10
Of course, Marin, as I’m sure you will have heard from your dear mother over the years, and even Ezion, Tormalin the Oathless was not the first Eboran I ever knew. One, in fact, walked the halls of the House and even slept for a time in the room that would eventually belong to you. I hope that is thrilling for you in some way.
It was early summer and I was about to turn twenty. Your grandmother and grandfather were both still alive then, of course, and I had very few responsibilities save for not wandering off and getting killed in the vine forest if I could help it. One day, a delegation of merchants arrived to talk to us about potentially setting up a trade route with Ebora itself – it had, they explained, been years since any such thing existed, due to some sort of scandal that had occurred some time after the Carrion Wars had ended – and with them was an Eboran woman. Initially, I thought that she was there as a representative of her home, perhaps to ensure that their interests were properly taken care of and, nominally, she was, but as the weeks went by it became increasingly obvious that she was more interested in the forest, and the terrible secret that it held.
Eborans, Marin, are of course known for their ethereal beauty, and this woman was no exception. She was tall and solidly built, with skin like warm marble and hair blacker than night. She wore, I remember, these strange pleated trousers that puffed out over the tops of her leather boots, and a crimson velvet jacket that always seemed to be covered in a layer of dust, and she owned a delicate pair of spectacles that I am fairly sure she did not need at all. More than that, despite her cold beauty, she was funny and kind. She would wander off from the long discussions after dinner, where your grandfather was trying so hard to be impressive, and one could find her in the kitchens, eating pudding with the servants, asking them endless questions. She asked so many questions, and really listened to the answers; as you get older, Marin, you will begin to see how rare this truly is.
Her name was Nanthema, and she was beautiful.
What you will have heard from your mother, I am unsure, and what Ezion will have told you, I dread to think, but I— [the remainder of this page is torn away, leaving a ragged line]
Extract from the private letters of Master Marin de Grazon from Lady Vincenza ‘Vintage’ de Grazon
Morning in the Shroom Flats was unsettling. The place was still gloomy, and filled with the alarming funk of dirt and fungus, but the light that filtered down from between the caps was pale gold in colour, dancing with flecks of plant matter. Vintage sat on top of her pack and watched it, when she wasn’t watching the sleeping girl. Noon was curled up by the extinguished fire, her knees pressed tightly to her chest, her hands covering her head. The girl was frightened, right down to her bones – when fear followed you that far into sleep, then you were in some serious trouble.
Vintage stood up, thinking to boil water for more tea, when the fell-witch jerked awake. For a few seconds, Vintage thought the girl might just stand up and run away, so alarmed did she look at her surroundings, but eventually she seemed to settle.
‘Where is the other one?’
‘Tor? I’ve sent him off to have a look around. I think we might be very close to what I’m looking for.’
‘Pieces of a dead Behemoth.’ Fell-Noon rubbed her hands over her face.
‘Better than pieces of a live Behemoth, my darling.’
‘I don’t understand you. You travel with an Eboran, and you explore the Wild, and you’re looking for things that might kill you. None of it makes sense.’ Fell-Noon looked up, and Vintage noted the dark circles around her eyes. ‘Explain the Eboran to me. You know what his people did? What they are?’
‘I do, my dear. Do you?’ Catching her look, Vintage sighed. ‘Tormalin is very young for an Eboran, which means, of course, that he’s nearly four hundred years old. He was too young to have had an active role in the Carrion Wars, but old enough to watch most of his people die from the crimson flux which followed. The dreadful stories that you have heard took place in a time when young Tormalin had yet to break his voice.’
‘Does he drink human blood?’ Vintage blinked. The girl was blunt enough. ‘I think that’s really his business.’
‘His business?’
Tormalin chose that moment to come stamping back into their camp, treading so heavily that Vintage was sure he must have heard their conversation.
‘We’re at the top of a small hill.’ He didn’t look at either of them, but came over to the remains of the fire and began picking at the carcass of the previous evening’s dinner. ‘I found the edge of it, and below us there’s a great deal of exposed earth.’
Vintage stood up. ‘A landslide?’
Tor shrugged. ‘Could be. Something has moved the ground around in a big way. A flood, perhaps.’
‘Let’s go and have a look, Tor,’ said Vintage. ‘That could be exactly what we’re after.’
‘I want to come,’ said Noon. She stood up, wrapping the black jacket tighter around her waist. ‘I want to see what it is you’re so interested in out here.’
Vintage exchanged a look with Tor, but the Eboran turned away, leaving the decision up to her. She smiled at the witch.
‘Of course, my dear.’
Leaving the remains of their makeshift camp, they followed Tor through the towering stalks of fungus. Vintage fell into step next to the girl, her eyes on the bulbous shapes that clustered to every side. ‘Have you seen a parasite spirit before, my dear?’
