23
The Living Empire
The contents of the messenger’s scroll made Sungui’s eyes water. His fingers trembled and his female aspect rushed from within to take command of the body. Men should be allowed to weep as openly as women, yet somehow the act always sent his male aspect into hiding as if ashamed of its sorrow. As the metamorphosis finished, she held the ink-scrawled parchment to a candle flame and watched it shrivel.
The first casualties of enlightenment.
There were bound to be more.
Since Sungui had returned from the Land of the Five Cities a year ago, the reformation of the Living Empire had proceeded with hardly an impediment. The millions of families in the Outer and Inner Provinces had been dreaming of such a day, pining for freedom in the midst of oppression, worshipping the old Gods in secret, and praying to them for change. At first Sungui had felt ashamed. Her fellow High Seraphim had never seen this hidden desperation that permeated the empire, never heard the whispers of hope that refused to fade. Yet the shadow of Zyung had blinded all of his servants, even those who stood highest among them.
News of the Almighty’s death had spread from the Holy Mountain like a storm. A day of fear and dread fell across the Celestial Province, while the Inner Provinces remained quiet and the Outer Provinces held blasphemous celebrations. A fleet of dreadnoughts had traveled to every corner of the empire, and the mere presence of the sky-ships had quelled distant revelries.
The New Seraphim agreed that Sungui should serve as High Consul of the Senate that replaced Zyung’s rule. During their journey back across the world they had drafted a charter for this new form of governance: Rule of the many by the select few. The Holy Mountain itself would be the seat of this parliament, and its holy shrine would become a hall given to legislative action. The Lesser Seraphim were affirmed as enforcers of Senate law across the length and breadth of the empire. This was not so different from their duties under Zyung, yet their titles and methods would change.
Sungui spoke from the great terrace three days after the Holy Armada’s return. She confirmed the news of Zyung’s passing and announced the sweeping reforms that would forever alter his empire. First, all slaves were granted freedom; the Slave Estate was immediately blended with the Earthbound Estate. The Lowblood Estate, composed of non-human and semi-human individuals, was also elevated to Earthbound status. All labor performed in the empire must be rewarded with fair wages, according to imperial laws and local statutes. These were delivered at the hands of the Lesser Seraphim, who were now called Magistrates. The penalties for slaveholding in the Reformed Empire were heavy and unpleasant; the wealthy would be stripped of titles and holdings if they failed to comply.
Second, religious freedom was granted to all the peoples of the empire. Although Zyung would remain the chief deity, worship of the old Gods was no longer prohibited, and even new faiths were to be tolerated without persecution. This edict, too, would be enforced by new laws.
Third, the ruling body of the Reformed Empire was the Senate of the New Seraphim, who would hold court monthly inside the Holy Mountain. Every province would be assigned one of these dignitaries, as well as a number of Magistrates.
Fourth and last, voices of dissent would no longer be silenced with death or imprisonment. Any citizen of any province could make his voice heard by filing a petition with the appropriate Magistrate, who would carry his message to the Senate itself. The New Seraphim would make a regular practice of listening to their subjects and trying to meet their needs.
With these four decrees the great reformation of the Living Empire had begun. Across the entire continent voices were raised in jubilation. The New Seraphim were praised and met with reverence when they walked the streets. For centuries they had been icons of terror and destruction, tools used to spread Zyung’s wrath. Now they were all saints and heroes.
All of them except for the Thirteen Skeptics.
These were the confederates of Damodar, the voices of malcontent in the Senate. Sungui could hardly blame them. Damodar had been killed by Khama the Feathered Serpent at the Battle of Ongthaia. His physical form had re-manifested here on the other side of the world, in the heart of the Holy Mountain. The other twelve Skeptics had been slain in the Sharrian valley by Khama and Vireon. They, too, had regained physicality months later. By the time they had arisen from the Inner Sanctum of the temple-palace, the armada was already on its way back to Zyung’s land.
Damodar and the Skeptics had not faced the ultimate choice of the other Seraphim, and they had not become the Eaters of Zyung. They remained unchanged, and they did not understand the enlightenment that the consumption of the Almighty’s salt had delivered. Nor did they share the Gift of Iardu, the birth of compassion and empathy that evolved the consciousness of the Eaters to create the New Seraphim. Sungui had sacrificed a small part of herself to share that enlightenment with Lavanyia, but there were none willing to make that same sacrifice for Damodar and his twelve.
