find them. The vial’s contents were dark, catching only a marginal gleam from the camp-fire. With no plasmologist dilutions to preserve it the blood had congealed, making it appear a thick, oily sludge he knew would be the foulest thing he had ever tasted. Only when everything else has failed, he decided, letting it fall from his grasp and turning his gaze on the vial of heart-blood.
It was similarly congealed but even darker. The pain of drinking the Blue heart-blood still lingered in his mind. Also, he knew now the connection was not inevitable. This was not a magic potion from some fable that would cast a spell over any drake he chose. It allowed the joining of minds and his control over Jack had been possible only because the drake’s mind had been fractured and susceptible to remoulding. Miss Ethelynne had forged a connection with Lutharon but he had been an infant at the time. Somehow he doubted a sane adult Black would present an easier prospect.
Another last resort, he concluded, concealing the vials beneath his shirt and looking at his pack and the round shape within. Looks like it’ll be down to you, young ’un.
They moved on come the morning, Clay following a course that would lead them into the heart of the Carnstadts. The jungle was similar to the country east of Krystaline Lake, though the trees were less tall and the ground-level vegetation thicker. He was wary at first, recognising this as perfect Green country and walking with his revolver drawn. He holstered it after trekking for several hours during which he saw no claw tracks on the jungle floor or any of the markings Greens habitually left on tree-trunks to mark their territory. Not Green country, he thought, peering up at the sky through the canopy. They steer well clear of this place. This is Black country.
“So, what was it called?” he asked Kriz when they paused in a clearing some miles on. “The city that used to sit here?”
“Devos Eluzica,” she said, speaking in her own language as they both did most of the time now. “It means ‘The Divine Tree.’” She gave a wistful sigh as she gazed around at the enclosing wall of jungle. “It was beautiful, Clay. An entire city built by a subsect of the Devos Caste. They chose to build without the aid of any crystals, in fact shunning their use entirely, believing the Benefactors had sent them as a test rather than a gift.”
“A test?” Clay asked. “Of what?”
“It’s all a little confused,” she said, drinking from her canteen and frowning in remembrance. “But then I always had trouble comprehending the vagaries of the Devos. It had something to do with our worthiness, our value as a species. They felt we had lessened ourselves by using the crystals, become as pampered children in the eyes of the Benefactors. Only by rebuilding our civilisation with our own hands could we win back their favour; otherwise, they were sure to punish us with a great cataclysm of some kind.”
“Maybe they had a point, given what was coming and all.”
“They were hypocrites. The city they built here was small at first. Just a series of interlinked houses crafted to sit amongst the tree-tops in supposed harmony with nature. But as time went on it grew taller, coming to resemble a great tree itself, adorned with glowing baubles when night fell. But they would never have been able to build it without the engineering knowledge acquired since the dawn of the crystal age. And, as the decades passed, successive generations crafted convenient sophistry to enable them to use crystals, eventually forgetting their heresy altogether, and the great tree grew ever taller. In my time, it rose higher than some of the mountains.” She paused, voice becoming sombre and her fond smile fading. “It must have been quite a sight when it fell.”
Clay was about to ask more then stopped when his gaze alighted on something in the gloom beyond Kriz’s shoulder: the fire-light playing on the outline of a crouched figure. He scrambled to his feet, drawing his revolver, Kriz doing the same. “What is it?” she whispered, moving to his side.
“Company.” Clay trained his revolver on the outline, eyes flicking left and right for any sign of another intruder, seeing only darkened jungle. After several long seconds in which nothing happened he began to discern the unnatural stillness of the crouched figure. Even a Spoiled couldn’t sit still for that long, he decided, nevertheless keeping the revolver aimed at the figure as he crept closer.
“Seer-damn statue,” he muttered in relief as the figure came fully into view. The statue was cracked and mostly covered with vines. However, enough of its original form remained to make out the shape of a kneeling man, hands clasped together but head raised to stare directly ahead.