Suddenly a touch on his shoulder made him spin round. A shadow man was there.
‘Where’re you going?’ it whispered in Ochre. It was Fern.
‘To make water.’
‘Why not just go to the edge of the road?’
Carnelian thought of making up a better lie. Then he felt an overwhelming need to confess to Fern and it all poured out in an urgent whisper: his dream, its promise of salvation in return for his sacrifice.
‘I knew you were up to something.’
‘Then you’ll let me go?’
‘Yes, but I’m coming with you.’
Panic tightened Carnelian’s chest. All kinds of objections came to him, but all he said was: ‘You can’t.’
‘What if you’ve not understood the dream properly?’ hissed Fern.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Are you so sure the shadow is Osidian? Couldn’t it be me?’
Carnelian wanted to deny this, but the dark vision of his dream held him back. Or, desperate to have Fern with him, was he just fooling himself?
‘Do you think I feel less for these children than you do?’ Fern said.
Carnelian thought his decision to go on alone weakening. Fern reached out for him. They clung to each other.
Carnelian felt Fern mouth the words against his neck: ‘I’m not going to let you die alone.’ He felt suddenly safe and, almost, joyous.
Black road beneath their feet. To their right, an infinite field of stars into which Carnelian kept kicking things to ripple the mirror and thus destroy the vertiginous illusion that kept making him lean towards the water. They had tried walking nearer the centre of the road, but away from the lake it grew so dark they stumbled all the time. In that direction rose the impenetrable black band of the leftway and its evil-smelling ditch. Apart from their scuffling footfalls and the curses as they stubbed their toes against the edges of paving stones, the only sound was the lapping of the water.
Where the watch-tower should have been was nothing but stars. Tumbled into the ditch amongst a mound of rubble that blocked the lower door they could just make out the spars that had held up the heliograph platform. Carnelian tried to see if they could at least scale the mound to get up onto the leftway, but it did not reach even halfway.
Fern called to him, softly, as if the night might be listening. He went to stand beside him, gazing south. ‘Look there.’
Carnelian saw Fern’s arm against the water starfield, pointing. ‘What-’ he began, then saw it himself. A narrow band of blackness between the stars in the lake and those in the sky. Their first glimpse of land beyond the flood.
Suddenly, the leftway came to a ragged end and they saw, spreading out before them, the flood mirroring the stars of heaven. From the water rose a lonely watch-tower. It seemed to Carnelian they had been walking lost, without any certain destination, neither uttering a sound, for fear words might dent their resolve, but he knew in his bones that that watch-tower was what they sought.
‘Let’s climb it,’ he said and Fern agreed, adding: ‘The edge of the flood must be close to where the Iron House lies ruined.’
Uneasy at that thought, they set off towards the shadow tower.
Posts rose up on either side of the road that they realized must be the remains of the massive outer gates of Molochite’s camp. Carnelian hesitated. The posts seemed guardians; like the colossi that guarded the entrance into Osrakum. He knew that he and Fern stood upon an earthbridge; on either side the military ditch had become a moat.
‘What’s the matter?’ Fern asked.
Carnelian sensed that, once they crossed the drowned ditch, there would be no turning back.
‘Come on, it’s not far away,’ Fern said in an angry tone Carnelian sensed was really fear.
They walked along the road that cleaved the mirror of the flooded camp where once Molochite had marshalled the might of the Masters. With each step the tower grew larger until they could see its arms spread wide against the stars. Carnelian felt the visceral shock even as Fern whispered: ‘It’s like a tree.’
Chilled to the bone, Carnelian said nothing, but just kept walking. They came to the stumps of the gates that had once opened into the Encampment of the Chosen and passed through, aware they were entering another circle. A ring within a ring, like the Stone Dance of the Chameleon, except that this circle was cut directly into the body of the earth. And then Carnelian saw that it was as if they were penetrating to the heart of some infernal mockery of the Koppie, except that in place of its mother trees there stood a lone, gigantic black tree. Like a baobab, he thought, with deepening foreboding. The impression grew stronger as they came closer and it spread its branches above them. Then they were standing before the doorway at its foot and Carnelian shuddered, for its reflection sent roots down into the Underworld and he knew in his marrow that this was the fulfilment of his dreams.
‘Now what?’ Fern whispered.
Carnelian summoned up his will. ‘We climb.’
Together they approached the doorway and offered themselves up to be swallowed by its absolute darkness. Dank the air, thick with an animal stench. Carnelian sensed the fingers seeking his and clasped Fern’s hand. Slowly, he felt his way along the clammy wall until it brought them to the first ramp. Their feet found the ridges in the slope and they began climbing. They followed the wall round to the next ramp; breathing stinking air; starting each time the body of the tower creaked above them. Both wanted to go down, to flee into the starry night, but they had accepted it was their fate to climb higher. Ridge after ridge after ridge. Another turn. Until, at last, they shuffled out onto a smooth floor, their free hands fingering the blackness, a cool, sweet breeze in their faces. They followed it, hoping to reach the exposed section of leftway remaining outside. Then their grip clenched as they heard movement on the ramps below. They turned, aware of the animal odour swelling. Padding footfalls. They drew closer, wanting to face the brutes together.
MOTHER DEATH
The heaviest burdens are carried in the heart.
‘ We’re unarmed,’ Carnelian said into the darkness that he sensed was filling with bodies. ‘We’ve come to offer ourselves up to you, willingly.’ He had not managed to keep his voice steady. The scuffling grew louder. He could smell their sweat, their filthiness, the foulness of their breath that seemed a contagion he wanted to shrink from. He stood his ground, however, drawing what reassurance there was in feeling Fern against him, but he did not fool himself. He was afraid. If this was the fulfilment of his dream, it was not how he had imagined it. What had he done? How could he have brought them to such a squalid end?
The scuffling ceased. The smell of fear was sharp in his nostrils. At first he thought it was rising from his own body, or from Fern’s, but then he realized it laced the stench wafting towards them. This sharpened the panic to an insistent throb in his temples. Frightened, the sartlar could be as dangerous as raveners.
Sudden light stabbed his eyes. He threw his arm up to shield them. Gasps were followed by the sound of the creatures in the darkness recoiling. Carnelian lowered his arm slowly, squinting. He could make them out, a shapeless mass crowding the chamber; all hair and rags. A single crooked, bony arm holding aloft the light. He glanced round at Fern. Each saw the other’s fear. The skin around Fern’s eyes creased. Carnelian read this as a sign of acceptance. It calmed his heart a little. Disengaging from him, he turned back to the sartlar and raised his arms, pressing the wrists together in a sign of submission. ‘We’ll not fight you.’