Sungui had made her decision to spare Lavanyia the doom of salt because she did not have the heart to lose Lavanyia. But the Skeptics were not loved or overly valued among the New Seraphim. None of the transformed had stepped forward to sacrifice parts of themselves, so the Skeptics were caught in the middle of the great reform without truly understanding it. Eleven Senate meetings had occurred since the return, and the Skeptics had been the voices of opposition at each of them. Yet there were seven hundred New Seraphim against Damodar’s faction of only thirteen, so they were outvoted at every turn.
“They are a poison in our midst,” Lavanyia had told Sungui. “We must deal with them.”
“How?” asked Sungui. “Will you sacrifice your salt to bring them understanding?”
Lavanyia laughed. “If you asked me to.”
Sungui had kissed her for that sentiment. “I will not ask it of anyone,” she said. “I do not even know if such a gift would work, were it not given freely with the giver’s blessing upon the receiver. Yet perhaps Damodar and his followers will see the worth of what we are doing. Let them remain among us and take positions in the Reformed Empire. We changed in an instant. They must change slowly.”
“As to that,” said Lavanyia, “it is I who remain skeptical.”
Now came the parchment, with its message of tragedy and doom.
Sungui stood upon the lofty terrace, directly below the great face of Zyung that dominated the Holy Mountain. From this vantage point she saw far across the Holy City. She had missed the avenues of pristine marble, the sprawling gardens and orchards, the striped horses and web-footed Snouts that carried men through the streets. The twenty-nine ziggurats grew thick with vine and flower, green hills rising from the cityscape.
Towers of ivory and jade cast their shadows across canals of green water. The great river flowed through arched gateways, bringing merchant vessels from distant provinces. Dreadnoughts floated in lazy patterns across the blue sky, and the distant ramparts about the city were purple in the rising dawn.
Every spot of the Living Empire must be made this beautiful.
This holy.
The laughter of children rose from the gardens of the temple-palace, which had been opened to the public six months ago. Even the great stone face of Zyung seemed to be smiling, its eyes flaming with benevolence now instead of judgment.
Perhaps it was all a matter of perspective.
Lavanyia joined Sungui on the terrace, wrapping her arms about Sungui’s neck from behind. “You’ve been weeping.” She knew Sungui’s moods better than anyone ever had.
“You were right,” Sungui told her. “Something must be done about Damodar and his Skeptics.”
“What has happened?” Lavanyia asked.
“Do you know the city of Avantreya?”
Lavanyia nodded, moving to stand beside Sungui at the white railing. “It lies in the Outer Province of Yetva. Not a great city, but well known for its silver mines.”
“The population began rioting there days ago, and the Magistrates failed to stop it. The merchant lords who run the mines refuse to pay their former slaves a decent wage, so the Earthbound ceased working. The merchants hired mercenaries to subdue the rioters, and the city became a battleground.”
“Yetva was given to Zolmuno,” said Lavanyia, “one of Damodar’s brethren.”
Sungui breathed deep of the flower-scented air. “It was,” she said. “Zolmuno must have feared he was losing control of Avantreya. Not only did he murder his own Magistrate, but he called upon Damodar to help him pacify the city. Damodar gathered his Skeptics, and the pacification became a slaughter.”
Lavanyia exhaled heavily. “They are prisoners of the old ways,” she said. “Zyung’s method for trimming the Tree of Empire.”
Sungui nodded. “They rained Celestial Light upon the city for a day and a night. The message that I received estimates thirty thousand dead. Men, women, children. The Skeptics did not discriminate.”
“So Zolmuno restored order. But who will work his mines?”
“The few thousand men that survived have been pressed into that service,” said Sungui.
Lavanyia took her hand, pressed her forehead against Sungui’s.
“What will you do?”
“What I should have done months ago,” Sungui said. “Help me gather an emergency quorum.”
“I will send out the voice of my mind,” said Lavanyia.
“I will speak with Damodar,” said Sungui.
“Be careful what you say to him.”
Sungui shrugged. “I will offer him a choice.”
Damodar met her in the lower gardens. A dreadnought had carried him overnight all the way from Yetva. Even he did not dare ignore a summons from the High Consul of the New Seraphim. Surely he must have known the purpose of this summons. The dead of Avantreya had not even been buried yet.
Dark eyes glimmered above his hawkish nose. Sungui hated the sight of the silver robe upon him. Yet she hid that hatred, knowing it was her own weakness to feel this way. She must not let it pollute her heart or her judgment.
