“That’s the spirit,” Evelyn said softly and withdrew.
Chapter 33
They flew through the night. Scorio and the others bedded down on the deck, tethers fastened, and he missed their passage over the Golden Circuit. When he awoke it was to a different world.
Gone were the Farmlands, their orderly quilt of fields and crops, the broad chalk roads.
In their place he saw a somber twilit valley, the sky a foggy slate blue, The Sloop having descended so that it rode only a hundred or so yards above the marshland below. A river had split into a morass of looping streams and isolated ponds, their surface so mirror-still that they reflected snatches of The Sloop back up to them as they passed silently.
Here and there adumbrated towers of stone rose like craggy fingers pointing accusingly at the heavens; Scorio thought they were natural formations till he saw flickers of warm light burning in the depths of narrow windows.
All sound was muffled. Ydrielle stood tall and stern at the steering wheel, her chin raised. Around Scorio, others yet slumbered, though Jova stood at the prow with Dameon, engaged in low conversation.
Cautiously Scorio extended his Heart senses and immediately felt the resonant thrum of Copper being drawn away from the air around them and into The Sloop’s hold. It was a subtle but constant effect, reducing the ambient mana so that the ship could fly low over the ground.
Ydrielle must have sensed his questing; she didn’t move, but her gaze flicked over to consider him.
Scorio took that as an invitation. He rose, unclipped himself, then stepped over to the helm and clipped in at one of the eye bolts.
“That’s you? Draining the mana?”
“I see Dameon’s acquired a savant. Lucky us.”
“How do you continuously draw on the mana like that? Don’t you tire?”
She pursed her lips. Would she answer? Another glance, and she relented. “There’s a technique to it. I’m not drawing the mana into my Heart, but into a compression tank. Once you begin the process, it mostly runs itself.”
Scorio thought of Nox’s Delightful Secret Marinating Technique. “Like when you split the mana stream going into your Heart, so that one fuels your Ignition, and the other condenses in your Reservoir.”
Ydrielle frowned at him. On some level, it felt like she was actually seeing him for the first time. “You can do that?”
“No.” Scorio decided not to elaborate. “It’s a technique I read about once. Once, ah, you start it up, though, the process kind of regulates itself?”
“That’s right.” Ydrielle studied him critically. “That’s an advanced technique Tomb Sparks aren’t supposed to know about. Which text was this?”
Panicked, Scorio said the first thing that came to mind. “Quantics?”
Ydrielle’s stare was fierce and pitiless, but finally, she shook her head reluctantly. “I’ve not heard of it. But yes. But instead of pooling the mana in my Heart, I direct the second stream into the compression tank that’s designed to accelerate the process.”
“And you can just maintain that without resting?”
“Not indefinitely.” The corner of her lips quirked. “But for a long while. I’m… skilled at mana manipulation.”
“No kidding.” Scorio rubbed at the back of his head. “What I saw you do while we rode over the Rain Wall was incredible.”
“Hmm.” She gazed ahead once more, completely disinterested in his compliments. And, he realized, she’d been drawing and splitting the mana the whole time they’d been talking.
For a moment they stood awkwardly thus. At least, Scorio stood awkwardly; Ydrielle seemed completely at ease ignoring him. He watched Jova and Dameon conversing up front. He lounged on the railing with one elbow, facing her, while she stared forward. Scorio couldn’t quite read the tone of their exchange. Was Dameon cajoling? Convincing? Jova’s body language was stiff, but she wasn’t turning away.
“How far are we from the Chasm?” he asked at last.
“Another couple of hours.”
“And those towers below?”
“What of them?”
“I saw lights in the windows.”
“You’re very astute.” Her tone was dry. “They’re lures.”
“Who’s luring who?”
“Higher level fiends such as bog shrues or nissifers will take up residence and light mana beacons to draw in sadlarks or shilkos. There are plenty of other kinds. Occasionally a band of xallops will take residence, or a shilko will blossom into a shimilko and claim the whole tower. That’s when we step in and cleanse the whole structure.”
“I see.” Scorio drifted back to the railing and peered back down at the foggy world below. A crooked tower nearly forty yards high glided past below, looking more like an ancient menhir erected by a forgotten people than a building. But in its rough face, he saw a Copper glow, a spark of mana-light, and shuddered to think what lay hidden within that hollow spire.
Everybody roused themselves when Evelyn served their next meal; Scorio couldn’t tell if it was lunch or dinner or breakfast, but they devoured the hard rolls and slices of cured meat with pungent mustard voraciously.
The broad valley with its steep mountain walls rolled by unendingly; Scorio hated to imagine traversing its boggy expanse on foot. The mountain peaks, tall and ragged, reflected the light of the dying sun, their icy peaks momentarily blaring gold, then salmon pink, then darkening to gray, and then all became shadow.
For the brief night cycle, they sailed through the gloom, and the air echoed with alien cries from below.
“Large band,” observed Simeon from the prow.
Davelos’s tone was clinical. “Agreed. Thirty, you think?”
“About that. And we’re close to the Chasm. Might be worth looping back here to cleanse them out. What do you think, Dameon?”
“One step at a time.” Dameon’s voice was low, confident, mildly amused. To Scorio, his response had been a simple “no.”
The sun rose soon after; the mists below broke, and they sailed into a gigantic steep-walled amphitheater-like valley enclosed on all sides by cliffs surmounted by raw peaks. The rivulets merged, again and again, and soon formed twin rivers that rushed toward the edge of the Chasm and hurled their furious waters into the depths.
“By the ten hells,” whispered Leonis.
Thick forest choked the valley floor, a dense canopy through which no road seemed to pass. It grew right up to the edge of the Chasm. Scorio had halfheartedly imagined a great ravine, a canyon of incredible size, but this was more a colossal sinkhole, circular and as wide as Bastion itself. A mile across, perhaps? Maybe more? The morning sunlight glimmered off its vertically striated walls from whose upper rim hung luxurious vines.
“How deep does it go?” whispered Zala, and then clearly remembered herself. “Oh, never mind.”
But Scorio could appreciate her awe. Flocks of birds flew in lazy spirals above the Chasm, appearing as little more than white specks, and mist boiled off the twin waterfalls.
“You’ll never forget the first time you see it,” said Simeon, joining them at the railing. “I came as a Tomb Spark. The memory’s as fresh as if it were yesterday.” He smiled fondly. “And wait till you see what lies within.”
“What does lie within?” asked Jova. “Those sides look sheer. How do you descend?”
Scorio could have sworn Simeon would put her off with an enigmatic answer, but instead, he answered frankly. “The waterfalls have eroded the cliff walls behind them. Over the centuries Great Souls have sunken shafts that reach through the hollowed-out caves to pierce all the way down to the third. None of you will probably go any deeper than that, so you’re in luck.”
“Levels,” said Lianshi. “Those correspond to the mana types?”