For a long moment the young woman didn’t answer. When she did, her voice was tight, as though she were recalling something she’d rather not. ‘Once. When I was very small, and I only saw it from very far away. I used to live on the plains, and my people were moving for the spring. All of the carts and the tents and the caravans . . .’ Her voice trailed off, and for a moment the strangest expression came over the young woman’s face. Her eyes grew wide and glassy, and her mouth turned down at the corners, as though she were a child left suddenly alone in the dark.
‘Are you quite well?’ Vintage touched Noon’s arm, and the fell-witch flinched as though something had scorched her.
‘Fine. I just . . . we were travelling across the grasslands at dusk, and I saw something on the horizon. Lots of lights, dancing. I thought it was pretty, but Mother Fast came by on her own mount and she told everyone not to look at it. That if we looked at it, we’d be cursed.’ She continued in a quieter voice. ‘Maybe she was right.’
‘A sighting on the plains.’ Vintage frowned. ‘The Behemoth remains discovered there were packed up and distributed eight or nine years ago. They were incredibly ancient, from the Third or Fourth Rain, we think.’
‘You really study these things?’ In the dim light the witch’s face looked dirty, with its traces of ash. ‘What for? I mean, really what for?’
‘For the joy of knowing, of course!’ She patted the girl’s arm. ‘It helps to understand things, don’t you think? It makes them less alarming.’
Noon looked unconvinced. ‘Things are less alarming when you put a lot of space between you and them. Hiding is easier.’
Vintage opened her mouth to reply, but ahead of them Tor had stopped. They had reached the place where the ground dropped away. Below, the dirt was black and exposed, riddled with pale roots grasping at the air like skeletal fingers. Looking at it, Vintage suspected an earth tremor rather than a flood; they weren’t completely unheard of in this part of the world. Here, the shadows lay thick on the ground, gathering in pools where the earth was broken, but she thought she could make out something shiny catching the light within the crevice. Her heart skipped and thudded in her chest, and she took a slow breath to try and get it under control.
‘Carefully now,’ she said to them both. ‘Let’s go slowly.’
They half walked, half stumbled down the slope that circled the broken earth, until they were down in the mud and dirt. Vintage was glad of her tough boots. From this level, it was clear that there was a great rent in the ground; a meandering crack split the earth, and three large fungi had fallen back, exposing their strange roots to the air like a drunken woman’s lacy skirts.
‘There’s something down here.’ Tor, just ahead, had reached the crack and was peering down into the dark. ‘It looks like metal.’
Vintage hurried over. Far above them, pieces of blue sky like a shattered plate let in shards of light, and it was difficult to make out anything clear, but even so. The sheen of moon-metal was hard to mistake for anything else – not when you’d spent so many years hunting it.
‘Move your lanky legs out of the way. That’s it.’ Vintage crouched by the edge. There was something down there; the last light of the day shone off a smooth, rounded surface, greenish gold in colour. Vintage bit her lip. The object was lodged in the ground some five feet below them, partially covered in loose dirt and twisted roots, but next to it the crack itself was much deeper – the darkness hid the hole’s true depth.
‘I think I might be able to reach it.’ Vintage sat down on the cold damp earth, wincing as a root poked her in the backside, and dangled her legs down into the hole. ‘Tormalin, my dear, would you mind holding on to me? Just in case the edge is more fragile than it looks.’
Tormalin sighed. ‘To excavate this safely, we need to get the ropes, even some ladders . . .’ When she glared at him, he raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m only repeating the various lectures you’ve given me over the years.’
‘Nonsense. Come on, quickly now. It will be easy enough to grab, if I can just get in range.’
The Eboran came and knelt behind her and took hold of her elbow. Noon stood to the side of them, her arms crossed over her chest.
‘There are other pieces,’ she said. ‘I can see more bits of shiny metal, all along this crack. Broken on impact with the ground, or just rotted away to fragments.’ Awkwardly, Vintage leaned forward, reaching out with one hand. Tormalin’s grip on her shirt increased. ‘This one must be . . . very ancient . . . indeed . . . to have only come to light now.’
Her fingers brushed it, and she felt a tingle move up her arm. Definitely a Behemoth artefact. She grinned into the hole. ‘Nearly there. Lower me down, just a little further, Tormalin, my dear, that’s it—’
Behind them, Noon made a strangled sound, and several things happened at once. The dim patch of broken earth lit up with shifting pink lights, turning everything nightmarish; an undulating cry filled the air while Tormalin twisted round slightly, muttering under his breath; and the damp earth Vintage was sitting on fell away, dropping her into the darkness.
‘Vintage!’
She fell, legs swinging through nothing, and then Tormalin had her arm. His white face hung above her, his mouth hanging open with shock. The little ledge containing the half-buried artefact was to her left, just out of reach. She swung her free arm at it, missing it by inches.