Damodar bowed briefly and joined her on a bench overlooking a sunken fountain. The sound of gurgling waters brought a welcome calm to Sungui. The early sun was bright above the green canopy. A circle of roses grew about the fountain, spreading petals red as blood. She found it an appropriate venue for this conversation.
“Greetings, High Consul,” said Damodar. “You wish to speak of Avantreya.”
“You are direct,” said Sungui. “I appreciate this.”
Damodar smiled. His arrogance was tangible.
“I need not remind you,” said Sungui, “that formal executions of imperial citizens are only permitted by consensus of the Senate. Yet you have spat in the face of our laws and executed some thirty thousand without our approval. I know that you do not share our respect for human life, but I had thought you at least respected our laws.”
“These were not executions,” said Damodar. “They were casualties of war. The people of the silver city were out of control, pulling merchant lords from their houses and putting them to death. Looting, burning, and instigating a full-scale revolt. If there is any fault here, it must be placed upon Zolmuno, who could not maintain order without our help.”
“Our help?” said Sungui. “You mean the Thirteen Skeptics. It was these noble personages who Zolmuno called upon rather than any number of the seven hundred New Seraphim who might have aided him in a legal manner. I sense a lack of trust among your brethren, Damodar. Or is it perhaps some deeper flaw?”
Damodar brushed a fallen leaf from his knee and shrugged. “You know well that we are not as you Eaters of Zyung,” he said. “We remain unchanged.”
“And unconvinced?”
Damodar smiled. “If you will.”
“Skeptics or no Skeptics, you have broken the law. You must face the Senate.”
Damodar’s smile turned to a frown. “As High Seraphim we are above the laws.”
“No longer,” said Sungui. “Once that was true, when there was no law for us but Zyung. Yet none of us are above the laws of the Reformed Empire. If you understand nothing else, you must understand this fact.”
Damodar said nothing.
Sungui endured his frosty silence, then spoke again. “We have discussed your fate and decided that we have only two options to address your crime. One, we could banish the Thirteen Skeptics from the empire. Yet if we do this you will only foment rebellion in the Outer Provinces and rise against us at every opportunity. Therefore it would not be a wise decision. Two, we might grant you the enlightenment that we have all shared. In order to do this, each one of you must consume salt from one of us. Not all of it, mind you, simply a portion invested with our understanding. The tip of the smallest finger will do.” Sungui raised her hand and showed him the missing tip of her own finger. “Yet who will make such a bold sacrifice? I have already done so, by sharing my wisdom with Lavanyia.”
Damodar offered no suggestion.
“Or perhaps there is actually a third alternative,” said Sungui. “We greatly outnumber the Skeptics. We might pursue you to the ends of the earth until we have captured and salted and devoured every one of you. Oh, you might evade us for weeks, months, or years, but eventually the seven hundred will catch up with the thirteen, and you will face oblivion. Does this idea appeal to you, Damodar?”
“I would not choose that fate.”
Sungui smiled, though it was difficult to do so.
“Well, since you would not choose oblivion, and we would not choose banishment, there remains only the option of sharing our enlightenment. I am assured that if you partake of our salt, you will see the rightness of our reforms. Then there will no longer be conflict between us. Are you agreeable to this remedy?”
Damodar shifted uncomfortably on his seat. He did not truly believe that eating a modicum of salt from a New Seraphim’s body would transform him. Sungui saw the doubt in his eyes. She had lived with doubt for millennia, so it was easy to spot. This very doubt was what made him a Skeptic. Him and the twelve like him.
“It seems to be the most preferable of options,” Damodar said at last.
“Then I have good news for you,” said Sungui. “I have found thirteen volunteers among the New Seraphim willing to share their salt with you. Do you understand the nature of this sacrifice? Such altruism is rare among the Seraphim.”
“I understand this,” said Damodar.
“Good,” said Sungui. “Assemble your Skeptics at once. Tomorrow the New Seraphim will gather at midday. The ritual of salt-sharing will take place on the Senate floor. I trust you will explain the necessity of this act to your brethren?”
“It shall be done,” said Damodar.
Sungui left him beneath the sun-dappled leaves, contemplating the change to come.
The great throne room of Zyung had once been dominated by the nineteen-stepped dais supporting his oversized diamond throne. That noble platform had been removed and the high seat broken down to fund the empire’s costs of reformation. Yet the great pillars of agate, emerald, and onyx remained standing about the domed chamber. An amphitheater had been sculpted in the exact center of the hall, with enough benches for eight hundred New Seraphim, although little more than seven hundred existed.
At the northern end of the amphitheater’s polished floor rose the seat of the High Consul, with an Assistant Consul seat placed on either side of it. Only a hundred Seraphim were required to attend for a Senate session to convene, but all seven hundred were present today. The Thirteen Skeptics stood upon the floor before the High Consul, each of them paired with a member of the New Seraphim who had volunteered for the ritual.
Normally the Senate sessions were open to the public, who often attended in great numbers. Yet today the Senate Hall was filled only with Seraphim. Even the guards had been excused from the hall to preserve the secrecy of today’s doings.
Sungui sat in the High Consul seat and watched the faces of Damodar, Zolmuno, and the eleven other Skeptics. She was confident in the choice she had made, but still the seed of doubt lay inside her. There was no other path to walk than this one. The preservation of the Reformed Empire was the most important consideration. The New Seraphim had agreed. Yet something about their choice did not sit well with her. It smacked too much of their old ways. Too late now to change course.
“Skeptics,” she called out, her voice ringing upward across the benches and traveling the length of the hall above. “You stand face to face with those who have tasted the salt of Zyung the Almighty, sprinkled as it was with the blood of Iardu the Shaper. You stand on the cusp of ultimate change, the threshold of glory. Are you prepared to accept the gift these New Seraphim will give you?”
Each of the Skeptics responded with a “Yes,” beginning with Damodar and moving down the line.
“Givers, are you prepared to do what must be done?” Sungui asked.
The thirteen New Seraphim spoke as one. “We are.”
“Take up your blades.”
The thirteen New Seraphim pulled daggers of black metal from their robes.
“Lift your hands.”
The Givers raised their free hands, each displaying spread fingers to the Skeptic who stood before him. Sungui kept her eyes on Damodar. His face was impenetrable. He may not believe in the power of their enlightenment, but like her he knew this ceremony was his only true option.
“Sing your songs,” said Sungui.
The Givers chanted their ancient syllables.
The sharp edges of the blades hovered close to the skin of their smallest fingers.
“Strike,” said Sungui.
Moving as one, each of the Givers plunged his dagger deep into the breast of the Skeptic before him. The mouths and eyes of the stabbed ones widened in disbelief. Yet there was no sound from any of those mouths, and not the slightest of movements.
The Givers stepped back, leaving their blades transfixed in the hearts of their victims.
Sungui stepped down from the high seat and walked across the floor. She paced along the line of immobile Skeptics. Traces of crimson ran down the chests of their silver robes.
“Each of these blades has been aligned with the Ninety Aspects of Higher Being,” she told them. “Your positions in the universe are now fixed. We might keep you like this until the stars shift themselves into new patterns. Yet we are not so cruel. Not anymore.”
Sungui reached Damodar at the end of the row. She stood with her face close to his unblinking eyes. An expression of shock was frozen there. The last expression he would ever wear.
“As I explained to Damodar, none of us are above the law,” Sungui said. “The New Seraphim must be held to the same standards as their subjects, or the law itself is meaningless. The old days are gone, and the old ways with them. For the massacre of Avantreya and for the memory of its thirty thousand dead, we the Holy Senate condemn you. In honor of our shared heritage, we will accept you in the Ancient Way.”
Sungui raised her arms and began the Song of Salt. The silver robes of the paralyzed Skeptics paled, their flesh turning white as bone, their fleshy substance altered to saline crystal. Thirteen statues of salt stood before her with the hilts of black daggers protruding from their chests. She finished the song and a moment of silence lingered above the Senate floor.
She walked back to the high seat as the seven hundred came down from their benches. One by one they tore away pieces of Damodar, Zolmuno, and the eleven others, stuffing them into their mouths, chewing and swallowing their salted essence. The light of ingested souls streamed from the eyes and mouths of the Eaters.
These Skeptics will serve the empire yet, as they have become part of us all.
Word of this punishment would spread throughout the land. Men would know that the New Seraphim held fast to their own laws. There would be no more slaughtering of citizens, no more of Zyung’s heartless cruelty. The law of the Holy Senate was now the heart of the Living Empire. Only Sungui refused to take part in the mass devouring. The others accepted her refusal as the express right of the High Consul.
In the end there was little left of the Skeptics but a few grains of loose salt sprinkled across the marble. These were swept up by attendants, carried to the summit of the Holy Mountain, and scattered to the winds.