‘Buggeration!’
Above her, a shimmering light-filled shape appeared behind Tormalin. It was an amorphous thing, shifting and melting while pink and white lights moved to cluster at what almost could have been a head.
‘Tormalin, look out!’
The Eboran was already reaching awkwardly for the sword slung across his back, but Vintage’s weight and the precariousness of his own footing made it impossible. He snorted with frustration and gave her a furious yank, intending to pull her up out of the hole, but the ground underneath him partially gave way, and he had to scramble back to avoid following her into the crevice.
The parasite spirit now seemed to fill the canopy above them. It spread to either side, fronds growing at its edges and curling in towards Tormalin, who could not reach his sword and was now in danger of falling into the crack with Vintage. Well, she thought, how swiftly life shits in my face.
‘Let me drop!’ she shouted at Tormalin. ‘I’ll climb back out!’
‘Are you out of your mind?’
From her limited vantage point, Vintage saw Fell-Noon step into view. The young woman was staring up at the parasite spirit, apparently entranced. Her movements stiff and unnatural, the fell-witch took a step backwards, and, still with her eyes on the spirit, placed her hand on Tormalin’s bare neck. Vintage saw the Eboran jerk as though he’d been touched with a hot poker, and he cried out – whether in pain or surprise she couldn’t tell. For a moment, his eyes glazed over, and she wondered if perhaps he were about to pass out. That would end badly for both of them.
Instead, Noon lifted her other hand, almost dreamily, and from it erupted an enormous blossom of green fire. It floated up and exploded against the parasite spirit.
All was chaos. There was a flash of light so bright that, for a few moments, Vintage didn’t know where she was, and then Tormalin was swinging her to the left. The warm presence of his hand on her arm vanished, and she crashed onto the muddy ledge, something hard striking her in the stomach. Vintage looked up to see a boiling nightmare made of flames staggering away from them, the silhouette of Noon caught against it like a tiny scrap of shadow.
‘What . . .?’
It was the parasite spirit, consumed with winnowfire. Tormalin was staggering to his feet, one hand to his neck as though he were injured and the other brandishing his sword, but as they watched, the creature collapsed, falling to the ground and rolling in a very human gesture of desperation. Belatedly, Vintage realised that she had been hearing a high-pitched screaming since the explosion, which then stuttered and became a guttural howling. Despite everything she’d seen of the parasite spirits and the deaths she had witnessed, she felt a stab of pure horror at it.
Vintage stuck her boot on top of the metal artefact and used it to lever herself out of the hole. She scrambled out the rest of the way, her eyes riveted to the dying flames – they were turning a muddy yellow now, and a peculiar stench was filling the air.
‘Roots curse you, what have you done to me?’ Tormalin was gesturing at Noon’s back with his sword, but the young woman was paying no attention. She was staring raptly at the burning form of the parasite spirit, which was shuddering on the ground now, still emitting terrible squawks of pain. After a moment, she raised her hands and placed them over her ears, and then she fell to her knees. The young fell-witch was shaking all over.
‘I don’t care what you’re raving about, Vintage. This creature assaulted me!’
By the time they had beaten out the last of the fires the stench from the burned parasite spirit had been overwhelming, and they had retreated to their makeshift camp. Vintage had built up the fire again – she did not ask Noon for assistance this time – and now they were huddled round it. The fell-witch sat facing away from the flames, with her arms wrapped around herself. She appeared to be staring off into the spaces between the trees, although Vintage doubted she was seeing them at all. Tormalin had liberated a bottle of wine from the pack and was making short work of it, in between complaining. Every now and again his hand would sneak up to his neck and rub the skin there, as though it ached.
‘That’s right. You appear to have lost a couple of limbs, in fact. Whole pints of blood, no doubt.’ Vintage rooted through her bags for her notebooks, trying to ignore how her fingers were trembling. A weapon. Finally, they had a formidable weapon. ‘Oh no, what’s that? You’re absolutely fine? My darling, what a relief.’
Tor nearly spat his wine back into the cup. ‘You don’t know what she did! She tore the strength from me! She just . . . took it. Like a thief.’
‘I am not a thief.’ Noon’s voice was soft. ‘I just took what I needed. You’d both be dead now, otherwise.’
‘We would have been fine!’ Tor stiffened where he sat. ‘Vintage and I have faced these monsters many times and have survived without your assistance.’
‘What was that thing that . . . burned? What was it really?’ Noon had turned back to the fire, her eyes on Vintage now. ‘I know we call them spirits, but what is it?’