Dramatis Personae
Vod the Giant-King—Former ruler and rebuilder of New Udurum, City of Men and Giants; slayer of Omagh the Serpent-Father; sorcerer and legend; also known as Vod of the Storms; drowned himself in the Cryptic Sea.
Gammir the Wolf (formerly Fangodrel of Udurum)—Vod’s adopted bastard son; his true father was Gammir the Second, Prince of Khyrei, who was slain by Vod; also known as Gammir the Bloody, the Undying One, and the Black Wolf; former Emperor of Khyrei.
Ianthe the Panther—Former Empress of Khyrei; grandmother of Gammir; an ageless sorceress; slain by Vireon and Alua at the fall of Shar Dni; reborn in the body of Maelthyn of Udurum; also known as the White Panther and Ianthe the Claw.
King Vireon of Udurum—Son of Vod and heir to his sorcery; ruler of New Udurum; all the power and strength of a Giant in the body of a Man; also known as Vireon Vodson and Vireon the Slayer; crowned as King of All Giants after the fall of Angrid the Long-Arm.
Queen Alua of Udurum—Ageless sorceress married to Vireon; mother of Maelthyn; known for her mastery of the white flame magic; slain by Ianthe the Claw.
Maelthyn of Udurum—Seven-year-old daughter of King Vireon and Queen Alua; later revealed to be Ianthe the Claw and utterly consumed by her emerging immortal essence.
Dahrima the Axe—Blonde-haired Giantess (Uduri) who once served Vod the Giant-King; now she serves as one of the Ninety-Nine, King Vireon’s personal guard of Uduri spearmaidens; often considered Vireon’s “right hand.”
King D’zan of Yaskatha—Ruler of Yaskatha; reborn from a state of living death by the sorcery of Iardu and Sharadza; also known as the Sun Bringer.
Sharadza Vodsdaughter—Vod’s only daughter and heir to his sorcery; Princess of Udurum; apprentice of Iardu the Shaper; former Queen of Yaskatha and First Wife of D’zan.
Emperor Tyro of Uurz—Twin brother of Lyrilan; swordsman of renown; also known as the Sword King; ordained as Emperor of Uurz after banishing his brother from the Stormlands.
King Lyrilan of Uurz—Twin brother of Tyro; scholar and scribe; also known as the Scholar King; former co-ruler of Uurz who fled to Yaskatha after being framed for the murder of his wife and banished from the Stormlands.
Ramiyah of Uurz—Wife of Lyrilan; born in Yaskatha; slain by Talondra’s plot to make Tyro the uncontested Emperor of Uurz.
Empress Talondra of Uurz—Wife of Tyro; born in Shar Dni and survived its fall; recently slain by Lyrilan’s newfound sorcery as revenge for the death of Ramiyah.
Lord Mendices of Uurz—Warlord of Uurz; Tyro’s chief advisor and military tactician; willing co-conspirator with Talondra in the plot to frame and banish Lyrilan for the murder of Ramiyah.
King Undutu of Mumbaza—Nineteen-year-old ruler of Mumbaza; also known as the King on the Cliffs and Son of the Feathered Serpent.
Khama the Feathered Serpent—Ageless sorcerer whose true form is that of a great feathered Serpent; fostered the founding of Mumbaza, advisor to its Kings, and protector of its long peace.
King Angrid of the Icelands—Lord of the Frozen North; ruler of the Udvorg clans (blue-skinned Giants); slain by the behemoth of the Khyrein marshlands.
Varda of the Keen Eyes—Shamaness in service to King Angrid; blessed Vireon with the slain Angrid’s crown, making him King of All Giants.
Tong the Avenger—King of New Khyrei; a former slave who led a revolution assisted by Iardu the Shaper and a horde of the blind subterranean creatures known as Sydathians; also called the Slave King and Tong the Liberator.
Iardu the Shaper—Master of Shapes; an ageless sorcerer reputed to live on an island in the Cryptic Sea.
Zyung the Almighty—Ageless sorcerer and “God-King” of the Zyung Empire; seeks to conquer the Land of the Five Cities with his Holy Armada; also known as the High Lord Celestial. Sungui the Venomous—One of Zyung’s High Seraphim, a legion of ageless sorcerers who serve as the enforcers of his empire; a unique being of alternating male and female aspects.
Vaazhia the Lizardess—Ageless sorceress dwelling in the ruins of a forgotten city beneath the Stormlands.
Indreyah the Sea-Queen—Ageless sorceress who rules an undersea kingdom of “sea-folk” from her hidden coral city; also known as the Mer-Queen.
extras
introducing
If you enjoyed
SEVEN SORCERORS,
look out for
VENGEANCE
The Tainted Realm: Book One
by Ian Irvine
Ten years ago, two children witnessed a murder that still haunts them as adults.
Tali watched as two masked figures killed her mother, and now she has sworn revenge. Even though she is a slave. Even though she is powerless. Even though she is nothing in the eyes of those who live aboveground, she will find her mother’s killers and bring them to justice.
Rix, heir to Hightspall’s greatest fortune, is tormented by the fear that he’s linked to the murder, and by a sickening nightmare that he’s doomed to repeat it.
When a chance meeting brings Tali and Rix together, the secrets of an entire kingdom are uncovered and a villain out of legend returns to throw the land into chaos. Tali and Rix must learn to trust each other and find a way to save the realm—and themselves.
Chapter 1
“Matriarch Ady, can I check the Solaces for you?” said Wil, staring at the locked basalt door behind her. “Can I, please?”
Ady frowned at the quivering, cross-eyed youth, then laid her scribing tool beside the partly engraved sheet of spelter and flexed her aching fingers. “The Solaces are for the matriarchs’ eyes only. Go and polish the clangours.”
Wil, who was neither handsome nor clever, knew that Ady only kept him around because he worked hard. And because, years ago, he had revealed a gift for shillilar, morrow-sight. Having been robbed of their past, the matriarchs used even their weakest tools to protect Cython’s future.
Though Wil was so lowly that he might never earn a tattoo, he desperately wanted to be special, to matter. But he had another reason for wanting to look at the Solaces, one he dared not mention to anyone. A later shillilar had told him that there was something wrong, something the matriarchs weren’t telling them. Perhaps—heretical thought—something they didn’t know.
“You can see your face in the clangours,” he said, inflating his hollow chest. “I’ve also fed the fireflies and cleaned out the effluxor sump. Please can I check the Solaces?”
Ady studied her swollen knuckles, but did not reply.
“Why are the secret books called Solaces, anyway?” said Wil.
“Because they comfort us in our bitter exile.”
“I heard they order the matriarchs about like naughty children.”
Ady slapped him, though not as hard as he deserved. “How dare you question the Solaces, idiot youth?”
Being used to blows, Wil merely rubbed his pockmarked cheek. “If you’d just let me peek…”
“We only check for new pages once a month.”
“But it’s been a month, look, look.” A shiny globule of quicksilver, freshly fallen from the coiled condenser of the wall clock, was rolling down its inclined planes towards today’s brazen bucket. “Today’s the ninth. You always check the Solaces on the ninth.”
“I dare say I’ll get around to it.”
“How can you bear to wait?” he said, jumping up and down.
“At my age the only thing that excites me is soaking my aching feet. Besides, it’s three years since the last new page appeared.”
“The next page could come today. It might be there already.”
Though Wil’s eyes made reading a struggle, he loved books with a passion that shook his bones. The mere shapes of the letters sent him into ecstasies, but, ah! What stories the letters made. He had no words to express how he felt about the stories.
Wil did not own any book, not even the meanest little volume, and he longed to, desperately. Books were truth. Their stories were the world. And the Solaces were perfect books—the very soul of Cython, the matriarchs said. He ached to read one so badly that his whole body trembled and the breath clotted in his throat.
“I don’t think any more pages are coming, lad.” Ady pressed her fingertips against the blue triangle tattooed on her brow. “I doubt the thirteenth book will ever be finished.”
“Then it can’t hurt if I look, can it?” he cried, sensing victory.
“I—I suppose not.”
Ady rose painfully, selected three chymical phials from a rack and shook them. In the first, watery fluid took on a subtle jade glow. The contents of the second thickened and bubbled like black porridge and the third crystallised to a network of needles that radiated pinpricks of sulphur-yellow light.
A spiral on the basalt door was dotted with phial-sized holes. Ady inserted the light keys into the day’s pattern and waited for it to recognise the colours. The lock sighed; the door opened into the Chamber of the Solaces.
“Touch nothing,” she said to the gaping youth, and returned to her engraving.
Unlike every other part of Cython, this chamber was uncarved, unpainted stone. It was a small, cubic room, unfurnished save for a white quartzite table with a closed book on its far end and, on the wall to Wil’s right, a four-shelf bookcase etched out of solid rock. The third and fourth shelves were empty.