‘No one really knows, my dear, and that’s the problem. The information we have on these “parasite spirits” is so incredibly sparse. We know they’ve been around since the Eighth Rain, that there are no records of them appearing before that. We know that they haunt the remains of the old invader’s ships. We know that they can attack and kill living beings – indeed, the touch of their flesh is extremely damaging – but they do not actually seem to seek out conflict. Living things get in their way, and so they are torn apart.’ Vintage squeezed her notebook between her fingers, feeling the burn of a frustration that was decades old. ‘We know nearly nothing about them or the invaders.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Which is why I would like to engage your services, Fell-Noon.’
Tormalin gave a short bark of laughter, while Noon seemed to break out of her fugue.
‘What?’
‘Of course, I understand that you’re currently engaged in a very important and secret mission for the Winnowry,’ Vintage paused to cough into her hand, ‘but if you were able to put that to one side for a moment, I would be glad to pay you a wage to accompany us indefinitely. If anyone should have any queries as to your whereabouts, my dear, I would of course handle them personally.’
The girl looked startled now, and Vintage suppressed a smile. To be that young and so sure that your lies were subtle things.
‘Listen to me. As far as we knew, winnowfire itself has little effect on parasite spirits. Winnow-forged steel, yes, but not the pure flames. Except yours did.’ Vintage pursed her lips. She knew what she was about to say would not be received well, and yet she also felt instinctively that it was true. ‘I think that was due to the energy you took. Eboran life energy. Together you have made something else. Something lethal to the spirits.’
‘Vintage, did you suffer a blow to the head?’ Tormalin was smiling faintly, but there was a stony look in his eyes. ‘That little fireworks display back there nearly killed all of us, without even going into what this little thief did to me. And you are asking her to do it again?’
Vintage ignored him. ‘Well, perhaps you could sleep on it, Fell-Noon. That’s all I ask. I would like to return to the crevice in the morning, when, hopefully, the night’s air will have dissipated the stench, and then we’ll get you out of this gloomy worm-touched place. Plenty of time for you to consider my offer.’
Noon lay with her back to the fire. She was glad of the warmth, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to look at it.
She felt exhausted to her very bones, but sleep was a distant prospect – her mind felt like a bird caught in a tent, bouncing from wall to wall in a panic, no way out. At the forefront of her mind was the fact that the woman knew. She knew she was no agent, that her story stank worse than horse dung. She had been kind, and polite, and hadn’t come out and said directly that she knew Noon was lying, but it had been there in the hard glitter of her eyes when she had offered Noon the job. Noon had never met anyone like Vintage. Her cleverness was evident in her every word, in her assessing gaze. That could simply be because she was older than Noon, although it was difficult to guess her age; her warm brown skin was largely unlined, save for a handful of creases at the corners of her eyes, and a pair of laughter lines by her mouth. She had full hips and a thicket of dark curled hair, shot through here and there with a few touches of grey. Her eyes were kind, and to Noon she was beautiful. It made her more difficult to trust, somehow.
Noon pulled the collar of the jacket up to her chin. She needed to think, but whenever she closed her eyes she saw it all again, as if the image were still seared onto the inside of her eyelids: the strange creature made of lights, the soft way it had flowed around them, like a deadly flood. And then she had summoned her fire and it had lit up the night, an impossible torch, and she had been frozen with terror and exultation. The parasite spirit had burned, so wildly and so fast, and the noises it had made . . . She knew from the expressions on the faces of Vintage and the Eboran that they had never expected it to make such noises, but then they had never heard a living thing burn before. She was certain of it.
In the dark, Noon curled up as tightly as she could. Somewhere, deep inside her head, that noise went on forever.
Behind her, she could hear the small sounds of the others. Vintage was asleep, her hat – which she had insisted they retrieve – placed delicately over her face. The rhythmic fluting noise was her snoring. The Eboran was still awake, watching over them in the dark – she could hear him shifting every now and then, the occasional small sigh as he stood up to work the stiffness from his legs, the creak of his leather coat.
How strange to be here in the dark with such company. Ten years of nothing but the Winnowry and the witches, and now she made camp with an Eboran. It was like sleeping next to the bogey man, next to a monster out of one of Mother Fast’s tales. He was everything she had said the Eborans were – beautiful, graceful, quick. His eyes were red and cruel, just as they were in all of Mother Fast’s stories, and it was easy to imagine him on the battlefields of the Carrion Wars, tearing out the throats of men and women and drinking their blood while it was still hot.
And there was something else. In her fear and her panic, she had taken energy from him to fuel her winnowfire. Just a touch, and it had filled her in moments, something dark and old and unknowable – she had felt no other energy like it, and just like the winnowfire, it was frightening and glorious. She wanted to be far from here, to be alone so that she could never feel it again. She wanted to go to him now and place her hand against the smooth skin of his neck and taste it again. Take all of it, perhaps, and become someone else entirely.
Noon squeezed her eyes shut. Perhaps the Winnowry was right after all. She was too dangerous to be out in the world.