Tears formed as he gazed upon the mysterious books he had only ever glimpsed through the doorway. After much practice he could now read a page or two of a storybook before the pain in his eyes became blinding, but only the secret books could take him where he wanted to go—to a world and a life not walled-in in every direction.
“Who is the Scribe, Ady?”
Wil worshipped the unknown Scribe for the elegance of his calligraphy and his mastery of book making, but most of all for the stories he had given Cython. They were the purest truth of all.
He often asked that question but Ady never answered. Maybe she didn’t know, and it worried him, because Wil feared the Scribe was in danger. If I could save him, he thought, I’d be the greatest hero of all.
He smiled at that. Wil knew he was utterly insignificant.
The top shelf contained five ancient Solaces, all with worn brown covers, and each bore the main title, The Songs of Survival. These books, vital though they had once been, were of least interest to Wil, since the last had been completed one thousand, three hundred and seventy-seven years ago. Their stories had ended long before. It was the future that called to him, the unfinished stories.
On the second shelf stood the thick volumes entitled The Lore of Prosperity. There were nine of these and the last five formed a set called Industry. On Delven had covers of pale mica with topazes embedded down the spine, On Metallix was written in white-hot letters on sheets of beaten silver. Wil could not tell what On Smything, On Spagyric or On Catalyz were made from, for his eyes were aching now, his sight blurring.
He covered his eyes for a moment. Nine books. Why were there nine books on the second shelf? The ninth, unfinished book, On Catalyz, should lie on the table, open at the last new page.
His heart bruised itself on his breastbone as he counted them again. Five books, plus nine. Could On Catalyz be finished? If it was, this was amazing news, and he would be the one to tell it. He would be really special then. Yes, the last book on the shelf definitely said, On Catalyz.
Then what was the book on the table?
A new book?
The first new book in three hundred and twelve years?
Magery was anathema to his people and Wil had never asked how the pages came to write themselves, nor how each new book could appear in a locked room in Cython, deep underground. Since magery had been forbidden to all save their long-lost kings, the self-writing pages were proof of instruction from a higher power. The Solaces were Cython’s comfort in their agonising exile, the only evidence that they still mattered.
We are not alone.
The cover of the new book was the dark, scaly grey of freshly cast iron. It was a thin volume, no more than thirty sheetiron pages. He could not read the crimson, deeply etched title from this angle, though it was too long to be The Lore of Prosperity.
Wil choked and had to bend double, panting. Not just a new book, but the first of the third shelf, and no one else in Cython had seen it. His eyes were flooding, his heart pounding, his mouth full of saliva.
He swallowed painfully. Even from here, the book had a peculiar smell, oily-sweet then bitter underneath, yet strangely appealing. He took a deep sniff. The inside of his nose burnt, his head spun and he felt an instant’s bliss, then tendrils webbed across his inner eye. He shook his head, they disappeared and he sniffed again, wanting that bliss to take him away from his life of drudgery. But he wanted the iron book more. What story did it tell? Could it be the Scribe’s own?
He turned to call Ady, then hesitated. She would shoo him off and the three matriarchs would closet themselves with the new book for weeks. Afterwards they would meet with the leaders of the four levels of Cython, the master chymister, the heads of the other guilds and the overseer of the Pale slaves. Then the new book would be locked away and Wil would go back to scraping muck out of the effluxors for the rest of his life.
But his second shillilar had said the Scribe was in danger; Wil had to read his story. He glanced through the doorway. Ady’s old head was bent over her engraving but she would soon remember and order him back to work.
Shaking all over, Wil took a step towards the marble table, and the ache in his eyes came howling back. He closed his worst eye, the left, and when the throbbing eased he took another step. For the only time in his life, he did feel special. He slid a foot forwards, then another. Each movement sent a spear through his temples but he would have endured a lifetime of pain for one page of the story.
Finally he was standing over the book. From straight on, the etched writing was thickly crimson and ebbed in and out of focus. He sounded out the letters of the title.
The Consolation of Vengeance.
“Vengeance?” Wil breathed. But whose? The Scribe’s?
Even a nobody like himself could tell that this book was going to turn their world upside-down. The other Solaces set out stories about living underground: growing crops and farming fish, healing, teaching, mining, smything, chymie, arts and crafts, order and disorder, defence. They described an existence that allowed no dissent and had scarcely changed in centuries.
But their enemy did not live underground—they occupied the Cythonians’ ancestral land of Cythe, which they called Hightspall. To exact vengeance, Cython’s armies would have to venture up to the surface, and even an awkward, cross-eyed youth could dream of marching with them.
Wil knew not to touch the Solaces. He had been warned a hundred times, but, oh, the temptation to be first was irresistible. The book was perfection itself; he could have contemplated it for hours. He bent over it, pressing his lips to the cover. The iron was only blood-warm, yet his tears fizzed and steamed as they fell on the rough metal. He wanted to bawl. Wanted to slip the book inside his shirt, hug it to his skin and never let it go.
He shook off the fantasy. He was lowly Wil the Sump and he only had a minute. His trembling hand took hold of the cover. It was heavy, and as he heaved it open it shed scabrous grey flakes onto the white table.
The writing on the iron pages was the same sluggishly oozing crimson as on the cover, but his straining eye could not bring it into focus. Was it protected, like the other Solaces, against unauthorised use? On Metallix had to be heated to the right temperature before it could be read, while each completed chapter of On Catalyz required the light of a different chymical flame.
A mud-brain like himself would never decipher the protection. Frustrated, Wil flapped the front cover and a jagged edge tore his forefinger.
“Ow!” He shook his hand.
Half a dozen spots of blood spattered across the first page, where they set like flakes of rust. Then, as he stared, the glyphs snapped into words he could read. Such perfect calligraphy! It was the greatest book of all. Wil read the first page and his eyes did not hurt at all. He turned the page, flicked blood onto the book and read on.
“I can see.” His voice soared out of his small, skinny body, to freedom. “I can see.”
Ady let out a hoarse cry. “Wil, get out of there.”
He heard her shuffling across to the basalt door but Wil did not move. Though the crimson letters brightened until they hurt his eyes, he had to keep reading. “Ady, it’s a new book.”
“What does it say?” she panted from the doorway.
“We’re leaving Cython.” He put his nose on the page, inhaling the tantalising odour he could not get enough of. It was ecstasy. He turned the page. The rest of the book was blank, yet that did not matter—in his inner eye the future was unrolling all by itself. “It’s a new story,” Wil whispered. “The story of tomorrow.”
“Are you in shillilar ?” Her voice was desperate with long ing. “Where are the Solaces taking us? Are we finally going home?”
“We’re going—” In an instant the world turned crimson. “It’s the one !” Wil gasped, horror overwhelming him. “Stop her.”
Ady stumbled across and took him by the arm. “What are you seeing? Is it about me?”
Wil let out a cracked laugh. “She’s changing the story—bringing the Scribe to the brink—”
“Who are you seeing?” cried Ady. “Speak, lad!”
How could the one change the story written by the Scribe Wil worshipped? Surely she couldn’t, unless… unless the Scribe was fallible. No! That could not be. But if the one was going to challenge him, she must have free will. It was a shocking, heretical thought. Could the one be as worthy as the Scribe? Ah, what a story their contest would make. And the story was everything—he had to see how it ended.
Ady struck him so hard that his head went sideways. “Answer me!”
“It’s… it’s the one.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, boy. What one?”
“A Pale slave, but—”
“A slave is changing our future?” Ady choked. “Who?”
“A girl.” Wil tore his gaze away from the book for a second and gasped, “She’s still a child.”
“What’s her name?” “I… don’t know.”
Wild-eyed and frantic, Ady shook him. “When does this happen?”
“Not for years and years.”
“When, boy? How long have we got to find her?”
Wil turned back to the last written page, tore open his finger on the rough edge and dribbled blood across the page. The story was terrible but he had to know who won. “Until… until she comes of age—”
“What are we to do?” said Ady, and he heard her hobbling around the table. “We don’t know how to contact the Scribe. We must obey The Consolation of Vengeance.”
The letters brightened until his eyes began to sting, to steam. Wil began to scream, but even as his vision blurred and his eyes bubbled and boiled into jelly that oozed out of his sockets, he could not tear his gaze away. He had longed to be special, and now he was.
She tottered back to him, wiped his face, and he heard her weeping. “Why didn’t you listen to me?”
He took another sniff and the pain was gone. “Stupid old woman,” sneered Wil. “Wil can see so much more clearly now. Wil free! ”
“Wil, what does she look like?”
“She Pale. She the one.”
“Tell me!” she cried, shaking him. “How am I to find this slave child among eighty-five thousand Pale—and see her dead.”